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just a few yards to his left, surrounded by police tape. He spun toward Fache. “Is that . . . a
Caravaggio
on the floor?”
    Fache nodded without even looking.
    The painting, Langdon guessed, was worth upward of two million dollars, and yet it was lying on the floor like a discarded poster. “What the devil is it doing on the floor!”
    Fache glowered, clearly unmoved. “This is a crime scene, Mr. Langdon. We have touched nothing. That canvas was pulled from the wall by the curator. It was how he activated the security system.”
    Langdon looked back at the gate, trying to picture what had happened.
    “The curator was attacked in his office, fled into the Grand Gallery, and activated the security gate by pulling that painting from the wall. The gate fell immediately, sealing off all access. This is the only door in or out of this gallery.”
    Langdon felt confused. “So the curator actually captured his attacker inside the Grand Gallery?”
    Fache shook his head. “The security gate
separated
Saunière from his attacker. The killer was locked out there in the hallway and shot Saunière through this gate.” Fache pointed toward an orange tag hanging from one of the bars on the gate under which they had just passed. “The PTS team found flashback residue from a gun. He fired through the bars. Saunière died in here alone.”
    Langdon pictured the photograph of Saunière's body.
They said he did that to himself.
Langdon looked out at the enormous corridor before them. “So where is his body?”
    Fache straightened his cruciform tie clip and began to walk. “As you probably know, the Grand Gallery is quite long.”
    The exact length, if Langdon recalled correctly, was around fifteen hundred feet, the length of three Washington Monuments laid end to end. Equally breathtaking was the corridor's width, which easily could have accommodated a pair of side-by-side passenger trains. The center of the hallway was dotted by the occasional statue or colossal porcelain urn, which served as a tasteful divider and kept the flow of traffic moving down one wall and up the other.
    Fache was silent now, striding briskly up the right side of the corridor with his gaze dead ahead. Langdon felt almost disrespectful to be racing past so many masterpieces without pausing for so much as a glance.
    Not that I could see anything in this lighting
, he thought.
    The muted crimson lighting unfortunately conjured memories of Langdon's last experience in noninvasive lighting in the Vatican Secret Archives. This was tonight's second unsettling parallel with his near-death in Rome. He flashed on Vittoria again. She had been absent from his dreams for months. Langdon could not believe Rome had been only a year ago; it felt like decades.
Another life
. His last correspondence from Vittoria had been in December—a postcard saying she was headed to the Java Sea to continue her research in entanglement
physics . . . something about using satellites to track manta ray migrations. Langdon had never harbored delusions that a woman like Vittoria Vetra could have been happy living with him on a college campus, but their encounter in Rome had unlocked in him a longing he never imagined he could feel. His lifelong affinity for bachelorhood and the simple freedoms it allowed had been shaken somehow . . . replaced by an unexpected emptiness that seemed to have grown over the past year.
    They continued walking briskly, yet Langdon still saw no corpse. “Jacques Saunière went this
far?
”
    “Mr. Saunière suffered a bullet wound to his stomach. He died very slowly. Perhaps over fifteen or twenty minutes. He was obviously a man of great personal strength.”
    Langdon turned, appalled. “Security took
fifteen
minutes to get here?”
    “Of course not. Louvre security responded immediately to the alarm and found the Grand Gallery sealed. Through the gate, they could hear someone moving around at the far end of the corridor, but they could not see who it was. They