Dan Brown - The Da Vinci Code

A lone taxi sat idling by the doorway.

The driver saw Sophie and flicked his lights.

Sophie jumped in the back seat. Langdon got in after her.

As the taxi pulled away from station, Sophie took out their newly purchased train tickets and tore them up.

Langdon sighed. Seventy dollars well spent.

It was not until their taxi had settled into a monotonous northbound hum on Rue de Clichy that Langdon felt they’d actually escaped. Out the window to his right, he could see Montmartre and the beautiful dome of Sacré-Coeur. The image was interrupted by the flash of police lights sailing past them in the opposite direction.

Langdon and Sophie ducked down as the sirens faded.

Sophie had told the cab driver simply to head out of the city, and from her firmly set jaw, Langdon sensed she was trying to figure out their next move.

Langdon examined the cruciform key again, holding it to the window, bringing it close to his eyes in an effort to find any markings on it that might indicate where the key had been made. In the intermittent glow of passing streetlights, he saw no markings except the Priory seal.

«It doesn’t make sense,» he finally said. «Which part?» «That your grandfather would go to so much trouble to give you a key that you wouldn’t know what to do with.»

«I agree.»

«Are you sure he didn’t write anything else on the back of the painting?»

«I searched the whole area. This is all there was. This key, wedged behind the painting. I saw the Priory seal, stuck the key in my pocket, then we left.»

Langdon frowned, peering now at the blunt end of the triangular shaft. Nothing. Squinting, he brought the key close to his eyes and examined the rim of the head. Nothing there either. «I think this key was cleaned recently.» «Why?» «It smells like rubbing alcohol.» She turned. «I’m sorry?» «It smells like somebody polished it with a cleaner.» Langdon held the key to his nose and sniffed. «It’s stronger on the other side.» He flipped it over. «Yes, it’s alcohol-based, like it’s been buffed with a cleaner or – « Langdon stopped. «What?» He angled the key to the light and looked at the smooth surface on the broad arm of the cross. It seemed to shimmer in places… like it was wet. «How well did you look at the back of this key before you put it in your pocket?»

«What? Not well. I was in a hurry.»

Langdon turned to her. «Do you still have the black light?»

Sophie reached in her pocket and produced the UV penlight. Langdon took it and switched it on, shining the beam on the back of the key.

The back luminesced instantly. There was writing there. In penmanship that was hurried but legible.

«Well,» Langdon said, smiling. «I guess we know what the alcohol smell was.»

Sophie stared in amazement at the purple writing on the back of the key.

24 Rue Haxo

An address! My grandfather wrote down an address!

«Where is this?» Langdon asked.

Sophie had no idea. Facing front again, she leaned forward and excitedly asked the driver,» Connaissez-vous la Rue Haxo? »

The driver thought a moment and then nodded. He told Sophie it was out near the tennis stadium on the western outskirts of Paris. She asked him to take them there immediately.

«Fastest route is through Bois de Boulogne,» the driver told her in French. «Is that okay?»

Sophie frowned. She could think of far less scandalous routes, but tonight she was not going to be picky. «Oui.» We can shock the visiting American.

Sophie looked back at the key and wondered what they would possibly find at 24 Rue Haxo. A church ? Some kind of Priory headquarters?

Her mind filled again with images of the secret ritual she had witnessed in the basement grotto ten years ago, and she heaved a long sigh. «Robert, I have a lot of things to tell you.» She paused, locking eyes with him as the taxi raced westward. «But first I want you to tell me everything you know about this Priory of Sion.»

Outside the Salle des Etats, Bezu Fache was fuming as Louvre warden Grouard explained how Sophie and Langdon had disarmed him. Why didn ’ t you just shoot the blessed painting!

«Captain?» Lieutenant Collet loped toward them from the direction of the command post. «Captain, I just heard. They located Agent Neveu’s car.» «Did she make the embassy?» «No. Train station. Bought two tickets. Train just left.»

Fache waved off warden Grouard and led Collet to a nearby alcove, addressing him in hushed tones. «What was the destination?»

«Lyon.»

«Probably a decoy.» Fache exhaled, formulating a plan. «Okay, alert the next station, have the train stopped and searched, just in case. Leave her car where it is and put plainclothes on watch in case they try to come back to it. Send men to search the streets around the station in case they fled on foot. Are buses running from the station?»

«Not at this hour, sir. Only the taxi queue.»

«Good. Question the drivers. See if they saw anything. Then contact the taxi company dispatcher with descriptions. I’m calling Interpol.»

Collet looked surprised. «You’re putting this on the wire? »

Fache regretted the potential embarrassment, but he saw no other choice.

Close the net fast, and close it tight.

The first hour was critical. Fugitives were predictable the first hour after escape. They always needed the same thing. Travel. Lodging. Cash. The Holy Trinity. Interpol had the power to make all three disappear in the blink of an eye. By broadcast-faxing photos of Langdon and Sophie to Paris travel authorities, hotels, and banks, Interpol would leave no options – no way to leave the city, no place to hide, and no way to withdraw cash without being recognized. Usually, fugitives panicked on the street and did something stupid. Stole a car. Robbed a store. Used a bank card in desperation. Whatever mistake they committed, they quickly made their whereabouts known to local authorities.

«Only Langdon , right?» Collet said. «You’re not flagging Sophie Neveu. She’s our own agent.»

«Of course I’m flagging her!» Fache snapped. «What good is flagging Langdon if she can do all his dirty work? I plan to run Neveu’s employment file – friends, family, personal contacts – anyone she might turn to for help. I don’t know what she thinks she’s doing out there, but it’s going to cost her one hell of a lot more than her job!»

«Do you want me on the phones or in the field?»

«Field. Get over to the train station and coordinate the team. You’ve got the reins, but don’t make a move without talking to me.»

«Yes, sir.» Collet ran out.

Fache felt rigid as he stood in the alcove. Outside the window, the glass pyramid shone, its reflection rippling in the windswept pools. They slipped through my fingers. He told himself to relax.

Even a trained field agent would be lucky to withstand the pressure that Interpol was about to apply.

A female cryptologist and a schoolteacher?

They wouldn’t last till dawn.

The heavily forested park known as the Bois de Boulogne was called many things, but the Parisian cognoscenti knew it as» the Garden of Earthly Delights.» The epithet, despite sounding flattering, was quite to the contrary. Anyone who had seen the lurid Bosch painting of the same name understood the jab; the painting, like the forest, was dark and twisted, a purgatory for freaks and fetishists. At night, the forest’s winding lanes were lined with hundreds of glistening bodies for hire, earthly delights to satisfy one’s deepest unspoken desires – male, female, and everything in between.