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"Mais
monsieur," the concierge pressed, lowering his voice to an urgent
whisper. "Your guest is an important man."
Langdon had little doubt. His books on religious paintings and cult symbology
had made him a reluctant celebrity in the art world, and last year Langdon's
visibility had increased a hundred-fold after his involvement in a widely
publicized incident at the Vatican. Since then, the stream of self-important
historians and art buffs arriving at his door had seemed never-ending.
"If you would be so kind," Langdon said, doing his best to remain polite,
"could you take the man's name and number, and tell him I'll try to call
him before I leave Paris on Tuesday? Thank you." He hung up before the
concierge could protest.
Sitting up now, Langdon frowned at his bedside Guest Relations Handbook,
whose cover boasted: SLEEP LIKE A BABY IN THE CITY OF LIGHTS. SLUMBER
AT THE PARIS RITZ. He turned and gazed tiredly into the full-length mirror
across the room. The man staring back at him was a stranger--tousled and
weary.
You need a vacation, Robert.
The past year had taken a heavy toll on him, but he didn't appreciate
seeing proof in the mirror. His usually sharp blue eyes looked hazy and
drawn tonight. A dark stubble was shrouding his strong jaw and dimpled
chin. Around his temples, the gray highlights were advancing, making their
way deeper into his thicket of coarse black hair. Although his female
colleagues insisted the gray only accentuated his bookish appeal, Langdon
knew better.
If Boston Magazine could see me now.
Last month, much to Langdon's embarrassment, Boston Magazine had
listed him as one of that city's top ten most intriguing people--a dubious
honor that made him the brunt of endless ribbing by his Harvard colleagues.
Tonight, three thousand miles from home, the accolade had resurfaced to
haunt him at the lecture he had given.
"Ladies and gentlemen . . ." the hostess had announced to a full-house
at The American University of Paris's Pavillon Dauphine, "Our guest
tonight needs no introduction. He is the author of numerous books: The
Symbology of Secret Sects, The Art of the Illuminati, The Lost Language
of Ideograms, and when I say he wrote the book on Religious Iconology,
I mean that quite literally. Many of you use his textbooks in class."
The students in the crowd nodded enthusiastically.
"I had planned to introduce him tonight by sharing his impressive curriculum
vitae, however . . ." She glanced playfully at Langdon, who was seated
onstage. "An audience member has just handed me a far more, shall we say
. . . intriguing introduction."
She held up a copy of Boston Magazine.
Langdon cringed. Where the hell did she get that?
The hostess began reading choice excerpts from the inane article, and
Langdon felt himself sinking lower and lower in his chair. Thirty seconds
later, the crowd was grinning, and the woman showed no signs of letting
up. "And Mr. Langdon's refusal to speak publicly about his unusual role
in last year's Vatican conclave certainly wins him points on our intrigue-o-meter."
The hostess goaded the crowd. "Would you like to hear more?"
The crowd applauded.
Somebody stop her, Langdon pleaded as she dove into the article
again.
"Although Professor Langdon might not be considered hunk-handsome like
some of our younger awardees, this forty-something academic has more than
his share of scholarly allure. His captivating presence is punctuated
by an unusually low, baritone speaking voice, which his female students
describe as 'chocolate for the ears.''
The hall erupted in laughter.
Langdon forced an awkward smile. He knew what came next--some ridiculous
line about "Harrison Ford in Harris tweed"--and because this evening he
had figured it was finally safe again to wear his Harris tweed and Burberry
turtleneck, he decided to take action.
"Thank you, Monique," Langdon said, standing prematurely and edging her
away from the podium. "Boston Magazine clearly has a gift for fiction."
He turned to the audience with an embarrassed sigh. "And if I find which
one of you provided that article, I'll have the consulate deport you."
The crowd laughed.
"Well, folks, as you all know, I'm here tonight to talk about the power
of symbols . . ."
* * *
The ringing of Langdon's hotel phone once again broke the silence.
Groaning in disbelief, he picked up. "Yes?"
As expected, it was the concierge. "Mr. Langdon, again my apologies. I
am calling to inform you that your guest is now en route to your room.
I thought I should alert you."
Langdon was wide awake now. "You sent someone to my room?"
"I apologize, monsieur, but a man like this . . . I cannot presume the
authority to stop him."
"Who exactly is he?"
But the concierge was gone.
Almost immediately, a heavy fist pounded on Langdon's door.
Uncertain, Langdon slid off the bed, feeling his toes sink deep into the
savonniere carpet. He donned the hotel bathrobe and moved toward the door.
"Who is it?"
"Mr. Langdon? I need to speak with you." The man's English was accented--a
sharp, authoritative bark. "My name is Lieutenant Jerome Collet. Direction
Centrale Police Judiciaire."
Langdon paused. The Judicial Police? The DCPJ were the rough equivalent
of the U.S. FBI.
Leaving the security chain in place, Langdon opened the door a few inches.
The face staring back at him was thin and washed out. The man was exceptionally
lean, dressed in an official-looking blue uniform.
"May I come in?" the agent asked.
Langdon hesitated, feeling uncertain as the stranger's sallow eyes studied
him. "What is this is all about?"
"My capitaine requires your expertise in a private matter."
"Now?" Langdon managed. "It's after midnight."
"Am I correct that you were scheduled to meet with curator of the Louvre
this evening? "
Langdon felt a sudden surge of uneasiness. He and the revered curator
Jacques Sauniore had been slated to meet for drinks after Langdon's lecture
tonight, but Sauniore had never shown up. "Yes. How did you know that?"
"We found your name in his daily planner."
"I trust nothing is wrong?"
The agent gave a dire sigh and slid a Polaroid snapshot through the narrow
opening in the door.
When Langdon saw the photo, his entire body went rigid.
"This photo was taken less than an hour ago. Inside the Louvre."
As Langdon stared at the bizarre image, his initial revulsion and shock
gave way to a sudden upwelling of anger. "Who would do this!"
"We had hoped that you might help us answer that very question. Considering
your knowledge in symbology and your plans to meet with him."
Langdon stared at the picture, his horror now laced with fear. The image
was gruesome and profoundly strange, bringing with it an unsettling sense
of deja vu. A little over a year ago, Langdon had received a photograph
of a corpse and a similar request for help. Twenty-four hours later, he
had almost lost his life inside Vatican City. This photo was entirely
different, and yet something about the scenario felt disquietingly familiar.
The agent checked his watch. "My captain is waiting, sir."
Langdon barely heard him. His eyes were still riveted on the picture.
"This symbol here, and the way his body is so oddly . . ."
"Positioned?" the agent offered.
Langdon nodded, feeling a chill as he looked up. "I can't imagine who
would do this to someone."
The agent looked grim. "You don't understand, Mr. Langdon. What you see
in this photograph . . ." He paused. "Monsieur Sauniore did that to himself."
2
One mile away, the hulking albino named Silas limped through the front
gate of the luxurious brownstone residence on Rue la Bruyere. The spiked
cilice belt that he wore around his thigh cut into his flesh, and
yet his soul sang with satisfaction of service to the Lord.
Pain is good.
His red eyes scanned the lobby as he entered the residence. Empty. He
climbed the stairs quietly, not wanting to awaken any of his fellow numeraries.
His bedroom door was open; locks were forbidden here. He entered, closing
the door behind him.
The room was spartan--hardwood floors, a pine dresser, a canvas mat in
the corner that served as his bed. He was a visitor here this week, and
yet for many years he had been blessed with a similar sanctuary in New
York City.
The Lord has provided me shelter and purpose in my life.
Tonight, at last, Silas felt he had begun to repay his debt. Hurrying
to the dresser, he found the cell phone hidden in his bottom drawer and
placed a call to a private extension.
"Yes?" a male voice answered.
"Teacher, I have returned."
"Speak," the voice commanded, sounding pleased to hear from him.
"All four are gone. The three senechaux . . . and the grandmaster
himself."
There was a momentary pause, as if for prayer. "Then I assume you have
the information?"
"All four concurred. Independently."
"And you believed them?"
"Their agreement was too great for coincidence."
An excited breath. "Superb. I had feared the brotherhood's reputation
for secrecy might prevail."
"The prospect of death is strong motivation."
"So, my pupil, tell me what I must know."
Silas knew the information he had gleaned from his victims would come
as a shock. "Teacher, all four confirmed the existence of the clef
de voete . . . the legendary keystone."
He heard a quick intake of breath over the phone and could feel the Teacher's
excitement. "The keystone. Exactly as we suspected."
According to lore, the brotherhood had created a map of stone--a clef
de voete . . . or keystone--an engraved tablet that revealed the final
resting place of the brotherhood's greatest secret.
"When we possess the keystone," the Teacher said, "we will be only one
step away."
"We are closer than you think. The keystone is here in Paris."
"It is almost too easy."
Silas relayed the earlier events of the evening . . . how all four of
his victims, moments before death, had desperately tried to buy back their
Godless lives by telling their secret. Each had told Silas the exact same
thing--that the keystone was ingeniously hidden at a precise location
inside one of Paris's ancient churches--Eglise de St. Sulpice.
"Inside a House of the Lord," the Teacher exclaimed. "How they mock us!"
"As they have for centuries."
The Teacher fell silent, as if letting the triumph of this moment settle
over him. Finally, he spoke. "You have done a great service to God. We
have waited centuries for this. You must retrieve the stone for me. Immediately.
Tonight. You understand the stakes."
Silas knew the stakes were incalculable, and yet what the Teacher was
now commanding seemed impossible. "But the cathedral, it is a fortress.
Especially at night. How will I enter?"
With the confident tone of a man of enormous influence, the Teacher explained
what was to be done.
When Silas hung up the phone, his skin tingled with anticipation.
One hour, he told himself, grateful that the Teacher had given
him time to carry out the necessary penance before entering a house of
God. I must purge my soul of today's sins. The sins committed today
had been Holy in purpose. Acts of war against the enemies of God had been
committed for centuries. Forgiveness was assured.
Even so, Silas knew, absolution required sacrifice.
Pulling his shades, he stripped naked and knelt in the center of his room.
Looking down, he examined the spiked cilice belt clamped around
his thigh. All true followers of The Way wore this device--a leather strap,
studded with sharp metal barbs that cut into the flesh as a perpetual
reminder of Christ's suffering. The pain caused by the device also helped
counteract the desires of the flesh.
Although Silas already had worn his cilice today longer than the
requisite two hours, he knew today was no ordinary day. Grasping the buckle,
he cinched it one notch tighter, wincing as the barbs dug deeper into
his flesh. Exhaling slowly, he savored the cleansing ritual of his pain.
Pain is good, Silas whispered, repeating the sacred mantra of Father Josemaria
Escriva--the Teacher of all Teachers. Although Escriva had died in 1975,
his wisdom lived on, his words still whispered by thousands of faithful
servants around the globe as they knelt on the floor and performed the
sacred practice known as "corporal mortification."
Silas turned his attention now to a heavy knotted rope coiled neatly on
the floor beside him. The Discipline. The knots were caked with
dried blood. Eager for the purifying effects of his own agony, Silas said
a quick prayer. Then, gripping one end of the rope, he closed his eyes
and swung it hard over his shoulder, feeling the knots slap against his
back. He whipped it over his shoulder again, slashing at his flesh. Again
and again, he lashed.
Castigo corpus meum.
Finally, he felt the blood begin to flow.
3
The crisp April air whipped through the open window of the Citroen ZX
as it skimmed south past the Opera House and crossed Place Vendôme.
In the passenger seat, Robert Langdon felt the city tear past him as he
tried to clear his thoughts. His quick shower and shave had left him looking
reasonably presentable but had done little to ease his anxiety. The frightening
image of the curator's body remained locked in his mind.
Jacques Sauniore is dead.
Langdon could not help but feel a deep sense of loss at the curator's
death. Despite Sauniore's reputation for being reclusive, his recognition
for dedication to the arts made him an easy man to revere. His books on
the secret codes hidden in the paintings of Poussin and Teniers were some
of Langdon's favorite classroom texts. Tonight's meeting had been one
Langdon was very much looking forward to, and he was disappointed when
the curator had not shown.
Again the image of the curator's body flashed in his mind. Jacques Sauniore
did that to himself? Langdon turned and looked out the window, forcing
the picture from his mind.
Excerpted from The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown Copyright�
2003 by Dan Brown. Excerpted by permission of Doubleday, a division of
Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be
reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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