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.
