Langdon's Mickey Mouse wristwatch read almost seven-thirty when he emerged from the Jaguarlimousine onto Inner Temple Lane with Sophie and Teabing. The threesome wound through amaze of buildings to a small courtyard outside the Temple Church. The rough-hewn stoneshimmered in the rain, and doves cooed in the architecture overhead.

　　London's ancient Temple Church was constructed entirely of Caen stone. A dramatic, circularedifice with a daunting facade, a central turret, and a protruding nave off one side, the churchlooked more like a military stronghold than a place of worship. Consecrated on the tenth ofFebruary in 1185 by Heraclius, Patriarch of Jerusalem, the Temple Church survived eight centuriesof political turmoil, the Great Fire of London, and the First World War, only to be heavily damagedby Luftwaffe incendiary bombs in 1940. After the war, it was restored to its original, starkgrandeur.

　　The simplicity of the circle, Langdon thought, admiring the building for the first time. Thearchitecture was coarse and simple, more reminiscent of Rome's rugged Castel Sant'Angelo thanthe refined Pantheon. The boxy annex jutting out to the right was an unfortunate eyesore, althoughit did little to shroud the original pagan shape of the primary structure.

　　"It's early on a Saturday," Teabing said, hobbling toward the entrance, "so I'm assuming we won'thave services to deal with."The church's entryway was a recessed stone niche inside which stood a large wooden door. To theleft of the door, looking entirely out of place, hung a bulletin board covered with concert schedulesand religious service announcements.

　　Teabing frowned as he read the board. "They don't open to sightseers for another couple of hours."He moved to the door and tried it. The door didn't budge. Putting his ear to the wood, he listened.

　　After a moment, he pulled back, a scheming look on his face as he pointed to the bulletin board.

　　"Robert, check the service schedule, will you? Who is presiding this week?"Inside the church, an altar boy was almost finished vacuuming the communion kneelers when heheard a knocking on the sanctuary door. He ignored it. Father Harvey Knowles had his own keysand was not due for another couple of hours. The knocking was probably a curious tourist orindigent. The altar boy kept vacuuming, but the knocking continued. Can't you read? The sign onthe door clearly stated that the church did not open until nine-thirty on Saturday. The altar boyremained with his chores.

　　Suddenly, the knocking turned to a forceful banging, as if someone were hitting the door with ametal rod. The young man switched off his vacuum cleaner and marched angrily toward the door.

　　Unlatching it from within, he swung it open. Three people stood in the entryway. Tourists, hegrumbled. "We open at nine-thirty."The heavyset man, apparently the leader, stepped forward using metal crutches. "I am Sir LeighTeabing," he said, his accent a highbrow, Saxonesque British. "As you are no doubt aware, I amescorting Mr. and Mrs. Christopher Wren the Fourth." He stepped aside, flourishing his arm towardthe attractive couple behind them. The woman was soft-featured, with lush burgundy hair. The manwas tall, dark-haired, and looked vaguely familiar.

　　The altar boy had no idea how to respond. Sir Christopher Wren was the Temple Church's mostfamous benefactor. He had made possible all the restorations following damage caused by theGreat Fire. He had also been dead since the early eighteenth century. "Um... an honor to meetyou?"The man on crutches frowned. "Good thing you're not in sales, young man, you're not veryconvincing. Where is Father Knowles?""It's Saturday. He's not due in until later."The crippled man's scowl deepened. "There's gratitude. He assured us he would be here, but itlooks like we'll do it without him. It won't take long."The altar boy remained blocking the doorway. "I'm sorry, what won't take long?"The visitor's eyes sharpened now, and he leaned forward whispering as if to save everyone someembarrassment. "Young man, apparently you are new here. Every year Sir Christopher Wren'sdescendants bring a pinch of the old man's ashes to scatter in the Temple sanctuary. It is part of hislast will and testament. Nobody is particularly happy about making the trip, but what can we do?"The altar boy had been here a couple of years but had never heard of this custom. "It would bebetter if you waited until nine-thirty. The church isn't open yet, and I'm not finished hoovering."The man on crutches glared angrily. "Young man, the only reason there's anything left of thisbuilding for you to hoover is on account of the gentleman in that woman's pocket.""I'm sorry?""Mrs. Wren," the man on crutches said, "would you be so kind as to show this impertinent youngman the reliquary of ashes?"The woman hesitated a moment and then, as if awaking from a trance, reached in her sweaterpocket and pulled out a small cylinder wrapp............