Teabing sat on the divan, cradling the wooden box on his lap and admiring the lid’s intricate inlaid Rose. Tonight has become the strangest and most magical night of my life.
“Lift the lid,” Sophie whispered, standing over him, beside Langdon.
Teabing smiled. Do not rush me. Having spent over a decade searching for this keystone, he wanted to savor every millisecond of this moment. He ran a palm across the wooden lid, feeling the texture of the inlaid flower.
“The Rose,” he whispered. The Rose is Magdalene is the Holy Grail. The Rose is the compass that guides the way. Teabing felt foolish. For years he had traveled to cathedrals and churches all over France, paying for special access, examining hundreds of archways beneath rose windows, searching for an encrypted keystone. La clef de voûte—a stone key beneath the sign of the Rose.
Teabing slowly unlatched the lid and raised it.
As his eyes finally gazed upon the contents, he knew in an instant it could only be the keystone. He was staring at a stone cylinder, crafted of interconnecting lettered dials. The device seemed surprisingly familiar to him.
“Designed from Da Vinci’s diaries,” Sophie said. “My grandfather made them as a hobby.”
Of course, Teabing realized. He had seen the sketches and blueprints. The key to finding the Holy Grail lies inside this stone. Teabing lifted the heavy cryptex from the box, holding it gently. Although he had no idea how to open the cylinder, he sensed his own destiny lay inside. In moments of failure, Teabing had questioned whether his life’s quest would ever be rewarded. Now those doubts were gone forever. He could hear the ancient words . . . the foundation of the Grail legend:
Vous ne trouvez pas le Saint-Graal, c’est le Saint-Graal qui vous trouve.
You do not find the Grail, the Grail finds you.
And tonight, incredibly, the key to finding the Holy Grail had walked right through his front door.
While Sophie and Teabing sat with the cryptex and talked about the vinegar, the dials, and what the password might be, Langdon carried the rosewood box across the room to a well-lit table to get a better look at it. Something Teabing had just said was now running through Langdon’s mind.
The key to the Grail is hidden beneath the sign of the Rose.
Langdon held the wooden box up to the light and examined the inlaid symbol of the Rose. Although his familiarity with art did not include woodworking or inlaid furniture, he had just recalled the famous tiled ceiling of the Spanish monastery outside of Madrid, where, three centuries after its construction, the ceiling tiles began to fall out, revealing sacred texts scrawled by monks on the plaster beneath.
Langdon looked again at the Rose.
Beneath the Rose.
Sub Rosa.
Secret.
A bump in the hallway behind him made Langdon turn. He saw nothing but shadows. Teabing’s manservant most likely had passed through. Langdon turned back to the box. He ran his finger over the smooth edge of the inlay, wondering if he could pry the Rose out, but the craftsmanship was perfect. He doubted even a razor blade could fit in between the inlaid Rose and the carefully carved depression into which it was seated.
Opening the box, he examined the inside of the lid. It was smooth. As he shifted its position, though, the light caught what appeared to be a small hole on the underside of the lid, positioned in the exact center. Langdon closed the lid and examined the inlaid symbol from the top. No hole.
It doesn’t pass through.
Setting the box on the table, he looked around the room and spied a stack of papers with a paper clip on it. Borrowing the clip, he returned to the box, opened it, and studied the hole again. Carefully, he unbent the paper clip and inserted one end into the hole. He gave a gentle push. It took almost no effort. He heard something clatter quietly onto the table. Langdon closed the lid to look. It was a small piece of wood, like a puzzle piece. The wooden Rose had popped out of the lid and fallen onto the desk.
Speechless, Langdon stared at the bare spot on the lid where the Rose had been. There, engraved in the wood, written in an immaculate hand, were four lines of text in a language he had never seen.
The characters look vaguely Semitic, Langdon thought to himself, and yet I don’t recognize the language!
A sudden movement behind him caught his attention. Out of nowhere, a crushing blow to the head knocked Langdon to his knees.
As he fell, he thought for a moment he saw a pale ghost hovering over him, clutching a gun. Then everything went black.
Sophie Neveu, despite working in law enforcement, had never found herself at gunpoint until tonight. Almost inconceivably, the gun into which she was now staring was clutched in the pale hand of an enormous albino with long white hair. He looked at her with red eyes that radiated a frightening, disembodied quality. Dressed in a wool robe with a rope tie, he resembled a medieval cleric. Sophie could not imagine who he was, and yet she was feeling a sudden newfound respect for Teabing’s suspicions that the Church was behind this.
“You know what I have come for,” the monk said, his voice hollow.
Sophie and Teabing were seated on the divan, arms raised as their attacker had commanded. Langdon lay groaning on the floor. The monk’s eyes fell immediately to the keystone on Teabing’s lap.
Teabing’s tone was defiant. “You will not be able to open it.”
“My Teacher is very wise,” the monk replied, inching closer, the gun shifting between Teabing and Sophie.
Sophie wondered where Teabing’s manservant was. Didn’t he hear Robert fall?
“Who is your teacher?” Teabing asked. “Perhaps we can make a financial arrangement.”
“The Grail is priceless.” He moved closer.
“You’re bleeding,” Teabing noted calmly, nodding to the monk’s right ankle where a trickle of blood had run down his leg. “And you’re limping.”
“As do you,” the monk replied, motioning to the metal crutches propped beside Teabing. “Now, hand me the keystone.”
“You know of the keystone?” Teabing said, sounding surprised.
“Never mind what I know. Stand up slowly, and give it to me.”
“Standing is difficult for me.”
“Precisely. I would prefer nobody attempt any quick moves.”
Teabing slipped his right hand through one of his crutches and grasped the keystone in his left. Lurching to his feet, he stood erect, palming the heavy cylinder in his left hand, and leaning unsteadily on his crutch with his right.
The monk closed to within a few feet, keeping the gun aimed directly at Teabing’s head. Sophie watched, feeling helpless as the monk reached out to take the cylinder.
“You will not succeed,” Teabing said. “Only the worthy can unlock this stone.”
God alone judges the worthy, Silas thought.
“It’s quite heavy,” the man on crutches said, his arm wavering now. “If you don’t take it soon, I’m afraid I shall drop it!” He swayed perilously.
Silas stepped quickly forward to take the stone, and as he did, the man on crutches lost his balance. The crutch slid out from under him, and he began to topple sideways to his right. No! Silas lunged to save the stone, lowering his weapon in the process. But the keystone was moving away from him now. As the man fell to his right, his left hand swung backward, and the cylinder tumbled from his palm onto the couch. At the same instant, the metal crutch that had been sliding out from under the man seemed to accelerate, cutting a wide arc through the air toward Silas’s leg.
Splinters of pain tore up Silas’s body as the crutch made perfect contact with his cilice, crushing the barbs into his already raw flesh. Buckling, Silas crumpled to his knees, causing the belt to cut deeper still. The pistol discharged with a deafening roar, the bullet burying itself harmlessly in the floorboards as Silas fell. Before he could raise the gun and fire again, the woman’s foot caught him square beneath the jaw.
At the bottom of the driveway, Collet heard the gunshot. The muffled pop sent panic through his veins. With Fache on the way, Collet had already relinquished any hopes of claiming personal credit for finding Langdon tonight. But Collet would be damned if Fache’s ego landed him in front of a Ministerial Review Board for negligent police procedure.
A weapon was discharged inside a private home! And you waited at the bottom of the driveway?
Collet knew the opportunity for a stealth approach had long since passed. He also knew if he stood idly by for another second, his entire career would be history by morning. Eyeing the estate’s iron gate, he made his decision.
“Tie on, and pull it down.”
In the distant recesses of his groggy mind, Robert Langdon had heard the gunshot. He’d also heard a scream of pain. His own? A jackhammer was boring a hole into the back of his cranium. Somewhere nearby, people were talking.
“Where the devil were you?” Teabing was yelling.
The manservant hurried in. “What happened? Oh my God! Who is that? I’ll call the police!”
“Bloody hell! Don’t call the police. Make yourself useful and get us something with which to restrain this monster.”
“And some ice!” Sophie called after him.
Langdon drifted out again. More voices. Movement. Now he was seated on the divan. Sophie was holding an ice pack to his head. His skull ached. As Langdon’s vision finally began to clear, he found himself staring at a body on the floor. Am I hallucinating? The massive body of an albino monk lay bound and gagged with duct tape. His chin was split open, and the robe over his right thigh was soaked with blood. He too appeared to be just now coming to.
Langdon turned to Sophie. “Who is that? What . . . happened?”
Teabing hobbled over. “You were rescued by a knight brandishing an Excalibur made by Acme Orthopedic.”
Huh? Langdon tried to sit up.
Sophie’s touch was shaken but tender. “Just give yourself a minute, Robert.”
“I fear,” Teabing said, “that I’ve just demonstrated for your lady friend the unfortunate benefit of my condition. It seems everyone underestimates you.”
From his seat on the divan, Langdon gazed down at the monk and tried to imagine what had happened.
“He was wearing a cilice,” Teabing explained.
“A what?”
Teabing pointed to a bloody strip of barbed leather that lay on the floor. “A Discipline belt. He wore it on his thigh. I took careful aim.”
Langdon rubbed his head. He knew of Discipline belts. “But how . . . did you know?”
Teabing grinned. “Christianity is my field of study, Robert, and there are certain sects who wear their hearts on their sleeves.” He pointed his crutch at the blood soaking through the monk’s cloak. “As it were.”
“Opus Dei,” Langdon whispered, recalling recent media coverage of several prominent Boston businessmen who were members of Opus Dei. Apprehensive coworkers had falsely and publicly accused the men of wearing Discipline belts beneath their three-piece suits. In fact, the three men did no such thing. Like many members of Opus Dei, these businessmen were at the “supernumerary” stage and practiced no corporal mortification at all. They were devout Catholics, caring fathers to their children, and deeply dedicated members of the community. Not surprisingly, the media spotlighted their spiritual commitment only briefly before moving on to the shock value of the sect’s more stringent “numerary” members . . . members like the monk now lying on the floor before Langdon.
Teabing was looking closely at the bloody belt. “But why would Opus Dei be trying to find the Holy Grail?”
Langdon was too groggy to consider it.
“Robert,” Sophie said, walking to the wooden box. “What’s this?” She was holding the small Rose inlay he had removed from the lid.
“It covered an engraving on the box. I think the text might tell us how to open the keystone.”
Before Sophie and Teabing could respond, a sea of blue police lights and sirens erupted at the bottom of the hill and began snaking up the half-mile driveway.
Teabing frowned. “My friends, it seems we have a decision to make. And we’d better make it fast.”
Collet and his agents burst through the front door of Sir Leigh Teabing’s estate with their guns drawn. Fanning out, they began searching all the rooms on the first level. They found a bullet hole in the drawing room floor, signs of a struggle, a small amount of blood, a strange, barbed leather belt, and a partially used roll of duct tape. The entire level seemed deserted.
Just as Collet was about to divide his men to search the basement and grounds behind the house, he heard voices on the level above them.
“They’re upstairs!”
Rushing up the wide staircase, Collet and his men moved room by room through the huge home, securing darkened bedrooms and hallways as they closed in on the sounds of voices. The sound seemed to be coming from the last bedroom on an exceptionally long hallway. The agents inched down the corridor, sealing off alternate exits.
As they neared the final bedroom, Collet could see the door was wide open. The voices had stopped suddenly, and had been replaced by an odd rumbling, like an engine.
Sidearm raised, Collet gave the signal. Reaching silently around the door frame, he found the light switch and flicked it on. Spinning into the room with men pouring in after him, Collet shouted and aimed his weapon at . . . nothing.
An empty guest bedroom. Pristine.
The rumbling sounds of an automobile engine poured from a black electronic panel on the wall beside the bed. Collet had seen these elsewhere in the house. Some kind of intercom system. He raced over. The panel had about a dozen labeled buttons:
STUDY . . . KITCHEN . . . LAUNDRY . . . CELLAR . . .
So where the hell do I hear a car?
MASTER BEDROOM . . . SUN ROOM . . . BARN . . . LIBRARY . . .
Barn! Collet was downstairs in seconds, running toward the back door, grabbing one of his agents on the way. The men crossed the rear lawn and arrived breathless at the front of a weathered gray barn. Even before they entered, Collet could hear the fading sounds of a car engine. He drew his weapon, rushed in, and flicked on the lights.
The right side of the barn was a rudimentary workshop—lawnmowers, automotive tools, gardening supplies. A familiar intercom panel hung on the wall nearby. One of its buttons was flipped down, transmitting.
GUEST BEDROOM II.
Collet wheeled, anger brimming. They lured us upstairs with the intercom! Searching the other side of the barn, he found a long line of horse stalls. No horses. Apparently the owner preferred a different kind of horsepower; the stalls had been converted into an impressive automotive parking facility. The collection was astonishing—a black Ferrari, a pristine Rolls-Royce, an antique Astin Martin sports coupe, a vintage Porsche 356.
The last stall was empty.
Collet ran over and saw oil stains on the stall floor. They can’t get off the compound. The driveway and gate were barricaded with two patrol cars to prevent this very situation.
“Sir?” The agent pointed down the length of the stalls.
The barn’s rear slider was wide open, giving way to a dark, muddy slope of rugged fields that stretched out into the night behind the barn. Collet ran to the door, trying to see out into the darkness. All he could make out was the faint shadow of a forest in the distance. No headlights. This wooded valley was probably crisscrossed by dozens of unmapped fire roads and hunting trails, but Collet was confident his quarry would never make the woods. “Get some men spread out down there. They’re probably already stuck somewhere nearby. These fancy sports cars can’t handle terrain.”
“Um, sir?” The agent pointed to a nearby pegboard on which hung several sets of keys. The labels above the keys bore familiar names.
DAIMLER . . . ROLLS-ROYCE . . . ASTIN MARTIN . . . PORSCHE . . .
The last peg was empty.