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[ 此帖被小梨涡°在2013-10-23 22:06重新编辑 ]
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Chapter 1 Robert Langdon awoke slowly.
A telephone was ringing in the darkness—a tinny, unfamiliar ring. He fumbled for the bedside lamp and turned it on. Squinting at his surroundings he saw a plush Renaissance bedroom with Louis XVI furniture, hand-frescoed walls, and a colossal mahogany four-poster bed.
Where the hell am I?
The jacquard bathrobe hanging on his bedpost bore the monogram: HOTEL RITZ PARIS.
Slowly, the fog began to lift.
Langdon picked up the receiver. "Hello?"
"Monsieur Langdon?" a man's voice said. "I hope I have not awoken you?"
Dazed, Langdon looked at the bedside clock. It was 12:32 A.M. He had been asleep only an hour, but he felt like the dead.
"This is the concierge, monsieur. I apologize for this intrusion, but you have a visitor. He insists it is urgent."
Langdon still felt fuzzy. A visitor? His eyes focused now on a crumpled flyer on his bedside table.
THE AMERICAN UNIVERSITY OF PARIS
proudly presents
AN EVENING WITH ROBERT LANGDON
PROFESSOR OF RELIGIOUS SYMBOLOGY,
HARVARD UNIVERSITY
Langdon groaned. Tonight's lecture—a slide show about pagan symbolism hidden in the stones of Chartres Cathedral—had probably ruffled some conservative feathers in the audience. Most likely, some religious scholar had trailed him home to pick a fight.
"I'm sorry," Langdon said, "but I'm very tired and—"
"Mais, monsieur," the concierge pressed, lowering his voice to an urgent whisper. "Your guest is an important man."
Langdon had little doubt. His books on religious paintings and cult symbology had made him a reluctant celebrity in the art world, and last year Langdon's visibility had increased a hundredfold after his involvement in a widely publicized incident at the Vatican. Since then, the stream of self-important historians and art buffs arriving at his door had seemed never-ending.
"If you would be so kind," Langdon said, doing his best to remain polite, "could you take the man's name and number, and tell him I'll try to call him before I leave Paris on Tuesday? Thank you." He hung up before the concierge could protest.
Sitting up now, Langdon frowned at his bedside Guest Relations Handbook, whose cover boasted: SLEEP LIKE A BABY IN THE CITY OF LIGHTS. SLUMBER AT THE PARIS RITZ. He turned and gazed tiredly into the full-length mirror across the room. The man staring back at him was a stranger—tousled and weary.
You need a vacation, Robert.
The past year had taken a heavy toll on him, but he didn't appreciate seeing proof in the mirror. His usually sharp blue eyes looked hazy and drawn tonight. A dark stubble was shrouding his strong jaw and dimpled chin. Around his temples, the gray highlights were advancing, making their way deeper into his thicket of coarse black hair. Although his female colleagues insisted the gray only accentuated his bookish appeal, Langdon knew better.
If Boston Magazine could see me now.
Last month, much to Langdon's embarrassment, Boston Magazine had listed him as one of that city's top ten most intriguing people—a dubious honor that made him the brunt of endless ribbing by his Harvard colleagues. Tonight, three thousand miles from home, the accolade had resurfaced to haunt him at the lecture he had given.
"Ladies and gentlemen..." the hostess had announced to a full house at the American University of Paris's Pavilion Dauphine, "Our guest tonight needs no introduction. He is the author of numerous books: The Symbology of Secret Sects, The An of the Illuminati, The Lost Language of Ideograms, and when I say he wrote the book on Religious Iconology, I mean that quite literally. Many of you use his textbooks in class."
The students in the crowd nodded enthusiastically.
"I had planned to introduce him tonight by sharing his impressive curriculum vitae. However..." She glanced playfully at Langdon, who was seated onstage. "An audience member has just handed me a far more, shall we say... intriguing introduction."
She held up a copy of Boston Magazine.
Langdon cringed. Where the hell did she get that?
The hostess began reading choice excerpts from the inane article, and Langdon felt himself sinking lower and lower in his chair. Thirty seconds later, the crowd was grinning, and the woman showed no signs of letting up. "And Mr. Langdon's refusal to speak publicly about his unusual role in last year's Vatican conclave certainly wins him points on our intrigue-o-meter." The hostess goaded the crowd. "Would you like to hear more?"
The crowd applauded.
Somebody stop her, Langdon pleaded as she dove into the article again.
"Although Professor Langdon might not be considered hunk-handsome like some of our younger awardees, this forty-something academic has more than his share of scholarly allure. His captivating presence is punctuated by an unusually low, baritone speaking voice, which his female students describe as 'chocolate for the ears.' "
The hall erupted in laughter.
Langdon forced an awkward smile. He knew what came next—some ridiculous line about "Harrison Ford in Harris tweed"—and because this evening he had figured it was finally safe again to wear his Harris tweed and Burberry turtleneck, he decided to take action.
"Thank you, Monique," Langdon said, standing prematurely and edging her away from the podium. "Boston Magazine clearly has a gift for fiction." He turned to the audience with an embarrassed sigh. "And if I find which one of you provided that article, I'll have the consulate deport you."
The crowd laughed.
"Well, folks, as you all know, I'm here tonight to talk about the power of symbols..."
The ringing of Langdon's hotel phone once again broke the silence.
Groaning in disbelief, he picked up. "Yes?"
As expected, it was the concierge. "Mr. Langdon, again my apologies. I am calling to inform you that your guest is now en route to your room. I thought I should alert you."
Langdon was wide awake now. "You sent someone to my room?"
"I apologize, monsieur, but a man like this... I cannot presume the authority to stop him."
"Who exactly is he?"
But the concierge was gone.
Almost immediately, a heavy fist pounded on Langdon's door.
Uncertain, Langdon slid off the bed, feeling his toes sink deep into the savonniere carpet. He donned the hotel bathrobe and moved toward the door. "Who is it?"
"Mr. Langdon? I need to speak with you." The man's English was accented—a sharp, authoritative bark. "My name is Lieutenant Jerome Collet. Direction Centrale Police Judiciaire."
Langdon paused. The Judicial Police? The DCPJ was the rough equivalent of the U.S. FBI.
Leaving the security chain in place, Langdon opened the door a few inches. The face staring back at him was thin and washed out. The man was exceptionally lean, dressed in an official-looking blue uniform.
"May I come in?" the agent asked.
Langdon hesitated, feeling uncertain as the stranger's sallow eyes studied him. "What is this all about?"
"My capitaine requires your expertise in a private matter."
"Now?" Langdon managed. "It's after midnight."
"Am I correct that you were scheduled to meet with the curator of the Louvre this evening?"
Langdon felt a sudden surge of uneasiness. He and the revered curator Jacques Saunière had been slated to meet for drinks after Langdon's lecture tonight, but Saunière had never shown up. "Yes. How did you know that?"
"We found your name in his daily planner."
"I trust nothing is wrong?"
The agent gave a dire sigh and slid a Polaroid snapshot through the narrow opening in the door.
When Langdon saw the photo, his entire body went rigid.
"This photo was taken less than an hour ago. Inside the Louvre."
As Langdon stared at the bizarre image, his initial revulsion and shock gave way to a sudden upwelling of anger. "Who would do this!"
"We had hoped that you might help us answer that very question, considering your knowledge in symbology and your plans to meet with him."
Langdon stared at the picture, his horror now laced with fear. The image was gruesome and profoundly strange, bringing with it an unsettling sense of déjà vu. A little over a year ago, Langdon had received a photograph of a corpse and a similar request for help. Twenty-four hours later, he had almost lost his life inside Vatican City. This photo was entirely different, and yet something about the scenario felt disquietingly familiar.
The agent checked his watch. "My capitaine is waiting, sir."
Langdon barely heard him. His eyes were still riveted on the picture. "This symbol here, and the way his body is so oddly..."
"Positioned?" the agent offered.
Langdon nodded, feeling a chill as he looked up. "I can't imagine who would do this to someone."
The agent looked grim. "You don't understand, Mr. Langdon. What you see in this photograph..." He paused. "Monsieur Saunière did that to himself."罗伯特。兰登慢慢醒来。
黑暗中电话铃响了起来--一种微弱的、不熟悉的响声。他伸手去摸床头灯，把灯打开。他眯着眼打量了一下环境，发现这是一间文艺复兴风格的豪华卧室，路易十六世的家俱，装饰有手工壁面的墙面，还有一张宽大的四柱红木床。
我到底是在什么地方？
挂在床柱上提花浴衣上写着：巴黎里茨酒店。
雾在慢慢散去。
兰登拿起听筒。"您好！"
"兰登先生吗？"一个男人的声音问道："但愿我没有吵醒您！"
他睡眼惺忪地看了看床边的钟。午夜12时32分。他刚睡了一个小时，但感觉如昏死过去一般。
"我是酒店门房接待员，先生。打扰您了，很抱歉，但是有位客人要见您。他非坚持说事情非常紧急。"
兰登还是丈二和尚摸不着头脑。客人？这时他的目光汇聚到床头柜上一页皱皱巴巴的宣传单：巴黎美国大学 将举办一场学术晚会 哈佛大学宗教符号学教授 罗伯特。兰登将莅临赐教兰登哼了一声。今晚的报告-一幅有关隐藏于沙特尔大教堂基石上的异教符号幻灯片很可能呛了哪位保守听众的肺管了。极有可能是有宗教学者上门找碴儿来了。
"对不起，我累了，而且……"兰登说。
"可是，先生。"接待员赶紧打断了他，压低了声音，急迫地耳语道："您的客人是位重要人物。"
毫无疑问，他的那些关于宗教绘画和邪教符号学的书使他不太情愿地成了艺术圈子里的名人。去年他与一个在梵蒂冈的广为流传的事件有牵连，此后他露面的频率提高了上百倍。打那以后，自认为了不起的历史学家和艺术迷们便似乎源源不断地涌向他家门口。
兰登尽量保持礼貌的言语："麻烦您记下那人的姓名和电话号码，告诉他我在周二离开巴黎前会给他打电话的。谢谢。"接待员还没来得及回话，他便挂上了电话。
兰登坐了起来，对着旁边的客人关系手册蹙着眉头。手册封面上自吹自擂地写道：如婴儿般沉睡在灯火辉煌的城市，酣睡在巴黎里茨。他转过头疲倦地凝视着对面的大镜子。回望着他的是个陌生人，头发乱蓬蓬的，疲惫不堪。
你需要休假，罗伯特。
去年他可损失惨重，憔悴了许多。但他不愿意在镜子里得到证明。他本来锐利的眼睛今晚看起来模糊呆滞。硕大干瘪的下巴上满是黑黑的胡茬儿。在太阳穴周围，花白的毛发显得一天比一天多，正深深地钻进他那浓密的又粗又黑的头发中。虽然他的女同事们一直说花白的头发使他显得更儒雅，可兰登不那么想。
幸亏波士顿杂志不是现在采访的我。
颇使兰登感到尴尬的是，上个月波士顿杂志把他列进该市十大最引人注目的人，--莫名其妙的荣誉使他不断成为哈佛同事们的首当其冲调笑的对象。
今晚在离家三千英里的地方，他作报告时，那种赞扬再度出现令他惴惴不安。
女主持人向巴黎美国大学的妃子亭里满满一屋子人宣布道："女士们，先生们，我们今晚的客人不需要介绍。他写了好多本书，如：《秘密教派符号学》、《光照派的艺术》和《表意符号语言的遗失》等。我说他写了《宗教符号学》一书，其实我也只是知道书名，你们许多人上课都用他的书。"
人群中的学生们拼命点头。
"我本打算通过与大家分享他不凡的履历来介绍他，然而……"，她以调侃的眼神瞥了一眼坐在台上的兰登。"一位听众刚递给我一个……什么呢？……可以说是更有趣的介绍。"
她举起了一本波士顿杂志。
兰登缩了缩身子。她到底从哪搞到的那玩意？
女主持人开始从那篇空洞的文章中有选择地朗读已选取的片断。兰登感到自己在椅子上越陷越深。三十秒钟后，人们龇着牙笑了起来，而那女人还没有停下来的意思。"兰登先生拒绝公开谈及去年他在梵蒂冈秘密会议上所起的非凡作用，这使人们对他越发产生了兴趣。"女主持人进一步挑逗听众说："大家想不想多听一些？"
大家一齐鼓掌。
但愿能有人让她停下来。兰登默默祈祷道。但她又继续念那篇文章。
"虽然兰登教授可能不像有些年轻的崇拜者认为的那样风流倜傥，可这位四十几岁学者却拥有他这个年龄不多见的学术魅力。他只要露面就能吸引许多人，而他那极低的男中音更是使他魅力大增，他的女学生把他的声音描述为"供耳朵享用的巧克力。"大厅内爆发出一阵大笑。
兰登有些尴尬，只能强装笑脸。他知道她马上又会说出"哈里森。福特穿着哈里斯花格尼"这样不着边际的句话，因为他穿着哈里斯花格尼裤子和博贝利高领绒衣。他原以为今晚终于可以安全地这么穿而不致惹出那样荒谬的说法来。他决定采取措施。
"谢谢您，莫尼卡。"兰登提前站了起来，并把女主持挤下讲台。"波士顿杂志显然非常会编故事。"他转向听众并发出了窘迫的叹息声。"如果我知道你们谁提供了那篇文章，我就请领事把他驱逐出境。"
听众又大笑起来。
"好喽，伙计们，你们知道，我今晚到这儿是要谈谈符号的重要作用。"
兰登房间的电话铃再一次打破沉寂。
他拿起电话，迟疑地咕哝道："喂！"
不出所料，正是门房接待员。"兰登先生，真抱歉，又打扰您。我打电话是想告诉您，您的客人正在去您房间的路上，我想我应该提醒您一下。"
兰登现在一点睡意也没有了。"是你把那个人打发到我房间的？"
"抱歉，先生，但像他这样的人……，我想我不敢冒昧地阻止他。"
"到底是谁？"
但是门房接待员已挂断了电话。
话音未落，已有人用拳头重重地敲门。
兰登感到一阵不安。他匆忙下床，感到脚趾头深深地陷到地上的萨伏纳里地毯里。他穿上酒店提供的睡衣朝门口走去。"哪一位？"
"兰登先生吗？我需要和您谈谈。"对方以尖利的、颇具权威的口吻大声喊道。他说英语有很重的口音。"我是中央司法警察部的杰罗姆。科莱上尉。"
兰登怔了一下。司法警察？这大致相当于美国的联邦调查局。
把安全链放好后，兰登把门开了几英寸宽的小缝。盯着他望的那个人的脸削瘦而苍白。那人极瘦，身着蓝制服，看样子像个当官的。
"我可以进来吗？"那特工问道。
那陌生人灰黄的眼睛打量着兰登，使他感到局促不安。"到底是怎么回事？"
"我们的警务局长在一件私事上需要您发挥一下您的专长。"
"现在吗？深更半夜的。"兰登挤出一句话来。
"你本打算今晚和卢浮宫博物馆长会面的，是吧？"
兰登突然感到一阵不安。他和那位德高望重的博物馆长雅克。索尼埃本来约定在今晚的报告后见一面，小酌一番，可索尼埃根本就没露面。"你怎么知道的。"
"我们在他的‘每日计划’中看到了你的名字。"
"但愿没出什么乱子。"
特工沉重地叹了一口气，从窄窄的门缝里塞进一张宝丽莱快照。
看了照片，兰登浑身都僵住了。
"照片是不足半小时前拍的--在卢浮宫内拍的。"
凝望这奇怪的照片，他先是感受到恶心和震惊，继而感到怒不可遏。
"谁竟然干出这种事！"
"鉴于你是符号学方面的专家，且你原打算见他，我们希望你能帮助我们回答这个问题。"
兰登看着照片，既恐惧又担心。那景象奇怪得让人不寒而栗，他有一种不安的，似曾相识的感觉。一年多以前兰登也看到过一具尸体的照片，也遇到了类似的求助。二十四小时后，他险些在梵蒂冈城丧了命。这幅照片和那幅完全不同，但情景却是那样相似，使人不安。
特工看了看表说："我们局长正在等您，先生。"
兰登没太听清他说什么。他的眼睛还在盯着那张照片。"这个符号，尸体如此奇怪地……"
"放置。"特工接着说道。 兰登点了点头，又抬起头来，感觉到有一股逼人的寒气袭来。"这是谁竟会对人干出这等事来。"
特工似乎面无表情。"您不知道，兰登先生，你在照片上看到的……"，他顿了顿说道。"那是索尼埃先生自己干的。"[ 此帖被小梨涡°在2013-10-23 21:48重新编辑 ] -
Chapter 2 One mile away, the hulking albino named Silas limped through the front gate of the luxurious brownstone residence on Rue La Bruyère. The spiked cilice belt that he wore around his thigh cut into his flesh, and yet his soul sang with satisfaction of service to the Lord.
Pain is good.
His red eyes scanned the lobby as he entered the residence. Empty. He climbed the stairs quietly, not wanting to awaken any of his fellow numeraries. His bedroom door was open; locks were forbidden here. He entered, closing the door behind him.
The room was spartan—hardwood floors, a pine dresser, a canvas mat in the corner that served as his bed. He was a visitor here this week, and yet for many years he had been blessed with a similar sanctuary in New York City.
The Lord has provided me shelter and purpose in my life.
Tonight, at last, Silas felt he had begun to repay his debt. Hurrying to the dresser, he found the cell phone hidden in his bottom drawer and placed a call.
"Yes?" a male voice answered.
"Teacher, I have returned."
"Speak," the voice commanded, sounding pleased to hear from him.
"All four are gone. The three sénéchaux... and the Grand Master himself."
There was a momentary pause, as if for prayer. "Then I assume you have the information?"
"All four concurred. Independently."
"And you believed them?"
"Their agreement was too great for coincidence."
An excited breath. "Excellent. I had feared the brotherhood's reputation for secrecy might prevail."
"The prospect of death is strong motivation."
"So, my pupil, tell me what I must know."
Silas knew the information he had gleaned from his victims would come as a shock. "Teacher, all four confirmed the existence of the clef de vo?te... the legendary keystone."
He heard a quick intake of breath over the phone and could feel the Teacher's excitement. "The keystone. Exactly as we suspected."
According to lore, the brotherhood had created a map of stone—a clef de vo?te... or keystone—an engraved tablet that revealed the final resting place of the brotherhood's greatest secret... information so powerful that its protection was the reason for the brotherhood's very existence.
"When we possess the keystone," the Teacher said, "we will be only one step away."
"We are closer than you think. The keystone is here in Paris."
"Paris? Incredible. It is almost too easy."
Silas relayed the earlier events of the evening... how all four of his victims, moments before death, had desperately tried to buy back their godless lives by telling their secret. Each had told Silas the exact same thing—that the keystone was ingeniously hidden at a precise location inside one of Paris's ancient churches—the Eglise de Saint-Sulpice.
"Inside a house of the Lord," the Teacher exclaimed. "How they mock us!"
"As they have for centuries."
The Teacher fell silent, as if letting the triumph of this moment settle over him. Finally, he spoke. "You have done a great service to God. We have waited centuries for this. You must retrieve the stone for me. Immediately. Tonight. You understand the stakes."
Silas knew the stakes were incalculable, and yet what the Teacher was now commanding seemed impossible. "But the church, it is a fortress. Especially at night. How will I enter?"
With the confident tone of a man of enormous influence, the Teacher explained what was to be done.
When Silas hung up the phone, his skin tingled with anticipation.
One hour, he told himself, grateful that the Teacher had given him time to carry out the necessary penance before entering a house of God. I must purge my soul of today's sins. The sins committed today had been holy in purpose. Acts of war against the enemies of God had been committed for centuries. Forgiveness was assured.
Even so, Silas knew, absolution required sacrifice.
Pulling his shades, he stripped naked and knelt in the center of his room. Looking down, he examined the spiked cilice belt clamped around his thigh. All true followers of The Way wore this device—a leather strap, studded with sharp metal barbs that cut into the flesh as a perpetual reminder of Christ's suffering. The pain caused by the device also helped counteract the desires of the flesh.
Although Silas already had worn his cilice today longer than the requisite two hours, he knew today was no ordinary day. Grasping the buckle, he cinched it one notch tighter, wincing as the barbs dug deeper into his flesh. Exhaling slowly, he savored the cleansing ritual of his pain.
Pain is good, Silas whispered, repeating the sacred mantra of Father Josemaría Escrivá—the Teacher of all Teachers. Although Escrivá had died in 1975, his wisdom lived on, his words still whispered by thousands of faithful servants around the globe as they knelt on the floor and performed the sacred practice known as "corporal mortification."
Silas turned his attention now to a heavy knotted rope coiled neatly on the floor beside him. The Discipline. The knots were caked with dried blood. Eager for the purifying effects of his own agony, Silas said a quick prayer. Then, gripping one end of the rope, he closed his eyes and swung it hard over his shoulder, feeling the knots slap against his back. He whipped it over his shoulder again, slashing at his flesh. Again and again, he lashed.
Castigo corpus meum.
Finally, he felt the blood begin to flow.中文：一英里外，那位叫塞拉斯的白化病人一瘸一拐地走入位于拉布律大街的一座豪华的褐砂石大宅的门口。他束在大腿上的带刺的苦修带扎进了肉里。然而，由于他侍奉了上帝，所以他的灵魂在心满意足地歌唱。
疼痛对人有好处。
走进大宅时，他红红的眼睛迅速扫视了一下大厅。空无一人。他蹑手蹑脚地上了楼梯，不想吵醒任何一位同伴。他卧室的门开着，因为这里门不许上锁。他了屋进，顺手关了门。
房间陈设简单--硬木地板，松木衣橱，拐角处有一张当床用的帆布垫子。这一周他都住在这里。他还算运气，多年来，他一直在纽约市享用着这样的栖身之所。
上帝给了我庇护所，为我指出了生存的目的。
今夜，塞拉斯感到他终于得以回报了上帝。他匆忙走向衣橱，从最底部抽屉里找到藏在里面的手机拨打电话。
"喂？"接电话的是个男的声音。
"大师，我回来了。"
"讲"那声音命令道，感觉他听到这消息似乎很高兴。
"四个全完了。三个执事……再加上那个主事本人。"
对方停了一会，好像是在祷告"那么，我想你是搞到情报了。"
"四个人说的都一样。分别说出的。"
"你相信他们？"
"他们说的都一样，不可能是巧合。"
他听到一阵激动的呼吸声。
"好极了。他们一般会严守秘密，他们可是名声在外。我原来还担心他们会保守修士会的秘密而不讲的。"
"逼近的死神是会令他们开口的强大动因。"
"那么，弟子，快把我该知道的情况告诉我。"
塞拉斯知道他从他那几位受害者那里搞到的情报会令人震惊不已。"大师，四个人都证实了拱顶石--那个传奇的拱顶石的存在。"
通过电话，他听到对方立刻倒吸了一口气，他能感觉到大师的激动心情。"拱顶石，正如我们原来猜想的一样。"
据传，修士会制作了一个石头地图，即拱顶石，或曰塞缝石。这是一块石板，上面雕刻着修士会最大的秘密被隐藏的地方。这秘密太重要了，修士会就是为了保护它而存在。
"一旦我们拥有拱顶石，我们离成功就只有一步之遥。"大师道。
"我们比你想象的更接近。拱顶石就在巴黎。"
"巴黎？真令人难以置信，简直太容易了。"
塞拉斯继续描述那晚上早些时候发生的事情：那四名受害者如何在临死前试图通过告密来买回自己罪恶的生命。每个人对塞拉斯所说都一模一样：拱顶石被巧妙地藏在一个巴黎古教堂--圣叙尔皮斯教堂内一个确切的地方。
"就在上帝的圣所内。"大师惊叹道。"他们真会嘲弄我们！" "已好几个世纪了！"
大师突然非常肃静，似乎是要让此刻的胜利永驻心间。最后他说："你侍主有功，做了件了不起的事情。我们已苦等了好几百年。你必须找到那块石板--立刻--就在今夜。你知道这事事关重大。"
塞拉斯知道这事至关重要，可大师的命令似乎无法执行。
"但那教堂看管甚严。尤其是现在，是夜间，我怎么进去？" 大师以有着重大影响力人物的口吻开始面授机宜。 塞拉斯挂上电话，期待着，激动得连皮肤都发红了。
一个小时。
他告诉自己，同时感谢导师给了他时间，让他在进入上帝的圣所之前有时间作苦修。我必须清除今日我灵魂中的罪恶，今天的犯罪目的是神圣的，反抗上帝之敌的战争已进行了百年了，肯定会得到原谅的。
塞拉斯知道，即便如此，获得赦免的同时，也须做出奉献。
他取下墨镜，脱得赤条条地跪在房子中央。他低下头，仔细看着紧紧束扎在大腿上的带刺的苦修带。《路》的全部真正的信徒们都带这种东西。这是一根皮带，上面钉有锋利的金属倒钩刺，倒钩刺扎进肉里，以永远提醒人们不要忘记耶稣所受的苦难。这种东西引起的刺痛也有助于压制肉体的欲望。
虽然塞拉斯今天带苦修带的时间已超过规定的两小时，但他知道今天非同寻常。他抓住扣环，又缩紧了一扣。当倒钩刺扎得更深时，他的肌肉本能地收缩着。他缓缓地吐出一口气，品味着这给他带来疼痛的净化仪式。
疼痛对人有好处，塞拉斯小声嘀咕着。
他是在重复他们导师何塞玛利亚。埃斯克里瓦神圣的祷文。虽然埃斯克里瓦1979年就仙逝了，他的智慧永存。当全世界成千上万的信徒跪在地上进行被人称作"肉体苦行"的神圣仪式时，信徒们还在小声重复着他的话语。
塞拉斯此时将自己的注意力转向他身旁地板上的一根卷得工工整整打着很笨重的结的大绳。要克制。绳结上涂有干血。由于急于想得到因极度痛苦而获得的净化效果，塞拉斯很快地祷告完毕。然后，他抓住绳子的一头，闭上眼睛，使劲地将绳子甩过肩膀。他能感到绳结在击打他的后背。他再次将绳子甩过肩膀抽打自己，抽打自己的肉体。就这样，他反复鞭打着自己。
这叫鞭笞肉体。
终于，他感到血开始流了出来。[ 此帖被小梨涡°在2013-10-23 21:48重新编辑 ] -
Chapter 3 The crisp April air whipped through the open window of the Citro?n ZX as it skimmed south past the Opera House and crossed Place Vend?me. In the passenger seat, Robert Langdon felt the city tear past him as he tried to clear his thoughts. His quick shower and shave had left him looking reasonably presentable but had done little to ease his anxiety. The frightening image of the curator's body remained locked in his mind.
Jacques Saunière is dead.
Langdon could not help but feel a deep sense of loss at the curator's death. Despite Saunière's reputation for being reclusive, his recognition for dedication to the arts made him an easy man to revere. His books on the secret codes hidden in the paintings of Poussin and Teniers were some of Langdon's favorite classroom texts. Tonight's meeting had been one Langdon was very much looking forward to, and he was disappointed when the curator had not shown.
Again the image of the curator's body flashed in his mind. Jacques Saunière did that to himself? Langdon turned and looked out the window, forcing the picture from his mind.
Outside, the city was just now winding down—street vendors wheeling carts of candied amandes, waiters carrying bags of garbage to the curb, a pair of late night lovers cuddling to stay warm in a breeze scented with jasmine blossom. The Citro?n navigated the chaos with authority, its dissonant two-tone siren parting the traffic like a knife.
"Le capitaine was pleased to discover you were still in Paris tonight," the agent said, speaking for the first time since they'd left the hotel. "A fortunate coincidence."
Langdon was feeling anything but fortunate, and coincidence was a concept he did not entirely trust. As someone who had spent his life exploring the hidden interconnectivity of disparate emblems and ideologies, Langdon viewed the world as a web of profoundly intertwined histories and events. The connections may be invisible, he often preached to his symbology classes at Harvard, but they are always there, buried just beneath the surface.
"I assume," Langdon said, "that the American University of Paris told you where I was staying?"
The driver shook his head. "Interpol."
Interpol, Langdon thought. Of course. He had forgotten that the seemingly innocuous request of all European hotels to see a passport at check-in was more than a quaint formality—it was the law. On any given night, all across Europe, Interpol officials could pinpoint exactly who was sleeping where. Finding Langdon at the Ritz had probably taken all of five seconds.
As the Citro?n accelerated southward across the city, the illuminated profile of the Eiffel Tower appeared, shooting skyward in the distance to the right. Seeing it, Langdon thought of Vittoria, recalling their playful promise a year ago that every six months they would meet again at a different romantic spot on the globe. The Eiffel Tower, Langdon suspected, would have made their list. Sadly, he last kissed Vittoria in a noisy airport in Rome more than a year ago.
"Did you mount her?" the agent asked, looking over.
Langdon glanced up, certain he had misunderstood. "I beg your pardon?"
"She is lovely, no?" The agent motioned through the windshield toward the Eiffel Tower. "Have you mounted her?"
Langdon rolled his eyes. "No, I haven't climbed the tower."
"She is the symbol of France. I think she is perfect."
Langdon nodded absently. Symbologists often remarked that France—a country renowned for machismo, womanizing, and diminutive insecure leaders like Napoleon and Pepin the Short—could not have chosen a more apt national emblem than a thousand-foot phallus.
When they reached the intersection at Rue de Rivoli, the traffic light was red, but the Citro?n didn't slow. The agent gunned the sedan across the junction and sped onto a wooded section of Rue Castiglione, which served as the northern entrance to the famed Tuileries Gardens—Paris's own version of Central Park. Most tourists mistranslated Jardins des Tuileries as relating to the thousands of tulips that bloomed here, but Tuileries was actually a literal reference to something far less romantic. This park had once been an enormous, polluted excavation pit from which Parisian contractors mined clay to manufacture the city's famous red roofing tiles—or tuiles.
As they entered the deserted park, the agent reached under the dash and turned off the blaring siren. Langdon exhaled, savoring the sudden quiet. Outside the car, the pale wash of halogen headlights skimmed over the crushed gravel parkway, the rugged whir of the tires intoning a hypnotic rhythm. Langdon had always considered the Tuileries to be sacred ground. These were the gardens in which Claude Monet had experimented with form and color, and literally inspired the birth of the Impressionist movement. Tonight, however, this place held a strange aura of foreboding.
The Citro?n swerved left now, angling west down the park's central boulevard. Curling around a circular pond, the driver cut across a desolate avenue out into a wide quadrangle beyond. Langdon could now see the end of the Tuileries Gardens, marked by a giant stone archway.
Arc du Carrousel.
Despite the orgiastic rituals once held at the Arc du Carrousel, art aficionados revered this place for another reason entirely. From the esplanade at the end of the Tuileries, four of the finest art museums in the world could be seen... one at each point of the compass.
Out the right-hand window, south across the Seine and Quai Voltaire, Langdon could see the dramatically lit facade of the old train station—now the esteemed Musée d'Orsay. Glancing left, he could make out the top of the ultramodern Pompidou Center, which housed the Museum of Modern Art. Behind him to the west, Langdon knew the ancient obelisk of Ramses rose above the trees, marking the Musée du Jeu de Paume.
But it was straight ahead, to the east, through the archway, that Langdon could now see the monolithic Renaissance palace that had become the most famous art museum in the world.
Musée du Louvre.
Langdon felt a familiar tinge of wonder as his eyes made a futile attempt to absorb the entire mass of the edifice. Across a staggeringly expansive plaza, the imposing facade of the Louvre rose like a citadel against the Paris sky. Shaped like an enormous horseshoe, the Louvre was the longest building in Europe, stretching farther than three Eiffel Towers laid end to end. Not even the million square feet of open plaza between the museum wings could challenge the majesty of the facade's breadth. Langdon had once walked the Louvre's entire perimeter, an astonishing three-mile journey.
Despite the estimated five days it would take a visitor to properly appreciate the 65,300 pieces of art in this building, most tourists chose an abbreviated experience Langdon referred to as "Louvre Lite"—a full sprint through the museum to see the three most famous objects: the Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo, and Winged Victory. Art Buchwald had once boasted he'd seen all three masterpieces in five minutes and fifty-six seconds.
The driver pulled out a handheld walkie-talkie and spoke in rapid-fire French. "Monsieur Langdon est arrivé. Deux minutes."
An indecipherable confirmation came crackling back.
The agent stowed the device, turning now to Langdon. "You will meet the capitaine at the main entrance."
The driver ignored the signs prohibiting auto traffic on the plaza, revved the engine, and gunned the Citro?n up over the curb. The Louvre's main entrance was visible now, rising boldly in the distance, encircled by seven triangular pools from which spouted illuminated fountains.
La Pyramide.
The new entrance to the Paris Louvre had become almost as famous as the museum itself. The controversial, neomodern glass pyramid designed by Chinese-born American architect I. M. Pei still evoked scorn from traditionalists who felt it destroyed the dignity of the Renaissance courtyard. Goethe had described architecture as frozen music, and Pei's critics described this pyramid as fingernails on a chalkboard. Progressive admirers, though, hailed Pei's seventy-one-foot-tall transparent pyramid as a dazzling synergy of ancient structure and modern method—a symbolic link between the old and new—helping usher the Louvre into the next millennium.
"Do you like our pyramid?" the agent asked.
Langdon frowned. The French, it seemed, loved to ask Americans this. It was a loaded question, of course. Admitting you liked the pyramid made you a tasteless American, and expressing dislike was an insult to the French.
"Mitterrand was a bold man," Langdon replied, splitting the difference. The late French president who had commissioned the pyramid was said to have suffered from a "Pharaoh complex." Singlehandedly responsible for filling Paris with Egyptian obelisks, art, and artifacts.
Fran?ois Mitterrand had an affinity for Egyptian culture that was so all-consuming that the French still referred to him as the Sphinx.
"What is the captain's name?" Langdon asked, changing topics.
"Bezu Fache," the driver said, approaching the pyramid's main entrance. "We call him le Taureau."
Langdon glanced over at him, wondering if every Frenchman had a mysterious animal epithet. "You call your captain the Bull?"
The man arched his eyebrows. "Your French is better than you admit, Monsieur Langdon."
My French stinks, Langdon thought, but my zodiac iconography is pretty good. Taurus was always the bull. Astrology was a symbolic constant all over the world.
The agent pulled the car to a stop and pointed between two fountains to a large door in the side of the pyramid. "There is the entrance. Good luck, monsieur."
"You're not coming?"
"My orders are to leave you here. I have other business to attend to."
Langdon heaved a sigh and climbed out. It's your circus.
The agent revved his engine and sped off.
As Langdon stood alone and watched the departing taillights, he realized he could easily reconsider, exit the courtyard, grab a taxi, and head home to bed. Something told him it was probably a lousy idea.
As he moved toward the mist of the fountains, Langdon had the uneasy sense he was crossing an imaginary threshold into another world. The dreamlike quality of the evening was settling around him again. Twenty minutes ago he had been asleep in his hotel room. Now he was standing in front of a transparent pyramid built by the Sphinx, waiting for a policeman they called the Bull.
I'm trapped in a Salvador Dali painting, he thought.
Langdon strode to the main entrance—an enormous revolving door. The foyer beyond was dimly lit and deserted.
Do I knock?
Langdon wondered if any of Harvard's revered Egyptologists had ever knocked on the front door of a pyramid and expected an answer. He raised his hand to bang on the glass, but out of the darkness below, a figure appeared, striding up the curving staircase. The man was stocky and dark, almost Neanderthal, dressed in a dark double-breasted suit that strained to cover his wide shoulders. He advanced with unmistakable authority on squat, powerful legs. He was speaking on his cell phone but finished the call as he arrived. He motioned for Langdon to enter.
"I am Bezu Fache," he announced as Langdon pushed through the revolving door. "Captain of the Central Directorate Judicial Police." His tone was fitting—a guttural rumble... like a gathering storm.
Langdon held out his hand to shake. "Robert Langdon."
Fache's enormous palm wrapped around Langdon's with crushing force.
"I saw the photo," Langdon said. "Your agent said Jacques Saunière himself did—"
"Mr. Langdon," Fache's ebony eyes locked on. "What you see in the photo is only the beginning of what Saunière did."中文：
当雪铁龙ZX向南急驰掠过歌剧院，穿过旺多姆广场时，清冷的四月风透过车窗向车内袭来。罗伯特。兰登正坐在客座上，试图理清思绪，却只感到城市从他身旁飞驰而过。他已匆匆地冲了沐浴，刮了胡子，这使外表看上去倒也说得过去，但他无法减轻自己的焦虑感。那令人恐惧的博物馆长尸体的样子一直锁定在他的脑海里。
雅克。索尼埃死了。
对于馆长的死，兰登禁不住有一种怅然若失的感受。尽管大家都知道索尼埃离群索居，但他对艺术的那份奉献精神却很容易使人们对他肃然起敬。他有关普桑和特尼尔斯画中隐藏密码的书籍是兰登上课时最喜欢用的课本。对今晚的会面，兰登抱有很大的期望，馆长没来他非常失望。
馆长尸体的那幅图景再次在他脑海闪过。雅克。索尼埃把自己弄成那样？兰登转身向窗外望去，使劲地把那景象从脑子中挤出去。
车外，城市街道曲曲折折地延伸。街头小贩推着车沿街叫卖桃脯，服务生正抱垃圾袋要把他们放在路边，一对深夜恋人在溢满茉莉花香的微风里拥抱在一起取暖。雪铁龙以居高临下的姿态穿过这一片混乱，那刺耳的双声调警笛像刀子一样把车流划开。
"我们局长发现你今晚还在巴黎后非常高兴。"那特工说道。这是他离开酒店后第一次开口。
"真凑巧，太幸运了。"
兰登一点也不觉得幸运，他不十分相信机缘巧合这种说法。作为一个终生都有在探索孤立的象征符号或观念之间隐含的相关性的人，兰登把这个世界视为一张由历史和事件相互交织而成的深不可测的大网。他经常在哈佛的符号学课上鼓吹说，各种关联性也许看不到，但他们却一直在那儿，伏在表层下面。
"我想是巴黎美国大学告诉你们我的住处的。"兰登说。
开车人摇摇头说："国际刑警组织"。
国际刑警组织，兰登心里想。当然，他忘了，所有欧洲酒店都要求看客人的护照。这无关痛痒的请求其实不仅仅是一个古怪的登记手续，那是法律。在任何一个晚上，在整个欧洲，国际刑警组织都能准确地定位谁睡在什么地方。弄清楚兰登住在里茨酒店恐怕只花了五秒钟时间。
雪铁龙继续加速向南穿越城区。这时被照亮的埃菲尔铁塔的轮廓开始显现出来。在车右边铁塔直插云霄。看到铁塔，兰登想起了维多利亚，想起了他一年前玩笑般的承诺。他说他们每六个月都要在全球范围内换一个浪漫的地方约会。兰登想，当时埃菲尔铁塔一定是上了他们的名单的。遗憾的是，他一年前是在罗马一个喧闹的机场和维多利亚吻别的。
"你上过她吗？"特工看着远方问。
兰登抬头看了他一眼，确信自己没听懂他的话。"对不起，你说什么？" "她很可爱，不是吗？"特工透过挡风玻璃指向埃菲尔铁塔。"你上过她吗？"
兰登的眼珠转了转。"没有，我还没爬过那铁塔。"
"她是法国的象征。我认为她完美无瑕。"
兰登心不在焉地点了点头。
符号学家常说，法国是一个因那些有男子汉气概、沉溺于女色的、像拿破仑和矮子那样危险的小个子领袖的出名的国家。它选择一个一千英尺高的男性生殖器作为国家的象征再合适不过了。
他们到里沃利路口时遇到了红灯，但雪铁龙并未减速。特工加大油门驰过路口，快速冲入卡斯蒂哥亚诺路有林荫的那一段。这一部分路段被用作著名的杜伊勒里花园--法国版的中央公园的北入口。许多游客都误以为杜伊勒里这个名字和这里几千珠盛开的丁香有关，因为二者发音有相似的地方，但杜伊勒里字面意思的确指的是多少有些浪漫的东西。这个公园曾经是一个被污染的大坑，黎承包商从这里挖粘土烧制巴黎著名的房顶红瓦--这个词的法语语音为杜伊勒里。
他们进入这空无一人的公园时，特工把手伸到仪表板下面把吵人的警笛关掉。兰登出了口气，体味着这瞬间到来的宁静。车外，泛白的车头晕光灯一晃一晃地照着前方碎砂砾停车道，轮胎发出难听的、有节奏的沙沙声，使人昏昏欲睡。
兰登一直把杜伊勒里当作一块圣地。正是在这些花园里，克劳德·莫内对形式和颜色作了实验，实际上是催生了印象派运动。然而，今晚这个地方被不祥的氛围笼罩着。
雪铁龙现在开始左拐，沿公园的中心大道向西驰去。轿车沿着一个环形池塘在奔驰，穿过了一条废弃的大道驶进远处的一块四边形场地。兰登现在可以看到杜伊勒里花园的边界，边界处有一块巨大的石拱门--小凯旋门。
尽管在小凯旋门曾举行过狂欢节，但艺术迷们是出于另一个完全不同的原因而对其景仰不已。从杜伊勒里花园尽头处的空地上可以看到全球四个最好的艺术博物馆--指南针的四个方向上各有一个。
在右车窗外边，朝南跨过塞纳河和凯伏尔泰大道，兰登可以看到灯火通明的老火车站，即现在著名的道赛美术博物馆的正面。他往左一瞥，看到了那超级现代的蓬皮杜中心的顶部，蓬皮杜中心是现代艺术博物馆所在地。在他身后西部，他看到古老的高过树顶的拉美西斯方尖碑，那是裘德。波姆国立美术馆的标志。
但朝正东，透过石拱门，兰登可以看到耸立着独石柱碑的文艺复兴时的宫殿，现在已成为举世闻名的艺术博物馆--卢浮宫美术馆。
当兰登的眼睛徒劳地试图看完整整个大厦时，他感觉到一些似曾有过的惊奇。在极宽大的广场对面，宏伟的卢浮宫正面在巴黎的天空映衬下像个城堡一样矗立着。卢浮宫形如一个巨大的马掌，它是欧洲最长的建筑，其长度比三个平放的对接起来的埃菲尔铁塔都要长。就是在美术馆翼楼之间的百万平方英尺开放广场，在宽度上也无法和它正面的宽度相比。兰登有一次曾漫步于卢浮宫的各个角落，令人吃惊的是，竟然有三英里的路程。
尽管要想好好地欣赏馆藏的653，000件艺术品估计需要五天，大部分游客都选择一种被兰登称作"轻型卢浮宫"的不完全游的方式--急匆匆地去看宫里最有名的三样东西--蒙娜丽莎、米罗的维纳斯和胜利女神。阿特。布奇华德曾骄傲地说他曾在五分五十六秒内就看完了这三大杰作。
开车人拿出手提式步话机用法语连珠炮式地说："先生，兰登到了。两分钟。"
步话机传回对方尖利急促的回话声，别人听不懂他在说什么。
特工收好步话机后转向兰登说："你会在大门口见到局长。"
开车人丝毫不理会广场上禁止车辆通行的标志牌，把雪铁龙发动起来，快速驶过路边的镶边石。此时能看到卢浮宫的大门很显眼地立在远方，正门被七个长方形的水池围住，水池射出的喷泉被灯光照得通体发亮。
金字塔。
巴黎卢浮宫的这个新入口现在几乎和卢浮宫美术馆一样有名。这座由生于中国的美国建筑家贝聿铭设计的引起诸多争议的全新的现代玻璃金字塔，现在仍受到传统派的嘲讽。因为他们觉得它破坏了这个文艺复兴时期王宫的尊严。歌德曾把建筑描述为冻结了的音乐，批评贝聿铭的人把这金字塔描述为光洁黑板上的指甲划痕。然而激进的崇拜者们认为贝聿铭这七十一英尺高的透明金字塔将古老的结构和现代方法结合起来，艳丽多姿，二者相得益彰--它是一种连接新与旧的象征，它有助于将卢浮宫推进下一个千年。
"你喜欢我们的金字塔吗？"特工问。
兰登皱起了眉头。好像法国人很喜欢问美国人这个问题。这当然不是一个轻而易举就回答得了的问题。承认你喜欢这个金字塔，别人倒觉得你是个很没品味的美国人，说你讨厌它，这又是对法国的大不敬。
"密特朗是个很大胆的人。"兰登回答道，也避开了两难的回答。这位授权建造这个金字塔的前总统据说患有"法老情结"。弗朗索瓦。密特朗独自负责把巴黎填满埃及的尖塔，艺术和工艺品。他很喜欢那些耗资费时的埃及文化，所以现在法国人还称他为司芬克斯。
"局长叫什么？"兰登改换话题问道。
"贝祖。法希。"开车人道。他们已接近金字塔的大门口。"我们叫他LeTaureau."
兰登瞥了他一眼，心想是不是每个法国人都有个奇怪的动物名称。"你们叫局长公牛？"
那人皱起了眉毛。"你的法语比你自己承认的要好，兰登先生。"
我的法语很臭，兰登心里想。可我对星座图谱很了解。Taurus是金牛座。全世界的星相学符号都是一致的。
特工把车停了下来，从两股喷泉中间指向金字塔一侧的大门说："入口处到了。祝您好运，先生。"
"你不去？"
"我奉命把你送到这儿，我还有其他任务。"
兰登叹了一口气下了车。这是你的杂耍。
特工迅速地把车发动起来，一溜烟地开走了。
兰登独自站在那里，望着渐渐远离的汽车尾灯。他知道他可以轻易地重新策划一下，走出这院子，拦一辆出租车回家睡觉。但隐约中他又觉得这很可能是下策。
当兰登走向喷泉发出的水雾时，他惴惴不安地感到自己正穿越一个虚幻的门槛而步入另一个世界。在这种夜的氛围中，他犹如做梦一般。二十分钟以前他还在酒店酣睡。此刻他却在司芬克斯建造的透明金字塔前等待一位被他们称作公牛的警察。
他心想，我这仿佛是被困在萨尔瓦多。达利的一幅画作中。
兰登大步流星迈向正门---个巨大的旋转门。远处的门厅里灯光昏暗，空无一人。
我要敲门吗？
兰登不知道是否曾有德高望重的哈佛大学的埃及学专家敲过金字塔的前门并期望有人开门。他举手去拍玻璃，但在黑暗中，一个人影从下面出现了，大步走上旋转楼梯。那人矮胖身材，皮肤黝黑，差不多就像原始的尼安德特人。他身着黑色的双胸兜套装，套装扯得很紧，罩住了他宽厚的肩膀。他迈着短粗有力的腿，带着不容质疑的权威向前走去。他正在用手机通话，但到兰登面前时正好通话完毕。他示意兰登进去。
兰登穿过旋转门时他自我介绍说："我是贝祖。法希，中央司法警察总管。"他说话的语气倒与他长相挺相称--从喉头处发出低沉的声音……象暴风前的闷雷。
兰登伸手和他握手："罗伯特。兰登。"
法希的大手紧裹着兰登的手，那力量似乎能把兰登的手攥碎。
"我看到了相片。"兰登说。"你的特工说雅克。索尼埃自己把自己弄成--"
法希的黑亮的眼睛看着兰登。"兰登先生，你在照片上看到的才只是索尼埃所作所为的开始。"[ 此帖被小梨涡°在2013-10-23 21:49重新编辑 ] -
Chapter 4 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.中文：
贝祖。法希局长外表像一头发怒的公牛。他宽厚的肩膀向后倾，下巴向胸部伸得很厉害。他乌黑的头发向后梳得整整齐齐，油光可鉴，像战舰舰头一样的V形发尖与突出的前额隔开来，看起来更像是个箭头。往前走时，他黑色的眼睛似乎能把面前的地面烤焦。他眼里喷射出的火清澈透明，那种清澈使人感到他有一股干什么事都决不含糊的认真劲。
兰登跟随着局长沿着那个有名的楼梯往下走，进入深藏在金字塔下面的正厅。在他们往下走的过程中，他们从两个握有机熗的武装司法警察中间穿过。这传递的信息非常明了：没有法希局长的恩准，今夜谁也进不来，出不去。
下到地平面以下后，兰登就和不断袭来的惶恐作斗争。法希的存在一点也不受欢迎。此刻的卢浮宫本身似乎有种墓穴的气氛。楼梯像黑暗中的电影院通道一样，每迈一步都有反应灵敏的脚踏灯照亮。兰登能听到他自己的脚步声在头顶的玻璃上回响。朝上望去，他可以看到从喷泉散出的带着些许亮光的水雾正在透明房顶外散去。
"你赞成这种做法吗？"法希边问边用他宽大的下巴指向上方。
兰登叹了口气他太累了，不想演戏了。"你们的金字塔真宏伟。"
法希咕哝了一声，然后说："巴黎脸上的一块疤。"
得罪了一位。作为客人的兰登感到他的主人不好取悦。他不明白法希是否知道，在密特朗总统明确要求下，这个金字塔正好由666块玻璃构成。这种奇怪的要求一直是喜欢研究阴谋事件的人们的一个热点话题。他们说666恰好是撒旦的代码。
兰登决定不提这事。
他们继续往下走，来到地下的正厅，一个宽大的空间渐渐从阴影中显露出来。卢浮宫新落成的岩洞。地下大厅是用暖色的赭色大理石建成，以便和上面卢浮宫正面的蜜色石头相协调。这地下大厅从早到晚大都人声鼎沸。今夜则不然，大厅空无一人，漆黑一片，整个大厅笼罩在阴冷、墓穴般的气氛里。
"美术馆常规保安人员呢？"兰登问道。
"隔离起来了。"法希答道，听口气他好像认为兰登怀疑他手下人员的诚实。显然，今晚有不该进来的人进来了。卢浮宫所有的看守人员都有在萨利厅里接受询问。我的人已接管了卢浮宫今晚的安全守卫工作。
兰登点点头，快步跟上法希。
"你对雅克。索尼埃有多少了解？"局长问道。
"事实上，一点也不了解，我们从未见过面。"
法希显得非常吃惊。"你们的初次会面是在今晚？"
"是的。我们原计划在我作完报告后的巴黎美国大会举行的招待会上见面的，可他一直就没露面。" 法希在他的小本本上草草记下一些文字。他们继续往前走。这时兰登看到了卢浮宫那个名气稍小一些的金字塔--倒金字塔。它是一个巨大的倒置的天窗，好像钟乳石一样在楼面夹层处悬着。法希领着兰登走上一段楼梯，来到拱型隧道的洞口。洞口上方用大写字母写着德农两个字。德农厅是卢浮宫三个主区中最重要的一区。
"谁提出要今晚见面的？是你，还是他？"法希突然问道。
这个问题似乎有点怪。"是索尼埃先生。"兰登在进洞时回答道。"他的秘书几周前通过电子邮件和我取得联系。她说馆长听说我本月要来巴黎讲学，希望在我在巴黎期间和我讨论一些事情。"
"讨论什么？"
"我不知道。艺术，我想。我们有共同的兴趣。"
法希将信将疑。"你不知道你们见面后要谈写什么？"
兰登的确不知道。他当时有些好奇，但觉得问得过细不太合适。人们都有知道倍受尊敬的雅克。索尼埃喜欢深居简出的生活，很少答应和别人见面。兰登因这次见面的机会简直对他感激不尽。
"兰登先生，你能不能至少猜一猜我们这位受害者在被害的晚上想和你讨论些什么？这对我们可能有些帮助。"
这个直截了当的问题使兰登感觉很不自在。"我无法想象。我没问过。他和我联系，我倍感荣幸。我很欣赏索尼埃先生的作品。我上课选用他的文章。"
法希在本子上记下了这些。
二人此刻刚好处在通往德农厅的隧道的一半的路程上。兰登看到了尽头的一对向上的扶手电梯，但两个扶手梯都一动不动。
"你和他有共同的兴趣？"法希问。
"是的。事实上我去年花了许多时间写一部书的初稿。书中涉及索尼埃先生的主要专业领域。我期待着能够挖他的脑子。"
法希往上看了一眼。"对不起，我没听懂。"
这俗语显然没传达清楚意思。"我期待着在那方面向他请教。"
"我明白了。哪个方面？"
兰登犹豫了一下，拿不准该怎样确切地表达它。"书稿主要是关于女神崇拜的图像符号的--一种女性崇拜的概念以及与其相关的艺术和象征符号。
法希把一只肥嘟嘟的手插进头发。"索尼埃在这方面很有学问？"
"没有谁比他更有学问。"
"我明白了。"
兰登认为法希一点也不明白。雅克。索尼埃被认为是全球有关女性崇拜图像符号学的第一专家。索尼埃不仅自己非常喜爱与生育、女神教派、巫术崇拜和圣女相关的文物，还帮助卢浮宫收集了全世界大量的女神艺术品--从德尔菲古老的神殿中女祭司手中的拉布里斯斧头、金质的墨丘利魔杖、好几百只像站立的小天使似的饰有小圆环的T型器物，到古希腊用来驱鬼神用的叉铃，还有一大堆描述何鲁斯被女神伊希斯哺育的情景的小雕像，简直令人难以置信。
"或许雅克。索尼埃听说过你的书稿吧？"法希说道。"他想约见你，为你写书提供帮助。"
兰登摇摇头。"事实上，没人知道我的书稿。现在还只是草稿，除了我的编辑处，我从未给人看过。"
法希不说话了。
兰登没有说明他未将手稿给任何人看的原因。这三百页的草稿题目初步定为圣女遗失的符号。它提出要对约定俗成的宗教符号学做出的非传统解析，这肯定会引起争议。
快到静止的扶手电梯时，兰登停了下来。他意识到法希已不再在他身边。转身回望，兰登发现法希站在几码远外的电梯旁。
"我们乘电梯，我相信你知道步行去大画廊挺远的。"法希在电梯门打开时说道。
虽然兰登知道乘电梯去德农厅要比爬两层楼梯快得多，他还是站着没动。
"怎么啦？"法希按着门不让它关上，显得很不耐烦。 兰登喘了口气，充满期待地看了一眼上面的并不密封的扶手电梯。一切都好。他骗自己，慢吞吞地走回电梯。还是个孩子时，兰登掉进了一个废弃的深井里，他在那狭窄的空间踩水好几个小时后才获救，差点死在那里。打那以后，他就对封闭的空间，如电梯、地铁、壁式网球场等充满恐惧。电梯是极安全的机器。兰登反复这样告诫自己，却一点也不相信它安全。它是个悬在封闭的筒子中的小小的金属盒子！他屏住呼吸，走进电梯。当电梯关上时，他心中感到一阵颤栗，这颤栗以前也感受过。
两层楼。十秒钟。
电梯开动时法希说："你和索尼埃先生，你们从未说过话吗？从未通信？有没有互相寄过邮件什么的？"
又是一个古怪的问题。兰登摇摇头。"没有。从没有过。"
法希扬起头，好像要把这事实记在脑子里。他一言不发，死盯着眼前的铬钢门。
在上升过程中，兰登尽力把注意力集中到其它东西上，他不敢想他周围的四面墙。光洁的电梯门能照出人影，从反射的影像中，兰登看到局长的领带夹--一个镶有十三颗黑色缟玛瑙的银质十字架。兰登感觉到有一些说不清道不明的惊奇。这种标志被称作宝石十字架--带有十三颗宝石的十字架--是基督教关于耶稣和他的十二个门徒的表意符号。这位法国警察局长这么公开地宣扬自己所信奉的宗教，倒有点出乎兰登的预料。而且，这是在法国，基督教并不是那么一个一生下来就得信奉的宗教。
"这是宝石十字架。"法希突然说。
兰登吓了一跳，抬头看了一眼，从反射中可以看到法希的眼睛正盯着他。
电梯一顿，停了下来。门开了。
兰登迅速走出电梯，走进厅廊。他渴望享受卢浮宫画廊高得出名的天花板下那宽敞的空间。然而，刚才他所步入的那个狭小空间可一点也不是他想要的那种。
兰登怔住了，突然停了下来。
法希扫了他一眼。"兰登先生，我想你从未在卢浮宫不开放的时候进来过。"
我想我是没来过。兰登心里想，尽量使自己不失态。
卢浮宫大画廊通常光线极充足，但今夜却是惊人的黑暗。今夜没有平常从上面倾泻而下的柔和的灯光，只有踢脚线处似乎有微微的红光发出，这一处，那一处，断断续续照在地板上。
兰登怔怔地望着阴森森的走廊，他意识到他本该预想到这种情形。几乎所有的主要画廊夜间都用这种耐用灯照明。这些灯放的位置很巧，都在低处，不刺眼，有利于工作人员夜间走过廊道，同时也使这些画作处于相对阴暗的地方，减缓因强光照射而褪色的速度。今夜，这地方简直使人压抑得透不气来，到外是长长的阴影，原来高高拱起的天花板今夜却像是一片低垂的空窟窿。
"这边走。"法希说。他向右急转身，走进一个段段相互联接的画廊。
兰登紧跟着，他的视力慢慢适应了黑暗。四周的巨幅油画变得清晰具体了，他们好像是在一个巨大的暗室里冲洗出的照片，展现在他面前……他在房间里走到哪里，他们的眼睛就跟到哪里。他能闻到博物馆里常有的干燥剂、除湿剂的刺鼻的气味。除湿剂带有些微的碳的气味。碳是一种工业用品，是一种过滤煤用的除湿装置，以消除游客呼出的二氧化碳所产生的腐蚀作用。高高安置在墙上的安全摄像机赫然可见，它向游客清楚地传达这样的信息：我们看着你呢，别动手触摸任何东西。
"有真的吗？"兰登边问边指向摄像机。
法希摇头说："当然没有。" 兰登一点也不觉得奇怪。在这么大的美术馆实施录像监视，成本太高，很难做到，而且效果也不好。要监视这数公顷的画廊，单负责信息传输的技术人员，整个卢浮宫就得要好几百人。大多数大型的博物馆现在都使用一种叫"封闭保护"的防范措施。别想着不让贼进来，要让他们出不去。封闭装置在闭馆后启动。如果侵入者拿走一件艺术品，自动封闭的出口就会将画廊封死，即便在警察没赶来之前，贼就已被挡在栅栏里面出不去了。
声音在上面的大理石走廊内回响。嘈杂声好像是从右前方隐蔽处的小房间里传出来的。那里有一束亮光倾泻在走廊里。
"馆长办公室。"局长说。
和法希走近那个小室后，顺着一条又低又短的走廊望去，兰登能看到索尼埃豪华的书房--暖色木材的家具，从前的大师们的画作，还有一个巨大的古色古香的写字台，写字台上立着个两英尺高的全身铠甲的武士模型。房间里几个警察正在忙忙碌着，其中一个坐在索尼埃的桌子前正往手提电脑里输入东西。显然，馆长的私人办公室已成了中央司法警察今晚的临时指挥部了。
"先生们。"法希用法语大声喊道，人们转向他。"不要以任何理由来打扰我们，听到了吗？"
办公室里的人都点头表示明白。
兰登在宾馆的门上曾多次挂过法语写的"请勿打扰"的牌子，所以刚才大致听懂局长"请勿打扰"之类的话。无论如何都不许打搅法希和兰登。
法希把一帮警察抛在身后，带着兰登沿着黑暗的走廊继续向前走。三十码开外的地方出现了通往卢浮宫大画廊的入口。大画廊是卢浮宫最受欢迎的地方--像个走不到头的长廊。长廊里藏有卢浮宫最有价值的意大利杰作。兰登发觉索尼埃的尸体卧躺之地正是此处。大画廊里的嵌木拼花地板明白无误地显现在宝丽莱快照里。
他们走近后，兰登看到入口被一个巨大的钢铁栅栏堵住了。钢栅栏看去像是中世纪城堡中人用来把强盗挡在外面的防御工具。
"封闭保护"法希走近栅栏后说。
即使是在黑暗中，这道封锁线看上去也能抵挡住一辆坦克。到了外边，兰登透过钢栅栏往昏暗的，硕大的洞穴般的大画廊里探视。
"你先进，兰登先生。"法希说。
"我先进？进哪儿？"兰登转过身来。 法希指向钢栅栏基部的地板。
兰登低头望去。在黑暗中他什么也没有看到。封锁栅栏被抬起了两英尺，下面有个进出很不方便的间隙。
"卢浮宫的保安现在还不能进入这个区域，我手下的技术警察刚刚在这调查完毕。"法希说。"从底下爬进去。"
兰登盯着脚下窄窄的空隙，又抬眼看着那巨大的铁栅栏。他是开玩笑吧？那铁栅栏像个断头台一样，时刻等待着把入侵者压碎。
法希用法语咕哝了一句，又看了看表。然后他双膝跪下，挪动着肥胖的身子从栅栏下爬了进去，站起身，透过栅栏回望着兰登。
兰登叹了口气。他把手掌平放在光滑的嵌木拼花地板上，肚子趴上去，使劲往前挪。他爬到栅栏底下时，他的哈里斯花格尼上衣的背部被栅栏的底部挂刮开了，后脑勺碰到了铁栅栏上。
真够斯文的，罗伯特，他想。他伸手摸了摸，最后终于把自己挪进去了。兰登站起后便意识到这一夜可短不了。[ 此帖被小梨涡°在2013-10-23 21:49重新编辑 ] -
Chapter 5 Murray Hill Place—the new Opus Dei World Headquarters and conference center—is located at 243 Lexington Avenue in New York City. With a price tag of just over $47 million, the 133,000-square-foot tower is clad in red brick and Indiana limestone. Designed by May & Pinska, the building contains over one hundred bedrooms, six dining rooms, libraries, living rooms, meeting rooms, and offices. The second, eighth, and sixteenth floors contain chapels, ornamented with mill-work and marble. The seventeenth floor is entirely residential. Men enter the building through the main doors on Lexington Avenue. Women enter through a side street and are "acoustically and visually separated" from the men at all times within the building.
Earlier this evening, within the sanctuary of his penthouse apartment, Bishop Manuel Aringarosa had packed a small travel bag and dressed in a traditional black cassock. Normally, he would have wrapped a purple cincture around his waist, but tonight he would be traveling among the public, and he preferred not to draw attention to his high office. Only those with a keen eye would notice his 14-karat gold bishop's ring with purple amethyst, large diamonds, and hand-tooled mitre-crozier appliqué. Throwing the travel bag over his shoulder, he said a silent prayer and left his apartment, descending to the lobby where his driver was waiting to take him to the airport.
Now, sitting aboard a commercial airliner bound for Rome, Aringarosa gazed out the window at the dark Atlantic. The sun had already set, but Aringarosa knew his own star was on the rise. Tonight the battle will be won, he thought, amazed that only months ago he had felt powerless against the hands that threatened to destroy his empire.
As president-general of Opus Dei, Bishop Aringarosa had spent the last decade of his life spreading the message of "God's Work"—literally, Opus Dei. The congregation, founded in 1928 by the Spanish priest Josemaría Escrivá, promoted a return to conservative Catholic values and encouraged its members to make sweeping sacrifices in their own lives in order to do the Work of God.
Opus Dei's traditionalist philosophy initially had taken root in Spain before Franco's regime, but with the 1934 publication of Josemaría Escrivá's spiritual book The Way—999 points of meditation for doing God's Work in one's own life—Escrivá's message exploded across the world. Now, with over four million copies of The Way in circulation in forty-two languages, Opus Dei was a global force. Its residence halls, teaching centers, and even universities could be found in almost every major metropolis on earth. Opus Dei was the fastest-growing and most financially secure Catholic organization in the world. Unfortunately, Aringarosa had learned, in an age of religious cynicism, cults, and televangelists, Opus Dei's escalating wealth and power was a magnet for suspicion.
"Many call Opus Dei a brainwashing cult," reporters often challenged. "Others call you an ultraconservative Christian secret society. Which are you?"
"Opus Dei is neither," the bishop would patiently reply. "We are a Catholic Church. We are a congregation of Catholics who have chosen as our priority to follow Catholic doctrine as rigorously as we can in our own daily lives."
"Does God's Work necessarily include vows of chastity, tithing, and atonement for sins through self-flagellation and the cilice?"
"You are describing only a small portion of the Opus Dei population," Aringarosa said. "There are many levels of involvement. Thousands of Opus Dei members are married, have families, and do God's Work in their own communities. Others choose lives of asceticism within our cloistered residence halls. These choices are personal, but everyone in Opus Dei shares the goal of bettering the world by doing the Work of God. Surely this is an admirable quest."
Reason seldom worked, though. The media always gravitated toward scandal, and Opus Dei, like most large organizations, had within its membership a few misguided souls who cast a shadow over the entire group.
Two months ago, an Opus Dei group at a midwestern university had been caught drugging new recruits with mescaline in an effort to induce a euphoric state that neophytes would perceive as a religious experience. Another university student had used his barbed cilice belt more often than the recommended two hours a day and had given himself a near lethal infection. In Boston not long ago, a disillusioned young investment banker had signed over his entire life savings to Opus Dei before attempting suicide.
Misguided sheep, Aringarosa thought, his heart going out to them.
Of course the ultimate embarrassment had been the widely publicized trial of FBI spy Robert Hanssen, who, in addition to being a prominent member of Opus Dei, had turned out to be a sexual deviant, his trial uncovering evidence that he had rigged hidden video cameras in his own bedroom so his friends could watch him having sex with his wife. "Hardly the pastime of a devout Catholic," the judge had noted.
Sadly, all of these events had helped spawn the new watch group known as the Opus Dei Awareness Network (ODAN). The group's popular website—www.odan.org—relayed frightening stories from former Opus Dei members who warned of the dangers of joining. The media was now referring to Opus Dei as "God's Mafia" and "the Cult of Christ."
We fear what we do not understand, Aringarosa thought, wondering if these critics had any idea how many lives Opus Dei had enriched. The group enjoyed the full endorsement and blessing of the Vatican. Opus Dei is a personal prelature of the Pope himself.
Recently, however, Opus Dei had found itself threatened by a force infinitely more powerful than the media... an unexpected foe from which Aringarosa could not possibly hide. Five months ago, the kaleidoscope of power had been shaken, and Aringarosa was still reeling from the blow.
"They know not the war they have begun," Aringarosa whispered to himself, staring out the plane's window at the darkness of the ocean below. For an instant, his eyes refocused, lingering on the reflection of his awkward face—dark and oblong, dominated by a flat, crooked nose that had been shattered by a fist in Spain when he was a young missionary. The physical flaw barely registered now. Aringarosa's was a world of the soul, not of the flesh.
As the jet passed over the coast of Portugal, the cell phone in Aringarosa's cassock began vibrating in silent ring mode. Despite airline regulations prohibiting the use of cell phones during flights, Aringarosa knew this was a call he could not miss. Only one man possessed this number, the man who had mailed Aringarosa the phone.
Excited, the bishop answered quietly. "Yes?"
"Silas has located the keystone," the caller said. "It is in Paris. Within the Church of Saint-Sulpice."
Bishop Aringarosa smiled. "Then we are close."
"We can obtain it immediately. But we need your influence."
"Of course. Tell me what to do."
When Aringarosa switched off the phone, his heart was pounding. He gazed once again into the void of night, feeling dwarfed by the events he had put into motion.
Five hundred miles away, the albino named Silas stood over a small basin of water and dabbed the blood from his back, watching the patterns of red spinning in the water. Purge me with hyssop and I shall be clean, he prayed, quoting Psalms. Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.
Silas was feeling an aroused anticipation that he had not felt since his previous life. It both surprised and electrified him. For the last decade, he had been following The Way, cleansing himself of sins... rebuilding his life... erasing the violence in his past. Tonight, however, it had all come rushing back. The hatred he had fought so hard to bury had been summoned. He had been startled how quickly his past had resurfaced. And with it, of course, had come his skills. Rusty but serviceable.
Jesus' message is one of peace... of nonviolence... of love. This was the message Silas had been taught from the beginning, and the message he held in his heart. And yet this was the message the enemies of Christ now threatened to destroy. Those who threaten God with force will be met with force. Immovable and steadfast.
For two millennia, Christian soldiers had defended their faith against those who tried to displace it. Tonight, Silas had been called to battle.
Drying his wounds, he donned his ankle-length, hooded robe. It was plain, made of dark wool, accentuating the whiteness of his skin and hair. Tightening the rope-tie around his waist, he raised the hood over his head and allowed his red eyes to admire his reflection in the mirror. The wheels are in motion.中文：
默里山广场--天主事工会新的全球总部和会议中心，位于纽约市的莱克星屯大街243 号。这个耗资超过47，000，000 美元，面积达133，000 平方英尺的塔楼是用红砖和印地安那石灰岩砌成的，由梅与品斯卡公司设计。大楼里有一百多间卧室，六个餐厅，有图书馆、会客厅、会议室和办公室。第二、第八、第十六层有装饰着木饰品和大理石的小教堂。第十七层全部为居住房。男人从莱克星屯大街上的正门进，女人从侧面的一条街的侧门进。在这座大楼里，男人女人始终是分开的，彼此看不见也听不着。
今晚早些时候，在顶层豪华客房里，曼努埃尔。阿林加洛沙主教已收拿好一个小旅行包，穿上了传统的黑色长袍。通常他会在腰间系一条紫色束带，但今晚他是和普通大众一道旅行，他不想让人注意到他如此高的职位。只有眼尖的人才会注意到他14 克拉的主教金戒指。戒指上嵌有紫水晶，大钻石和手工制作的主教冠和主教牧杖嵌花。他把旅行包往背后一甩，默默祷告后，便离开了公寓，下了楼。他的司机正在大堂里等他，要把他送到机场。
此刻阿林加洛沙正坐在飞往罗马的商业客机上。他凝视着窗外黑暗的大西洋。太阳已经落山了，但阿林加洛沙自己的星星正在升起。今晚这一仗是会打赢的，他心里想。想起几个月前他对那些威胁要摧毁他帝国的家伙束手无策时，他还心有余悸。
作为天主事工会的总统帅，阿林加洛沙主教已经花了十年时间传播"上帝的善行"的音讯--即天主事工会要遵循的训示。这个教派于1928 年由西班牙牧师何塞马利亚。埃斯克里瓦创立，倡导回归到保守的罗马天主教价值观上来，鼓励信徒做出巨大的牺牲以便能做"上帝的善行"。天主事工会中的传统主义者的哲学在弗朗哥王朝以前就在西班牙扎下了根。但在1934 年，随着何塞马利亚。埃斯克里瓦神圣的《路》一书的出版--书中记载着人一生中做"上帝的善行"时的999 点沉思录--埃斯克里瓦的思想顿时风靡全球。现在，由于有四十二种语言的四百万册《路》的发行量，天主事工会成为全球性的力量。它所建成的住宅用房，教学中心，甚至大学，遍及世界各大主要城市。天主事工会是全世界发展迅速、经济最有保证的罗马天主教组织。不幸的是，阿林加洛沙了解到，在一个充斥着宗教的玩世不恭主义、邪教和广播电视福音传道者的年代，天主事工会迅速增长的财富和影响力成了人们怀疑的焦点。
经常会有记者尖锐地问："许多人称天主事工会是一个给人洗脑的邪教组织。有人称你们是一个极端保守的基督教秘密社团。你们是到底是哪一种？"
主教会耐心地回答说："天主事工会不是其中的任何一种，我们是罗马天主教。我们是罗马天主教信徒，我们把在日常生活中恪守天主教教义这一点视为头等重要的事情。""‘上帝的善行’非得包括要对自己的贞洁起誓、征收什么税和通过自我鞭笞，还有带苦修带来赎罪这类东西吗？"
"你所描述只是天主事工会中的少数人。"阿林加洛沙说，"可以有多种层次的参与。成千上万的天主事工会会员都结婚、生子，并在他们的社区内做着上帝的善行。有些人自愿选择住在我们修堂里做苦行主义者。这些都是个人意愿，但每位会员都把做‘上帝的善行’和使这个世界更美好作为自己的目标。这当然是一种值得钦佩的追求。"然而，这些解释却无济于事。媒体总喜欢盯着丑闻不放。而且，像其他任何规模宏大的组织一样，天主事工会内部总有几个迷途的灵魂往整个团体身上投下些阴影。
两个月前，有人发现中西部的一所大学的一帮天主事工会成员让新入教者服用一种叫仙人球碱的致幻剂，以达到欣快异常的状态。新入教者可能会将这种状态视为一种宗教经历。还有一个大学生使用带回刺的苦修带的时间要比推荐的一天两小时长得多，结果差点感染至死。不久前，在波士顿，一位幻想破灭的年轻投资银行家在试图自杀之前把自己终生的积蓄都转签给了天主事工会。
迷途的羔羊，阿林加洛沙这样认为。他很同情他们。
当然，最令他们尴尬的还是一桩广为流传审判事件。被审判的是联邦调查局间谍罗伯特。哈桑，他不单单是天主事工会会员中的知名人士，而且还是个性变态狂。审判过程中发现的证据表明，他还在自己的卧室里安装摄像机以便让他的朋友看他与老婆做爱的情形。
"一个虔诚的天主教徒几乎得不到快乐。"法官说。
不幸的是，这些事件促成了一个名为"认清天主事工会网络"的新观察组织的产生。这个组织在其颇受欢迎的网站 上不断发布原天主事工会会员讲述的骇人听闻的事件。这些前会员们还警告人们不要加入天主事工会。现在，媒体称天主事工会为"上帝的黑手党"或"基督的邪教。"我们对自己不了解的东西总是很恐惧，阿林加洛沙这样想。他不知道那些批评者是不是明白天主事工会曾使多少人的生活多姿多彩。天主事工会得到了梵蒂冈的完全认可和恩准。天主事工会是一个教皇个人的教区。
近来，天主事工会发现自己被一种比媒体威力更大的力量威胁着。阿林加洛沙躲都躲不开这突然冒出来的敌人。虽然五个月前，这股不稳定的力量被粉碎了，但阿林加洛沙现在还感到心有余悸。
"他们不知道他们已挑起了战争。"阿林加洛沙一边望着机窗下黑暗的大西洋一边小声嘀咕着。突然，他的目光停在机窗反射的自己的那张难看的面孔--又黑又斜，还有一个又扁又歪的大鼻子。那是他年轻时在西班牙作传教士时被人用拳头打的。这种身体上的缺陷现在基本上无所谓了。因为阿林加洛沙的世界是心灵的世界，不是肉体的世界。
在飞机飞越葡萄牙海岸时，阿林加洛沙的教士服里的手机在无声状态震动起来。虽然航空公司禁止在飞机飞行期间使用手机，但阿林加洛沙知道这个电话他不能不接。只有一个人有这个号码，这个人就是给阿林加洛沙邮寄手机的人。
主教一阵激动，轻声回话："喂？"
"塞拉斯已经知道拱顶石在什么地方了。在巴黎。在圣叙尔皮斯教堂里。"打电话的人说。
阿林加洛沙主教微笑着说："我们接近成功了。"
"我们马上就能得到它。但我们需要你施加影响。"
"没问题。说吧，要我做什么？"
关掉手机后，阿林加洛沙心还在怦怦跳。他再次凝望那空洞洞的黑夜，感到与他要做的事相比自己非常渺小。
在五百英里外的地方，那个叫塞那斯的白化病人正站在一小盆水前。他轻轻擦掉后背上的鲜血，观察着血在水中打旋的方式。他引用《旧约。诗篇》中的句子祷告：求你用牛膝草洁净我，我就干净；求你洗涤我，我就比雪更白。
塞拉斯感到有一股以前从未被激起过的期待。这使他震惊又令他激动。在过去的十年中，他一直按《路》的要求行事，清除自己的罪恶，重建自己的生活……抹去过去的暴力。然而，今夜，这一切又突然回来了。他极力压抑的恨又被召回了。看到过去这么快地浮现起来，他觉得非常震惊。当然，和过去一同回来的还有他的功夫。虽然有些"生锈"，但尚且能用。
耶稣传播的是和平……是非暴力……是爱。从一开始，塞拉斯就被这样教导，并将教诲铭记在心。可这是基督的敌人威胁要毁掉的训戒。用武力威胁上帝的人定会受到武力的回击，坚定不移的回击。
两千年来，基督教卫士们一直保卫着他们的信仰，抗击着企图取代它的各种信仰。今夜，塞拉斯已应征参战。
擦干了伤口，他穿上了齐踝的长的有兜帽的长袍。在平纹织的黑毛羊料子做的长袍的映衬下，他的皮肤和头发被衬托得更白。他系紧了腰间的袍带，把兜帽套在头上，只露出双睛来欣赏镜子中的自己。车轮已经转起来了。[ 此帖被小梨涡°在2013-10-23 21:49重新编辑 ] -
Chapter 6 Having squeezed beneath the security gate, Robert Langdon now stood just inside the entrance to the Grand Gallery. He was staring into the mouth of a long, deep canyon. On either side of the gallery, stark walls rose thirty feet, evaporating into the darkness above. The reddish glow of the service lighting sifted upward, casting an unnatural smolder across a staggering collection of Da Vincis, Titians, and Caravaggios that hung suspended from ceiling cables. Still lifes, religious scenes, and landscapes accompanied portraits of nobility and politicians.
Although the Grand Gallery housed the Louvre's most famous Italian art, many visitors felt the wing's most stunning offering was actually its famous parquet floor. Laid out in a dazzling geometric design of diagonal oak slats, the floor produced an ephemeral optical illusion—a multi-dimensional network that gave visitors the sense they were floating through the gallery on a surface that changed with every step.
As Langdon's gaze began to trace the inlay, his eyes stopped short on an unexpected object lying on the floor just a few yards to his left, surrounded by police tape. He spun toward Fache. "Is that... a Caravaggio on the floor?"
Fache nodded without even looking.
The painting, Langdon guessed, was worth upward of two million dollars, and yet it was lying on the floor like a discarded poster. "What the devil is it doing on the floor!"
Fache glowered, clearly unmoved. "This is a crime scene, Mr. Langdon. We have touched nothing. That canvas was pulled from the wall by the curator. It was how he activated the security system."
Langdon looked back at the gate, trying to picture what had happened.
"The curator was attacked in his office, fled into the Grand Gallery, and activated the security gate by pulling that painting from the wall. The gate fell immediately, sealing off all access. This is the only door in or out of this gallery."
Langdon felt confused. "So the curator actually captured his attacker inside the Grand Gallery?"
Fache shook his head. "The security gate separated Saunière from his attacker. The killer was locked out there in the hallway and shot Saunière through this gate." Fache pointed toward an orange tag hanging from one of the bars on the gate under which they had just passed. "The PTS team found flashback residue from a gun. He fired through the bars. Saunière died in here alone."
Langdon pictured the photograph of Saunière's body. They said he did that to himself. Langdon looked out at the enormous corridor before them. "So where is his body?"
Fache straightened his cruciform tie clip and began to walk. "As you probably know, the Grand Gallery is quite long."
The exact length, if Langdon recalled correctly, was around fifteen hundred feet, the length of three Washington Monuments laid end to end. Equally breathtaking was the corridor's width, which easily could have accommodated a pair of side-by-side passenger trains. The center of the hallway was dotted by the occasional statue or colossal porcelain urn, which served as a tasteful divider and kept the flow of traffic moving down one wall and up the other.
Fache was silent now, striding briskly up the right side of the corridor with his gaze dead ahead. Langdon felt almost disrespectful to be racing past so many masterpieces without pausing for so much as a glance.
Not that I could see anything in this lighting, he thought.
The muted crimson lighting unfortunately conjured memories of Langdon's last experience in noninvasive lighting in the Vatican Secret Archives. This was tonight's second unsettling parallel with his near-death in Rome. He flashed on Vittoria again. She had been absent from his dreams for months. Langdon could not believe Rome had been only a year ago; it felt like decades. Another life. His last correspondence from Vittoria had been in December—a postcard saying she was headed to the Java Sea to continue her research in entanglement physics... something about using satellites to track manta ray migrations. Langdon had never harbored delusions that a woman like Vittoria Vetra could have been happy living with him on a college campus, but their encounter in Rome had unlocked in him a longing he never imagined he could feel. His lifelong affinity for bachelorhood and the simple freedoms it allowed had been shaken somehow... replaced by an unexpected emptiness that seemed to have grown over the past year.
They continued walking briskly, yet Langdon still saw no corpse. "Jacques Saunière went this far?"
"Mr. Saunière suffered a bullet wound to his stomach. He died very slowly. Perhaps over fifteen or twenty minutes. He was obviously a man of great personal strength."
Langdon turned, appalled. "Security took fifteen minutes to get here?"
"Of course not. Louvre security responded immediately to the alarm and found the Grand Gallery sealed. Through the gate, they could hear someone moving around at the far end of the corridor, but they could not see who it was. They shouted, but they got no answer. Assuming it could only be a criminal, they followed protocol and called in the Judicial Police. We took up positions within fifteen minutes. When we arrived, we raised the barricade enough to slip underneath, and I sent a dozen armed agents inside. They swept the length of the gallery to corner the intruder."
"And?"
"They found no one inside. Except..." He pointed farther down the hall. "Him."
Langdon lifted his gaze and followed Fache's outstretched finger. At first he thought Fache was pointing to a large marble statue in the middle of the hallway. As they continued, though, Langdon began to see past the statue. Thirty yards down the hall, a single spotlight on a portable pole stand shone down on the floor, creating a stark island of white light in the dark crimson gallery. In the center of the light, like an insect under a microscope, the corpse of the curator lay naked on the parquet floor.
"You saw the photograph," Fache said, "so this should be of no surprise."
Langdon felt a deep chill as they approached the body. Before him was one of the strangest images he had ever seen.
The pallid corpse of Jacques Saunière lay on the parquet floor exactly as it appeared in the photograph. As Langdon stood over the body and squinted in the harsh light, he reminded himself to his amazement that Saunière had spent his last minutes of life arranging his own body in this strange fashion.
Saunière looked remarkably fit for a man of his years... and all of his musculature was in plain view. He had stripped off every shred of clothing, placed it neatly on the floor, and laid down on his back in the center of the wide corridor, perfectly aligned with the long axis of the room. His arms and legs were sprawled outward in a wide spread eagle, like those of a child making a snow angel... or, perhaps more appropriately, like a man being drawn and quartered by some invisible force.
Just below Saunière's breastbone, a bloody smear marked the spot where the bullet had pierced his flesh. The wound had bled surprisingly little, leaving only a small pool of blackened blood.
Saunière's left index finger was also bloody, apparently having been dipped into the wound to create the most unsettling aspect of his own macabre deathbed; using his own blood as ink, and employing his own naked abdomen as a canvas, Saunière had drawn a simple symbol on his flesh—five straight lines that intersected to form a five-pointed star.
The pentacle.
The bloody star, centered on Saunière's navel, gave his corpse a distinctly ghoulish aura. The photo Langdon had seen was chilling enough, but now, witnessing the scene in person, Langdon felt a deepening uneasiness.
He did this to himself.
"Mr. Langdon?" Fache's dark eyes settled on him again.
"It's a pentacle," Langdon offered, his voice feeling hollow in the huge space. "One of the oldest symbols on earth. Used over four thousand years before Christ."
"And what does it mean?"
Langdon always hesitated when he got this question. Telling someone what a symbol "meant" was like telling them how a song should make them feel—it was different for all people. A white Ku Klux Klan headpiece conjured images of hatred and racism in the United States, and yet the same costume carried a meaning of religious faith in Spain.
"Symbols carry different meanings in different settings," Langdon said. "Primarily, the pentacle is a pagan religious symbol."
Fache nodded. "Devil worship."
"No," Langdon corrected, immediately realizing his choice of vocabulary should have been clearer.
Nowadays, the term pagan had become almost synonymous with devil worship—a gross misconception. The word's roots actually reached back to the Latin paganus, meaning country-dwellers. "Pagans" were literally unindoctrinated country-folk who clung to the old, rural religions of Nature worship. In fact, so strong was the Church's fear of those who lived in the rural villes that the once innocuous word for "villager"—villain—came to mean a wicked soul.
"The pentacle," Langdon clarified, "is a pre-Christian symbol that relates to Nature worship. The ancients envisioned their world in two halves—masculine and feminine. Their gods and goddesses worked to keep a balance of power. Yin and yang. When male and female were balanced, there was harmony in the world. When they were unbalanced, there was chaos." Langdon motioned to Saunière's stomach. "This pentacle is representative of the female half of all things—a concept religious historians call the 'sacred feminine' or the 'divine goddess.' Saunière, of all people, would know this."
"Saunière drew a goddess symbol on his stomach?"
Langdon had to admit, it seemed odd. "In its most specific interpretation, the pentacle symbolizes Venus—the goddess of female sexual love and beauty."
Fache eyed the naked man, and grunted.
"Early religion was based on the divine order of Nature. The goddess Venus and the planet Venus were one and the same. The goddess had a place in the nighttime sky and was known by many names—Venus, the Eastern Star, Ishtar, Astarte—all of them powerful female concepts with ties to Nature and Mother Earth."
Fache looked more troubled now, as if he somehow preferred the idea of devil worship.
Langdon decided not to share the pentacle's most astonishing property—the graphic origin of its ties to Venus. As a young astronomy student, Langdon had been stunned to learn the planet Venus traced a perfect pentacle across the ecliptic sky every four years. So astonished were the ancients to observe this phenomenon, that Venus and her pentacle became symbols of perfection, beauty, and the cyclic qualities of sexual love. As a tribute to the magic of Venus, the Greeks used her four-year cycle to organize their Olympiads. Nowadays, few people realized that the four-year schedule of modern Olympic Games still followed the cycles of Venus. Even fewer people knew that the five-pointed star had almost become the official Olympic seal but was modified at the last moment—its five points exchanged for five intersecting rings to better reflect the games' spirit of inclusion and harmony.
"Mr. Langdon," Fache said abruptly. "Obviously, the pentacle must also relate to the devil. Your American horror movies make that point clearly."
Langdon frowned. Thank you, Hollywood. The five-pointed star was now a virtual cliché in Satanic serial killer movies, usually scrawled on the wall of some Satanist's apartment along with other alleged demonic symbology. Langdon was always frustrated when he saw the symbol in this context; the pentacle's true origins were actually quite godly.
"I assure you," Langdon said, "despite what you see in the movies, the pentacle's demonic interpretation is historically inaccurate. The original feminine meaning is correct, but the symbolism of the pentacle has been distorted over the millennia. In this case, through bloodshed."
"I'm not sure I follow."
Langdon glanced at Fache's crucifix, uncertain how to phrase his next point. "The Church, sir. Symbols are very resilient, but the pentacle was altered by the early Roman Catholic Church. As part of the Vatican's campaign to eradicate pagan religions and convert the masses to Christianity, the Church launched a smear campaign against the pagan gods and goddesses, recasting their divine symbols as evil."
"Go on."
"This is very common in times of turmoil," Langdon continued. "A newly emerging power will take over the existing symbols and degrade them over time in an attempt to erase their meaning. In the battle between the pagan symbols and Christian symbols, the pagans lost; Poseidon's trident became the devil's pitchfork, the wise crone's pointed hat became the symbol of a witch, and Venus's pentacle became a sign of the devil." Langdon paused. "Unfortunately, the United States military has also perverted the pentacle; it's now our foremost symbol of war. We paint it on all our fighter jets and hang it on the shoulders of all our generals." So much for the goddess of love and beauty.
"Interesting." Fache nodded toward the spread-eagle corpse. "And the positioning of the body? What do you make of that?"
Langdon shrugged. "The position simply reinforces the reference to the pentacle and sacred feminine."
Fache's expression clouded. "I beg your pardon?"
"Replication. Repeating a symbol is the simplest way to strengthen its meaning. Jacques Saunière positioned himself in the shape of a five-pointed star." If one pentacle is good, two is better.
Fache's eyes followed the five points of Saunière's arms, legs, and head as he again ran a hand across his slick hair. "Interesting analysis." He paused. "And the nudity?" He grumbled as he spoke the word, sounding repulsed by the sight of an aging male body. "Why did he remove his clothing?"
Damned good question, Langdon thought. He'd been wondering the same thing ever since he first saw the Polaroid. His best guess was that a naked human form was yet another endorsement of Venus—the goddess of human sexuality. Although modern culture had erased much of Venus's association with the male/female physical union, a sharp etymological eye could still spot a vestige of Venus's original meaning in the word "venereal." Langdon decided not to go there.
"Mr. Fache, I obviously can't tell you why Mr. Saunière drew that symbol on himself or placed himself in this way, but I can tell you that a man like Jacques Saunière would consider the pentacle a sign of the female deity. The correlation between this symbol and the sacred feminine is widely known by art historians and symbologists."
"Fine. And the use of his own blood as ink?"
"Obviously he had nothing else to write with."
Fache was silent a moment. "Actually, I believe he used blood such that the police would follow certain forensic procedures."
"I'm sorry?"
"Look at his left hand."
Langdon's eyes traced the length of the curator's pale arm to his left hand but saw nothing. Uncertain, he circled the corpse and crouched down, now noting with surprise that the curator was clutching a large, felt-tipped marker.
"Saunière was holding it when we found him," Fache said, leaving Langdon and moving several yards to a portable table covered with investigation tools, cables, and assorted electronic gear. "As I told you," he said, rummaging around the table, "we have touched nothing. Are you familiar with this kind of pen?"
Langdon knelt down farther to see the pen's label.
STYLO DE LUMIERE NOIRE.
He glanced up in surprise.
The black-light pen or watermark stylus was a specialized felt-tipped marker originally designed by museums, restorers, and forgery police to place invisible marks on items. The stylus wrote in a noncorrosive, alcohol-based fluorescent ink that was visible only under black light. Nowadays, museum maintenance staffs carried these markers on their daily rounds to place invisible "tick marks" on the frames of paintings that needed restoration.
As Langdon stood up, Fache walked over to the spotlight and turned it off. The gallery plunged into sudden darkness.
Momentarily blinded, Langdon felt a rising uncertainty. Fache's silhouette appeared, illuminated in bright purple. He approached carrying a portable light source, which shrouded him in a violet haze.
"As you may know," Fache said, his eyes luminescing in the violet glow, "police use black-light illumination to search crime scenes for blood and other forensic evidence. So you can imagine our surprise..." Abruptly, he pointed the light down at the corpse.
Langdon looked down and jumped back in shock.
His heart pounded as he took in the bizarre sight now glowing before him on the parquet floor. Scrawled in luminescent handwriting, the curator's final words glowed purple beside his corpse. As Langdon stared at the shimmering text, he felt the fog that had surrounded this entire night growing thicker.
Langdon read the message again and looked up at Fache. "What the hell does this mean!"
Fache's eyes shone white. "That, monsieur, is precisely the question you are here to answer."
Not far away, inside Saunière's office, Lieutenant Collet had returned to the Louvre and was huddled over an audio console set up on the curator's enormous desk. With the exception of the eerie, robot-like doll of a medieval knight that seemed to be staring at him from the corner of Saunière's desk, Collet was comfortable. He adjusted his AKG headphones and checked the input levels on the hard-disk recording system. All systems were go. The microphones were functioning flawlessly, and the audio feed was crystal clear.
Le moment de vérité, he mused.
Smiling, he closed his eyes and settled in to enjoy the rest of the conversation now being taped inside the Grand Gallery.
中文：
从封锁门下挤过去后，罗伯特。兰登此刻正站在通往大画廊的入口处。他正在朝一个长长的"大峡谷"口凝望。画廊两边，陡峭的墙壁有三十英尺高，直插上面的黑暗之中。微红的耐用灯光向上散开，把些许不自然的暗光投射到许多从天花板绳子垂下的达。芬奇、提香和卡拉瓦乔的画作上。
静物画、宗教场面、风景画伴着贵族和政治家的画像。
虽然大画廊里藏有卢浮宫最负盛名的意大利艺术品，但不少游客认为这个侧厅所奉献的最令人惊叹不已的东西却是它著名的嵌木拼花地板。它是由对顶的橡木块按着一种令人眼花缭乱的几何图案铺制而成的，能使人产生一种瞬间的视角幻觉，感觉它是一个立体网络，游客每移动一步都觉得是在大画廊里漂游。
兰登开始观看地板的镶饰。他的眼睛突然停留在他左边几码远处的地板上被警察用条带围起来的一个物体上。他没想到会看到这个。他匆忙跑向法希。"那，那地板上是一幅卡拉瓦乔的画作吗？"
法希点了点头，却并没看它。
兰登猜想这幅画作的价值可高达两百万美元，可现在它却象被丢弃的海报一样躺在地上。"见鬼，怎么会在地上！"
法希看了一眼，显然是无动于衷。"这是犯罪现场，兰登先生。我们什么也没动。那画是馆长自己扯下来的。他就是那样启动安全系统的。"兰登转身看看大门，努力想象当时的情形。
"馆长在办公室里受到了袭击，他逃往大画廊，从墙上扯下这幅画，启动了防护门。防护门立刻落下，谁也无法进出，这是进出大画廊的唯一出口。"兰登被弄糊涂了。"那么馆长实际上抓住了袭击他的人，把他关在大画廊里面喽？"
法希摇摇了头说："防护门把索尼埃和袭击者隔开了。杀手被关在外面的走廊里，他通过这个门开熗打死索尼埃。"法希指着悬挂在他们刚爬过的那个门上的一个桔黄色的碎片说："技术警察发现了熗回火时的残留物。他是透过栅栏射击的。索尼埃临终前，这里没有别人。"兰登想起了索尼埃尸体的照片。他们说索尼埃自己把自己弄成那样。兰登望着前方的巨大的长廊说："那么尸体在哪里？"
法希扶正了自己的十字架领带夹开始往前走。"你很可能知道，画廊很长。"
如果兰登没记错的话，确切的长度是约1，500 英尺，是三个华盛顿纪念碑对接后平放的长度。同样令人惊异的是长廊的宽度，可以轻而易举地容纳两列平行的火车客车。走廊的中央间或点缀着雕像和巨大的瓷瓮，这些雕像和瓷瓮正好形成一条很有品味的分界线，把人流分开，一边沿墙而前，一边沿墙而回。
法希不说话，沿着走廊右边大步疾驶，两眼盯着正前方。这么匆匆忙忙的从如此多的杰作旁走过，都没停下来看一眼，兰登觉得有失恭敬。
不是因为在这种光线下，我什么也看不到，他想。
很不幸，暗红的灯光使兰登回忆起他上次在灯光柔和的梵蒂冈秘密档案室的经历。今晚和上次他险些丧命罗马一样使人忐忑不安。维多利亚又闪现在他脑海里。他已好几个月没有梦到维多利亚了。兰登不敢想念在罗马的那桩子事过去才一年；他觉得晃如几十年。
又活一辈子。他最后一次收到维多利亚的邮件是十二月份，那是一张明信片，她说她在动身去爪哇海以便继续在跟踪物理学方面的研究--用卫星追踪蝠鲼的迁徙情况。兰登从未幻想像维多利亚那样的女人会和他一起生活在校园里，但他们在巴黎的邂逅激发了一种他以前从未感受过的渴望。他多年来对单身生活的好感以及单身生活带来的自由感都被击得粉碎，取而代之的是过去的一年中与日俱增、始料未及的空虚感。
他们继续快步向前，但兰登还没看到尸体。"索尼埃跑这么远？"
"索尼埃腹部中弹后过了一段时间以后才死去的，或许十五到二十分钟。他显然是个很坚强的人。"兰登吃惊地转过身。"保安十五分钟才赶到这儿？"
"当然不是。卢浮宫的保安听到警报后，立即做出了反应，但发现大画廊的门被封住了。透过门，他们能听到有人在长廊的那一头挪动，但他们看不清到底是谁。他们大声喊，但没人应答。他们想唯一可能是罪犯，于是他们按规定叫来了司法警察。我们到达后把封锁门抬高了一些以便人能爬过去。我派了十来个警察进去。他们迅速搜遍长廊，希望抓住罪犯。
"结果呢？"
"他们发现里面没人。除了……"他朝长廊远处指去。"他"。
兰登抬起头顺着法希的手指望去。起初他以为法希在指长廊中间的巨型大理石雕像。
但他们继续往前走时，兰登能够看清比雕像更远的东西。在三十码开外的廊厅里，一只挂在便携式灯杆上的聚光灯照在地板上，形成了这暗红色画廊里一座极为光亮的"岛屿"。在光环的中央，索尼埃赤裸的尸体躺在嵌木拼花地板上，像显微镜下的一只昆虫。
"你看到过照片，所以不太吃惊了吧。"法希说。
雅克。索尼埃苍白的尸体躺在拼花地板上，和照片看到的一模一样。兰登站在尸体旁，在强光下眯着眼观察着。在惊愕中，他提醒自己，索尼埃在生命的最后几分钟把自己的身体摆成了这个奇怪的样子。
就他这个年龄的人而言，索尼埃看起来健康极了，他所有的肌肉系统分布分明。他已脱下了身上的每一丝衣服，并把它整齐地放在地板上，躺在走廊的中央，和房间的长轴线完全处于同一条线上。他的手臂和腿向外张开，像一只完全展开的鹰，又像孩子们做的雪天使那样手腿叉开，或许更准确的说是像一个人被看不见的力量向四个方向拉扯着。
在索尼埃的胸骨稍下一点有一块血渍，子弹从这里穿过了他的肌肉。奇怪的是，伤口流血极少，地下只淤积一小片已变黑的血液。
索尼埃食指也有血迹，显然他把食指插进了伤口，来制作他那最令人毛骨悚然的灵床。用自己的血作墨，以赤裸的腹部作画布，索尼埃画了非常简单的符号--五条直线相交而成的五角星。
五角形护身符。
这颗血星以索尼埃的肚脐为中心，这使尸体更显得令人恐怖。照片已令兰登不寒而栗，现在亲自到了现场，兰登更是吓得魂不附体。
他自己弄成这样。
"兰登先生？"法希的黑眼睛又在盯着他。
"这是巫术中的五角形护身符。"兰登说。他的声音在这么大的空间里显得有些沉闷。"这是世界上最早的一个符号，公元前四千年以前使用的。""它代表什么？"
在回答这个问题时兰登总是有些犹豫。告诉一个人一个符号"意味"着什么就如同告诉人家听一首歌时感受如何一样不好说--各人的感觉都不一样。三K 党的白巾在美国是仇恨和种族主义的形象，而在西班牙同样的服饰则表示一种宗教信仰。
"符号在不同的环境下表示的意思也不一样。"兰登说。"五角形主要是一种异教符号。"
法希点点头。"魔鬼崇拜。"
"不对。"兰登纠正道。他马上就意识到自己的用词应该更准确一些。
当今，表示异教的词pagan 几乎成了"魔鬼崇拜"的同义词--这是一种完全错误的观念。这个词的词根可以追溯到拉丁语的paganus，它指的是住在乡下的人。"异教徒"本来的字面意思是指那些没有接受任何宗教灌输，还恪守古老的自然神崇拜的乡下人。事实上，教会非常害怕那些住在乡下村镇（villes）里的人，以至于原本那个表示村民的词vilain 后来竟用来表示"恶棍"了。
"五角形"，兰登解释说。"是一个在基督教产生之前，有关自然崇拜的符号。"古人认为世界由两部分组成--一半雄性，一半雌性。神和女神共同作用保持力量平衡，即阴阳平衡。当阴阳平衡时，世界就处于和蔼的状态下。不平衡时，世界就一片混乱。然后兰登又指向索尼埃的肚子说："这个五角形代表万物中阴性的那一半--一个宗教史学家称为‘神圣女性’或‘神圣女神’概念。索尼埃应该知道这个。""索尼埃在自己肚子上画了女神符号？"
兰登必须承认，这似乎有点怪。"最具体的解释，五角星象征维纳斯--代表女人性爱和美的女神。"法希看了看那裸休男人，咕哝了一声。
"早期宗教都是基于大自然神性的秩序之上的，女神维纳斯（Venus）和金星（Venus）是同一的。女神在夜空中也有一席之地，夜空中的女神有许多名字--金星、东方之星、伊师塔、阿斯塔蒂等，都是些充满活力的与自然和大地母亲密切相关的阴性概念。"兰登决定不告诉他五角星形最令人吃惊的特征--它的形状源于金星。当兰登还是个初出茅庐的天文学专业的学生时，他就吃惊地了解到金星每四年在空中的运行轨迹正是一个正五角形。古人观察到这种现象，对之敬畏之至，于是金星和五角星便成了至善至美和周期性的性爱的象征。为礼赞金星的神奇，希腊人以四年为一个循环来组织奥林匹克运动会。现今很少有人知道现在每四年一届的现代奥林匹克运动会是沿袭了金星的周期。更少有人知道五角星差点成了奥运会的正式标志，只是到了最后一刻才将五个尖角换成了五个相互联结的环以更好地体现奥运会包容与和谐的精神。
法希突然说："兰登先生，五角星显然也和恶魔有关。你们美国的恐怖电影清楚地表明了这一点。"兰登皱起了眉头。真谢谢你，好莱坞。在系列恶魔杀手电影中，五角星几乎每次都出现，它通常和其他被指责为恶魔符号的东西一道被胡乱地画在某些恶魔杀手住所的墙上。
每当在这种情形下看到这个符号，兰登就感到非常不快。五角星真正的起源是神圣的。
"我可以肯定地告诉你。"兰登说。"尽管如你在电影中所见，把五角星被解读为恶魔，但从史学的角度讲，这并不准确。它起初的女性含义是正确的。但一千年来，五角星的象征意义被歪曲了。在这个案子上，还流了血。""我不敢肯定我听懂了。"
兰登看了一眼法希的十字架。他下面的表达有些语无伦次。"教会，先生，象征符号是很弹性的，五角星符号的意义被早期的罗马天主教会给更改了。作为梵蒂冈清除异教并使大众皈依基督教的运动的一部分，天主教会掀起了一个污蔑异教神和异教女神的运动，把他们的神圣的象征符号重新解释为邪恶的符号。""讲下去。"
"这种现象在混乱年代也是常见的。"兰登接着说。"一种新出现的力量会取代现存的象征符号并长期贬损它们以图彻底抹掉它们的意义。在异教象征和基督教象征的争斗中，异教徒输了。海神波塞冬的三叉戟成了恶魔的草叉，象征智慧的锥形尖顶帽成了女巫的象征，金星的五角形成了邪恶的象征。"兰登停了停。"不幸的是，美国军方也曲解了五角星，现在他成了最重要的战争符号。我们把它涂在战斗机上，挂在将军们的肩膀上。"爱与美女神竟承受这么多不幸。
"有意思。"法希边说边朝像展开的鹰一样的尸体点了点头。"那么，尸体的放置？你从中看到了什么？"
兰登耸耸肩。"这种放置只是巩固了五角星和阴性神灵的关联。"
法希脸茫然。"对不起，我没明白。"
"复制。重复一个符号是强化它的意义最简单的方法。雅克。索尼埃把自己放置成了五角星的形状。"一个五角星很好，两个更好。
法希又把手插进了油光光的头发里，眼睛朝索尼埃的五个角看去--胳膊、腿和头。
"有意思的分析。"他停了一下又说："那为什么裸体？"他有些不满地说道，好像很讨厌看到一个老年男人的裸体。"他为什么把衣服都脱了？"
兰登心想，真是好问题。从第一眼看到宝丽莱快照，他就一直对这个问题疑惑不解。
他最接近的猜测是，裸体是性爱女神维纳斯赞许的事情。虽然现代文化已基本清除维纳斯与男女身体结合的关联，但对词源有研究的人，仍然可以敏锐地发觉"维纳斯（Venus）"
本意中有与"性交"（Venereal）有关联的蛛丝马迹。不过，兰登不打算讨论那些。
"法希先生，显然我说不出为什么索尼埃在自己身上画那样的符号，也说不清为什么他那样放置自己，但是我可以告诉你，像雅克。索尼埃那样的人会视五角星符号为一种阴性神灵。这个符号和阴性神灵之间的关联是广为艺术史学家和符号象征学专家所知的。""好的。那么他为什么用自己的血当墨？"
"但显然，他没有别的东西可供写字。"
法希沉默了片刻。"我认为事实上他使用血和警察履行某些法医检查程序有相似之处。"
"我不明白。"
"看他的左手。"
兰登顺着馆长苍白的手臂一直看到他的左手，但什么也没有看到。他不敢肯定是否的确什么也看不到，于是围着尸体转了一圈，最后蹲下了，这时他才吃惊地发现馆长手里抓着一只很大的毡头标记笔。
"我们找到索尼埃时，他手里就攥着它。"法希边说边离开兰登，走过几码，走到一张摊满调查工具、电线和配套的电子设备的便携式桌子旁。"我给你讲过。"他边说边在桌子上翻弄东西。"我们什么都没动。你熟悉这种笔吗？"
兰登跪得更近一些，以便能看清笔的牌子。笔上有法文：黑光笔。
他吃惊地向上看了一眼。
黑光笔或曰水印笔是一种特殊毡头标记笔，原由博物馆、修复专家或反赝品警察设计用来在物品上作隐形标记用的。这种笔用的是一种非腐蚀性的，以酒精为主料的荧光墨水。这种墨水只有在紫外线、红外线等"黑光"下才可见。现在博物馆的维护人员在日常工作中也常带这种笔，以方便在需要修复的画作的画框上打个勾，作个标记。
兰登站起来后，法希走到聚光灯前把它关掉了。画廊顿时一片漆黑。
一时间，兰登什么也看不见，一种莫名的感觉突然袭来。法希的轮廓在强烈的紫光下显现出来。他拿着一个手提式光源走来，浑身裹在紫罗兰色的薄雾中。
"你也许知道。"法希说。他的眼睛在微暗的紫罗兰光中发着光。"警察用黑光照明，在犯罪现场找血渍和其他法医证据。所以你可以想象得出我们是多么吃惊……。"突然他把灯指向尸体。
兰登低头看了一眼，吓得往后一跳。
当他看到拼花地板上奇怪的发光现象，他的心脏怦怦直跳。馆长潦潦草草用荧光笔最后写下的字在尸体旁冷冷地发着紫光。
兰登看着发着光的文字段落，感到今晚笼罩在他周围的迷雾更浓了。
兰登又一次读完那些文字后抬头看法希。"见鬼，这到底是什么意思？"
法希的眼睛发着白光。"先生，那正是你今晚到这儿来要回答的问题。"
在不远处索尼埃的办公室里，科莱中尉正倚着一个架在馆长的大办公桌上的录音架。
要不是有怪异的、机器人似的中世纪武士玩具在盯着他，科莱会感受到很舒服。他调整好自己的AKG 耳机，检查了硬盘录音系统上的输入电平情况。所有系统一切正常，麦克风半点毛病也没有，声音传输极为清晰。
此刻声音完全真实，他思忖着。
他面带微笑，闭上双眼，坐下来欣赏今天在大画廊内正在被录进去的谈话。[ 此帖被小梨涡°在2013-10-23 21:49重新编辑 ] -
Chapter 7 The modest dwelling within the Church of Saint-Sulpice was located on the second floor of the church itself, to the left of the choir balcony. A two-room suite with a stone floor and minimal furnishings, it had been home to Sister Sandrine Bieil for over a decade. The nearby convent was her formal residence, if anyone asked, but she preferred the quiet of the church and had made herself quite comfortable upstairs with a bed, phone, and hot plate.
As the church's conservatrice d'affaires, Sister Sandrine was responsible for overseeing all nonreligious aspects of church operations—general maintenance, hiring support staff and guides, securing the building after hours, and ordering supplies like communion wine and wafers.
Tonight, asleep in her small bed, she awoke to the shrill of her telephone. Tiredly, she lifted the receiver.
"Soeur Sandrine. Eglise Saint-Sulpice."
"Hello, Sister," the man said in French.
Sister Sandrine sat up. What time is it? Although she recognized her boss's voice, in fifteen years she had never been awoken by him. The abbé was a deeply pious man who went home to bed immediately after mass.
"I apologize if I have awoken you, Sister," the abbé said, his own voice sounding groggy and on edge. "I have a favor to ask of you. I just received a call from an influential American bishop. Perhaps you know him? Manuel Aringarosa?"
"The head of Opus Dei?" Of course I know of him. Who in the Church doesn't? Aringarosa's conservative prelature had grown powerful in recent years. Their ascension to grace was jump-started in 1982 when Pope John Paul II unexpectedly elevated them to a "personal prelature of the Pope," officially sanctioning all of their practices. Suspiciously, Opus Dei's elevation occurred the same year the wealthy sect allegedly had transferred almost one billion dollars into the Vatican's Institute for Religious Works—commonly known as the Vatican Bank—bailing it out of an embarrassing bankruptcy. In a second maneuver that raised eyebrows, the Pope placed the founder of Opus Dei on the "fast track" for sainthood, accelerating an often century-long waiting period for canonization to a mere twenty years. Sister Sandrine could not help but feel that Opus Dei's good standing in Rome was suspect, but one did not argue with the Holy See.
"Bishop Aringarosa called to ask me a favor," the abbé told her, his voice nervous. "One of his numeraries is in Paris tonight...."
As Sister Sandrine listened to the odd request, she felt a deepening confusion. "I'm sorry, you say this visiting Opus Dei numerary cannot wait until morning?"
"I'm afraid not. His plane leaves very early. He has always dreamed of seeing Saint-Sulpice."
"But the church is far more interesting by day. The sun's rays through the oculus, the graduated shadows on the gnomon, this is what makes Saint-Sulpice unique."
"Sister, I agree, and yet I would consider it a personal favor if you could let him in tonight. He can be there at... say one o'clock? That's in twenty minutes."
Sister Sandrine frowned. "Of course. It would be my pleasure."
The abbé thanked her and hung up.
Puzzled, Sister Sandrine remained a moment in the warmth of her bed, trying to shake off the cobwebs of sleep. Her sixty-year-old body did not awake as fast as it used to, although tonight's phone call had certainly roused her senses. Opus Dei had always made her uneasy. Beyond the prelature's adherence to the arcane ritual of corporal mortification, their views on women were medieval at best. She had been shocked to learn that female numeraries were forced to clean the men's residence halls for no pay while the men were at mass; women slept on hardwood floors, while the men had straw mats; and women were forced to endure additional requirements of corporal mortification... all as added penance for original sin. It seemed Eve's bite from the apple of knowledge was a debt women were doomed to pay for eternity. Sadly, while most of the Catholic Church was gradually moving in the right direction with respect to women's rights, Opus Dei threatened to reverse the progress. Even so, Sister Sandrine had her orders.
Swinging her legs off the bed, she stood slowly, chilled by the cold stone on the soles of her bare feet. As the chill rose through her flesh, she felt an unexpected apprehension.
Women's intuition?
A follower of God, Sister Sandrine had learned to find peace in the calming voices of her own soul. Tonight, however, those voices were as silent as the empty church around her.中文：圣叙尔皮斯教堂内那个不大的寓所位于教堂二楼，在唱诗厅的左侧。这是一套二居室的住所，石地板，极简单的装修，修女桑德琳。比埃尔已在那儿住了十多年了。附近的女修道院才是她正式的住所，可能有人要问，她怎么住在这里？因为她喜欢这个教堂的宁静，这里只有一张床、一部电话和一个简易灶，但她觉得生活得很自在。她是教堂的后勤事务负责人，负责督管教堂的所有非宗教性事务--大修、雇用临时工作人员和导游，负责每天教堂圣工后的安全以及定购圣餐所用的酒和圣饼等物品。
今夜，刺耳的电话铃声突然把熟睡在小床上的她惊醒。她有气无力地拿起听筒。"我是桑德琳修女。这是圣叙尔皮斯教堂。""你好，桑德琳。"那人用法语说。
桑德琳坐了起来。几点钟了？虽然她听出了是她老板的声音，但十五年来他从未在夜间打电话把她叫醒过。那位修道院院长非常虔诚，弥撒过后立即回家睡觉。
"对不起把你吵醒了，桑德琳。"修道院院长说。从声音听他本人也有些昏头昏脑，心烦意乱。"我得请你帮个忙，我刚刚接到美国一位颇有影响的主教的电话。你可能知道他，曼努埃尔。阿林加洛沙，知道吗？"
"是天主事工会主教吗？"教会中人谁会不知道他？阿林加洛沙保守的教派近年来愈来愈有势力。1982 年教皇约翰。保罗二世出人意料地将天主事工会提升为自己的个人直辖教派，正式恩准了他们所有的行为。从此，他们的地位突然飙升了许多。令人起疑的是，天主事工会地位提升的这一年，正是这个富有的教派被指控划拨给通常被称作梵蒂冈银行的梵蒂冈宗教著作研究院十亿美元，并将其从破产的窘境中挽救出来的那一年。第二件让人蹙眉的事是，教皇把天主事工会创始人圣徒化的过程推上了"快车道"，把获得"圣徒"的时限从通常的一个世纪缩短至二十年。桑德琳禁不住要怀疑天主事工会为什么在罗马有这么高的地位，但一般人是不与神圣的罗马教皇发生龃龉的。
"阿林加洛沙主教打电话要我帮忙。"修道院院长声音紧张地告诉她说。"他的一个手下今晚到巴黎……"桑德琳听着这个古怪的请求，感到丈二和尚摸不着头脑。"对不起，你是说这个天主事工会客人等天亮也等不及？"
"恐怕等不及。他的飞机很早就起飞了。他正期待着见到圣叙尔皮斯教堂。"
"但是白天看教堂要有意思得多。太阳的光线透过眼洞窗照射进来，逐渐倾斜的阴影落在圭表上，这些才是使圣叙尔皮斯教堂与众不同之处呀。""桑德琳，这我知道，就算你帮我私人一个忙，今晚让他进去。他可能差不多一点钟到。也就是二十分钟后。"修女桑德琳蹙起眉头。"当然。我很乐意。"修道院院长对她表示了感谢，挂上了电话。
桑德琳还是疑惑不解。她又在暖和的被窝里躺了一会儿，同时又尽力赶走睡意。她六十五岁的身体不如从前醒得快，虽然今晚的电话无疑已唤醒了她的感官。天主事工会一直令她心里不舒服。且不说这个教派固守着肉体惩罚的秘密仪式，他们对女人的看法充其量也只是中世纪的。她曾非常吃惊地了解到男会员在作弥撒时，女会员得被迫无偿地为他清洁住所；女人睡在硬木地板上，而男人却有干草床垫；女人被迫做额外的肉体惩罚--都是为了抵赎原罪。似乎夏娃在智慧树上咬的那一口成了女人注定要永远偿还的债务。令人伤心的是，虽然世界上大多数天主教堂都朝着尊重妇女权力的正确方向发展，而天主事工会却威胁要将这趋势逆转过来。即使有这些想法，修女桑德琳还是接受了命令。
她抬腿下床，慢慢站起来，光着脚踩在鞋里冰冷的石头上，觉得刺骨的凉。这冷意沿着她的身体上升，一种突如其来的恐惧感向她袭来。
女人的直觉吗？
作为上帝的信徒，修女桑德琳已经学会从自己灵魂的冷静的声音中找到安宁。但今夜，那些声音全没了，像她周围空空的教堂一样寂静。[ 此帖被小梨涡°在2013-10-23 21:49重新编辑 ] -
Chapter 8 Langdon couldn't tear his eyes from the glowing purple text scrawled across the parquet floor. Jacques Saunière's final communication seemed as unlikely a departing message as any Langdon could imagine.
The message read:
13-3-2-21-1-1-8-5
O, Draconian devil!
Oh, lame saint!
Although Langdon had not the slightest idea what it meant, he did understand Fache's instinct that the pentacle had something to do with devil worship.
O, Draconian devil!
Saunière had left a literal reference to the devil. Equally as bizarre was the series of numbers. "Part of it looks like a numeric cipher."
"Yes," Fache said. "Our cryptographers are already working on it. We believe these numbers may be the key to who killed him. Maybe a telephone exchange or some kind of social identification. Do the numbers have any symbolic meaning to you?"
Langdon looked again at the digits, sensing it would take him hours to extract any symbolic meaning. If Saunière had even intended any. To Langdon, the numbers looked totally random. He was accustomed to symbolic progressions that made some semblance of sense, but everything here—the pentacle, the text, the numbers—seemed disparate at the most fundamental level.
"You alleged earlier," Fache said, "that Saunière's actions here were all in an effort to send some sort of message... goddess worship or something in that vein? How does this message fit in?"
Langdon knew the question was rhetorical. This bizarre communiqué obviously did not fit Langdon's scenario of goddess worship at all.
O, Draconian devil? Oh, lame saint?
Fache said, "This text appears to be an accusation of some sort. Wouldn't you agree?"
Langdon tried to imagine the curator's final minutes trapped alone in the Grand Gallery, knowing he was about to die. It seemed logical. "An accusation against his murderer makes sense, I suppose."
"My job, of course, is to put a name to that person. Let me ask you this, Mr. Langdon. To your eye, beyond the numbers, what about this message is most strange?"
Most strange? A dying man had barricaded himself in the gallery, drawn a pentacle on himself, and scrawled a mysterious accusation on the floor. What about the scenario wasn't strange?
"The word 'Draconian'?" he ventured, offering the first thing that came to mind. Langdon was fairly certain that a reference to Draco—the ruthless seventh-century B.C. politician—was an unlikely dying thought. " 'Draconian devil' seems an odd choice of vocabulary."
"Draconian?" Fache's tone came with a tinge of impatience now. "Saunière's choice of vocabulary hardly seems the primary issue here."
Langdon wasn't sure what issue Fache had in mind, but he was starting to suspect that Draco and Fache would have gotten along well.
"Saunière was a Frenchman," Fache said flatly. "He lived in Paris. And yet he chose to write this message..."
"In English," Langdon said, now realizing the captain's meaning.
Fache nodded. "Précisément. Any idea why?"
Langdon knew Saunière spoke impeccable English, and yet the reason he had chosen English as the language in which to write his final words escaped Langdon. He shrugged.
Fache motioned back to the pentacle on Saunière's abdomen. "Nothing to do with devil worship? Are you still certain?"
Langdon was certain of nothing anymore. "The symbology and text don't seem to coincide. I'm sorry I can't be of more help."
"Perhaps this will clarify." Fache backed away from the body and raised the black light again, letting the beam spread out in a wider angle. "And now?"
To Langdon's amazement, a rudimentary circle glowed around the curator's body. Saunière had apparently lay down and swung the pen around himself in several long arcs, essentially inscribing himself inside a circle.
In a flash, the meaning became clear.
"The Vitruvian Man," Langdon gasped. Saunière had created a life-sized replica of Leonardo da Vinci's most famous sketch.
Considered the most anatomically correct drawing of its day, Da Vinci's The Vitruvian Man had become a modern-day icon of culture, appearing on posters, mouse pads, and T-shirts around the world. The celebrated sketch consisted of a perfect circle in which was inscribed a nude male... his arms and legs outstretched in a naked spread eagle.
Da Vinci. Langdon felt a shiver of amazement. The clarity of Saunière's intentions could not be denied. In his final moments of life, the curator had stripped off his clothing and arranged his body in a clear image of Leonardo da Vinci's Vitruvian Man.
The circle had been the missing critical element. A feminine symbol of protection, the circle around the naked man's body completed Da Vinci's intended message—male and female harmony. The question now, though, was why Saunière would imitate a famous drawing.
"Mr. Langdon," Fache said, "certainly a man like yourself is aware that Leonardo da Vinci had a tendency toward the darker arts."
Langdon was surprised by Fache's knowledge of Da Vinci, and it certainly went a long way toward explaining the captain's suspicions about devil worship. Da Vinci had always been an awkward subject for historians, especially in the Christian tradition. Despite the visionary's genius, he was a flamboyant homosexual and worshipper of Nature's divine order, both of which placed him in a perpetual state of sin against God. Moreover, the artist's eerie eccentricities projected an admittedly demonic aura: Da Vinci exhumed corpses to study human anatomy; he kept mysterious journals in illegible reverse handwriting; he believed he possessed the alchemic power to turn lead into gold and even cheat God by creating an elixir to postpone death; and his inventions included horrific, never-before-imagined weapons of war and torture.
Misunderstanding breeds distrust, Langdon thought.
Even Da Vinci's enormous output of breathtaking Christian art only furthered the artist's reputation for spiritual hypocrisy. Accepting hundreds of lucrative Vatican commissions, Da Vinci painted Christian themes not as an expression of his own beliefs but rather as a commercial venture—a means of funding a lavish lifestyle. Unfortunately, Da Vinci was a prankster who often amused himself by quietly gnawing at the hand that fed him. He incorporated in many of his Christian paintings hidden symbolism that was anything but Christian—tributes to his own beliefs and a subtle thumbing of his nose at the Church. Langdon had even given a lecture once at the National Gallery in London entitled: "The Secret Life of Leonardo: Pagan Symbolism in Christian Art."
"I understand your concerns," Langdon now said, "but Da Vinci never really practiced any dark arts. He was an exceptionally spiritual man, albeit one in constant conflict with the Church." As Langdon said this, an odd thought popped into his mind. He glanced down at the message on the floor again. O, Draconian devil! Oh, lame saint!
"Yes?" Fache said.
Langdon weighed his words carefully. "I was just thinking that Saunière shared a lot of spiritual ideologies with Da Vinci, including a concern over the Church's elimination of the sacred feminine from modern religion. Maybe, by imitating a famous Da Vinci drawing, Saunière was simply echoing some of their shared frustrations with the modern Church's demonization of the goddess."
Fache's eyes hardened. "You think Saunière is calling the Church a lame saint and a Draconian devil?"
Langdon had to admit it seemed far-fetched, and yet the pentacle seemed to endorse the idea on some level. "All I am saying is that Mr. Saunière dedicated his life to studying the history of the goddess, and nothing has done more to erase that history than the Catholic Church. It seems reasonable that Saunière might have chosen to express his disappointment in his final good-bye."
"Disappointment?" Fache demanded, sounding hostile now. "This message sounds more enraged than disappointed, wouldn't you say?"
Langdon was reaching the end of his patience. "Captain, you asked for my instincts as to what Saunière is trying to say here, and that's what I'm giving you."
"That this is an indictment of the Church?" Fache's jaw tightened as he spoke through clenched teeth. "Mr. Langdon, I have seen a lot of death in my work, and let me tell you something. When a man is murdered by another man, I do not believe his final thoughts are to write an obscure spiritual statement that no one will understand. I believe he is thinking of one thing only." Fache's whispery voice sliced the air. "La vengeance. I believe Saunière wrote this note to tell us who killed him." Langdon stared. "But that makes no sense whatsoever."
"No?"
"No," he fired back, tired and frustrated. "You told me Saunière was attacked in his office by someone he had apparently invited in."
"Yes."
"So it seems reasonable to conclude that the curator knew his attacker."
Fache nodded. "Go on."
"So if Saunière 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 Saunière 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. "Précisément," Fache said. "Précisément."
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 supérieur 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 Saunière, 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 the Catholic 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.
兰登无法使自己的眼睛从拼花地板上微微发着紫光上的文字上移开。兰登似乎不可能弄懂雅克。索尼埃的离别留言。文字是这样的：13－3－2－21－1－1－8－5啊，严酷的（Draconian）魔王！
噢，瘸腿的圣徒！
虽然兰登一点也不明白这到底是什么意思，但他倒理解了为什么法希的直觉告诉他五角星形与魔鬼崇拜有关。
啊，德拉古式的魔王！
索尼埃写下了"魔王"这两个字。同样奇怪的是这一组数字。"有点像数字密码。"
"是的。"法希说。"我们的密码人员正试图破译它。我们相信这些数字或许能告诉我们谁杀了他。或许是电话号码或某种社会编码。你觉得这些数字有什么象征意义吗？"
兰登又看了看这些数字，知道一时半会儿是猜不出什么象征意义的，即便是索尼埃的确预设了象征意义。对兰登而言，这些数字看起来没有任何规律。他习惯于解释那些意义相关的，有一定规律的象征，但这里的一切--五角星形、文字、数字等似乎一点也不相干。
"你刚才断言。"法希说。"索尼埃那样做是在试图传达某种信息……女神崇拜或类似的东西，是吗？这种说法讲得通吗？"
兰登知道这个问题并不需他作答。这种怪异的信息显然和女神崇拜的情形对不上号。
法希说："这些文字似乎是一种指责？你同意吗？"
兰登试图想象馆长被困在大画廊里的最后几分钟，知道自己要死时的情形。这似乎合乎逻辑。"说这是对谋杀者的指责，我想这合乎情理。"
"我的任务当然是找到那个人的名字。请问，兰登先生，在你看来，除了这些数字，有关这个信息，最奇怪的是什么？"
最奇怪的？一个濒临死亡的人把自己封在画廊里，用自己的身体画个五角星，在地板上写下神秘的控告，这哪一样不奇怪？
"德拉古式的这个词。"他试探着说出他脑子里想到的第一样东西。兰登相当肯定，一个人在临死前不太可能想到德拉古--一位公元前十七世纪残酷的政治家。"‘德拉古式的魔鬼’似乎是一个很奇怪的措辞。""德拉古式的？"法希的语气中带着一点不耐烦。"索尼埃的措辞似乎不是最重要的问题。"兰登拿不准法希在考虑什么问题，但是他开始觉得德拉古和法希是一路货色。
"索尼埃是法国人。"法希硬邦邦地说。"他住在巴黎，而写这些东西时，却选择用……""英语。"兰登接过话说。此时他明白了警务局长的意思。
法希点点头。"对极了。知道为什么吗？"兰登知道索尼埃的英语说得极漂亮，但索尼埃选择用英语写临终遗言却没引起兰登的注意。他耸耸肩。
法希又指着索尼埃肚子上的五角星说："与魔鬼崇拜没关系？你还这么肯定？"
兰登现在什么也肯定不了。"符号学似乎无法解释这段内容。对不起，我帮不了你。"
"也许这样能解释清楚。"法希从尸体旁向后退了退身，再次高举起黑光灯，使光线从更大的角度散发出来。"现在怎么样？"
这令兰登惊呆了，一个基本成形的圆圈围着馆长的尸体微微发光。显然是索尼埃倒地后用笔在自己四周划了几个长弧，大致把自己划在一个圆圈里。
突然，意思变得清晰了。
"《维特鲁威人》。"兰登急促地说。索尼埃用真人复制了那幅列昂纳多。达。芬奇的名画达。芬奇的《维特鲁威人》被认为是当时在生理结构上最准确的画作，现在已成为一个现代文化的偶像而出现在世界各地的招贴画上、鼠标垫上和T 恤衫上。这幅名画上有个极圆的圆圈，圆圈里面是一个裸体男人……胳膊和腿向外展开像一只被拔光了羽毛的鹰。
达。芬奇。兰登惊得打了个寒颤。不可否认，索尼埃有明确的意图。在人生的最后时刻，馆长脱光了衣服，明白无误地用自己的身体摆成了达。芬奇《维特鲁威人》的样子。
这个圆圈是起初被漏掉的关键因素。圆圈是一个女性保护符号，它围在了裸体男人躯体周围。这实现了达。芬奇想表达的信息--男女之间的和谐。然而，现在的问题是，索尼埃为什么模仿这样一幅名作。
"兰登先生。"法希说。"像你这样的人当然知道列昂纳多。达。芬奇喜欢画比较神秘隐晦的作品。"兰登没想到法希这么了解达。芬奇。要解释清楚为什么法希局长认为那是魔鬼崇拜，不是三言两语就说得清的。历史学家们，尤其是遵循基督教传统的历史学家们一直认为达。芬奇是个尴尬的角色。他是个绘画天才，但他也是一位非常惹眼的同性恋者和自然的神圣秩序的崇拜者，这两点使他永远背上冒犯上帝和作奸犯科的罪名。另外，这位艺术家的怪异行为无疑也投射出恶魔色彩：达。芬奇偷盗尸体来作人体解剖学研究；他神秘的日记是用别人看不懂的颠倒的字母记下的；他相信自己拥有一种点石成金的本领，可以把铅变成黄金，甚至可以靠研制出一种灵丹妙药推迟死亡而欺骗上帝；他所发明的东西中包括可怕的、前人想都未敢想过的带来如此多痛苦的战争武器。
误解滋生不信任，兰登心里想。
达。芬奇那些多得令人称奇的基督教画作也只能使画家"精神虚伪"的名声更广为流传。
他从梵蒂冈接受了数百项赢利性的工作。在画基督教题材的画时，他并不是要表达自己对它的信仰，而是将其视为商业行为---一种可以支付他奢侈生活的手段。不幸的是，达。芬奇喜欢恶作剧，他常默默地在递给他食物的手上咬一口以取乐。他在许多基督教画作中塞进了与基督教一点不相干的符号以表达对自己信仰的礼赞，也巧妙地表达了对基督教的蔑视。兰登曾在美国国家美术馆作过一次题为"达。芬奇的秘密生活：基督教画作中的异教象征"的讲座。
"我理解你的想法。"兰登现在这样说。"但达。芬奇从未将那些神秘阴暗的东西付诸实践，虽然他和教会冲突不断，是纯粹精神层面的人。"说着说着，一个怪异的想法从他脑子里突然蹦了出来。他又低头看了看地板上的文字内容。啊，德拉古式的恶魔！噢！瘸腿的圣徒！
"真的吗？"法希说。
兰登谨慎地说："我刚才在想，索尼埃和达。芬奇的精神观念有许多共同之处，包括对教会把阴性圣灵从现代宗教中驱逐出去这类事情的看法。或许，通过模仿达。芬奇的名画，索尼埃只是想回应达。芬奇对教会妖魔化女神的不满和恼怒。"听到这个，法希的眼都直了。
"你是说索尼埃把教会称作瘸腿的圣徒和严酷的魔王？"
兰登不得不承认这有些牵强，而且五角星符号在某种程度上似乎要表示一个什么思想。
"我只是说索尼埃先生一生致力于女神史的研究，在清除女神历史方面，没有什么比天主教会做得更过分了。索尼埃先生在和这个世界道别时想表达一下自己的失望，这倒是可以理解的。""失望？"法希问道，语气中充满敌意。"这些文字表达更多的是愤怒，而不是失望，你不觉得是这样吗？"
兰登也没了耐心。"局长，你想就索尼埃在试图表达什么这一点征求我本人的想法，我能告诉你的就这些。""那是控告教会，是吗？"法希咬紧牙关，从牙缝里挤出一句话来。"兰登先生，因工作关系，我见到过许多死亡的情形。你听我说，当一个人被别人谋杀时，我想他最后的想法不是写一句谁也弄不懂的纯精神方面的句子。我相信他只考虑一件事情---"法希低沉的声音透过空气传来。"复仇，我相信写下这些是要告诉我们谁杀了他。"
兰登瞪着他。"可这种解释根本站不住脚。"
"站不住脚？"
"站不住脚。"他回击道，显然非常厌倦和恼火。"你跟我说过索尼埃在办公室里遭到一个显然是他邀请来的人的袭击。""没错。"
"那么我们理应得出结论，馆长认识攻击他的人。"
法希点点头："继续讲下去。"
"因此，如果索尼埃认识杀死他的那个人，还用这种方式这么指控？"他指着地板说。"数字密码？瘸腿的圣徒？严酷的魔王？肚子上的五角星？这也太有点不可思议了吧。"法希皱起眉头，似乎以前从未想到这一点。"你说得有道理。"
"鉴于当时的情况。"兰登说。"我认为如果索尼埃想告诉我们谁杀了他，他应该写那个人的名字。"当兰登说这些时，法希的嘴角今晚第一次掠过一丝得意的笑意。"对极了。"法希说。"对极了。"在扭动调音轮听到法希的声音从耳机里传来时，上尉警官科莱想，我在见证一位大师的杰作。这位警官知道在这种情况下，他们的警务局长会以极端的手段把法国法律执行到极致。
法希敢干别人不敢干的事情。
在现代执法过程中，那种巧妙的诱导谈话技巧已经不存在了，这种技巧需要人在重压下有极好的心理准备。很少有人拥有从事这项工作的所必需的沉着，但法希天生是干这个的料。他的节制和耐心几乎全能自动控制。
法希今晚唯一的情感似乎是一种坚定的决心，今晚的行动好像是他的私事一样。法希一小时以前对手下的通令也非常简洁、肯定。法希一小时以前对手下的通令也非常简洁、肯定。"我知道谁谋杀了雅克。索尼埃。"法希说。"你们知道该怎么办。今晚不许出错。"
到目前为止，还没有出过任何差错。
科莱并不知道是什么证据让法希认定嫌疑人有罪，但他知道不要质疑公牛的直觉。法希的直觉几乎是超自然的。有一次，在法希展示了那令人敬佩的第六感觉以后，一位特工人员坚持说，有上帝在法希耳畔嘀咕。科莱不得不承认，如果有上帝的话，贝祖。法希肯定会上他的甲等选民名单。局长以极大的热情定期参加弥撒和忏悔--与从事公共事务的其他官员只在假日必须参加时才参加相比，法希去得要经常、有规律得多。几年前教皇莅临巴黎时，作为听众，法希使出浑身解数得到了一个殊荣。法希和教皇的合影现在就挂在他的办公室里。特工们暗地里称那幅照片为教皇公牛。颇具讽刺意味的是，在最近几年中法希难得的与大众相同的一个立场是他对天主教恋童癖丑闻的直率的反对。这些牧师应该被处绞刑两次。一次为那些孩子们，另一次是因他们让上帝的威名蒙羞。科莱有个怪念头，总是感觉到还是后者更让法希气愤。
科莱转向笔记本电脑，他得履行他今晚的另一半职责---操纵全球卫星定位跟踪系统。屏幕上的图像可清楚地显示出德农厅的地面设计。在屏幕上，德农厅像一个叠加在卢浮宫安全保卫部上的结构图。科莱的视线穿梭在迷宫般的画廊和廊道内，他发现了他要找的东西。
在大画廊中心地带有一个小红点在闪烁。
那个记号。
法希今晚把自己的猎物拴得很紧。这样做很高明。罗伯特。兰登被证明是个沉着冷静的家伙。[ 此帖被小梨涡°在2013-10-23 21:49重新编辑 ] -
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 cachée—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 Département de Cryptographie est arrivé."
Fache's anger stalled momentarily. A cryptographer? Despite the lousy timing, this was probably good news. Fache, after finding Saunière'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 Saunière was trying to say. If a code breaker had now arrived, it most likely meant someone had decrypted Saunière'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 déchiffreuse 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."
"I turned it off for a reason," Fache hissed. "I am speaking to Mr. Langdon."
"I've deciphered the numeric code," she said flatly.
Langdon felt a pulse of excitement. She broke the code?
Fache looked uncertain how to respond.
"Before I explain," Sophie said, "I have an urgent message for Mr. Langdon."
Fache's expression turned to one of deepening concern. "For Mr. Langdon?"
She nodded, turning back to Langdon. "You need to contact the U.S. Embassy, Mr. Langdon. They have a message for you from the States."
Langdon reacted with surprise, his excitement over the code giving way to a sudden ripple of concern. A message from the States? He tried to imagine who could be trying to reach him. Only a few of his colleagues knew he was in Paris.
Fache's broad jaw had tightened with the news. "The U.S. Embassy?" he demanded, sounding suspicious. "How would they know to find Mr. Langdon here?"
Sophie shrugged. "Apparently they called Mr. Langdon's hotel, and the concierge told them Mr. Langdon had been collected by a DCPJ agent."
Fache looked troubled. "And the embassy contacted DCPJ Cryptography?"
"No, sir," Sophie said, her voice firm. "When I called the DCPJ switchboard in an attempt to contact you, they had a message waiting for Mr. Langdon and asked me to pass it along if I got through to you."
Fache's brow furrowed in apparent confusion. He opened his mouth to speak, but Sophie had already turned back to Langdon.
"Mr. Langdon," she declared, pulling a small slip of paper from her pocket, "this is the number for your embassy's messaging service. They asked that you phone in as soon as possible." She handed him the paper with an intent gaze. "While I explain the code to Captain Fache, you need to make this call."
Langdon studied the slip. It had a Paris phone number and extension on it. "Thank you," he said, feeling worried now. "Where do I find a phone?"
Sophie began to pull a cell phone from her sweater pocket, but Fache waved her off. He now looked like Mount Vesuvius about to erupt. Without taking his eyes off Sophie, he produced his own cell phone and held it out. "This line is secure, Mr. Langdon. You may use it."
Langdon felt mystified by Fache's anger with the young woman. Feeling uneasy, he accepted the captain's phone. Fache immediately marched Sophie several steps away and began chastising her in hushed tones. Disliking the captain more and more, Langdon turned away from the odd confrontation and switched on the cell phone. Checking the slip of paper Sophie had given him, Langdon dialed the number.
The line began to ring.
One ring... two rings... three rings...
Finally the call connected.
Langdon expected to hear an embassy operator, but he found himself instead listening to an answering machine. Oddly, the voice on the tape was familiar. It was that of Sophie Neveu.
"Bonjour, vous êtes bien chez Sophie Neveu," the woman's voice said. "Je suis absenle pour le moment, mais..."
Confused, Langdon turned back toward Sophie. "I'm sorry, Ms. Neveu? I think you may have given me—"
"No, that's the right number," Sophie interjected quickly, as if anticipating Langdon's confusion. "The embassy has an automated message system. You have to dial an access code to pick up your messages."
Langdon stared. "But—"
"It's the three-digit code on the paper I gave you."
Langdon opened his mouth to explain the bizarre error, but Sophie flashed him a silencing glare that lasted only an instant. Her green eyes sent a crystal-clear message.
Don't ask questions. Just do it.
Bewildered, Langdon punched in the extension on the slip of paper: 454.
Sophie's outgoing message immediately cut off, and Langdon heard an electronic voice announce in French: "You have one new message." Apparently, 454 was Sophie's remote access code for picking up her messages while away from home.
I'm picking up this woman's messages?
Langdon could hear the tape rewinding now. Finally, it stopped, and the machine engaged. Langdon listened as the message began to play. Again, the voice on the line was Sophie's.
"Mr. Langdon," the message began in a fearful whisper. "Do not react to this message. Just listen calmly. You are in danger right now. Follow my directions very closely."中文：为了确保他和兰登先生的谈话不被打断，贝祖。法希已关掉了手机。不幸的是，这个昂贵的机型装备有双向无线电通讯功能，而他一个手下违反命令，正在使用这个功能呼他。
"局长吗？"电话里传来像步话机那样的"噼噼啪啪"的声音。法希气得牙齿都要咬碎了。他不能想象出到底有什么重要的事情可以让科莱中断这个秘密监视--尤其是在这个关键时刻。
他沉着而充满歉意地看了兰登一眼。"请稍等片刻。"他从腰带上拔出电话，摁下了无线传输键，用法语说："谁？"
"局长，密码破译部的一位特工到了。"对方用法语说。
法希把怒火暂时压了下去。一位密码破译人员？尽管来的不是什么时候，但这很可能是个好消息。法希发现了索尼埃写在地板上的神秘文字后，就把大堆的犯罪现场照片都送到了密码破译部，希望有人能告诉他索尼埃到底想说什么。如果是来了一位密码破译者，很可能是那个人已弄懂了索尼埃的意思。
"我现在正忙着呢。"法希回话说，他的语气明白无误告诉对方，他在忙着应付另一部电话。"告诉密码破译者在指挥部等着。等我忙完了再和他说话。"
"她。"对方纠正道。"是警察奈芙。"
电话那头越说，法希越没兴致。接收索菲。奈芙是中央司法警察局最大的错误之一。奈芙是一个年轻的译电员，她是巴黎人，曾在英国皇家霍洛威大学学习过密码破译技术。两年前，部里尝试在警察队伍中多加入些女性，因此，索菲。奈芙被塞给了法希。部里要达到"政治上正确"的尝试还在进行之中，但法希争辩说这其实是弱化这个部门。女人不仅缺乏从事警察工作所需要的体力，而且她们的出现往往使这个行当的男人们心猿意马，这是很危险的。正如法希所担心的那样，事实证明，奈芙最不能让人省心。
她三十二岁，意志坚定得几近固执。她太急于盲目相信英国的新方法，所以总是惹恼她上面那些老资格的法国密码破译人员。当然最令法希心烦的是那个放之四海而皆准的公理：在一群中年男人的办公室里，一位颇有魅力的年轻女郎总是把人们的眼球从手边的工作上吸走。
无线通讯中的那个男人说："奈芙警官非要立刻和您谈话，局长。我尽最大的努力阻止她，但她现在已经朝画廊这边走来了。"法希心头一缩，简直不敢相信会是这样。"简直令人无法容忍，我已讲清楚--"
罗伯特。兰登感觉法希好像在瞬间中了风。局长下颌突然不动了，眼球突出，只能说半截句子。他鼓起的水泡眼好像固定在兰登肩后的什么东西上。兰登还没来得及转身看是怎么回事，就听到一个女人的声音在他背后响起。
"对不起，先生们。"她用法语说。兰登转过身，发现是一位年轻女郎，正迈着矫健的步伐大步流星地朝他们走来，随意穿着的齐膝的奶黄色爱尔兰毛衣，刚好到她黑皮靴的上方。她很有魅力，浓密的葡萄酒色的头发自然地飘落在肩头，却露出了面部的温和。与贴在哈佛大学宿舍墙上的那些弱不禁风的甜姐儿不同，这个女人有一种不加粉饰的健康美，浑身散发出惊人的自信。
兰登没想到的是，那女人直接朝他走来并礼貌地伸出手来。"兰登先生，我是中央司法警察密码部的警察奈芙。"她说起话来抑扬顿挫，从她的英语中能听出法国口音。"很高兴见到您。"兰登握住她柔软的手掌，发现对方正使劲看着自己。她的眼睛是橄榄绿色的--锐利而清澈。法希使劲吸了一口气，显然是准备开始批评她。
"局长。"她急忙转身，先发制人地说。"请原谅我打断了你们的谈话，但--"
"现在不是时候！"法希气急败坏地用法语说。"我本想给你打电话。"好像是出于对兰登的礼貌，她还继续用英语说。"但是你电话关机了。"
"我关机是有原因的。"他愤怒地朝她嘘了一声。"我在和兰登先生谈话。"
"我已经破译了那个数字密码。"她干脆地说。
从法希的表情看，他有点拿不准该对此做出何种反应。
"在我解释之前。"索菲说。"我得先给兰登先生递个紧急的口信。"
法希的表情显得越来越焦虑。"给兰登先生的口信？"
她点点头，转回兰登。"您得和美国大使馆联系一下，兰登先生。他们有从美国来的留言给您。"兰登很吃惊，他刚才因密码引起的激动现在突然变成了一阵不安。来自美国的留言？
他使劲想到底会是谁想找到他，只有很少几位同事知道他在巴黎。
听到这个消息，法希也惊得嘴巴张得老大。"美国大使馆？"法希很怀疑地问了一声。"他们怎么知道到这儿来找兰登先生？"
索菲耸耸肩。"显然，他们把电话打到兰登先生住的酒店，但接待员告诉他们兰登先生被一个中央司法警察给叫走了。"法希显得更不解了。"难道大使馆和中央司法警察密码部联系上了？"
"不是，先生。"索菲语气坚定地说。"我在给中央司法警察局总机打电话联系您时，他们正好有一个口信要传给兰登先生。他们说如果我能接通您的电话，就让我把口信传给他。"法希眉头紧锁，一脸困惑。他想说话，但索菲已经转向兰登。
她从衣袋里拿出一张小纸条大声说："兰登先生，这是你们大使馆提供的留言服务号码。他们要求你尽可能早地打进电话。"她把纸条递给他，又意味深长地看了他一眼。"在我向法希局长解释密码时，你得打电话。"兰登仔细看了纸条，上面有一个巴黎的电话号码和分机号。"谢谢。"他感到非常担忧。"我到哪里找电话呢？"
索菲从毛衣口袋里取出手机，但法希示意她不要给他用。现在看起来他就像即将爆发的维苏威火山。他盯着索菲，拿出自己的手机递了过去。
兰登对法希向索菲发火这事感到疑惑不解。他很紧张地接过局长的电话。法希立即把索菲推开几步远，开始低声严厉责备她。兰登越来越讨厌法希，他转身避开另两人之间令人不解的冲突，打开了手机。兰登核对了一下索菲给他的号码后，开始拨号。
电话里传来了拨号声。
一声……，两声……，三声……
终于接通了。
兰登原想自己会听到大使馆接线员的声音，没想到自己听到的却是一个语音信箱的录音。奇怪的是，录音带上的声音很熟悉，是索菲。奈芙的声音。
"您好，这里是索菲。奈芙家。"一个女人用法语说道。"我现在不在家，但……"兰登被弄糊涂了，他转向索菲。"对不起，奈芙小姐，我想你可能给我--"
"没错，就是那号码。"索菲迅速插话，好像已经预测到了兰登的困惑。"大使馆有自动留言服务系统，但您得先拨进入系统的号码，然后才能接收您的留言。"兰登怔住了。"但是--"
"是我给您那张纸上的三位数号码。"
兰登想开口解释这个滑稽的错误，索菲向他递了一个只持续片刻的、严厉的、让他沉默的眼色。她绿色的眼睛发出了一个非常明了的信息。
别多问。按要求做。
兰登疑惑不解地拨了纸上的分机号454.索菲的语音信箱里的话立刻中断了。兰登听到电脑录制的声音用法语说："你有一条新的留言。"显然，454 是索菲不在家时接听留言的远程进入密码。
我要收听这个女人的留言？
兰登能听到录音带倒带的声音。它终于停下来了，语音信箱也开始工作了。兰登听到机器开始播放的留言了。这次又是索菲的声音。
"兰登先生。"留言里传出令人恐惧的低语声。"听到留言后，千万不要有什么反应，只管冷静地听。您现在处境危险，请严格遵守我的指令。"[ 此帖被小梨涡°在2013-10-23 21:49重新编辑 ] -
Chapter 10 Silas sat behind the wheel of the black Audi the Teacher had arranged for him and gazed out at the great Church of Saint-Sulpice. Lit from beneath by banks of floodlights, the church's two bell towers rose like stalwart sentinels above the building's long body. On either flank, a shadowy row of sleek buttresses jutted out like the ribs of a beautiful beast.
The heathens used a house of God to conceal their keystone. Again the brotherhood had confirmed their legendary reputation for illusion and deceit. Silas was looking forward to finding the keystone and giving it to the Teacher so they could recover what the brotherhood had long ago stolen from the faithful.
How powerful that will make Opus Dei.
Parking the Audi on the deserted Place Saint-Sulpice, Silas exhaled, telling himself to clear his mind for the task at hand. His broad back still ached from the corporal mortification he had endured earlier today, and yet the pain was inconsequential compared with the anguish of his life before Opus Dei had saved him.
Still, the memories haunted his soul.
Release your hatred, Silas commanded himself. Forgive those who trespassed against you.
Looking up at the stone towers of Saint-Sulpice, Silas fought that familiar undertow... that force that often dragged his mind back in time, locking him once again in the prison that had been his world as a young man. The memories of purgatory came as they always did, like a tempest to his senses... the reek of rotting cabbage, the stench of death, human urine and feces. The cries of hopelessness against the howling wind of the Pyrenees and the soft sobs of forgotten men.
Andorra, he thought, feeling his muscles tighten.
Incredibly, it was in that barren and forsaken suzerain between Spain and France, shivering in his stone cell, wanting only to die, that Silas had been saved.
He had not realized it at the time.
The light came long after the thunder.
His name was not Silas then, although he didn't recall the name his parents had given him. He had left home when he was seven. His drunken father, a burly dockworker, enraged by the arrival of an albino son, beat his mother regularly, blaming her for the boy's embarrassing condition. When the boy tried to defend her, he too was badly beaten.
One night, there was a horrific fight, and his mother never got up. The boy stood over his lifeless mother and felt an unbearable up-welling of guilt for permitting it to happen.
This is my fault!
As if some kind of demon were controlling his body, the boy walked to the kitchen and grasped a butcher knife. Hypnotically, he moved to the bedroom where his father lay on the bed in a drunken stupor. Without a word, the boy stabbed him in the back. His father cried out in pain and tried to roll over, but his son stabbed him again, over and over until the apartment fell quiet.
The boy fled home but found the streets of Marseilles equally unfriendly. His strange appearance made him an outcast among the other young runaways, and he was forced to live alone in the basement of a dilapidated factory, eating stolen fruit and raw fish from the dock. His only companions were tattered magazines he found in the trash, and he taught himself to read them. Over time, he grew strong. When he was twelve, another drifter—a girl twice his age—mocked him on the streets and attempted to steal his food. The girl found herself pummeled to within inches of her life. When the authorities pulled the boy off her, they gave him an ultimatum—leave Marseilles or go to juvenile prison.
The boy moved down the coast to Toulon. Over time, the looks of pity on the streets turned to looks of fear. The boy had grown to a powerful young man. When people passed by, he could hear them whispering to one another. A ghost, they would say, their eyes wide with fright as they stared at his white skin. A ghost with the eyes of a devil!
And he felt like a ghost... transparent... floating from seaport to seaport.
People seemed to look right through him.
At eighteen, in a port town, while attempting to steal a case of cured ham from a cargo ship, he was caught by a pair of crewmen. The two sailors who began to beat him smelled of beer, just as his father had. The memories of fear and hatred surfaced like a monster from the deep. The young man broke the first sailor's neck with his bare hands, and only the arrival of the police saved the second sailor from a similar fate.
Two months later, in shackles, he arrived at a prison in Andorra.
You are as white as a ghost, the inmates ridiculed as the guards marched him in, naked and cold. Mira el espectro! Perhaps the ghost will pass right through these walls!
Over the course of twelve years, his flesh and soul withered until he knew he had become transparent.
I am a ghost.
I am weightless.
Yo soy un espectro... palido coma una fantasma... caminando este mundo a solas.
One night the ghost awoke to the screams of other inmates. He didn't know what invisible force was shaking the floor on which he slept, nor what mighty hand was trembling the mortar of his stone cell, but as he jumped to his feet, a large boulder toppled onto the very spot where he had been sleeping. Looking up to see where the stone had come from, he saw a hole in the trembling wall, and beyond it, a vision he had not seen in over ten years. The moon.
Even while the earth still shook, the ghost found himself scrambling through a narrow tunnel, staggering out into an expansive vista, and tumbling down a barren mountainside into the woods. He ran all night, always downward, delirious with hunger and exhaustion.
Skirting the edges of consciousness, he found himself at dawn in a clearing where train tracks cut a swath across the forest. Following the rails, he moved on as if dreaming. Seeing an empty freight car, he crawled in for shelter and rest. When he awoke the train was moving. How long? How far? A pain was growing in his gut. Am I dying? He slept again. This time he awoke to someone yelling, beating him, throwing him out of the freight car. Bloody, he wandered the outskirts of a small village looking in vain for food. Finally, his body too weak to take another step, he lay down by the side of the road and slipped into unconsciousness.
The light came slowly, and the ghost wondered how long he had been dead. A day? Three days? It didn't matter. His bed was soft like a cloud, and the air around him smelled sweet with candles. Jesus was there, staring down at him. I am here, Jesus said. The stone has been rolled aside, and you are born again.
He slept and awoke. Fog shrouded his thoughts. He had never believed in heaven, and yet Jesus was watching over him. Food appeared beside his bed, and the ghost ate it, almost able to feel the flesh materializing on his bones. He slept again. When he awoke, Jesus was still smiling down, speaking. You are saved, my son. Blessed are those who follow my path.
Again, he slept.
It was a scream of anguish that startled the ghost from his slumber. His body leapt out of bed, staggered down a hallway toward the sounds of shouting. He entered into a kitchen and saw a large man beating a smaller man. Without knowing why, the ghost grabbed the large man and hurled him backward against a wall. The man fled, leaving the ghost standing over the body of a young man in priest's robes. The priest had a badly shattered nose. Lifting the bloody priest, the ghost carried him to a couch.
"Thank you, my friend," the priest said in awkward French. "The offertory money is tempting for thieves. You speak French in your sleep. Do you also speak Spanish?"
The ghost shook his head.
"What is your name?" he continued in broken French.
The ghost could not remember the name his parents had given him. All he heard were the taunting gibes of the prison guards.
The priest smiled. "No hay problema. My name is Manuel Aringarosa. I am a missionary from Madrid. I was sent here to build a church for the Obra de Dios."
"Where am I?" His voice sounded hollow.
"Oviedo. In the north of Spain."
"How did I get here?"
"Someone left you on my doorstep. You were ill. I fed you. You've been here many days."
The ghost studied his young caretaker. Years had passed since anyone had shown any kindness. "Thank you, Father."
The priest touched his bloody lip. "It is I who am thankful, my friend."
When the ghost awoke in the morning, his world felt clearer. He gazed up at the crucifix on the wall above his bed. Although it no longer spoke to him, he felt a comforting aura in its presence. Sitting up, he was surprised to find a newspaper clipping on his bedside table. The article was in French, a week old. When he read the story, he filled with fear. It told of an earthquake in the mountains that had destroyed a prison and freed many dangerous criminals.
His heart began pounding. The priest knows who I am! The emotion he felt was one he had not felt for some time. Shame. Guilt. It was accompanied by the fear of being caught. He jumped from his bed. Where do I run?
"The Book of Acts," a voice said from the door.
The ghost turned, frightened.
The young priest was smiling as he entered. His nose was awkwardly bandaged, and he was holding out an old Bible. "I found one in French for you. The chapter is marked."
Uncertain, the ghost took the Bible and looked at the chapter the priest had marked.
Acts 16.
The verses told of a prisoner named Silas who lay naked and beaten in his cell, singing hymns to God. When the ghost reached Verse 26, he gasped in shock.
"...And suddenly, there was a great earthquake, so that the foundations of the prison were shaken, and all the doors fell open."
His eyes shot up at the priest.
The priest smiled warmly. "From now on, my friend, if you have no other name, I shall call you Silas."
The ghost nodded blankly. Silas. He had been given flesh. My name is Silas.
"It's time for breakfast," the priest said. "You will need your strength if you are to help me build this church."
Twenty thousand feet above the Mediterranean, Alitalia flight 1618 bounced in turbulence, causing passengers to shift nervously. Bishop Aringarosa barely noticed. His thoughts were with the future of Opus Dei. Eager to know how plans in Paris were progressing, he wished he could phone Silas. But he could not. The Teacher had seen to that.
"It is for your own safety," the Teacher had explained, speaking in English with a French accent. "I am familiar enough with electronic communications to know they can be intercepted. The results could be disastrous for you."
Aringarosa knew he was right. The Teacher seemed an exceptionally careful man. He had not revealed his own identity to Aringarosa, and yet he had proven himself a man well worth obeying. After all, he had somehow obtained very secret information. The names of the brotherhood's four top members! This had been one of the coups that convinced the bishop the Teacher was truly capable of delivering the astonishing prize he claimed he could unearth.
"Bishop," the Teacher had told him, "I have made all the arrangements. For my plan to succeed, you must allow Silas to answer only to me for several days. The two of you will not speak. I will communicate with him through secure channels."
"You will treat him with respect?"
"A man of faith deserves the highest."
"Excellent. Then I understand. Silas and I shall not speak until this is over."
"I do this to protect your identity, Silas's identity, and my investment."
"Your investment?"
"Bishop, if your own eagerness to keep abreast of progress puts you in jail, then you will be unable to pay me my fee."
The bishop smiled. "A fine point. Our desires are in accord. Godspeed."
Twenty million euro, the bishop thought, now gazing out the plane's window. The sum was approximately the same number of U.S. dollars. A pittance for something so powerful.
He felt a renewed confidence that the Teacher and Silas would not fail. Money and faith were powerful motivators.
中文：塞拉斯坐在导师早已为他安排好的黑色奥迪轿车的驾驶座上，看着窗外的圣叙尔皮斯教堂。几排泛光灯从下面照射上去，教堂的两个钟楼像两个威武高大的哨兵矗立在教堂长长的躯体之上。两翼阴影处各有一排光滑的扶垛突出出来，像一个漂亮的胸脯上的根根肋骨。
异教徒利用上帝的圣所来藏匿他们的拱顶石。他们的"兄弟会"再次证实了他们的确如人们盛传的那样欺世盗名。塞拉斯期待着找到拱顶石并把它交给导师，以便他们可以重新找到兄弟会很早以前从信徒那里偷走的东西。那会使天主事工会多么强大啊！
塞拉斯把奥迪车停在空无一人的圣叙尔皮斯教堂的广场上，喘了口气，并告诫自己要清除杂念，一心一意地完成手头上的这个任务。由于他今天早些时候承受的"肉体惩罚"，所以他宽大的后背现在还在痛，但这与他未被天主教工会拯救之前所受的煎熬相比太微不足道了。
在他灵魂深处依然有挥之不去的记忆。
放下你的仇恨，塞拉斯命令自己，宽恕那些冒犯你的人。
仰望着圣叙尔皮斯教堂的石塔，此时他又在和那股回头浪抗争，那是一股把他的思绪拉回过去的力量，使他想起曾被关进的监牢---他年轻时的世界。痛苦的记忆总是像暴风雨一样冲击着他的思想……腐烂的大白菜的臭气，死尸、人尿和粪便的恶臭，无望的哭泣和着比利牛斯山脉咆哮的狂风，还有被遗忘的男人的抽泣声。
安道尔，他想起来了，感到肌肉也绷紧了。
塞拉斯当时整日在一个石头牢房里颤栗，唯一的念头就是死。令人难以置信的是，正是在这个介于西班牙和法国之间的荒凉的、无人关注的大公国里，塞拉斯被拯救了。
当时他并没有认识到这一点。
雷声过后很久才来了闪电。
他的名字当时还不叫塞拉斯，虽然他也记不起父母给他起的名字。他的醉鬼父亲，一个粗壮的码头工人，看到这个白化病儿子的降生很恼火，经常打孩子母亲，埋怨她使儿子处于窘境。当儿子试图保护她时，他连儿子一起打。
一天夜里，家里的架打得很凶。母亲永久地躺下了。他站在死去的母亲旁边，感到一种无法遏制的内疚感升腾起来，因为他觉得自己没能阻止这一切发生。
都是我的罪过。
好像有个恶魔在他体内控制着他。他走到厨房抄起一把切肉刀，精神恍惚地走到醉得不省人事的父亲床边，一句话也没说，照着父亲的背部捅去。他父亲痛得大叫，想转过身下床，但儿子一刀一刀地捅过去，直到房内寂静无声。
这孩子逃离了家，但发现马赛的街头同样不友好。其他流浪的孩子嫌弃他奇怪的外表，因此把他摞在一边。他被迫住在一个工厂破旧的地下室里，用偷来的水果和从码头偷来的生鱼果腹。他唯一的伙伴就是那些从垃圾堆里捡来的破烂杂志。他通过自学来阅读这些杂志。时间一天天过去，他长得越来越壮实。十二岁那年，另一个流浪者--一个二十四岁的女孩子取笑他并想偷她的食物。结果这女孩子差点被打死。有关当局把他从那个女孩子身上拉起来，给他下了最后通牒--要么离开马赛，要么进少年犯监狱。
这孩子转移到沿海的土伦市。久而久之，人们脸上的怜悯变成了恐惧。他已长成了一个彪形大汉。人们从他身旁走过时，他能听到他们彼此小声嘀咕。鬼！他们会说，而且当他们看着他那浑身发白的皮肤时，他们会吓得眼睛睁得老大。一个长着妖魔眼睛的鬼魂！
而且他自己也感觉自己像个鬼……一个很易被觉察的鬼魂，从一个港口游荡到另一个港口。
人们似乎看穿了他。
十八岁那年，在一个港口小城，他在从一艘货船上偷一箱腌火腿时，被两个船员当场拿获，那两个喷着酒气的海员开始打他，就像他父亲当年一样。恐惧和仇恨的记忆像海怪一样从海底浮现出来。年轻人赤手空拳就扭断了一个海员的脖子。幸亏警察及时赶到，第二名海员才免遭类似的厄运。
两个月以后，他拖着脚镣手铐来到了安道尔的一座监狱。
当狱卒将冷得哆哆嗦嗦、赤身裸体的他推进牢房时，他同狱房的犯人对他说，你白得像个鬼。看这个鬼魂啊！或许他能钻过这些墙！
十二年过去了，他终于发现他是这么惹眼，他的灵魂和肉体都要枯萎了。
我是一个鬼魂。
我没有份量。
我是幽灵……如鬼一样面无血色……走向东方太阳的世界。
一天夜里。"鬼"被同牢犯人的惊叫声惊醒。他不知道到底是什么无形的力量在摇晃着他睡觉的地板，也不知道是怎样的一双有力的大手在抖动他石头牢房的泥灰板，但当他站起来时，一块巨石正好落在他原来睡觉的那个地方。他抬头看看石头是从哪里落下的，结果看到抖动的墙上有个洞，洞外有一个他十多年都没看到的东西--月亮。
当地还在摇动时。"鬼"挤出一个窄窄的地道，跌跌撞撞地进入了开阔地带，然后他又沿着光秃秃的山坡滚进了森林。他一直往下跑了一整夜，又饿又累，精神恍惚。
黎明时，就在他差不多要失去知觉时，他发现自己到了铁路旁的空地上。他梦游似地沿着铁轨方向走下去。他看到一节空的货车车厢便爬进去避避风，休息一下。他醒来时，火车正在运行中。过了多长时间？走了多远？他肚子开始疼了起来。我会死吗？他跳下了货车。他浑身是血，走到了一个小村边，希望能找点吃的，可是没找到。最后，他身体太虚弱了，一步也走不动了，在路边倒下，失去了知觉。
光慢慢地来了。"鬼"在想他已死了多久。一天？三天？这都不重要。他的床像云朵一般柔软，周围的空气散发出蜡烛的甜香味。耶稣在此，正凝望着他。我在你身边，耶稣说。
石头已被推滚到一边了，你再生了。
他醒了睡，睡了醒。他的知觉被一团雾裹着。他从未相信过上帝，然而耶稣一直在天上看着他。食物出现在他旁边。"鬼"把它吃掉，几乎能感到骨头上在长肉。他又睡着了。他再次醒来时，耶稣还在微笑着看着他，正对他说话。孩子，你得救了。保佑那些跟随我的人们。
他又睡着了。
是一阵痛苦的尖叫声把"鬼"从沉睡中惊醒。他跳下床，沿着走廊踉踉跄跄地朝有喊叫声传来的地方走去。走进厨房，发现一个大块头在打一个小个子。"鬼"不分青红皂白地抓住大个子，使劲把他向后推，抵住墙。那人逃跑了，留下"鬼"站在穿着牧师服的年轻人的躯体旁。牧师的鼻子被打伤得非常严重。"鬼"抱起浑身是血的牧师，把他放在一个长沙发上。
"谢谢你，朋友。"牧师用不熟练的法语说。"做礼拜时得的捐款很招引贼。你睡梦中说法语。你也会说西班牙语吗？"
"鬼"摇摇头。
"你叫什么名字？"他还继续用不连贯的法语问。
"鬼"已记不住父母给他起的名字。他所听到的都是狱卒的嘲骂声。
牧师笑了。"别担心。我叫曼努埃尔。阿林加洛沙。我是来自马德里的一名传教士。我被派到这里为奥卜拉德迪奥斯建一座教堂。""我这是在哪儿？"他声音低沉地问。
"奥维尼德。在西班牙南部。"
"我怎么到这里的？"
"有人把你放在我门口。你病了，我喂你食物。你到我这儿好多天了。"
"鬼"认真打量着这位照顾他的年轻人。已好多年没有人这样关爱过他了。"谢谢您，神父。"
牧师摸了摸自己满是血迹的嘴。"该道谢的是我，朋友。"
当"鬼"翌日醒来时，他的世界变得清朗了许多。他凝望着床上方墙上的十字架，虽然十字架是无声的，但它的出现却让他感到一种慰藉。他起身坐起来，吃惊地发现床头柜上有一张剪报。是一周以前的报纸，文章是用法语写的。他读了那个故事，心里恐惧得要死。它讲的是山区的一场地震震坏了监狱，跑了许多危险的犯人的事。
他的心怦怦直跳。牧师知道我是谁！他有一种许久不曾有过的感觉。羞耻。内疚。羞耻、内疚和怕被抓的恐惧伴着他。他从床上跳了下来。我逃往何处？
"《使徒行传》。"一个声音从门口传来。
"鬼"转过身来，吓坏了。
年轻的牧师微笑着走进来。他的鼻子包扎得很难看。他手里捧着一本旧的《圣经》。"我为你找到一本法文版的。那一章已做好记号。""鬼"将信将疑拿起《圣经》，开始寻找牧师作过记号的那一章。
第16 章
这一章讲的是一个名叫塞拉斯的囚犯被剥光了衣服遭毒打后躺在牢房里向上帝唱着赞美诗的故事。
当"鬼"读到第26 句时，他惊得倒吸一口凉气。
"……突然有大地震，监牢的地基都摇动了，牢门立即全开。"
他往上瞟了一眼牧师。
牧师温和地笑了。"朋友，从今往后，如果你没有别的名字，我就叫你塞拉斯。"
"鬼"茫然地点了点头。塞拉斯。他有了肉体。我名叫塞拉斯。
"该吃早饭了。"牧师说。"你要是帮我建教堂，可得恢复气力啊。"
在地中海上空两千英尺，阿利塔利亚航空公司1618 号航班因空气湍流的出现而上下颠簸。乘客都紧张不停地抖动着。但阿林加洛沙主教几乎没注意到这些。他始终在考虑着天主事工会的未来。他非常想知道巴黎的计划进展如何了。他非常想给塞拉斯打个电话。
但他不能，因为导师负责这事。
"这是为你的安全考虑。"导师曾用带法国口音的英语解释道。"我很了解电子通讯设备，我知道他们是可以被截获的，那样的结果对你而言可是灾难性的。"阿林加洛沙知道导师是正确的。导师似乎是一个极为谨慎的人。他没有向阿林加洛沙透露自己的身份，但事实证明他的命令是值得遵守的。不管怎么说，正是他获得了这个秘密情报。兄弟会四个上层人物。这次行动只是导师的许多干得干脆利落的漂亮行动之一。
这使主教深信导师的确能得到那个他宣称能找到的、令人震惊的战利品。
导师曾告诉他。"主教，我已一切安排就绪。为了使我的计划成功，你必须允许塞拉斯这几天只和我联系，听我调遣。你们两个不许交谈。我将通过安全讯道和他联系。""你会尊重他，善待他吗？"
"一个诚信的人应该得到最高的敬重。"
"好极了，我明白了。这次行动不结束，我和塞拉斯就不相互交谈。"
"我这样做是为了掩护你的身份，还有塞拉斯的身份和我的投资。"
"你的投资？"
"主教，如果你因太急于同步了解事情的进展而进了监狱，那么你就没法付给我费用。"
主教笑了。"正是。我们的愿望是一致的，愿我们成功。"
两千万欧元。主教望着机窗外，思忖着。这个数目和美元数目差不多。
想弄点钱的动力真大。
他又一次确信导师和塞拉斯不会失败。金钱和信仰是强有力的动因。[ 此帖被小梨涡°在2013-10-23 21:49重新编辑 ] -
Chapter 11 "Une plaisanterie numérique?" Bezu Fache was livid, glaring at Sophie Neveu in disbelief. A numeric joke? "Your professional assessment of Saunière's code is that it is some kind of mathematical prank?"
Fache was in utter incomprehension of this woman's gall. Not only had she just barged in on Fache without permission, but she was now trying to convince him that Saunière, in his final moments of life, had been inspired to leave a mathematical gag?
"This code," Sophie explained in rapid French, "is simplistic to the point of absurdity. Jacques Saunière must have known we would see through it immediately." She pulled a scrap of paper from her sweater pocket and handed it to Fache. "Here is the decryption."
Fache looked at the card.
1-1-2-3-5-8-13-21
"This is it?" he snapped. "All you did was put the numbers in increasing order!"
Sophie actually had the nerve to give a satisfied smile. "Exactly."
Fache's tone lowered to a guttural rumble. "Agent Neveu, I have no idea where the hell you're going with this, but I suggest you get there fast." He shot an anxious glance at Langdon, who stood nearby with the phone pressed to his ear, apparently still listening to his phone message from the U.S. Embassy. From Langdon's ashen expression, Fache sensed the news was bad.
"Captain," Sophie said, her tone dangerously defiant, "the sequence of numbers you have in your hand happens to be one of the most famous mathematical progressions in history."
Fache was not aware there even existed a mathematical progression that qualified as famous, and he certainly didn't appreciate Sophie's off-handed tone.
"This is the Fibonacci sequence," she declared, nodding toward the piece of paper in Fache's hand. "A progression in which each term is equal to the sum of the two preceding terms."
Fache studied the numbers. Each term was indeed the sum of the two previous, and yet Fache could not imagine what the relevance of all this was to Saunière's death.
"Mathematician Leonardo Fibonacci created this succession of numbers in the thirteenth-century. Obviously there can be no coincidence that all of the numbers Saunière wrote on the floor belong to Fibonacci's famous sequence."
Fache stared at the young woman for several moments. "Fine, if there is no coincidence, would you tell me why Jacques Saunière chose to do this. What is he saying? What does this mean?"
She shrugged. "Absolutely nothing. That's the point. It's a simplistic cryptographic joke. Like taking the words of a famous poem and shuffling them at random to see if anyone recognizes what all the words have in common."
Fache took a menacing step forward, placing his face only inches from Sophie's. "I certainly hope you have a much more satisfying explanation than that."
Sophie's soft features grew surprisingly stern as she leaned in. "Captain, considering what you have at stake here tonight, I thought you might appreciate knowing that Jacques Saunière might be playing games with you. Apparently not. I'll inform the director of Cryptography you no longer need our services."
With that, she turned on her heel, and marched off the way she had come.
Stunned, Fache watched her disappear into the darkness. Is she out of her mind? Sophie Neveu had just redefined le suicide professionnel.
Fache turned to Langdon, who was still on the phone, looking more concerned than before, listening intently to his phone message. The U.S. Embassy. Bezu Fache despised many things... but few drew more wrath than the U.S. Embassy.
Fache and the ambassador locked horns regularly over shared affairs of state—their most common battleground being law enforcement for visiting Americans. Almost daily, DCPJ arrested American exchange students in possession of drugs, U.S. businessmen for soliciting underage Prostitutes, American tourists for shoplifting or destruction of property. Legally, the U.S. Embassy could intervene and extradite guilty citizens back to the United States, where they received nothing more than a slap on the wrist.
And the embassy invariably did just that.
L'émasculation de la Police Judiciaire, Fache called it. Paris Match had run a cartoon recently depicting Fache as a police dog, trying to bite an American criminal, but unable to reach because it was chained to the U.S. Embassy.
Not tonight, Fache told himself. There is far too much at stake.
By the time Robert Langdon hung up the phone, he looked ill.
"Is everything all right?" Fache asked.
Weakly, Langdon shook his head.
Bad news from home, Fache sensed, noticing Langdon was sweating slightly as Fache took back his cell phone.
"An accident," Langdon stammered, looking at Fache with a strange expression. "A friend..." He hesitated. "I'll need to fly home first thing in the morning."
Fache had no doubt the shock on Langdon's face was genuine, and yet he sensed another emotion there too, as if a distant fear were suddenly simmering in the American's eyes. "I'm sorry to hear that," Fache said, watching Langdon closely. "Would you like to sit down?" He motioned toward one of the viewing benches in the gallery.
Langdon nodded absently and took a few steps toward the bench. He paused, looking more confused with every moment. "Actually, I think I'd like to use the rest room."
Fache frowned inwardly at the delay. "The rest room. Of course. Let's take a break for a few minutes." He motioned back down the long hallway in the direction they had come from. "The rest rooms are back toward the curator's office."
Langdon hesitated, pointing in the other direction toward the far end of the Grand Gallery corridor. "I believe there's a much closer rest room at the end."
Fache realized Langdon was right. They were two thirds of the way down, and the Grand Gallery dead-ended at a pair of rest rooms. "Shall I accompany you?"
Langdon shook his head, already moving deeper into the gallery. "Not necessary. I think I'd like a few minutes alone."
Fache was not wild about the idea of Langdon wandering alone down the remaining length of corridor, but he took comfort in knowing the Grand Gallery was a dead end whose only exit was at the other end—the gate under which they had entered. Although French fire regulations required several emergency stairwells for a space this large, those stairwells had been sealed automatically when Saunière tripped the security system. Granted, that system had now been reset, unlocking the stairwells, but it didn't matter—the external doors, if opened, would set off fire alarms and were guarded outside by DCPJ agents. Langdon could not possibly leave without Fache knowing about it.
"I need to return to Mr. Saunière's office for a moment," Fache said. "Please come find me directly, Mr. Langdon. There is more we need to discuss."
Langdon gave a quiet wave as he disappeared into the darkness.
Turning, Fache marched angrily in the opposite direction. Arriving at the gate, he slid under, exited the Grand Gallery, marched down the hall, and stormed into the command center at Saunière's office.
"Who gave the approval to let Sophie Neveu into this building!" Fache bellowed.
Collet was the first to answer. "She told the guards outside she'd broken the code."
Fache looked around. "Is she gone?"
"She's not with you?"
"She left." Fache glanced out at the darkened hallway. Apparently Sophie had been in no mood to stop by and chat with the other officers on her way out.
For a moment, Fache considered radioing the guards in the entresol and telling them to stop Sophie and drag her back up here before she could leave the premises. He thought better of it. That was only his pride talking... wanting the last word. He'd had enough distractions tonight.
Deal with Agent Neveu later, he told himself, already looking forward to firing her.
Pushing Sophie from his mind, Fache stared for a moment at the miniature knight standing on Saunière's desk. Then he turned back to Collet. "Do you have him?"
Collet gave a curt nod and spun the laptop toward Fache. The red dot was clearly visible on the floor plan overlay, blinking methodically in a room marked TOILETTES PUBLIQUES.
"Good," Fache said, lighting a cigarette and stalking into the hall. I've got a phone call to make. Be damned sure the rest room is the only place Langdon goes."
中文：
"只是一个数字玩笑？"贝祖。法希脸色铁青，怒视着索菲。奈芙，一点也不相信这种说法。？"你对索尼埃密码所做出的职业判断就是一种数学恶作剧？"
法希一点也不明白为什么这个女人如此莽撞。她不仅不经允许擅自闯入画廊来找法希，而且还在试图让他相信索尼埃在生命的最后时刻还突发灵感，为世人留下一个数学玩笑？
"这个密码。"索菲很快用法语解释道。"简直容易到荒唐的地步。雅克。索尼埃一定知道我们很快就会破译它。"她从羊毛衫口袋里取出一张小纸片递给法希。"这是破译结果。"法希看了看纸片：1－1－2－3－5－8－13－21"就这个"，他厉斥道。"你只是把这些数字按升序排列起来。"
索菲却满不在乎地、满意地微笑道："正是这样。"
法希压低了嗓门，声音如滚滚闷雷似的说："奈芙警士，我不明白这究竟能说明什么问题。但是我建议你立刻到那边去。"他焦虑地看了兰登一眼。兰登正站在附近，手机紧贴着耳朵，显然还在听美国大使馆的留言。从兰登煞白的脸色，法希能感觉到消息不妙。
"局长。"索菲冒险以挑战性的语气说。"你手里的这一组数字正好是数学史上最著名的一个数列。"法希不知道竟然还有称得上"著名"的数列，而且他当然不喜欢索菲简慢的语气。
"这是斐波那契数列。"她朝法希手里的纸片点头说。"这是一个整数数列，其中每个数等于前面的两数之和。"法希研究了一下这些数字。每个数字的确是前两项之和，但法希想象不出这和索尼埃的死有什么联系。
"数学家列奥那多。斐波那契在13 世纪创设了这个数列。索尼埃写在地板上的所有数字都属于斐波那契数列，显然，这绝非巧合。"法希盯着这位年轻女人看了一会儿。"好极了，如果不是巧合，那么请你告诉我，雅克。索尼埃为什么非要那样做？他到底想说什么？这表示什么？"
她耸耸肩。"什么也不表示。问题就在这儿。它只是一个极简单的密码玩笑。这正如把一首名诗的词重新随机打乱看看是否有人能辨认出这些词有什么共同之处一样。"法希威胁性地向前迈了一步，他的脸离索菲的脸只有几英寸远。"我真希望你能给出一个比那更令人满意的解释。"索菲也同样倾斜着身子，本来温柔的面孔变得异常严峻。"局长，鉴于你今夜在此的窘境，我本以为你或许乐意知道雅克。索尼埃或许在和你玩个游戏。看来，显然你不喜欢这个解释。我会告诉密码部主任你不再需要我们的服务。"说完这些，她转身往她来的方向走了。
法希呆住了，看着她消失在黑暗之中。她疯了吗？索菲。奈芙刚刚重新解释过"职业自杀"。
法希又转向兰登。兰登还在认真听电话留言，看起来比刚才更焦虑。美国大使馆，贝祖。法希讨厌很多东西，但没有比美国大使馆更令他恼火的了。
法希和大使经常在涉及双方的事情上较劲--最常见的"战场"是在对美国游客的执法问题上。几乎天天法国司法警察都会逮捕私自拥有毒品的美国留学生、勾引雏妓的生意人、偷窃或毁坏财物的游客。在从法律上来讲，美国大使馆可以干预并将犯罪的美国公民引渡回国，而在美国他们只受到些轻描淡写的惩罚。大使馆总是把犯罪的美国人引渡回国。
这是阉割司法警察，法希总是这样说。《巴黎赛事》最近曾登载了一幅漫画，把法希描绘成一条狗，它试图咬一名美国罪犯，可是够不着，因为它被拴在美国大使馆。
今夜可不是这样，法希这样告诉自己。今天我会是个大赢家。
兰登挂上电话后显得很不自在。"一切都好吗？"法希问。兰登微微地摇摇头。
从国内传来的坏消息，法希想。他在拿回手机时注意到兰登在微微冒汗。
"一个事故。"兰登表情不自然地看着兰登说。"一个朋友……"他犹豫了一下。"我明天一大早就得飞回国内。"法希一点也不怀疑兰登脸上的震惊之情是真的，但他还有另一种感觉。他感觉到好像这个美国人的眼里有一丝不愿流露出来的恐惧感。"听到这个消息我很难过。"法希边说边密切地观察着兰登。"请坐。"他指向大画廊内供人站在上面看画的长凳。
兰登茫然地点点头，迈步朝长凳走去。他停了下来，显得越来越不知所措。"事实上，我想用一下洗手间。"法希皱起眉头，对这种拖延有些不悦。"洗手间。当然，咱们休息几分钟吧。"他指向身后他们刚才走过的走廊。"洗手间在后面，在馆长办公室方向。"
兰登犹豫了一下，指向大画廊另一端说："我想，那边的洗手间近得多。"
法希意识到兰登说得对。他们已经走过大画廊三分之二的距离，大画廊尽头有两个洗手间。"我陪你好吗？"
兰登摇头。他已经往画廊更深处走去了。"不必了。我想我得单独在那儿呆上几分钟。"
法希对兰登要独自沿着走廊走下去倒不恼火，他很放心，因为他知道大画廊那一端是死路一条，没有出口。大画廊惟一的出口在另一端--他们刚刚钻过来的那个门。虽然法国消防法要求像这么大的空间必须有好几个楼梯井，但当索尼埃启动安全防护系统后，那些楼梯井就自动封闭了。就算安全防护系统现在被解除，打开楼梯井，那也没关系--那些外边的门一旦打开，就会弄响警报，门就会被司法警察守卫起来，兰登不可能在法希不知情的情况下离开。
"我得回到索尼埃先生的办公室呆一会。"法希说。"请直接来找我，兰登先生。我们还有很多东西要讨论。"
兰登静静地挥一下手，消失在黑暗之中。
法希转身气哼哼地朝相反方向走去。到铁栅处，他从底下钻了过去，出了大画廊，径直沿大厅气冲冲地冲向设在索尼埃办公室的指挥部。
"谁批准让索菲。奈芙进来的？"法希咆哮道。
科莱先生回答道："她告诉外面的警卫说她已破译了密码。"
法希四处打量了一番。"她走了吗？"
"她不是和你在一起吗？"
"她走了。"法希望了望远处阴森森的走廊。索菲显然没情趣停下来和她在外出路上碰到的其他警官聊天。
一时间，他考虑要呼叫入口处的卫兵，告诉他们在索菲离开卢浮宫之前把她拖回到指挥部来。但又一想，他放弃了这个念头。那只是他的大话……想要说了算。他今晚够烦的了。以后再找奈芙算账，他这么说，心里已经想着要炒她鱿鱼了。
法希把索菲抛到脑后。他盯着索尼埃桌子上的武士小雕像看了一番。过一会他转向科莱问："他还在吗？"
科莱急忙点头并把手提电脑转向法希。一个红点在地板图饰上分明地显现出来，在标有"公共厕所"的房间有条不紊地闪烁着。
"很好。"法希说。他点燃一支香烟大步走进大厅。
"我得打个电话。要确保兰登不能去除洗手间之外的其他任何地方。"[ 此帖被小梨涡°在2013-10-23 21:50重新编辑 ] -
Chapter 12 Robert Langdon felt light-headed as he trudged toward the end of the Grand Gallery. Sophie's phone message played over and over in his mind. At the end of the corridor, illuminated signs bearing the international stick-figure symbols for rest rooms guided him through a maze-like series of dividers displaying Italian drawings and hiding the rest rooms from sight.
Finding the men's room door, Langdon entered and turned on the lights.
The room was empty.
Walking to the sink, he splashed cold water on his face and tried to wake up. Harsh fluorescent lights glared off the stark tile, and the room smelled of ammonia. As he toweled off, the rest room's door creaked open behind him. He spun.
Sophie Neveu entered, her green eyes flashing fear. "Thank God you came. We don't have much time."
Langdon stood beside the sinks, staring in bewilderment at DCPJ cryptographer Sophie Neveu. Only minutes ago, Langdon had listened to her phone message, thinking the newly arrived cryptographer must be insane. And yet, the more he listened, the more he sensed Sophie Neveu was speaking in earnest. Do not react to this message. Just listen calmly. You are in danger right now. Follow my directions very closely. Filled with uncertainty, Langdon had decided to do exactly as Sophie advised. He told Fache that the phone message was regarding an injured friend back home. Then he had asked to use the rest room at the end of the Grand Gallery.
Sophie stood before him now, still catching her breath after doubling back to the rest room. In the fluorescent lights, Langdon was surprised to see that her strong air actually radiated from unexpectedly soft features. Only her gaze was sharp, and the juxtaposition conjured images of a multilayered Renoir portrait... veiled but distinct, with a boldness that somehow retained its shroud of mystery.
"I wanted to warn you, Mr. Langdon..." Sophie began, still catching her breath, "that you are sous surveillance cachée. Under a guarded observation." As she spoke, her accented English resonated off the tile walls, giving her voice a hollow quality.
"But... why?" Langdon demanded. Sophie had already given him an explanation on the phone, but he wanted to hear it from her lips.
"Because," she said, stepping toward him, "Fache's primary suspect in this murder is you."
Langdon was braced for the words, and yet they still sounded utterly ridiculous. According to Sophie, Langdon had been called to the Louvre tonight not as a symbologist but rather as a suspect and was currently the unwitting target of one of DCPJ's favorite interrogation methods—surveillance cachée—a deft deception in which the police calmly invited a suspect to a crime scene and interviewed him in hopes he would get nervous and mistakenly incriminate himself.
"Look in your jacket's left pocket," Sophie said. "You'll find proof they are watching you."
Langdon felt his apprehension rising. Look in my pocket? It sounded like some kind of cheap magic trick.
"Just look."
Bewildered, Langdon reached his hand into his tweed jacket's left pocket—one he never used. Feeling around inside, he found nothing. What the devil did you expect? He began wondering if Sophie might just be insane after all. Then his fingers brushed something unexpected. Small and hard. Pinching the tiny object between his fingers, Langdon pulled it out and stared in astonishment. It was a metallic, button-shaped disk, about the size of a watch battery. He had never seen it before. "What the...?"
"GPS tracking dot," Sophie said. "Continuously transmits its location to a Global Positioning System satellite that DCPJ can monitor. We use them to monitor people's locations. It's accurate within two feet anywhere on the globe. They have you on an electronic leash. The agent who picked you up at the hotel slipped it inside your pocket before you left your room."
Langdon flashed back to the hotel room... his quick shower, getting dressed, the DCPJ agent politely holding out Langdon's tweed coat as they left the room. It's cool outside, Mr. Langdon, the agent had said. Spring in Paris is not all your song boasts. Langdon had thanked him and donned the jacket.
Sophie's olive gaze was keen. "I didn't tell you about the tracking dot earlier because I didn't want you checking your pocket in front of Fache. He can't know you've found it."
Langdon had no idea how to respond.
"They tagged you with GPS because they thought you might run." She paused. "In fact, they hoped you would run; it would make their case stronger."
"Why would I run!" Langdon demanded. "I'm innocent!"
"Fache feels otherwise."
Angrily, Langdon stalked toward the trash receptacle to dispose of the tracking dot.
"No!" Sophie grabbed his arm and stopped him. "Leave it in your pocket. If you throw it out, the signal will stop moving, and they'll know you found the dot. The only reason Fache left you alone is because he can monitor where you are. If he thinks you've discovered what he's doing..." Sophie did not finish the thought. Instead, she pried the metallic disk from Langdon's hand and slid it back into the pocket of his tweed coat. "The dot stays with you. At least for the moment."
Langdon felt lost. "How the hell could Fache actually believe I killed Jacques Saunière!"
"He has some fairly persuasive reasons to suspect you." Sophie's expression was grim. "There is a piece of evidence here that you have not yet seen. Fache has kept it carefully hidden from you."
Langdon could only stare.
"Do you recall the three lines of text that Saunière wrote on the floor?"
Langdon nodded. The numbers and words were imprinted on Langdon's mind.
Sophie's voice dropped to a whisper now. "Unfortunately, what you saw was not the entire message. There was a fourth line that Fache photographed and then wiped clean before you arrived."
Although Langdon knew the soluble ink of a watermark stylus could easily be wiped away, he could not imagine why Fache would erase evidence.
"The last line of the message," Sophie said, "was something Fache did not want you to know about." She paused. "At least not until he was done with you."
Sophie produced a computer printout of a photo from her sweater pocket and began unfolding it. "Fache uploaded images of the crime scene to the Cryptology Department earlier tonight in hopes we could figure out what Saunière's message was trying to say. This is a photo of the complete message." She handed the page to Langdon.
Bewildered, Langdon looked at the image. The close-up photo revealed the glowing message on the parquet floor. The final line hit Langdon like a kick in the gut.
13-3-2-21-1-1-8-5
O, Draconian devil!
Oh, lame saint!
P.S. Find Robert Langdon
中文：罗伯特。兰登深一脚浅一脚地朝长廊尽头走去，他感到头重脚轻。索菲的电话留言在他脑子里一遍遍地重复。在长廊的尽头，亮着灯的牌子上有国际通行的用来标示卫生间的线条人物，他沿着这些指示牌走过一系列迷宫一样的分隔区。这些分隔区一面展示意大利画作，同时也把洗手间遮藏于人们看不见的地方。
兰登找到男卫生间的门，进去打开了灯。卫生间里空无一人。
他走到水盆旁往自己脸上溅冷水，想使自己清醒些。刺眼的灯光从光滑的瓷砖上反射出耀眼的光芒，卫生间里一股氨味。他擦手时，卫生间的门突然"吱呀"一声开了。他吓得急忙转过身。索菲。奈芙进来了，她绿色的眼睛里闪着担心和恐惧。"谢天谢地，你来了！我们时间不多了。"兰登站在水盆旁，疑惑不解地望着中央司法警察的密码破译员索菲。奈芙。几分钟前，兰登听了她的电话留言，认为这位新来的密码破译员一定是脑子不正常。然而，他越听越觉得索菲。奈芙语气恳切。"听到留言后，千万不要有什么反应。只管冷静地听。您现在处境危险。请严格遵守我的指令。"兰登虽然将信将疑，但他还是决定严格按索菲建议的那样做。他告诉法希留言是关于国内的一个受伤的朋友。后来他又要求使用大画廊尽头的卫生间。
索菲此刻站到了他面前，因为折回到卫生间的缘故，她还在上气不接下气地喘着。在日光灯下，兰登惊异地发现她强有力的气息实际上是从那极温柔的嘴唇和鼻孔里散发出的。只是她目光锐利，这些五官的组合使人想起雷诺阿的多层肖像画……罩着纱，但又依稀可见，大胆开放却又保留着一层神秘。
"我刚才想提醒您，兰登先生……"索菲开始说话，不过还是上气不接下气。"你被秘密监视了--在严密监视之下。"说话时，她有口音的英语在贴着瓷砖的墙上有回声，使她的声音显得有些沉闷。
"但是……为什么？"兰登追问道。索菲已经在电话留言里向他解释过了，但他还是想听到她亲口说出来。
"因为。"她向前迈一步说。"法希把你列为这个谋杀案中的首要嫌疑犯。"
兰登听到这话后愣住了，但那听起来太荒谬了。索菲讲，兰登今晚并不是作为一个象征符号学家而是作为嫌疑犯被召进卢浮宫的。这是中央司法警察当前最喜欢使用的一个审讯方法。嫌疑犯在不知情的情况下被监视。这种秘密监视是一种巧妙的骗局。警察若无其事地把嫌疑犯邀请到犯罪现场和他面谈，希望嫌疑人紧张失色，无意中暴露自己的罪行。
"掏掏你上衣的左衣袋，你就能找到他们监视你的证据。"索菲说。
兰登突然感到一股恐惧从他心头升起。掏掏我的衣袋？听起来像某种低劣的咒语。
"你掏掏呀！"
兰登满腹狐疑地把手伸进花格呢上衣的左衣袋--他从未用过这个衣袋。他在里边摸了摸，什么也没摸到。你到底指望得到什么？他开始怀疑索菲是不是真的疯了。可就在这时，他的手指头碰到了一个他意想不到的东西--又小又硬。兰登用手指把那小玩意儿捏了出来，惊恐地盯着它。那是一个金属的、纽扣状的小圆盘，大约和手表电池那般大小。
他以前从未见过这东西。"这是？……"
"全球卫星定位跟踪器。"索菲说。"它能不停地把它的位置传输给中央司法警察可以监控的全球卫星定位系统。在全球任何地方，它的误差不会超过两英尺。他们已经把你拴在这个电子绳索上了。去酒店接你的那个警察在您离开房间之前就把它塞进了你的上衣衣袋里。"兰登回忆起了他在酒店客房里的情形--他很快地冲了淋浴，穿上衣服，中央司法警察在出门时礼貌地把他的花格呢上衣递给他。外面很冷，兰登先生。警察说。巴黎的春天一点也不像你们歌中赞叹的那样好。兰登谢了他，把上衣穿上了。
索菲橄榄色的眼神显得很敏锐。"我之所以没有告诉您这个跟踪器，是因为我不想让您当着法希的面检查您的衣袋。法希不可能知道你现在已经发现了它。"兰登不知道该作何应答。
"他们用卫星定位系统把你锁定，因为他们认为你或许会逃跑。"她停了停又说。"事实上，他们倒希望你逃跑；那样会使他们感到罪证更确凿。""我为什么要逃跑？"兰登问。"我是无辜的！"
"法希可不这样想。"
兰登生气地走向垃圾筒，想把跟踪器扔掉。
"不行！"索菲抓住他的胳膊。"把它留在你衣袋里。如果扔掉，信号就会停止运动，他们就会知道你已发现了这个跟踪器。法希让你在这里的唯一原因是因为他可以监控你的行动。如果他发现你已经知道了他所做的……"索菲没把话说完，而是把那金属小圆盘从兰登手里夺过来，把它塞到他的花格呢外套衣袋里。"把这个跟踪器放在你身上，至少目前得这样。"兰登感到非常不解。"法希怎么就认定是我杀死了雅克。索尼埃！"
"他有极具说服力的理由来怀疑你。"索菲表情严肃。"有一条证据你还没看到。法希已谨慎地把它藏了起来，没让你看到。"兰登只能睁大眼睛，无话可说。
"你还能记起索尼埃写在地上的那三行东西吗？"
兰登点点头。那些数字和文字已深深地印在他的脑海里。
索菲的声音现在低得像耳语一样。"不幸的是，你所看到的并不是信息的全部。法希的照片上本来有第四行，但在你来之前被彻底清除掉了。"虽然兰登知道那种水印笔的可溶性墨水可以很容易被清除掉，他还是不能想出为什么法希要擦掉证据。
"那遗言的最后一行。"索菲说。"法希不想让你知道。"索菲稍停了一下又说："至少在他把你拿下之前是这样。"索菲从她的毛衣衣袋里取出一张电脑打印的照片后开始把它展开。"法希今晚早些时候给密码破译部送去一堆犯罪现场的照片，希望我们能破译出索尼埃的文字到底试图说明什么。这是一幅有完整信息的照片。"她把照片递给了兰登。
兰登不解地看着图片。这张特写照片上显示出拼花地板上发光的文字。看到最后一行，兰登感觉犹如肚子上被人踹了一脚一样：13－3－2－21－1－1－8－5啊，严酷的魔王！
噢，瘸腿的圣徒！
附言：找到罗伯特。兰登。（译者注：附言的英文缩写是P.S.）[ 此帖被小梨涡°在2013-10-23 21:50重新编辑 ] -
Chapter 13 For several seconds, Langdon stared in wonder at the photograph of Saunière's postscript. P.S. Find Robert Langdon. He felt as if the floor were tilting beneath his feet. Saunière left a postscript with my name on it? In his wildest dreams, Langdon could not fathom why.
"Now do you understand," Sophie said, her eyes urgent, "why Fache ordered you here tonight, and why you are his primary suspect?"
The only thing Langdon understood at the moment was why Fache had looked so smug when Langdon suggested Saunière would have accused his killer by name.
Find Robert Langdon.
"Why would Saunière write this?" Langdon demanded, his confusion now giving way to anger. "Why would I want to kill Jacques Saunière?"
"Fache has yet to uncover a motive, but he has been recording his entire conversation with you tonight in hopes you might reveal one."
Langdon opened his mouth, but still no words came.
"He's fitted with a miniature microphone," Sophie explained. "It's connected to a transmitter in his pocket that radios the signal back to the command post."
"This is impossible," Langdon stammered. "I have an alibi. I went directly back to my hotel after my lecture. You can ask the hotel desk."
"Fache already did. His report shows you retrieving your room key from the concierge at about ten-thirty. Unfortunately, the time of the murder was closer to eleven. You easily could have left your hotel room unseen."
"This is insanity! Fache has no evidence!"
Sophie's eyes widened as if to say: No evidence? "Mr. Langdon, your name is written on the floor beside the body, and Saunière's date book says you were with him at approximately the time of the murder." She paused. "Fache has more than enough evidence to take you into custody for questioning."
Langdon suddenly sensed that he needed a lawyer. "I didn't do this."
Sophie sighed. "This is not American television, Mr. Langdon. In France, the laws protect the police, not criminals. Unfortunately, in this case, there is also the media consideration. Jacques Saunière was a very prominent and well-loved figure in Paris, and his murder will be news in the morning. Fache will be under immediate pressure to make a statement, and he looks a lot better having a suspect in custody already. Whether or not you are guilty, you most certainly will be held by DCPJ until they can figure out what really happened."
Langdon felt like a caged animal. "Why are you telling me all this?"
"Because, Mr. Langdon, I believe you are innocent." Sophie looked away for a moment and then back into his eyes. "And also because it is partially my fault that you're in trouble."
"I'm sorry? It's your fault Saunière is trying to frame me?"
"Saunière wasn't trying to frame you. It was a mistake. That message on the floor was meant for me."
Langdon needed a minute to process that one. "I beg your pardon?"
"That message wasn't for the police. He wrote it for me. I think he was forced to do everything in such a hurry that he just didn't realize how it would look to the police." She paused. "The numbered code is meaningless. Saunière wrote it to make sure the investigation included cryptographers, ensuring that I would know as soon as possible what had happened to him."
Langdon felt himself losing touch fast. Whether or not Sophie Neveu had lost her mind was at this point up for grabs, but at least Langdon now understood why she was trying to help him. P.S. Find Robert Langdon. She apparently believed the curator had left her a cryptic postscript telling her to find Langdon. "But why do you think his message was for you?"
"The Vitruvian Man," she said flatly. "That particular sketch has always been my favorite Da Vinci work. Tonight he used it to catch my attention."
"Hold on. You're saying the curator knew your favorite piece of art?" She nodded. "I'm sorry. This is all coming out of order. Jacques Saunière and I..."
Sophie's voice caught, and Langdon heard a sudden melancholy there, a painful past, simmering just below the surface. Sophie and Jacques Saunière apparently had some kind of special relationship. Langdon studied the beautiful young woman before him, well aware that aging men in France often took young mistresses. Even so, Sophie Neveu as a "kept woman" somehow didn't seem to fit.
"We had a falling-out ten years ago," Sophie said, her voice a whisper now. "We've barely spoken since. Tonight, when Crypto got the call that he had been murdered, and I saw the images of his body and text on the floor, I realized he was trying to send me a message."
"Because of The Vitruvian Man?"
"Yes. And the letters P.S."
"Post Script?"
She shook her head. "P.S. are my initials."
"But your name is Sophie Neveu."
She looked away. "P.S. is the nickname he called me when I lived with him." She blushed. "It stood for Princesse Sophie"
Langdon had no response.
"Silly, I know," she said. "But it was years ago. When I was a little girl."
"You knew him when you were a little girl?"
"Quite well," she said, her eyes welling now with emotion. "Jacques Saunière was my grandfather."
兰登惊愕地看着有索尼埃附言的照片，半晌无语。附言：找到罗伯特。兰登。他感到脚下的地板在倾斜。索尼埃在附言中留下我的名字。任凭他怎么想象，兰登也弄不懂为什么。
"现在你明白为什么法希今晚把你叫到这儿，为什么你是首要嫌疑犯了吧？"
此刻，兰登唯一明白的，是为什么当兰登说索尼埃写下的应该是谋杀者的名字时，法希看起来是那么得意啦。
找到罗伯特。兰登。
"索尼埃为什么要这样写？"兰登问道。此时他的困惑已经变成了愤怒。"我为什么要杀雅克。索尼埃？"
"法希还没有找到作案动机，但他已经把今晚你们谈话的全部内容都录了音，他希望你能泄露出动机。"兰登张大了嘴，却说不出话来。
"他身上带着一个微型麦克风。"索菲解释说。"麦克风和他衣袋里的发射机相连接，发射机把无线电信号发回指挥部。""这不可能。"兰登结结巴巴地说。"我有不在场的证据，讲座过后我就立即回酒店了，你可以问酒店服务台。""法希已经询问过了。""他的报告表明你在大约十点半从门房那里取回你房间的钥匙。
不幸的是，谋杀的时间更接近十一点钟。你可以在别人看不到的情况下轻易地离开酒店。""胡说八道！法希没有证据！"
索菲的眼睛睁得老大，似乎在说：没有证据？"兰登先生，你的名字写在尸体旁的地板上，而且索尼埃的每日记事本上也说他大约是在谋杀发生的那段时间和您在一起。"她停了停。"法希有足够的证据拘留你，审问你。"
兰登突然意识到他需要一名律师。"我没干这事。"
索菲叹了一口气。"这不是美国电视，兰登先生。在法国，法律保护警察而不是犯人。
不幸的是，在这个案子中，还得考虑媒体。在巴黎，雅克。索尼埃是一位杰出的、深受爱戴的人物，他被谋杀的消息明天一早就会传开去。法希将在重压之下陈述案情。有一个嫌疑犯可拘押，他现在看起来好过多了。不管你是否有罪，你都肯定被中央司法警察拘押，一直到他们弄清事实真相。"兰登感觉自己像一只笼中兽。"你为什么给我讲这些？"
"因为，兰登先生，我相信你是无辜的。"索菲转过脸望着别处片刻后又看着他说："而且也部分是由于我的过错给你惹了这麻烦。""你说什么？索尼埃圈定我是你的过错？"
"索尼埃并不是要圈定你。这是个误会。地板上的那段文字是写给我看的。"
兰登花了好一段时间也没弄懂这句话的意思。"我没听懂！"
"那段文字并不是给警察看的，他是写给我的。我想他在匆忙中只能这么做，他根本没想到警察看到会怎么想。"她歇了口气。"那个数字密码没有意义。索尼埃那样写是想确保案件调查人员中会包括密码破译人员，确保我会尽快知道他出了什么事。"兰登感觉自己实在弄不明白其中复杂的关系，马上就糊涂了。姑且不论索菲。奈芙这会儿是不是真的疯了，但至少兰登明白为什么她在尽力帮助他。附言：找到兰登。她显然是相信馆长给她留下的一个秘密附言，告诉她去找兰登。"但为什么你认为那段文字是写给你的？"
"维特鲁威人。"她干脆地说。"那幅画是达。芬奇画作中我最喜欢的一幅，今晚他用它来引起我的注意。""停一下，你说馆长知道你最喜欢的艺术品是什么？"
她点点头。"对不起，一切都乱了套。雅克。索尼埃和我……"
索菲哽咽了，兰登听得出有一段伤感、痛苦的过去在她内心深处炙烤着她。索菲和雅克。索尼埃显然有某种特殊的关系。兰登又仔细打量了站在他面前的这个年轻女人。他非常清楚法国上了些年纪的男人经常找年轻的情人。即使是这样，索菲。奈芙看起来也不像是一个"被包养的女人"。
"我们十年前闹翻了。"索菲声音低得像耳语。"从那以后，我们几乎没说过话。今夜，密码破译部接到电话说他被谋杀了，我看了他的尸体的照片和地板上的文字，就意识到他在试图给我传达一个信息。""因为维特鲁威人？"
"是的，还有字母P.S."
"PostScript--附言？"
她摇摇头。"P.S 是我的名字的首字母。"
"但你的名字是索菲。奈芙--SophieNeveu."
她把脸转到一边。"P.S 是我和他住在一起时他给我起的绰号。"她红着脸说。"它代表Princess Sophie--索菲公主。"兰登默不做声。
"很傻的，我知道。"她说。"但那是多年以前的事了。我那时还是个小姑娘。"
"你还是个小姑娘时就认识他？"
"太熟悉他了。"她动了感情，泪水夺眶而出。"雅克。索尼埃是我祖父。"[ 此帖被小梨涡°在2013-10-23 21:50重新编辑 ] -
Chapter 14 "Where's Langdon？" Fache demanded， exhaling the last of a cigarette as he paced back into the command post.
"Still in the men's room， sir." Lieutenant Collet had been expecting the question.
Fache grumbled， "Taking his time， I see."
The captain eyed the GPS dot over Collet's shoulder， and Collet could almost hear the wheels turning. Fache was fighting the urge to go check on Langdon. Ideally， the subject of an observation was allowed the most time and freedom possible， lulling him into a false sense of security. Langdon needed to return of his own volition. Still， it had been almost ten minutes.
Too long.
"Any chance Langdon is onto us？" Fache asked.
Collet shook his head. "We're still seeing small movements inside the men's room， so the GPS dot is obviously still on him. Perhaps he feels ill？ If he had found the dot， he would have removed it and tried to run."
Fache checked his watch. "Fine."
Still Fache seemed preoccupied. All evening， Collet had sensed an atypical intensity in his captain. Usually detached and cool under pressure， Fache tonight seemed emotionally engaged，as if this were somehow a personal matter for him.
Not surprising， Collet thought. Fache needs this arrest desperately. Recently the Board of Ministers and the media had become more openly critical of Fache's aggressive tactics， his clashes with powerful foreign embassies， and his gross overbudgeting on new technologies. Tonight， a high-tech， high-profile arrest of an American would go a long way to silence Fache's critics， helping him secure the job a few more years until he could retire with the lucrative pension. God knows he needs the pension， Collet thought. Fache's zeal for technology had hurt him both professionally and personally. Fache was rumored to have invested his entire savings in the technology craze a few years back and lost his shirt. And Fache is a man who wears only the finest shirts.
Tonight， there was still plenty of time. Sophie Neveu's odd interruption， though unfortunate，had been only a minor wrinkle. She was gone now， and Fache still had cards to play. He had yet to inform Langdon that his name had been scrawled on the floor by the victim. P.S. Find Robert Langdon. The American's reaction to that little bit of evidence would be telling indeed.
"Captain？" one of the DCPJ agents now called from across the office. "I think you better take this call." He was holding out a telephone receiver， looking concerned.
"Who is it？" Fache said.
The agent frowned. "It's the director of our Cryptology Department."
"And？"
"It's about Sophie Neveu， sir. Something is not quite right.""兰登在哪里？"法希吐掉最后一口烟回到指挥部时问道。
"还在男洗手间，长官。"科莱中尉已料到他会问这个问题。
法希咕哝道："看得出，他在磨时间。"
局长从科莱肩头上方观察那个卫星定位点。科莱几乎能听到车轮已经转了起来。法希努力克制住自己，不去检查兰登。最理想的是，观察的对象被给予最充足的时间和自由，以便引诱他获得一种虚假的安全感。兰登得自愿回来。然而，差不多有十分钟了。
太长了。
"兰登有可能觉察到我们了吗？"法希问。
科莱摇头说："我们还可以看到男卫生间里有些小的移动，所以卫星定位跟踪器显然还在他身上。或许他感到不舒服？如果他发现了跟踪器，他会扔掉它，试图逃跑的。"法希看了一下表说："很好。"
法希还是显得非常专注。整个晚上，科莱都感到局长有一种不同于往常的紧张心情。
通常在压力下，他都显得事不关己的样子，非常冷漠，但今晚法希似乎是动了感情，好像是他个人的事情。
也难怪，科莱心里想。法希太需要拘捕这个家伙了。最近部长们和媒体越来越公开批判法希太过分的策略、与大国使馆的冲突以及在新技术的投入大大超过预算等。今夜，他将利用高科技准确地逮捕一位美国人。这将会让那些批判他的人闭嘴，也有助于他在退休前稳坐自己的位置，以便退休时可以拿到不菲的退休金。老天爷知道，他需要这份退休金，科莱想。法希对高技术的狂热使他在职业上和自身上都受到了很大的伤害。谣传在几年前的技术热中，法希把自己所有的积蓄都投了进去，结果血本无归。但法希是最要面子、最不认输的人。
今夜还有足够的时间。索菲。奈芙的莫名其妙的干扰，虽然算倒霉，但只是一个小波折，很快就过去了。她现在已经走了。法希还有牌出。他会告诉兰登他的名字被写在受害者身旁的地板上。附言：找到罗伯特。兰登。那美国人对这个小小证据的反应将会说明一切。
"局长。"一个中央司法警察从办公室里喊道。"我想你还是接一下这个电话。"他正拿着听筒，显得非常不安。
"谁打的？"法希问。
那警察皱了一下眉。"是我们密码破译部主任。"
"说了什么？"
"是关于索菲。奈芙的，长官，好像出了点问题。"[ 此帖被小梨涡°在2013-10-23 21:50重新编辑 ] -
Chapter 15 It was time.
Silas felt strong as he stepped from the black Audi， the nighttime breeze rustling his loose- fitting robe. The winds of change are in the air. He knew the task before him would require more finesse than force， and he left his handgun in the car. The thirteen-round Heckler Koch USP 40 had been provided by the Teacher.
A weapon of death has no place in a house of God.
The plaza before the great church was deserted at this hour， the only visible souls on the far side of Place Saint-Sulpice a couple of teenage hookers showing their wares to the late night tourist traffic. Their nubile bodies sent a familiar longing to Silas's loins. His thigh flexed instinctively， causing the barbed cilice belt to cut painfully into his flesh.
The lust evaporated instantly. For ten years now， Silas had faithfully denied himself all sexual indulgence， even self-administered. It was The Way. He knew he had sacrificed much to follow Opus Dei， but he had received much more in return. A vow of celibacy and the relinquishment of all personal assets hardly seemed a sacrifice. Considering the poverty from which he had come and the sexual horrors he had endured in prison， celibacy was a welcome change.
Now， having returned to France for the first time since being arrested and shipped to prison in Andorra， Silas could feel his homeland testing him， dragging violent memories from his redeemed soul. You have been reborn， he reminded himself. His serv ice to God today had required the sin of murder， and it was a sacrifice Silas knew he would have to hold silently in his heart for all eternity.
The measure of your faith is the measure of the pain you can endure， the Teacher had told him. Silas was no stranger to pain and felt eager to prove himself to the Teacher， the one who had assured him his actions were ordained by a higher power.
"Hago la obra de Dios，" Silas whispered， moving now toward the church entrance.
Pausing in the shadow of the massive doorway， he took a deep breath. It was not until this instant that he truly realized what he was about to do， and what awaited him inside.
The keystone. It will lead us to our final goal.
He raised his ghost-white fist and banged three times on the door.
Moments later， the bolts of the enormous wooden portal began to move.正是时候。
奥迪车里出来后，塞拉斯感到浑身是劲，晚风轻拂着他宽大的教士服。不断变换的风在吹着。他知道他手头的这个任务需要更多的精细而不是暴力，所以把手熗留在了车里。
这把十三转的赫克勒。克奇USP40 型手熗是导师提供的。
教堂前广场上这个时候没有什么人了，唯一能见到的是圣叙尔皮斯教堂广场远处的一两个向夜游客们展示各自器物的十几岁的妓女。她们已发育的身体引得塞拉斯两股间产生一种放肆的冲动。
那种欲望转眼便烟消云散。十年了，塞拉斯完全克制住自己的性欲，甚至连自慰也不曾有过。这是路途。他知道为信守天主事工会教义，他牺牲了许多东西，但他得到的回报更多。宣誓要独身和放弃个人的全部财产几乎算不上什么牺牲。如果考虑到他以前的贫穷和在狱中忍受的性恐怖，独身实在是没什么不好。
此刻，自从被捕、被押送到安道尔的监狱以来，他还是第一次回到法国。
你能忍耐多少痛苦，你就有多少信仰，导师曾经这样告诫过他。塞拉斯可没少忍受痛苦，他非常急于向导师证明自己。导师曾告诉他，他的所作所为都是经一个更伟大的力量授权的。
"天主事工会。"塞拉斯用西班牙语小声唠叨着，并开始向教堂入口处走去。
他在门廊巨大的阴影里停了下来，深深地吸了一口气。直到此时此刻他才真正意识到自己要做什么，里面有什么在等着他。
拱顶石！它将引导我们走向我们最终的目标。
他举起煞白的拳头，在门上猛捶了三下。
过好一会儿，那巨大的木门的门栓开始松动。 -
Chapter 16 Sophie wondered how long it would take Fache to figure out she had not left the building. Seeingthat Langdon was clearly overwhelmed, Sophie questioned whether she had done the right thing bycornering him here in the men's room.
What else was I supposed to do?
She pictured her grandfather's body, naked and spread-eagle on the floor. There was a time whenhe had meant the world to her, yet tonight, Sophie was surprised to feel almost no sadness for theman. Jacques Saunière was a stranger to her now. Their relationship had evaporated in a singleinstant one March night when she was twenty-two. Ten years ago. Sophie had come home a fewdays early from graduate university in England and mistakenly witnessed her grandfather engagedin something Sophie was obviously not supposed to see. It was an image she barely could believeto this day.
If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes...
Too ashamed and stunned to endure her grandfather's pained attempts to explain, Sophieimmediately moved out on her own, taking money she had saved, and getting a small flat withsome roommates. She vowed never to speak to anyone about what she had seen. Her grandfathertried desperately to reach her, sending cards and letters, begging Sophie to meet him so he couldexplain. Explain how!? Sophie never responded except once—to forbid him ever to call her or tryto meet her in public. She was afraid his explanation would be more terrifying than the incidentitself.
Incredibly, Saunière had never given up on her, and Sophie now possessed a decade's worth ofcorrespondence unopened in a dresser drawer. To her grandfather's credit, he had never oncedisobeyed her request and phoned her.
Until this afternoon.
"Sophie?" His voice had sounded startlingly old on her answering machine. "I have abided by yourwishes for so long... and it pains me to call, but I must speak to you. Something terrible hashappened."Standing in the kitchen of her Paris flat, Sophie felt a chill to hear him again after all these years.
His gentle voice brought back a flood of fond childhood memories.
"Sophie, please listen." He was speaking English to her, as he always did when she was a little girl.
Practice French at school. Practice English at home. "You cannot be mad forever. Have you notread the letters that I've sent all these years? Do you not yet understand?" He paused. "We mustspeak at once. Please grant your grandfather this one wish. Call me at the Louvre. Right away. Ibelieve you and I are in grave danger." Sophie stared at the answering machine. Danger? Whatwas he talking about?
"Princess..." Her grandfather's voice cracked with an emotion Sophie could not place. "I know I'vekept things from you, and I know it has cost me your love. But it was for your own safety. Nowyou must know the truth. Please, I must tell you the truth about your family."Sophie suddenly could hear her own heart. My family? Sophie's parents had died when she wasonly four. Their car went off a bridge into fast-moving water. Her grandmother and youngerbrother had also been in the car, and Sophie's entire family had been erased in an instant. She had abox of newspaper clippings to confirm it.
His words had sent an unexpected surge of longing through her bones. My family! In that fleetinginstant, Sophie saw images from the dream that had awoken her countless times when she was alittle girl: My family is alive! They are coming home! But, as in her dream, the pictures evaporatedinto oblivion.
Your family is dead, Sophie. They are not coming home.
"Sophie..." her grandfather said on the machine. "I have been waiting for years to tell you. Waitingfor the right moment, but now time has run out. Call me at the Louvre. As soon as you get this. I'llwait here all night. I fear we both may be in danger. There's so much you need to know."The message ended.
In the silence, Sophie stood trembling for what felt like minutes. As she considered hergrandfather's message, only one possibility made sense, and his true intent dawned.
It was bait.
Obviously, her grandfather wanted desperately to see her. He was trying anything. Her disgust forthe man deepened. Sophie wondered if maybe he had fallen terminally ill and had decided toattempt any ploy he could think of to get Sophie to visit him one last time. If so, he had chosenwisely.
My family.
Now, standing in the darkness of the Louvre men's room, Sophie could hear the echoes of thisafternoon's phone message. Sophie, we both may be in danger. Call me.
She had not called him. Nor had she planned to. Now, however, her skepticism had been deeplychallenged. Her grandfather lay murdered inside his own museum. And he had written a code onthe floor.
A code for her. Of this, she was certain.
Despite not understanding the meaning of his message, Sophie was certain its cryptic nature wasadditional proof that the words were intended for her. Sophie's passion and aptitude forcryptography were a product of growing up with Jacques Saunière—a fanatic himself for codes,word games, and puzzles. How many Sundays did we spend doing the cryptograms and crosswordsin the newspaper?
At the age of twelve, Sophie could finish the Le Monde crossword without any help, and hergrandfather graduated her to crosswords in English, mathematical puzzles, and substitution ciphers.
Sophie devoured them all. Eventually she turned her passion into a profession by becoming acodebreaker for the Judicial Police.
Tonight, the cryptographer in Sophie was forced to respect the efficiency with which hergrandfather had used a simple code to unite two total strangers—Sophie Neveu and RobertLangdon.
The question was why?
Unfortunately, from the bewildered look in Langdon's eyes, Sophie sensed the American had nomore idea than she did why her grandfather had thrown them together.
She pressed again. "You and my grandfather had planned to meet tonight. What about?"Langdon looked truly perplexed. "His secretary set the meeting and didn't offer any specific reason,and I didn't ask. I assumed he'd heard I would be lecturing on the pagan iconography of Frenchcathedrals, was interested in the topic, and thought it would be fun to meet for drinks after thetalk."Sophie didn't buy it. The connection was flimsy. Her grandfather knew more about paganiconography than anyone else on earth. Moreover, he an exceptionally private man, not someoneprone to chatting with random American professors unless there were an important reason.
Sophie took a deep breath and probed further. "My grandfather called me this afternoon and toldme he and I were in grave danger. Does that mean anything to you?"Langdon's blue eyes now clouded with concern. "No, but considering what just happened..."Sophie nodded. Considering tonight's events, she would be a fool not to be frightened. Feelingdrained, she walked to the small plate-glass window at the far end of the bathroom and gazed out insilence through the mesh of alarm tape embedded in the glass. They were high up—forty feet atleast.
Sighing, she raised her eyes and gazed out at Paris's dazzling landscape. On her left, across theSeine, the illuminated Eiffel Tower. Straight ahead, the Arc de Triomphe. And to the right, highatop the sloping rise of Montmartre, the graceful arabesque dome of Sacré-Coeur, its polishedstone glowing white like a resplendent sanctuary.
Here at the westernmost tip of the Denon Wing, the north-south thoroughfare of Place du Carrouselran almost flush with the building with only a narrow sidewalk separating it from the Louvre'souter wall. Far below, the usual caravan of the city's nighttime delivery trucks sat idling, waitingfor the signals to change, their running lights seeming to twinkle mockingly up at Sophie.
"I don't know what to say," Langdon said, coming up behind her. "Your grandfather is obviouslytrying to tell us something. I'm sorry I'm so little help."Sophie turned from the window, sensing a sincere regret in Langdon's deep voice. Even with all thetrouble around him, he obviously wanted to help her. The teacher in him, she thought, having readDCPJ's workup on their suspect. This was an academic who clearly despised not understanding.
We have that in common, she thought.
As a codebreaker, Sophie made her living extracting meaning from seemingly senseless data.
Tonight, her best guess was that Robert Langdon, whether he knew it or not, possessed informationthat she desperately needed. Princesse Sophie, Find Robert Langdon. How much clearer could hergrandfather's message be? Sophie needed more time with Langdon. Time to think. Time to sort outthis mystery together. Unfortunately, time was running out.
Gazing up at Langdon, Sophie made the only play she could think of. "Bezu Fache will be takingyou into custody at any minute. I can get you out of this museum. But we need to act now."Langdon's eyes went wide. "You want me to run?""It's the smartest thing you could do. If you let Fache take you into custody now, you'll spendweeks in a French jail while DCPJ and the U.S. Embassy fight over which courts try your case. Butif we get you out of here, and make it to your embassy, then your government will protect yourrights while you and I prove you had nothing to do with this murder."Langdon looked not even vaguely convinced. "Forget it! Fache has armed guards on every singleexit! Even if we escape without being shot, running away only makes me look guilty. You need totell Fache that the message on the floor was for you, and that my name is not there as anaccusation.""I will do that," Sophie said, speaking hurriedly, "but after you're safely inside the U.S. Embassy.
It's only about a mile from here, and my car is parked just outside the museum. Dealing with Fachefrom here is too much of a gamble. Don't you see? Fache has made it his mission tonight to proveyou are guilty. The only reason he postponed your arrest was to run this observance in hopes youdid something that made his case stronger.""Exactly. Like running!"The cell phone in Sophie's sweater pocket suddenly began ringing. Fache probably. She reached inher sweater and turned off the phone.
"Mr. Langdon," she said hurriedly, "I need to ask you one last question." And your entire futuremay depend on it. "The writing on the floor is obviously not proof of your guilt, and yet Fache toldour team he is certain you are his man. Can you think of any other reason he might be convincedyou're guilty?"Langdon was silent for several seconds. "None whatsoever."Sophie sighed. Which means Fache is lying. Why, Sophie could not begin to imagine, but that washardly the issue at this point. The fact remained that Bezu Fache was determined to put RobertLangdon behind bars tonight, at any cost. Sophie needed Langdon for herself, and it was thisdilemma that left Sophie only one logical conclusion.
I need to get Langdon to the U.S. Embassy.
Turning toward the window, Sophie gazed through the alarm mesh embedded in the plate glass,down the dizzying forty feet to the pavement below. A leap from this height would leave Langdonwith a couple of broken legs. At best.
Nonetheless, Sophie made her decision.
Robert Langdon was about to escape the Louvre, whether he wanted to or not.法希什么时候才能揣度出自己并没有离开卢浮宫，索菲不得而知。看着兰登的窘态，她也开始怀疑把他逼到男厕所的一角，是否是恰当之举。
她的脑海中浮现出祖父尸体的样子，像一只展翅的老鹰而又一丝不挂。曾几何时，祖父是她生活中最重要的人，但奇怪的是，她现在却并不为祖父之死感到悲伤。他们已成了陌路人，他们的关系在一个三月的夜晚就决裂了。那件事发生在十年前，当时索菲二十二岁。正在英国一所研究生院读书的索菲提前几天回到了家，目睹了祖父所做的一些事情，而这些事是她不应看到的。那天她几乎无法相信自己的眼睛。
如果不是我亲眼所见……
震惊而蒙羞的索菲不接受祖父煞费苦心的辩解，立即带着自己的积蓄搬了出去，找了间小公寓与几个人合住在一起。她发誓永远也不向别人提起她的所见所闻。祖父又是寄明信片又是寄信，想尽一切办法要与她取得联系，乞求索菲给他一个当面解释的机会。如何解释？
索菲仅做了一次回复--让祖父不要再打电话给她，也不要在公众场合等她。索菲担心他的解释会比事情本身更可怕。
令人难以置信的是，祖父一直没有放弃努力。如今，索菲衣橱抽屉里还原封不动地存放着十年来祖父写给她的信。祖父恪守承诺，满足索菲的要求，再也没有打电话给她。
直到今天下午。
"索菲吗？"祖父的声音从留言机中传来显得格外苍老。"很久以来，我一直尊重你的意愿……我也不愿打这个电话，但我必须告诉你，可怕的事情发生了。"这么多年以后，又一次听到祖父的声音，索菲站在公寓的厨房里不寒而栗。祖父温柔的声音带回了许多童年的美好回忆。
"索菲，请听我说。"祖父用英语说道。索菲小时候，祖父就对她说英语。在校练法语，在家练英语。"你应该理智起来。读过我给你写的那些信了吗？你还不明白吗？"他停了一下，接着说。"我们必须立刻谈一谈。请满足祖父的这个愿望。立刻打电话到卢浮宫来找我。我认为你我的处境都极其危险。"索菲目不转睛地望着留言机。危险？他在说什么？
"公主……"不知是出于什么样的感情，祖父的声音哽咽了。"我知道我对你隐瞒了一些事情，这让我失去了你的爱。但这次是为了你自身的安全。现在，你必须知道真相。求你了，我必须告诉你关于你家庭的事实。"突然，索菲紧张得可以听见自己的心跳。我的家庭？索菲四岁的时候就失去了双亲。
他们乘坐的汽车从桥上掉入水流湍急的河里。索菲的祖母和弟弟也在车上。这样，索菲的整个家庭在刹那间就不复存在了。她有一箱的剪报可以证明这件事。
索菲没有料到，祖父的话在她内心深处激起了一阵渴望。我的家庭！转瞬间，无数次将儿时的索菲惊醒的梦又浮现在她眼前：我的家人还活着！他们要回家了！但这个梦已经渐渐地消失，渐渐地被淡忘了。
索菲，你的家人死了。他们再也不会回来了。
"索菲……"留言机中传来祖父的声音。"为了告诉你真相，我等了很久。我等待着一个合适的时机，可是现在不能再等了。你听到留言后，立即打电话到卢浮宫来找我。一整晚我都会在这里等你。我担心我们的处境都很危险。你需要知道很多东西。"留言结束了。
索菲默默地站在那里，几分钟后才停止了颤抖。她琢磨着祖父的留言，猜测着他的真正意图，想到了一种可能：这是个圈套。
显然，祖父迫切地想见到她，并动用了一切伎俩。索菲对他更加厌恶起来。索菲怀疑是因为他患了绝症，而不择手段地让索菲去见他最后一面。如果真是这样，他找这样的理由倒是很聪明。
索菲没有打电话，也根本没有这个打算。但是现在，她的想法受到了质疑。祖父在其掌管的博物馆里被谋杀了，还在地板上写下了一串密码。
她可以肯定，这是为她留下的密码。
索菲虽然还不清楚密码的含义，但她肯定密码的神秘性本身就可以证明这是为她而留的。雅克。索尼埃是个密码、拼字游戏和谜语的爱好者，由他抚养长大的索菲自然对密码学充满了热情，并且在这方面颇具天赋。无数个星期天，他们曾在一起做报纸上的密码游戏和拼字游戏。十二岁的时候，索菲已经可以独立地完成《世界报》上的拼字游戏了。祖父让她做更难的英语拼字游戏、数字谜语和密码替换，索菲也将它们统统完成。后来，索菲将她的爱好变成了职业，成为了司法部门的一名密码破译员。
今晚，作为密码破译员，索菲佩服祖父仅用一个简单的密码就把两个完全陌生的人联系在了一起-他们就是索菲。奈芙和罗伯特。兰登。
可他为什么要这样做呢？
不幸的是，从兰登那迷惑的眼神中，索菲看得出这个美国人也和她一样，为此大惑不解。 -
Chapter 17 "What do you mean she's not answering?" Fache looked incredulous. "You're calling her cellphone, right? I know she's carrying it."Collet had been trying to reach Sophie now for several minutes. "Maybe her batteries are dead. Orher ringer's off."Fache had looked distressed ever since talking to the director of Cryptology on the phone. Afterhanging up, he had marched over to Collet and demanded he get Agent Neveu on the line. NowCollet had failed, and Fache was pacing like a caged lion.
"Why did Crypto call?" Collet now ventured.
Fache turned. "To tell us they found no references to Draconian devils and lame saints.""That's all?""No, also to tell us that they had just identified the numerics as Fibonacci numbers, but theysuspected the series was meaningless."Collet was confused. "But they already sent Agent Neveu to tell us that."Fache shook his head. "They didn't send Neveu.""What?""According to the director, at my orders he paged his entire team to look at the images I'd wiredhim. When Agent Neveu arrived, she took one look at the photos of Saunière and the code and leftthe office without a word. The director said he didn't question her behavior because she wasunderstandably upset by the photos.""Upset? She's never seen a picture of a dead body?"Fache was silent a moment. "I was not aware of this, and it seems neither was the director until acoworker informed him, but apparently Sophie Neveu is Jacques Saunière's granddaughter."Collet was speechless.
"The director said she never once mentioned Saunière to him, and he assumed it was because sheprobably didn't want preferential treatment for having a famous grandfather."No wonder she was upset by the pictures. Collet could barely conceive of the unfortunatecoincidence that called in a young woman to decipher a code written by a dead family member.
Still, her actions made no sense. "But she obviously recognized the numbers as Fibonacci numbersbecause she came here and told us. I don't understand why she would leave the office withouttelling anyone she had figured it out."Collet could think of only one scenario to explain the troubling developments: Saunière had writtena numeric code on the floor in hopes Fache would involve cryptographers in the investigation, andtherefore involve his own granddaughter. As for the rest of the message, was Saunièrecommunicating in some way with his granddaughter? If so, what did the message tell her? Andhow did Langdon fit in?
Before Collet could ponder it any further, the silence of the deserted museum was shattered by analarm. The bell sounded like it was coming from inside the Grand Gallery.
"Alarme!" one of the agents yelled, eyeing his feed from the Louvre security center. "GrandeGalerie! Toilettes Messieurs!"Fache wheeled to Collet. "Where's Langdon?""Still in the men's room!" Collet pointed to the blinking red dot on his laptop schematic. "He musthave broken the window!" Collet knew Langdon wouldn't get far. Although Paris fire codesrequired windows above fifteen meters in public buildings be breakable in case of fire, exiting aLouvre second-story window without the help of a hook and ladder would be suicide. Furthermore,there were no trees or grass on the western end of the Denon Wing to cushion a fall. Directlybeneath that rest room window, the two-lane Place du Carrousel ran within a few feet of the outerwall. "My God," Collet exclaimed, eyeing the screen. "Langdon's moving to the window ledge!"But Fache was already in motion. Yanking his Manurhin MR-93 revolver from his shoulderholster, the captain dashed out of the office.
Collet watched the screen in bewilderment as the blinking dot arrived at the window ledge and thendid something utterly unexpected. The dot moved outside the perimeter of the building.
What's going on? he wondered. Is Langdon out on a ledge or—"Jesu!" Collet jumped to his feet as the dot shot farther outside the wall. The signal seemed toshudder for a moment, and then the blinking dot came to an abrupt stop about ten yards outside theperimeter of the building.
Fumbling with the controls, Collet called up a Paris street map and recalibrated the GPS. Zoomingin, he could now see the exact location of the signal.
It was no longer moving.
It lay at a dead stop in the middle of Place du Carrousel.
Langdon had jumped.她再次逼问道："你和祖父计划在今晚会面，你们打算谈些什么？"
兰登摸不着头脑。"他的秘书安排了这次会面，但没有告诉我有什么特别的原因，我也没问。"索菲不接受这样的解释。这样的联系太牵强。祖父比任何人都了解异教圣像。再说，他是个注重隐私的人，不会随便找个美国教授就聊上天，除非有什么重要的原因。
索菲深深地吸了一口气，进一步试探道："今天下午祖父打电话给我，说他和我的处境都极其危险。你知道这是什么意思吗？"
兰登那双蔚蓝的眼睛笼罩上了一层忧虑。"我不知道，但从已经发生的事情看来……"
索菲点了点头。想到今晚发生的事情，她当然会很害怕。她绞尽脑汁，也不能理解今晚发生的一切。她向厕所尽头那扇装着小块平板玻璃的窗户走去，默默地透过嵌在玻璃中的警报网向外望去。他们离地面很远--至少有四十英尺。
她叹了口气，举目凝望窗外巴黎眩目的景色。左边，在赛纳河的对岸，耸立着灯光闪耀的埃菲尔铁塔；正前方，是凯旋门；右边，在蒙马特山丘的上方，可以看见圣心堂别致的圆形屋顶，那光滑的石头闪耀着白色的光芒，使整个建筑看上去像一座华丽的圣殿。
这里是德农馆的最西端。卡尔赛广场上南北向的交通干线与这里平行，它们与卢浮宫的外墙之间只隔着一条人行道。德农馆下方的街道上，夜间送货的卡车队停在那里，悠闲地等候着信号灯变色。那些闪亮的车灯似乎在用嘲弄的眼神冲索菲眨眼。
"我不知道该说些什么。"兰登说着，走到她的身后。"很显然，你的祖父试图告诉我们些什么。很遗憾，我帮不上什么忙。"索菲从兰登低沉的声音中感觉到了他内心的遗憾。虽然他遇到了许多麻烦，但很显然，他希望助索菲一臂之力。索菲转过身来，想道：他果然具备教师的素养。索菲是从警署的嫌疑人调查记录中了解到他的基本情况的。他是尊重事实的学者。
我们有共同点，索菲想道。
作为一名密码破译员，索菲的工作就是从那些看似杂乱无章的数据中提取出含义。今晚，索菲所能做出的最好猜测就是兰登拥有她迫切想得到的信息，无论兰登本人是否意识到这一点。索菲公主，去找罗伯特。兰登。祖父所传达的信息非常明了。索菲需要更多与兰登共处的时间，需要思考问题的时间，需要与他一起破解这个谜团的时间。不幸的是，没有时间了。
索菲凝视着兰登，终于想出了个主意。"贝祖。法希随时都可能将你逮捕。我能帮你逃出博物馆。但我们必须现在就行动。"兰登吃惊地睁大眼睛："你想让我逃跑？"
"这是明智之举。如果现在法希逮捕了你，你就得在法国监狱呆上几个星期。与此同时，法国警署和美国大使馆会开始争论由哪个国家来审判你。但如果我们现在逃出去，设法逃到美国大使馆，美国政府就可以保护你的权利。与此同时，我们可以想办法证明你与这桩谋杀案无关。"兰登毫不动摇。"算了吧！法希在每个出口都布下了警卫！就算我们不被打死，逃了出去，这也只会更让人觉得我是有罪的。你应该告诉法希，地上的信息是为你而留的，你祖父写下我的名字并不是为了告发我。""我会这样做。"索菲急切地说。"不过那要等你安全地进入美国使馆。使馆距这里只有一英里，我的车就停在博物馆外面。在这里与法希周旋几乎没有胜算。你没看到吗？法希将找出你的罪证作为今晚的任务。他之所以推迟逮捕，是想观察你的行为，希望你的某些言行能让他的指控更有力。""不错。就比如说逃跑！"
索菲毛衣口袋里的手机突然响了起来。可能是法希。她把手伸进口袋，关掉了手机。
"兰登先生。"她急切地说。"我问你最后一个问题。它将决定你的整个未来。地板上的文字显然不是你的罪证，但法希已经宣称你就是他要抓的人。你能找出他为你定罪的理由吗？"
兰登沉默了片刻，说道："不能。"
索菲叹了口气，显然法希故意说谎。索菲无法想象这是为什么，但这不是眼前的问题。事实就是贝祖。法希决定不惜一切代价，要在今晚将兰登投入大牢。
但是，索菲需要兰登。这样的两难境遇使索菲得出了一个结论：我得让兰登去美国大使馆。
索菲转向窗户，透过平板玻璃中镶嵌的警报网，从令人晕眩的四十英尺高处俯视马路。要是兰登从这么高的地方跳下去，至少也会摔断腿。
但不管怎样，索菲已经做了决定。
无论兰登是否情愿，他必须逃出卢浮宫。
"你说她不接听是什么意思？"法希看上去并不相信。"你打的是她的手机，没错吧？我知道她带着呢。"科莱已经打了好几分钟电话，试图找到索菲。"可能手机没电了，或者是她把铃声关了。"
接到密码破译部门局长的电话后，法希就一直忧心忡忡。挂上电话，他大步走到科莱跟前，要他打电话找到奈芙警官。现在，科莱没有打通电话，法希急得像头困兽，在屋里踱来踱去。
"密码破译部门说什么？"科莱冒失地问。
法希转过身来："告诉我们他们没有找到‘严酷的魔王’和‘瘸腿的圣徒’的出处。"
"就讲了这些？"
"不，还告诉我们他们刚刚确认那串数字是斐波那契数列，但他们怀疑那串数字并无含义。"科莱迷惑了。"但他们已经派奈芙警官来告诉过我们了。"
法希摇了摇头："他们没有派奈芙警官来。"
"什么？"
"局长说，接到我的命令后，他叫来全队的人看我电传过去的图片。奈芙警官赶来后，看了一眼索尼埃和密码的照片，就一言不发地离开了办公室。局长说，他没有对奈芙的行为产生疑问，因为她的不安情绪是可以理解的。""不安？她没有看过死者的照片吗？"
法希沉默了片刻。"众所周知，索菲。奈芙是雅克。索尼埃的孙女。我原来并没有意识到这一点，局长也是在一名同事的提醒下才想起来的。"科莱无言。
"局长说，奈芙从来没有向他提起过索尼埃，这可能是因为她不想因为有这样一位有名的祖父而受到优待。"无疑，她为那张照片感到不安。让一个年青女子去破解死去的家人所留下的密码-科莱简直无法相信还有这样不幸的巧合。而且，她的行为也不合常理。"但她显然认出了那串数字是费波那契数列，因为她这样告诉过我们。但我不明白她为什么默默地离开办公室，而不把她的发现告诉任何人。"科莱想，这件怪事只有一种解释：萨尼尔在地板上写下一串数字密码以期让密码破译员也参与到案件的调查中来，这样他的孙女也自然有机会参与其中。其余的信息，萨尼尔是否会通过某种特殊的方式与其孙女交流？如果是这样，萨尼尔要告诉她些什么呢？兰登又是如何被卷入的呢？
科莱还没来得及深思，一阵警报打破了博物馆的沉寂。警报声听上去是从艺术大画廊中传来的。
"警报！"一名警官看着卢浮宫安全中心的反馈信息，叫道。"艺术大画廊！男厕所！"
法希迅速转向科莱，问道："兰登在哪里？"
"还在男厕所！"科莱指着电脑屏幕上闪烁的小红点说道。"他一定打破了窗户玻璃！"科莱知道兰登不会走远。虽然，巴黎消防法规规定公共建筑离地十五米以上的窗户要安装可以打破的玻璃，以备火灾时人们逃生之用，但如果不借助钩子或梯子，从卢浮宫二楼的窗户跳出去则无异于自杀。再说，德农馆最西端的下方既没有树也没有草可以起缓冲作用。
厕所的下方，距卢浮宫外墙几米远，就是两车道的卡尔赛广场。"我的天哪！"科莱看着屏幕叫道："兰登在向窗沿移动！"
这时，法希已经开始行动了。他从肩上的熗套里抽出马努汉MR93 左轮手熗，冲出了办公室。
科莱仍大惑不解地盯着屏幕。小红点移动到了窗户的边缘，然后出人意料地移出了建筑的边界。
将会发生什么？他感到很惊奇。兰登是站到了窗沿上还是-"我的天！"看着小红点迅速远离了建筑物边界，科莱吃惊得跳了起来。信号抖动了一阵，忽然停在了距建筑物约十码远的地方。
科莱手忙脚乱地操作着电脑，调出了一幅巴黎街区地图，又重新调整了一下"全球定位系统"。这样，只要把画面拉近放大，他就可以看到信号所在的确切地点。
小红点不动了。
它停在卡尔赛广场的中心一动也不动。
兰登跳了下去。 -
Chapter 18 Fache sprinted down the Grand Gallery as Collet's radio blared over the distant sound of the alarm.
"He jumped!" Collet was yelling. "I'm showing the signal out on Place du Carrousel! Outside thebathroom window! And it's not moving at all! Jesus, I think Langdon has just committed suicide!"Fache heard the words, but they made no sense. He kept running. The hallway seemed never-ending. As he sprinted past Saunière's body, he set his sights on the partitions at the far end of theDenon Wing. The alarm was getting louder now.
"Wait!" Collet's voice blared again over the radio. "He's moving! My God, he's alive. Langdon'smoving!"Fache kept running, cursing the length of the hallway with every step.
"Langdon's moving faster!" Collet was still yelling on the radio. "He's running down Carrousel.
Wait... he's picking up speed. He's moving too fast!"Arriving at the partitions, Fache snaked his way through them, saw the rest room door, and ran forit.
The walkie-talkie was barely audible now over the alarm. "He must be in a car! I think he's in acar! I can't—"Collet's words were swallowed by the alarm as Fache finally burst into the men's room with his gundrawn. Wincing against the piercing shrill, he scanned the area.
The stalls were empty. The bathroom deserted. Fache's eyes moved immediately to the shatteredwindow at the far end of the room. He ran to the opening and looked over the edge. Langdon wasnowhere to be seen. Fache could not imagine anyone risking a stunt like this. Certainly if he haddropped that far, he would be badly injured.
The alarm cut off finally, and Collet's voice became audible again over the walkie-talkie.
"...moving south... faster... crossing the Seine on Pont du Carrousel!"Fache turned to his left. The only vehicle on Pont du Carrousel was an enormous twin-bed Trailordelivery truck moving southward away from the Louvre. The truck's open-air bed was coveredwith a vinyl tarp, roughly resembling a giant hammock. Fache felt a shiver of apprehension. Thattruck, only moments ago, had probably been stopped at a red light directly beneath the rest roomwindow.
An insane risk, Fache told himself. Langdon had no way of knowing what the truck was carryingbeneath that tarp. What if the truck were carrying steel? Or cement? Or even garbage? A forty-footleap? It was madness.
"The dot is turning!" Collet called. "He's turning right on Pont des Saints-Peres!"Sure enough, the Trailor truck that had crossed the bridge was slowing down and making a rightturn onto Pont des Saints-Peres. So be it, Fache thought. Amazed, he watched the truck disappeararound the corner. Collet was already radioing the agents outside, pulling them off the Louvreperimeter and sending them to their patrol cars in pursuit, all the while broadcasting the truck'schanging location like some kind of bizarre play-by-play.
It's over, Fache knew. His men would have the truck surrounded within minutes. Langdon was notgoing anywhere.
Stowing his weapon, Fache exited the rest room and radioed Collet. "Bring my car around. I wantto be there when we make the arrest."As Fache jogged back down the length of the Grand Gallery, he wondered if Langdon had evensurvived the fall.
Not that it mattered.
Langdon ran. Guilty as charged.
Only fifteen yards from the rest room, Langdon and Sophie stood in the darkness of the GrandGallery, their backs pressed to one of the large partitions that hid the bathrooms from the gallery.
They had barely managed to hide themselves before Fache had darted past them, gun drawn, anddisappeared into the bathroom.
The last sixty seconds had been a blur.
Langdon had been standing inside the men's room refusing to run from a crime he didn't commit,when Sophie began eyeing the plate-glass window and examining the alarm mesh running throughit. Then she peered downward into the street, as if measuring the drop.
"With a little aim, you can get out of here," she said.
Aim? Uneasy, he peered out the rest room window.
Up the street, an enormous twin-bed eighteen-wheeler was headed for the stoplight beneath thewindow. Stretched across the truck's massive cargo bay was a blue vinyl tarp, loosely covering thetruck's load. Langdon hoped Sophie was not thinking what she seemed to be thinking.
"Sophie, there's no way I'm jump—""Take out the tracking dot."Bewildered, Langdon fumbled in his pocket until he found the tiny metallic disk. Sophie took itfrom him and strode immediately to the sink. She grabbed a thick bar of soap, placed the trackingdot on top of it, and used her thumb to push the disk down hard into the bar. As the disk sank intothe soft surface, she pinched the hole closed, firmly embedding the device in the bar.
Handing the bar to Langdon, Sophie retrieved a heavy, cylindrical trash can from under the sinks.
Before Langdon could protest, Sophie ran at the window, holding the can before her like abattering ram. Driving the bottom of the trash can into the center of the window, she shattered theglass.
Alarms erupted overhead at earsplitting decibel levels.
"Give me the soap!" Sophie yelled, barely audible over the alarm.
Langdon thrust the bar into her hand.
Palming the soap, she peered out the shattered window at the eighteen-wheeler idling below. Thetarget was plenty big—an expansive, stationary tarp—and it was less than ten feet from the side ofthe building. As the traffic lights prepared to change, Sophie took a deep breath and lobbed the barof soap out into the night.
The soap plummeted downward toward the truck, landing on the edge of the tarp, and slidingdownward into the cargo bay just as the traffic light turned green.
"Congratulations," Sophie said, dragging him toward the door. "You just escaped from theLouvre."Fleeing the men's room, they moved into the shadows just as Fache rushed past.
Now, with the fire alarm silenced, Langdon could hear the sounds of DCPJ sirens tearing awayfrom the Louvre. A police exodus. Fache had hurried off as well, leaving the Grand Gallerydeserted.
"There's an emergency stairwell about fifty meters back into the Grand Gallery," Sophie said.
"Now that the guards are leaving the perimeter, we can get out of here."Langdon decided not to say another word all evening. Sophie Neveu was clearly a hell of a lotsmarter than he was.法希沿着艺术大画廊全速奔跑。这时，科莱的声音从无线电对讲机中传来，盖过了远处的警报声。
"他跳下去了！"科莱喊道。"我这里的显示表明信号已经到卡尔赛广场上去了！出了厕所的窗户！现在它一动也不动！天哪，兰登刚才自杀了！"法希听到了科莱的喊话，但觉得这不合常理。他继续奔跑。画廊似乎没有尽头。当飞奔过萨尼尔的尸体时，他把目光投向了远处德农馆尽头的隔板。警报越来越响了。
"等一下！"科莱的声音又从对讲机里传来，"他在动！天哪，他还活着！兰登在动！"
法希一边继续奔跑，一边埋怨着画廊太长。
"兰登的动作更快了！"科莱继续叫道。"他正沿着卡尔赛广场的街道逃跑。等一等……
他正在加速。他跑得太快了！"来到隔板前，法希蜷身从间隔中钻了过去。他看到了厕所门，冲那里跑了过去。
此时，对讲机的声音几乎被警报声盖过了。"他一定是在车上！我想他是在车上！我无法-"当法希最终举熗冲进男厕所时，科莱的声音完全被警报声淹没了。顶着刺耳的警报声，他扫视了一下这里。
隔间都是空的。厕所里没有人。法希立即将目光转向了厕所尽头那扇被打碎的玻璃窗。他跑到玻璃缺口处，顺着窗沿向下望去，兰登已经无影无踪了。法希无法想象有人可以冒险表演出这样的特技。真的有人从这么高的地方跳下去，那么他不死也得重伤。
警报声终于停了下来，法希又可以听见对讲机里的声音了。
"向南移动……更快了……正由卡鲁索桥横穿塞纳河！"
法希扭头向左看，只见卡鲁索桥上唯一的车辆是一辆拖挂着两节车厢的大卡车，它正朝南行驶，远离卢浮宫。车厢没有顶，上面覆盖着塑料布，整个卡车就像一台大吊车。法希恍然大悟。几分钟前，这辆卡车可能正停在厕所窗户的下方等红灯。
一次疯狂的冒险，法希想。兰登不可能知道塑料布下放的是什么。如果卡车运送的是钢铁，怎么办？要是水泥呢？或者是垃圾？从四十英尺高处跳下？简直是疯了。
"红点改变方向了！"科莱叫道。"它向右转，上了圣佩勒斯桥。"
科莱已通过无线电对讲机将警员调出了卢浮宫，派他们用巡逻车追击。
法希知道，一切都该结束了。几分钟内，他手下人就会将卡车包围。
兰登无处可逃。
法希收起熗，走出厕所，通过对讲机对科莱说："把我的车开过来。逮捕他时，我要在现场。"法希一边沿着艺术画廊向回小跑，一边猜想着兰登跳下去后是否还活着。
但这无关紧要。
兰登逃跑，罪名成立。
在距厕所约十五码远的地方，兰登和索菲站在艺术画廊的黑暗中。他们的背紧紧地靠着分隔厕所与画廊的隔板。当法希拿着熗从他们身边冲过，奔向厕所的时候，他们差点儿被发现。
六十秒之前的那一幕：兰登站在男厕所里，拒绝为了莫须有的罪名而逃跑。索菲则看着窗户，审视着镶嵌在平板玻璃里的警报网。然后，她向下瞅了一眼，好像在估摸着厕所到地面的距离。
"瞄准一个小目标，你可以离开这里。"她说。
目标？兰登不安地朝窗外望去。
街道上，一辆拖着两节车厢的八轮大卡车正在窗户的正下方等待信号灯变色。卡车装载的巨大货物上松松垮垮地覆盖着蓝色的塑料布。兰登猜想索菲是想让他跳下去，真希望她能断了这样的念头，想些别的办法。
"索菲，我不可能跳下去-"
"把跟踪器拿出来。"
迷惑不解的兰登伸手在口袋里摸索了一阵，找出了那个小金属扣。索菲拿过跟踪器，大步走向水池。她抓起一块厚厚的肥皂，把跟踪器放在上面，然后用拇指将跟踪器压入了肥皂。跟踪器嵌入肥皂后，她将洞口捏上，把跟踪器严严实实地封在了肥皂里。
索菲将肥皂递给兰登，从水池的下方取出一个圆柱形的垃圾桶。还没等兰登提出异议，索菲就抱着垃圾筒，像公羊一般向窗户冲去。她用垃圾桶的底部猛击窗户的中心部位，将玻璃砸碎。震耳欲聋的警报声响了起来。
"把肥皂给我！"索菲的声音在刺耳的警报声中依稀可辨。
兰登迅速地将肥皂递给她。
索菲拿着肥皂，看了看停在下面马路上的八轮卡车。目标是一块大而静止的塑料布，离建筑物的外墙还不到十英尺。信号灯即将变色的时候，索菲深吸了一口气，将肥皂向窗外扔去。
肥皂落向卡车，掉在塑料布的边缘，又滑到了货箱里面。正在这时，绿灯亮了。
"恭喜你，"索菲边说边把兰登朝门口拉。"你刚刚逃出了卢浮宫。"
索菲和兰登离开男厕所后，就躲在隔板边的阴影中，而法希就从他们的身边跑过。
现在，警报声停了，法希可以听见警车拉响的警笛声正离卢浮宫远去。全体警察都离开了。法希也已经匆匆地离去。卢浮宫空荡荡的。
"艺术大画廊里有一段大约五十米长的紧急楼梯通道，"索菲说，"现在警卫走了，我们可以离开这里了。"兰登决定保持沉默，因为他看出索菲要比他聪明得多。 -
Chapter 19 The Church of Saint-Sulpice, it is said, has the most eccentric history of any building in Paris. Builtover the ruins of an ancient temple to the Egyptian goddess Isis, the church possesses anarchitectural footprint matching that of Notre Dame to within inches. The sanctuary has playedhost to the baptisms of the Marquis de Sade and Baudelaire, as well as the marriage of VictorHugo. The attached seminary has a well-documented history of unorthodoxy and was once theclandestine meeting hall for numerous secret societies.
Tonight, the cavernous nave of Saint-Sulpice was as silent as a tomb, the only hint of life the faintsmell of incense from mass earlier that evening. Silas sensed an uneasiness in Sister Sandrine'sdemeanor as she led him into the sanctuary. He was not surprised by this. Silas was accustomed topeople being uncomfortable with his appearance.
"You're an American," she said.
"French by birth," Silas responded. "I had my calling in Spain, and I now study in the UnitedStates."Sister Sandrine nodded. She was a small woman with quiet eyes. "And you have never seen Saint-Sulpice?""I realize this is almost a sin in itself.""She is more beautiful by day.""I am certain. Nonetheless, I am grateful that you would provide me this opportunity tonight.""The abbé requested it. You obviously have powerful friends."You have no idea, Silas thought.
As he followed Sister Sandrine down the main aisle, Silas was surprised by the austerity of thesanctuary. Unlike Notre Dame with its colorful frescoes, gilded altar-work, and warm wood, Saint-Sulpice was stark and cold, conveying an almost barren quality reminiscent of the asceticcathedrals of Spain. The lack of decor made the interior look even more expansive, and as Silasgazed up into the soaring ribbed vault of the ceiling, he imagined he was standing beneath the hullof an enormous overturned ship.
A fitting image, he thought. The brotherhood's ship was about to be capsized forever. Feeling eagerto get to work, Silas wished Sister Sandrine would leave him. She was a small woman whom Silascould incapacitate easily, but he had vowed not to use force unless absolutely necessary. She is awoman of the cloth, and it is not her fault the brotherhood chose her church as a hiding place fortheir keystone. She should not be punished for the sins of others.
"I am embarrassed, Sister, that you were awoken on my behalf.""Not at all. You are in Paris a short time. You should not miss Saint-Sulpice. Are your interests inthe church more architectural or historical?""Actually, Sister, my interests are spiritual."She gave a pleasant laugh. "That goes without saying. I simply wondered where to begin yourtour."Silas felt his eyes focus on the altar. "A tour is unnecessary. You have been more than kind. I canshow myself around.""It is no trouble," she said. "After all, I am awake."Silas stopped walking. They had reached the front pew now, and the altar was only fifteen yardsaway. He turned his massive body fully toward the small woman, and he could sense her recoil asshe gazed up into his red eyes. "If it does not seem too rude, Sister, I am not accustomed to simplywalking into a house of God and taking a tour. Would you mind if I took some time alone to praybefore I look around?"Sister Sandrine hesitated. "Oh, of course. I shall wait in the rear of the church for you."Silas put a soft but heavy hand on her shoulder and peered down. "Sister, I feel guilty already forhaving awoken you. To ask you to stay awake is too much. Please, you should return to bed. I canenjoy your sanctuary and then let myself out."She looked uneasy. "Are you sure you won't feel abandoned?""Not at all. Prayer is a solitary joy.""As you wish."Silas took his hand from her shoulder. "Sleep well, Sister. May the peace of the Lord be with you.""And also with you." Sister Sandrine headed for the stairs. "Please be sure the door closes tightlyon your way out.""I will be sure of it." Silas watched her climb out of sight. Then he turned and knelt in the frontpew, feeling the cilice cut into his leg.
Dear God, I offer up to you this work I do today....
Crouching in the shadows of the choir balcony high above the altar, Sister Sandrine peered silentlythrough the balustrade at the cloaked monk kneeling alone. The sudden dread in her soul made ithard to stay still. For a fleeting instant, she wondered if this mysterious visitor could be the enemythey had warned her about, and if tonight she would have to carry out the orders she had beenholding all these years. She decided to stay there in the darkness and watch his every move.据说，在巴黎，圣叙尔皮斯教堂的历史最为奇异。它是在一座古庙的废墟上建立起来的，而那座古庙原先是为埃及女神爱塞丝而修建的。圣叙尔皮斯教堂的建筑风格与巴黎圣母院的风格极其相似。这座教堂曾主持过马尔。德。萨特和波德莱尔的洗礼仪式和雨果的婚礼。它的附属神学院见证过一段异教发展史，曾被作为许多秘密团体的地下集会场所。
今晚，圣叙尔皮斯那洞穴般幽深的中殿寂静得好似一座坟墓。傍晚人们焚香时残留的气味，是这里唯一的一丝生气。当桑德琳嬷嬷将塞拉斯领进教堂时，塞拉斯从她的举止中感觉到了不安。他并不感到奇怪。人们看见他的样子都会觉得不舒服，塞拉斯对此早已习以为常了。
"你是美国人吧。"她说。
"我出生在法国。"塞拉斯回答道。"在西班牙入教，现在在美国学习。"
桑德琳嬷嬷身材矮小，目光安详。"你第一次来这个教堂吧？"
"以前没来过，我想这就是个罪过。"
"白天时，她看上去更美丽。"
"我相信。无论如何，感谢您这么晚还让我进来。"
"院长下了命令。你肯定有一些有权势的朋友吧。"
你一无所知，塞拉斯想。
当塞拉斯在桑德琳嬷嬷的引导下沿着走道前行时，他为中殿的朴素感到惊讶。这里没有巴黎圣母院里那种色彩缤纷的壁画，也没有光彩夺目的圣坛，更没有用来取暖的柴火。
圣叙尔皮斯让人感到荒凉而寒冷，让人回想起西班牙禁欲者的大教堂。由于缺乏装饰，大殿显得更加空旷。塞拉斯仰望着拱顶，觉得自己仿佛置身于许多倒扣着的船身下。
这个样子正合我意，塞拉斯想。兄弟会的人就要翻船了，他们都将永沉海底。塞拉斯迫不及待地想开始执行他的任务，希望把桑德琳嬷嬷支开。虽然塞拉斯可以轻而易举地废了这个矮小瘦弱的女人，但他已经发过誓不在迫不得已时绝不使用暴力。她也不知情，兄弟会将楔石藏在她所在的教堂，这也不是她的错。她不应该为别人的罪过而受到惩罚。
"真不好意思，我把您吵醒了。"
"没关系。你刚来到巴黎，不应该错过到这里的机会。你对教堂的建筑感兴趣，还是对教堂的历史感兴趣呢？"
"嬷嬷，其实我只是为信仰而来的。"
嬷嬷高兴地笑了起来。"这还用说？不过，带你从哪里开始参观呢？"
塞拉斯注视着圣坛。"不用参观了。您不必这么客气。我可以自己逛逛。"
"没关系，反正我已经醒了。"嬷嬷说。
这时，他们已走到了教堂的前排座位，距圣坛不足十五码远了。塞拉斯停住了脚步，转过庞大的身躯，面对着嬷嬷。他可以感觉到嬷嬷正畏惧地看着他那发红的眼睛。"嬷嬷，请原谅我的粗鲁。我不习惯走进教堂这样神圣的地方就四处闲逛。我想在参观前独自做一下祷告，您不介意吧？请您回去睡觉吧！我可以独自欣赏一下您的圣殿，然后自己离开。"桑德琳嬷嬷犹豫了一下，说："哦，当然不介意。我在后排座位上等你。"
塞拉斯将他那柔软而又厚重的大手放在嬷嬷身上，俯视着她，说道："嬷嬷，把您吵醒我已经很不好意思了，再不让您去睡觉更是过意不去。请您回去睡觉吧！我可以独自欣赏一下您的圣殿，然后自己离开。"嬷嬷看上去很不安。"你肯定自己不会有种被遗弃般的孤独吗？"
"不会的。祷告是一个人享受的快乐。"
"那你就自便吧。"
塞拉斯将手从她的肩膀上移开。"睡个好觉，嬷嬷。愿上帝保佑你平安。"
"也保佑你平安。"桑德琳嬷嬷朝楼梯走去。"走的时候一定要把门关紧。"
"我一定会的。"塞拉斯看着桑德琳嬷嬷爬上了楼梯，消失在他的视线中。然后，他转过身来，跪在前排的座位上。
亲爱的上帝，我今晚的工作是为您而做的……
桑德琳嬷嬷蹲在圣坛上方的唱诗班站台的阴影中，透过栏杆，静静地注视着独自跪在下方的那个伪装的修道士。突然袭上她心头的恐惧使她难以平静。刹那间，她觉得这个神秘的来访者可能就是兄弟会提醒她要注意的敌人，可能今晚她必须执行多年来她一直肩负着的使命。她决定躲在黑暗中，观察他的一举一动。