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. «Excellent. 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
keystone.
According to lore, the brotherhood had created a map of stone – a
«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 church, 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.
I must purge my soul of today
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
Although Silas already had worn his
Silas turned his attention now to a heavy knotted rope coiled neatly on the floor beside him.
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.
Jacques Saunière is dead.
Langdon could not help but feel a deep sense of loss at the curator’s death. Despite Saunière’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.
Outside, the city was just now winding down – street vendors wheeling carts of candied
was pleased to discover you were still in Paris tonight,» the agent said, speaking for the first time since they’d left the hotel. «A fortunate coincidence.»
Langdon was feeling anything but fortunate, and coincidence was a concept he did not entirely trust. As someone who had spent his life exploring the hidden interconnectivity of disparate emblems and ideologies, Langdon viewed the world as a web of profoundly intertwined histories and events.
but they are always there
Interpol
As the Citroën accelerated southward across the city, the illuminated profile of the Eiffel Tower appeared, shooting skyward in the distance to the right. Seeing it, Langdon thought of Vittoria, recalling their playful promise a year ago that every six months they would meet again at a different romantic spot on the globe. The Eiffel Tower, Langdon suspected, would have made their list. Sadly, he last kissed Vittoria in a noisy airport in Rome more than a year ago.
«Did you mount her?» the agent asked, looking over.
Langdon glanced up, certain he had misunderstood. «I beg your pardon?»
«She is lovely, no?» The agent motioned through the windshield toward the Eiffel Tower. «Have you mounted her?»
Langdon rolled his eyes. «No, I haven’t climbed the tower.» «She is the symbol of France. I think she is perfect.» Langdon nodded absently. Symbologists often remarked that France – a country renowned for machismo, womanizing, and diminutive insecure leaders like Napoleon and Pepin the Short – could not have chosen a more apt national emblem than a thousand-foot phallus.
When they reached the intersection at Rue de Rivoli, the traffic light was red, but the Citroen didn’t slow. The agent gunned the sedan across the junction and sped onto a wooded section of Rue Castiglione, which served as the northern entrance to the famed Tuileries Gardens – Paris’s own version of Central Park. Most tourists mistranslated Jardins des Tuileries as relating to the thousands of tulips that bloomed here, but
tuiles.
The Citroën swerved left now, angling west down the park’s central boulevard. Curling around a circular pond, the driver cut across a desolate avenue out into a wide quadrangle beyond. Langdon could now see the end of the Tuileries Gardens, marked by a giant stone archway.