Closed for Renovation

Pyx Chamber

St. Faith’s Chapel

CHAPTER House

The long, deserted corridor beyond the swag was littered with scaffolding and drop cloths. Immediately beyond the swag, Langdon could see the entrances to the Pyx Chamber and St. Faith’s Chapel on the right and left. The entrance to the Chapter House, however, was much farther away, at the far end of the long hallway. Even from here, Langdon could see that its heavy wooden door was wide open, and the spacious octagonal interior was bathed in a grayish natural light from the room’s enormous windows that looked out on College Garden. Go through Chapter House, out south exit, to public garden.

“We just left the east cloister,” Langdon said, “so the south exit to the garden must be through there and to the right.”

Sophie was already stepping over the swag and moving forward.

As they hurried down the dark corridor, the sounds of the wind and rain from the open cloister faded behind them. The Chapter House was a kind of satellite structure—a freestanding annex at the end of the long hallway to ensure the privacy of the Parliament proceedings housed there.

“It looks huge,” Sophie whispered as they approached.

Langdon had forgotten just how large this room was. Even from outside the entrance, he could gaze across the vast expanse of floor to the breathtaking windows on the far side of the octagon, which rose five stories to a vaulted ceiling. They would certainly have a clear view of the garden from in here.

Crossing the threshold, both Langdon and Sophie found themselves having to squint. After the gloomy cloisters, the Chapter House felt like a solarium. They were a good ten feet into the room, searching the south wall, when they realized the door they had been promised was not there.

They were standing in an enormous dead end.

The creaking of a heavy door behind them made them turn, just as the door closed with a resounding thud and the latch fell into place.

The lone man who had been standing behind the door looked calm as he aimed a small revolver at them. He was portly and was propped on a pair of aluminum crutches.

For a moment Langdon thought he must be dreaming.

It was Leigh Teabing.

CHAPTER 99

Sir Leigh Teabing felt rueful as he gazed out over the barrel of his Medusa revolver at Robert Langdon and Sophie Neveu. “My friends,” he said, “since the moment you walked into my home last night, I have done everything in my power to keep you out of harm’s way. But your persistence has now put me in a difficult position.”

He could see the expressions of shock and betrayal on Sophie’s and Langdon’s faces, and yet he was confident that soon they would both understand the chain of events that had guided the three of them to this unlikely crossroads.

There is so much I have to tell you both . . . so much you do not yet understand.

“Please believe,” Teabing said, “I never had any intention of your being involved. You came to my home. You came searching for me.”

“Leigh?” Langdon finally managed. “What the hell are you doing? We thought you were in trouble. We came here to help you!”

“As I trusted you would,” he said. “We have much to discuss.”

Langdon and Sophie seemed unable to tear their stunned gazes from the revolver aimed at them.

“It is simply to ensure your full attention,” Teabing said. “If I had wanted to harm you, you would be dead by now. When you walked into my home last night, I risked everything to spare your lives. I am a man of honor, and I vowed in my deepest conscience only to sacrifice those who had betrayed the Sangreal.”

“What are you talking about?” Langdon said. “Betrayed the Sangreal?”

“I discovered a terrible truth,” Teabing said, sighing. “I learned why the Sangreal documents were never revealed to the world. I learned that the Priory had decided not to release the truth after all. That’s why the millennium passed without any revelation, why nothing happened as we entered the End of Days.”

Langdon drew a breath, about to protest.

“The Priory,” Teabing continued, “was given a sacred charge to share the truth. To release the Sangreal documents when the End of Days arrived. For centuries, men like Da Vinci, Botticelli, and Newton risked everything to protect the documents and carry out that charge. And now, at the ultimate moment of truth, Jacques Sauniere changed his mind. The man honored with the greatest responsibility in Christian history eschewed his duty. He decided the time was not right.” Teabing turned to Sophie. “He failed the Grail. He failed the Priory. And he failed the memory of all the generations that had worked to make that moment possible.”

“You?” Sophie declared, glancing up now, her green eyes boring into him with rage and realization. “You are the one responsible for my grandfather’s murder?”

Teabing scoffed. “Your grandfather and his senechaux were traitors to the Grail.”

Sophie felt a fury rising from deep within. He’s lying!

Teabing’s voice was relentless. “Your grandfather sold out to the Church. It is obvious they pressured him to keep the truth quiet.”

Sophie shook her head. “The Church had no influence on my grandfather!”

Teabing laughed coldly. “My dear, the Church has two thousand years of experience pressuring those who threaten to unveil its lies. Since the days of Constantine, the Church has successfully hidden the truth about Mary Magdalene and Jesus. We should not be surprised that now, once again, they have found a way to keep the world in the dark. The Church may no longer employ crusaders to slaughter non‑believers, but their influence is no less persuasive. No less insidious.” He paused, as if to punctuate his next point. “Miss Neveu, for some time now your grandfather has wanted to tell you the truth about your family.”

Sophie was stunned. “How could you know that?”

“My methods are immaterial. The important thing for you to grasp right now is this.” He took a deep breath. “The deaths of your mother, father, grandmother, and brother were not accidental.”

The words sent Sophie’s emotions reeling. She opened her mouth to speak but was unable.

Langdon shook his head. “What are you saying?”

“Robert, it explains everything. All the pieces fit. History repeats itself. The Church has a precedent of murder when it comes to silencing the Sangreal. With the End of Days imminent, killing the Grand Master’s loved ones sent a very clear message. Be quiet, or you and Sophie are next.”

“It was a car accident,” Sophie stammered, feeling the childhood pain welling inside her. “An accident!”

“Bedtime stories to protect your innocence,” Teabing said. “Consider that only two family members went untouched—the Priory’s Grand Master and his lone granddaughter—the perfect pair to provide the Church with control over the brotherhood. I can only imagine the terror the Church wielded over your grandfather these past years, threatening to kill you if he dared release the Sangreal secret, threatening to finish the job they started unless Sauniere influenced the Priory to reconsider its ancient vow.”

“Leigh,” Langdon argued, now visibly riled, “certainly you have no proof that the Church had anything to do with those deaths, or that it influenced the Priory’s decision to remain silent.”

“Proof?” Teabing fired back. “You want proof the Priory was influenced? The new millennium has arrived, and yet the world remains ignorant! Is that not proof enough?”

In the echoes of Teabing’s words, Sophie heard another voice speaking. Sophie, I must tell you the truth about your family . She realized she was trembling. Could this possibly be that truth her grandfather had wanted to tell her? That her family had been murdered? What did she truly know about the crash that took her family? Only sketchy details. Even the stories in the newspaper had been vague. An accident? Bedtime stories? Sophie flashed suddenly on her grandfather’s overprotectiveness, how he never liked to leave her alone when she was young. Even when Sophie was grown and away at university, she had the sense her grandfather was watching over. She wondered if there had been Priory members in the shadows throughout her entire life, looking after her.

“You suspected he was being manipulated,” Langdon said, glaring with disbelief at Teabing. “So you murdered him?”

“I did not pull the trigger,” Teabing said. “Sauniere was dead years ago, when the Church stole his family from him. He was compromised. Now he is free of that pain, released from the shame caused by his inability to carry out his sacred duty. Consider the alternative. Something had to be done. Shall the world be ignorant forever? Shall the Church be allowed to cement its lies into our history books for all eternity? Shall the Church be permitted to influence indefinitely with murder and extortion? No, something needed to be done! And now we are poised to carry out Sauniere’s legacy and right a terrible wrong.” He paused. “The three of us. Together.”

Sophie felt only incredulity. “How could you possibly believe that we would help you?”

“Because, my dear, you are the reason the Priory failed to release the documents. Your grandfather’s love for you prevented him from challenging the Church. His fear of reprisal against his only remaining family crippled him. He never had a chance to explain the truth because you rejected him, tying his hands, making him wait. Now you owe the world the truth. You owe it to the memory of your grandfather.”

Robert Langdon had given up trying to get his bearings. Despite the torrent of questions running through his mind, he knew only one thing mattered now—getting Sophie out of here alive. All the guilt Langdon had mistakenly felt earlier for involving Teabing had now been transferred to Sophie.

I took her to Chateau Villette. I am responsible.

Langdon could not fathom that Leigh Teabing would be capable of killing them in cold blood here in the Chapter House, and yet Teabing certainly had been involved in killing others during his misguided quest. Langdon had the uneasy feeling that gunshots in this secluded, thick‑walled chamber would go unheard, especially in this rain. And Leigh just admitted his guilt to us.

Langdon glanced at Sophie, who looked shaken. The Church murdered Sophie’s family to silence the Priory? Langdon felt certain the modern Church did not murder people. There had to be some other explanation.

“Let Sophie leave,” Langdon declared, staring at Leigh. “You and I should discuss this alone.”

Teabing gave an unnatural laugh. “I’m afraid that is one show of faith I cannot afford. I can, however, offer you this.” He propped himself fully on his crutches, gracelessly keeping the gun aimed at Sophie, and removed the keystone from his pocket. He swayed a bit as he held it out for Langdon. “A token of trust, Robert.”

Robert felt wary and didn’t move. Leigh is giving the keystone back to us?

“Take it,” Teabing said, thrusting it awkwardly toward Langdon.

Langdon could imagine only one reason Teabing would give it back. “You opened it already. You removed the map.”

Teabing was shaking his head. “Robert, if I had solved the keystone, I would have disappeared to find the Grail myself and kept you uninvolved. No, I do not know the answer. And I can admit that freely. A true knight learns humility in the face of the Grail. He learns to obey the signs placed before him. When I saw you enter the abbey, I understood. You were here for a reason. To help. I am not looking for singular glory here. I serve a far greater master than my own pride. The Truth. Mankind deserves to know that truth. The Grail found us all, and now she is begging to be revealed. We must work together.”

Despite Teabing’s pleas for cooperation and trust, his gun remained trained on Sophie as Langdon stepped forward and accepted the cold marble cylinder. The vinegar inside gurgled as Langdon grasped it and stepped backward. The dials were still in random order, and the cryptex remained locked.

Langdon eyed Teabing. “How do you know I won’t smash it right now?”

Teabing’s laugh was an eerie chortle. “I should have realized your threat to break it in the Temple Church was an empty one. Robert Langdon would never break the keystone. You are an historian, Robert. You are holding the key to two thousand years of history—the lost key to the Sangreal. You can feel the souls of all the knights burned at the stake to protect her secret. Would you have them die in vain? No, you will vindicate them. You will join the ranks of the great men you admire—Da Vinci, Botticelli, Newton—each of whom would have been honored to be in your shoes right now. The contents of the keystone are crying out to us. Longing to be set free. The time has come. Destiny has led us to this moment.”

“I cannot help you, Leigh. I have no idea how to open this. I only saw Newton’s tomb for a moment. And even if I knew the password . . .” Langdon paused, realizing he had said too much.

“You would not tell me?” Teabing sighed. “I am disappointed and surprised, Robert, that you do not appreciate the extent to which you are in my debt. My task would have been far simpler had Remy and I eliminated you both when you walked into Chateau Villette. Instead I risked everything to take the nobler course.”

“This is noble?” Langdon demanded, eyeing the gun.

“Sauniere’s fault,” Teabing said. “He and his senechaux lied to Silas. Otherwise, I would have obtained the keystone without complication. How was I to imagine the Grand Master would go to such ends to deceive me and bequeath the keystone to an estranged granddaughter?” Teabing looked at Sophie with disdain. “Someone so unqualified to hold this knowledge that she required a symbologist baby‑sitter.” Teabing glanced back at Langdon. “Fortunately, Robert, your involvement turned out to be my saving grace. Rather than the keystone remaining locked in the depository bank forever, you extracted it and walked into my home.”

Where else would I run? Langdon thought. The community of Grail historians is small, and Teabing and I have a history together.

Teabing now looked smug. “When I learned Sauniere left you a dying message, I had a pretty good idea you were holding valuable Priory information. Whether it was the keystone itself, or information on where to find it, I was not sure. But with the police on your heels, I had a sneaking suspicion you might arrive on my doorstep.”

Langdon glared. “And if we had not?”

“I was formulating a plan to extend you a helping hand. One way or another, the keystone was coming to Chateau Villette. The fact that you delivered it into my waiting hands only serves as proof that my cause is just.”

“What!” Langdon was appalled.

“Silas was supposed to break in and steal the keystone from you in Chateau Villette—thus removing you from the equation without hurting you, and exonerating me from any suspicion of complicity. However, when I saw the intricacy of Sauniere’s codes, I decided to include you both in my quest a bit longer. I could have Silas steal the keystone later, once I knew enough to carry on alone.”

“The Temple Church,” Sophie said, her tone awash with betrayal.

Light begins to dawn, Teabing thought. The Temple Church was the perfect location to steal the keystone from Robert and Sophie, and its apparent relevance to the poem made it a plausible decoy. Remy’s orders had been clear—stay out of sight while Silas recovers the keystone. Unfortunately, Langdon’s threat to smash the keystone on the chapel floor had caused Remy to panic. If only Remy had not revealed himself, Teabing thought ruefully, recalling his own mock kidnapping. Remy was the sole link to me, and he showed his face!

Fortunately, Silas remained unaware of Teabing’s true identity and was easily fooled into taking him from the church and then watching naively as Remy pretended to tie their hostage in the back of the limousine. With the soundproof divider raised, Teabing was able to phone Silas in the front seat, use the fake French accent of the Teacher, and direct Silas to go straight to Opus Dei. A simple anonymous tip to the police was all it would take to remove Silas from the picture.

One loose end tied up.

The other loose end was harder. Remy.

Teabing struggled deeply with the decision, but in the end Remy had proven himself a liability. Every Grail quest requires sacrifice . The cleanest solution had been staring Teabing in the face from the limousine’s wet bar—a flask, some cognac, and a can of peanuts. The powder at the bottom of the can would be more than enough to trigger Remy’s deadly allergy. When Remy parked the limo on Horse Guards Parade, Teabing climbed out of the back, walked to the side passenger door, and sat in the front next to Remy. Minutes later, Teabing got out of the car, climbed into the rear again, cleaned up the evidence, and finally emerged to carry out the final phase of his mission.

Westminster Abbey had been a short walk, and although Teabing’s leg braces, crutches, and gun had set off the metal detector, the rent‑a‑cops never knew what to do. Do we ask him to remove his braces and crawl through? Do we frisk his deformed body? Teabing presented the flustered guards a far easier solution—an embossed card identifying him as Knight of the Realm. The poor fellows practically tripped over one another ushering him in.

Now, eyeing the bewildered Langdon and Neveu, Teabing resisted the urge to reveal how he had brilliantly implicated Opus Dei in the plot that would soon bring about the demise of the entire Church. That would have to wait. Right now there was work to do.

“Mes amis,” Teabing declared in flawless French, “vous ne trouvez pas le Saint‑Graal, c'est le Saint‑Graal qui vous trouve.” He smiled. “Our paths together could not be more clear. The Grail has found us.”

Silence.

He spoke to them in a whisper now. “Listen. Can you hear it? The Grail is speaking to us across the centuries. She is begging to be saved from the Priory’s folly. I implore you both to recognize this opportunity. There could not possibly be three more capable people assembled at this moment to break the final code and open the cryptex.” Teabing paused, his eyes alight. “We need to swear an oath together. A pledge of faith to one another. A knight’s allegiance to uncover the truth and make it known.”

Sophie stared deep into Teabing’s eyes and spoke in a steely tone. “I will never swear an oath with my grandfather’s murderer. Except an oath that I will see you go to prison.”

Teabing’s heart turned grave, then resolute. “I am sorry you feel that way, mademoiselle.” He turned and aimed the gun at Langdon. “And you, Robert? Are you with me, or against me?”

CHAPTER 100

Bishop Manuel Aringarosa’s body had endured many kinds of pain, and yet the searing heat of the bullet wound in his chest felt profoundly foreign to him. Deep and grave. Not a wound of the flesh . . . but closer to the soul.

He opened his eyes, trying to see, but the rain on his face blurred his vision. Where am I? He could feel powerful arms holding him, carrying his limp body like a rag doll, his black cassock flapping.

Lifting a weary arm, he mopped his eyes and saw the man holding him was Silas. The great albino was struggling down a misty sidewalk, shouting for a hospital, his voice a heartrending wail of agony. His red eyes were focused dead ahead, tears streaming down his pale, blood‑spattered face.

“My son,” Aringarosa whispered, “you’re hurt.”

Silas glanced down, his visage contorted in anguish. “I am so very sorry, Father.” He seemed almost too pained to speak.

“No, Silas,” Aringarosa replied. “It is I who am sorry. This is my fault.” The Teacher promised me there would be no killing, and I told you to obey him fully . “I was too eager. Too fearful. You and I were deceived.” The Teacher was never going to deliver us the Holy Grail.

Cradled in the arms of the man he had taken in all those years ago, Bishop Aringarosa felt himself reel back in time. To Spain. To his modest beginnings, building a small Catholic church in Oviedo with Silas. And later, to New York City, where he had proclaimed the glory of God with the towering Opus Dei Center on Lexington Avenue.

Five months ago, Aringarosa had received devastating news. His life’s work was in jeopardy. He recalled, with vivid detail, the meeting inside Castel Gandolfo that had changed his life . . . the news that had set this entire calamity into motion.

Aringarosa had entered Gandolfo’s Astronomy Library with his head held high, fully expecting to be lauded by throngs of welcoming hands, all eager to pat him on the back for his superior work representing Catholicism in America.

But only three people were present.

The Vatican secretariat. Obese. Dour.

Two high‑ranking Italian cardinals. Sanctimonious. Smug.

“Secretariat?” Aringarosa said, puzzled.

The rotund overseer of legal affairs shook Aringarosa’s hand and motioned to the chair opposite him. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

Aringarosa sat, sensing something was wrong.

“I am not skilled in small talk, Bishop,” the secretariat said, “so let me be direct about the reason for your visit.”

“Please. Speak openly.” Aringarosa glanced at the two cardinals, who seemed to be measuring him with self‑righteous anticipation.

“As you are well aware,” the secretariat said, “His Holiness and others in Rome have been concerned lately with the political fallout from Opus Dei’s more controversial practices.”

Aringarosa felt himself bristle instantly. He already had been through this on numerous occasions with the new pontiff, who, to Aringarosa’s great dismay, had turned out to be a distressingly fervent voice for liberal change in the Church.

“I want to assure you,” the secretariat added quickly, “that His Holiness does not seek to change anything about the way you run your ministry.”

I should hope not! “Then why am I here?”

The enormous man sighed. “Bishop, I am not sure how to say this delicately, so I will state it directly. Two days ago, the Secretariat Council voted unanimously to revoke the Vatican’s sanction of Opus Dei.”

Aringarosa was certain he had heard incorrectly. “I beg your pardon?”

“Plainly stated, six months from today, Opus Dei will no longer be considered a prelature of the Vatican. You will be a church unto yourself. The Holy See will be disassociating itself from you. His Holiness agrees and we are already drawing up the legal papers.”

“But . . . that is impossible!”

“On the contrary, it is quite possible. And necessary. His Holiness has become uneasy with your aggressive recruiting policies and your practices of corporal mortification.” He paused. “Also your policies regarding women. Quite frankly, Opus Dei has become a liability and an embarrassment.”

Bishop Aringarosa was stupefied. “An embarrassment?”

“Certainly you cannot be surprised it has come to this.”

“Opus Dei is the only Catholic organization whose numbers are growing! We now have over eleven hundred priests!”

“True. A troubling issue for us all.”

Aringarosa shot to his feet. “Ask His Holiness if Opus Dei was an embarrassment in 1982 when we helped the Vatican Bank!”

“The Vatican will always be grateful for that,” the secretariat said, his tone appeasing, “and yet there are those who still believe your financial munificence in 1982 is the only reason you were granted prelature status in the first place.”

“That is not true!” The insinuation offended Aringarosa deeply.

“Whatever the case, we plan to act in good faith. We are drawing up severance terms that will include a reimbursement of those monies. It will be paid in five installments.”

“You are buying me off?” Aringarosa demanded. “Paying me to go quietly? When Opus Dei is the only remaining voice of reason!”

One of the cardinals glanced up. “I’m sorry, did you say reason?”

Aringarosa leaned across the table, sharpening his tone to a point. “Do you really wonder why Catholics are leaving the Church? Look around you, Cardinal. People have lost respect. The rigors of faith are gone. The doctrine has become a buffet line. Abstinence, confession, communion, baptism, mass—take your pick—choose whatever combination pleases you and ignore the rest. What kind of spiritual guidance is the Church offering?”

“Third‑century laws,” the second cardinal said, “cannot be applied to the modern followers of Christ. The rules are not workable in today’s society.”

“Well, they seem to be working for Opus Dei!”

“Bishop Aringarosa,” the secretariat said, his voice conclusive. “Out of respect for your organization’s relationship with the previous Pope, His Holiness will be giving Opus Dei six months to voluntarily break away from the Vatican. I suggest you cite your differences of opinion with the Holy See and establish yourself as your own Christian organization.”

“I refuse!” Aringarosa declared. “And I’ll tell him that in person!”

“I’m afraid His Holiness no longer cares to meet with you.”

Aringarosa stood up. “He would not dare abolish a personal prelature established by a previous Pope!”

“I’m sorry.” The secretariat’s eyes did not flinch. “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.”

Aringarosa had staggered from that meeting in bewilderment and panic. Returning to New York, he stared out at the skyline in disillusionment for days, overwhelmed with sadness for the future of Christianity.

It was several weeks later that he received the phone call that changed all that. The caller sounded French and identified himself as the Teacher—a title common in the prelature. He said he knew of the Vatican’s plans to pull support from Opus Dei.

How could he know that? Aringarosa wondered. He had hoped only a handful of Vatican power brokers knew of Opus Dei’s impending annulment. Apparently the word was out. When it came to containing gossip, no walls in the world were as porous as those surrounding Vatican City.

“I have ears everywhere, Bishop,” the Teacher whispered, “and with these ears I have gained certain knowledge. With your help, I can uncover the hiding place of a sacred relic that will bring you enormous power . . . enough power to make the Vatican bow before you. Enough power to save the Faith.” He paused. “Not just for Opus Dei. But for all of us.”

The Lord taketh away . . . and the Lord giveth . Aringarosa felt a glorious ray of hope. “Tell me your plan.”

Bishop Aringarosa was unconscious when the doors of St. Mary’s Hospital hissed open. Silas lurched into the entryway delirious with exhaustion. Dropping to his knees on the tile floor, he cried out for help. Everyone in the reception area gaped in wonderment at the half‑naked albino offering forth a bleeding clergyman.

The doctor who helped Silas heave the delirious bishop onto a gurney looked gloomy as he felt Aringarosa’s pulse. “He’s lost a lot of blood. I am not hopeful.”

Aringarosa’s eyes flickered, and he returned for a moment, his gaze locating Silas. “My child . . .”

Silas’s soul thundered with remorse and rage. “Father, if it takes my lifetime, I will find the one who deceived us, and I will kill him.”

Aringarosa shook his head, looking sad as they prepared to wheel him away. “Silas . . . if you have learned nothing from me, please . . . learn this.” He took Silas’s hand and gave it a firm squeeze. “Forgiveness is God’s greatest gift.”

“But Father . . .”

Aringarosa closed his eyes. “Silas, you must pray.”

CHAPTER 101

Robert Langdon stood beneath the lofty cupola of the deserted Chapter House and stared into the barrel of Leigh Teabing’s gun.

Robert, are you with me, or against me? The Royal Historian’s words echoed in the silence of Langdon’s mind.

There was no viable response, Langdon knew. Answer yes, and he would be selling out Sophie. Answer no, and Teabing would have no choice but to kill them both.

Langdon’s years in the classroom had not imbued him with any skills relevant to handling confrontations at gunpoint, but the classroom had taught him something about answering paradoxical questions. When a question has no correct answer, there is only one honest response.

The gray area between yes and no.

Silence.

Staring at the cryptex in his hands, Langdon chose simply to walk away.

Without ever lifting his eyes, he stepped backward, out into the room’s vast empty spaces. Neutral ground . He hoped his focus on the cryptex signaled Teabing that collaboration might be an option, and that his silence signaled Sophie he had not abandoned her.

All the while buying time to think.

The act of thinking, Langdon suspected, was exactly what Teabing wanted him to do. That’s why he handed me the cryptex. So I could feel the weight of my decision . The British historian hoped the touch of the Grand Master’s cryptex would make Langdon fully grasp the magnitude of its contents, coaxing his academic curiosity to overwhelm all else, forcing him to realize that failure to unlock the keystone would mean the loss of history itself.

With Sophie at gunpoint across the room, Langdon feared that discovering the cryptex’s elusive password would be his only remaining hope of bartering her release. If I can free the map, Teabing will negotiate . Forcing his mind to this critical task, Langdon moved slowly toward the far windows . . . allowing his mind to fill with the numerous astronomical images on Newton’s tomb.

You seek the orb that ought be on his tomb.

It speaks of Rosy flesh and seeded womb.

Turning his back to the others, he walked toward the towering windows, searching for any inspiration in their stained‑glass mosaics. There was none.

Place yourself in Sauniere’s mind, he urged, gazing outward now into College Garden. What would he believe is the orb that ought be on Newton’s tomb? Images of stars, comets, and planets twinkled in the falling rain, but Langdon ignored them. Sauniere was not a man of science. He was a man of humanity, of art, of history. The sacred feminine . . . the chalice . . . the Rose . . . the banished Mary Magdalene . . . the decline of the goddess . . . the Holy Grail.

Legend had always portrayed the Grail as a cruel mistress, dancing in the shadows just out of sight, whispering in your ear, luring you one more step and then evaporating into the mist.

Gazing out at the rustling trees of College Garden, Langdon sensed her playful presence. The signs were everywhere. Like a taunting silhouette emerging from the fog, the branches of Britain’s oldest apple tree burgeoned with five‑petaled blossoms, all glistening like Venus. The goddess was in the garden now. She was dancing in the rain, singing songs of the ages, peeking out from behind the bud‑filled branches as if to remind Langdon that the fruit of knowledge was growing just beyond his reach.

Across the room, Sir Leigh Teabing watched with confidence as Langdon gazed out the window as if under a spell.

Exactly as I hoped, Teabing thought. He will come around.

For some time now, Teabing had suspected Langdon might hold the key to the Grail. It was no coincidence that Teabing launched his plan into action on the same night Langdon was scheduled to meet Jacques Sauniere. Listening in on the curator, Teabing was certain the man’s eagerness to meet privately with Langdon could mean only one thing. Langdon’s mysterious manuscript has touched a nerve with the Priory.

Langdon has stumbled onto a truth, and Sauniere fears its release . Teabing felt certain the Grand Master was summoning Langdon to silence him.

The Truth has been silenced long enough!

Teabing knew he had to act quickly. Silas’s attack would accomplish two goals. It would prevent Sauniere from persuading Langdon to keep quiet, and it would ensure that once the keystone was in Teabing’s hands, Langdon would be in Paris for recruitment should Teabing need him.

Arranging the fatal meeting between Sauniere and Silas had been almost too easy. I had inside information about Sauniere’s deepest fears . Yesterday afternoon, Silas had phoned the curator and posed as a distraught priest. “Monsieur Sauniere, forgive me, I must speak to you at once. I should never breach the sanctity of the confessional, but in this case, I feel I must. I just took confession from a man who claimed to have murdered members of your family.”

Sauniere’s response was startled but wary. “My family died in an accident. The police report was conclusive.”

“Yes, a car accident,” Silas said, baiting the hook. “The man I spoke to said he forced their car off the road into a river.”

Sauniere fell silent.

“Monsieur Sauniere, I would never have phoned you directly except this man made a comment which makes me now fear for your safety.” He paused. “The man also mentioned your granddaughter, Sophie.”

The mention of Sophie’s name had been the catalyst. The curator leapt into action. He ordered Silas to come see him immediately in the safest location Sauniere knew—his Louvre office. Then he phoned Sophie to warn her she might be in danger. Drinks with Robert Langdon were instantly abandoned.

Now, with Langdon separated from Sophie on the far side of the room, Teabing sensed he had successfully alienated the two companions from one another. Sophie Neveu remained defiant, but Langdon clearly saw the larger picture. He was trying to figure out the password. He understands the importance of finding the Grail and releasing her from bondage.

“He won’t open it for you,” Sophie said coldly. “Even if he can.”

Teabing was glancing at Langdon as he held the gun on Sophie. He was fairly certain now he was going to have to use the weapon. Although the idea troubled him, he knew he would not hesitate if it came to that. I have given her every opportunity to do the right thing. The Grail is bigger than any one of us.

At that moment, Langdon turned from the window. “The tomb . . .” he said suddenly, facing them with a faint glimmer of hope in his eyes. “I know where to look on Newton’s tomb. Yes, I think I can find the password!”

Teabing’s heart soared. “Where, Robert? Tell me!”

Sophie sounded horrified. “Robert, no! You’re not going to help him, are you?”

Langdon approached with a resolute stride, holding the cryptex before him. “No,” he said, his eyes hardening as he turned to Leigh. “Not until he lets you go.”

Teabing’s optimism darkened. “We are so close, Robert. Don’t you dare start playing games with me!”

“No games,” Langdon said. “Let her go. Then I’ll take you to Newton’s tomb. We’ll open the cryptex together.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sophie declared, her eyes narrowing with rage. “That cryptex was given to me by my grandfather. It is not yours to open.”

Langdon wheeled, looking fearful. “Sophie, please! You’re in danger. I’m trying to help you!”

“How? By unveiling the secret my grandfather died trying to protect? He trusted you, Robert. I trusted you!”

Langdon’s blue eyes showed panic now, and Teabing could not help but smile to see the two of them working against one another. Langdon’s attempts to be gallant were more pathetic than anything. On the verge of unveiling one of history’s greatest secrets, and he troubles himself with a woman who has proven herself unworthy of the quest.

“Sophie,” Langdon pleaded. “Please . . . you must leave.”

She shook her head. “Not unless you either hand me the cryptex or smash it on the floor.”

“What?” Langdon gasped.

“Robert, my grandfather would prefer his secret lost forever than see it in the hands of his murderer.” Sophie’s eyes looked as if they would well with tears, but they did not. She stared directly back at Teabing. “Shoot me if you have to. I am not leaving my grandfather’s legacy in your hands.”

Very well . Teabing aimed the weapon.

“No!” Langdon shouted, raising his arm and suspending the cryptex precariously over the hard stone floor. “Leigh, if you even think about it, I will drop this.”

Teabing laughed. “That bluff worked on Remy. Not on me. I know you better than that.”

“Do you, Leigh?”

Yes I do. Your poker face needs work, my friend. It took me several seconds, but I can see now that you are lying. You have no idea where on Newton’s tomb the answer lies . “Truly, Robert? You know where on the tomb to look?”

“I do.”

The falter in Langdon’s eyes was fleeting but Leigh caught it. There was a lie there. A desperate, pathetic ploy to save Sophie. Teabing felt a profound disappointment in Robert Langdon.

I am a lone knight, surrounded by unworthy souls. And I will have to decipher the keystone on my own.

Langdon and Neveu were nothing but a threat to Teabing now . . . and to the Grail. As painful as the solution was going to be, he knew he could carry it out with a clean conscience. The only challenge would be to persuade Langdon to set down the keystone so Teabing could safely end this charade.

“A show of faith,” Teabing said, lowering the gun from Sophie. “Set down the keystone, and we’ll talk.”

Langdon knew his lie had failed.

He could see the dark resolve in Teabing’s face and knew the moment was upon them. When I set this down, he will kill us both . Even without looking at Sophie, he could hear her heart beseeching him in silent desperation. Robert, this man is not worthy of the Grail. Please do not place it in his hands. No matter what the cost.

Langdon had already made his decision several minutes ago, while standing alone at the window overlooking College Garden.

Protect Sophie.

Protect the Grail.

Langdon had almost shouted out in desperation. But I cannot see how!

The stark moments of disillusionment had brought with them a clarity unlike any he had ever felt. The Truth is right before your eyes, Robert . He knew not from where the epiphany came. The Grail is not mocking you, she is calling out to a worthy soul.

Now, bowing down like a subject several yards in front of Leigh Teabing, Langdon lowered the cryptex to within inches of the stone floor.

“Yes, Robert,” Teabing whispered, aiming the gun at him. “Set it down.”

Langdon’s eyes moved heavenward, up into the gaping void of the Chapter House cupola. Crouching lower, Langdon lowered his gaze to Teabing’s gun, aimed directly at him.

“I’m sorry, Leigh.”

In one fluid motion, Langdon leapt up, swinging his arm skyward, launching the cryptex straight up toward the dome above.

Leigh Teabing did not feel his finger pull the trigger, but the Medusa discharged with a thundering crash. Langdon’s crouched form was now vertical, almost airborne, and the bullet exploded in the floor near Langdon’s feet. Half of Teabing’s brain attempted to adjust his aim and fire again in rage, but the more powerful half dragged his eyes upward into the cupola.

The keystone!

Time seemed to freeze, morphing into a slow‑motion dream as Teabing’s entire world became the airborne keystone. He watched it rise to the apex of its climb . . . hovering for a moment in the void . . . and then tumbling downward, end over end, back toward the stone floor.

All of Teabing’s hopes and dreams were plummeting toward earth. It cannot strike the floor! I can reach it! Teabing’s body reacted on instinct. He released the gun and heaved himself forward, dropping his crutches as he reached out with his soft, manicured hands. Stretching his arms and fingers, he snatched the keystone from midair.

Falling forward with the keystone victoriously clutched in his hand, Teabing knew he was falling too fast. With nothing to break his fall, his outstretched arms hit first, and the cryptex collided hard with the floor.

There was a sickening crunch of glass within.

For a full second, Teabing did not breathe. Lying there outstretched on the cold floor, staring the length of his outstretched arms at the marble cylinder in his bare palms, he implored the glass vial inside to hold. Then the acrid tang of vinegar cut the air, and Teabing felt the cool liquid flowing out through the dials onto his palm.

Wild panic gripped him. NO! The vinegar was streaming now, and Teabing pictured the papyrus dissolving within. Robert, you fool! The secret is lost!

Teabing felt himself sobbing uncontrollably. The Grail is gone. Everything destroyed . Shuddering in disbelief over Langdon’s actions, Teabing tried to force the cylinder apart, longing to catch a fleeting glimpse of history before it dissolved forever. To his shock, as he pulled the ends of the keystone, the cylinder separated.

He gasped and peered inside. It was empty except for shards of wet glass. No dissolving papyrus. Teabing rolled over and looked up at Langdon. Sophie stood beside him, aiming the gun down at Teabing.

Bewildered, Teabing looked back at the keystone and saw it. The dials were no longer at random. They spelled a five‑letter word: APPLE.

“The orb from which Eve partook,” Langdon said coolly, “incurring the Holy wrath of God. Original sin. The symbol of the fall of the sacred feminine.”

Teabing felt the truth come crashing down on him in excruciating austerity. The orb that ought be on Newton’s tomb could be none other than the Rosy apple that fell from heaven, struck Newton on the head, and inspired his life’s work. His labor’s fruit! The Rosy flesh with a seeded womb!

“Robert,” Teabing stammered, overwhelmed. “You opened it. Where . . . is the map?”

Without blinking, Langdon reached into the breast pocket of his tweed coat and carefully extracted a delicate rolled papyrus. Only a few yards from where Teabing lay, Langdon unrolled the scroll and looked at it. After a long moment, a knowing smile crossed Langdon’s face.

He knows! Teabing’s heart craved that knowledge. His life’s dream was right in front of him. “Tell me!” Teabing demanded. “Please! Oh God, please! It’s not too late!”

As the sound of heavy footsteps thundered down the hall toward the Chapter House, Langdon quietly rolled the papyrus and slipped it back in his pocket.

“No!” Teabing cried out, trying in vain to stand.

When the doors burst open, Bezu Fache entered like a bull into a ring, his feral eyes scanning, finding his target—Leigh Teabing—helpless on the floor. Exhaling in relief, Fache holstered his Manurhin sidearm and turned to Sophie. “Agent Neveu, I am relieved you and Mr. Langdon are safe. You should have come in when I asked.”

The British police entered on Fache’s heels, seizing the anguished prisoner and placing him in handcuffs.

Sophie seemed stunned to see Fache. “How did you find us?”

Fache pointed to Teabing. “He made the mistake of showing his ID when he entered the abbey. The guards heard a police broadcast about our search for him.”

“It’s in Langdon’s pocket!” Teabing was screaming like a madman. “The map to the Holy Grail!”

As they hoisted Teabing and carried him out, he threw back his head and howled. “Robert! Tell me where it’s hidden!”

As Teabing passed, Langdon looked him in the eye. “Only the worthy find the Grail, Leigh. You taught me that.”

CHAPTER 102

The mist had settled low on Kensington Gardens as Silas limped into a quiet hollow out of sight. Kneeling on the wet grass, he could feel a warm stream of blood flowing from the bullet wound below his ribs. Still, he stared straight ahead.

The fog made it look like heaven here.

Raising his bloody hands to pray, he watched the raindrops caress his fingers, turning them white again. As the droplets fell harder across his back and shoulders, he could feel his body disappearing bit by bit into the mist.

I am a ghost.

A breeze rustled past him, carrying the damp, earthy scent of new life. With every living cell in his broken body, Silas prayed. He prayed for forgiveness. He prayed for mercy. And, above all, he prayed for his mentor . . . Bishop Aringarosa . . . that the Lord would not take him before his time. He has so much work left to do.

The fog was swirling around him now, and Silas felt so light that he was sure the wisps would carry him away. Closing his eyes, he said a final prayer.

From somewhere in the mist, the voice of Manuel Aringarosa whispered to him.

Our Lord is a good and merciful God.

Silas’s pain at last began to fade, and he knew the bishop was right.

CHAPTER 103

It was late afternoon when the London sun broke through and the city began to dry. Bezu Fache felt weary as he emerged from the interrogation room and hailed a cab. Sir Leigh Teabing had vociferously proclaimed his innocence, and yet from his incoherent rantings about the Holy Grail, secret documents, and mysterious brotherhoods, Fache suspected the wily historian was setting the stage for his lawyers to plead an insanity defense.

Sure, Fache thought. Insane . Teabing had displayed ingenious precision in formulating a plan that protected his innocence at every turn. He had exploited both the Vatican and Opus Dei, two groups that turned out to be completely innocent. His dirty work had been carried out unknowingly by a fanatical monk and a desperate bishop. More clever still, Teabing had situated his electronic listening post in the one place a man with polio could not possibly reach. The actual surveillance had been carried out by his manservant, Remy—the lone person privy to Teabing’s true identity—now conveniently dead of an allergic reaction.

Hardly the handiwork of someone lacking mental faculties, Fache thought.

The information coming from Collet out of Chateau Villette suggested that Teabing’s cunning ran so deep that Fache himself might even learn from it. To successfully hide bugs in some of Paris’s most powerful offices, the British historian had turned to the Greeks. Trojan horses . Some of Teabing’s intended targets received lavish gifts of artwork, others unwittingly bid at auctions in which Teabing had placed specific lots. In Sauniere’s case, the curator had received a dinner invitation to Chateau Villette to discuss the possibility of Teabing’s funding a new Da Vinci Wing at the Louvre. Sauniere’s invitation had contained an innocuous postscript expressing fascination with a robotic knight that Sauniere was rumored to have built. Bring him to dinner, Teabing had suggested. Sauniere apparently had done just that and left the knight unattended long enough for Remy Legaludec to make one inconspicuous addition.

Now, sitting in the back of the cab, Fache closed his eyes. One more thing to attend to before I return to Paris.

The St. Mary’s Hospital recovery room was sunny.

“You’ve impressed us all,” the nurse said, smiling down at him. “Nothing short of miraculous.”

Bishop Aringarosa gave a weak smile. “I have always been blessed.”

The nurse finished puttering, leaving the bishop alone. The sunlight felt welcome and warm on his face. Last night had been the darkest night of his life.

Despondently, he thought of Silas, whose body had been found in the park.

Please forgive me, my son.

Aringarosa had longed for Silas to be part of his glorious plan. Last night, however, Aringarosa had received a call from Bezu Fache, questioning the bishop about his apparent connection to a nun who had been murdered in Saint‑Sulpice. Aringarosa realized the evening had taken a horrifying turn. News of the four additional murders transformed his horror to anguish. Silas, what have you done! Unable to reach the Teacher, the bishop knew he had been cut loose. Used . The only way to stop the horrific chain of events he had helped put in motion was to confess everything to Fache, and from that moment on, Aringarosa and Fache had been racing to catch up with Silas before the Teacher persuaded him to kill again.

Feeling bone weary, Aringarosa closed his eyes and listened to the television coverage of the arrest of a prominent British knight, Sir Leigh Teabing. The Teacher laid bare for all to see . Teabing had caught wind of the Vatican’s plans to disassociate itself from Opus Dei. He had chosen Aringarosa as the perfect pawn in his plan. After all, who more likely to leap blindly after the Holy Grail than a man like myself with everything to lose? The Grail would have brought enormous power to anyone who possessed it.

Leigh Teabing had protected his identity shrewdly—feigning a French accent and a pious heart, and demanding as payment the one thing he did not need—money. Aringarosa had been far too eager to be suspicious. The price tag of twenty million euro was paltry when compared with the prize of obtaining the Grail, and with the Vatican’s separation payment to Opus Dei, the finances had worked nicely. The blind see what they want to see . Teabing’s ultimate insult, of course, had been to demand payment in Vatican bonds, such that if anything went wrong, the investigation would lead to Rome.

“I am glad to see you’re well, My Lord.”

Aringarosa recognized the gruff voice in the doorway, but the face was unexpected—stern, powerful features, slicked‑back hair, and a broad neck that strained against his dark suit. “Captain Fache?” Aringarosa asked. The compassion and concern the captain had shown for Aringarosa’s plight last night had conjured images of a far gentler physique.

The captain approached the bed and hoisted a familiar, heavy black briefcase onto a chair. “I believe this belongs to you.”

Aringarosa looked at the briefcase filled with bonds and immediately looked away, feeling only shame. “Yes . . . thank you.” He paused while working his fingers across the seam of his bedsheet, then continued. “Captain, I have been giving this deep thought, and I need to ask a favor of you.”

“Of course.”

“The families of those in Paris who Silas . . .” He paused, swallowing the emotion. “I realize no sum could possibly serve as sufficient restitution, and yet, if you could be kind enough to divide the contents of this briefcase among them . . . the families of the deceased.”

Fache’s dark eyes studied him a long moment. “A virtuous gesture, My Lord. I will see to it your wishes are carried out.”

A heavy silence fell between them.

On the television, a lean French police officer was giving a press conference in front of a sprawling mansion. Fache saw who it was and turned his attention to the screen.

“Lieutenant Collet,” a BBC reporter said, her voice accusing. “Last night, your captain publicly charged two innocent people with murder. Will Robert Langdon and Sophie Neveu be seeking accountability from your department? Will this cost Captain Fache his job?”

Lieutenant Collet’s smile was tired but calm. “It is my experience that Captain Bezu Fache seldom makes mistakes. I have not yet spoken to him on this matter, but knowing how he operates, I suspect his public manhunt for Agent Neveu and Mr. Langdon was part of a ruse to lure out the real killer.”

The reporters exchanged surprised looks.

Collet continued. “Whether or not Mr. Langdon and Agent Neveu were willing participants in the sting, I do not know. Captain Fache tends to keep his more creative methods to himself. All I can confirm at this point is that the captain has successfully arrested the man responsible, and that Mr. Langdon and Agent Neveu are both innocent and safe.”

Fache had a faint smile on his lips as he turned back to Aringarosa. “A good man, that Collet.”

Several moments passed. Finally, Fache ran his hand over his forehead, slicking back his hair as he gazed down at Aringarosa. “My Lord, before I return to Paris, there is one final matter I’d like to discuss—your impromptu flight to London. You bribed a pilot to change course. In doing so, you broke a number of international laws.”

Aringarosa slumped. “I was desperate.”

“Yes. As was the pilot when my men interrogated him.” Fache reached in his pocket and produced a purple amethyst ring with a familiar hand‑tooled mitre‑crozier applique.

Aringarosa felt tears welling as he accepted the ring and slipped it back on his finger. “You’ve been so kind.” He held out his hand and clasped Fache’s. “Thank you.”

Fache waved off the gesture, walking to the window and gazing out at the city, his thoughts obviously far away. When he turned, there was an uncertainty about him. “My Lord, where do you go from here?”

Aringarosa had been asked the exact same question as he left Castel Gandolfo the night before. “I suspect my path is as uncertain as yours.”

“Yes.” Fache paused. “I suspect I will be retiring early.”

Aringarosa smiled. “A little faith can do wonders, Captain. A little faith.”

CHAPTER 104

Rosslyn Chapel—often called the Cathedral of Codes—stands seven miles south of Edinburgh, Scotland, on the site of an ancient Mithraic temple. Built by the Knights Templar in 1446, the chapel is engraved with a mind‑boggling array of symbols from the Jewish, Christian, Egyptian, Masonic, and pagan traditions.

The chapel’s geographic coordinates fall precisely on the north‑south meridian that runs through Glastonbury. This longitudinal Rose Line is the traditional marker of King Arthur’s Isle of Avalon and is considered the central pillar of Britain’s sacred geometry. It is from this hallowed Rose Line that Rosslyn—originally spelled Roslin—takes its name.

Rosslyn’s rugged spires were casting long evening shadows as Robert Langdon and Sophie Neveu pulled their rental car into the grassy parking area at the foot of the bluff on which the chapel stood. Their short flight from London to Edinburgh had been restful, although neither of them had slept for the anticipation of what lay ahead. Gazing up at the stark edifice framed against a cloud‑swept sky, Langdon felt like Alice falling headlong into the rabbit hole. This must be a dream . And yet he knew the text of Sauniere’s final message could not have been more specific.

The Holy Grail 'neath ancient Roslin waits.

Langdon had fantasized that Sauniere’s “Grail map” would be a diagram—a drawing with an X‑marks‑the‑spot—and yet the Priory’s final secret had been unveiled in the same way Sauniere had spoken to them from the beginning. Simple verse . Four explicit lines that pointed without a doubt to this very spot. In addition to identifying Rosslyn by name, the verse made reference to several of the chapel’s renowned architectural features.

Despite the clarity of Sauniere’s final revelation, Langdon had been left feeling more off balance than enlightened. To him, Rosslyn Chapel seemed far too obvious a location. For centuries, this stone chapel had echoed with whispers of the Holy Grail’s presence. The whispers had turned to shouts in recent decades when ground‑penetrating radar revealed the presence of an astonishing structure beneath the chapel—a massive subterranean chamber. Not only did this deep vault dwarf the chapel atop it, but it appeared to have no entrance or exit. Archaeologists petitioned to begin blasting through the bedrock to reach the mysterious chamber, but the Rosslyn Trust expressly forbade any excavation of the sacred site. Of course, this only fueled the fires of speculation. What was the Rosslyn Trust trying to hide?

Rosslyn had now become a pilgrimage site for mystery seekers. Some claimed they were drawn here by the powerful magnetic field that emanated inexplicably from these coordinates, some claimed they came to search the hillside for a hidden entrance to the vault, but most admitted they had come simply to wander the grounds and absorb the lore of the Holy Grail.

Although Langdon had never been to Rosslyn before now, he always chuckled when he heard the chapel described as the current home of the Holy Grail. Admittedly, Rosslyn once might have been home to the Grail, long ago . . . but certainly no longer. Far too much attention had been drawn to Rosslyn in past decades, and sooner or later someone would find a way to break into the vault.

True Grail academics agreed that Rosslyn was a decoy—one of the devious dead ends the Priory crafted so convincingly. Tonight, however, with the Priory’s keystone offering a verse that pointed directly to this spot, Langdon no longer felt so smug. A perplexing question had been running through his mind all day:

Why would Sauniere go to such effort to guide us to so obvious a location?

There seemed only one logical answer.

There is something about Rosslyn we have yet to understand.

“Robert?” Sophie was standing outside the car, looking back at him. “Are you corning?” She was holding the rosewood box, which Captain Fache had returned to them. Inside, both cryptexes had been reassembled and nested as they had been found. The papyrus verse was locked safely at its core—minus the shattered vial of vinegar.

Making their way up the long gravel path, Langdon and Sophie passed the famous west wall of the chapel. Casual visitors assumed this oddly protruding wall was a section of the chapel that had not been finished. The truth, Langdon recalled, was far more intriguing.

The west wall of Solomon’s Temple.

The Knights Templar had designed Rosslyn Chapel as an exact architectural blueprint of Solomon’s Temple in Jerusalem—complete with a west wall, a narrow rectangular sanctuary, and a subterranean vault like the Holy of Holies, in which the original nine knights had first unearthed their priceless treasure. Langdon had to admit, there existed an intriguing symmetry in the idea of the Templars building a modern Grail repository that echoed the Grail’s original hiding place.

Rosslyn Chapel’s entrance was more modest than Langdon expected. The small wooden door had two iron hinges and a simple, oak sign.

Roslin

This ancient spelling, Langdon explained to Sophie, derived from the Rose Line meridian on which the chapel sat; or, as Grail academics preferred to believe, from the “Line of Rose”—the ancestral lineage of Mary Magdalene.

The chapel would be closing soon, and as Langdon pulled open the door, a warm puff of air escaped, as if the ancient edifice were heaving a weary sigh at the end of a long day. Her entry arches burgeoned with carved cinquefoils.

Roses. The womb of the goddess.

Entering with Sophie, Langdon felt his eyes reaching across the famous sanctuary and taking it all in. Although he had read accounts of Rosslyn’s arrestingly intricate stonework, seeing it in person was an overwhelming encounter.

Symbology heaven, one of Langdon’s colleagues had called it.

Every surface in the chapel had been carved with symbols—Christian cruciforms, Jewish stars, Masonic seals, Templar crosses, cornucopias, pyramids, astrological signs, plants, vegetables, pentacles, and roses. The Knights Templar had been master stonemasons, erecting Templar churches all over Europe, but Rosslyn was considered their most sublime labor of love and veneration. The master masons had left no stone uncarved. Rosslyn Chapel was a shrine to all faiths . . . to all traditions . . . and, above all, to nature and the goddess.

The sanctuary was empty except for a handful of visitors listening to a young man giving the day’s last tour. He was leading them in a single‑file line along a well‑known route on the floor—an invisible pathway linking six key architectural points within the sanctuary. Generations of visitors had walked these straight lines, connecting the points, and their countless footsteps had engraved an enormous symbol on the floor.

The Star of David, Langdon thought. No coincidence there . Also known as Solomon’s Seal, this hexagram had once been the secret symbol of the stargazing priests and was later adopted by the Israelite kings—David and Solomon.

The docent had seen Langdon and Sophie enter, and although it was closing time, offered a pleasant smile and motioned for them to feel free to look around.

Langdon nodded his thanks and began to move deeper into the sanctuary. Sophie, however, stood riveted in the entryway, a puzzled look on her face.

“What is it?” Langdon asked.

Sophie stared out at the chapel. “I think . . . I’ve been here.”

Langdon was surprised. “But you said you hadn’t even heard of Rosslyn.”

“I hadn’t . . .” She scanned the sanctuary, looking uncertain. “My grandfather must have brought me here when I was very young. I don’t know. It feels familiar.” As her eyes scanned the room, she began nodding with more certainty. “Yes.” She pointed to the front of the sanctuary. “Those two pillars . . . I’ve seen them.”

Langdon looked at the pair of intricately sculpted columns at the far end of the sanctuary. Their white lacework carvings seemed to smolder with a ruddy glow as the last of the day’s sunlight streamed in through the west window. The pillars—positioned where the altar would normally stand—were an oddly matched pair. The pillar on the left was carved with simple, vertical lines, while the pillar on the right was embellished with an ornate, flowering spiral.

Sophie was already moving toward them. Langdon hurried after her, and as they reached the pillars, Sophie was nodding with incredulity. “Yes, I’m positive I have seen these!”

“I don’t doubt you’ve seen them,” Langdon said, “but it wasn’t necessarily here.”

She turned. “What do you mean?”

“These two pillars are the most duplicated architectural structures in history. Replicas exist al

Date: 2016-03-03; view: 370