The crisp April air whipped through the open window of the Citroen ZX as it skimmed south past the Opera House and crossed Place Vend? me. In the passenger seat, Robert Langdon felt the city tear past him as he tried to clear his thoughts. His quick shower and shave had left him looking reasonably presentable but had done little to ease his anxiety. The frightening image of the curator's body remained locked in his mind.

Jacques Sauniere is dead.

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