Langdon did his very best to look as if he had every right to be where he was as he strode through the Compiégne train station. It was eleven at night – late enough for the crowds to have thinned out to the point where anyone looking for him would not have to search too hard. Yet still early enough for people to need to travel.
Things are different in Europe.
The cities seemed to hibernate in the late afternoon and early evening, coming alive a few scant hours after midnight. There were parts of the Harvard campus he wouldn't dare walk through at this time of night; but here, it was almost safe.
Almost.
He approached a night teller with a small smile. "Hello."
Taking the cue, the young man nodded genially. "Good evening, sir. How may I help you?"
Memory. The line wasn't too long, thankfully. Robert glanced up at the sign announcing ticket prices; over a loudspeaker voices pronounced in three languages the trains departing within the next half-hour. The sign was written in French; the English below it was tiny, but legible. 'No refunds. Exchanges only.'
"I missed my train this afternoon. I was wondering if I could exchange my ticket for another."
The teller grasped the unused ticket, professionally scanning the pertinent information. "Of course, sir. Will there be a change in your destination?"
"No."
Fingers tapped at keys; a tinny voice was piped through glass by a small headset on the young man's ear. "The next train leaves in ten minutes. Do you need more time?"
"No. That would be fine, thank you." Robert swallowed his sigh of relief. No matter how carefully a plan was executed, Murphy's Law played merry havoc in train stations. Punctuality was rare – and he couldn't risk staying out in plain sight longer than absolutely necessary.
Money and paper were exchanged; moments later Langdon was on the platform, and boarding the train. He found a seat in the back of a mostly-empty car, and slouched out of sight next to the aisle.
Several more people settled in the car, but the final boarding had taken place. Minutes later, velocity gently pushed Robert back into his seat. The train gathered speed until it was rattling along the tracks over one hundred and twenty kilometers per hour, leaving the city of Compiégne far behind.
Not safe. Not yet. But he was finally on his way.
And since he was on the move, this was probably the safest place for what he planned to do next. One jacket pocket yielded up Moreau's cellular phone; seconds later a soft chime sounded as it finished powering up.
Robert started to scroll through the menu.
Contacts. Nothing. The address book was empty; and he frowned. No emergency numbers, no take-out restaurants. No personal information. The settings on the phone were all the basic startup options. No hint of the man's personality, and no information that would tell him of the next step.
It was when he found the listing of dialed and received calls that he hit jackpot. Two numbers kept reappearing in both lists, over and over again. And they were regularly interspersed.
As if the Disciple was reporting to someone. Or receiving instructions.
The glow of the phone died as Langdon shut it off. The train was passing through dark countryside; in deference to the sleeping passengers, the lights had dimmed, softening the utilitarian browns of the seating and floor with shadows. A few people moved about, from their seats to the bathroom and back.
An old woman, gray hair hidden under a drab scarf, sat across the aisle from him. Settled herself, and clucked as she stared out the window for a long moment. "So dark, is it not?" English. With an American accent, despite the antiquated phrasing.
Robert was startled enough to look over. Her face was not as lined as her stooped posture suggested; sharp eyes were on him. He clamped down on the fear surging through pounding veins. "Excuse me?"
"So dark," the woman repeated. And flashed him a quiet smile. "The con of man."
Hope fluttered wildly, tethered by fear. For a long moment, he was chained in indecisive silence. Trap, one part of him warned. The greater part wanted it to be help, wanted it to be true. Fight and flight circled, snarling, clawing his nerves in turn.
"My name is Jean LeFavre," she introduced herself quietly. "We've been looking for you."
Knuckles clenched bone-white on the arm of the dirty seat. Still he could find nothing to say; Langdon stared straight ahead. The noise of his heart was loud in his ears. A panic he had only ever associated with tight spaces was creeping in on him. There was nowhere he could go. Nowhere to run.
The woman said gently, "Sophie has been worried."
Deep breath. "Who are you?"
"Jean LeFavre," she repeated, patience in the softness of her voice. The woman waited until a portly, black-suited man passed them on his way back from the lavatory. "One of what you would call the Priory of Sion."
"Why should I believe you?"
"I don't expect you to." That honesty surprised Robert as well. She laughed at the skeptical look he shot her. "I just hope I can convince you to listen to me, instead of jumping out the window." A playful gleam in sharp eyes told him that she knew exactly how he had slipped away from the police in Compiégne. And that the same trick wouldn't work twice.
He had never liked tight spaces. Blue eyes narrowed; Langdon's mind raced at impossible speeds, leaving the frantic pounding of his heart beating an excruciatingly slow tempo. Carefully, the black-haired head nodded.
LeFavre leant back comfortably. "I'm an American, as I'm sure you can tell. For the past few years I've made my living in France. I work in information exchange, data analysis – that sort of thing."
Robert jerked, incredulous. "You're a spy." And you're telling me?
A sly grin congratulated him. "They said you were quick. I happen to prefer the term operative."
Langdon folded his hands, not sharing her humor. "I left my patience in my other jacket. What's your point?"
"I can help you," she said seriously. "Perhaps more than anyone at the American Embassy. You need not only to get to America, but to get out from under the microscope Opus Dei has you under. Without losing your life in the process."
"It's that simple, then?" he asked, nettled.
"It's that simple," she agreed. Her voice softened. "You've done surprisingly well up to this point, Professor Langdon. But sooner or later, even the best of us makes a mistake – and this isn't who you are. Let me help you. Please."
"That's what I don't understand," he bit out. "Why should you want to help me? You don't know me from Adam – and what I know of you isn't inspiring any great faith in me."
She didn't grin at him, like he'd half-suspected she might; instead, the 'old' woman took his question seriously. And, in the manner of spies and psychologists, answered with another question. "How do you think the Priory lasted this long, Professor?"
In truth, he didn't know. But if he'd learned one thing through the last few days, it was that bluffing was a skill he hadn't cultivated anywhere near enough. "I presume you're going to tell me."
A slim, wrinkled hand with a simple wedding ring pulled back the scarf over her hair. He was nearly positive the sheen of silver revealed had been sprayed on. After all, who's afraid of a harmless old woman?
"You know history." LeFavre settled a bulky purse on her lap. "And you know religion. So when I tell you that religious groups have a history of fractioning over time, it should come as no great surprise. Protestantism is only the most obvious example. The many subsets of Catholicism and Judaism and Islam that have been squabbling with one another for hundreds of years are more. America was formed because of a religious division; the Pilgrims wanted a place where they wouldn't be persecuted, and could in turn persecute everyone else."
"There's been enough social and economic change in the past few thousand years that a group such as the Priory should have split a dozen times over," Langdon agreed, sensing the vein the conversation was taking. It was a stumbling point for scholars trying to prove the mythical group's existence.
"But it didn't." LeFavre leant toward him, and he could see now that much of her age was manufactured through expression and cosmetics. She couldn't be older than fifty, rather than the eighty she played at. "Over two thousand years, and the group has not only remained a secret, but the information it guards has remained solidly in the realm of obscure myth. By all laws of anthropology and human nature, with so many people involved, that shouldn't be possible."
Unless they were bound by more than mere religious ideology, Robert realized. He wasn't an anthropologist, but he didn't have to be. The simplest answer is usually the correct one. A blue stare settled evenly over the spy. "How are you related?"
"I am descended from Simon, called Peter." LeFavre's voice, as she proclaimed her ancestor an apostle of Jesus, was a mere whisper. "And I am David's godmother."
Langdon blinked. "Ah, David?"
"Oh, of course – you didn't meet him. David is Sophie's brother."
The article had said the boy was dead. Then again, it had also said that Sophie had been killed in the accident as well. Clever. Hiding not one child, but two. Still, while the story seemed to ring true, there was one thing that didn't sit right. "St. Peter?" he asked neutrally. "The man the Vatican set up as the one to continue Jesus' Church? I'd hardly expect to find a descendant of his among the Priory. More likely Opus Dei."
"He had nothing to do with that!" she snapped, true ire flaring in sharp eyes. "He was long dead when the church decided to set him up as a traitor to everything he held dear! He -" The approach of a conductor, and the announcement that they would be pulling into Paris momentarily, forced her to swallow hot words.
Langdon couldn't tell if she passed the test or not. Spies were of necessity smooth liars. But the emotion felt genuine. And even if he was walking into a trap, knowing that he was gave him an advantage. A very slight advantage – but more than he'd had dealing with the Disciple.
When she had the chance to speak again, LeFavre had used the time of enforced silence to collect herself. "I know a safehouse in Paris," she offered, knotting the scarf under her chin. "Owned and protected by the Priory. You should be safe there, at least for tonight."
He didn't answer; instead, checked his pockets as the train finished pulling to a stop.
"Professor," the woman hissed. "You can't go to the Embassy. Opus Dei knows that's the first place you'll head. You may have thrown them off by switching trains and lying low in Compiégne, but they know you have to go to the Embassy eventually. They'll be waiting for you there!"
Langdon froze, standing half-in the empty aisle. She was right. Less effort for them to simply lie in wait where he was sure to go, and intercept him before he got there. One option. He met the spy's gaze evenly. "Safehouse?" he asked quietly.
It was a small, white house, not far from the center of the city; no different in structure or landscaping from the others on this street. Except the Rose Line runs through it. Langdon glanced down at the brass marker embedded in the house's front walk.
LeFavre had driven them sedately through the streets and intersections, explaining as she did. When they reached the safehouse, she would place a call to other members of the Priory. They would arrive in moments, and then the group could begin to sort out an answer to this mess.
The kitchen was small, and warm, and well-lit. Comfortable, unlike the showy clutter of Sir Leigh's Chateau de Villette. LeFavre dropped the car keys on the table, her posture easily losing the stoop and shuffle of extreme age. She straightened with a crackling of vertebrae, and her stride lengthened. Sitting, after that strange train ride, was the last thing he wanted to do; instead of taking a chair, Langdon held up the wall beside the stove.
He watched as the spy put a pot of water on to boil, and then moved to plug a small device in the junction of receiver and phone cord. He watched in interest as she dialed an 800 number, pressed several keys simultaneously, and was redirected. "I have him," she said quietly. "When can you be here? Good."
He didn't take his eyes off her as she hung up the phone. "That was Mitch," she announced. "He was one of the bodyguards for Marie Chauvel, whom you met in England. He's here, with Sophie and David."
Blue eyes snapped to hers. "They're here?" He'd thought she was safe, in England – not in the hornet's nest stirred up by Opus Dei.
"You've tried telling her not to do something? You can imagine how well it worked when both of them decided they were going to look for you."
Langdon clamped down the urge to swear. Let blue eyes slide shut in exasperation, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Wonderful."
She handed him a cup. "You are the first Knight the Priory has known in a thousand years," the spy told him. "That is why we searched for you. That is why we want to help you. Because you did everything you could to help us; and you brought our lost daughter home. You may not be blood, but you are family."
"Tea?" he frowned, desperate to change the subject.
"Chamomile." The sly smile reappeared, telling him that she knew what he was up to. "You are in trouble because of us," she continued, refusing to let him dodge. "Opus Dei would never have targeted you if the Grand Master had not needed your help. Now – we will try to rectify what we have done."
That's what you think. Robert didn't want to touch the idea – but a gut feeling told him that Opus Dei would have been looking for him anyway. And now, they had suspicions and half-truths tempting enough to follow him across the globe. If they ever learned the truth, that he knew where the Grail lay . . .
"After all," LeFavre shrugged, wiping off the last of her makeup to reveal a face with a decade's more wear than his own. "You don't know where the Grail is." She gave a sorrowed sigh. "Jacques Sauniére took that secret to his grave."
Langdon's face tightened, and he sipped the tea she had prepared.
But she saw something in his expression that made her pale, and study him more closely. Her voice was a mere thread of sound."You do know where it is."
Fingers swirled the teacup, watching amber liquid ripple smoothly against porcelain. "I suspect," Robert told her quietly. "Only that."
The spy's eyes were wide. "You -"
A soft scuffing at the kitchen door interrupted her.
"What was that?" Robert's head snapped toward the noise.
"Mitch," LeFavre muttered, a gun appearing in her hand. "I hope."
"Too soon," Langdon breathed, trading a worried glance with the spy.
Which was when the window over the sink exploded.