«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.

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:

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 maybe 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.