The Da Vinci Code

word that speaks of the Grail? On the plane, they had already tried all the obvious 
passwords—GRAIL, GRAAL, GREAL, VENUS, MARIA, JESUS, SARAH—but the cylinder had 
not budged. Far too obvious. Apparently there existed some other five-letter reference to the Rose's 
seeded womb. The fact that the word was eluding a specialist like Leigh Teabing signified to 
Langdon that it was no ordinary Grail reference.

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"Sir Leigh?" Rémy called over his shoulder. He was watching them in the rearview mirror through 
the open divider. "You said Fleet Street is near Blackfriars Bridge?"
"Yes, take Victoria Embankment."
"I'm sorry. I'm not sure where that is. We usually go only to the hospital."
Teabing rolled his eyes at Langdon and Sophie and grumbled, "I swear, sometimes it's like baby-
sitting a child. One moment please. Help yourself to a drink and savory snacks." He left them, 
clambering awkwardly toward the open divider to talk to Rémy.
Sophie turned to Langdon now, her voice quiet. "Robert, nobody knows you and I are in England."
Langdon realized she was right. The Kent police would tell Fache the plane was empty, and Fache 
would have to assume they were still in France. We are invisible. Leigh's little stunt had just bought 
them a lot of time.
"Fache will not give up easily," Sophie said. "He has too much riding on this arrest now."
Langdon had been trying not to think about Fache. Sophie had promised she would do everything 
in her power to exonerate Langdon once this was over, but Langdon was starting to fear it might 
not matter. Fache could easily be pan of this plot. Although Langdon could not imagine the 
Judicial Police tangled up in the Holy Grail, he sensed too much coincidence tonight to disregard 
Fache as a possible accomplice. Fache is religions, and he is intent on pinning these murders on 
me. Then again, Sophie had argued that Fache might simply be overzealous to make the arrest. 
After all, the evidence against Langdon was substantial. In addition to Langdon's name scrawled on 
the Louvre floor and in Saunière's date book, Langdon now appeared to have lied about his 
manuscript and then run away. At Sophie's suggestion.
"Robert, I'm sorry you're so deeply involved," Sophie said, placing her hand on his knee. "But I'm 
very glad you're here."
The comment sounded more pragmatic than romantic, and yet Langdon felt an unexpected flicker 
of attraction between them. He gave her a tired smile. "I'm a lot more fun when I've slept."
Sophie was silent for several seconds. "My grandfather asked me to trust you. I'm glad I listened to 
him for once."
"Your grandfather didn't even know me."
"Even so, I can't help but think you've done everything he would have wanted. You helped me find 
the keystone, explained the Sangreal, told me about the ritual in the basement." She paused. 
"Somehow I feel closer to my grandfather tonight than I have in years. I know he would be happy 

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about that."
In the distance, now, the skyline of London began to materialize through the dawn drizzle. Once 
dominated by Big Ben and Tower Bridge, the horizon now bowed to the Millennium Eye—a 
colossal, ultramodern Ferris wheel that climbed five hundred feet and afforded breathtaking views 
of the city. Langdon had attempted to board it once, but the "viewing capsules" reminded him of 
sealed sarcophagi, and he opted to keep his feet on the ground and enjoy the view from the airy 
banks of the Thames.
Langdon felt a squeeze on his knee, pulling him back, and Sophie's green eyes were on him. He 
realized she had been speaking to him. "What do you think we should do with the Sangreal 
documents if we ever find them?" she whispered.
"What I think is immaterial," Langdon said. "Your grandfather gave the cryptex to you, and you 
should do with it what your instinct tells you he would want done."
"I'm asking for your opinion. You obviously wrote something in that manuscript that made my 
grandfather trust your judgment. He scheduled a private meeting with you. That's rare."
"Maybe he wanted to tell me I have it all wrong."
"Why would he tell me to find you unless he liked your ideas? In your manuscript, did you support 
the idea that the Sangreal documents should be revealed or stay buried?"
"Neither. I made no judgment either way. The manuscript deals with the symbology of the sacred 
feminine—tracing her iconography throughout history. I certainly didn't presume to know where 
the Grail is hidden or whether it should ever be revealed."
"And yet you're writing a book about it, so you obviously feel the information should be shared."
"There's an enormous difference between hypothetically discussing an alternate history of Christ, 
and..." He paused.
"And what?"
"And presenting to the world thousands of ancient documents as scientific evidence that the New 
Testament is false testimony."
"But you told me the New Testament is based on fabrications."
Langdon smiled. "Sophie, every faith in the world is based on fabrication. That is the definition of 
faith—acceptance of that which we imagine to be true, that which we cannot prove. Every religion 
describes God through metaphor, allegory, and exaggeration, from the early Egyptians through 

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modern Sunday school. Metaphors are a way to help our minds process the unprocessible. The 
problems arise when we begin to believe literally in our own metaphors."
"So you are in favor of the Sangreal documents staying buried forever?"
"I'm a historian. I'm opposed to the destruction of documents, and I would love to see religious 
scholars have more information to ponder the exceptional life of Jesus Christ."
"You're arguing both sides of my question."
"Am I? The Bible represents a fundamental guidepost for millions of people on the planet, in much 
the same way the Koran, Torah, and Pali Canon offer guidance to people of other religions. If you 
and I could dig up documentation that contradicted the holy stories of Islamic belief, Judaic belief, 
Buddhist belief, pagan belief, should we do that? Should we wave a flag and tell the Buddhists that 
we have proof the Buddha did not come from a lotus blossom? Or that Jesus was not born of a 
literal virgin birth? Those who truly understand their faiths understand the stories are 
metaphorical."
Sophie looked skeptical. "My friends who are devout Christians definitely believe that Christ 
literally walked on water, literally turned water into wine, and was born of a literal virgin birth."
"My point exactly," Langdon said. "Religious allegory has become a part of the fabric of reality. 
And living in that reality helps millions of people cope and be better people."
"But it appears their reality is false."
Langdon chuckled. "No more false than that of a mathematical cryptographer who believes in the 
imaginary number 'i' because it helps her break codes."
Sophie frowned. "That's not fair."
A moment passed.
"What was your question again?" Langdon asked.
"I can't remember."
He smiled. "Works every time."