CHAPTER
92
King's College,
established by King George IV in 1829, houses its Department of Theology and Religious Studies adjacent to Parliament on property granted by the Crown. King's College Religion Department boasts not only 150 years' experience in teaching and research, but the 1982 establishment of the Research Institute in Systematic Theology, which possesses one of the most complete and electronically advanced religious research libraries in the world.
Langdon still felt shaky as he and Sophie came in from the rain and entered the library. The primary research room was as Teabing had described it—a dramatic octagonal chamber dominated by an enormous round table around which King Arthur and his knights might have been comfortable were it not for the presence of twelve flat-screen computer workstations. On the far side of the room, a reference librarian was just pouring a pot of tea and settling in for her day of work.
“Lovely morning,” she said in a cheerful British accent, leaving the tea and walking over. “May I help you?”
“Thank you, yes,” Langdon replied. “My name is—”
“Robert Langdon.” She gave a pleasant smile. “I know who you are.”
For an instant, he feared Fache had put him on English television as well, but the librarian's smile suggested otherwise. Langdon still had not gotten used to these moments of unexpected celebrity. Then again, if anyone on earth were going to recognize his face, it would be a librarian in a Religious Studies reference facility.
“Pamela Gettum,” the librarian said, offering her hand. She had a genial, erudite face and a pleasingly fluid voice. The horn-rimmed glasses hanging around her neck were thick.
“A pleasure,” Langdon said. “This is my friend Sophie Neveu.”
The two women greeted one another, and Gettum turned immediately back to Langdon. “I didn't know you were coming.”
“Neither did we. If it's not too much trouble, we could really use your help finding some information.”
Gettum shifted, looking uncertain. “Normally our services are by petition and appointment only, unless of course you're the guest of someone at the college?”
Langdon shook his head. “I'm afraid we've come unannounced. A friend of mine speaks very highly of you. Sir Leigh Teabing?” Langdon felt a pang of gloom as he said the name. “The British Royal Historian.”
Gettum brightened now, laughing. “Heavens, yes. What a character. Fanatical! Every time he comes in, it's always the same search strings. Grail. Grail. Grail. I swear that man will die before he gives up on that quest.” She winked. “Time and money afford one such lovely luxuries, wouldn't you say? A regular Don Quixote, that one.”
“Is there any chance you can help us?” Sophie asked. “It's quite important.”
Gettum glanced around the deserted library and then winked at them both. “Well, I can't very well claim I'm too busy, now can I? As long as you sign in, I can't imagine anyone being too upset. What did you have in mind?”
“We're trying to find a tomb in London.”
Gettum looked dubious. “We've got about twenty thousand of them. Can you be a little more specific?”
“It's the tomb of a
knight
. We don't have a name.”
“A knight. That tightens the net substantially. Much less common.”
“We don't have much information about the knight we're looking for,” Sophie said, “but this is what we know.” She produced a slip of paper on which she had written only the first two lines of the poem.
Hesitant to show the entire poem to an outsider, Langdon and Sophie had decided to share just the first two lines, those that identified the knight.
Compartmentalized cryptography,
Sophie had called it. When an intelligence agency intercepted a code containing sensitive data, cryptographers each worked on a discrete section of the code. This way, when they broke it, no single cryptographer possessed the entire deciphered message.
In this case, the precaution was probably excessive; even if this librarian saw the entire poem, identified the knight's tomb, and knew what orb was missing, the information was useless without the cryptex.
Gettum sensed an urgency in the eyes of this famed American scholar, almost as if his finding this tomb quickly were a matter of critical importance. The green-eyed woman accompanying him also seemed anxious.
Puzzled, Gettum put on her glasses and examined the paper they had just handed her.
In London lies a knight a Pope interred.
His labor's fruit a Holy wrath incurred.
She glanced at her guests. “What is this? Some kind of Harvard scavenger hunt?”
Langdon's laugh sounded forced. “Yeah, something like that.”
Gettum paused, feeling she was not getting the whole story. Nonetheless, she felt intrigued and found herself pondering the verse carefully. “According to this rhyme, a knight did something that incurred displeasure with God, and yet a Pope was kind enough to bury him in London.”
Langdon nodded. “Does it ring any bells?”
Gettum moved toward one of the workstations. “Not offhand, but let's see what we can pull up in the database.”
Over the past two decades, King's College Research Institute in Systematic Theology had used optical character recognition software in unison with linguistic translation devices to digitize and catalog an enormous collection of texts—encyclopedias of religion, religious biographies, sacred scriptures in dozens of languages, histories, Vatican letters, diaries of clerics, anything at all that qualified as writings on human spirituality. Because the massive collection was now in the form of bits and bytes rather than physical pages, the data was infinitely more accessible.
Settling into one of the workstations, Gettum eyed the slip of paper and began typing. “To begin, we'll run a straight Boolean with a few obvious keywords and see what happens.”
“Thank you.”
Gettum typed in a few words:
L
ONDON,
K
NIGHT,
P
OPE
As she clicked the
SEARCH
button, she could feel the hum of the massive mainframe downstairs scanning data at a rate of 500 MB/sec. “I'm asking the system to show us any documents whose complete text contains all three of these keywords. We'll get more hits than we want, but it's a good place to start.”
The screen was already showing the first of the hits now.
Painting the Pope. The Collected Portraits of
Sir Joshua Reynolds.
London University Press.
Gettum shook her head. “Obviously not what you're looking for.”
She scrolled to the next hit.
The London Writings of Alexander Pope
by G. Wilson Knight.
Again she shook her head.
As the system churned on, the hits came up more quickly than usual. Dozens of texts appeared, many of them referencing the eighteenth-century British writer Alexander Pope, whose counterreligious, mock-epic poetry apparently contained plenty of references to knights and London.
Gettum shot a quick glance to the numeric field at the bottom of the screen. This computer, by calculating the current number of hits and multiplying by the percentage of the database left to search, provided a rough guess of how much information would be found. This particular search looked like it was going to return an obscenely large amount of data.
Estimated number of total hits: 2,692
“We need to refine the parameters further,” Gettum said, stopping the search. “Is this all the information you have regarding the tomb? There's nothing else to go on?”
Langdon glanced at Sophie Neveu, looking uncertain.
This is no scavenger hunt,
Gettum sensed. She had heard the whisperings of Robert Langdon's experience in Rome last year. This American had been granted access to the most secure library on earth—the Vatican Secret Archives. She wondered what kinds of secrets Langdon might have learned inside and if his current desperate hunt for a mysterious London tomb might relate to information he had gained within the Vatican. Gettum had been a librarian long enough to know the most common reason people came to London to look for knights.
The Grail
.
Gettum smiled and adjusted her glasses. “You are friends with Leigh Teabing, you are in England, and you are looking for a knight.” She folded her hands. “I can only assume you are on a Grail quest.”
Langdon and Sophie exchanged startled looks.
Gettum laughed. “My friends, this library is a base camp for Grail seekers. Leigh Teabing among them. I wish I had a shilling for every time I'd run searches for the Rose, Mary Magdalene, Sangreal, Merovingian, Priory of Sion, et cetera, et cetera. Everyone loves a conspiracy.” She took off her glasses and eyed them. “I need more information.”
In the silence, Gettum sensed her guests' desire for discretion was quickly being outweighed by their eagerness for a fast result.
“Here,” Sophie Neveu blurted. “This is everything we know.” Borrowing a pen from Langdon, she wrote two more lines on the slip of paper and handed it to Gettum.
You seek the orb that ought be on his tomb.
It speaks of Rosy flesh and seeded womb.
Gettum gave an inward smile.
The Grail indeed,
she thought, noting the references to the Rose and her seeded womb. “I can help you,” she said, looking up from the slip of paper. “Might I ask where this verse came from? And why you are seeking an orb?”
“You might ask,” Langdon said, with a friendly smile, “but it's a long story and we have very little time.”
“Sounds like a polite way of saying ‘mind your own business.' ”
“We would be forever in your debt, Pamela,” Langdon said, “if you could find out who this knight is and where he is buried.”
“Very well,” Gettum said, typing again. “I'll play along. If this is a Grail-related issue, we should cross-reference against Grail keywords. I'll add a proximity parameter and remove the title weighting. That will limit our hits only to those instances of textual keywords that occur
near
a Grail-related word.”
Search for:
K
NIGHT,
L
ONDON,
P
OPE,
T
OMB
Within 100 word proximity of:
G
RAIL,
R
OSE,
S
ANGREAL,
C
HALICE
“How long will this take?” Sophie asked.
“A few hundred terabytes with multiple cross-referencing fields?” Gettum's eyes glimmered as she clicked the
SEARCH
key. “A mere fifteen minutes.”
Langdon and Sophie said nothing, but Gettum sensed this sounded like an eternity to them.
“Tea?” Gettum asked, standing and walking toward the pot she had made earlier. “Leigh always loves my tea.”
CHAPTER
93
London's Opus
Dei Centre is a modest brick building at 5 Orme Court, overlooking the North Walk at Kensington Gardens. Silas had never been here, but he felt a rising sense of refuge and asylum as he approached the building on foot. Despite the rain, Rémy had dropped him off a short distance away in order to keep the limousine off the main streets. Silas didn't mind the walk. The rain was cleansing.
At Rémy's suggestion, Silas had wiped down his gun and disposed of it through a sewer grate. He was glad to get rid of it. He felt lighter. His legs still ached from being bound all that time, but Silas had endured far greater pain. He wondered, though, about Teabing, whom Rémy had left bound in the back of the limousine. The Briton certainly had to be feeling the pain by now.
“What will you do with him?” Silas had asked Rémy as they drove over here.
Rémy had shrugged. “That is a decision for the Teacher.” There was an odd finality in his tone.
Now, as Silas approached the Opus Dei building, the rain began to fall harder, soaking his heavy robe, stinging the wounds of the day before. He was ready to leave behind the sins of the last twenty-four hours and purge his soul. His work was done.
Moving across a small courtyard to the front door, Silas was not surprised to find the door unlocked. He opened it and stepped into the minimalist foyer. A muted electronic chime sounded upstairs as Silas stepped onto the carpet. The bell was a common feature in these halls where the residents spent most of the day in their rooms in prayer. Silas could hear movement above on the creaky wood floors.
A man in a cloak came downstairs. “May I help you?” He had kind eyes that seemed not even to register Silas's startling physical appearance.
“Thank you. My name is Silas. I am an Opus Dei numerary.”
“American?”
Silas nodded. “I am in town only for the day. Might I rest here?”
“You need not even ask. There are two empty rooms on the third floor. Shall I bring you some tea and bread?”
“Thank you.” Silas was famished.
Silas went upstairs to a modest room with a window, where he took off his wet robe and knelt down to pray in his undergarments. He heard his host come up and lay a tray outside his door. Silas finished his prayers, ate his food, and lay down to sleep.
Three stories below, a phone was ringing. The Opus Dei numerary who had welcomed Silas answered the line.
“This is the London police,” the caller said. “We are trying to find an albino monk. We've had a tip-off that he might be there. Have you seen him?”
The numerary was startled. “Yes, he is here. Is something wrong?”
“He is there
now?
”
“Yes, upstairs praying. What is going on?”
“Leave him precisely where he is,” the officer commanded. “Don't say a word to anyone. I'm sending officers over right away.”
CHAPTER
94
St. James's
Park is a sea of green in the middle of London, a public park bordering the palaces of Westminster, Buckingham, and St. James's. Once enclosed by King Henry VIII and stocked with deer for the hunt, St. James's Park is now open to the public. On sunny afternoons, Londoners picnic beneath the willows and feed the pond's resident pelicans, whose ancestors were a gift to Charles II from the Russian ambassador.
The Teacher saw no pelicans today. The stormy weather had brought instead seagulls from the ocean. The lawns were covered with them—hundreds of white bodies all facing the same direction, patiently riding out the damp wind. Despite the morning fog, the park afforded splendid views of the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben. Gazing across the sloping lawns, past the duck pond and the delicate silhouettes of the weeping willows, the Teacher could see the spires of the building that housed the knight's tomb—the real reason he had told Rémy to come to this spot.
As the Teacher approached the front passenger door of the parked limousine, Rémy leaned across and opened the door. The Teacher paused outside, taking a pull from the flask of cognac he was carrying. Then, dabbing his mouth, he slid in beside Rémy and closed the door.
Rémy held up the keystone like a trophy. “It was almost lost.”
“You have done well,” the Teacher said.
“
We
have done well,” Rémy replied, laying the keystone in the Teacher's eager hands.
The Teacher admired it a long moment, smiling. “And the gun? You wiped it down?”
“Back in the glove box where I found it.”
“Excellent.” The Teacher took another drink of cognac and handed the flask to Rémy. “Let's toast our success. The end is near.”
Rémy accepted the bottle gratefully. The cognac tasted salty, but Rémy didn't care. He and the Teacher were truly partners now. He could feel himself ascending to a higher station in life.
I will never be a servant again
. As Rémy gazed down the embankment at the duck pond below, Château Villette seemed miles away.
Taking another swig from the flask, Rémy could feel the cognac warming his blood. The warmth in Rémy's throat, however, mutated quickly to an uncomfortable heat. Loosening his bow tie, Rémy tasted an unpleasant grittiness and handed the flask back to the Teacher. “I've probably had enough,” he managed, weakly.
Taking the flask, the Teacher said, “Rémy, as you are aware, you are the only one who knows my face. I placed enormous trust in you.”
“Yes,” he said, feeling feverish as he loosened his tie further. “And your identity shall go with me to the grave.”
The Teacher was silent a long moment. “I believe you.” Pocketing the flask and the keystone, the Teacher reached for the glove box and pulled out the tiny Medusa revolver. For an instant, Rémy felt a surge of fear, but the Teacher simply slipped it in his trousers pocket.
What is he doing?
Rémy felt himself sweating suddenly.
“I know I promised you freedom,” the Teacher said, his voice now sounding regretful. “But considering your circumstances, this is the best I can do.”
The swelling in Rémy's throat came on like an earthquake, and he lurched against the steering column, grabbing his throat and tasting vomit in his narrowing esophagus. He let out a muted croak of a scream, not even loud enough to be heard outside the car. The saltiness in the cognac now registered.
I'm being murdered!
Incredulous, Rémy turned to see the Teacher sitting calmly beside him, staring straight ahead out the windshield. Rémy's eyesight blurred, and he gasped for breath.
I made everything possible for him! How could he do this!
Whether the Teacher had intended to kill Rémy all along or whether it had been Rémy's actions in the Temple Church that had made the Teacher lose faith, Rémy would never know. Terror and rage coursed through him now. Rémy tried to lunge for the Teacher, but his stiffening body could barely move.
I trusted you with everything!
Rémy tried to lift his clenched fists to blow the horn, but instead he slipped sideways, rolling onto the seat, lying on his side beside the Teacher, clutching at his throat. The rain fell harder now. Rémy could no longer see, but he could sense his oxygen-deprived brain straining to cling to his last faint shreds of lucidity. As his world slowly went black, Rémy Legaludec could have sworn he heard the sounds of the soft Riviera surf.
The Teacher stepped from the limousine, pleased to see that nobody was looking in his direction.
I had no choice,
he told himself, surprised how little remorse he felt for what he had just done.
Rémy sealed his own fate
. The Teacher had feared all along that Rémy might need to be eliminated when the mission was complete, but by brazenly showing himself in the Temple Church, Rémy had accelerated the necessity dramatically. Robert Langdon's unexpected visit to Château Villette had brought the Teacher both a fortuitous windfall and an intricate dilemma. Langdon had delivered the keystone directly to the heart of the operation, which was a pleasant surprise, and yet he had brought the police on his tail. Rémy's prints were all over Château Villette, as well as in the barn's listening post, where Rémy had carried out the surveillance. The Teacher was grateful he had taken so much care in preventing any ties between Rémy's activities and his own. Nobody could implicate the Teacher unless Rémy talked, and that was no longer a concern.
One more loose end to tie up here,
the Teacher thought, moving now toward the rear door of the limousine.
The police will have no idea what happened . . . and no living witness left to tell them
. Glancing around to ensure nobody was watching, he pulled open the door and climbed into the spacious rear compartment.
Minutes later, the Teacher was crossing St. James's Park.
Only two people now remain. Langdon and Neveu
. They were more complicated. But manageable. At the moment, however, the Teacher had the cryptex to attend to.
Gazing triumphantly across the park, he could see his destination.
In London lies a knight a Pope interred
. As soon as the Teacher had heard the poem, he had known the answer. Even so, that the others had not figured it out was not surprising.
I have an unfair advantage
. Having listened to Saunière's conversations for months now, the Teacher had heard the Grand Master mention this famous knight on occasion, expressing esteem almost matching that he held for Da Vinci. The poem's reference to the knight was brutally simple once one saw it—a credit to Saunière's wit—and yet how this tomb would reveal the final password was still a mystery.
You seek the orb that ought be on his tomb.
The Teacher vaguely recalled photos of the famous tomb and, in particular, its most distinguishing feature.
A magnificent orb
. The huge sphere mounted atop the tomb was almost as large as the tomb itself. The presence of the orb seemed both encouraging and troubling to the Teacher. On one hand, it felt like a signpost, and yet, according to the poem, the missing piece of the puzzle was an orb that
ought
to be on his tomb . . . not one that was already there. He was counting on his closer inspection of the tomb to unveil the answer.
The rain was getting heavier now, and he tucked the cryptex deep in his right-hand pocket to protect it from the dampness. He kept the tiny Medusa revolver in his left, out of sight. Within minutes, he was stepping into the quiet sanctuary of London's grandest nine-hundred-year-old building.
Just as the Teacher was stepping out of the rain, Bishop Aringarosa was stepping into it. On the rainy tarmac at Biggin Hill Executive Airport, Aringarosa emerged from his cramped plane, bundling his cassock against the cold damp. He had hoped to be greeted by Captain Fache. Instead a young British police officer approached with an umbrella.
“Bishop Aringarosa? Captain Fache had to leave. He asked me to look after you. He suggested I take you to Scotland Yard. He thought it would be safest.”
Safest?
Aringarosa looked down at the heavy briefcase of Vatican bonds clutched in his hand. He had almost forgotten. “Yes, thank you.”
Aringarosa climbed into the police car, wondering where Silas could be. Minutes later, the police scanner crackled with the answer.
5 Orme Court
.
Aringarosa recognized the address instantly.
The Opus Dei Centre in London.
He spun to the driver. “Take me there at once!”