The Da Vinci Code

"Yes."

"So it seems reasonable to conclude that the curator knew his attacker." Fache nodded. "Go on." "So if Sauniere knew the person who killed him, what kind of indictment is this?" He pointed at the floor. "Numeric codes? Lame saints? Draconian devils? Pentacles on his stomach? It’s all too cryptic."

Fache frowned as if the idea had never occurred to him. "You have a point."

"Considering the circumstances," Langdon said," I would assume that if Sauniere wanted to tell you who killed him, he would have written down somebody’s name."

As Langdon spoke those words, a smug smile crossed Fache’s lips for the first time all night. "Precisement,"Fache said. "Precisement."

I am witnessing the work of a master, mused Lieutenant Collet as he tweaked his audio gear and listened to Fache’s voice coming through the headphones. The agent superieur knew it was moments like these that had lifted the captain to the pinnacle of French law enforcement.

Fache will do what no one else dares.

The delicate art of cajoler was a lost skill in modern law enforcement, one that required exceptional poise under pressure. Few men possessed the necessary sangfroid for this kind of operation, but Fache seemed born for it. His restraint and patience bordered on the robotic.

Fache’s sole emotion this evening seemed to be one of intense resolve, as if this arrest were somehow personal to him. Fache’s briefing of his agents an hour ago had been unusually succinct and assured. I know who murdered Jacques Sauniere, Fache had said. You know what to do.No mistakes tonight.

And so far, no mistakes had been made.

Collet was not yet privy to the evidence that had cemented Fache’s certainty of their suspect’s guilt, but he knew better than to question the instincts of the Bull. Fache’s intuition seemed almost supernatural at times. God whispers in his ear, one agent had insisted after a particularly impressive display of Fache’s sixth sense. Collet had to admit, if there was a God, Bezu Fache would be on His A-list. The captain attended mass and confession with zealous regularity – far more than the requisite holiday attendance fulfilled by other officials in the name of good public relations. When the Pope visited Paris a few years back, Fache had used all his muscle to obtain the honor of an audience. A photo of Fache with the Pope now hung in his office. The Papal Bull, the agents secretly called it.

Collet found it ironic that one of Fache’s rare popular public stances in recent years had been his outspoken reaction to the Catholic pedophilia scandal. These priests should be hanged twice! Fache had declared. Once for their crimes against children.And once for shaming the good name of theCatholic Church.Collet had the odd sense it was the latter that angered Fache more.

Turning now to his laptop computer, Collet attended to the other half of his responsibilities here tonight – the GPS tracking system. The image onscreen revealed a detailed floor plan of the Denon Wing, a structural schematic uploaded from the Louvre Security Office. Letting his eyes trace the maze of galleries and hallways, Collet found what he was looking for. Deep in the heart of the Grand Gallery blinked a tiny red dot. La marque.

Fache was keeping his prey on a very tight leash tonight. Wisely so. Robert Langdon had proven himself one cool customer.

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 cachee – 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 Departement de Cryptographie est arrive."

Fache’s anger stalled momentarily. A cryptographer? Despite the lousy timing, this was probably good news. Fache, after finding Sauniere’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 Sauniere was trying to say. If a code breaker had now arrived, it most likely meant someone had decrypted Sauniere’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 dechiffreuse 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."