The Witch Code

He let a long sigh ease out his nostrils.  Damn, was he tired!  To have the mystical Holy Grail in his hands, only to have her turn and walk away.  ‘That’s tragic.’  Robert Langdon, tenured professor of symbology at venerable Harvard University, mused, scrubbing a hand through his medium length, dark hair.  ‘That’s catholic church tragic!’  Lips pursed, he touched the shaving nick which had lead him to his final clue.

A glance out the window of his motel revealed in the distance the glass pyramid marking the location of the Louvre.  He had been there not but an hour previous, kneeling in contemplation of his final discovery: the resting place of the Magdalene.  Eluding rogue Opus Dei assassins, and discovering Priory of Sion acolytes only after they were already dead, only the assistance of Sophie Neveu had enabled him to finally decode the riddle and find the grail: Sophie herself.  The resting place of the Magdalene had come later, as he pondered the ramifications of his discovery.

And yet, he kept it to himself.  ‘For good reason.’  He thought, turning away from the window to pull on a turtleneck sweater before zipping closed his last piece of luggage.  ‘The Church would destroy her along with any evidence that suggested Christ was anything but the immortal Son of God.’  Langdon grimaced as the zipper resisted him for a brief moment.  If his two major encounters with the oldest recognized Christian organization in the northern hemisphere taught him anything, it was that the Church didn’t hesitate even for a moment to destroy what it couldn’t directly control.  ‘Humanity has left the Dark Ages, but I don’t think the Catholics got that memo.’

His book, along with a handful of others, were stuffed into outside pockets, then he was turning to the door, intent on checking out in time to catch his flight back to the States.  His hand was on the door handle when the room’s phone rang.

Eyebrow lifted, he looked over his shoulder at the bulky black box, classic French and European in its throwback appearance.  ‘That can’t be the front desk.’  Langdon thought.  ‘I told them I was checking out.’

Again the phone rang, and again.  Until, with a hiss of exasperation, Langdon threw his bags back onto the bed and, with two quick strides, was at the phone.

“Robert Langdon.”  He rasped into the receiver once he had picked it up and put it to his ear.

“Good evening, professor.”  A cultured voice husked from the receiver, touched by the upper crust locution of British aristocracy.  “My name is Sir Rupert Murdoch, with the British Foreign Ministry.  Please forgive the intrusion, but I’m contacting you in regards to the most urgent of matters.”

“I don’t wish to be rude, Sir Rupert, but can it wait until I’m back in my offices at Harvard?  I have a plane to catch in a few, . . .”

“Forgive me, professor, but I’m afraid it cannot.”  Murdoch smoothly interrupted.  “If we don’t act quickly, then the lives of four children may be lost!”

“Sounds like a matter for the police.”  Langdon quickly retorted.  Only to hear:

“The police are the ones that referred me, my good fellow.  A Captain Bazu Fache, in particular.”

Langdon grimaced at hearing that.  That would be Fache paying him back for leading him on a chase all over France.

“As mysterious symbols are at the heart of the childrens’ disappearance, he said you are the most qualified to help us discover what they mean!”

Mysterious symbols?  Despite himself, an eyebrow slowly lifted in curiosity.

"What kind of symbols?”  He began to ask.