The Lost Symbol Chapter 1-3

CHAPTER 1The Otis ski lift climbing the mho pillar of the Eiffel Tower was invariablyyw present(predicate)flowing with tourists. at bottom the cramped lift, an austere telephone line warbleans in a pressed suit complimentsd toss off at the boy beside him. You look pale, son. You should bemuse stayed on the ground.Im okay . . . the boy answe redness, struggle to control his anxiety. Ill pose taboo on the next level. I bay windowt breathe.The domain leaned adjacent. I thought by straight panache you would puzzle gotten over this. He brushed the childs case affectionately.The boy matt-up ashamed to bring use up his father, simply he could b atomic figure 18ly see d atomic number 53 the ringing in his ears. I give the axet breathe. Ive got to go bad disclose of this boxThe elevator operator was enunciateing something reassuring al close to the lifts articulated pistons and puddled-iron construction. Far beneath them, the streets of genus Paris stretched pus h through in every directions. intimately there, the boy told himself, craning his neck and looking up at the unloading platform. Just use on.As the lift angled steeply toward the upper viewing deck, the shaft began to narrow, its capacious struts contracting into a tight, vertical tunnel. pa, I dont think backSuddenly a unconnected crack echoed over headword. The carri date jerked, swaying awkwardly to virtuoso side. Frayed cables began whipping around the carriage, flagellation the likes of snakes. The boy r every last(predicate)(prenominal)ed out for his father.DadTheir eyes locked for bingle terrifying second. accordingly the bottom dropped out.Robert Langdon jolted upright in his squishy leather seat, startling out of the semiconscious daydream. He was sitting all aalone(predicate) in the large cabin of a Falcon 2000EX corporate common as it bounced its way through turbulence. In the background, the dual Pratt &038 Whitney engines hummed sluicely.Mr. Langdon? The int ercom crackled overhead. Were on last-place approach.Langdon sat up straight and slid his cen authoritative notes back into his leather daybag. Hed been halfway through reviewing Masonic symbology when his thinker had drifted. The daydream near his late father, Langdon suspected, had been stirred by this mornings unpredicted invitation from Langdons farseeing measure work forcetor, diaphysis Solomon.The b be-assed(prenominal) man I never want to disappoint.The fifty-eight-year-old philanthropist, historian, and scientist had interpreted Langdon under his wing nearly cardinal years ago, in some(prenominal) ship canal use uping the void remaining by Langdons fathers death. condescension the mans influential family dynasty and massive wealth, Langdon had derive humility and warmth in Solomons soft gray-headed eyes.Outside the window the sunlight had set, plainly Langdon could still make out the slender silhouette of the worlds largest obelisk, rising on the horizo n like the spire of an antique gnomon. The 555- foot marble-faced obelisk marked this nations heart. wholly around the spire, the meticulous geometry of streets and monuments radiated outward. nonetheless from the gloriole, Washington, D.C., exuded an al some mystical authority.Langdon loved this city, and as the outflow touched down, he felt a rising excitement about what bewilder ahead. The jet taxied to a secluded term somewhere in the vast slam of Dulles International Airport and came to a s filch.Langdon gathered his things, thanked the pilots, and stepped out of the jets luxurious midland onto the foldout staircase. The cold January air felt liberating.Breathe, Robert, he thought, appreciating the wide-open spaces.A cape of white fog crept crosswise the runway, and Langdon had the awareness he was stepping into a marshland as he descended onto the misty tarmac. how-dye-do Hello a singsong British parting shouted from across the tarmac. professor Langdon?Langdon looked up to see a middle-aged muliebrity with a badge and clipboard hurrying toward him, wave happily as he approached. nappy blond hair protruded from under a stylish knit wool hat. invite to Washington, sirLangdon smiled. Thank you.My name is Pam, from passenger services. The cleaning lady spoke with an exuberance that was almost unsettling. If youll perplex with me, sir, your car is waiting.Langdon followed her across the runway toward the speck terminal, which was sur locomote by glistening private jets. A taxi stand for the comfor throw over and famous.I hate to embarrass you, professor, the woman give tongue to, sounding sheepish, only when you are the Robert Langdon who put outs declares about symbols and religion, arent you?Langdon hesitated and indeed nodded.I thought so she said, beaming. My book group read your book about the tabu feminine and the church casting What a delicious scandal that one caused You do enjoy putting the play a trick on in the he nhouseLangdon smiled. Scandal wasnt authenti roary my intention.The woman seemed to sense Langdon was not in the mood to discuss his work. Im sorry. Listen to me awake(p) on. I bonk you belike get tired of beingness recognized . . . besides its your own fault. She playfully motioned to his clothing. Your homogeneous gave you apart. My uniform? Langdon glanced down at his attire. He was tiring his usual charcoal turtleneck, Harris Tweed jacket, khakis, and col microscope stageial cordovan loafers . . . his standard attire for the class agency, dress down circuit, cause photos, and social events.The woman laughed. Those turtlenecks you wear are so dated. Youd look much cardsharp in a tieNo chance, Langdon thought. Little nooses.Neckties had been claim sextette age a week when Langdon looked Phillips Exeter Academy, and notwithstanding the headmasters romantic claims that the origin of the cravat went back to the silk fascalia languid by Roman orators to warm their straight-from-the-shoulder cords, Langdon knew that, etymologically, cravat actually derived from a ruthless peal of Croat mercenaries who donned knotted neckerchiefs before they stormed into involution. To this day, this superannuated battle garb was donned by ultramodern authority warriors hoping to intimidate their enemies in daily council chamber battles.Thanks for the advice, Langdon said with a chuckle. Ill dig a tie in the future.Mercifully, a skipper-looking man in a dreary suit got out of a streamlined capital of Nebraska Town Car position near the terminal and held up his finger. Mr. Langdon? Im Charles with Beltway Limousine. He opened the passenger door. Good evening, sir. pleasing to Washington.Langdon vertexped Pam for her hospitality and then climbed into the plushy interior of the Town Car. The wile driver showed him the temperature controls, the bottled water, and the basketball hoop of hot muffins. Seconds later, Langdon was speeding away on a privat e access channel. 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 call. This is Beltway Limousine, the driver said with master copy efficiency. I was asked to confirm once my passenger had landed. He paused. Yes, sir. Your guest, Mr. Langdon, has arrived, and I ordain cede him to the Capitol Building by seven P.M. Youre welcome, sir. He hung up.Langdon had to smile. No stone leave un saturnine. bill Solomons attention to detail was one of his most potent assets, allowing him to manage his substantial force out with apparent ease. A few cardinal dollars in the banking company doesnt hurt either.Langdon colonized into the plush leather seat and unlikable his eyes as the noise of the aerodrome faded croupe him. The U.S. Capitol was a half hour away, and he appreciated the time alone to gather his thoughts. Everything had happened so cursorily today that Langdon all now had begun to th ink in masterest about the marvelous evening that lay ahead.Arriving under a veil of secrecy, Langdon thought, amused by the prospect. tenner miles from the Capitol Building, a lone visualize was eagerly preparing for Robert Langdons arrival.CHAPTER 2The one who called himself Malakh pressed the tip of the harass against his s vexd 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 contendle 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 fool tattooed themselves as a way of offering up their bodies in partial sacrifice, enduring the physical paroxysm of embellishment and emerging changed beings.Despite the heavy admonitions of Levitic us 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 firm-core drug users to suburban housewives.The act of tattooing ones skin was a transformative resolution of force, an announcement to the world I am in control of my own flesh. The stir feeling of control derived from physical shift key had addicted millions to flesh-altering practices . . . cosmetic surgery, trunk piercing, physical structurebuilding, and steroids . . . even bulimia and transgendering. The human spirit craves advantage over its carnal shell.A wiz bell chimed on Malakhs grandfather clock, and he looked up. Six thirty P.M. Leaving his tools, he wrapped the Kiryu silk robe around his naked, six-foot-three body and strode down the hall. The air inside this meandering(a) mansion was heavy with the pungent odor of his skin dyes and smoke from the beeswax candles he used to sterilize his need les. The towering green man moved down the corridor departed priceless Italian antiquesa Piranesi etching, a Savonarola chair, a silver 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 inhumed out there somewhere.Few men knew it existed . . . and even fewer knew its awesome power or the ingenious way in which it had been hidden. To this day, it remained this countrys greatest untold secret. Those few who did know the truth unplowed it hidden bottom of the inning a veil of symbols, legends, and allegory.Now they sustain 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 ran k, the brethren had told him nothing. Nor will they, he knew. That was not how it worked. There were round of drinkss 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 bedchamber. Throughout his spotless nucleotide, audio spillers broadcast the eerie strains of a rare recording of a castrato telling 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 eardrum and parallel fifths, he bounded up the marble staircase, his robe billowing as he ascended on sinewy legs.As he ran, his empty stomach growled in protest. For two days now, Malakh had devalueded, consuming notwithstanding water, preparing his body in accordance with the ancient ways. Your hunger will be cheery by dawn, he reminded himself. Along with your pain.Malakh entered his bedroom sanctuary with reverence, locking the door behind him. As he moved toward his grooming area, he paused, feeling himself drawn to the enormous gilded mirror. Unable to resist, he turned and faced his own reflection. Slowly, as if unwrapping a priceless gift, Malakh opened his robe to unwrap his naked form. The vision awed him.I am a masterpiece.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 sizable legs were tattooed as carved pillarshis left leg spiraled and his right vertically striated. Boaz and Jachin. His groin and breadbasket formed a decorated archway, in a higher place which his powerful chest was emblazoned with the two-bagger-headed phoenix . . . each head in profile with its overt eye formed by one of Malakhs nipples. His shoulders, neck, f ace, and shaved head were completely cover with an intricate tapestry of ancient symbols and sigils.I am an artifact . . . an evolving icon.One pernicious man had seen Malakh naked, eighteen hours earlier. The man had shouted in fear. Good God, youre a behemothIf you perceive me as such, Malakh had replied, understanding as had the ancients that paragons and demons were identicalinterchangeable archetypesall a matter of polarity the guardian angel who conquered your enemy in battle was perceive 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 guarded canvas was Malakhs more thanover 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.Exhilar ated 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 table and carefully applied a coarse 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 prompt for this evening. 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 attention 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 last, his final pawn had entered the game.CHAPTER 3Robert Langdon was busy 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. commemoration Bridge already?He put down his notes and gazed out at the settle waters of the Potomac passing beneath him. A heavy mist hovered on the surface. ably named, Foggy Bottom had endlessly 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 cornerstone 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. Directly in front of the car, the Lincoln Memorial rose with rigid austerity, its pert lines reminiscent of Athenss ancient Parthenon. But it was farther away that Langdon saw the citys centerpiecethe alike(p) spire he had seen from the air. Its architectural inlet was far, far older than the Romans or the Greeks.Americas Egyptian obeli sk.The monolithic spire of the Washington memorial 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 withal ungrounded. His visit to Washington had been utterly unexpected. I woke up this morning anticipating a soft Sunday at home . . . and now Im a few minutes away from the U.S. Capitol.This morning at four forty-five, Langdon had plunged into dead-calm water, commencement his day as he unendingly did, swimming fifty laps in the run-down 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, unsloped for a man in his forties. The only difference now was the amount of attack it took Langdon to keep it that way.When Langdon arrived home around six, he began his morning ritual of hand-grinding Sumatra coffee beans and savoring the exotic scent that filled his kitchen. This morning, however, he was surprised to see the blinking red light on his vowelise-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 hint of a southern accent. My name is Anthony Jelbart, and Im son of a bitch Solomons executive director sponsor. Mr. Solomon told me youre an early riser . . . he has been difficult to reach you this morning on hapless notice. As soon as you let this message, would you be so kind as to call Peter directly? You in all likelihood have his new private line, but if not, its 202-329-5746.Langdon felt a sudden take for his old friend. Peter Solomon was impeccably urbane 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 hurry toward his study to return the call.I trust hes okay.Peter Solomon had been a friend, mentor, and, although only dozen years Langdons senior, a father figure to him ever since their first come acrossing at Princeton University. As a sophomore, Langdon had been required to figure an evening guest lecture by the well-known unripe historian and philanthropist. Solomon had talk with a contagious passion, presenting a crying(a) vision of semiotics and archetypal write up that had sparked in Langdon what would later become his womb-to-tomb 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 compose 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 beginning of a rightfully gratifying friendship.A prominent pedantic 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 eternally carried the mystique of American royalty and success. Peter had transmittable the mantle at a young age after 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. Langdon occasionally ribbed Peter that the lone tarnish on his sterling stock certificate was his diploma from a second-rate 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 secretaireTHE SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTIONGood 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 promptly dialed the number, sitting down at his hand-carved oak tree desk to wait as the call went through. space 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 business back so quickly. Mr. Solomon is eager to speak to you. Let me tell him youre on the line. May I put you on support?Of course.As Langdon waited for Solomon to get on the line, he gazed down at Peters name atop the Smithsonian letterhead and had to smile. Not many slackers in the Solomon clan. Peters genetic tree burgeoned with the names of wealthy business magnates, influential politicians, and a number of howling(a) scientists, some even fellows of Londons Royal Society. Solomons only living family member, his younger sister, Katherine, had apparently genetic the science gene, because she was now a guide figure in a new cutting-edge discipline called Noetic acqu irement. only Greek to me, Langdon thought, amused to recall Katherines self-defeating 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 asked 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 gala to thank our most generous supporters. legion(predicate) of the countrys cultural elite attend.Langdon knew his own bank account had too few zeros to characterise him as culturally elite, but he wondered if maybe Solomon was goi ng to invite him to attend nonetheless.This year, as is customary, the assistant continued, the dinner will be preceded by a pop address. Weve been lucky enough to secure the study Statuary Hall for that speech.The best room in all of D.C., Langdon thought, recalling a governmental lecture he had once accompanied in the dramatic semicircular hall. It was hard to forget five hundred congregation chairs splayed in a accurate arc, encircled by thirty-eight life-size statues, in a room that had once served as the nations original House of Representatives chamber.The problem is this, the man said. Our speaker has fallen ill and has just informed us she will be unable to give the address. He paused awkwardly. This subject matter we are desperate for a surrogate speaker. And Mr. Solomon is hoping you would press filling in.Langdon did a double take. Me? This was not at all what he had expected. Im sure Peter could find a far better substitute.Youre Mr. Solomons first choice, Profe ssor, and youre being much too modest. The institutions guests would be excite to hear from you, and Mr. Solomon thought you could give the aforesaid(prenominal) 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 admit 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 cleared his throat, sounding suddenly uncomfortable. Well, actually, sir, its tonight.Langdon laughed out loud. tonight?Thats why its so hectic here this morning. The Smiths onian is in a deeply bunglesome predicament . . . The assistant spoke more hurriedly now. Mr. Solomon is ready to send a private jet to Boston for you. The passage 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 effect on people. Langdon considered it a long moment, seeing no way out. All right. Tell him I can do it.Outstanding the assistant exclaimed, sounding deeply relieved. He gave Langdon the jets tail number and various other information.When Langdon finally hung up, he wondered if Peter Solomon had ever been told no. move to his coffee preparation, Langdon scooped some additional beans into the grinder. A little extra caffeine thi s morning, he thought. Its going to be a long day.