Acknowledgments
First and foremost, to my friend and editor, Jason Kaufman, for working so hard
on this project and for truly understanding what this book is all about. And to
the incomparable Heide Lange—tireless champion of The Da Vinci Code, agent
extraordinaire, and trusted friend.
I cannot fully express my gratitude to the exceptional team at Doubleday, for
their generosity, faith, and superb guidance. Thank you especially to Bill
Thomas and Steve Rubin, who believed in this book from the start. My thanks also
to the initial core of early in-house supporters, headed by Michael Palgon,
Suzanne Herz, Janelle Moburg, Jackie Everly, and Adrienne Sparks, as well as to
the talented people of Doubleday's sales force.
For their generous assistance in the research of the book, I would like to
acknowledge the Louvre Museum, the French Ministry of Culture, Project
Gutenberg, Bibliothèque Nationale, the Gnostic Society Library, the Department
of Paintings Study and Documentation Service at the Louvre, Catholic World News,
Royal Observatory Greenwich, London Record Society, the Muniment Collection at
Westminster Abbey, John Pike and the Federation of American Scientists, and the
five members of Opus Dei (three active, two former) who recounted their stories,
both positive and negative, regarding their experiences inside Opus Dei.
My gratitude also to Water Street Bookstore for tracking down so many of my
research books, my father Richard Brown—mathematics teacher and author—for his
assistance with the Divine Proportion and the Fibonacci Sequence, Stan Planton,
Sylvie Baudeloque, Peter McGuigan, Francis McInerney, Margie Wachtel, André
Vernet, Ken Kelleher at Anchorball Web Media, Cara Sottak, Karyn Popham, Esther
Sung, Miriam Abramowitz, William Tunstall-Pedoe, and Griffin Wooden Brown.
And finally, in a novel drawing so heavily on the sacred feminine, I would be
remiss if I did not mention the two extraordinary women who have touched my
life. First, my mother, Connie Brown—fellow scribe, nurturer, musician, and role
model. And my wife, Blythe—art historian, painter, front-line editor, and
without a doubt the most astonishingly talented woman I have ever known.
FACT:
The
Priory of Sion—a European secret society
founded in 1099—is a real organization. In 1975 Paris's Bibliothèque Nationale
discovered parchments known as Les Dossiers Secrets, identifying numerous
members of the Priory of Sion, including Sir Isaac Newton, Botticelli, Victor
Hugo, and Leonardo da Vinci.
The
Vatican prelature known as Opus Dei is a deeply devout Catholic sect
that has been the topic of recent controversy due to reports of brainwashing,
coercion, and a dangerous practice known as "corporal mortification." Opus Dei
has just completed construction of a $47 million World Headquarters at 243
Lexington Avenue in New York City.
All descriptions of artwork, architecture, documents, and secret rituals in this
novel are accurate.
Prologue
Louvre Museum, Paris 10:46 P.M.
Renowned curator Jacques Saunière staggered through the vaulted archway of the
museum's Grand Gallery. He lunged for the nearest painting he could see, a
Caravaggio. Grabbing the gilded frame, the seventy-six-year-old man heaved the
masterpiece toward himself until it tore from the wall and Saunière collapsed
backward in a heap beneath the canvas.
As he had anticipated, a thundering iron gate fell nearby, barricading the
entrance to the suite. The parquet floor shook. Far off, an alarm began to ring.
The curator lay a moment, gasping for breath, taking stock. I am still alive. He
crawled out from under the canvas and scanned the cavernous space for someplace
to hide.
A voice spoke, chillingly close. "Do not move."
On his hands and knees, the curator froze, turning his head slowly.
Only fifteen feet away, outside the sealed gate, the mountainous silhouette of
his attacker stared through the iron bars. He was broad and tall, with
ghost-pale skin and thinning white hair. His irises were pink with dark red
pupils. The albino drew a pistol from his coat and aimed the barrel through the
bars, directly at the curator. "You should not have run." His accent was not
easy to place. "Now tell me where it is."
"I told you already," the curator stammered, kneeling defenseless on the floor
of the gallery. "I have no idea what you are talking about!"
"You are lying." The man stared at him, perfectly immobile except for the glint
in his ghostly eyes. "You and your brethren possess something that is not
yours."
The curator felt a surge of adrenaline. How could he possibly know this?
"Tonight the rightful guardians will be restored. Tell me where it is hidden,
and you will live." The man leveled his gun at the curator's head. "Is it a
secret you will die for?"
Saunière could not breathe.
The man tilted his head, peering down the barrel of his gun.
Saunière held up his hands in defense. "Wait," he said slowly. "I will tell you
what you need to know." The curator spoke his next words carefully. The lie he
told was one he had rehearsed many times... each time praying he would never
have to use it.
When the curator had finished speaking, his assailant smiled smugly. "Yes. This
is exactly what the others told me."
Saunière recoiled. The others?
"I found them, too," the huge man taunted. "All three of them. They confirmed
what you have just said."
It cannot be! The curator's true identity, along with the identities of his
three sénéchaux, was almost as sacred as the ancient secret they protected.
Saunière now realized his sénéchaux, following strict procedure, had told the
same lie before their own deaths. It was part of the protocol.
The attacker aimed his gun again. "When you are gone, I will be the only one who
knows the truth."
The truth. In an instant, the curator grasped the true horror of the situation.
If I die, the truth will be lost forever. Instinctively, he tried to scramble
for cover.
The gun roared, and the curator felt a searing heat as the bullet lodged in his
stomach. He fell forward... struggling against the pain. Slowly, Saunière rolled
over and stared back through the bars at his attacker.
The man was now taking dead aim at Saunière's head.
Saunière closed his eyes, his thoughts a swirling tempest of fear and regret.
The click of an empty chamber echoed through the corridor.
The curator's eyes flew open.
The man glanced down at his weapon, looking almost amused. He reached for a
second clip, but then seemed to reconsider, smirking calmly at Saunière's gut.
"My work here is done."
The curator looked down and saw the bullet hole in his white linen shirt. It was
framed by a small circle of blood a few inches below his breastbone. My stomach.
Almost cruelly, the bullet had missed his heart. As a veteran of la Guerre
d'Algérie, the curator had witnessed this horribly drawn-out death before. For
fifteen minutes, he would survive as his stomach acids seeped into his chest
cavity, slowly poisoning him from within.
"Pain is good, monsieur," the man said.
Then he was gone.
Alone now, Jacques Saunière turned his gaze again to the iron gate. He was
trapped, and the doors could not be reopened for at least twenty minutes. By the
time anyone got to him, he would be dead. Even so, the fear that now gripped him
was a fear far greater than that of his own death.
I must pass on the secret.
Staggering to his feet, he pictured his three murdered brethren. He thought of
the generations who had come before them... of the mission with which they had
all been entrusted.
An unbroken chain of knowledge.
Suddenly, now, despite all the precautions... despite all the fail-safes...
Jacques Saunière was the only remaining link, the sole guardian of one of the
most powerful secrets ever kept.
Shivering, he pulled himself to his feet.
I must find some way....
He was trapped inside the Grand Gallery, and there existed only one person on
earth to whom he could pass the torch. Saunière gazed up at the walls of his
opulent prison. A collection of the world's most famous paintings seemed to
smile down on him like old friends.
Wincing in pain, he summoned all of his faculties and strength. The desperate
task before him, he knew, would require every remaining second of his life.