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Robert Langdon awoke slowly.

A telephone was ringing in the darkness—a tinny, un­familiar ring. He fumbled for the bedside lamp and turned it on. Squinting at his surroundings, he saw a plush bedroom with antique eighteenth-­century furniture, hand-­frescoed walls, and a colossal mahogany four-­poster bed.

Where am I?

The jacquard bathrobe hanging on his bedpost bore the monogram Hotel Ritz Paris.

Slowly, the fog began to lift. Sitting up, he gazed tiredly into the full-­length mirror across the room. The man staring back at him was a stranger—tousled and weary, his usually sharp blue eyes hazy and drawn. A dark stubble was shrouding his strong jaw, and around his temples the gray highlights were advancing, making their way deeper into his thicket of coarse black hair.

He picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Monsieur Langdon?” a man’s voice said. “I hope I have not interrupted you?”

Dazed, Langdon looked at the bedside clock. It was 12:32 a.m. He had been asleep only an hour; he felt like the dead.

“This is the concierge, monsieur. I apologize for this intrusion, but you have a visitor. He insists it is urgent.”

Langdon still felt fuzzy. A visitor? His eyes focused on a crumpled flyer on his bedside table.

The American University of Paris

proudly presents

an evening with robert langdon

professor of religious symbology,

harvard university, usa

Langdon groaned. His books on religious paintings and symbols had made him a reluctant celebrity in the art world, and tonight’s lecture—a slide show about pagan symbolism hidden in the stones of Chartres Cathedral—had probably ruffled some conservative feathers in the audience. Most likely, some religious scholar had trailed him home to pick a fight.

“I’m sorry,” Langdon said, “but I’m very tired and—”

“Mais, monsieur,” the concierge pressed, lowering his voice to an urgent whisper. “Your guest is an important man. He is even now en route to your room.”

Langdon was wide awake now. “You sent someone to my room?”

“I apologize, monsieur, but a man like this . . . I cannot presume the authority to stop him.”

“Who exactly is he?”

But the concierge was gone.

Almost immediately, a heavy fist pounded on Lang­don’s door.

Langdon slid off the bed, feeling his toes sink deep into the carpet. He donned the hotel bathrobe and moved toward the door. “Who is it?”

“Mr. Langdon? I need to speak with you.” The man’s English was accented—a sharp, authoritative bark. “My name is Lieutenant Jérôme Collet. Direction Centrale Police Judiciaire.”

Langdon paused. The Judicial Police? Why would the DCPJ, roughly equivalent to the FBI, be coming to see him?

Leaving the security chain in place, he opened the door a few inches. The face staring back at him was thin and washed out. The man was lean, dressed in a blue uniform.

“May I come in?” the agent asked.

Langdon hesitated, feeling uncertain. “What is this all about?”

“My capitaine requires your expertise in a private matter.”

“Now?” Langdon managed. “It’s after midnight.”

“Am I correct that you were scheduled to meet with the curator of the Louvre this evening?”

Langdon felt a sudden surge of uneasiness. He and the revered curator Jacques Saunière had made an appointment to meet for drinks after the lecture—but Saunière had never shown up. “Yes. How did you know that?”

“We found your name in his daily planner.”

“I trust nothing is wrong?”

The agent gave a dire sigh and slid a Polaroid snapshot through the narrow opening in the door.

When Langdon saw the photo, his entire body went rigid.

“This photo was taken less than an hour ago. Inside the Louvre.”

As Langdon stared at the bizarre image, his initial revulsion and shock gave way to an upwelling of anger.

“We hoped that you might help us with what has happened, considering your knowledge of symbology and your plans to meet Saunière.”

Langdon’s horror was now laced with fear. “This symbol here,” he began, “and the way his body is so oddly . . .”

“Positioned?” the agent offered.

Langdon nodded, feeling a chill as he looked up. “I can’t imagine who could do this to someone.”

The agent’s face was grim. “You don’t understand, Mr. Langdon. What you see in this photograph . . .” He paused. “Monsieur Saunière did that to himself.”