good name of the Catholic Church. Collet had the odd sense it was the latter that angered Fache
more.
Turning now to his laptop computer, Collet attended to the other half of his responsibilities
here tonight— the GPS tracking system. The image onscreen revealed a detailed floor plan of the
Denon Wing, a structural schematic uploaded from the Louvre Security Office. Letting his eyes
trace the maze of galleries and hallways, Collet found what he was looking for.
Deep in the heart of the Grand Gallery blinked a tiny red dot.
La marque.
Fache was keeping his prey on a very tight leash tonight. Wisely so. Robert Langdon had
proven himself one cool customer.
CHAPTER 9
To ensure his conversation with Mr. Langdon would not be interrupted, Bezu Fache had turned
off his cellular phone. Unfortunately, it was an expensive model equipped with a two-way radio
feature, which, contrary to his orders, was now being used by one of his agents to page him.
"Capitaine?" The phone crackled like a walkie-talkie.
Fache felt his teeth clench in rage. He could imagine nothing important enough that Collet
would interrupt this surveillance cachée— especially at this critical juncture.
He gave Langdon a calm look of apology. "One moment please." He pulled the phone from
his belt and pressed the radio transmission button. "Oui?"
"Capitaine, un agent du Département de Cryptographie est arriv é."
Fache's anger stalled momentarily. A cryptographer? Despite the lousy timing, this was
probably good news. Fache, after finding Saunière's cryptic text on the floor, had uploaded
photographs of the entire crime scene to the Cryptography Department in hopes someone there
could tell him what the hell Saunière was trying to say. If a code breaker had now arrived, it
most likely meant someone had decrypted Saunière's message.
"I'm busy at the moment," Fache radioed back, leaving no doubt in his tone that a line had
been crossed. "Ask the cryptographer to wait at the command post. I'll speak to him when I'm
done."
"Her," the voice corrected. "It's Agent Neveu."
Fache was becoming less amused with this call every passing moment. Sophie Neveu was
one of DCPJ's biggest mistakes. A young Parisian déchiffreuse who had studied cryptography in
England at the Royal Holloway, Sophie Neveu had been foisted on Fache two years ago as part
of the ministry's attempt to incorporate more women into the police force. The ministry's
ongoing foray into political correctness, Fache argued, was weakening the department. Women
not only lacked the physicality necessary for police work, but their mere presence posed a
dangerous distraction to the men in the field. As Fache had feared, Sophie Neveu was proving
far more distracting than most.
At thirty-two years old, she had a dogged determination that bordered on obstinate. Her
eager espousal of Britain's new cryptologic methodology continually exasperated the veteran
French cryptographers above her. And by far the most troubling to Fache was the inescapable
universal truth that in an office of middle -aged men, an attractive young woman always drew
eyes away from the work at hand.
The man on the radio said, "Agent Neveu insisted on speaking to you immediately, Captain.
I tried to stop her, but she's on her way into the gallery."
Fache recoiled in disbelief. "Unacceptable! I made it very clear— "
For a moment, Robert Langdon thought Bezu Fache was suffering a stroke. The captain was
mid-sentence when his jaw stopped moving and his eyes bulged. His blistering gaze seemed
fixated on something over Langdon's shoulder. Before Langdon could turn to see what it was, he
heard a woman's voice chime out behind him.
"Excusez-moi, messieurs."
Langdon turned to see a young woman approaching. She was moving down the corridor
toward them with long, fluid strides... a haunting certainty to her gait. Dressed casually in a
knee-length, cream-colored Irish sweater over black leggings, she was attractive and looked to
be about thirty. Her thick burgundy hair fell unstyled to her shoulders, framing the warmth of her
face. Unlike the waifish, cookie-cutter blondes that adorned Harvard dorm room walls, this
woman was healthy with an unembellished beauty and genuineness that radiated a striking
personal confidence.
To Langdon's surprise, the woman walked directly up to him and extended a polite hand.
"Monsieur Langdon, I am Agent Neveu from DCPJ's Cryptology Department." Her words
curved richly around her muted Anglo-Franco accent. "It is a pleasure to meet you."
Langdon took her soft palm in his and felt himself momentarily fixed in her strong gaze.
Her eyes were olive-green— incisive and clear.
Fache drew a seething inhalation, clearly preparing to launch into a reprimand.
"Captain," she said, turning quickly and beating him to the punch, "please excuse the
interruption, but— "
"Ce n'est pas le moment!" Fache sputtered.
"I tried to phone you." Sophie continued in English, as if out of courtesy to Langdon. "But
your cell phone was turned off."
"I turned it off for a reason," Fache hissed. "I am speaking to Mr. Langdon."
"I've deciphered the numeric code," she said flatly.
Langdon felt a pulse of excitement. She broke the code?
Fache looked uncertain how to respond.
"Before I explain," Sophie said, "I have an urgent message for Mr. Langdon."
Fache's expression turned to one of deepening concern. "For Mr. Langdon?"
She nodded, turning back to Langdon. "You need to contact the U.S. Embassy, Mr.
Langdon. They have a message for you from the States."
Langdon reacted with surprise, his excitement over the code giving way to a sudden ripple
of concern. A message from the States? He tried to imagine who could be trying to reach him.
Only a few of his colleagues knew he was in Paris.
Fache's broad jaw had tightened with the news. "The U.S. Embassy?" he demanded,
sounding suspicious. "How would they know to find Mr. Langdon here?"
Sophie shrugged. "Apparently they called Mr. Langdon's hotel, and the concierge told them
Mr. Langdon had been collected by a DCPJ agent."
Fache looked troubled. "And the embassy contacted DCPJ Cryptography?"
"No, sir," Sophie said, her voice firm. "When I called the DCPJ switchboard in an attempt
to contact you, they had a message waiting for Mr. Langdon and asked me to pass it along if I
got through to you."
Fache's brow furrowed in apparent confusion. He opened his mouth to speak, but Sophie
had already turned back to Langdon.
"Mr. Langdon," she declared, pulling a small slip of paper from her pocket, "this is the
number for your embassy's messaging service. They asked that you phone in as soon as
possible." She handed him the paper with an intent gaze. "While I explain the code to
Captain Fache, you need to make this call."
Langdon studied the slip. It had a Paris phone number and extension on it. "Thank you," he
said, feeling worried now. "Where do I find a phone?"
Sophie began to pull a cell phone from her sweater pocket, but Fache waved her off. He
now looked like Mount Vesuvius about to erupt. Without taking his eyes off Sophie, he
produced his own cell phone and held it out. "This line is secure, Mr. Langdon. You may use it."
Langdon felt mystified by Fache's anger with the young woman. Feeling uneasy, he
accepted the captain's phone. Fache immediately marched Sophie several steps away and began
chastising her in hushed tones. Disliking the captain more and more, Langdon turned away from
the odd confrontation and switched on the cell phone. Checking the slip of paper Sophie had
given him, Langdon dialed the number.
The line began to ring.
One ring... two rings... three rings...
Finally the call connected.
Langdon expected to hear an embassy operator, but he found himself instead listening to an
answering machine. Oddly, the voice on the tape was familiar. It was that of Sophie Neveu.
"Bonjour, vous êtes bien chez Sophie Neveu," the woman's voice said. "Je suis absenle pour
le moment, mais..."
Confused, Langdon turned back toward Sophie. "I'm sorry, Ms. Neveu? I think you may
have given me— "
"No, that's the right number," Sophie interjected quickly, as if anticipating Langdon's
confusion. "The embassy has an automated message system. You have to dial an access code to
pick up your messages."
Langdon stared. "But— "
"It's the three-digit code on the paper I gave you."
Langdon opened his mouth to explain the bizarre error, but Sophie flashed him a silencing
glare that lasted only an instant. Her green eyes sent a crystal-clear message.
Don't ask questions. Just do it.
Bewildered, Langdon punched in the extension on the slip of paper: 454.
Sophie's outgoing message immediately cut off, and Langdon heard an electronic voice
announce in French: "You have one new message." Apparently, 454 was Sophie's remote access
code for picking up her messages while away from home.
I'm picking up this woman's messages?
Langdon could hear the tape rewinding now. Finally, it stopped, and the machine engaged.
Langdon listened as the message began to play. Again, the voice on the line was Sophie's.
"Mr. Langdon," the message began in a fearful whisper. "Do not react to this message. Just
listen calmly. You are in danger right now. Follow my directions very closely."
CHAPTER 10
Silas sat behind the wheel of the black Audi the Teacher had arranged for him and gazed out at
the great Church of Saint-Sulpice. Lit from beneath by banks of floodlights, the church's two bell
towers rose like stalwart sentinels above the building's long body. On either flank, a shadowy
row of sleek buttresses jutted out like the ribs of a beautiful beast.
The heathens used a house of God to conceal their keystone. Again the brotherhood had
confirmed their legendary reputation for illusion and deceit. Silas was looking forward to finding
the keystone and giving it to the Teacher so they could recover what the brotherhood had long
ago stolen from the faithful.
How powerful that will make Opus Dei.
Parking the Audi on the deserted Place Saint-Sulpice, Silas exhaled, telling himself to clear
his mind for the task at hand. His broad back still ached from the corporal mortification he had
endured earlier today, and yet the pain was inconsequential compared with the anguish of his life
before Opus Dei had saved him.
Still, the memories haunted his soul.
Release your hatred, Silas commanded himself. Forgive those who trespassed against you.
Looking up at the stone towers of Saint-Sulpice, Silas fought that familiar undertow... that
force that often dragged his mind back in time, locking him once again in the prison that had
been his world as a young man. The memories of purgatory came as they always did, like a
tempest to his senses... the reek of rotting cabbage, the stench of death, human urine and feces.
The cries of hopelessness against the howling wind of the Pyrenees and the soft sobs of forgotten
men.
Andorra, he thought, feeling his muscles tighten.
Incredibly, it was in that barren and forsaken suzerain between Spain and France, shivering
in his stone cell, wanting only to die, that Silas had been saved.
He had not realized it at the time.
The light came long after the thunder.
His name was not Silas then, although he didn't recall the name his parents had given him.
He had left home when he was seven. His drunken father, a burly dockworker, enraged by the
arrival of an albino son, beat his mother regularly, blaming her for the boy's embarrassing
condition. When the boy tried to defend her, he too was badly beaten.
One night, there was a horrific fight, and his mother never got up. The boy stood over his
lifeless mother and felt an unbearable up-welling of guilt for permitting it to happen.
This is my fault!
As if some kind of demon were controlling his body, the boy walked to the kitchen and
grasped a butcher knife. Hypnotically, he moved to the bedroom where his father lay on the bed
in a drunken stupor. Without a word, the boy stabbed him in the back. His father cried out in
pain and tried to roll over, but his son stabbed him again, over and over until the apartment fell
quiet.
The boy fled home but found the streets of Marseilles equally unfriendly. His strange
appearance made him an outcast among the other young runaways, and he was forced to live
alone in the basement of a dilapidated factory, eating stolen fruit and raw fish from the dock. His
only companions were tattered magazines he found in the trash, and he taught himself to
read them. Over time, he grew strong. When he was twelve, another drifter— a girl twice his
age— mocked him on the streets and attempted to steal his food. The girl found herself
pummeled to within inches of her life. When the authorities pulled the boy off her, they gave
him an ultimatum— leave Marseilles or go to juvenile prison.
The boy moved down the coast to Toulon. Over time, the looks of pity on the streets turned
to looks of fear. The boy had grown to a powerful young man. When people passed by, he could
hear them whispering to one another. A ghost, they would say, their eyes wide with fright as they
