From Chapter 249:
Sophie sensed he was at last coming to his point.
If she was thinking about Brown, this would represent a piece of post-modernist writing worthy of Calvino – except I’m guessing Brown doesn’t, not for nearly another 200 chapters. Then, in the very next one:
She read what he had written.
Instantly, Sophie recognised the translation.
Sang Real literally meant Royal Blood.
Fucking shit me, she thought, two-hundred and fifty chapters ago, I was a Cryptographer. How could I have missed this? I mean, if I was a mere Neanderthal, sat in a creaking, grounded Airbus at Gatwick, and had been prevented from having any one, single clue presented upon the pages of the front half of an alleged novel, long enough to do anything more demanding with my brain than repeatedly twitch my eyes, back and forth, and mop the drool from my lip because, after all, we have airhostesses for a reason, and I’m not going to be the one who puts them out of a job, even if they aren’t as attractive as we’d like to make out they are, too much makeup over too much sun bed, if you ask me, but at least, under those circumstances, I couldn’t be expected to, read between the lines, as it were, because the chances are, I wouldn’t also be a gorgeous, multilingual, puzzle-fixated, super-genius, embroiled, rather specifically, in a conspiracy heavily weighted towards an, over use of commas, and some kind of, Holy, Grail connection – but me, I’m a Christ-ing Cryptogra–
Oh, my God, she thought.
I know who I am.
Nah. I made that last bit up.