Rose's seeded womb. The fact that the word was eluding a specialist like Leigh Teabing
signified to Langdon that it was no ordinary Grail reference.
"Sir Leigh?" Rémy called over his shoulder. He was watching them in the rearview mirror
through the open divider. "You said Fleet Street is near Blackfriars Bridge?"
"Yes, take Victoria Embankment."
"I'm sorry. I'm not sure where that is. We usually go only to the hospital."
Teabing rolled his eyes at Langdon and Sophie and grumbled, "I swear, sometimes it's like
baby-sitting a child. One moment please. Help yourself to a drink and savory snacks." He left
them, clambering awkwardly toward the open divider to talk to Rémy.
Sophie turned to Langdon now, her voice quiet. "Robert, nobody knows you and I are in
England."
Langdon realized she was right. The Kent police would tell Fache the plane was empty, and
Fache would have to assume they were still in France. We are invisible. Leigh's little stunt had
just bought them a lot of time.
"Fache will not give up easily," Sophie said. "He has too much riding on this arrest now."
Langdon had been trying not to think about Fache. Sophie had promised she would do
everything in her power to exonerate Langdon once this was over, but Langdon was starting to
fear it might not matter. Fache could easily be pan of this plot. Although Langdon could not
imagine the Judicial Police tangled up in the Holy Grail, he sensed too much coincidence tonight
to disregard Fache as a possible accomplice. Fache is religions, and he is intent on pinning these
murders on me. Then again, Sophie had argued that Fache might simply be overzealous to make
the arrest. After all, the evidence against Langdon was substantial. In addition to Langdon's
name scrawled on the Louvre floor and in Saunière's date book, Langdon now appeared to have
lied about his manuscript and then run away. At Sophie's suggestion.
"Robert, I'm sorry you're so deeply involved," Sophie said, placing her hand on his knee.
"But I'm very glad you're here."
The comment sounded more pragmatic than romantic, and yet Langdon felt an unexpected
flicker of attraction between them. He gave her a tired smile. "I'm a lot more fun when I've
slept."
Sophie was silent for several seconds. "My grandfather asked me to trust you. I'm glad I
listened to him for once."
"Your grandfather didn't even know me."
"Even so, I can't help but think you've done everything he would have wanted. You helped
me find the keystone, explained the Sangreal, told me about the ritual in the basement." She
paused. "Somehow I feel closer to my grandfather tonight than I have in years. I know he would
be happy about that."
In the distance, now, the skyline of London began to materialize through the dawn drizzle.
Once dominated by Big Ben and Tower Bridge, the horizon now bowed to the Millennium
Eye— a colossal, ultramodern Ferris wheel that climbed five hundred feet and afforded
breathtaking views of the city. Langdon had attempted to board it once, but the "viewing
capsules" reminded him of sealed sarcophagi, and he opted to keep his feet on the ground and
enjoy the view from the airy banks of the Thames.
Langdon felt a squeeze on his knee, pulling him back, and Sophie's green eyes were on him.
He realized she had been speaking to him. "What do you think we should do with the Sangreal
documents if we ever find them?" she whispered.
"What I think is immaterial," Langdon said. "Your grandfather gave the cryptex to you, and
you should do with it what your instinct tells you he would want done."
"I'm asking for your opinion. You obviously wrote something in that manuscript that made
my grandfather trust your judgment. He scheduled a private meeting with you. That's rare."
"Maybe he wanted to tell me I have it all wrong."
"Why would he tell me to find you unless he liked your ideas? In your manuscript, did you
support the idea that the Sangreal documents should be revealed or stay buried?"
"Neither. I made no judgment either way. The manuscript deals with the symbology of the
sacred feminine— tracing her iconography throughout history. I certainly didn't presume to know
where the Grail is hidden or whether it should ever be revealed."
"And yet you're writing a book about it, so you obviously feel the information should be
shared."
"There's an enormous difference between hypothetically discussing an alternate history of
Christ, and..." He paused.
"And what?"
"And presenting to the world thousands of ancient documents as scientific evidence that the
New Testament is false testimony."
"But you told me the New Testament is based on fabrications."
Langdon smiled. "Sophie, every faith in the world is based on fabrication. That is the
definition offaith — acceptance of that which we imagine to be true, that which we cannot prove.
Every religion describes God through metaphor, allegory, and exaggeration, from the early
Egyptians through modern Sunday school. Metaphors are a way to help our minds process the
unprocessible. The problems arise when we begin to believe literally in our own metaphors."
"So you are in favor of the Sangreal documents staying buried forever?"
"I'm a historian. I'm opposed to the destruction of documents, and I would love to see
religious scholars have more information to ponder the exceptional life of Jesus Christ."
"You're arguing both sides of my question."
"Am I? The Bible represents a fundamental guidepost for millions of people on the planet,
in much the same way the Koran, Torah, and Pali Canon offer guidance to people of other
religions. If you and I could dig up documentation that contradicted the holy stories of Islamic
belief, Judaic belief, Buddhist belief, pagan belief, should we do that? Should we wave a flag
and tell the Buddhists that we have proof the Buddha did not come from a lotus blossom? Or that
Jesus was not born of a literal virgin birth? Those who truly understand their faiths understand
the stories are metaphorical."
Sophie looked skeptical. "My friends who are devout Christians definitely believe that
Christ literally walked on water, literally turned water into wine, and was born of a literal virgin
birth."
"My point exactly," Langdon said. "Religious allegory has become a part of the fabric of
reality. And living in that reality helps millions of people cope and be better people."
"But it appears their reality is false."
Langdon chuckled. "No more false than that of a mathematical cryptographer who believes
in the imaginary number 'i' because it helps her break codes."
Sophie frowned. "That's not fair."
A moment passed.
"What was your question again?" Langdon asked.
"I can't remember."
He smiled. "Works every time."
CHAPTER 83
Langdon's Mickey Mouse wristwatch read almost seven-thirty when he emerged from the Jaguar
limousine onto Inner Temple Lane with Sophie and Teabing. The threesome wound through a
maze of buildings to a small courtyard outside the Temple Church. The rough-hewn stone
shimmered in the rain, and doves cooed in the architecture overhead.
London's ancient Temple Church was constructed entirely of Caen stone. A dramatic,
circular edifice with a daunting facade, a central turret, and a protruding nave off one side, the
church looked more like a military stronghold than a place of worship. Consecrated on the tenth
of February in 1185 by Heraclius, Patriarch of Jerusalem, the Temple Church survived eight
centuries of political turmoil, the Great Fire of London, and the First World War, only to be
heavily damaged by Luftwaffe incendiary bombs in 1940. After the war, it was restored to its
original, stark grandeur.
The simplicity of the circle, Langdon thought, admiring the building for the first time. The
architecture was coarse and simple, more reminiscent of Rome's rugged Castel Sant'Angelo than
the refined Pantheon. The boxy annex jutting out to the right was an unfortunate eyesore,
although it did little to shroud the original pagan shape of the primary structure.
"It's early on a Saturday," Teabing said, hobbling toward the entrance, "so I'm assuming we
won't have services to deal with."
The church's entryway was a recessed stone niche inside which stood a large wooden door.
To the left of the door, looking entirely out of place, hung a bulletin board covered with concert
schedules and religious service announcements.
Teabing frowned as he read the board. "They don't open to sightseers for another couple of
hours." He moved to the door and tried it. The door didn't budge. Putting his ear to the wood, he
listened. After a moment, he pulled back, a scheming look on his face as he pointed to the
bulletin board. "Robert, check the service schedule, will you? Who is presiding this week?"
Inside the church, an altar boy was almost finished vacuuming the communion kneelers when he
heard a knocking on the sanctuary door. He ignored it. Father Harvey Knowles had his own keys
and was not due for another couple of hours. The knocking was probably a curious tourist or
indigent. The altar boy kept vacuuming, but the knocking continued. Can't you read? The sign
on the door clearly stated that the church did not open until nine-thirty on Saturday. The altar
boy remained with his chores.
Suddenly, the knocking turned to a forceful banging, as if someone were hitting the door
with a metal rod. The young man switched off his vacuum cleaner and marched angrily toward
the door. Unlatching it from within, he swung it open. Three people stood in the entryway.
Tourists, he grumbled. "We open at nine-thirty."
The heavyset man, apparently the leader, stepped forward using metal crutches. "I am Sir
Leigh Teabing," he said, his accent a highbrow, Saxonesque British. "As you are no doubt
aware, I am escorting Mr. and Mrs. Christopher Wren the Fourth." He stepped aside, flourishing
his arm toward the attractive couple behind them. The woman was soft-featured, with lush
burgundy hair. The man was tall, dark-haired, and looked vaguely familiar.
The altar boy had no idea how to respond. Sir Christopher Wren was the Temple Church's
most famous benefactor. He had made possible all the restorations following damage caused by
the Great Fire. He had also been dead since the early eighteenth century. "Um... an honor to meet
you?"
The man on crutches frowned. "Good thing you're not in sales, young man, you're not very
convincing. Where is Father Knowles?"
"It's Saturday. He's not due in until later."
The crippled man's scowl deepened. "There's gratitude. He assured us he would be here, but
it looks like we'll do it without him. It won't take long."
The altar boy remained blocking the doorway. "I'm sorry, what won't take long?"
The visitor's eyes sharpened now, and he leaned forward whispering as if to save everyone
some embarrassment. "Young man, apparently you are new here. Every year Sir Christopher
Wren's descendants bring a pinch of the old man's ashes to scatter in the Temple sanctuary. It is
part of his last will and testament. Nobody is particularly happy about making the trip, but what
can we do?"
The altar boy had been here a couple of years but had never heard of this custom. "It would
be better if you waited until nine-thirty. The church isn't open yet, and I'm not finished
hoovering."
The man on crutches glared angrily. "Young man, the only reason there's anything left of
this building for you to hoover is on account of the gentleman in that woman's pocket."
"I'm sorry?"
"Mrs. Wren," the man on crutches said, "would you be so kind as to show this impertinent
young man the reliquary of ashes?"
The woman hesitated a moment and then, as if awaking from a trance, reached in her
sweater pocket and pulled out a small cylinder wrapped in protective fabric.
"There, you see?" the man on crutches snapped. "Now, you can either grant his dying wish
and let us sprinkle his ashes in the sanctuary, or I tell Father Knowles how we've been treated."
The altar boy hesitated, well acquainted with Father Knowles' deep observance of church
tradition... and, more importantly, with his foul temper when anything cast this time -honored
shrine in anything but favorable light. Maybe Father Knowles had simply forgotten these family
members were coming. If so, then there was far more risk in turning them away than in letting
them in. After all, they said it would only take a minute. What harm could it do?
When the altar boy stepped aside to let the three people pass, he could have sworn Mr. and
Mrs. Wren looked just as bewildered by all of this as he was. Uncertain, the boy returned to his
chores, watching them out of the corner of his eye.
Langdon had to smile as the threesome moved deeper into the church.
"Leigh," he whispered, "you lie entirely too well."
Teabing's eyes twinkled. "Oxford Theatre Club. They still talk of my Julius Caesar. I'm
certain nobody has ever performed the first scene of Act Three with more dedication."
