The Da Vinci Code

unconsciousness.

The light came slowly, and the ghost wondered how long he had been dead. A day? Three days? It didn't matter. His bed was soft like a cloud, and the air around him smelled sweet with candles. Jesus was there, staring down at him. I am here, Jesus said. The stone has been rolled aside, and you are born again.

He slept and awoke. Fog shrouded his thoughts. He had never believed in heaven, and yet Jesus was watching over him. Food appeared beside his bed, and the ghost ate it, almost able to feel the flesh materializing on his bones. He slept again. When he awoke, Jesus was still smiling down, speaking. You are saved, my son. Blessed are those who follow my path.

Again, he slept.

It was a scream of anguish that startled the ghost from his slumber. His body leapt out of bed, staggered down a hallway toward the sounds of shouting. He entered into a kitchen and saw a large man beating a smaller man. Without knowing why, the ghost grabbed the large man and hurled him backward against a wall. The man fled, leaving the ghost standing over the body of a young man in priest's robes. The priest had a badly shattered nose. Lifting the bloody priest, the ghost carried him to a couch.

“Thank you, my friend,” the priest said in awkward French. “The offertory money is tempting for thieves. You speak French in your sleep. Do you also speak Spanish?”

The ghost shook his head.

“What is your name?” he continued in broken French.

The ghost could not remember the name his parents had given him. All he heard were the taunting gibes of the prison guards.

The priest smiled. “No hay problema. My name is Manuel Aringarosa. I am a missionary from Madrid. I was sent here to build a church for the Obra de Dios.”

“Where am I?” His voice sounded hollow.

“Oviedo. In the north of Spain.”

“How did I get here?”

“Someone left you on my doorstep. You were ill. I fed you. You've been here many days.”

The ghost studied his young caretaker. Years had passed since anyone had shown any kindness. “Thank you, Father.”

The priest touched his bloody lip. “It is I who am thankful, my friend.”

When the ghost awoke in the morning, his world felt clearer. He gazed up at the crucifix on the wall above his bed. Although it no longer spoke to him, he felt a comforting aura in its presence. Sitting up, he was surprised to find a newspaper clipping on his bedside table. The article was in French, a week old. When he read the story, he filled with fear. It told of an earthquake in the mountains that had destroyed a prison and freed many dangerous criminals.

His heart began pounding. The priest knows who I am! The emotion he felt was one he had not felt for some time. Shame. Guilt. It was accompanied by the fear of being caught. He jumped from his bed. Where do I run?

“The Book of Acts,” a voice said from the door.

The ghost turned, frightened.

The young priest was smiling as he entered. His nose was awkwardly bandaged, and he was holding out an old Bible. “I found one in French for you. The Chapter is marked.”

Uncertain, the ghost took the Bible and looked at the Chapter the priest had marked.

Acts 16.

The verses told of a prisoner named Silas who lay naked and beaten in his cell, singing hymns to God. When the ghost reached Verse 26, he gasped in shock.

”…And suddenly, there was a great earthquake, so that the foundations of the prison were shaken, and all the doors fell open.”

His eyes shot up at the priest.

The priest smiled warmly. “From now on, my friend, if you have no other name, I shall call you Silas.”

The ghost nodded blankly. Silas. He had been given flesh. My name is Silas.

“It's time for breakfast,” the priest said. “You will need your strength if you are to help me build this church.”

* * *

Twenty thousand feet above the Mediterranean, Alitalia flight 1618 bounced in turbulence, causing passengers to shift nervously. Bishop Aringarosa barely noticed. His thoughts were with the future of Opus Dei. Eager to know how plans in Paris were progressing, he wished he could phone Silas. But he could not. The Teacher had seen to that.

“It is for your own safety,” the Teacher had explained, speaking in English with a French accent. “I am familiar enough with electronic communications to know they can be intercepted. The results could be disastrous for you.”

Aringarosa knew he was right. The Teacher seemed an exceptionally careful man. He had not revealed his own identity to Aringarosa, and yet he had proven himself a man well worth obeying. After all, he had somehow obtained very secret information. The names of the brotherhood's four top members! This had been one of the coups that convinced the bishop the Teacher was truly capable of delivering the astonishing prize he claimed he could unearth.

“Bishop,” the Teacher had told him, “I have made all the arrangements. For my plan to succeed, you must allow Silas to answer only to me for several days. The two of you will not speak. I will communicate with him through secure channels.”

“You will treat him with respect?”

“A man of faith deserves the highest.”

“Excellent. Then I understand. Silas and I shall not speak until this is over.”

“I do this to protect your identity, Silas's identity, and my investment.”

“Your investment?”

“Bishop, if your own eagerness to keep abreast of progress puts you in jail, then you will be unable to pay me my fee.”

The bishop smiled. “A fine point. Our desires are in accord. Godspeed.”

Twenty million euro, the bishop thought, now gazing out the plane's window. The sum was approximately the same number of U.S. dollars. A pittance for something so powerful.

He felt a renewed confidence that the Teacher and Silas would not fail. Money and faith were powerful motivators.

Chapter 11

“Une plaisanterie numerique?” Bezu Fache was livid, glaring at Sophie Neveu in disbelief. A numeric joke? “Your professional assessment of Sauniere's code is that it is some kind of mathematical prank?”

Fache was in utter incomprehension of this woman's gall. Not only had she just barged in on Fache without permission, but she was now trying to convince him that Sauniere, in his final moments of life, had been inspired to leave a mathematical gag?

“This code,” Sophie explained in rapid French, “is simplistic to the point of absurdity. Jacques Sauniere must have known we would see through it immediately.” She pulled a scrap of paper from her sweater pocket and