Captain Bezu Fache carried himself like an angry ox, with his wide shoulders thrown
back and his chin tucked hard into his chest. His dark hair was slicked back with oil,
accentuating an arrow-like widow's peak that divided his jutting brow and preceded him
like the prow of a battleship. As he advanced, his dark eyes seemed to scorch the earth
before him, radiating a fiery clarity that forecast his reputation for unblinking severity in
all matters.
Langdon followed the captain down the famous marble staircase into the sunken
atrium beneath the glass pyramid. As they descended, they passed between two armed
Judicial Police guards with machine guns. The message was clear: Nobody goes in or out
tonight without the blessing of Captain Fache.
Descending below ground level, Langdon fought a rising trepidation. Fache's presence
was anything but welcoming, and the Louvre itself had an almost sepulchral aura at this
hour. The staircase, like the aisle of a dark movie theater, was illuminated by subtle tread-
lighting embedded in each step. Langdon could hear his own footsteps reverberating off
the glass overhead. As he glanced up, he could see the faint illuminated wisps of mist
from the fountains fading away outside the transparent roof.
“Do you approve?” Fache asked, nodding upward with his broad chin.
Langdon sighed, too tired to play games. “Yes, your pyramid is magnificent.”
Fache grunted. “A scar on the face of Paris.”
Strike one. Langdon sensed his host was a hard man to please. He wondered if Fache
had any idea that this pyramid, at President Mitterrand's explicit demand, had been
constructed of exactly 666 panes of glass—a bizarre request that had always been a hot
topic among conspiracy buffs who claimed 666 was the number of Satan.
Langdon decided not to bring it up.
As they dropped farther into the subterranean foyer, the yawning space slowly
emerged from the shadows. Built fifty-seven feet beneath ground level, the Louvre's
newly constructed 70,000-square-foot lobby spread out like an endless grotto.
Constructed in warm ocher marble to be compatible with the honey-colored stone of the
Louvre facade above, the subterranean hall was usually vibrant with sunlight and tourists.
Tonight, however, the lobby was barren and dark, giving the entire space a cold and
crypt-like atmosphere.
“And the museum's regular security staff?” Langdon asked.
“En quarantaine,” Fache replied, sounding as if Langdon were questioning the
integrity of Fache's team. “Obviously, someone gained entry tonight who should not
have. All Louvre night wardens are in the Sully Wing being questioned. My own agents
have taken over museum security for the evening.”
Langdon nodded, moving quickly to keep pace with Fache.
“How well did you know Jacques Saunière?” the captain asked.
“Actually, not at all. We'd never met.”
Fache looked surprised. “Your first meeting was to be tonight?”
“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—La Pyramide Inversée—a huge inverted skylight
that hung from the ceiling like a stalactite in an adjoining section of the entresol. Fache
guided Langdon up a short set of stairs to the mouth of an arched tunnel, over which a
sign read: DENON. The Denon Wing was the most famous of the Louvre's three main
sections.
“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 no idea what your meeting was about?”
Langdon did not. He'd been curious at the time but had not felt comfortable demanding
specifics. The venerated Jacques Saunière had a renowned penchant for privacy and
granted very few meetings; Langdon was grateful simply for the opportunity to meet
him.
“Mr. Langdon, can you at least guess what our murder victim might have wanted to
discuss with you on the night he was killed? It might be helpful.”
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 Tjet ankhs 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 reason he hadn't yet shown the manuscript to anyone else.
The three-hundred-page draft—tentatively titled Symbols of the Lost Sacred Feminine—
proposed some very unconventional interpretations of established religious iconography
which would certainly be controversial.
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. Nothing's
wrong at all, he lied to himself, trudging back toward the elevator. As a boy, Langdon
had fallen down an abandoned well shaft and almost died treading water in the narrow
space for hours before being rescued. Since then, he'd suffered a haunting phobia of
enclosed spaces—elevators, subways, squash courts. The elevator is a perfectly safe
machine, Langdon continually told himself, never believing it. It's a tiny metal box
hanging in an enclosed shaft! Holding his breath, he stepped into the lift, feeling the
familiar tingle of adrenaline as the doors slid shut.
Two floors. Ten seconds.
“You and Mr. Saunière,” Fache said as the lift began to move, “you never spoke at all?
Never corresponded? Never sent each other anything in the mail?”
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 crux gemmata—a cross bearing thirteen gems—
a Christian ideogram for Christ and His twelve apostles. Somehow Langdon had not
expected the captain of the French police to broadcast his religion so openly. Then again,
this was France; Christianity was not a religion here so much as a birthright.
“It's a crux gemmata,” Fache said suddenly.
Startled, Langdon glanced up to find Fache's eyes on him in the reflection.
The elevator jolted to a stop, and the doors opened.
Langdon stepped quickly out into the hallway, eager for the wide-open space afforded
by the famous high ceilings of the Louvre galleries. The world into which he stepped,
however, was nothing like he expected.
Surprised, Langdon stopped short.
Fache glanced over. “I gather, Mr. Langdon, you have never seen the Louvre after
hours?”
I guess not, Langdon thought, trying to get his bearings.
Usually impeccably illuminated, the Louvre galleries were startlingly dark tonight.
Instead of the customary flat-white light flowing down from above, a muted red glow
seemed to emanate upward from the baseboards—intermittent patches of red light
spilling out onto the tile floors.
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 in relative 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:
We see you. Do not touch anything.
“Any of them real?” Langdon asked, motioning to the cameras.
Fache shook his head. “Of course not.”
Langdon was not surprised. Video surveillance in museums this size was cost-
prohibitive and ineffective. With acres of galleries to watch over, the Louvre would
require several hundred technicians simply to monitor the feeds. Most large museums
now used “containment security.” Forget keeping thieves out. Keep them in. 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.
“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—la Grande Galerie—a seemingly endless corridor that housed the Louvre's most
valuable Italian masterpieces. Langdon had already discerned that this was where
Saunière's body lay; the Grand Gallery's famous parquet floor had been unmistakable in
the Polaroid.
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.
“Containment security,” Fache said, as they neared the grate.
Even in the darkness, the barricade looked like it could have restrained a tank. Arriving
outside, Langdon peered through the bars into the dimly lit caverns of the Grand Gallery.
“After you, Mr. Langdon,” Fache said.
Langdon turned. After me, where?
Fache motioned toward the floor at the base of the grate.
Langdon looked down. In the darkness, he hadn't noticed. The barricade was raised
about two feet, providing an awkward clearance underneath.
“This area is still off limits to Louvre security,” Fache said. “My team from Police
Technique et Scientifique has just finished their investigation.” He motioned to the
opening. “Please slide under.”
Langdon stared at the narrow crawl space at his feet and then up at the massive iron
grate. He's kidding, right? The barricade looked like a guillotine waiting to crush
intruders.
Fache grumbled something in French and checked his watch. Then he dropped to his
knees and slithered his bulky frame underneath the grate. On the other side, he stood up
and looked back through the bars at Langdon.
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.
Very suave, Robert, he thought, fumbling and then finally pulling himself through. As
he stood up, Langdon was beginning to suspect it was going to be a very long night.
