and scratched his head. "Simon, did I win the policemen's lottery while I was away?" He
sounded more bewildered than concerned.
Simon Edwards stepped forward, swallowing the frog in his throat. "Good morning, sir. I
apologize for the confusion. We've had a gas leak and your pilot said he was coming to the
terminal."
"Yes, yes, well, I told him to come here instead. I'm late for an appointment. I pay for this
hangar, and this rubbish about avoiding a gas leak sounded overcautious."
"I'm afraid your arrival has taken us a bit off guard, sir."
"I know. I'm off my schedule, I am. Between you and me, the new medication gives me the
tinkles. Thought I'd come over for a tune-up."
The policemen all exchanged looks. Edwards winced. "Very good, sir."
"Sir," the Kent chief inspector said, stepping forward. "I need to ask you to stay onboard for
another half hour or so."
Teabing looked unamused as he hobbled down the stairs. "I'm afraid that is impossible. I
have a medical appointment." He reached the tarmac. "I cannot afford to miss it."
The chief inspector repositioned himself to block Teabing's progress away from the plane.
"I am here at the orders of the French Judicial Police. They claim you are transporting fugitives
from the law on this plane."
Teabing stared at the chief inspector a long moment, and then burst out laughing. "Is this
one of those hidden camera programs? Jolly good!"
The chief inspector never flinched. "This is serious, sir. The French police claim you also
may have a hostage onboard."
Teabing's manservant Rémy appeared in the doorway at the top of the stairs. "Ifeel like a
hostage working for Sir Leigh, but he assures me I am free to go." Rémy checked his watch.
"Master, we really are running late." He nodded toward the Jaguar stretch limousine in the far
corner of the hangar. The enormous automobile was ebony with smoked glass and whitewall
tires. "I'll bring the car." Rémy started down the stairs.
"I'm afraid we cannot let you leave," the chief inspector said. "Please return to your aircraft.
Both of you. Representatives from the French police will be landing shortly."
Teabing looked now toward Simon Edwards. "Simon, for heaven's sake, this is ridiculous!
We don't have anyone else on board. Just the usual— Rémy, our pilot, and myself. Perhaps you
could act as an intermediary? Go have a look onboard, and verify that the plane is empty."
Edwards knew he was trapped. "Yes, sir. I can have a look."
"The devil you will!" the Kent chief inspector declared, apparently knowing enough about
executive airfields to suspect Simon Edwards might well lie about the plane's occupants in an
effort to keep Teabing's business at Biggin Hill. "I will look myself."
Teabing shook his head. "No you won't, Inspector. This is private property and until you
have a search warrant, you will stay off my plane. I am offering you a reasonable option here.
Mr. Edwards can perform the inspection."
"No deal."
Teabing's demeanor turned frosty. "Inspector, I'm afraid I don't have time to indulge in your
games. I'm late, and I'm leaving. If it is that important to you to stop me, you'll just have to shoot
me." With that, Teabing and Rémy walked around the chief inspector and headed across the
hangar toward the parked limousine.
The Kent chief inspector felt only distaste for Leigh Teabing as the man hobbled around him in
defiance. Men of privilege always felt like they were above the law.
They are not. The chief inspector turned and aimed at Teabing's back. "Stop! I will fire!"
"Go ahead," Teabing said without breaking stride or glancing back. "My lawyers will
fricassee your testicles for breakfast. And if you dare board my plane without a warrant, your
spleen will follow."
No stranger to power plays, the chief inspector was unimpressed. Technically, Teabing was
correct and the police needed a warrant to board his jet, but because the flight had originated in
France, and because the powerful Bezu Fache had given his authority, the Kent chief inspector
felt certain his career would be far better served by finding out what it was on this plane that
Teabing seemed so intent on hiding.
"Stop them," the inspector ordered. "I'm searching the plane."
His men raced over, guns leveled, and physically blocked Teabing and his servant from
reaching the limousine.
Now Teabing turned. "Inspector, this is your last warning. Do not even think of boarding
that plane. You will regret it."
Ignoring the threat, the chief inspector gripped his sidearm and marched up the plane's
gangway. Arriving at the hatch, he peered inside. After a moment, he stepped into the cabin.
What the devil?
With the exception of the frightened-looking pilot in the cockpit, the aircraft was empty.
Entirely devoid of human life. Quickly checking the bathroom, the chairs, and the luggage areas,
the inspector found no traces of anyone hiding... much less multiple individuals.
What the hell was Bezu Fache thinking? It seemed Leigh Teabing had been telling the truth.
The Kent chief inspector stood alone in the deserted cabin and swallowed hard. Shit. His
face flushed, he stepped back onto the gangway, gazing across the hangar at Leigh Teabing and
his servant, who were now under gunpoint near the limousine. "Let them go," the inspector
ordered. "We received a bad tip."
Teabing's eyes were menacing even across the hangar. "You can expect a call from my
lawyers. And for future reference, the French police cannot be trusted."
With that, Teabing's manservant opened the door at the rear of the stretch limousine and
helped his crippled master into the back seat. Then the servant walked the length of the car,
climbed in behind the wheel, and gunned the engine. Policemen scattered as the Jaguar peeled
out of the hangar.
"Well played, my good man," Teabing chimed from the rear seat as the limousine accelerated
out of the airport. He turned his eyes now to the dimly lit front recesses of the spacious interior.
"Everyone comfy?"
Langdon gave a weak nod. He and Sophie were still crouched on the floor beside the bound
and gagged albino.
Moments earlier, as the Hawker taxied into the deserted hangar, Rémy had popped the
hatch as the plane jolted to a stop halfway through its turn. With the police closing in fast,
Langdon and Sophie dragged the monk down the gangway to ground level and out of sight
behind the limousine. Then the jet engines had roared again, rotating the plane and completing
its turn as the police cars came skidding into the hangar.
Now, as the limousine raced toward Kent, Langdon and Sophie clambered toward the rear
of the limo's long interior, leaving the monk bound on the floor. They settled onto the long seat
facing Teabing. The Brit gave them both a roguish smile and opened the cabinet on the limo's
bar. "Could I offer you a drink? Some nibblies? Crisps? Nuts? Seltzer?"
Sophie and Langdon both shook their heads.
Teabing grinned and closed the bar. "So then, about this knight's tomb..."
CHAPTER 82
"Fleet Street?" Langdon asked, eyeing Teabing in the back of the limo. There's a crypt on Fleet
Street? So far, Leigh was being playfully cagey about where he thought they would find the
"knight's tomb," which, according to the poem, would provide the password for opening the
smaller cryptex.
Teabing grinned and turned to Sophie. "Miss Neveu, give the Harvard boy one more shot at
the verse, will you?"
Sophie fished in her pocket and pulled out the black cryptex, which was wrapped in the
vellum. Everyone had decided to leave the rosewood box and larger cryptex behind in the plane's
strongbox, carrying with them only what they needed, the far more portable and discreet black
cryptex. Sophie unwrapped the vellum and handed the sheet to Langdon.
Although Langdon had read the poem several times onboard the jet, he had been unable to
extract any specific location. Now, as he read the words again, he processed them slowly and
carefully, hoping the pentametric rhythms would reveal a clearer meaning now that he was on
the ground.
In London lies a knight a Pope interred.
His labor's fruit a Holy wrath incurred.
You seek the orb that ought be on his tomb.
It speaks of Rosy flesh and seeded womb.
The language seemed simple enough. There was a knight buried in London. A knight who
labored at something that angered the Church. A knight whose tomb was missing an orb that
should be present. The poem's final reference— Rosy flesh and seeded womb— was a clear
allusion to Mary Magdalene, the Rose who bore the seed of Jesus.
Despite the apparent straightforwardness of the verse, Langdon still had no idea who this
knight was or where he was buried. Moreover, once they located the tomb, it sounded as if they
would be searching for something that was absent. The orb that ought be on his tomb?
"No thoughts?" Teabing clucked in disappointment, although Langdon sensed the Royal
Historian was enjoying being one up. "Miss Neveu?"
She shook her head.
"What would you two do without me?" Teabing said. "Very well, I will walk you through
it. It's quite simple really. The first line is the key. Would you read it please?"
Langdon read aloud. " 'In London lies a knight a Pope interred.' "
"Precisely. A knight a Pope interred." He eyed Langdon. "What does that mean to you?"
Langdon shrugged. "A knight buried by a Pope? A knight whose funeral was presided over
by a Pope?"
Teabing laughed loudly. "Oh, that's rich. Always the optimist, Robert. Look at the second
line. This knight obviously did something that incurred the Holy wrath of the Church. Think
again. Consider the dynamic between the Church and the Knights Templar. A knight a Pope
interred?"
"A knight a Pope killed?" Sophie asked.
Teabing smiled and patted her knee. "Well done, my dear. A knight a Pope buried. Or
killed."
Langdon thought of the notorious Templar round-up in 1307— unlucky Friday the
thirteenth— when Pope Clement killed and interred hundreds of Knights Templar. "But there
must be endless graves of 'knights killed by Popes.' "
"Aha, not so! "Teabing said. "Many of them were burned at the stake and tossed
unceremoniously into the Tiber River. But this poem refers to a tomb. A tomb in London. And
there are few knights buried in London." He paused, eyeing Langdon as if waiting for light to
dawn. Finally he huffed. "Robert, for heaven's sake! The church built in London by the Priory's
military arm— the Knights Templar themselves!"
"The Temple Church?" Langdon drew a startled breath. "It has a crypt?"
"Ten of the most frightening tombs you will ever see."
Langdon had never actually visited the Temple Church, although he'd come across
numerous references in his Priory research. Once the epicenter of all Templar/Priory activities in
the United Kingdom, the Temple Church had been so named in honor of Solomon's Temple,
from which the Knights Templar had extracted their own title, as well as the Sangreal documents
that gave them all their influence in Rome. Tales abounded of knights performing strange,
secretive rituals within the Temple Church's unusual sanctuary. "The Temple Church is on Fleet
Street?"
"Actually, it's just off Fleet Street on Inner Temple Lane." Teabing looked mischievous. "I
wanted to see you sweat a little more before I gave it away."
"Thanks."
"Neither of you has ever been there?"
Sophie and Langdon shook their heads.
"I'm not surprised," Teabing said. "The church is hidden now behind much larger buildings.
Few people even know it's there. Eerie old place. The architecture is pagan to the core."
Sophie looked surprised. "Pagan?"
"Pantheonically pagan!" Teabing exclaimed. "The church is round. The Templars ignored
the traditional Christian cruciform layout and built a perfectly circular church in honor of the
sun." His eyebrows did a devilish dance. "A not so subtle howdy-do to the boys in Rome. They
might as well have resurrected Stonehenge in downtown London."
Sophie eyed Teabing. "What about the rest of the poem?"
The historian's mirthful air faded. "I'm not sure. It's puzzling. We will need to examine each
of the ten tombs carefully. With luck, one of them will have a conspicuously absent orb."
Langdon realized how close they really were. If the missing orb revealed the password, they
would be able to open the second cryptex. He had a hard time imagining what they might find
inside.
Langdon eyed the poem again. It was like some kind of primordial crossword puzzle. A
five -letter word that speaks of the Grail? On the plane, they had already tried all the obvious
passwords— GRAIL, GRAAL, GREAL, VENUS, MARIA, JESUS, SARAH— but the cylinder
had not budged. Far too obvious. Apparently there existed some other five-letter reference to the
