«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.
Доступ к книге ограничен фрагменом по требованию правообладателя.
«Messieurs,» Fache called out, and the men turned. «Ne nous dérangez pas sous aucun prétexte. Entendu?»
Everyone inside the office nodded their understanding.
Langdon had hung enough NE PAS DERANGER signs on hotel room doors to catch the gist of the captain’s orders. Fache and Langdon were not to be disturbed under any circumstances.
Leaving the small congregation of agents behind, Fache led Langdon farther down the darkened hallway. Thirty yards ahead loomed the gateway to the Louvre’s most popular section –
this
As they approached, Langdon saw the entrance was blocked by an enormous steel grate that looked like something used by medieval castles to keep out marauding armies.
«After you, Mr. Langdon,» Fache said. Langdon turned.
«This area is still off limits to Louvre security,» Fache said. «My team from
Langdon stared at the narrow crawl space at his feet and then up at the massive iron grate.
Langdon sighed. Placing his palms flat on the polished parquet, he lay on his stomach and pulled himself forward. As he slid underneath, the nape of his Harris tweed snagged on the bottom of the grate, and he cracked the back of his head on the iron.
CHAPTER 5
Earlier this evening, within the sanctuary of his penthouse apartment, Bishop Manuel Aringarosa had packed a small travel bag and dressed in a traditional black cassock. Normally, he would have wrapped a purple cincture around his waist, but tonight he would be traveling among the public, and he preferred not to draw attention to his high office. Only those with a keen eye would notice his 14-karat gold bishop’s ring with purple amethyst, large diamonds, and hand-tooled mitre-crozier appliqué. Throwing the travel bag over his shoulder, he said a silent prayer and left his apartment, descending to the lobby where his driver was waiting to take him to the airport.
Now, sitting aboard a commercial airliner bound for Rome, Aringarosa gazed out the window at the dark Atlantic. The sun had already set, but Aringarosa knew his own star was on the rise.
As president-general of Opus Dei, Bishop Aringarosa had spent the last decade of his life spreading the message of «God’s Work» – literally,
The congregation, founded in 1928 by the Spanish priest Josemaría Escrivá, promoted a return to conservative Catholic values and encouraged its members to make sweeping sacrifices in their own lives in order to do the Work of God.
Opus Dei’s traditionalist philosophy initially had taken root in Spain before Franco’s regime, but with the 1934 publication of Josemaría Escrivá’s spiritual book
The Way
«Many call Opus Dei a brainwashing cult,» reporters often challenged. «Others call you an ultraconservative Christian secret society. Which are you?»
«Opus Dei is neither,» the bishop would patiently reply. «We are a Catholic Church. We are a congregation of Catholics who have chosen as our priority to follow Catholic doctrine as rigorously as we can in our own daily lives.»
«Does God’s Work necessarily include vows of chastity, tithing, and atonement for sins through self-flagellation and the
Reason seldom worked, though. The media always gravitated toward scandal, and Opus Dei, like most large organizations, had within its membership a few misguided souls who cast a shadow over the entire group.
Two months ago, an Opus Dei group at a mid-western university had been caught drugging new recruits with mescaline in an effort to induce a euphoric state that neophytes would perceive as a religious experience. Another university student had used his barbed
Sadly, all of these events had helped spawn the new watch group known as the Opus Dei Awareness Network (ODAN). The group’s popular website –
Opus Dei is a personal prelature of the Pope himself.
«They know not the war they have begun,» Aringarosa whispered to himself, staring out the plane’s window at the darkness of the ocean below. For an instant, his eyes refocused, lingering on the reflection of his awkward face – dark and oblong, dominated by a flat, crooked nose that had been shattered by a fist in Spain when he was a young missionary. The physical flaw barely registered now. Aringarosa’s was a world of the soul, not of the flesh.
As the jet passed over the coast of Portugal, the cell phone in Aringarosa’s cassock began vibrating in silent ring mode. Despite airline regulations prohibiting the use of cell phones during flights, Aringarosa knew this was a call he could not miss. Only one man possessed this number, the man who had mailed Aringarosa the phone.
Excited, the bishop answered quietly. «Yes?»
«Silas has located the keystone,» the caller said. «It is in Paris. Within the Church of Saint-Sulpice.» Bishop Aringarosa smiled. «Then we are close.» «We can obtain it immediately. But we need your influence.» «Of course. Tell me what to do.» When Aringarosa switched off the phone, his heart was pounding. He gazed once again into the void of night, feeling dwarfed by the events he had put into motion.