The Mona Lisa.

　　For an instant, standing in the exit stairwell, Sophie forgot all about trying to leave the Louvre.

　　Her shock over the anagram was matched only by her embarrassment at not having deciphered themessage herself. Sophie's expertise in complex cryptanalysis had caused her to overlook simplisticword games, and yet she knew she should have seen it. After all, she was no stranger toanagrams—especially in English.

　　When she was young, often her grandfather would use anagram games to hone her Englishspelling. Once he had written the English word "planets" and told Sophie that an astonishing sixty-two other English words of varying lengths could be formed using those same letters. Sophie hadspent three days with an English dictionary until she found them all.

　　"I can't imagine," Langdon said, staring at the printout, "how your grandfather created such anintricate anagram in the minutes before he died."Sophie knew the explanation, and the realization made her feel even worse. I should have seen this!

　　She now recalled that her grandfather—a wordplay aficionado and art lover—had entertainedhimself as a young man by creating anagrams of famous works of art. In fact, one of his anagramshad gotten him in trouble once when Sophie was a little girl. While being interviewed by anAmerican art magazine, Saunière had expressed his distaste for the modernist Cubist movement bynoting that Picasso's masterpiece Les Demoiselles d'Avignon was a perfect anagram of vilemeaningless doodles. Picasso fans were not amused.

　　"My grandfather probably created this Mona Lisa anagram long ago," Sophie said, glancing up atLangdon. And tonight he was forced to use it as a makeshift code. Her grandfather's voice hadcalled out from beyond with chilling precision.

　　Leonardo da Vinci!

　　The Mona Lisa!

　　Why his final words to her referenced the famous painting, Sophie had no idea, but she could thinkof only one possibility. A disturbing one.

　　Those were not his final words....

　　Was she supposed to visit the Mona Lisa? Had her grandfather left her a message there? The ideaseemed perfectly plausible. After all, the famous painting hung in the Salle des Etats—a privateviewing chamber accessible only from the Grand Gallery. In fact, Sophie now realized, the doorsthat opened into the chamber were situated only twenty meters from where her grandfather hadbeen found dead.

　　He easily could have visited the Mona Lisa before he died.

　　Sophie gazed back up the emergency stairwell and felt torn. She knew she should usher Langdonfrom the museum immediately, and yet instinct urged her to the contrary. As Sophie recalled herfirst childhood visit to the Denon Wing, she realized that if her grandfather had a secret to tell her,few places on earth made a more apt rendezvous than Da Vinci's Mona Lisa.

　　"She's just a little bit farther," her grandfather had whispered, clutching Sophie's tiny hand as he ledher through the deserted museum after hours.

　　Sophie was six years old. She felt small and insignificant as she gazed up at the enormous ceilingsand down at the dizzying floor. The empty museum frightened her, although she was not about tolet her grandfather know that. She set her jaw firmly and let go of his hand.

　　"Up ahead is the Salle des Etats," her grandfather said as they approached the Louvre's mostfamous room. Despite her grandfather's obvious excitement, Sophie wanted to go home. She hadseen pictures of the Mona Lisa in books and didn't like it at all. She couldn't understand whyeveryone made such a fuss.

　　"C'est ennuyeux," Sophie grumbled.

　　"Boring," he corrected. "French at school. English at home.""Le Louvre, c'est pas chez moi!" she challenged.

　　He gave her a tired laugh. "Right you are. Then let's speak English just for fun."Sophie pouted and kept walking. As they entered the Salle des Etats, her eyes scanned the narrowroom and settled on the obvious spot of honor—the center of the right-hand wall, where a loneportrait hung behind a protective Plexiglas wall. Her grandfather paused in the doorway andmotioned toward the painting.

　　"Go ahead, Sophie. Not many people get a chance to visit her alone."Swallowing her apprehension, Sophie moved slowly across the room. After everything she'd heardabout the Mona Lisa, she felt as if she were approaching royalty. Arriving in front of the protectivePlexiglas, Sophie held her breath and looked up, taking it in all at once.

　　Sophie was not sure what she had expected to feel, but it most certainly was not this. No jolt ofamazement. No instant of wonder. The famous face looked as it did in books. She stood in silencefor what felt like forever, waiting for something to happen.

　　"So what do you think?" her grandfather whispered, arriving behind her. "Beautiful, yes?""She's too little."Saunière smiled. "You're little and you're beautiful."I am not beautiful, she thought. Sophie hated her red hair and freckles, and she was bigger than allthe boys in her class. She looked back at the Mona Lisa and shook her head. "She's even worsethan in the books. Her face is... brumeux.""Foggy," her grandfather tutored.

　　"Foggy," Sophie repeated, knowing the conversation would not continue until she repeated her newvocabulary word.

　　"That's called the sfumato style of painting," he told her, "and it's very hard to do. Leonardo daVinci was better at it than anyone."Sophie still didn't like the painting. "She looks like she knows something... like when kids at sch............