The Da Vinci Code

"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.
Da Vinci. Langdon felt a shiver of amazement. The clarity of Saunière's intentions could not be 
denied. In his final moments of life, the curator had stripped off his clothing and arranged his body 
in a clear image of Leonardo da Vinci's Vitruvian Man.
The circle had been the missing critical element. A feminine symbol of protection, the circle 
around the naked man's body completed Da Vinci's intended message—male and female harmony. 
The question now, though, was why Saunière would imitate a famous drawing.
"Mr. Langdon," Fache said, "certainly a man like yourself is aware that Leonardo da Vinci had a 
tendency toward the darker arts."
Langdon was surprised by Fache's knowledge of Da Vinci, and it certainly went a long way toward 
explaining the captain's suspicions about devil worship. Da Vinci had always been an awkward 
subject for historians, especially in the Christian tradition. Despite the visionary's genius, he was a 
flamboyant homosexual and worshipper of Nature's divine order, both of which placed him in a 
perpetual state of sin against God. Moreover, the artist's eerie eccentricities projected an admittedly 
demonic aura: Da Vinci exhumed corpses to study human anatomy; he kept mysterious journals in 
illegible reverse handwriting; he believed he possessed the alchemic power to turn lead into gold 
and even cheat God by creating an elixir to postpone death; and his inventions included horrific, 
never-before-imagined weapons of war and torture.
Misunderstanding breeds distrust, Langdon thought.
Even Da Vinci's enormous output of breathtaking Christian art only furthered the artist's reputation 
for spiritual hypocrisy. Accepting hundreds of lucrative Vatican commissions, Da Vinci painted 
Christian themes not as an expression of his own beliefs but rather as a commercial venture—a 

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means of funding a lavish lifestyle. Unfortunately, Da Vinci was a prankster who often amused 
himself by quietly gnawing at the hand that fed him. He incorporated in many of his Christian 
paintings hidden symbolism that was anything but Christian—tributes to his own beliefs and a 
subtle thumbing of his nose at the Church. Langdon had even given a lecture once at the National 
Gallery in London entitled: "The Secret Life of Leonardo: Pagan Symbolism in Christian Art."
"I understand your concerns," Langdon now said, "but Da Vinci never really practiced any dark 
arts. He was an exceptionally spiritual man, albeit one in constant conflict with the Church." As 
Langdon said this, an odd thought popped into his mind. He glanced down at the message on the 
floor again. O, Draconian devil! Oh, lame saint!
"Yes?" Fache said.
Langdon weighed his words carefully. "I was just thinking that Saunière shared a lot of spiritual 
ideologies with Da Vinci, including a concern over the Church's elimination of the sacred feminine 
from modern religion. Maybe, by imitating a famous Da Vinci drawing, Saunière was simply 
echoing some of their shared frustrations with the modern Church's demonization of the goddess."
Fache's eyes hardened. "You think Saunière is calling the Church a lame saint and a Draconian 
devil?"
Langdon had to admit it seemed far-fetched, and yet the pentacle seemed to endorse the idea on 
some level. "All I am saying is that Mr. Saunière dedicated his life to studying the history of the 
goddess, and nothing has done more to erase that history than the Catholic Church. It seems 
reasonable that Saunière might have chosen to express his disappointment in his final good-bye."
"Disappointment?" Fache demanded, sounding hostile now. "This message sounds more enraged 
than disappointed, wouldn't you say?"
Langdon was reaching the end of his patience. "Captain, you asked for my instincts as to what 
Saunière is trying to say here, and that's what I'm giving you."
"That this is an indictment of the Church?" Fache's jaw tightened as he spoke through clenched 
teeth. "Mr. Langdon, I have seen a lot of death in my work, and let me tell you something. When a 
man is murdered by another man, I do not believe his final thoughts are to write an obscure 
spiritual statement that no one will understand. I believe he is thinking of one thing only." Fache's 
whispery voice sliced the air. "La vengeance. I believe Saunière wrote this note to tell us who 
killed him." Langdon stared. "But that makes no sense whatsoever."
"No?"
"No," he fired back, tired and frustrated. "You told me Saunière was attacked in his office by 
someone he had apparently invited in."

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"Yes."
"So it seems reasonable to conclude that the curator knew his attacker."
Fache nodded. "Go on."
"So if Saunière knew the person who killed him, what kind of indictment is this?" He pointed at the 
floor. "Numeric codes? Lame saints? Draconian devils? Pentacles on his stomach? It's all too 
cryptic."
Fache frowned as if the idea had never occurred to him. "You have a point."
"Considering the circumstances," Langdon said, "I would assume that if Saunière wanted to tell 
you who killed him, he would have written down somebody's name."
As Langdon spoke those words, a smug smile crossed Fache's lips for the first time all night. 
"Précisément," Fache said. "Précisément."
I am witnessing the work of a master, mused Lieutenant Collet as he tweaked his audio gear and 
listened to Fache's voice coming through the headphones. The agent supérieur knew it was 
moments like these that had lifted the captain to the pinnacle of French law enforcement.
Fache will do what no one else dares.
The delicate art of cajoler was a lost skill in modern law enforcement, one that required 
exceptional poise under pressure. Few men possessed the necessary sangfroid for this kind of 
operation, but Fache seemed born for it. His restraint and patience bordered on the robotic.
Fache's sole emotion this evening seemed to be one of intense resolve, as if this arrest were 
somehow personal to him. Fache's briefing of his agents an hour ago had been unusually succinct 
and assured. I know who murdered Jacques Saunière, Fache had said. You know what to do. No 
mistakes tonight.
And so far, no mistakes had been made.
Collet was not yet privy to the evidence that had cemented Fache's certainty of their suspect's guilt, 
but he knew better than to question the instincts of the Bull. Fache's intuition seemed almost 
supernatural at times. God whispers in his ear, one agent had insisted after a particularly 
impressive display of Fache's sixth sense. Collet had to admit, if there was a God, Bezu Fache 
would be on His A-list. The captain attended mass and confession with zealous regularity—far 
more than the requisite holiday attendance fulfilled by other officials in the name of good public 

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relations. When the Pope visited Paris a few years back, Fache had used all his muscle to obtain the 
honor of an audience. A photo of Fache with the Pope now hung in his office. The Papal Bull, the 
agents secretly called it.
Collet found it ironic that one of Fache's rare popular public stances in recent years had been his 
outspoken reaction to the Catholic pedophilia scandal. These priests should be hanged twice! Fache 
had declared. Once for their crimes against children. And once for shaming the good name of the 
Catholic Church. Collet had the odd sense it was the latter that angered Fache more.
Turning now to his laptop computer, Collet attended to the other half of his responsibilities here 
tonight—the GPS tracking system. The image onscreen revealed a detailed floor plan of the Denon 
Wing, a structural schematic uploaded from the Louvre Security Office. Letting his eyes trace the 
maze of galleries and hallways, Collet found what he was looking for.
Deep in the heart of the Grand Gallery blinked a tiny red dot.
La marque.
Fache was keeping his prey on a very tight leash tonight. Wisely so. Robert Langdon had proven 
himself one cool customer.