Realizing that he has only a few minutes to live. However, SauniГЁre has lied to Silas about the GrailвЂ™s location. After SauniГЁre tells him, Silas shoots him and leaves him to die. ' the hostess had announced to a full-house at The American University of Paris's Pavillon Dauphine, 'Our guest tonight needs no introduction. In the Louvre, a monk of Opus Dei named Silas apprehends Jacques SauniГЁre, the museumвЂ™s curator, and demands to know where the Holy Grail is. Tonight, three thousand miles from home, the accolade had resurfaced to haunt him at the lecture he had given. Last month, much to Langdon's embarrassment, Boston Magazine had listed him as one of that city's top ten most intriguing people-a dubious honor that made him the brunt of endless ribbing by his Harvard colleagues. Although his female colleagues insisted the gray only accentuated his bookish appeal, Langdon knew better. Around his temples, the gray highlights were advancing, making their way deeper into his thicket of coarse black hair. A dark stubble was shrouding his strong jaw and dimpled chin. His usually sharp blue eyes looked hazy and drawn tonight. The past year had taken a heavy toll on him, but he didn't appreciate seeing proof in the mirror. The man staring back at him was a stranger-tousled and weary. He turned and gazed tiredly into the full-length mirror across the room. Sitting up now, Langdon frowned at his bedside Guest Relations Handbook, whose cover boasted: SLEEP LIKE A BABY IN THE CITY OF LIGHTS. 'If you would be so kind,' Langdon said, doing his best to remain polite, 'could you take the man's name and number, and tell him I'll try to call him before I leave Paris on Tuesday? Thank you.' He hung up before the concierge could protest. Since then, the stream of self-important historians and art buffs arriving at his door had seemed never-ending. His books on religious paintings and cult symbology had made him a reluctant celebrity in the art world, and last year Langdon's visibility had increased a hundred-fold after his involvement in a widely publicized incident at the Vatican. 'Mais monsieur,' the concierge pressed, lowering his voice to an urgent whisper.

'I'm sorry,' Langdon said, 'but I'm very tired and-' Most likely, some religious scholar had trailed him home to pick a fight. 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. Professor of Religious Symbology, Harvard University A visitor? His eyes focused now on a crumpled flyer on his bedside table. I apologize for this intrusion, but you have a visitor. He had been asleep only an hour, but he felt like the dead. 'I hope I have not awoken you?'Дazed, Langdon looked at the bedside clock. The jacquard bathrobe hanging on his bedpost bore the monogram: Squinting at his surroundings he saw a plush Renaissance bedroom with Louis XVI furniture, hand-frescoed walls, and a colossal mahogany four-poster bed. He fumbled for the bedside lamp and turned it on. A telephone was ringing in the darkness-a tinny, unfamiliar ring.

The da vinci code books