the da vinci codswallop

James studied the parchment.
In the centre of it Sophie's dying father had scrawled three words:
'U Fuhn Cuhns'
Sophie peered over his shoulder.
"What does it mean?" she murmured. "Was my father trying to tell us who killed him?"
"No," said James, "I think he was just really annoyed about being stabbed."
Sophie sighed.
"Ever since Papa joined the Priory of Zion I knew there would be trouble," she said.
James sat bolt upright.
"What do you know about the Priory of Zion?" he demanded.
"Not much," she said thoughtfully stroking her adorable lustrous brown hair.
"When you're finished with that hair could I stroke it?" wondered James. "It's a really nice one."
Sophie didn't seem to hear him.
"Ze Priory of Zion," she mouthed, lapsing into stage French. " It is a secret society and it serves to protect a great secret. According to my fawzer it has existed for almost two thousand years. Like the best secret societies it is always led by very famous people in each era. To avoid attracting attention, you see. Sir Isaac Newton, Leonardo Da Vinci, Michaelangelo, Titian, they were all Grand Masters of the Priory. And before them Charlemagne, Genghis Khan, Alexander the Great, and Saint Augustine. Later still into the modern era came Chopin, Liszt, Beethoven, Elvis and the Beetles. Then, Gandhi, John F Kennedy, Winston Churchill, Robert Mugabe, Chairman Mao, Colombo..."
James sat bolt upright again.
"Cristofero Colombo?" interjected James. "You mean Christopher Columbus, the explorer?"
"No," said Sophie, "not him. It's ze one on ze television. You remember? With ze cigars. 'Pardon me Mam.' That Colombo."
"I think you're thinking of Winston Churchill," said James.
Sophie shushed him with a wave of her hair.
"After Colombo," she said, "came Barnaby Jones, Steve McGarrit, Mannix, Jim Rockford, Frank Cannon and Francois Mitterand. All the great TV detectives. All Grand Masters of the Priory of Zion. All sworn to protect its secret."
"What is the secret?" rapped out James bluntly, trying not to stare at her magnificent legs which she had just crossed magnificently.
Almost as an afterthought more in jest than in anger, he added: "Could you not find a longer skirt? I mean throw another log on the fire. Thunder Thighs."
"Are you saying my legs are like tree trunks?" she enquired, charmed by his directness in spite of herself.
James for his part was nonplussed by her aura of mystique, her quick wittedness, her magnificent silken clad thighs and her gazungas.
Sophie looked at him with a hint of challenge.
"Stop distracting me with you legs and whatever those other things are," James persisted firmly. "Just tell me the secret protected by the Priory of Zion."

"My fawzer died for the secret," she said with a sexy French pout. "I will never tell anyone. Never. Unless I'm really bored, or someone keeps badgering me, or for a cheap thrill"

"Tell me," cried James, seizing her arm, "I'm boring. And I'm grey as a badger. And I like cheap thrills. Oh and you can stop pouting now. You're scaring the parrot. And me to be honest."
"James the secret can never be told," she insisted, twisting away from him. "It would be a betrayal of my Fawzer."

"Tell me! Was he or was he not on the Muppet Show?"

"Who?"

"Your Fawzer."

"What do you mean?"

"Was he Fawzer ze Bear?"

"No."

"Then you mean Father," said James. "It's actually easier to say than Fawzer. F-a-a-a-ther. And 'the' is easier to say than 'ze' too, for your information and for the information of the entire French speaking population of the planet earth.."

"I will not reveal the secret," she said with a hint of desperation which only served to accentuate her vulnerability cum sexiness routine.

"Alright be like that," said James. "I think I know it anyway"
"You cannot know," whispered Sophie.
"I know," said James.
"How could you know?" she asked with a desperate plea in her eyes.
"Oh I know. It's quite easy to figure out once you get on the right track. Secret society. Famous leaders. Sum of the hypotenuse is equal to the other two sides. It was quite simple in the end. I know the secret, Sophie. Here I can prove it to you. We'll both take a piece of paper and write separately what we think the secret is. And then we'll compare the two. I know I'm right. But if I'm wrong I'll buy you dinner and stop talking about Donald Trump."
"You will never mention Donald Trump again?" said Sophie.
"Never," agreed James.
"No more interminable conversations about the dynamics of American politics?" persisted Sophie.
"Well I might talk politics but I won't mention Trump," hedged James, clearly unsure that solving a two thousand year old mystery was worth giving up his favourite conversational gambit.
"Okay," sighed Sophie.
She sighed a lot that girl.
They were very sensual sighs too.
It has been opined by learned professors that to the non French person every sound the French make seems sensual.
You should hear them fart.
James produced a notebook and tore out two pages. He passed one across the table.
"Have you got a pen?" said Sophie.
"Use the marker beside the sugar bowl," answered James.
Sophie scribbled busily.
James wrote with a little more deliberation.
The two pieces of paper were placed face down on the table.
"Put your hand on my page," said James.
Sophie did so.
"Now I place my hand on your page," continued James.
Simultaneously each one turned the other's page.
Sophie's read:
'The secret of the Priory of Zion is that the original Jesus was a tree hugging, feminist, vegan advocating goddess worship. He supported Amnesty International, Save The Whales and nuclear disarmament. He was also married to Mary Magdalene in a discrete ceremony attended only by close famiy and friends. Judas was best man. The children of Jesus and Mary Magdalen became the royal house of France. That is why we French are so superior to everyone else. The Catholic Church has been suppressing these facts for two thousand years using a squad of psychotic albino assassins disguised as an order of monks who've wiped out everyone who finds out the truth except Dan Brown and about a thousand employees of the Discovery Channel whom they seem to have missed.'

Sophie lifted her hand from the page James had given her.

On it she read:
'The secret of the Priory of Zion is I haven't a ****ing clue.'
There was a moment of stillness.
Sophie was struggling to understand the feelings welling in her ample bosoms.

The pieces of paper were a trick.

He had betrayed her trust.
Either she was in love with him or she despised him.
Which was it?

She didn't know but it didn't really matter since those two emotions are virtually indistinguishable for the French.
James was also struggling with a mounting tide of emotion.
"That's the most stupid ****ing thing I've ever heard," he exclaimed. "I've been gypped. I want my money back. A cult of ****ing albino assassins dressed as ****ing monks. For ****'s sake. That's an insult to the intelligence that is. What a load of old cobblers. Albino monk assassins. For ****'s sake!"
At the window, Silas the albino assassin slowly lowered his gun, pushed back the cowl on his monk's habit, and shed a lonely tear.