The Da Vinci Code

CHAPTER 81
The Hawker is on final approach.
Simon Edwards—Executive Services Officer at Biggin Hill Airport—paced the control tower, 
squinting nervously at the rain-drenched runway. He never appreciated being awoken early on a 
Saturday morning, but it was particularly distasteful that he had been called in to oversee the arrest 
of one of his most lucrative clients. Sir Leigh Teabing paid Biggin Hill not only for a private 
hangar but a "per landing fee" for his frequent arrivals and departures. Usually, the airfield had 
advance warning of his schedule and was able to follow a strict protocol for his arrival. Teabing 
liked things just so. The custom-built Jaguar stretch limousine that he kept in his hangar was to be 

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fully gassed, polished, and the day's London Times laid out on the back seat. A customs official 
was to be waiting for the plane at the hangar to expedite the mandatory documentation and luggage 
check. Occasionally, customs agents accepted large tips from Teabing in exchange for turning a 
blind eye to the transport of harmless organics—mostly luxury foods—French escargots, a 
particularly ripe unprocessed Roquefort, certain fruits. Many customs laws were absurd, anyway, 
and if Biggin Hill didn't accommodate its clients, certainly competing airfields would. Teabing was 
provided with what he wanted here at Biggin Hill, and the employees reaped the benefits.
Edwards's nerves felt frayed now as he watched the jet coming in. He wondered if Teabing's 
penchant for spreading the wealth had gotten him in trouble somehow; the French authorities 
seemed very intent on containing him. Edwards had not yet been told what the charges were, but 
they were obviously serious. At the French authorities' request, Kent police had ordered the Biggin 
Hill air traffic controller to radio the Hawker's pilot and order him directly to the terminal rather 
than to the client's hangar. The pilot had agreed, apparently believing the far-fetched story of a gas 
leak.
Though the British police did not generally carry weapons, the gravity of the situation had brought 
out an armed response team. Now, eight policemen with handguns stood just inside the terminal 
building, awaiting the moment when the plane's engines powered down. The instant this happened, 
a runway attendant would place safety wedges under the tires so the plane could no longer move. 
Then the police would step into view and hold the occupants at bay until the French police arrived 
to handle the situation.
The Hawker was low in the sky now, skimming the treetops to their right. Simon Edwards went 
downstairs to watch the landing from tarmac level. The Kent police were poised, just out of sight, 
and the maintenance man waited with his wedges. Out on the runway, the Hawker's nose tipped up, 
and the tires touched down in a puff of smoke. The plane settled in for deceleration, streaking from 
right to left in front of the terminal, its white hull glistening in the wet weather. But rather than 
braking and turning into the terminal, the jet coasted calmly past the access lane and continued on 
toward Teabing's hangar in the distance.
All the police spun and stared at Edwards. "I thought you said the pilot agreed to come to the 
terminal!"
Edwards was bewildered. "He did!"
Seconds later, Edwards found himself wedged in a police car racing across the tarmac toward the 
distant hangar. The convoy of police was still a good five hundred yards away as Teabing's Hawker 
taxied calmly into the private hangar and disappeared. When the cars finally arrived and skidded to 
a stop outside the gaping hangar door, the police poured out, guns drawn.
Edwards jumped out too.

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The noise was deafening.
The Hawker's engines were still roaring as the jet finished its usual rotation inside the hangar, 
positioning itself nose-out in preparation for later departure. As the plane completed its 180-degree 
turn and rolled toward the front of the hangar, Edwards could see the pilot's face, which 
understandably looked surprised and fearful to see the barricade of police cars.
The pilot brought the plane to a final stop, and powered down the engines. The police streamed in, 
taking up positions around the jet. Edwards joined the Kent chief inspector, who moved warily 
toward the hatch. After several seconds, the fuselage door popped open.
Leigh Teabing appeared in the doorway as the plane's electronic stairs smoothly dropped down. As 
he gazed out at the sea of weapons aimed at him, he propped himself on his crutches and scratched 
his head. "Simon, did I win the policemen's lottery while I was away?" He sounded more 
bewildered than concerned.
Simon Edwards stepped forward, swallowing the frog in his throat. "Good morning, sir. I apologize 
for the confusion. We've had a gas leak and your pilot said he was coming to the terminal."
"Yes, yes, well, I told him to come here instead. I'm late for an appointment. I pay for this hangar, 
and this rubbish about avoiding a gas leak sounded overcautious."
"I'm afraid your arrival has taken us a bit off guard, sir."
"I know. I'm off my schedule, I am. Between you and me, the new medication gives me the tinkles. 
Thought I'd come over for a tune-up."
The policemen all exchanged looks. Edwards winced. "Very good, sir."
"Sir," the Kent chief inspector said, stepping forward. "I need to ask you to stay onboard for 
another half hour or so."
Teabing looked unamused as he hobbled down the stairs. "I'm afraid that is impossible. I have a 
medical appointment." He reached the tarmac. "I cannot afford to miss it."
The chief inspector repositioned himself to block Teabing's progress away from the plane. "I am 
here at the orders of the French Judicial Police. They claim you are transporting fugitives from the 
law on this plane."
Teabing stared at the chief inspector a long moment, and then burst out laughing. "Is this one of 
those hidden camera programs? Jolly good!"
The chief inspector never flinched. "This is serious, sir. The French police claim you also may have 

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a hostage onboard."
Teabing's manservant Rémy appeared in the doorway at the top of the stairs. "I feel like a hostage 
working for Sir Leigh, but he assures me I am free to go." Rémy checked his watch. "Master, we 
really are running late." He nodded toward the Jaguar stretch limousine in the far corner of the 
hangar. The enormous automobile was ebony with smoked glass and whitewall tires. "I'll bring the 
car." Rémy started down the stairs.
"I'm afraid we cannot let you leave," the chief inspector said. "Please return to your aircraft. Both 
of you. Representatives from the French police will be landing shortly."
Teabing looked now toward Simon Edwards. "Simon, for heaven's sake, this is ridiculous! We 
don't have anyone else on board. Just the usual—Rémy, our pilot, and myself. Perhaps you could 
act as an intermediary? Go have a look onboard, and verify that the plane is empty."
Edwards knew he was trapped. "Yes, sir. I can have a look."
"The devil you will!" the Kent chief inspector declared, apparently knowing enough about 
executive airfields to suspect Simon Edwards might well lie about the plane's occupants in an effort 
to keep Teabing's business at Biggin Hill. "I will look myself."
Teabing shook his head. "No you won't, Inspector. This is private property and until you have a 
search warrant, you will stay off my plane. I am offering you a reasonable option here. Mr. 
Edwards can perform the inspection."
"No deal."
Teabing's demeanor turned frosty. "Inspector, I'm afraid I don't have time to indulge in your games. 
I'm late, and I'm leaving. If it is that important to you to stop me, you'll just have to shoot me." 
With that, Teabing and Rémy walked around the chief inspector and headed across the hangar 
toward the parked limousine.
The Kent chief inspector felt only distaste for Leigh Teabing as the man hobbled around him in 
defiance. Men of privilege always felt like they were above the law.