Les Nautoniers/Grand Masters 2 page

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 of faith—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.”

Langdon glanced over. “I thought Caesar was dead in that scene.”

Teabing smirked. “Yes, but my toga tore open when I fell, and I had to lie on stage for half an hour with my todger hanging out. Even so, I never moved a muscle. I was brilliant, I tell you.”

Langdon cringed. Sorry I missed it.

As the group moved through the rectangular annex toward the archway leading into the main church, Langdon was surprised by the barren austerity. Although the altar layout resembled that of a linear Christian chapel, the furnishings were stark and cold, bearing none of the traditional ornamentation. “Bleak,” he whispered.

Teabing chuckled. “Church of England. Anglicans drink their religion straight. Nothing to distract from their misery.”

Sophie motioned through the vast opening that gave way to the circular section of the church. “It looks like a fortress in there,” she whispered.

Langdon agreed. Even from here, the walls looked unusually robust.

“The Knights Templar were warriors,” Teabing reminded, the sound of his aluminum crutches echoing in this reverberant space. “A religio‑military society. Their churches were their strongholds and their banks.”

“Banks?” Sophie asked, glancing at Leigh.

“Heavens, yes. The Templars invented the concept of modern banking. For European nobility, traveling with gold was perilous, so the Templars allowed nobles to deposit gold in their nearest Temple Church and then draw it from any other Temple Church across Europe. All they needed was proper documentation.” He winked. “And a small commission. They were the original ATMs.” Teabing pointed toward a stained‑glass window where the breaking sun was refracting through a white‑clad knight riding a rose‑colored horse. “Alanus Marcel,” Teabing said, “Master of the Temple in the early twelve hundreds. He and his successors actually held the Parliamentary chair of Primus Baro Angiae.”

Langdon was surprised. “First Baron of the Realm?”

Teabing nodded. “The Master of the Temple, some claim, held more influence than the king himself.” As they arrived outside the circular chamber, Teabing shot a glance over his shoulder at the altar boy, who was vacuuming in the distance. “You know,” Teabing whispered to Sophie, “the Holy Grail is said to once have been stored in this church overnight while the Templars moved it from one hiding place to another. Can you imagine the four chests of Sangreal documents sitting right here with Mary Magdalene’s sarcophagus? It gives me gooseflesh.”

Langdon was feeling gooseflesh too as they stepped into the circular chamber. His eye traced the curvature of the chamber’s pale stone perimeter, taking in the carvings of gargoyles, demons, monsters, and pained human faces, all staring inward. Beneath the carvings, a single stone pew curled around the entire circumference of the room.

“Theater in the round,” Langdon whispered.

Teabing raised a crutch, pointing toward the far left of the room and then to the far right. Langdon had already seen them.

Ten stone knights.

Five on the left. Five on the right.

Lying prone on the floor, the carved, life‑sized figures rested in peaceful poses. The knights were depicted wearing full armor, shields, and swords, and the tombs gave Langdon the uneasy sensation that someone had snuck in and poured plaster over the knights while they were sleeping. All of the figures were deeply weathered, and yet each was clearly unique—different armory pieces, distinct leg and arm positions, facial features, and markings on their shields.

In London lies a knight a Pope interred.

Langdon felt shaky as he inched deeper into the circular room.

This had to be the place.

CHAPTER 84

In a rubbish‑strewn alley very close to Temple Church, Remy Legaludec pulled the Jaguar limousine to a stop behind a row of industrial waste bins. Killing the engine, he checked the area. Deserted. He got out of the car, walked toward the rear, and climbed back into the limousine’s main cabin where the monk was.

Sensing Remy’s presence, the monk in the back emerged from a prayer‑like trance, his red eyes looking more curious than fearful. All evening Remy had been impressed with this trussed man’s ability to stay calm. After some initial struggles in the Range Rover, the monk seemed to have accepted his plight and given over his fate to a higher power.

Loosening his bow tie, Remy unbuttoned his high, starched, wing‑tipped collar and felt as if he could breathe for the first time in years. He went to the limousine’s wet bar, where he poured himself a Smirnoff vodka. He drank it in a single swallow and followed it with a second.

Soon I will be a man of leisure.

Searching the bar, Remy found a standard service wine‑opener and flicked open the sharp blade. The knife was usually employed to slice the lead foil from corks on fine bottles of wine, but it would serve a far more dramatic purpose this morning. Remy turned and faced Silas, holding up the glimmering blade.

Now those red eyes flashed fear.

Remy smiled and moved toward the back of the limousine. The monk recoiled, struggling against his bonds.

“Be still,” Remy whispered, raising the blade.

Silas could not believe that God had forsaken him. Even the physical pain of being bound Silas had turned into a spiritual exercise, asking the throb of his blood‑starved muscles to remind him of the pain Christ endured. I have been praying all night for liberation . Now, as the knife descended, Silas clenched his eyes shut.

A slash of pain tore through his shoulder blades. He cried out, unable to believe he was going to die here in the back of this limousine, unable to defend himself. I was doing God’s work. The Teacher said he would protect me.

Silas felt the biting warmth spreading across his back and shoulders and could picture his own blood, spilling out over his flesh. A piercing pain cut through his thighs now, and he felt the onset of that familiar undertow of disorientation—the body’s defense mechanism against the pain.

As the biting heat tore through all of his muscles now, Silas clenched his eyes tighter, determined that the final image of his life would not be of his own killer. Instead he pictured a younger Bishop Aringarosa, standing before the small church in Spain . . . the church that he and Silas had built with their own hands. The beginning of my life.

Silas felt as if his body were on fire.

“Take a drink,” the tuxedoed man whispered, his accent French. “It will help with your circulation.”

Silas’s eyes flew open in surprise. A blurry image was leaning over him, offering a glass of liquid. A mound of shredded duct tape lay on the floor beside the bloodless knife.

“Drink this,” he repeated. “The pain you feel is the blood rushing into your muscles.”

Silas felt the fiery throb transforming now to a prickling sting. The vodka tasted terrible, but he drank it, feeling grateful. Fate had dealt Silas a healthy share of bad luck tonight, but God had solved it all with one miraculous twist.

God has not forsaken me.

Silas knew what Bishop Aringarosa would call it.

Divine intervention.

“I had wanted to free you earlier,” the servant apologized, “but it was impossible. With the police arriving at Chateau Villette, and then at Biggin Hill airport, this was the first possible moment. You understand, don’t you, Silas?”

Silas recoiled, startled. “You know my name?”

The servant smiled.

Silas sat up now, rubbing his stiff muscles, his emotions a torrent of incredulity, appreciation, and confusion. “Are you . . . the Teacher?”

Remy shook his head, laughing at the proposition. “I wish I had that kind of power. No, I am not the Teacher. Like you, I serve him. But the Teacher speaks highly of you. My name is Remy.”

Silas was amazed. “I don’t understand. If you work for the Teacher, why did Langdon bring the keystone to your home?”

“Not my home. The home of the world’s foremost Grail historian, Sir Leigh Teabing.”

“But you live there. The odds . . .”

Remy smiled, seeming to have no trouble with the apparent coincidence of Langdon’s chosen refuge. “It was all utterly predictable. Robert Langdon was in possession of the keystone, and he needed help. What more logical place to run than to the home of Leigh Teabing? That I happen to live there is why the Teacher approached me in the first place.” He paused. “How do you think the Teacher knows so much about the Grail?”

Now it dawned, and Silas was stunned. The Teacher had recruited a servant who had access to all of Sir Leigh Teabing’s research. It was brilliant.

“There is much I have to tell you,” Remy said, handing Silas the loaded Heckler Koch pistol. Then he reached through the open partition and retrieved a small, palm‑sized revolver from the glove box. “But first, you and I have a job to do.”

Captain Fache descended from his transport plane at Biggin Hill and listened in disbelief to the Kent chief inspector’s account of what had happened in Teabing’s hangar.

“I searched the plane myself,” the inspector insisted, “and there was no one inside.” His tone turned haughty. “And I should add that if Sir Leigh Teabing presses charges against me, I will—“

“Did you interrogate the pilot?”

“Of course not. He is French, and our jurisdiction requires—”

“Take me to the plane.”

Arriving at the hangar, Fache needed only sixty seconds to locate an anomalous smear of blood on the pavement near where the limousine had been parked. Fache walked up to the plane and rapped loudly on the fuselage.

“This is the captain of the French Judicial Police. Open the door!”

The terrified pilot opened the hatch and lowered the stairs.

Fache ascended. Three minutes later, with the help of his sidearm, he had a full confession, including a description of the bound albino monk. In addition, he learned that the pilot saw Langdon and Sophie leave something behind in Teabing’s safe, a wooden box of some sort. Although the pilot denied knowing what was in the box, he admitted it had been the focus of Langdon’s full attention during the flight to London.

“Open the safe,” Fache demanded.

The pilot looked terrified. “I don’t know the combination!”

“That’s too bad. I was going to offer to let you keep your pilot’s license.”

The pilot wrung his hands. “I know some men in maintenance here. Maybe they could drill it?”

“You have half an hour.”

The pilot leapt for his radio.

Fache strode to the back of the plane and poured himself a hard drink. It was early, but he had not yet slept, so this hardly counted as drinking before noon. Sitting in a plush bucket seat, he closed his eyes, trying to sort out what was going on. The Kent police’s blunder could cost me dearly . Everyone was now on the lookout for a black Jaguar limousine.

Fache’s phone rang, and he wished for a moment’s peace. “Allo?”

“I’m en route to London.” It was Bishop Aringarosa. “I’ll be arriving in an hour.”

Fache sat up. “I thought you were going to Paris.”

“I am deeply concerned. I have changed my plans.”

“You should not have.”

“Do you have Silas?”

“No. His captors eluded the local police before I landed.”

Aringarosa’s anger rang sharply. “You assured me you would stop that plane!”

Fache lowered his voice. “Bishop, considering your situation, I recommend you not test my patience today. I will find Silas and the others as soon as possible. Where are you landing?”

“One moment.” Aringarosa covered the receiver and then came back. “The pilot is trying to get clearance at Heathrow. I’m his only passenger, but our redirect was unscheduled.”

“Tell him to come to Biggin Hill Executive Airport in Kent. I’ll get him clearance. If I’m not here when you land, I’ll have a car waiting for you.”

“Thank you.”

“As I expressed when we first spoke, Bishop, you would do well to remember that you are not the only man on the verge of losing everything.”

CHAPTER 85

You seek the orb that ought be on his tomb.

Each of the carved knights within the Temple Church lay on his back with his head resting on a rectangular stone pillow. Sophie felt a chill. The poem’s reference to an “orb” conjured images of the night in her grandfather’s basement.

Hieros Gamos. The orbs.

Sophie wondered if the ritual had been performed in this very sanctuary. The circular room seemed custom‑built for such a pagan rite. A stone pew encircled a bare expanse of floor in the middle. A theater in the round, as Robert had called it. She imagined this chamber at night, filled with masked people, chanting by torchlight, all witnessing a “sacred communion” in the center of the room.

Forcing the image from her mind, she advanced with Langdon and Teabing toward the first group of knights. Despite Teabing’s insistence that their investigation should be conducted meticulously, Sophie felt eager and pushed ahead of them, making a cursory walk‑through of the five knights on the left.

Scrutinizing these first tombs, Sophie noted the similarities and differences between them. Every knight was on his back, but three of the knights had their legs extended straight out while two had their legs crossed. The oddity seemed to have no relevance to the missing orb. Examining their clothing, Sophie noted that two of the knights wore tunics over their armor, while the other three wore ankle‑length robes. Again, utterly unhelpful. Sophie turned her attention to the only other obvious difference—their hand positions. Two knights clutched swords, two prayed, and one had his arms at his side. After a long moment looking at the hands, Sophie shrugged, having seen no hint anywhere of a conspicuously absent orb.

Feeling the weight of the cryptex in her sweater pocket, she glanced back at Langdon and Teabing. The men were moving slowly, still only at the third knight, apparently having no luck either. In no mood to wait, she turned away from them toward the second group of knights.

As she crossed the open space, she quietly recited the poem she had read so many times now that it was committed to memory.

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.

When Sophie arrived at the second group of knights, she found that this second group was similar to the first. All lay with varied body positions, wearing armor and swords.

That was, all except the tenth and final tomb.

Hurrying over to it, she stared down.

No pillow. No armor. No tunic. No sword.

“Robert? Leigh?” she called, her voice echoing around the chamber. “There’s something missing over here.”

Both men looked up and immediately began to cross the room toward her.

“An orb?” Teabing called excitedly. His crutches clicked out a rapid staccato as he hurried across the room. “Are we missing an orb?”

“Not exactly,” Sophie said, frowning at the tenth tomb. “We seem to be missing an entire knight.”

Arriving beside her both men gazed down in confusion at the tenth tomb. Rather than a knight lying in the open air, this tomb was a sealed stone casket. The casket was trapezoidal, tapered at the feet, widening toward the top, with a peaked lid.

“Why isn’t this knight shown?” Langdon asked.

“Fascinating,” Teabing said, stroking his chin. “I had forgotten about this oddity. It’s been years since I was here.”

“This coffin,” Sophie said, “looks like it was carved at the same time and by the same sculptor as the other nine tombs. So why is this knight in a casket rather than in the open?”

Teabing shook his head. “One of this church’s mysteries. To the best of my knowledge, nobody has ever found any explanation for it.”

“Hello?” the altar boy said, arriving with a perturbed look on his face. “Forgive me if this seems rude, but you told me you wanted to spread ashes, and yet you seem to be sightseeing.”

Teabing scowled at the boy and turned to Langdon. “Mr. Wren, apparently your family’s philanthropy does not buy you the time it used to, so perhaps we should take out the ashes and get on with it.” Teabing turned to Sophie. “Mrs. Wren?”

Sophie played along, pulling the vellum‑wrapped cryptex from her pocket.

“Now then,” Teabing snapped at the boy, “if you would give us some privacy?”

The altar boy did not move. He was eyeing Langdon closely now. “You look familiar.”

Teabing huffed. “Perhaps that is because Mr. Wren comes here every year!”

Or perhaps, Sophie now feared, because he saw Langdon on television at the Vatican last year.

“I have never met Mr. Wren,” the altar boy declared.

“You’re mistaken,” Langdon said politely. “I believe you and I met in passing last year. Father Knowles failed to formally introduce us, but I recognized your face as we came in. Now, I realize this is an intrusion, but if you could afford me a few more minutes, I have traveled a great distance to scatter ashes amongst these tombs.” Langdon spoke his lines with Teabing‑esque believability.

The altar boy’s expression turned even more skeptical. “These are not tombs.”

“I’m sorry?” Langdon said.

“Of course they are tombs,” Teabing declared. “What are you talking about?”

The altar boy shook his head. “Tombs contain bodies. These are effigies. Stone tributes to real men. There are no bodies beneath these figures.”

“This is a crypt!” Teabing said.

“Only in outdated history books. This was believed to be a crypt but was revealed as nothing of the sort during the 1950 renovation.” He turned back to Langdon. “And I imagine Mr. Wren would know that. Considering it was his family that uncovered that fact.”

An uneasy silence fell.

It was broken by the sound of a door slamming out in the annex.

“That must be Father Knowles,” Teabing said. “Perhaps you should go see?”

The altar boy looked doubtful but stalked back toward the annex, leaving Langdon, Sophie, and Teabing to eye one another gloomily.

“Leigh,” Langdon whispered. “No bodies? What is he talking about?”

Teabing looked distraught. “I don’t know. I always thought . . . certainly, this must be the place. I can’t imagine he knows what he is talking about. It makes no sense!”

“Can I see the poem again?” Langdon said.

Sophie pulled the cryptex from her pocket and carefully handed it to him.

Langdon unwrapped the vellum, holding the cryptex in his hand while he examined the poem. “Yes, the poem definitely references a tomb . Not an effigy.”

Date: 2016-03-03; view: 338