«Yes. We’d planned to meet at the American University reception following my lecture, but he never showed up.»
Fache scribbled some notes in a little book. As they walked, Langdon caught a glimpse of the Louvre’s lesser-known pyramid –
«Who requested tonight’s meeting?» Fache asked suddenly. «You or he?»
The question seemed odd. «Mr. Saunière did,» Langdon replied as they entered the tunnel. «His secretary contacted me a few weeks ago via e-mail. She said the curator had heard I would be lecturing in Paris this month and wanted to discuss something with me while I was here.»
«Discuss what?»
«I don’t know. Art, I imagine. We share similar interests.»
Fache looked skeptical. «You have
«Mr. Langdon, can you at least
The pointedness of the question made Langdon uncomfortable. «I really can’t imagine. I didn’t ask. I felt honored to have been contacted at all. I’m an admirer of Mr. Saunière’s work. I use his texts often in my classes.»
Fache made note of that fact in his book.
The two men were now halfway up the Denon Wing’s entry tunnel, and Langdon could see the twin ascending escalators at the far end, both motionless.
«So you shared interests with him?» Fache asked.
«Yes. In fact, I’ve spent much of the last year writing the draft for a book that deals with Mr. Saunière’s primary area of expertise. I was looking forward to picking his brain.»
Fache glanced up. «Pardon?»
The idiom apparently didn’t translate. «I was looking forward to learning his thoughts on the topic.»
«I see. And what is the topic?»
Langdon hesitated, uncertain exactly how to put it. «Essentially, the manuscript is about the iconography of goddess worship – the concept of female sanctity and the art and symbols associated with it.»
Fache ran a meaty hand across his hair. «And Saunière was knowledgeable about this?» «Nobody more so.» «I see.»
Langdon sensed Fache did not see at all. Jacques Saunière was considered the premiere goddess iconographer on earth. Not only did Saunière have a personal passion for relics relating to fertility, goddess cults, Wicca, and the sacred feminine, but during his twenty-year tenure as curator, Saunière had helped the Louvre amass the largest collection of goddess art on earth – labrys axes from the priestesses’ oldest Greek shrine in Delphi, gold caducei wands, hundreds of Tjetankhs resembling small standing angels, sistrum rattles used in ancient Egypt to dispel evil spirits, and an astonishing array of statues depicting Horus being nursed by the goddess Isis.
«Perhaps Jacques Saunière knew of your manuscript?» Fache offered. «And he called the meeting to offer his help on your book.»
Langdon shook his head. «Actually, nobody yet knows about my manuscript. It’s still in draft form, and I haven’t shown it to anyone except my editor.»
Fache fell silent.
Langdon did not add the
Symbols of the Lost Sacred Feminine
Now, as Langdon approached the stationary escalators, he paused, realizing Fache was no longer beside him. Turning, Langdon saw Fache standing several yards back at a service elevator.
«We’ll take the elevator,» Fache said as the lift doors opened. «As I’m sure you’re aware, the gallery is quite a distance on foot.»
Although Langdon knew the elevator would expedite the long, two-story climb to the Denon Wing, he remained motionless.
«Is something wrong?» Fache was holding the door, looking impatient.
Langdon exhaled, turning a longing glance back up the open-air escalator.
The elevator is a perfectly safe machine
Two floors.
Another odd question. Langdon shook his head. «No. Never.» Fache cocked his head, as if making a mental note of that fact. Saying nothing, he stared dead ahead at the chrome doors.
As they ascended, Langdon tried to focus on anything other than the four walls around him. In the reflection of the shiny elevator door, he saw the captain’s tie clip – a silver crucifix with thirteen embedded pieces of black onyx. Langdon found it vaguely surprising. The symbol was known as a
«It’s a
Surprised, Langdon stopped short.
Fache glanced over. «I gather, Mr. Langdon, you have never seen the Louvre after hours?»
As Langdon gazed down the murky corridor, he realized he should have anticipated this scene. Virtually all major galleries employed red service lighting at night – strategically placed, low-level, noninvasive lights that enabled staff members to navigate hallways and yet kept the paintings inrelative darkness to slow the fading effects of overexposure to light. Tonight, the museum possessed an almost oppressive quality. Long shadows encroached everywhere, and the usually soaring vaulted ceilings appeared as a low, black void.
«This way,» Fache said, turning sharply right and setting out through a series of interconnected galleries.
Langdon followed, his vision slowly adjusting to the dark. All around, large-format oils began to materialize like photos developing before him in an enormous darkroom… their eyes following as he moved through the rooms. He could taste the familiar tang of museum air – an arid, deionized essence that carried a faint hint of carbon – the product of industrial, coal-filter dehumidifiers that ran around the clock to counteract the corrosive carbon dioxide exhaled by visitors.
Mounted high on the walls, the visible security cameras sent a clear message to visitors:
Forget keeping thieves out.
Containment was activated after hours, and if an intruder removed a piece of artwork, compartmentalized exits would seal around that gallery, and the thief would find himself behind bars even before the police arrived.
The sound of voices echoed down the marble corridor up ahead. The noise seemed to be coming from a large recessed alcove that lay ahead on the right. A bright light spilled out into the hallway. «Office of the curator,» the captain said. As he and Fache drew nearer the alcove, Langdon peered down a short hallway, into Saunière’s luxurious study – warm wood, Old Master paintings, and an enormous antique desk on which stood a two-foot-tall model of a knight in full armor. A handful of police agents bustled about the room, talking on phones and taking notes. One of them was seated at Saunière’s desk, typing into a laptop. Apparently, the curator’s private office had become DCPJ’s makeshift command post for the evening.