GUILLAUME DE GlSORS 1266-1307
EDOUARD DE BAR 1307-1336
JEANNE DE BAR 1336-1351
JEAN DE SAINT-CLAIR 1351-1366
BLANCE D'EVREUX 1366-1398
NICOLAS FLAMEL 1398-1418
RENE D'ANJOU 1418-1480
IOLANDE DE BAR 1480-1483
SANDRO BOTTICELLI 1483-1510
LEONARDO DA VINCI 1510-1519
CONNETABLE DE BOURBON 1519-1527
FERDINAND DE GONZAQUE 1527-1575
LOUIS DE NEVERS 1575-1595
ROBERT FLUDD 1595-1637
J. VALENTIN ANDREA 1637-1654
ROBERT BOYLE 1654-1691
ISAAC NEWTON 1691-1727
CHARLES RADCLYFFE 1727-1746
CHARLES DE LORRAINE 1746-1780
MAXIMILIAN DE LORRAINE 1780-1801
CHARLES NODIER 1801-1844
VICTOR HUGO 1844-1885
CLAUDE DEBUSSY 1885-1918
JEAN COCTEAU 1918-1963
Prieuréde Sion? Collet wondered.
"Lieutenant?" Another agent stuck his head in. "The switchboard has an urgent call for
Captain Fache, but they can't reach him. Will you take it?"
Collet returned to the kitchen and took the call.
It was AndréVernet.
The banker's refined accent did little to mask the tension in his voice. "I thought Captain
Fache said he would call me, but I have not yet heard from him."
"The captain is quite busy," Collet replied. "May I help you?"
"I was assured I would be kept abreast of your progress tonight."
For a moment, Collet thought he recognized the timbre of the man's voice, but he couldn't
quite place it. "Monsieur Vernet, I am currently in charge of the Paris investigation. My name is
Lieutenant Collet."
There was a long pause on the line. "Lieutenant, I have another call coming in. Please
excuse me. I will call you later." He hung up.
For several seconds, Collet held the receiver. Then it dawned on him. I knew I recognized
that voice! The revelation made him gasp.
The armored car driver.
With the fake Rolex.
Collet now understood why the banker had hung up so quickly. Vernet had remembered the
name Lieutenant Collet— the officer he blatantly lied to earlier tonight.
Collet pondered the implications of this bizarre development. Vernet is involved.
Instinctively, he knew he should call Fache. Emotionally, he knew this lucky break was going to
be his moment to shine.
He immediately called Interpol and requested every shred of information they could find on
the Depository Bank of Zurich and its president, AndréVernet.
CHAPTER 80
"Seat belts, please," Teabing's pilot announced as the Hawker 731 descended into a gloomy
morning drizzle. "We'll be landing in five minutes."
Teabing felt a joyous sense of homecoming when he saw the misty hills of Kent spreading
wide beneath the descending plane. England was less than an hour from Paris, and yet a world
away. This morning, the damp, spring green of his homeland looked particularly welcoming. My
time in France is over. I am returning to England victorious. The keystone has been found. The
question remained, of course, as to where the keystone would ultimately lead. Somewhere in the
United Kingdom. Where exactly, Teabing had no idea, but he was already tasting the glory.
As Langdon and Sophie looked on, Teabing got up and went to the far side of the cabin,
then slid aside a wall panel to reveal a discreetly hidden wall safe. He dialed in the combination,
opened the safe, and extracted two passports. "Documentation for R émy and myself." He then
removed a thick stack of fifty-pound notes. "And documentation for you two."
Sophie looked leery. "A bribe?"
"Creative diplomacy. Executive airfields make certain allowances. A British customs
official will greet us at my hangar and ask to board the plane. Rather than permitting him to
come on, I'll tell him I'm traveling with a French celebrity who prefers that nobody knows she is
in England— press considerations, you know— and I'll offer the official this generous tip as
gratitude for his discretion."
Langdon looked amazed. "And the official will accept?"
"Not from anyone, they won't, but these people all know me. I'm not an arms dealer, for
heaven's sake. I was knighted." Teabing smiled. "Membership has its privileges."
Rémy approached up the aisle now, the Heckler Koch pistol cradled in his hand. "Sir, my
agenda?"
Teabing glanced at his servant. "I'm going to have you stay onboard with our guest until we
return. We can't very well drag him all over London with us."
Sophie looked wary. "Leigh, I was serious about the French police finding your plane
before we return."
Teabing laughed. "Yes, imagine their surprise if they board and find R émy."
Sophie looked surprised by his cavalier attitude. "Leigh, you transported a bound hostage
across international borders. This is serious."
"So are my lawyers." He scowled toward the monk in the rear of the plane. "That animal
broke into my home and almost killed me. That is a fact, and Rémy will corroborate."
"But you tied him up and flew him to London!" Langdon said.
Teabing held up his right hand and feigned a courtroom oath. "Your honor, forgive an
eccentric old knight his foolish prejudice for the British court system. I realize I should have
called the French authorities, but I'm a snob and do not trust those laissez-faire French to
prosecute properly. This man almost murdered me. Yes, I made a rash decision forcing my
manservant to help me bring him to England, but I was under great stress. Mea culpa. Mea
culpa."
Langdon looked incredulous. "Coming from you, Leigh, that just might fly."
"Sir?" the pilot called back. "The tower just radioed. They've got some kind of maintenance
problem out near your hangar, and they're asking me to bring the plane directly to the
terminal instead."
Teabing had been flying to Biggin Hill for over a decade, and this was a first. "Did they
mention what the problem is?"
"The controller was vague. Something about a gas leak at the pumping station? They asked
me to park in front of the terminal and keep everyone onboard until further notice. Safety
precaution. We're not supposed to deplane until we get the all clear from airport authorities."
Teabing was skeptical. Must be one hell of a gas leak. The pumping station was a good half
mile from his hangar.
Rémy also looked concerned. "Sir, this sounds highly irregular."
Teabing turned to Sophie and Langdon. "My friends, I have an unpleasant suspicion that we
are about to be met by a welcoming committee."
Langdon gave a bleak sigh. "I guess Fache still thinks I'm his man."
"Either that," Sophie said, "or he is too deep into this to admit his error.
Teabing was not listening. Regardless of Fache's mind-set, action needed to be taken fast.
Don't lose sight of the ultimate goal. The Grail. We're so dose. Below them, the landing gear
descended with a clunk.
"Leigh," Langdon said, sounding deeply remorseful, "I should turn myself in and sort this
out legally. Leave you all out of it."
"Oh, heavens, Robert!" Teabing waved it off. "Do you really think they're going to let the
rest of us go? I just transported you illegally. Miss Neveu assisted in your escape from the
Louvre, and we have a man tied up in the back of the plane. Really now! We're all in this
together."
"Maybe a different airport?" Sophie said.
Teabing shook his head. "If we pull up now, by the time we get clearance anywhere else,
our welcoming party will include army tanks."
Sophie slumped.
Teabing sensed that if they were to have any chance of postponing confrontation with the
British authorities long enough to find the Grail, bold action had to be taken. "Give me a
minute," he said, hobbling toward the cockpit.
"What are you doing?" Langdon asked.
"Sales meeting," Teabing said, wondering how much it would cost him to persuade his pilot
to perform one highly irregular maneuver.
CHAPTER 81
The Hawker is on final approach.
Simon Edwards— Executive Services Officer at Biggin Hill Airport— paced the control
tower, squinting nervously at the rain -drenched runway. He never appreciated being awoken
early on a Saturday morning, but it was particularly distasteful that he had been called in to
oversee the arrest of one of his most lucrative clients. Sir Leigh Teabing paid Biggin Hill not
only for a private hangar but a "per landing fee" for his frequent arrivals and departures. Usually,
the airfield had advance warning of his schedule and was able to follow a strict protocol for his
arrival. Teabing liked things just so. The custom-built Jaguar stretch limousine that he kept in his
hangar was to be fully gassed, polished, and the day's London Times laid out on the back seat. A
customs official was to be waiting for the plane at the hangar to expedite the mandatory
documentation and luggage check. Occasionally, customs agents accepted large tips from
Teabing in exchange for turning a blind eye to the transport of harmless organics— mostly
luxury foods— French escargots, a particularly ripe unprocessed Roquefort, certain fruits. Many
customs laws were absurd, anyway, and if Biggin Hill didn't accommodate its clients, certainly
competing airfields would. Teabing was provided with what he wanted here at Biggin Hill, and
the employees reaped the benefits.
Edwards's nerves felt frayed now as he watched the jet coming in. He wondered if
Teabing's penchant for spreading the wealth had gotten him in trouble somehow; the French
authorities seemed very intent on containing him. Edwards had not yet been told what the
charges were, but they were obviously serious. At the French authorities' request, Kent police
had ordered the Biggin Hill air traffic controller to radio the Hawker's pilot and order him
directly to the terminal rather than to the client's hangar. The pilot had agreed, apparently
believing the far-fetched story of a gas leak.
Though the British police did not generally carry weapons, the gravity of the situation had
brought out an armed response team. Now, eight policemen with handguns stood just inside the
terminal building, awaiting the moment when the plane's engines powered down. The instant this
happened, a runway attendant would place safety wedges under the tires so the plane could no
longer move. Then the police would step into view and hold the occupants at bay until the
French police arrived to handle the situation.
The Hawker was low in the sky now, skimming the treetops to their right. Simon Edwards
went downstairs to watch the landing from tarmac level. The Kent police were poised, just out of
sight, and the maintenance man waited with his wedges. Out on the runway, the Hawker's nose
tipped up, and the tires touched down in a puff of smoke. The plane settled in for deceleration,
streaking from right to left in front of the terminal, its white hull glistening in the wet weather.
But rather than braking and turning into the terminal, the jet coasted calmly past the access lane
and continued on toward Teabing's hangar in the distance.
All the police spun and stared at Edwards. "I thought you said the pilot agreed to come to
the terminal!"
Edwards was bewildered. "He did!"
Seconds later, Edwards found himself wedged in a police car racing across the tarmac
toward the distant hangar. The convoy of police was still a good five hundred yards away as
Teabing's Hawker taxied calmly into the private hangar and disappeared. When the cars finally
arrived and skidded to a stop outside the gaping hangar door, the police poured out, guns drawn.
Edwards jumped out too.
The noise was deafening.
The Hawker's engines were still roaring as the jet finished its usual rotation inside the
hangar, positioning itself nose-out in preparation for later departure. As the plane completed its
180-degree turn and rolled toward the front of the hangar, Edwards could see the pilot's face,
which understandably looked surprised and fearful to see the barricade of police cars.
The pilot brought the plane to a final stop, and powered down the engines. The police
streamed in, taking up positions around the jet. Edwards joined the Kent chief inspector, who
moved warily toward the hatch. After several seconds, the fuselage door popped open.
Leigh Teabing appeared in the doorway as the plane's electronic stairs smoothly dropped
down. As he gazed out at the sea of weapons aimed at him, he propped himself on his crutches
