ng darkness,
Silas prayed. He let the pain of his body fuel his supplications.
A miracle, Lord. I need a miracle. Silas had no way of knowing that
hours from now, he would get one.
"Robert?" Sophie was still watching him. "A funny look just crossed
your face."
Langdon glanced back at her, realizing his jaw was firmly set and his
heart was racing. An incredible notion had just occurred to him. Could it
really be that simple an explanation? "I need to use your cell phone,
Sophie."
"Now?"
"I think I just figured something out."
"What?"
"I'll tell you in a minute. I need your phone."
Sophie looked wary. "I doubt Fache is tracing, but keep it under a
minute just in case." She gave him her phone.
"How do I dial the States?"
"You need to reverse the charges. My service doesn't cover
transatlantic."
Langdon dialed zero, knowing that the next sixty seconds might answer a
question that had been puzzling him all night.
CHAPTER 68
New York editor Jonas Faukman had just climbed into bed for the night
when the telephone rang. A little late for callers, he grumbled, picking up
the receiver.
An operator's voice asked him, "Will you accept charges for a collect
call from Robert Langdon?"
Puzzled, Jonas turned on the light. "Uh... sure, okay."
The line clicked. "Jonas?"
"Robert? You wake me up and you charge me for it?"
"Jonas, forgive me," Langdon said. "I'll keep this very short. I really
need to know. The manuscript I gave you. Have you--"
"Robert, I'm sorry, I know I said I'd send the edits out to you this
week, but I'm swamped. Next Monday. I promise."
"I'm not worried about the edits. I need to know if you sent any copies
out for blurbs without telling me?"
Faukman hesitated. Langdon's newest manuscript--an exploration of the
history of goddess worship--included several sections about Mary Magdalene
that were going to raise some eyebrows. Although the material was well
documented and had been covered by others, Faukman had no intention of
printing Advance Reading Copies of Langdon's book without at least a few
endorsements from serious historians and art luminaries. Jonas had chosen
ten big names in the art world and sent them all sections of the manuscript
along with a polite letter asking if they would be willing to write a short
endorsement for the jacket. In Faukman's experience, most people jumped at
the opportunity to see their name in print.
"Jonas?" Langdon pressed. "You sent out my manuscript, didn't you?"
Faukman frowned, sensing Langdon was not happy about it. "The
manuscript was clean, Robert, and I wanted to surprise you with some
terrific blurbs."
A pause. "Did you send one to the curator of the Paris Louvre?"
"What do you think? Your manuscript referenced his Louvre collection
several times, his books are in your bibliography, and the guy has some
serious clout for foreign sales. Sauniure was a no-brainer."
The silence on the other end lasted a long time. "When did you send
it?"
"About a month ago. I also mentioned you would be in Paris soon and
suggested you two chat. Did he ever call you to meet?" Faukman paused,
rubbing his eyes. "Hold on, aren't you supposed to be in Paris this week?"
"I am in Paris."
Faukman sat upright. "You called me collect from Paris?"
"Take it out of my royalties, Jonas. Did you ever hear back from
Sauniure? Did he like the manuscript?"
"I don't know. I haven't yet heard from him."
"Well, don't hold your breath. I've got to run, but this explains a lot
Thanks."
"Robert--"
But Langdon was gone.
Faukman hung up the phone, shaking his head in disbelief Authors, he
thought. Even the sane ones are nuts.
Inside the Range Rover, Leigh Teabing let out a guffaw. "Robert, you're
saying you wrote a manuscript that delves into a secret society, and your
editor sent a copy to that secret society?"
Langdon slumped. "Evidently."
"A cruel coincidence, my friend."
Coincidence has nothing to do with it, Langdon knew. Asking Jacques
Sauniure to endorse a manuscript on goddess worship was as obvious as asking
Tiger Woods to endorse a book on golf. Moreover, it was virtually guaranteed
that any book on goddess worship would have to mention the Priory of Sion.
"Here's the million-dollar question," Teabing said, still chuckling.
"Was your position on the Priory favorable or unfavorable?"
Langdon could hear Teabing's true meaning loud and clear. Many
historians questioned why the Priory was still keeping the Sangreal
documents hidden. Some felt the information should have been shared with the
world long ago. "I took no position on the Priory's actions."
"You mean lack thereof."
Langdon shrugged. Teabing was apparently on the side of making the
documents public. "I simply provided history on the brotherhood and
described them as a modern goddess worship society, keepers of the Grail,
and guardians of ancient documents."
Sophie looked at him. "Did you mention the keystone?"
Langdon winced. He had. Numerous times. "I talked about the supposed
keystone as an example of the lengths to which the Priory would go to
protect the Sangreal documents."
Sophie looked amazed. "I guess that explains P.S. Find Robert Langdon."
Langdon sensed it was actually something else in the manuscript that
had piqued Sauniure's interest, but that topic was something he would
discuss with Sophie when they were alone.
"So," Sophie said, "you lied to Captain Fache."
"What?" Langdon demanded.
"You told him you had never corresponded with my grandfather."
"I didn't! My editor sent him a manuscript."
"Think about it, Robert. If Captain Fache didn't find the envelope in
which your editor sent the manuscript, he would have to conclude that you
sent it." She paused. "Or worse, that you hand-delivered it and lied about
it."
When the Range Rover arrived at Le Bourget Airfield, Rumy drove to a
small hangar at the far end of the airstrip. As they approached, a tousled
man in wrinkled khakis hurried from the hangar, waved, and slid open the
enormous corrugated metal door to reveal a sleek white jet within.
Langdon stared at the glistening fuselage. "That's Elizabeth?"
Teabing grinned. "Beats the bloody Chunnel."
The man in khakis hurried toward them, squinting into the headlights.
"Almost ready, sir," he called in a British accent. "My apologies for the
delay, but you took me by surprise and--" He stopped short as the group
unloaded. He looked at Sophie and Langdon, and then Teabing.
Teabing said, "My associates and I have urgent business in London.
We've no time to waste. Please prepare to depart immediately." As he spoke,
Teabing took the pistol out of the vehicle and handed it to Langdon.
The pilot's eyes bulged at the sight of the weapon. He walked over to
Teabing and whispered, "Sir, my humble apologies, but my diplomatic flight
allowance provides only for you and your manservant. I cannot take your
guests."
"Richard," Teabing said, smiling warmly, "two thousand pounds sterling
and that loaded gun say you can take my guests." He motioned to the Range
Rover. "And the unfortunate fellow in the back."
CHAPTER 69
The Hawker 731's twin Garrett TFE-731 engines thundered, powering the
plane skyward with gut-wrenching force. Outside the window, Le Bourget
Airfield dropped away with startling speed.
I'm fleeing the country, Sophie thought, her body forced back into the
leather seat. Until this moment, she had believed her game of cat and mouse
with Fache would be somehow justifiable to the Ministry of Defense. I was
attempting to protect an innocent man. I was trying to fulfill my
grandfather's dying wishes. That window of opportunity, Sophie knew, had
just closed. She was leaving the country, without documentation,
accompanying a wanted man, and transporting a bound hostage. If a "line of
reason" had ever existed, she had just crossed it. At almost the speed of
sound.
Sophie was seated with Langdon and Teabing near the front of the
cabin--the Fan Jet Executive Elite Design, according to the gold medallion
on the door. Their plush swivel chairs were bolted to tracks on the floor
and could be repositioned and locked around a rectangular hardwood table. A
mini-boardroom. The dignified surroundings, however, did little to
camouflage the less than dignified state of affairs in the rear of the plane
where, in a separate seating area near the rest room, Teabing's manservant
Rumy sat with the pistol in hand, begrudgingly carrying out Teabing's orders
to stand guard over the bloody monk who lay trussed at his feet like a piece
of luggage.
"Before we turn our attention to the keystone," Teabing said, "I was
wondering if you would permit me a few words." He sounded apprehensive, like
a father about to give the birds-and-the-bees lecture to his children. "My
friends, I realize I am but a guest on this journey, and I am honored as
such. And yet, as someone who has spent his life in search of the Grail, I
feel it is my duty to warn you that you are about to step onto a path from
which there is no return, regardless of the dangers involved." He turned to
Sophie. "Miss Neveu, your grandfather gave you this cryptex in hopes you
would keep the secret of the Holy Grail alive."
"Yes."
"Understandably, you feel obliged to follow the trail wherever it
leads."
Sophie nodded, although she felt a second motivation still burning
within her. The truth about my family. Despite Langdon's assurances that the
keystone had nothing to do with her past, Sophie still sensed something
deeply personal entwined within this mystery, as if this cryptex, forged by
her grandfather's own hands, were trying to speak to her and offer some kind
of resolution to the emptiness that had haunted her all these years.
"Your grandfather and three others died tonight," Teabing continued,
"and they did so to keep this keystone away from the Church. Opus Dei came
within inches tonight of possessing it. You understand, I hope, that this
puts you in a position of exceptional responsibility. You have been handed a
torch. A two-thousand-year-old flame that cannot be allowed to go out. This
torch cannot fall into the wrong hands." He paused, glancing at the rosewood
box. "I realize you have been given no choice in this matter, Miss Neveu,
but considering what is at stake here, you must either fully embrace this
responsibility... or you must pass that responsibility to someone else."
"My grandfather gave the cryptex to me. I'm sure he thought I could
handle the responsibility."
Teabing looked encouraged but unconvinced. "Good. A strong will is
necessary. And yet, I am curious if you understand that successfully
unlocking the keystone will bring with it a far greater trial."
"How so?"
"My dear, imagine that you are suddenly holding a map that reveals the
location of the Holy Grail. In that moment, you will be in possession of a
truth capable of altering history forever. You will be the keeper of a truth
that man has sought for centuries. You will be faced with the responsibility
of revealing that truth to the world. The individual who does so will be
revered by many and despised by many. The question is whether you will have
the necessary strength to carry out that task."
Sophie paused. "I'm not sure that is my decision to make."
Teabing's eyebrows arched. "No? If not the possessor of the keystone,
then who?"
"The brotherhood who has successfully protected the secret for so
long."
"The Priory?" Teabing looked skeptical. "But how? The brotherhood was
shattered tonight. Decapitated, as you so aptly put it. Whether they were
infiltrated by some kind of eavesdropping or by a spy within their ranks, we
will never know, but the fact remains that someone got to them and uncovered
the identities of their four top members. I would not trust anyone who
stepped forward from the brotherhood at this point."
"So what do you suggest?" Langdon asked.
"Robert, you know as well as I do that the Priory has not protected the
truth all these years to have it gather dust until eternity. They have been
waiting for the right moment in history to share their secret. A time when
the world is ready to handle the truth."
"And you believe that moment has arrived?" Langdon asked.
"Absolutely. It could not be more obvious. All the historical signs are
in place, and if the Priory did not intend to make their secret known very
soon, why has the Church now attacked?"
Sophie argued, "The monk has not yet told us his purpose."
"The monk's purpose is the Church's purpose," Teabing replied, "to
destroy the documents that reveal the great deception. The Church came
closer tonight than they have ever come, and the Priory has put its trust in
you, Miss Neveu. The task of saving the Holy Grail clearly includes carrying
out the Priory's final wishes of sharing the truth with the world."
Langdon intervened. "Leigh, asking Sophie to make that decision is
quite a load to drop on someone who only an hour ago learned the Sangreal
documents exist."
Teabing sighed. "I apologize if I am pressing, Miss Neveu. Clearly I
have always believed these documents should be made public, but in the end
the decision belongs to you. I simply feel it is important that you begin to
think about what happens should we succeed in opening the keystone."
"Gentlemen," Sophie said, her voice firm. "To quote your words, 'You do
not find the Grail, the Grail finds you.' I am going to trust that the Grail
has found me for a reason, and when the time comes, I will know what to do."
Both of them looked startled.
"So then," she said, motioning to the rosewood box. "Let's move on."
CHAPTER 70
Standing in the drawing room of Chuteau Villette, Lieutenant Collet
watched the dying fire and felt despondent. Captain Fache had arrived
moments earlier and was now in the next room, yelling into the phone, trying
to coordinate the failed attempt to locate the missing Range Rover.
It could be anywhere by now, Collet thought.
Having disobeyed Fache's direct orders and lost Langdon for a second
time, Collet was grateful that PTS had located a bullet hole in the floor,
which at least corroborated Collet's claims that a shot had been fired.
Still, Fache's mood was sour, and Collet sensed there would be dire
repercussions when the dust settled.
Unfortunately, the clues they were turning up here seemed to shed no
light at all on what was going on or who was involved. The black Audi
outside had been rented in a false name with false credit card numbers, and
the prints in the car matched nothing in the Interpol database.
Another agent hurried into the living room, his eyes urgent. "Where's
Captain Fache?"
Collet barely looked up from the burning embers. "He's on the phone."
"I'm off the phone," Fache snapped, stalking into the room. "What have
you got?"
The second agent said, "Sir, Central just heard from Andru Vernet at
the Depository Bank of Zurich. He wants to talk to you privately. He is
changing his story."
"Oh?" Fache said.
Now Collet looked up.
"Vernet is admitting that Langdon and Neveu spent time inside his bank
tonight."
"We figured that out," Fache said. "Why did Vernet lie about it?"
"He said he'll talk only to you, but he's agreed to cooperate fully."
"In exchange for what?"
"For our keeping his bank's name out of the news and also for helping
him recover some stolen property. It sounds like Langdon and Neveu stole
something from Sauniure's account."
"What?" Collet blurted. "How?"
Fache never flinched, his eyes riveted on the second agent. "What did
they steal?"
"Vernet didn't elaborate, but he sounds like he's willing to do
anything to get it back."
Collet tried to imagine how this could happen. Maybe Langdon and Neveu
had held a bank employee at gunpoint? Maybe they forced Vernet to open
Sauniure's account and facilitate an escape in the armored truck. As
feasible as it was, Collet was having trouble believing Sophie Neveu could
be involved in anything like that.
From the kitchen, another agent yelled to Fache. "Captain? I'm going
through Mr. Teabing's speed dial numbers, and I'm on the phone with Le
Bourget Airfield. I've got some bad news."
Thirty seconds later, Fache was packing up and preparing to leave
Chuteau Villette. He had just learned that Teabing kept a private jet nearby
at Le Bourget Airfield and that the plane had taken off about a half hour
ago.
The Bourget representative on the phone had claimed not to know who was
on the plane or where it was headed. The takeoff had been unscheduled, and
no flight plan had been logged. Highly illegal, even for a small airfield.
Fache was certain that by applying the right pressure, he could get the
answers he was looking for.
"Lieutenant Collet," Fache barked, heading for the door. "I have no
choice but to leave you in charge of the PTS investigation here. Try to do
something right for a change."
CHAPTER 71
As the Hawker leveled off, with its nose aimed for England, Langdon
carefully lifted the rosewood box from his lap, where he had been protecting
it during takeoff. Now, as he set the box on the table, he could sense
Sophie and Teabing leaning forward with anticipation.
Unlatching the lid and opening the box, Langdon turned his attention
not to the lettered dials of the cryptex, but rather to the tiny hole on the
underside of the box lid. Using the tip of a pen, he carefully removed the
inlaid Rose on top and revealed the text beneath it. Sub Rosa, he mused,
hoping a fresh look at the text would bring clarity. Focusing all his
energies, Langdon studied the strange text.
After several seconds, he began to feel the initial frustration
resurfacing. "Leigh, I just can't seem to place it."
From where Sophie was seated across the table, she could not yet see
the text, but Langdon's inability to immediately identify the language
surprised her. My grandfather spoke a language so obscure that even a
symbologist can't identify it? She quickly realized she should not find this
surprising. This would not be the first secret Jacques Sauniure had kept
from his granddaughter.
Opposite Sophie, Leigh Teabing felt ready to burst. Eager for his
chance to see the text, he quivered with excitement, leaning in, trying to
see around Langdon, who was still hunched over the box.
"I don't know," Langdon whispered intently. "My first guess is a
Semitic, but now I'm not so sure. Most primary Semitics include nekkudot.
This has none."
"Probably ancient," Teabing offered.
"Nekkudot?" Sophie inquired.
Teabing never took his eyes from the box. "Most modern Semitic
alphabets have no vowels and use nekkudot--tiny dots and dashes written
either below or within the consonants--to indicate what vowel sound
accompanies them. Historically speaking, nekkudot are a relatively modern
addition to language."
Langdon was still hovering over the script. "A Sephardic
transliteration, perhaps...?"
Teabing could bear it no longer. "Perhaps if I just..." Reaching over,
he edged the box away from Langdon and pulled it toward himself. No doubt
Langdon had a solid familiarity with the standard ancients--Greek, Latin,
the Romances--but from the fleeting glance Teabing had of this language, he
thought it looked more specialized, possibly a Rashi script or a STA'M with
crowns.
Taking a deep breath, Teabing feasted his eyes upon the engraving. He
said nothing for a very long time. With each passing second, Teabing felt
his confidence deflating. "I'm astonished," he said. "This language looks
like nothing I've ever seen!"
Langdon slumped.
"Might I see it?" Sophie asked.
Teabing pretended not to hear her. "Robert, you said earlier that you
thought you'd seen something like this before?"
Langdon looked vexed. "I thought so. I'm not sure. The script looks
familiar somehow."
"Leigh?" Sophie repeated, clearly not appreciating being left out of
the discussion. "Might I have a look at the box my grandfather made?"
"Of course, dear," Teabing said, pushing it over to her. He hadn't
meant to sound belittling, and yet Sophie Neveu was light-years out of her
league. If a British Royal Historian and a Harvard symbologist could not
even identify the language--
"Aah," Sophie said, seconds after examining the box. "I should have
guessed."
Teabing and Langdon turned in unison, staring at her.
"Guessed what?" Teabing demanded.
Sophie shrugged. "Guessed that this would be the language my
grandfather would have used."
"You're saying you can read this text?" Teabing exclaimed.
"Quite easily," Sophie chimed, obviously enjoying herself now. "My
grandfather taught me this language when I was only six years old. I'm
fluent." She leaned across the table and fixed Teabing with an admonishing
glare. "And frankly, sir, considering your allegiance to the Crown, I'm a
little surprised you didn't recognize it."
In a flash, Langdon knew.
No wonder the script looks so damned familiar!
Several years ago, Langdon had attended an event at Harvard's Fogg
Museum. Harvard dropout Bill Gates had returned to his alma mater to lend to
the museum one of his priceless acquisitions--eighteen sheets of paper he
had recently purchased at auction from the Armand Hammar Estate.
His winning bid--a cool $30.8 million.
The author of the pages--Leonardo da Vinci.
The eighteen folios--now known as Leonardo's Codex Leicester after
their famous owner, the Earl of Leicester--were all that remained of one of
Leonardo's most fascinating notebooks: essays and drawings outlining Da
Vinci's progressive theories on astronomy, geology, archaeology, and
hydrology.
Langdon would never forget his reaction after waiting in line and
finally viewing the priceless parchment. Utter letdown. The pages were
unintelligible. Despite being beautifully preserved and written in an
impeccably neat penmanship--crimson ink on cream paper--the codex looked
like gibberish. At first Langdon thought he could not read them because Da
Vinci wrote his notebooks in an archaic Italian. But after studying them
more closely, he realized he could not identify a single Italian word, or
even one letter.
"Try this, sir," whispered the female docent at the display case. She
motioned to a hand mirror affixed to the display on a chain. Langdon picked
it up and examined the text in the mirror's surface.
Instantly it was clear.
Langdon had been so eager to peruse some of the great thinker's ideas
that he had forgotten one of the man's numerous artistic talents was an
ability to write in a mirrored script that was virtually illegible to anyone
other than himself. Historians still debated whether Da Vinci wrote this way
simply to amuse himself or to keep people from peering over his shoulder and
stealing his ideas, but the point was moot. Da Vinci did as he pleased.
Sophie smiled inwardly to see that Robert understood her meaning. "I
can read the first few words," she said. "It's English."
Teabing was still sputtering. "What's going on?"
"Reverse text," Langdon said. "We need a mirror."
"No we don't," Sophie said. "I bet this veneer is thin enough." She
lifted the rosewood box up to a canister light on the wall and began
examining the underside of the lid. Her grandfather couldn't actually write
in reverse, so he always cheated by writing normally and then flipping the
paper over and tracing the reversed impression. Sophie's guess was that he
had wood-burned normal text into a block of wood and then run the back of
the block through a sander until the wood was paper thin and the
wood-burning could be seen through the wood. Then he'd simply flipped the
piece over, and laid it in.
As Sophie moved the lid closer to the light, she saw she was right. The
bright beam sifted through the thin layer of wood, and the script appeared
in reverse on the underside of the lid.
Instantly legible.
"English," Teabing croaked, hanging his head in shame. "My native
tongue."
At the rear of the plane, Rumy Legaludec strained to hear beyond the
rumbling engines, but the conversation up front was inaudible. Rumy did not
like the way the night was progressing. Not at all. He looked down at the
bound monk at his feet. The man lay perfectly still now, as if in a trance
of acceptance, or perhaps, in silent prayer for deliverance.
CHAPTER 72
Fifteen thousand feet in the air, Robert Langdon felt the physical
world fade away as all of his thoughts converged on Sauniure's mirror-image
poem, which was illuminated through the lid of the box.
Sophie quickly found some paper and copied it down longhand. When she
was done, the three of them took turns reading the text. It was like some
kind of archaeological crossword... a riddle that promised to reveal how to
open the cryptex. Langdon read the verse slowly.
An ancient word of wisdom frees this scroll... and helps us keep her
scatter'd family whole... a headstone praised by templars is the key... and
atbash will reveal the truth to thee.
Before Langdon could even ponder what ancient password the verse was
trying to reveal, he felt something far more fundamental resonate within
him--the meter of the poem. Iambic pentameter.
Langdon had come across this meter often over the years while
researching secret societies across Europe, including just last year in the
Vatican Secret Archives. For centuries, iambic pentameter had been a
preferred poetic meter of outspoken literati across the globe, from the
ancient Greek writer Archilochus to Shakespeare, Milton, Chaucer, and
Voltaire--bold souls who chose to write their social commentaries in a meter
that many of the day believed had mystical properties. The roots of iambic
pentameter were deeply pagan.
Iambs. Two syllables with opposite emphasis. Stressed and unstressed.
Yin yang. A balanced pair. Arranged in strings of five. Pentameter. Five for
the pentacle of Venus and the sacred feminine.
"It's pentameter!" Teabing blurted, turning to Langdon. "And the verse
is in English! La lingua pura!"
Langdon nodded. The Priory, like many European secret societies at odds
with the Church, had considered English the only European pure language for
centuries. Unlike French, Spanish, and Italian, which were rooted in
Latin--the tongue of the Vatican--English was linguistically removed from
Rome's propaganda machine, and therefore became a sacred, secret tongue for
those brotherhoods educated enough to learn it.
"This poem," Teabing gushed, "references not only the Grail, but the
Knights Templar and the scattered family of Mary Magdalene! What more could
we ask for?"
"The password," Sophie said, looking again at the poem. "It sounds like
we need some kind of ancient word of wisdom?"
"Abracadabra?" Teabing ventured, his eyes twinkling.
A word of five letters, Langdon thought, pondering the staggering
number of ancient words that might be considered words of wisdom--selections
from mystic chants, astrological prophecies, secret society inductions,
Wicca incantations, Egyptian magic spells, pagan mantras--the list was
endless.
"The password," Sophie said, "appears to have something to do with the
Templars." She read the text aloud. " 'A headstone praised by Templars is
the key.' "
"Leigh," Langdon said, "you're the Templar specialist. Any ideas?"
Teabing was silent for several seconds and then sighed. "Well, a
headstone is obviously a grave marker of some sort. It's possible the poem
is referencing a gravestone the Templars praised at the tomb of Magdalene,
but that doesn't help us much because we have no idea where her tomb is."
"The last line," Sophie said, "says that Atbash will reveal the truth.
I've heard that word. Atbash."
"I'm not surprised," Langdon replied. "You probably heard it in
Cryptology 101. The Atbash Cipher is one of the oldest codes known to man."
Of course! Sophie thought. The famous Hebrew encoding system.
The Atbash Cipher had indeed been part of Sophie's early cryptology
training. The cipher dated back to 500 B.C. and was now used as a classroom
example of a basic rotational substitution scheme. A common form of Jewish
cryptogram, the Atbash Cipher was a simple substitution code based on the
twenty-two-letter Hebrew alphabet. In Atbash, the first letter was
substituted by the last letter, the second letter by the next to last
letter, and so on.
"Atbash is sublimely appropriate," Teabing said. "Text encrypted with
Atbash is found throughout the Kabbala, the Dead Sea Scrolls, and even the
Old Testament. Jewish scholars and mystics are still finding hidden meanings
using Atbash. The Priory certainly would include the Atbash Cipher as part
of their teachings."
"The only problem," Langdon said, "is that we don't have anything on
which to apply the cipher."
Teabing sighed. "There must be a code word on the headstone. We must
find this headstone praised by Templars."
Sophie sensed from the grim look on Langdon's face that finding the
Templar headstone would be no small feat.
Atbash is the key, Sophie thought. But we don't have a door.
It was three minutes later that Teabing heaved a frustrated sigh and
shook his head. "My friends, I'm stymied. Let me ponder this while I get us
some nibblies and check on Rumy and our guest." He stood up and headed for
the back of the plane.
Sophie felt tired as she watched him go.
Outside the window, the blackness of the predawn was absolute. Sophie
felt as if she were being hurtled through space with no idea where she would
land. Having grown up solving her grandfather's riddles, she had the uneasy
sense right now that this poem before them contained information they still
had not seen.
There is more there, she told herself. Ingeniously hidden... but
present nonetheless.
Also plaguing her thoughts was a fear that what they eventually found
inside this cryptex would not be as simple as "a map to the Holy Grail."
Despite Teabing's and Langdon's confidence that the truth lay just within
the marble cylinder, Sophie had solved enough of her grandfather's treasure
hunts to know that Jacques Sauniure did not give up his secrets easily.
CHAPTER 73
Bourget Airfield's night shift air traffic controller had been dozing
before a blank radar screen when the captain of the Judicial Police
practically broke down his door.
"Teabing's jet," Bezu Fache blared, marching into the small tower,
"where did it go?"
The controller's initial response was a babbling, lame attempt to
protect the privacy of their British client--one of the airfield's most
respected customers. It failed miserably.
"Okay," Fache said, "I am placing you under arrest for permitting a
private plane to take off without registering a flight plan." Fache motioned
to another officer, who approached with handcuffs, and the traffic
controller felt a surge of terror. He thought of the newspaper articles
debating whether the nation's police captain was a hero or a menace. That
question had just been answered.
"Wait!" the controller heard himself whimper at the sight of the
handcuffs. "I can tell you this much. Sir Leigh Teabing makes frequent trips
to London for medical treatments. He has a hangar at Biggin Hill Executive
Airport in Kent. On the outskirts of London."
Fache waved off the man with the cuffs. "Is Biggin Hill his destination
tonight?"
"I don't know," the controller said honestly. "The plane left on its
usual tack, and his last radar contact suggested the United Kingdom. Biggin
Hill is an extremely likely guess."
"Did he have others onboard?"
"I swear, sir, there is no way for me to know that. Our clients can
drive directly to their hangars, and load as they please. Who is onboard is
the responsibility of the customs officials at the receiving airport."
Fache checked his watch and gazed out at the scattering of jets parked
in front of the terminal. "If they're going to Biggin Hill, how long until
they land?"
The controller fumbled through his records. "It's a short flight. His
plane could be on the ground by... around six-thirty. Fifteen minutes from
now."
Fache frowned and turned to one of his men. "Get a transport up here.
I'm going to London. And get me the Kent local police. Not British MI5. I
want this quiet. Kent local. Tell them I want Teabing's plane to be
permitted to land. Then I want it surrounded on the tarmac. Nobody deplanes
until I get there."
CHAPTER 74
"You're quiet," Langdon said, gazing across the Hawker's cabin at
Sophie.
"Just tired," she replied. "And the poem. I don't know."
Langdon was feeling the same way. The hum of the engines and the gentle
rocking of the plane were hypnotic, and his head still throbbed where he'd
been hit by the monk. Teabing was still in the back of the plane, and
Langdon decided to take advantage of the moment alone with Sophie to tell
her something that had been on his mind. "I think I know part of the reason
why your grandfather conspired to put us together. I think there's something
he wanted me to explain to you."
"The history of the Holy Grail and Mary Magdalene isn't enough?"
Langdon felt uncertain how to proceed. "The rift between you. The
reason you haven't spoken to him in ten years. I think maybe he was hoping I
could somehow make that right by explaining what drove you apart."
Sophie squirmed in her seat. "I haven't told you what drove us apart."
Langdon eyed her carefully. "You witnessed a sex rite. Didn't you?"
Sophie recoiled. "How do you know that?"
"Sophie, you told me you witnessed something that convinced you your
grandfather was in a secret society. And whatever you saw upset you enough
that you haven't spoken to him since. I know a fair amount about secret
societies. It doesn't take the brains of Da Vinci to guess what you saw."
Sophie stared.
"Was it in the spring?" Langdon asked. "Sometime around the equinox?
Mid-March?"
Sophie looked out the window. "I was on spring break from university. I
came home a few days early."
"You want to tell me about it?"
"I'd rather not." She turned suddenly back to Langdon, her eyes welling
with emotion. "I don't know what I saw."
"Were both men and women present?"
After a beat, she nodded.
"Dressed in white and black?"
She wiped her eyes and then nodded, seeming to open up a little. "The
women were in white gossamer gowns... with golden shoes. They held golden
orbs. The men wore black tunics and black shoes."
Langdon strained to hide his emotion, and yet he could not believe what
he was hearing. Sophie Neveu had unwittingly witnessed a
two-thousand-year-old sacred ceremony. "Masks?" he asked, keeping his voice
calm. "Androgynous masks?"
"Yes. Everyone. Identical masks. White on the women. Black on the men."
Langdon had read descriptions of this ceremony and understood its
mystic roots. "It's called Hieros Gamos," he said softly. "It dates back
more than two thousand years. Egyptian priests and priestesses performed it
regularly to celebrate the reproductive power of the female," He paused,
leaning toward her. "And if you witnessed Hieros Gamos without being
properly prepared to understand its meaning, I imagine it would be pretty
shocking."
Sophie said nothing.
"Hieros Gamos is Greek," he continued. "It means sacred marriage."
"The ritual I saw was no marriage."
"Marriage as in union, Sophie."
"You mean as in sex."
"No."
"No?" she said, her olive eyes testing him.
Langdon backpedaled. "Well... yes, in a manner of speaking, but not as
we understand it today." He explained that although what she saw probably
looked like a sex ritual, Hieros Gamos had nothing to do with eroticism. It
was a spiritual act. Historically, intercourse was the act through which
male and female experienced God. The ancients believed that the male was
spiritually incomplete until he had carnal knowledge of the sacred feminine.
Physical union with the female remained the sole means through which man
could become spiritually complete and ultimately achieve gnosis--knowledge
of the divine. Since the days of Isis, sex rites had been considered man's
only bridge from earth to heaven. "By communing with woman," Langdon said,
"man could achieve a climactic instant when his mind went totally blank and
he could see God."
Sophie looked skeptical. "Orgasm as prayer?"
Langdon gave a noncommittal shrug, although Sophie was essentially
correct. Physiologically speaking, the male climax was accompanied by a
split second entirely devoid of thought. A brief mental vacuum. A moment of
clarity during which God could be glimpsed. Meditation gurus achieved
similar states of thoughtlessness without sex and often described Nirvana as
a never-ending spiritual orgasm.
"Sophie," Langdon said quietly, "it's important to remember that the
ancients' view of sex was entirely opposite from ours today. Sex begot new
life--the ultimate miracle--and miracles could be performed only by a god.
The ability of the woman to produce life from her womb made her sacred. A
god. Intercourse was the revered union of the two halves of the human
spirit--male and female--through which the male could find spiritual
wholeness and communion with God. What you saw was not about sex, it was
about spirituality. The Hieros Gamos ritual is not a perversion. It's a
deeply sacrosanct ceremony."
His words seemed to strike a nerve. Sophie had been remarkably poised
all evening, but now, for the first time, Langdon saw the aura of composure
beginning to crack. Tears materialized in her eyes again, and she dabbed
them away with her sleeve.
He gave her a moment. Admittedly, the concept of sex as a pathway to
God was mind-boggling at first. Langdon's Jewish students always looked
flabbergasted when he first told them that the early Jewish tradition
involved ritualistic sex. In the Temple, no less. Early Jews believed that
the Holy of Holies in Solomon's Temple housed not only God but also His
powerful female equal, Shekinah. Men seeking spiritual wholeness came to the
Temple to visit priestesses--or hierodules--with whom they made love and
experienced the divine through physical union. The Jewish tetragrammaton
YHWH--the sacred name of God--in fact derived from Jehovah, an androgynous
physical union between the masculine Jah and t