The Da Vinci Code (6 page)

CHAPTER
9

To ensure
his conversation with Mr. Langdon would not be interrupted, Bezu Fache had turned off his cellular phone. Unfortunately, it was an expensive model equipped with a two-way radio feature, which, contrary to his orders, was now being used by one of his agents to page him.

“Capitaine?”
The phone crackled like a walkie-talkie.

Fache felt his teeth clench in rage. He could imagine nothing important enough that Collet would interrupt this
surveillance cachée
—especially at this critical juncture.

He gave Langdon a calm look of apology. “One moment please.” He pulled the phone from his belt and pressed the radio transmission button.
“Oui?”

“Capitaine, un agent du Département de Cryptographie est arrivé.”

Fache's anger stalled momentarily.
A cryptographer?
Despite the lousy timing, this was probably good news. Fache, after finding Saunière's cryptic text on the floor, had uploaded photographs of the entire crime scene to the Cryptography Department in hopes someone there could tell him what the hell Saunière was trying to say. If a code breaker had now arrived, it most likely meant someone had decrypted Saunière's message.

“I'm busy at the moment,” Fache radioed back, leaving no doubt in his tone that a line had been crossed. “Ask the cryptographer to wait at the command post. I'll speak to him when I'm done.”

“Her,”
the voice corrected. “It's Agent Neveu.”

Fache was becoming less amused with this call every passing moment. Sophie Neveu was one of DCPJ's biggest mistakes. A young Parisian
déchiffreuse
who had studied cryptography in England at the Royal Holloway, Sophie Neveu had been foisted on Fache two years ago as part of the ministry's attempt to incorporate more women into the police force. The ministry's ongoing foray into political correctness, Fache argued, was weakening the department. Women not only lacked the physicality necessary for police work, but their mere presence posed a dangerous distraction to the men in the field. As Fache had feared, Sophie Neveu was proving far more distracting than most.

At thirty-two years old, she had a dogged determination that bordered on obstinate. Her eager espousal of Britain's new cryptologic methodology continually exasperated the veteran French cryptographers above her. And by far the most troubling to Fache was the inescapable universal truth that in an office of middle-aged men, an attractive young woman always drew eyes away from the work at hand.

The man on the radio said, “Agent Neveu insisted on speaking to you immediately, Captain. I tried to stop her, but she's on her way into the gallery.”

Fache recoiled in disbelief. “Unacceptable! I made it very clear—”

For a moment, Robert Langdon thought Bezu Fache was suffering a stroke. The captain was mid-sentence when his jaw stopped moving and his eyes bulged. His blistering gaze seemed fixated on something over Langdon's shoulder. Before Langdon could turn to see what it was, he heard a woman's voice chime out behind him.

“Excusez-moi, messieurs.”

Langdon turned to see a young woman approaching. She was moving down the corridor toward them with long, fluid strides . . . a haunting certainty to her gait. Dressed casually in a knee-length, cream-colored Irish sweater over black leggings, she was attractive and looked to be about thirty. Her thick burgundy hair fell unstyled to her shoulders, framing the warmth of her face. Unlike the waifish, cookie-cutter blondes that adorned Harvard dorm room walls, this woman was healthy with an unembellished beauty and genuineness that radiated a striking personal confidence.

To Langdon's surprise, the woman walked directly up to him and extended a polite hand. “Monsieur Langdon, I am Agent Neveu from DCPJ's Cryptology Department.” Her words curved richly around her muted Anglo-Franco accent. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Langdon took her soft palm in his and felt himself momentarily fixed in her strong gaze. Her eyes were olive-green—incisive and clear.

Fache drew a seething inhalation, clearly preparing to launch into a reprimand.

“Captain,” she said, turning quickly and beating him to the punch, “please excuse the interruption, but—”

“Ce n'est pas le moment!”
Fache sputtered.

“I tried to phone you.” Sophie continued in English, as if out of courtesy to Langdon. “But your cell phone was turned off.”

“I turned it off for a reason,” Fache hissed. “I am speaking to Mr. Langdon.”

“I've deciphered the numeric code,” she said flatly.

Langdon felt a pulse of excitement.
She broke the code?

Fache looked uncertain how to respond.

“Before I explain,” Sophie said, “I have an urgent message for Mr. Langdon.”

Fache's expression turned to one of deepening concern. “For Mr. Langdon?”

She nodded, turning back to Langdon. “You need to contact the U.S. Embassy, Mr. Langdon. They have a message for you from the States.”

Langdon reacted with surprise, his excitement over the code giving way to a sudden ripple of concern.
A message from the States?
He tried to imagine who could be trying to reach him. Only a few of his colleagues knew he was in Paris.

Fache's broad jaw had tightened with the news. “The U.S. Embassy?” he demanded, sounding suspicious. “How would they know to find Mr. Langdon
here?
”

Sophie shrugged. “Apparently they called Mr. Langdon's hotel, and the concierge told them Mr. Langdon had been collected by a DCPJ agent.”

Fache looked troubled. “And the embassy contacted DCPJ
Cryptography?
”

“No, sir,” Sophie said, her voice firm. “When I called the DCPJ switchboard in an attempt to contact you, they had a message waiting for Mr. Langdon and asked me to pass it along if I got through to you.”

Fache's brow furrowed in apparent confusion. He opened his mouth to speak, but Sophie had already turned back to Langdon.

“Mr. Langdon,” she declared, pulling a small slip of paper from her pocket, “this is the number for your embassy's messaging service. They asked that you phone in as soon as possible.” She handed him the paper with an intent gaze. “While I explain the code to Captain Fache, you need to make this call.”

Langdon studied the slip. It had a Paris phone number and extension on it. “Thank you,” he said, feeling worried now. “Where do I find a phone?”

Sophie began to pull a cell phone from her sweater pocket, but Fache waved her off. He now looked like Mount Vesuvius about to erupt. Without taking his eyes off Sophie, he produced his own cell phone and held it out. “This line is secure, Mr. Langdon. You may use it.”

Langdon felt mystified by Fache's anger with the young woman. Feeling uneasy, he accepted the captain's phone. Fache immediately marched Sophie several steps away and began chastising her in hushed tones. Disliking the captain more and more, Langdon turned away from the odd confrontation and switched on the cell phone. Checking the slip of paper Sophie had given him, Langdon dialed the number.

The line began to ring.

One ring . . . two rings . . . three rings . . .

Finally the call connected.

Langdon expected to hear an embassy operator, but he found himself instead listening to an answering machine. Oddly, the voice on the tape was familiar. It was that of Sophie Neveu.

“Bonjour, vous êtes bien chez Sophie Neveu,”
the woman's voice said.
“Je suis absente pour le moment, mais . . .”

Confused, Langdon turned back toward Sophie. “I'm sorry, Ms. Neveu? I think you may have given me—”

“No, that's the right number,” Sophie interjected quickly, as if anticipating Langdon's confusion. “The embassy has an automated message system. You have to dial an access code to pick up your messages.”

Langdon stared. “But—”

“It's the three-digit code on the paper I gave you.”

Langdon opened his mouth to explain the bizarre error, but Sophie flashed him a silencing glare that lasted only an instant. Her green eyes sent a crystal-clear message.

Don't ask questions. Just do it.

Bewildered, Langdon punched in the extension on the slip of paper: 454.

Sophie's outgoing message immediately cut off, and Langdon heard an electronic voice announce in French: “You have
one
new message.” Apparently, 454 was Sophie's remote access code for picking up her messages while away from home.

I'm picking up this woman's messages?

Langdon could hear the tape rewinding now. Finally, it stopped, and the machine engaged. Langdon listened as the message began to play. Again, the voice on the line was Sophie's.

“Mr. Langdon,” the message began in a fearful whisper. “Do
not
react to this message. Just listen calmly. You are in danger right now. Follow my directions very closely.”

CHAPTER
10

Silas sat
behind the wheel of the black Audi the Teacher had arranged for him and gazed out at the great Church of Saint-Sulpice. Lit from beneath by banks of floodlights, the church's two bell towers rose like stalwart sentinels above the building's long body. On either flank, a shadowy row of sleek buttresses jutted out like the ribs of a beautiful beast.

The heathens used a house of God to conceal their keystone
. Again the brotherhood had confirmed their legendary reputation for illusion and deceit. Silas was looking forward to finding the keystone and giving it to the Teacher so they could recover what the brotherhood had long ago stolen from the faithful.

How powerful that will make Opus Dei.

Parking the Audi on the deserted Place Saint-Sulpice, Silas exhaled, telling himself to clear his mind for the task at hand. His broad back still ached from the corporal mortification he had endured earlier today, and yet the pain was inconsequential compared with the anguish of his life before Opus Dei had saved him.

Still, the memories haunted his soul.

Release your hatred,
Silas commanded himself.
Forgive those who trespassed against you.

Looking up at the stone towers of Saint-Sulpice, Silas fought that familiar undertow . . . that force that often dragged his mind back in time, locking him once again in the prison that had been his world as a young man. The memories of purgatory came as they always did, like a tempest to his senses . . . the reek of rotting cabbage, the stench of death, human urine and feces. The cries of hopelessness against the howling wind of the Pyrenees and the soft sobs of forgotten men.

Andorra,
he thought, feeling his muscles tighten.

Incredibly, it was in that barren and forsaken suzerain between Spain and France, shivering in his stone cell, wanting only to die, that Silas had been saved.

He had not realized it at the time.

The light came long after the thunder.

His name was not Silas then, although he didn't recall the name his parents had given him. He had left home when he was seven. His drunken father, a burly dockworker, enraged by the arrival of an albino son, beat his mother regularly, blaming her for the boy's embarrassing condition. When the boy tried to defend her, he too was badly beaten.

One night, there was a horrific fight, and his mother never got up. The boy stood over his lifeless mother and felt an unbearable upwelling of guilt for permitting it to happen.

This is my fault!

As if some kind of demon were controlling his body, the boy walked to the kitchen and grasped a butcher knife. Hypnotically, he moved to the bedroom where his father lay on the bed in a drunken stupor. Without a word, the boy stabbed him in the back. His father cried out in pain and tried to roll over, but his son stabbed him again, over and over until the apartment fell quiet.

The boy fled home but found the streets of Marseilles equally unfriendly. His strange appearance made him an outcast among the other young runaways, and he was forced to live alone in the basement of a dilapidated factory, eating stolen fruit and raw fish from the dock. His only companions were tattered magazines he found in the trash, and he taught himself to read them. Over time, he grew strong. When he was twelve, another drifter—a girl twice his age—mocked him on the streets and attempted to steal his food. The girl found herself pummeled to within inches of her life. When the authorities pulled the boy off her, they gave him an ultimatum—leave Marseilles or go to juvenile prison.

The boy moved down the coast to Toulon. Over time, the looks of pity on the streets turned to looks of fear. The boy had grown to a powerful young man. When people passed by, he could hear them whispering to one another.
A ghost,
they would say, their eyes wide with fright as they stared at his white skin.
A ghost with the eyes of a devil!

And he felt like a ghost . . . transparent . . . floating from seaport to seaport.

People seemed to look right through him.

At eighteen, in a port town, while attempting to steal a case of cured ham from a cargo ship, he was caught by a pair of crewmen. The two sailors who began to beat him smelled of beer, just as his father had. The memories of fear and hatred surfaced like a monster from the deep. The young man broke the first sailor's neck with his bare hands, and only the arrival of the police saved the second sailor from a similar fate.

Two months later, in shackles, he arrived at a prison in Andorra.

You are as white as a ghost,
the inmates ridiculed as the guards marched him in, naked and cold.
Mira el espectro! Perhaps the ghost will pass right through these walls!

Over the course of twelve years, his flesh and soul withered until he knew he had become transparent.

I am a ghost.

I am weightless.

Yo soy un espectro . . . pálido como una fantasma . . . caminando este mundo a solas.

One night the ghost awoke to the screams of other inmates. He didn't know what invisible force was shaking the floor on which he slept, nor what mighty hand was trembling the mortar of his stone cell, but as he jumped to his feet, a large boulder toppled onto the very spot where he had been sleeping. Looking up to see where the stone had come from, he saw a hole in the trembling wall, and beyond it, a vision he had not seen in over ten years. The moon.

Even while the earth still shook, the ghost found himself scrambling through a narrow tunnel, staggering out into an expansive vista, and tumbling down a barren mountainside into the woods. He ran all night, always downward, delirious with hunger and exhaustion.

Skirting the edges of consciousness, he found himself at dawn in a clearing where train tracks cut a swath across the forest. Following the rails, he moved on as if dreaming. Seeing an empty freight car, he crawled in for shelter and rest. When he awoke the train was moving.
How long? How far?
A pain was growing in his gut.
Am I dying?
He slept again. This time he awoke to someone yelling, beating him, throwing him out of the freight car. Bloody, he wandered the outskirts of a small village looking in vain for food. Finally, his body too weak to take another step, he lay down by the side of the road and slipped into unconsciousness.

The light came slowly, and the ghost wondered how long he had been dead.
A day? Three days?
It didn't matter. His bed was soft like a cloud, and the air around him smelled sweet with candles. Jesus was there, staring down at him.
I am here,
Jesus said.
The stone has been rolled aside, and you are born again.

He slept and awoke. Fog shrouded his thoughts. He had never believed in heaven, and yet Jesus was watching over him. Food appeared beside his bed, and the ghost ate it, almost able to feel the flesh materializing on his bones. He slept again. When he awoke, Jesus was still smiling down, speaking.
You are saved, my son. Blessed are those who follow my path
.

Again, he slept.

It was a scream of anguish that startled the ghost from his slumber. His body leapt out of bed, staggered down a hallway toward the sounds of shouting. He entered into a kitchen and saw a large man beating a smaller man. Without knowing why, the ghost grabbed the large man and hurled him backward against a wall. The man fled, leaving the ghost standing over the body of a young man in priest's robes. The priest had a badly shattered nose. Lifting the bloody priest, the ghost carried him to a couch.

“Thank you, my friend,” the priest said in awkward French. “The offertory money is tempting for thieves. You speak French in your sleep. Do you also speak Spanish?”

The ghost shook his head.

“What is your name?” he continued in broken French.

The ghost could not remember the name his parents had given him. All he heard were the taunting gibes of the prison guards.

The priest smiled. “
No hay problema
. My name is Manuel Aringarosa. I am a missionary from Madrid. I was sent here to build a church for the Obra de Dios.”

“Where am I?” His voice sounded hollow.

“Oviedo. In the north of Spain.”

“How did I get here?”

“Someone left you on my doorstep. You were ill. I fed you. You've been here many days.”

The ghost studied his young caretaker. Years had passed since anyone had shown any kindness. “Thank you, Father.”

The priest touched his bloody lip. “It is I who am thankful, my friend.”

When the ghost awoke in the morning, his world felt clearer. He gazed up at the crucifix on the wall above his bed. Although it no longer spoke to him, he felt a comforting aura in its presence. Sitting up, he was surprised to find a newspaper clipping on his bedside table. The article was in French, a week old. When he read the story, he filled with fear. It told of an earthquake in the mountains that had destroyed a prison and freed many dangerous criminals.

His heart began pounding.
The priest knows who I am!
The emotion he felt was one he had not felt for some time. Shame. Guilt. It was accompanied by the fear of being caught. He jumped from his bed.
Where do I run?

“The Book of Acts,” a voice said from the door.

The ghost turned, frightened.

The young priest was smiling as he entered. His nose was awkwardly bandaged, and he was holding out an old Bible. “I found one in French for you. The chapter is marked.”

Uncertain, the ghost took the Bible and looked at the chapter the priest had marked.

Acts 16.

The verses told of a prisoner named Silas who lay naked and beaten in his cell, singing hymns to God. When the ghost reached Verse 26, he gasped in shock.

“. . . And suddenly, there was a great earthquake, so that the foundations of the prison were shaken, and all the doors fell open.”

His eyes shot up at the priest.

The priest smiled warmly. “From now on, my friend, if you have no other name, I shall call you Silas.”

The ghost nodded blankly.
Silas
. He had been given flesh.
My name is Silas
.

“It's time for breakfast,” the priest said. “You will need your strength if you are to help me build this church.”

Twenty thousand feet above the Mediterranean, Alitalia flight 1618 bounced in turbulence, causing passengers to shift nervously. Bishop Aringarosa barely noticed. His thoughts were with the future of Opus Dei. Eager to know how plans in Paris were progressing, he wished he could phone Silas. But he could not. The Teacher had seen to that.

“It is for your own safety,” the Teacher had explained, speaking in English with a French accent. “I am familiar enough with electronic communications to know they can be intercepted. The results could be disastrous for you.”

Aringarosa knew he was right. The Teacher seemed an exceptionally careful man. He had not revealed his own identity to Aringarosa, and yet he had proven himself a man well worth obeying. After all, he had somehow obtained very secret information.
The names of the brotherhood's four top members!
This had been one of the coups that convinced the bishop the Teacher was truly capable of delivering the astonishing prize he claimed he could unearth.

“Bishop,” the Teacher had told him, “I have made all the arrangements. For my plan to succeed, you must allow Silas to answer
only
to me for several days. The two of you will not speak. I will communicate with him through secure channels.”

“You will treat him with respect?”

“A man of faith deserves the highest.”

“Excellent. Then I understand. Silas and I shall not speak until this is over.”

“I do this to protect your identity, Silas's identity, and my investment.”

“Your investment?”

“Bishop, if your own eagerness to keep abreast of progress puts you in jail, then you will be unable to pay me my fee.”

The bishop smiled. “A fine point. Our desires are in accord. Godspeed.”

Twenty million euro,
the bishop thought, now gazing out the plane's window. The sum was approximately the same number of U.S. dollars.
A pittance for something so powerful
.

He felt a renewed confidence that the Teacher and Silas would not fail. Money and faith were powerful motivators.