The Da Vinci Code (7 page)

CHAPTER
11

“Une plaisanterie
numérique?”
Bezu Fache was livid, glaring at Sophie Neveu in disbelief.
A numeric joke?
“Your professional assessment of Saunière's code is that it is some kind of mathematical prank?”

Fache was in utter incomprehension of this woman's gall. Not only had she just barged in on Fache without permission, but she was now trying to convince him that Saunière, in his final moments of life, had been inspired to leave a mathematical gag?

“This code,” Sophie explained in rapid French, “is simplistic to the point of absurdity. Jacques Saunière must have known we would see through it immediately.” She pulled a scrap of paper from her sweater pocket and handed it to Fache. “Here is the decryption.”

Fache looked at the card.

1-1-2-3-5-8-13-21

“This is it?” he snapped. “All you did was put the numbers in increasing order!”

Sophie actually had the nerve to give a satisfied smile. “Exactly.”

Fache's tone lowered to a guttural rumble. “Agent Neveu, I have no idea where the hell you're going with this, but I suggest you get there fast.” He shot an anxious glance at Langdon, who stood nearby with the phone pressed to his ear, apparently still listening to his phone message from the U.S. Embassy. From Langdon's ashen expression, Fache sensed the news was bad.

“Captain,” Sophie said, her tone dangerously defiant, “the sequence of numbers you have in your hand happens to be one of the most famous mathematical progressions in history.”

Fache was not aware there even existed a mathematical progression that qualified as famous, and he certainly didn't appreciate Sophie's off-handed tone.

“This is the Fibonacci sequence,” she declared, nodding toward the piece of paper in Fache's hand. “A progression in which each term is equal to the sum of the two preceding terms.”

Fache studied the numbers. Each term was indeed the sum of the two previous, and yet Fache could not imagine what the relevance of all this was to Saunière's death.

“Mathematician Leonardo Fibonacci created this succession of numbers in the thirteenth-century. Obviously there can be no coincidence that
all
of the numbers Saunière wrote on the floor belong to Fibonacci's famous sequence.”

Fache stared at the young woman for several moments. “Fine, if there is no coincidence, would you tell me
why
Jacques Saunière chose to do this. What is he saying? What does this
mean?
”

She shrugged. “Absolutely nothing. That's the point. It's a simplistic cryptographic joke. Like taking the words of a famous poem and shuffling them at random to see if anyone recognizes what all the words have in common.”

Fache took a menacing step forward, placing his face only inches from Sophie's. “I certainly hope you have a much more satisfying explanation than
that
.”

Sophie's soft features grew surprisingly stern as she leaned in. “Captain, considering what you have at stake here tonight, I thought you might appreciate knowing that Jacques Saunière might be playing games with you. Apparently not. I'll inform the director of Cryptography you no longer need our services.”

With that, she turned on her heel, and marched off the way she had come.

Stunned, Fache watched her disappear into the darkness.
Is she out of her mind?
Sophie Neveu had just redefined
le suicide professionnel
.

Fache turned to Langdon, who was still on the phone, looking more concerned than before, listening intently to his phone message.
The U.S. Embassy
. Bezu Fache despised many things . . . but few drew more wrath than the U.S. Embassy.

Fache and the ambassador locked horns regularly over shared affairs of state—their most common battleground being law enforcement for visiting Americans. Almost daily, DCPJ arrested American exchange students in possession of drugs, U.S. businessmen for soliciting underage prostitutes, American tourists for shoplifting or destruction of property. Legally, the U.S. Embassy could intervene and extradite guilty citizens back to the United States, where they received nothing more than a slap on the wrist.

And the embassy invariably did just that.

L'émasculation de la Police Judiciaire,
Fache called it.
Paris Match
had run a cartoon recently depicting Fache as a police dog, trying to bite an American criminal, but unable to reach because it was chained to the U.S. Embassy.

Not tonight,
Fache told himself.
There is far too much at stake.

By the time Robert Langdon hung up the phone, he looked ill.

“Is everything all right?” Fache asked.

Weakly, Langdon shook his head.

Bad news from home,
Fache sensed, noticing Langdon was sweating slightly as Fache took back his cell phone.

“An accident,” Langdon stammered, looking at Fache with a strange expression. “A friend . . .” He hesitated. “I'll need to fly home first thing in the morning.”

Fache had no doubt the shock on Langdon's face was genuine, and yet he sensed another emotion there too, as if a distant fear were suddenly simmering in the American's eyes. “I'm sorry to hear that,” Fache said, watching Langdon closely. “Would you like to sit down?” He motioned toward one of the viewing benches in the gallery.

Langdon nodded absently and took a few steps toward the bench. He paused, looking more confused with every moment. “Actually, I think I'd like to use the rest room.”

Fache frowned inwardly at the delay. “The rest room. Of course. Let's take a break for a few minutes.” He motioned back down the long hallway in the direction they had come from. “The rest rooms are back toward the curator's office.”

Langdon hesitated, pointing in the other direction toward the far end of the Grand Gallery corridor. “I believe there's a much closer rest room at the end.”

Fache realized Langdon was right. They were two thirds of the way down, and the Grand Gallery dead-ended at a pair of rest rooms. “Shall I accompany you?”

Langdon shook his head, already moving deeper into the gallery. “Not necessary. I think I'd like a few minutes alone.”

Fache was not wild about the idea of Langdon wandering alone down the remaining length of corridor, but he took comfort in knowing the Grand Gallery was a dead end whose only exit was at the other end—the gate under which they had entered. Although French fire regulations required several emergency stairwells for a space this large, those stairwells had been sealed automatically when Saunière tripped the security system. Granted, that system had now been reset, unlocking the stairwells, but it didn't matter—the external doors, if opened, would set off fire alarms and were guarded outside by DCPJ agents. Langdon could not possibly leave without Fache knowing about it.

“I need to return to Mr. Saunière's office for a moment,” Fache said. “Please come find me directly, Mr. Langdon. There is more we need to discuss.”

Langdon gave a quiet wave as he disappeared into the darkness.

Turning, Fache marched angrily in the opposite direction. Arriving at the gate, he slid under, exited the Grand Gallery, marched down the hall, and stormed into the command center at Saunière's office.

“Who gave the approval to let Sophie Neveu into this building!” Fache bellowed.

Collet was the first to answer. “She told the guards outside she'd broken the code.”

Fache looked around. “Is she gone?”

“She's not with you?”

“She left.” Fache glanced out at the darkened hallway. Apparently Sophie had been in no mood to stop by and chat with the other officers on her way out.

For a moment, Fache considered radioing the guards in the entresol and telling them to stop Sophie and drag her back up here before she could leave the premises. He thought better of it. That was only his pride talking . . . wanting the last word. He'd had enough distractions tonight.

Deal with Agent Neveu later,
he told himself, already looking forward to firing her.

Pushing Sophie from his mind, Fache stared for a moment at the miniature knight standing on Saunière's desk. Then he turned back to Collet. “Do you have him?”

Collet gave a curt nod and spun the laptop toward Fache. The red dot was clearly visible on the floor plan overlay, blinking methodically in a room marked
TOILETTES PUBLIQUES
.

“Good,” Fache said, lighting a cigarette and stalking into the hall. “I've got a phone call to make. Be damned sure the rest room is the only place Langdon goes.”

CHAPTER
12

Robert Langdon
felt light-headed as he trudged toward the end of the Grand Gallery. Sophie's phone message played over and over in his mind. At the end of the corridor, illuminated signs bearing the international stick-figure symbols for rest rooms guided him through a maze-like series of dividers displaying Italian drawings and hiding the rest rooms from sight.

Finding the men's room door, Langdon entered and turned on the lights.

The room was empty.

Walking to the sink, he splashed cold water on his face and tried to wake up. Harsh fluorescent lights glared off the stark tile, and the room smelled of ammonia. As he toweled off, the rest room's door creaked open behind him. He spun.

Sophie Neveu entered, her green eyes flashing fear. “Thank God you came. We don't have much time.”

Langdon stood beside the sinks, staring in bewilderment at DCPJ cryptographer Sophie Neveu. Only minutes ago, Langdon had listened to her phone message, thinking the newly arrived cryptographer must be insane. And yet, the more he listened, the more he sensed Sophie Neveu was speaking in earnest.
Do not react to this message. Just listen calmly. You are in danger right now. Follow my directions very closely
. Filled with uncertainty, Langdon had decided to do exactly as Sophie advised. He told Fache that the phone message was regarding an injured friend back home. Then he had asked to use the rest room at the end of the Grand Gallery.

Sophie stood before him now, still catching her breath after doubling back to the rest room. In the fluorescent lights, Langdon was surprised to see that her strong air actually radiated from unexpectedly soft features. Only her gaze was sharp, and the juxtaposition conjured images of a multilayered Renoir portrait . . . veiled but distinct, with a boldness that somehow retained its shroud of mystery.

“I wanted to warn you, Mr. Langdon . . .” Sophie began, still catching her breath, “that you are
sous surveillance cachée
. Under a guarded observation.” As she spoke, her accented English resonated off the tile walls, giving her voice a hollow quality.

“But . . . why?” Langdon demanded. Sophie had already given him an explanation on the phone, but he wanted to hear it from her lips.

“Because,” she said, stepping toward him, “Fache's primary suspect in this murder is
you
.”

Langdon was braced for the words, and yet they still sounded utterly ridiculous. According to Sophie, Langdon had been called to the Louvre tonight not as a symbologist but rather as a
suspect
and was currently the unwitting target of one of DCPJ's favorite interrogation methods—
surveillance cachée
—a deft deception in which the police calmly invited a suspect to a crime scene and interviewed him in hopes he would get nervous and mistakenly incriminate himself.

“Look in your jacket's left pocket,” Sophie said. “You'll find proof they are watching you.”

Langdon felt his apprehension rising.
Look in my pocket?
It sounded like some kind of cheap magic trick.

“Just look.”

Bewildered, Langdon reached his hand into his tweed jacket's left pocket—one he never used. Feeling around inside, he found nothing.
What the devil did you expect?
He began wondering if Sophie might just be insane after all. Then his fingers brushed something unexpected. Small and hard. Pinching the tiny object between his fingers, Langdon pulled it out and stared in astonishment. It was a metallic, button-shaped disk, about the size of a watch battery. He had never seen it before. “What the . . .?”

“GPS tracking dot,” Sophie said. “Continuously transmits its location to a Global Positioning System satellite that DCPJ can monitor. We use them to monitor people's locations. It's accurate within two feet anywhere on the globe. They have you on an electronic leash. The agent who picked you up at the hotel slipped it inside your pocket before you left your room.”

Langdon flashed back to the hotel room . . . his quick shower, getting dressed, the DCPJ agent politely holding out Langdon's tweed coat as they left the room.
It's cool outside, Mr. Langdon,
the agent had said.
Spring in Paris is not all your song boasts.
Langdon had thanked him and donned the jacket.

Sophie's olive gaze was keen. “I didn't tell you about the tracking dot earlier because I didn't want you checking your pocket in front of Fache. He can't know you've found it.”

Langdon had no idea how to respond.

“They tagged you with GPS because they thought you might run.” She paused. “In fact, they
hoped
you would run; it would make their case stronger.”

“Why would I run!” Langdon demanded. “I'm innocent!”

“Fache feels otherwise.”

Angrily, Langdon stalked toward the trash receptacle to dispose of the tracking dot.

“No!” Sophie grabbed his arm and stopped him. “Leave it in your pocket. If you throw it out, the signal will stop moving, and they'll know you found the dot. The only reason Fache left you alone is because he can monitor where you are. If he thinks you've discovered what he's doing . . .” Sophie did not finish the thought. Instead, she pried the metallic disk from Langdon's hand and slid it back into the pocket of his tweed coat. “The dot stays with you. At least for the moment.”

Langdon felt lost. “How the hell could Fache actually believe I killed Jacques Saunière!”

“He has some fairly persuasive reasons to suspect you.” Sophie's expression was grim. “There is a piece of evidence here that you have not yet seen. Fache has kept it carefully hidden from you.”

Langdon could only stare.

“Do you recall the three lines of text that Saunière wrote on the floor?”

Langdon nodded. The numbers and words were imprinted on Langdon's mind.

Sophie's voice dropped to a whisper now. “Unfortunately, what you saw was not the entire message. There was a
fourth
line that Fache photographed and then wiped clean before you arrived.”

Although Langdon knew the soluble ink of a watermark stylus could easily be wiped away, he could not imagine why Fache would erase evidence.

“The last line of the message,” Sophie said, “was something Fache did not want you to know about.” She paused. “At least not until he was done with you.”

Sophie produced a computer printout of a photo from her sweater pocket and began unfolding it. “Fache uploaded images of the crime scene to the Cryptology Department earlier tonight in hopes we could figure out what Saunière's message was trying to say. This is a photo of the complete message.” She handed the page to Langdon.

Bewildered, Langdon looked at the image. The close-up photo revealed the glowing message on the parquet floor. The final line hit Langdon like a kick in the gut.

13-3-2-21-1-1-8-5
O, Draconian devil!
Oh, lame saint!
P.S. Find Robert Langdon