Charles II from the Russian ambassador.
The Teacher saw no pelicans today. The stormy weather had brought instead seagulls from
the ocean. The lawns were covered with them— hundreds of white bodies all facing the same
direction, patiently riding out the damp wind. Despite the morning fog, the park afforded
splendid views of the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben. Gazing across the sloping lawns, past
the duck pond and the delicate silhouettes of the weeping willows, the Teacher could see the
spires of the building that housed the knight's tomb— the real reason he had told Rémy to come
to this spot.
As the Teacher approached the front passenger door of the parked limousine, Rémy leaned
across and opened the door. The Teacher paused outside, taking a pull from the flask of cognac
he was carrying. Then, dabbing his mouth, he slid in beside Rémy and closed the door.
Rémy held up the keystone like a trophy. "It was almost lost."
"You have done well," the Teacher said.
"We have done well," Rémy replied, laying the keystone in the Teacher's eager hands.
The Teacher admired it a long moment, smiling. "And the gun? You wiped it down?"
"Back in the glove box where I found it."
"Excellent." The Teacher took another drink of cognac and handed the flask to Rémy. "Let's
toast our success. The end is near."
Rémy accepted the bottle gratefully. The cognac tasted salty, but Rémy didn't care. He and the
Teacher were truly partners now. He could feel himself ascending to a higher station in life. I
will never be a servant again. As Rémy gazed down the embankment at the duck pond below,
Chateau Villette seemed miles away.
Taking another swig from the flask, Rémy could feel the cognac warming his blood. The
warmth in Rémy's throat, however, mutated quickly to an uncomfortable heat. Loosening his
bow tie, Rémy tasted an unpleasant grittiness and handed the flask back to the Teacher. "I've
probably had enough," he managed, weakly.
Taking the flask, the Teacher said, "Rémy, as you are aware, you are the only one who
knows my face. I placed enormous trust in you."
"Yes," he said, feeling feverish as he loosened his tie further. "And your identity shall go
with me to the grave."
The Teacher was silent a long moment. "I believe you." Pocketing the flask and the
keystone, the Teacher reached for the glove box and pulled out the tiny Medusa revolver. For an
instant, Rémy felt a surge of fear, but the Teacher simply slipped it in his trousers pocket.
What is he doing? Rémy felt himself sweating suddenly.
"I know I promised you freedom," the Teacher said, his voice now sounding regretful. "But
considering your circumstances, this is the best I can do."
The swelling in Rémy's throat came on like an earthquake, and he lurched against the
steering column, grabbing his throat and tasting vomit in his narrowing esophagus. He let out a
muted croak of a scream, not even loud enough to be heard outside the car. The saltiness in the
cognac now registered.
I'm being murdered!
Incredulous, Rémy turned to see the Teacher sitting calmly beside him, staring straight
ahead out the windshield. Rémy's eyesight blurred, and he gasped for breath. I made everything
possible for him! How could he do this! Whether the Teacher had intended to kill Rémy all along
or whether it had been Rémy's actions in the Temple Church that had made the Teacher lose
faith, Rémy would never know. Terror and rage coursed through him now. Rémy tried to lunge
for the Teacher, but his stiffening body could barely move. I trusted you with everything!
Rémy tried to lift his clenched fists to blow the horn, but instead he slipped sideways,
rolling onto the seat, lying on his side beside the Teacher, clutching at his throat. The rain fell
harder now. Rémy could no longer see, but he could sense his oxygen-deprived brain straining to
cling to his last faint shreds of lucidity. As his world slowly went black, Rémy Legaludec could
have sworn he heard the sounds of the soft Riviera surf.
The Teacher stepped from the limousine, pleased to see that nobody was looking in his direction.
I had no choice, he told himself, surprised how little remorse he felt for what he had just done.
Rémy sealed his own fate. The Teacher had feared all along that R émy might need to be
eliminated when the mission was complete, but by brazenly showing himself in the Temple
Church, Rémy had accelerated the necessity dramatically. Robert Langdon's unexpected visit to
Chateau Villette had brought the Teacher both a fortuitous windfall and an intricate dilemma.
Langdon had delivered the keystone directly to the heart of the operation, which was a pleasant
surprise, and yet he had brought the police on his tail. Rémy's prints were all over Chateau
Villette, as well as in the barn's listening post, where Rémy had carried out the surveillance. The
Teacher was grateful he had taken so much care in preventing any ties between Rémy's activities
and his own. Nobody could implicate the Teacher unless R émy talked, and that was no longer a
concern.
One more loose end to tie up here, the Teacher thought, moving now toward the rear door
of the limousine. The police will have no idea what happened... and no living witness left to tell
them. Glancing around to ensure nobody was watching, he pulled open the door and climbed into
the spacious rear compartment.
Minutes later, the Teacher was crossing St. James's Park. Only two people now remain. Langdon
and Neveu. They were more complicated. But manageable. At the moment, however, the
Teacher had the cryptex to attend to.
Gazing triumphantly across the park, he could see his destination. In London lies a knight a
Pope interred. As soon as the Teacher had heard the poem, he had known the answer. Even so,
that the others had not figured it out was not surprising. I have an unfair advantage. Having
listened to Saunière's conversations for months now, the Teacher had heard the Grand Master
mention this famous knight on occasion, expressing esteem almost matching that he held for Da
Vinci. The poem's reference to the knight was brutally simple once one saw it— a credit to
Saunière's wit— and yet how this tomb would reveal the final password was still a mystery.
You seek the orb that ought be on his tomb.
The Teacher vaguely recalled photos of the famous tomb and, in particular, its most
distinguishing feature. A magnificent orb. The huge sphere mounted atop the tomb was
almost as large as the tomb itself. The presence of the orb seemed both encouraging and
troubling to the Teacher. On one hand, it felt like a signpost, and yet, according to the poem, the
missing piece of the puzzle was an orb that ought to be on his tomb... not one that was already
there. He was counting on his closer inspection of the tomb to unveil the answer.
The rain was getting heavier now, and he tucked the cryptex deep in his right-hand pocket
to protect it from the dampness. He kept the tiny Medusa revolver in his left, out of sight. Within
minutes, he was stepping into the quiet sanctuary of London's grandest nine-hundred-year-old
building.
Just as the Teacher was stepping out of the rain, Bishop Aringarosa was stepping into it. On the
rainy tarmac at Biggin Hill Executive Airport, Aringarosa emerged from his cramped plane,
bundling his cassock against the cold damp. He had hoped to be greeted by Captain Fache.
Instead a young British police officer approached with an umbrella.
"Bishop Aringarosa? Captain Fache had to leave. He asked me to look after you. He
suggested I take you to Scotland Yard. He thought it would be safest."
Safest? Aringarosa looked down at the heavy briefcase of Vatican bonds clutched in his
hand. He had almost forgotten. "Yes, thank you."
Aringarosa climbed into the police car, wondering where Silas could be. Minutes later, the
police scanner crackled with the answer.
5 Orme Court.
Aringarosa recognized the address instantly.
The Opus Dei Centre in London.
He spun to the driver. "Take me there at once!"
CHAPTER 95
Langdon's eyes had not left the computer screen since the search began.
Five minutes. Only two hits. Both irrelevant.
He was starting to get worried.
Pamela Gettum was in the adjoining room, preparing hot drinks. Langdon and Sophie had
inquired unwisely if there might be some coffee brewing alongside the tea Gettum had offered,
and from the sound of the microwave beeps in the next room, Langdon suspected their request
was about to be rewarded with instant Nescafe.
Finally, the computer pinged happily.
"Sounds like you got another," Gettum called from the next room. "What's the title?"
Langdon eyed the screen.
Grail Allegory in Medieval Literature: A Treatise on Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.
"Allegory of the Green Knight," he called back.
"No good," Gettum said. "Not many mythological green giants buried in London."
Langdon and Sophie sat patiently in front of the screen and waited through two more
dubious returns. When the computer pinged again, though, the offering was unexpected.
DIE OPERN VON RICHARD WAGNER
"The operas of Wagner?" Sophie asked.
Gettum peeked back in the doorway, holding a packet of instant coffee. "That seems like a
strange match. Was Wagner a knight?"
"No," Langdon said, feeling a sudden intrigue. "But he was a well-known Freemason."
Along with Mozart, Beethoven, Shakespeare, Gershwin, Houdini, and Disney. Volumes had been
written about the ties between the Masons and the Knights Templar, the Priory of Sion, and the
Holy Grail. "I want to look at this one. How do I see the full text?"
"You don't want the full text," Gettum called. "Click on the hypertext title. The computer
will display your keyword hits along with mono prelogs and triple postlogs for context."
Langdon had no idea what she had just said, but he clicked anyway.
A new window popped up.
...mythological knight named Parsifal who...
...metaphorical Grail quest that arguably...
...the London Philharmonic in 1855...
Rebecca Pope's opera anthology "Diva's...
...Wagner's tomb in Bayreuth, Germany...
"Wrong Pope," Langdon said, disappointed. Even so, he was amazed by the system's ease
of use. The keywords with context were enough to remind him that Wagner's opera Parsifal was
a tribute to Mary Magdalene and the bloodline of Jesus Christ, told through the story of a young
knight on a quest for truth.
"Just be patient," Gettum urged. "It's a numbers game. Let the machine run."
Over the next few minutes, the computer returned several more Grail references, including
a text about troubadours— France's famous wandering minstrels. Langdon knew it was no
coincidence that the word minstrel and minister shared an etymological root. The troubadours
were the traveling servants or "ministers" of the Church of Mary Magdalene, using music to
disseminate the story of the sacred feminine among the common folk. To this day, the
troubadours sang songs extolling the virtues of "our Lady"— a mysterious and beautiful woman
to whom they pledged themselves forever.
Eagerly, he checked the hypertext but found nothing.
The computer pinged again.
KNIGHTS, KNAVES, POPES, AND PENTACLES: THE HISTORY OF THE HOLY GRAIL THROUGH
TAROT
"Not surprising," Langdon said to Sophie. "Some of our keywords have the same names as
individual cards." He reached for the mouse to click on a hyperlink. "I'm not sure if your
grandfather ever mentioned it when you played Tarot with him, Sophie, but this game is a 'flash-
card catechism' into the story of the Lost Bride and her subjugation by the evil Church."
Sophie eyed him, looking incredulous. "I had no idea."
"That's the point. By teaching through a metaphorical game, the followers of the Grail
disguised their message from the watchful eye of the Church." Langdon often wondered how
many modern card players had any clue that their four suits— spades, hearts, clubs, diamonds—
were Grail-related symbols that came directly from Tarot's four suits of swords, cups, scepters,
and pentacles.
Spades were Swords— The blade. Male.
Hearts were Cups— The chalice. Feminine.
Clubs were Scepters— The Royal Line. The flowering staff.
Diamonds were Pentacles— The goddess. The sacred feminine.
Four minutes later, as Langdon began feeling fearful they would not find what they had come
for, the computer produced another hit.
The Gravity of Genius: Biography of a Modern Knight.
"Gravity of Genius?" Langdon called out to Gettum. "Bio of a modern knight?"
Gettum stuck her head around the corner. "How modern? Please don't tell me it's your Sir
Rudy Giuliani. Personally, I found that one a bit off the mark."
Langdon had his own qualms about the newly knighted Sir Mick Jagger, but this hardly
seemed the moment to debate the politics of modern British knighthood. "Let's have a look."
Langdon summoned up the hypertext keywords.
... honorable knight, Sir Isaac Newton...
... in London in 1727 and...
... his tomb in Westminster Abbey...
