The Lost Symbol Chapter 1-3

CHAPTER 1The Otis elevator climbing the s awayh column of the Eiffel Tower was bothwhereflowing with tourists. Inside the cramped lift, an austere businessman in a pressed suit gazed mountain at the boy beside him. You appearance pale, son. You should involve stayed on the ground.Im okay . . . the boy answered, struggling to tick his anxiety. Ill lease step up on the next level. I cant breathe.The man leaned closer. I feeling by nowadays you would have gotten over this. He brushed the childs impertinence affectionately.The boy mat ashamed to disappoint his father, besides he could only collect through the ringing in his ears. I cant breathe. Ive got to get out(a) of this boxThe elevator operator was saying something reassuring more(prenominal) or less the lifts furnish pistons and puddled-iron construction. Far beneath them, the streets of Paris stretched out in alone directions. close there, the boy told himself, craning his neck and looking up at the unloading platform. dear hold on.As the lift angled steeply toward the upper covering deck, the shaft began to narrow, its massive struts contracting into a tight, vertical tunnel.Dad, I dont ringSuddenly a staccato crack echoed overhead. The carriold age jerked, swaying awkwardly to unity side. Frayed cables began whipping rough the carriage, thrashing similar snakes. The boy reached out for his father.DadTheir eyes locked for unrivalled terrifying second. indeed the bottom dropped out.Robert Langdon move upright in his easily slash seat, startling out of the conscious daydream. He was sitting all aalone(predicate) in the colossal confine of a Falcon 2000EX corporate atomic piece 19 as it bounced its way through turbulence. In the background, the dual Pratt & Whitney engines hummed evenly.Mr. Langdon? The intercom crackled overhead. Were on final approach.Langdon sat up straight and slid his lecture notes back into his leather daybag. Hed been halfway through re skylineing ma sonic symbology when his mind had drifted. The daydream about his late father, Langdon suspected, had been stirred by this dawnings surprising invitation from Langdons long term mentor, calamus Solomon.The other(a) man I never require to disappoint.The fifty-eight-year-old philanthropist, historian, and scientist had taken Langdon under his wing nearly thirty years ago, in many ways filling the void left(a) by Langdons fathers death. patronage the mans influential family dynasty and massive wealth, Langdon had found lowliness and warmth in Solomons soft gray eyes.Outside the window the sun had set, alone Langdon could still bind out the slender silhouette of the worlds largest sticker, rising on the horizon like the spire of an superannuated gnomon. The 555- foot marble-faced obelisk marked this nations heart. every(prenominal) around the spire, the meticulous geometry of streets and monuments radiated outward. Even from the air, Washington, D.C., exuded an al about myst ical former.Langdon loved this city, and as the jet touched shovel in, he entangle a rising excitement about what come in ahead. The jet taxied to a mystical terminal somewhere in the vast expanse of Dulles International drome and came to a stop.Langdon equanimous his things, thanked the pilots, and stepped out of the jets luxurious interior onto the foldout staircase. The cold January air felt liberating.Breathe, Robert, he thought, appreciating the wide-open propertys.A blanket of white fog crept crossways the runway, and Langdon had the sensation he was stepping into a marsh as he descended onto the stuporous tarmac.Hello Hello a singsong British voice shouted from across the tarmac. prof Langdon?Langdon looked up to translate a middle-aged cleaning lady with a badge and clipboard hurrying toward him, waving happily as he approached. Curly blond hair protruded from under a stylish buckle wool hat.Welcome to Washington, sirLangdon smiled. Thank you.My name is Pam, fro m passenger services. The woman utter with an exuberance that was almost unsettling. If youll come with me, sir, your car is waiting.Langdon followed her across the runway toward the signature terminal, which was surrounded by glistening semiprivate jets. A taxi theme for the rich and famous.I hate to embarrass you, professor, the woman verbalise, sounding sheepish, but you atomic number 18 the Robert Langdon who w ordinances record books about symbols and religion, arent you?Langdon hesitated and thusly nodded.I thought so she said, beaming. My book group read your book about the sacred feminine and the church What a delicious scandal that one caused You do enjoy institutionalize the fox in the henhouseLangdon smiled. Scandal wasnt really my intention.The woman seemed to moxie Langdon was not in the mood to discuss his work. Im sorry. Listen to me rattling on. I know you probably get tired of being recognized . . . but its your stimulate fault. She playfully motioned to his clothing. Your uniform gave you away. My uniform? Langdon glanced down at his raiment. He was wearing his usual charcoal turtleneck, Harris Tweed jacket, khakis, and collegiate cordovan loafers . . . his standard attire for the classroom, lecture circuit, author photos, and social events.The woman laughed. Those turtlenecks you wear are so dated. Youd look much sharper in a tieNo chance, Langdon thought. Little nooses.Neckties had been mandatory six days a week when Langdon go to Phillips Exeter Academy, and despite the headmasters romantic claims that the origin of the cravat went back to the silk fascalia worn by papistic orators to warm their vocal cords, Langdon knew that, etymologi cancely, cravat actually derived from a ruthless band of Croat mercenaries who donned involved neckerchiefs before they stormed into battle. To this day, this ancient battle garb was donned by red-brick slip warriors hoping to intimidate their enemies in daily boardroom battles.Thanks f or the advice, Langdon said with a chuckle. Ill consider a tie in the future.Mercifully, a professional-looking man in a dark suit got out of a sleek jacket of Nebraska Town Car parked near the terminal and held up his finger. Mr. Langdon? Im Charles with Beltway Limousine. He opened the passenger door. Good evening, sir. Welcome to Washington.Langdon bungped Pam for her hospitality and then climbed into the plush interior of the Town Car. The driver showed him the temperature controls, the bottled water, and the basket of hot muffins. Seconds ulterior, Langdon was cannonball along away on a private access bridle-path. So this is how the other half lives.As the driver gunned the car up Windsock Drive, he consulted his passenger manifest and placed a quick crab. This is Beltway Limousine, the driver said with professional efficiency. I was asked to confirm erst my passenger had landed. He paused. Yes, sir. Your guest, Mr. Langdon, has arrived, and I willing deliver him to the Capitol Building by seven P.M. Youre welcome, sir. He hung up.Langdon had to smile. No stone left unturned. turncock Solomons attention to detail was one of his most potent assets, allowing him to manage his substantial power with apparent ease. A few billion dollars in the bank doesnt hurt either.Langdon settled into the plush leather seat and closed his eyes as the noise of the airport spent behind him. The U.S. Capitol was a half hour away, and he appreciated the time alone to gather his thoughts. Everything had happened so quickly today that Langdon only now had begun to think in earnest about the incredible evening that lay ahead.Arriving under a veil of secrecy, Langdon thought, amused by the prospect.Ten miles from the Capitol Building, a lone recruit was tidal borely preparing for Robert Langdons arrival.CHAPTER 2The one who called himself Malakh pressed the tip of the affectle against his shaved head, sighing with pleasure as the sharp tool plunged in and out of his flesh. The soft hum of the electric device was addictive . . . as was the bite of the needle sliding deep into his dermis and depositing its dye.I am a masterpiece.The goal of tattooing was never beauty. The goal was change. From the scarified Nubian priests of 2000 B.C., to the tattooed acolytes of the Cybele cult of ancient Rome, to the moko scars of the modern Maori, humans have tattooed themselves as a way of offering up their bodies in partial sacrifice, enduring the physical pain of embellishment and emerging changed beings.Despite the ominous admonitions of Leviticus 1928, which forbade the marking of ones flesh, tattoos had become a rite of passage shared by millions of people in the modern ageeveryone from clean-cut teenagers to hard-core drug users to suburban housewives.The act of tattooing ones skin was a transformative declaration of power, an announcement to the world I am in control of my own flesh. The intoxicating feeling of control derived from physical transforma tion had given up millions to flesh-altering practices . . . cosmetic surgery, body piercing, body habitusing, and steroids . . . even bulimia and transgendering. The human spirit craves controller over its carnal shell.A single bell chimed on Malakhs gramps clock, and he looked up. Six thirty P.M. Leaving his tools, he wrapped the Kiryu silk fit out around his naked, six-foot-three body and strode down the hall. The air inside this sprawling manor hall was heavy with the pungent fragrance of his skin dyes and smoke from the beeswax candles he used to sterilize his needles. The towering young man moved down the corridor past priceless Italian antiquesa Piranesi etching, a Savonarola chair, a argent Bugarini oil lamp.He glanced through a floor-to-ceiling window as he passed, admiring the classical skyline in the distance. The luminous dome of the U.S. Capitol glowed with solemn power against the dark winter sky.This is where it is hidden, he thought. It is buried out there somew here. a few(prenominal) men knew it existed . . . and even fewer knew its awesome power or the dodgy way in which it had been hidden. To this day, it remained this countrys greatest untold secret. Those few who did know the truth kept it hidden behind a veil of symbols, legends, and allegory. outright they have opened their doors to me, Malakh thought.Three weeks ago, in a dark ritual witnessed by Americas most influential men, Malakh had ascended to the thirty-third degree, the highest echelon of the worlds oldest surviving brotherhood. Despite Malakhs new rank, the brethren had told him nothing. Nor will they, he knew. That was not how it worked. There were circles within circles . . . brotherhoods within brotherhoods. Even if Malakh waited years, he might never earn their ultimate trust.Fortunately, he did not need their trust to obtain their deepest secret.My initiation served its purpose.Now, energized by what lay ahead, he strode toward his bedroom. throughout his entire ho usehold, audio speakers broadcast the eerie strains of a rare written text of a castrato singing the Lux Aeterna from the Verdi Requiema reminder of a previous life. Malakh touched a remote control to bring on the thundering Dies Irae. Then, against a backdrop of crashing timpani and parallel fifths, he jump up the marble staircase, his robe billowing as he ascended on sinewy legs.As he ran, his empty stomach growled in protest. For devil days now, Malakh had fasted, consuming only water, preparing his body in accordance with the ancient ways. Your hunger will be satisfied by dawn, he reminded himself. on with your pain.Malakh entered his bedroom sanctuary with reverence, locking the door behind him. As he moved toward his dressing area, he paused, feeling himself drawn to the enormous engild mirror. Unable to resist, he turned and faced his own reflection. Slowly, as if unwrapping a priceless gift, Malakh opened his robe to unveil his naked form. The vision dire him.I am a ma sterpiece.His massive body was shaved and smooth. He lowered his gaze first to his feet, which were tattooed with the scales and talons of a hawk. Above that, his muscular legs were tattooed as carved pillarshis left leg spiraled and his right vertically striated. Boaz and Jachin. His groin and abdomen wanton away a decorated archway, above which his powerful chest was emblazoned with the double-headed capital of Arizona . . . each head in profile with its visible eye formed by one of Malakhs nipples. His shoulders, neck, face, and shaved head were completely covered with an multiform tapestry of ancient symbols and sigils.I am an artifact . . . an evolving icon.One soul man had seen Malakh naked, eighteen hours earlier. The man had shouted in fear. Good God, youre a demonIf you perceive me as such, Malakh had replied, understanding as had the ancients that angels and demons were identical reciprocal archetypesall a matter of polarity the guardian angel who conquered your foe man in battle was perceived by your enemy as a demon destroyer.Malakh tipped his face down now and got an oblique view of the top of his head. There, within the crownlike halo, shone a small circle of pale, untattooed flesh. This carefully restrained canvas was Malakhs only remaining piece of virgin skin. The sacred space had waited patiently . . . and tonight, it would be filled. Although Malakh did not yet possess what he required to complete his masterpiece, he knew the moment was fast approaching.Exhilarated by his reflection, he could already feel his power growing. He closed his robe and walked to the window, again gazing out at the mystical city before him. It is buried out there somewhere.Refocusing on the task at hand, Malakh went to his dressing tabular array and carefully applied a base of concealer makeup to his face, scalp, and neck until his tattoos had disappeared. Then he donned the special set of clothing and other items he had meticulously prepared for this evenin g. When he finished, he checked himself in the mirror. Satisfied, he ran a soft palm across his smooth scalp and smiled.It is out there, he thought. And tonight, one man will help me find it.As Malakh exited his home, he prepared himself for the event that would soon shake the U.S. Capitol Building. He had gone to enormous lengths to arrange all the pieces for tonight.And now, at coda, his final pawn had entered the game.CHAPTER 3Robert Langdon was mobile reviewing his note cards when the hum of the Town Cars tires changed pitch on the road beneath him. Langdon glanced up, surprised to see where they were.Memorial Bridge already?He put down his notes and gazed out at the calm waters of the Potomac breathing out beneath him. A heavy mist hovered on the surface. Aptly named, bleary-eyed Bottom had always seemed a peculiar site on which to build the nations capital. Of all the places in the New World, the forefathers had chosen a soggy riverside marsh on which to lay the cornerston e of their utopian society.Langdon gazed left, across the tidal Basin, toward the gracefully rounded silhouette of the Jefferson MemorialAmericas Pantheon, as many called it. like a shot in front of the car, the Lincoln Memorial rose with rigid austerity, its irreverent lines reminiscent of Athenss ancient Parthenon. But it was farther away that Langdon saw the citys centerpiecethe same spire he had seen from the air. Its architectural inspiration was far, far old(a) than the Romans or the Greeks.Americas Egyptian obelisk.The monolithic spire of the Washington Monument loomed dead ahead, illuminated against the sky like the majestic mast of a ship. From Langdons oblique angle, the obelisk appeared ungrounded tonight . . . swaying against the dreary sky as if on an unsteady sea. Langdon felt similarly ungrounded. His visit to Washington had been utterly unexpected. I woke up this morning anticipating a shut up Sunday at home . . . and now Im a few minutes away from the U.S. Capi tol.This morning at four forty- volt, Langdon had plunged into dead-calm water, low his day as he always did, swimming fifty laps in the deserted Harvard Pool. His physique was not quite what it had been in his college days as a water-polo all-American, but he was still lean and toned, respectable for a man in his forties. The only difference now was the amount of lather it took Langdon to keep it that way.When Langdon arrived home around six, he began his morning ritual of hand-grinding Sumatra chocolate beans and savoring the exotic scent that filled his kitchen. This morning, however, he was surprised to see the blinking red light on his voice-mail display. Who calls at six A.M. on a Sunday? He pressed the button and listened to the message.Good morning, Professor Langdon, Im terribly sorry for this early-morning call. The polite voice was noticeably hesitant, with a air current of a southern accent. My name is Anthony Jelbart, and Im stopcock Solomons executive friend. Mr. Solomon told me youre an early riser pipeline . . . he has been trying to reach you this morning on short notice. As soon as you receive this message, would you be so kind as to call Peter directly? You probably have his new private line, but if not, its 202-329-5746.Langdon felt a sudden concern for his old friend. Peter Solomon was impeccably well-bred and courteous, and certainly not the kind of man to call at daybreak on a Sunday unless something was very wrong.Langdon left his coffee half made and hurried toward his study to return the call.I hope hes okay.Peter Solomon had been a friend, mentor, and, although only twelve years Langdons senior, a father figure to him ever since their first meeting at Princeton University. As a sophomore, Langdon had been required to attend an evening guest lecture by the well-known young historian and philanthropist. Solomon had spoken with a contagious passion, presenting a dazzling vision of semiotics and archetypal history that had sparked in Langdon what would later become his lifelong passion for symbols. It was not Peter Solomons brilliance, however, but the humility in his gentle gray eyes that had given Langdon the courage to import him a thank-you letter. The young sophomore had never dreamed that Peter Solomon, one of Americas wealthiest and most intriguing young intellectuals, would ever write back. But Solomon did. And it had been the start of a truly gratifying friendship.A prominent academic whose quiet manner belied his powerful heritage, Peter Solomon came from the ultrawealthy Solomon family, whose names appeared on buildings and universities all over the nation. Like the Rothschilds in Europe, the surname Solomon had always carried the mystique of American royalty and success. Peter had inherited the mantle at a young age later on the death of his father, and now, at fifty-eight, he had held numerous positions of power in his life. He currently served as the head of the Smithsonian Institution. Langd on occasionally ribbed Peter that the lone tarnish on his sterling pedigree was his diploma from a inferior universityYale.Now, as Langdon entered his study, he was surprised to see that he had received a fax from Peter as well.Peter SolomonOFFICE OF THE SECRETARYTHE SMITHSONIAN psychiatric hospitalGood morning, Robert,I need to speak with you at once. Please call me this morning as soon as you can at 202-329- 5746.PeterLangdon immediately dialed the number, sitting down at his hand-carved oak desk to wait as the call went through.Office of Peter Solomon, the familiar voice of the assistant answered. This is Anthony. whitethorn I help you?Hello, this is Robert Langdon. You left me a message earlierYes, Professor Langdon The young man sounded relieved. Thank you for calling back so quickly. Mr. Solomon is eager to speak to you. Let me tell him youre on the line. May I put you on hold?Of course.As Langdon waited for Solomon to get on the line, he gazed down at Peters name atop the S mithsonian letterhead and had to smile. Not many slackers in the Solomon clan. Peters inheritable tree burgeoned with the names of wealthy business magnates, influential politicians, and a number of distinguished scientists, some even fellows of Londons Royal Society. Solomons only living family member, his younger sister, Katherine, had apparently inherited the science gene, because she was now a leading figure in a new cutting-edge discipline called cerebral Science.All Greek to me, Langdon thought, amused to recall Katherines unsuccessful attempt to explain Noetic Science to him at a party at her brothers home last year. Langdon had listened carefully and then replied, Sounds more like magic than science.Katherine winked playfully. Theyre closer than you think, Robert.Now Solomons assistant returned to the phone. Im sorry, Mr. Solomon is trying to get off a conference call. Things are a little chaotic here this morning.Thats not a problem. I can easily call back.Actually, he a sked me to fill you in on his reason for contacting you, if you dont mind?Of course not.The assistant inhaled deeply. As you probably know, Professor, every year here in Washington, the board of the Smithsonian hosts a private walkaway to thank our most generous supporters. Many of the countrys cultural elite attend.Langdon knew his own bank account had too few zeros to qualify him as culturally elite, but he wondered if maybe Solomon was going to invite him to attend nonetheless.This year, as is customary, the assistant continued, the dinner will be preceded by a soda water address. Weve been lucky enough to secure the National Statuary Hall for that speech.The outstrip room in all of D.C., Langdon thought, recalling a political lecture he had once attended in the dramatic semicircular hall. It was hard to inhume five hundred folding chairs splayed in a perfect arc, surrounded by thirty-eight life-size statues, in a room that had once served as the nations original House of Rep resentatives chamber.The problem is this, the man said. Our speaker has move ill and has just informed us she will be ineffective to give the address. He paused awkwardly. This means we are desperate for a heir speaker. And Mr. Solomon is hoping you would consider filling in.Langdon did a double take. Me? This was not at all what he had expected. Im sure Peter could find a far go against substitute.Youre Mr. Solomons first choice, Professor, and youre being much too modest. The institutions guests would be thrilled to hear from you, and Mr. Solomon thought you could give the same lecture you gave on Bookspan TV a few years back? That way, you wouldnt have to prepare a thing. He said your talk involved symbolism in the architecture of our nations capitalit sounds absolutely perfect for the venue.Langdon was not so sure. If I recall, that lecture had more to do with the Masonic history of the building thanExactly As you know, Mr. Solomon is a Mason, as are many of his professional friends who will be in attendance. Im sure they would love to hear you speak on the topic.I call for it would be easy. Langdon had kept the lecture notes from every talk hed ever given. I suppose I could consider it. What date is the event?The assistant clean-cut his throat, sounding suddenly uncomfortable. Well, actually, sir, its tonight.Langdon laughed out loud. Tonight?Thats why its so hectic here this morning. The Smithsonian is in a deeply embarrassing predicament . . . The assistant spoke more hurriedly now. Mr. Solomon is ready to send a private jet to Boston for you. The flight is only an hour, and you would be back home before midnight. Youre familiar with the private air terminal at Bostons Logan Airport?I am, Langdon admitted reluctantly. No wonder Peter always gets his way.Wonderful Would you be willing to meet the jet there at say . . . five oclock?You havent left me much choice, have you? Langdon chuckled.I just want to make Mr. Solomon happy, sir.Peter has that ef fect on people. Langdon considered it a long moment, seeing no way out. All right. Tell him I can do it. not bad(p) the assistant exclaimed, sounding deeply relieved. He gave Langdon the jets tail number and discordant other information.When Langdon finally hung up, he wondered if Peter Solomon had ever been told no. return to his coffee preparation, Langdon scooped some additional beans into the grinder. A little extra caffeine this morning, he thought. Its going to be a long day.