not only lacked the physicality necessary for police work, but their mere presence posed a dangerous distraction to the men in the field. As Fache had feared, Sophie Neveu was proving far more distracting than most.
At thirty-two years old, she had a dogged determination that bordered on obstinate. Her eager espousal of Britain's new cryptologic methodology continually exasperated the veteran French cryptographers above her. And by far the most troubling to Fache was the inescapable universal truth that in an office of middle-aged men, an attractive young woman always drew eyes away from the work at hand.
The man on the radio said, “Agent Neveu insisted on speaking to you immediately, Captain. I tried to stop her, but she's on her way into the gallery.”
Fache recoiled in disbelief. “Unacceptable! I made it very clear—”
For a moment, Robert Langdon thought Bezu Fache was suffering a stroke. The captain was mid-sentence when his jaw stopped moving and his eyes bulged. His blistering gaze seemed fixated on something over Langdon's shoulder. Before Langdon could turn to see what it was, he heard a woman's voice chime out behind him.
“Excusez-moi, messieurs.”
Langdon turned to see a young woman approaching. She was moving down the corridor toward them with long, fluid strides . . . a haunting certainty to her gait. Dressed casually in a knee-length, cream-colored Irish sweater over black leggings, she was attractive and looked to be about thirty. Her thick burgundy hair fell unstyled to her shoulders, framing the warmth of her face. Unlike the waifish, cookie-cutter blondes that adorned Harvard dorm room walls, this woman was healthy with an unembellished beauty and genuineness that radiated a striking personal confidence.
To Langdon's surprise, the woman walked directly up to him and extended a polite hand. “Monsieur Langdon, I am Agent Neveu from DCPJ's Cryptology Department.” Her words curved richly around her muted Anglo-Franco accent. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Langdon took her soft palm in his and felt himself momentarily fixed in her strong gaze. Her eyes were olive-green—incisive and clear.
Fache drew a seething inhalation, clearly preparing to launch into a reprimand.
“Captain,” she said, turning quickly and beating him to the punch, “please excuse the interruption, but—”
“Ce n'est pas le moment!”
Fache sputtered.
“I tried to phone you.” Sophie continued in English, as if out of courtesy to Langdon. “But your cell phone was turned off.”
“I turned it off for a reason,” Fache hissed. “I am speaking to Mr. Langdon.”
“I've deciphered the numeric code,” she said flatly.
Langdon felt a pulse of excitement.
She broke the code?
Fache looked uncertain how to respond.
“Before I explain,” Sophie said, “I have an urgent message for Mr. Langdon.”
Fache's expression turned to one of deepening concern. “For Mr. Langdon?”
She nodded, turning back to Langdon. “You need to contact the U.S. Embassy, Mr. Langdon. They have a message for you from the States.”
Langdon reacted with surprise, his excitement over the code giving way to a sudden ripple of concern.
A message from the States?
He tried to imagine who could be trying to reach him. Only a few of his colleagues knew he was in Paris.
Fache's broad jaw had tightened with the news. “The U.S. Embassy?” he demanded, sounding suspicious. “How would they know to find Mr. Langdon
here?
”
Sophie shrugged. “Apparently they called Mr. Langdon's hotel, and the concierge told them Mr. Langdon had been collected by a DCPJ agent.”
Fache looked troubled. “And the embassy contacted DCPJ
Cryptography?
”
“No, sir,” Sophie said, her voice firm. “When I called the DCPJ switchboard in an attempt to contact you, they had a message waiting for Mr. Langdon and asked me to pass it along if I got through to you.”
Fache's brow furrowed in apparent confusion. He opened his mouth to
At thirty-two years old, she had a dogged determination that bordered on obstinate. Her eager espousal of Britain's new cryptologic methodology continually exasperated the veteran French cryptographers above her. And by far the most troubling to Fache was the inescapable universal truth that in an office of middle-aged men, an attractive young woman always drew eyes away from the work at hand.
The man on the radio said, “Agent Neveu insisted on speaking to you immediately, Captain. I tried to stop her, but she's on her way into the gallery.”
Fache recoiled in disbelief. “Unacceptable! I made it very clear—”
For a moment, Robert Langdon thought Bezu Fache was suffering a stroke. The captain was mid-sentence when his jaw stopped moving and his eyes bulged. His blistering gaze seemed fixated on something over Langdon's shoulder. Before Langdon could turn to see what it was, he heard a woman's voice chime out behind him.
“Excusez-moi, messieurs.”
Langdon turned to see a young woman approaching. She was moving down the corridor toward them with long, fluid strides . . . a haunting certainty to her gait. Dressed casually in a knee-length, cream-colored Irish sweater over black leggings, she was attractive and looked to be about thirty. Her thick burgundy hair fell unstyled to her shoulders, framing the warmth of her face. Unlike the waifish, cookie-cutter blondes that adorned Harvard dorm room walls, this woman was healthy with an unembellished beauty and genuineness that radiated a striking personal confidence.
To Langdon's surprise, the woman walked directly up to him and extended a polite hand. “Monsieur Langdon, I am Agent Neveu from DCPJ's Cryptology Department.” Her words curved richly around her muted Anglo-Franco accent. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Langdon took her soft palm in his and felt himself momentarily fixed in her strong gaze. Her eyes were olive-green—incisive and clear.
Fache drew a seething inhalation, clearly preparing to launch into a reprimand.
“Captain,” she said, turning quickly and beating him to the punch, “please excuse the interruption, but—”
“Ce n'est pas le moment!”
Fache sputtered.
“I tried to phone you.” Sophie continued in English, as if out of courtesy to Langdon. “But your cell phone was turned off.”
“I turned it off for a reason,” Fache hissed. “I am speaking to Mr. Langdon.”
“I've deciphered the numeric code,” she said flatly.
Langdon felt a pulse of excitement.
She broke the code?
Fache looked uncertain how to respond.
“Before I explain,” Sophie said, “I have an urgent message for Mr. Langdon.”
Fache's expression turned to one of deepening concern. “For Mr. Langdon?”
She nodded, turning back to Langdon. “You need to contact the U.S. Embassy, Mr. Langdon. They have a message for you from the States.”
Langdon reacted with surprise, his excitement over the code giving way to a sudden ripple of concern.
A message from the States?
He tried to imagine who could be trying to reach him. Only a few of his colleagues knew he was in Paris.
Fache's broad jaw had tightened with the news. “The U.S. Embassy?” he demanded, sounding suspicious. “How would they know to find Mr. Langdon
here?
”
Sophie shrugged. “Apparently they called Mr. Langdon's hotel, and the concierge told them Mr. Langdon had been collected by a DCPJ agent.”
Fache looked troubled. “And the embassy contacted DCPJ
Cryptography?
”
“No, sir,” Sophie said, her voice firm. “When I called the DCPJ switchboard in an attempt to contact you, they had a message waiting for Mr. Langdon and asked me to pass it along if I got through to you.”
Fache's brow furrowed in apparent confusion. He opened his mouth to
Similar Books
