The Lost symbol by Borrown Dan , the author of The Da Vinci Code
 
FOR BLYTHE


Acknowledgments

My profound thanks to three dear friends with whom I have the great luxury of working: my editor, Jason
Kaufman; my agent, Heide Lange; and my counselor, Michael Rudell. In addition, I would like to express
my immense gratitude to Doubleday, to my publishers around the world, and, of course, to my readers.
This novel could not have been written without the generous assistance of countless individuals who shared
their knowledge and expertise. To all of you, I extend my deep appreciation.
To live in the world without becoming
aware of the meaning of the world is
like wandering about in a great library
without touching the books.
The Secret Teachings
of All Ages
————————————
FACT:
In 1991, a document was locked in the safe of the director of the CIA. The document is still there today. Its
cryptic text includes references to an ancient portal and an unknown location underground. The document
also contains the phrase “It’s buried out there somewhere.”
All organizations in this novel exist, including the Freemasons, the Invisible College, the Office of Security,
the SMSC, and the Institute of Noetic Sciences.
All rituals, science, artwork, and monuments in this novel are real.
————————————
Prologue
 
House of the Temple


8:33 P.M.

The secret is how to die.
Since the beginning of time, the secret had always been how to die.
The thirty-four-year-old initiate gazed down at the human skull cradled in his palms. The skull was hollow,
like a bowl, filled with bloodred wine.
Drink it, he told himself. You have nothing to fear.
As was tradition, he had begun this journey adorned in the ritualistic garb of a medieval heretic being led to
the gallows, his loose-fitting shirt gaping open to reveal his pale chest, his left pant leg rolled up to the knee,
and his right sleeve rolled up to the elbow. Around his neck hung a heavy rope noose—a “cable-tow” as the
brethren called it. Tonight, however, like the brethren bearing witness, he was dressed as a master.
The assembly of brothers encircling him all were adorned in their full regalia of lambskin aprons, sashes, and
white gloves. Around their necks hung ceremonial jewels that glistened like ghostly eyes in the muted light.
Many of these men held powerful stations in life, and yet the initiate knew their worldly ranks meant nothing
within these walls. Here all men were equals, sworn brothers sharing a mystical bond.
As he surveyed the daunting assembly, the initiate wondered who on the outside would ever believe that this
collection of men would assemble in one place . . . much less this place. The room looked like a holy
sanctuary from the ancient world.
The truth, however, was stranger still.
I am just blocks away from the White House.
This colossal edifice, located at 1733 Sixteenth Street NW in Washington, D.C., was a replica of a pre-
Christian temple—the temple of King Mausolus, the original mausoleum . . . a place to be taken after death.
Outside the main entrance, two seventeen-ton sphinxes guarded the bronze doors. The interior was an ornate
labyrinth of ritualistic chambers, halls, sealed vaults, libraries, and even a hollow wall that held the remains
of two human bodies. The initiate had been told every room in this building held a secret, and yet he knew no
room held deeper secrets than the gigantic chamber in which he was currently kneeling with a skull cradled
in his palms.
The Temple Room.
This room was a perfect square. And cavernous. The ceiling soared an astonishing one hundred feet
overhead, supported by monolithic columns of green granite. A tiered gallery of dark Russian walnut seats
with hand-tooled pigskin encircled the room. A thirty-three-foot-tall throne dominated the western wall, with
a concealed pipe organ opposite it. The walls were a kaleidoscope of ancient symbols . . . Egyptian, Hebraic,
astronomical, alchemical, and others yet unknown.
Tonight, the Temple Room was lit by a series of precisely arranged candles. Their dim glow was aided only
by a pale shaft of moonlight that filtered down through the expansive oculus in the ceiling and illuminated
the room's most startling feature—an enormous altar hewn from a solid block of polished Belgian black
marble, situated dead center of the square chamber.
The secret is how to die, the initiate reminded himself.
“It is time,” a voice whispered.
The initiate let his gaze climb the distinguished white-robed figure standing before him. The Supreme Worshipful Master. The man, in his late fifties, was an American icon, well loved, robust, and incalculably
wealthy. His once-dark hair was turning silver, and his famous visage reflected a lifetime of power and a
vigorous intellect.
“Take the oath,” the Worshipful Master said, his voice soft like falling snow. “Complete your journey.”
The initiate's journey, like all such journeys, had begun at the first degree. On that night, in a ritual similar to
this one, the Worshipful Master had blindfolded him with a velvet hoodwink and pressed a ceremonial
dagger to his bare chest, demanding: “Do you seriously declare on your honor, uninfluenced by mercenary or
any other unworthy motive, that you freely and voluntarily offer yourself as a candidate for the mysteries and
privileges of this brotherhood?”
“I do,” the initiate had lied.
“Then let this be a sting to your consciousness,” the master had warned him, “as well as instant death should
you ever betray the secrets to be imparted to you.”
At the time, the initiate had felt no fear. They will never know my true purpose here.
Tonight, however, he sensed a foreboding solemnity in the Temple Room, and his mind began replaying all
the dire warnings he had been given on his journey, threats of terrible consequences if he ever shared the
ancient secrets he was about to learn: Throat cut from ear to ear . . . tongue torn out by its roots . . . bowels
taken out and burned . . . scattered to the four winds of heaven . . . heart plucked out and given to the beasts
of the field—
“Brother,” the gray-eyed master said, placing his left hand on the initiate's shoulder. “Take the final oath.”
Steeling himself for the last step of his journey, the initiate shifted his muscular frame and turned his
attention back to the skull cradled in his palms. The crimson wine looked almost black in the dim candlelight.
The chamber had fallen deathly silent, and he could feel all of the witnesses watching him, waiting for him to
take his final oath and join their elite ranks.
Tonight, he thought, something is taking place within these walls that has never before occurred in the
history of this brotherhood. Not once, in centuries.
He knew it would be the spark . . . and it would give him unfathomable power. Energized, he drew a breath
and spoke aloud the same words that countless men had spoken before him in countries all over the world.
“May this wine I now drink become a deadly poison to me . . . should I ever knowingly or willfully violate my
oath.”
His words echoed in the hollow space.
Then all was quiet.
Steadying his hands, the initiate raised the skull to his mouth and felt his lips touch the dry bone. He closed
his eyes and tipped the skull toward his mouth, drinking the wine in long, deep swallows. When the last drop
was gone, he lowered the skull.
For an instant, he thought he felt his lungs growing tight, and his heart began to pound wildly. My God, they
know! Then, as quickly as it came, the feeling passed.
A pleasant warmth began to stream through his body. The initiate exhaled, smiling inwardly as he gazed up
at the unsuspecting gray-eyed man who had foolishly admitted him into this brotherhood's most secretive
ranks.
Soon you will lose everything you hold most dear.

CHAPTER 1

The Otis elevator climbing the south pillar of the Eiffel Tower was overflowing with tourists. Inside the cramped lift, an austere businessman in a pressed suit gazed down at the boy beside him. “You look pale,son. You should have stayed on the ground.”
“I’m okay . . .” the boy answered, struggling to control his anxiety. “I’ll get out on the next level.” I can’t breathe.
The man leaned closer. “I thought by now you would have gotten over this.” He brushed the child’s cheek affectionately.
The boy felt ashamed to disappoint his father, but he could barely hear through the ringing in his ears. I can’t breathe. I’ve got to get out of this box!
The elevator operator was saying something reassuring about the lift’s articulated pistons and puddled-iron
construction. Far beneath them, the streets of Paris stretched out in all directions.
Almost there, the boy told himself, craning his neck and looking up at the unloading platform. Just hold on.
As the lift angled steeply toward the upper viewing deck, the shaft began to narrow, its massive struts
contracting into a tight, vertical tunnel.
“Dad, I don’t think—”
Suddenly a staccato crack echoed overhead. The carriage jerked, swaying awkwardly to one side. Frayed cables began whipping around the carriage, thrashing like snakes. The boy reached out for his father.
“Dad!”
Their eyes locked for one terrifying second.
Then the bottom dropped out.
Robert Langdon jolted upright in his soft leather seat, startling out of the semiconscious daydream. He was sitting all alone in the enormous cabin of a Falcon 2000EX corporate jet as it bounced its way through
turbulence. In the background, the dual Pratt & Whitney engines hummed evenly.
“Mr. Langdon?” The intercom crackled overhead. “We’re on final pproach.”
Langdon sat up straight and slid his lecture notes back into his leather ybag. He’d been halfway through
reviewing Masonic symbology when his mind had drifted. The daydream about his late father, Langdon
suspected, had been stirred by this morning’s unexpected invitation from Langdon’s longtime mentor, Peter
Solomon.
The other man I never want 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 by Langdon’s father’s death. Despite the man’s influential
family dynasty and massive wealth, Langdon had found humility and warmth in Solomon’s soft gray eyes.
Outside the window the sun had set, but Langdon could still make out the slender silhouette of the world’s
largest obelisk, rising on the horizon like the spire of an ancient gnomon. The 555-foot marble-faced obelisk
marked this nation’s heart. All around the spire, the meticulous geometry of streets and monuments radiated
outward.
Even from the air, Washington, D.C., exuded an almost mystical power.
Langdon loved this city, and as the jet touched down, he felt a rising excitement about what lay ahead. The
jet taxied to a private terminal somewhere in the vast expanse of Dulles International Airport and came to a
stop.
Langdon gathered his things, thanked the pilots, and stepped out of the jet’s luxurious interior onto the
foldout staircase. The cold January air felt liberating.
Breathe, Robert, he thought, appreciating the wide-open spaces.
A blanket of white fog crept across the runway, and Langdon had the sensation he was stepping into a marsh
as he descended onto the misty tarmac.
“Hello! Hello!” a singsong British voice shouted from across the tarmac. “Professor Langdon?”
Langdon looked up to see a middle-aged woman with a badge and clipboard hurrying toward him, waving
happily as he approached. Curly blond hair protruded from under a stylish knit wool hat.
“Welcome to Washington, sir!”
Langdon smiled. “Thank you.”
“My name is Pam, from passenger services.” The woman spoke with an exuberance that was almost
unsettling. “If you’ll come with me, sir, your car is waiting.”
Langdon followed her across the runway toward the Signature terminal, which was surrounded by glistening
private jets. A taxi stand for the rich and famous.
“I hate to embarrass you, Professor,” the woman said, sounding sheepish, “but you are the Robert Langdon
who writes books about symbols and religion, aren’t you?”
Langdon hesitated and then 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 putting the fox in the henhouse!”
Langdon smiled. “Scandal wasn’t really my intention.”
The woman seemed to sense Langdon was not in the mood to discuss his work. “I’m sorry. Listen to me
rattling on. I know you probably get tired of being recognized . . . but it’s your own fault.” She playfully
motioned to his clothing. “Your uniform gave you away.”
My uniform? Langdon glanced down at his attire. 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. You’d look much sharper in a tie!”
No chance, Langdon thought. Little nooses.
Neckties had been required six days a week when Langdon attended Phillips Exeter Academy, and despite
the headmaster’s romantic claims that the origin of the cravat went back to the silk fascalia worn by Roman
orators to warm their vocal cords, Langdon knew that, etymologically, cravat actually derived from a
ruthless band of “Croat” mercenaries who donned knotted neckerchiefs before they stormed into battle. To
this day, this ancient battle garb was donned by modern office warriors hoping to intimidate their enemies in
daily boardroom battles.
“Thanks for the advice,” Langdon said with a chuckle. “I’ll consider a tie in the future.”
Mercifully, a professional-looking man in a dark suit got out of a sleek Lincoln Town Car parked near the
terminal and held up his finger. “Mr. Langdon? I’m Charles with Beltway Limousine.” He opened the
passenger door. “Good evening, sir. Welcome to Washington.”
Langdon tipped 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 later,
Langdon was speeding away on a private access road. 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 professional efficiency. “I was asked to confirm once
my passenger had landed.” He paused. “Yes, sir. Your guest, Mr. Langdon, has arrived, and I will deliver
him to the Capitol Building by seven P.M. You’re welcome, sir.” He hung up.
Langdon had to smile. No stone left unturned. Peter Solomon’s 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
doesn’t hurt either.
Langdon settled into the plush leather seat and closed his eyes as the noise of the airport faded 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 figure was eagerly preparing for Robert Langdon’s arrival

CHAPTER 2
The one who called himself Mal’akh pressed the tip of the needle 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 19:28, which forbade the marking of one’s flesh, tattoos had
become a rite of passage shared by millions of people in the modern age—everyone from clean-cut teenagers
to hard-core drug users to suburban housewives.
The act of tattooing one’s 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 transformation had
addicted millions to flesh-altering practices . . . cosmetic surgery, body piercing, bodybuilding, and steroids .
. . even bulimia and transgendering. The human spirit craves mastery over its carnal shell.
A single bell chimed on Mal’akh’s 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 sprawling mansion 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 antiques—a 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 buried 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 country’s greatest untold secret. Those few who did know the truth
kept it hidden behind a veil of symbols, legends, and allegory.
Now they have opened their doors to me, Mal’akh thought.
Three weeks ago, in a dark ritual witnessed by America’s most influential men, Mal’akh had ascended to the
thirty-third degree, the highest echelon of the world’s oldest surviving brotherhood. Despite Mal’akh’s 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 Mal’akh 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 home, audio
speakers broadcast the eerie strains of a rare recording of a castrato singing the “Lux Aeterna” from the Verdi
Requiem—a reminder of a previous life. Mal’akh touched a remote control to bring on the thundering “Dies
Irae.” Then, against a backdrop of crashing timpani 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, Mal’akh had fasted, consuming only
water, preparing his body in accordance with the ancient ways. Your hunger will be satisfied by dawn, he
reminded himself. Along with your pain.
Mal’akh 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 gilded mirror. Unable to resist, he turned
and faced his own reflection. Slowly, as if unwrapping a priceless gift, Mal’akh opened his robe to unveil 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 muscular legs were tattooed as carved pillars—his left leg
spiraled and his right vertically striated. Boaz and Jachin. His groin and abdomen formed a decorated
archway, above which his powerful chest was emblazoned with the double-headed phoenix . . . each head in
profile with its visible eye formed by one of Mal’akh’s nipples. His shoulders, neck, face, and shaved head
were completely covered with an intricate tapestry of ancient symbols and sigils.
I am an artifact . . . an evolving icon.
One mortal man had seen Mal’akh naked, eighteen hours earlier. The man had shouted in fear. “Good God,
you’re a demon!”
“If you perceive me as such,” Mal’akh had replied, understanding as had the ancients that angels and demons
were identical—interchangeable archetypes—all a matter of polarity: the guardian angel who conquered your
enemy in battle was perceived by your enemy as a demon destroyer.
Mal’akh 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 Mal’akh’s
only remaining piece of virgin skin. The sacred space had waited patiently . . . and tonight, it would be filled.
Although Mal’akh 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, Mal’akh went to his dressing table 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 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 help me find it.
As Mal’akh 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 3
Robert Langdon was busy reviewing his note cards when the hum of the Town Car’s 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 passing beneath him. A heavy mist
hovered on the surface. Aptly named, Foggy Bottom had always seemed a peculiar site on which to build the
nation’s 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
Memorial—America’s Pantheon, as many called it. Directly in front of the car, the Lincoln Memorial rose
with rigid austerity, its orthogonal lines reminiscent of Athens’s ancient Parthenon. But it was farther away
that Langdon saw the city’s centerpiece—the same spire he had seen from the air. Its architectural inspiration
was far, far older than the Romans or the Greeks.
America’s Egyptian obelisk.
The monolithic spire of the Washington Monument loomed dead ahead, illuminated against the sky like the
majestic mast of a ship. From Langdon’s 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 quiet Sunday at home . . .
and now I’m a few minutes away from the U.S. Capitol.
This morning at four forty-five, Langdon had plunged into dead-calm water, beginning 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 effort 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 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, I’m 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 I’m Peter Solomon’s
executive assistant. Mr. Solomon told me you’re an early riser . . . 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, it’s 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 he’s okay.
Peter Solomon had been a friend, mentor, and, although only twelve years Langdon’s 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 Solomon’s brilliance,
however, but the humility in his gentle gray eyes that had given Langdon the courage to write him a thankyou
letter. The young sophomore had never dreamed that Peter Solomon, one of America’s wealthiest and
most intriguing young intellectuals, would ever write back. But Solomon did. And it had been the beginning
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 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 pedigree was his diploma
from a second-rate university—Yale.
Now, as Langdon entered his study, he was surprised to see that he had received a fax from Peter as well.
Peter Solomon
OFFICE OF THE SECRETARY
THE SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTION
Good morning, Robert,
I need to speak with you at once. Please call me this morning as soon as you can at 202-329-5746.
Peter
Langdon 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. May I help you?”
“Hello, this is Robert Langdon. You left me a message earlier—”
“Yes, 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 you’re 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 Peter’s name atop the Smithsonian
letterhead and had to smile. Not many slackers in the Solomon clan. Peter’s ancestral tree burgeoned with the
names of wealthy business magnates, influential politicians, and a number of distinguished scientists, some
even fellows of London’s Royal Society. Solomon’s only living family member, his younger sister,
Katherine, had apparently inherited the science gene, because she was now a leading figure in a new cuttingedge
discipline called Noetic Science.
All Greek to me, Langdon thought, amused to recall Katherine’s unsuccessful attempt to explain Noetic
Science to him at a party at her brother’s home last year. Langdon had listened carefully and then replied,
“Sounds more like magic than science.”
Katherine winked playfully. “They’re closer than you think, Robert.”
Now Solomon’s assistant returned to the phone. “I’m sorry, Mr. Solomon is trying to get off a conference
call. Things are a little chaotic here this morning.”
“That’s not a problem. I can easily call back.”
“Actually, he asked me to fill you in on his reason for contacting you, if you don’t 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. Many of the country’s 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 keynote address.
We’ve been lucky enough to secure the National Statuary Hall for that speech.”
The best 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 forget 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 nation’s 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 means we are desperate for a replacement 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. “I’m sure Peter could find a far
better substitute.”
“You’re Mr. Solomon’s first choice, Professor, and you’re being much too modest. The institution’s 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 wouldn’t have to prepare a thing. He said your talk involved
symbolism in the architecture of our nation’s capital—it 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
than—”
“Exactly! As you know, Mr. Solomon is a Mason, as are many of his professional friends who will be in
attendance. I’m 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 he’d ever given. “I suppose I
could consider it. What date is the event?”
The assistant cleared his throat, sounding suddenly uncomfortable. “Well, actually, sir, it’s tonight.”
Langdon laughed out loud. “Tonight?!”
“That’s why it’s 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. You’re familiar with the private air
terminal at Boston’s 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 o’clock?”
“You haven’t 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 jet’s tail number and
various other information.
When Langdon finally hung up, he wondered if Peter Solomon had ever been told no.
Returning to his coffee preparation, Langdon scooped some additional beans into the grinder. A little extra
caffeine this morning, he thought. It’s going to be a long day.

CHAPTER 4
The U.S. Capitol Building stands regally at the eastern end of the National Mall, on a raised plateau that city
designer Pierre L’Enfant described as “a pedestal waiting for a monument.” The Capitol’s massive footprint
measures more than 750 feet in length and 350 feet deep. Housing more than sixteen acres of floor space, it
contains an astonishing 541 rooms. The neoclassical architecture is meticulously designed to echo the
grandeur of ancient Rome, whose ideals were the inspiration for America’s founders in establishing the laws
and culture of the new republic.
The new security checkpoint for tourists entering the Capitol Building is located deep within the recently
completed subterranean visitor center, beneath a magnificent glass skylight that frames the Capitol Dome.
Newly hired security guard Alfonso Nuñez carefully studied the male visitor now approaching his
checkpoint. The man had a shaved head and had been lingering in the lobby, completing a phone call before
entering the building. His right arm was in a sling, and he moved with a slight limp. He was wearing a
tattered army-navy surplus coat, which, combined with his shaved head, made Nuñez guess military. Those
who had served in the U.S. armed forces were among the most common visitors to Washington.
“Good evening, sir,” Nuñez said, following the security protocol of verbally engaging any male visitor who
entered alone.
“Hello,” the visitor said, glancing around at the nearly deserted entry. “Quiet night.”
“NFC play-offs,” Nuñez replied. “Everyone’s watching the Redskins tonight.” Nuñez wished he were, too,
but this was his first month on the job, and he’d drawn the short straw. “Metal objects in the dish, please.”
As the visitor fumbled to empty the pockets of his long coat with his one working hand, Nuñez watched him
carefully. Human instinct made special allowances for the injured and handicapped, but it was an instinct
Nuñez had been trained to override.
Nuñez waited while the visitor removed from his pockets the usual assortment of loose change, keys, and a
couple of cell phones. “Sprain?” Nuñez asked, eyeing the man’s injured hand, which appeared to be wrapped
in a series of thick Ace bandages.
The bald man nodded. “Slipped on the ice. A week ago. Still hurts like hell.”
“Sorry to hear that. Walk through, please.”
The visitor limped through the detector, and the machine buzzed in protest.
The visitor frowned. “I was afraid of that. I’m wearing a ring under these bandages. My finger was too
swollen to get it off, so the doctors wrapped right over it.”
“No problem,” Nuñez said. “I’ll use the wand.”
Nuñez ran the metal-detection wand over the visitor’s wrapped hand. As expected, the only metal he detected
was a large lump on the man’s injured ring finger. Nuñez took his time rubbing the metal detector over every
inch of the man’s sling and finger. He knew his supervisor was probably monitoring him on the closed circuit
in the building’s security center, and Nuñez needed this job. Always better to be cautious. He carefully slid
the wand up inside the man’s sling.
The visitor winced in pain.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” the man said. “You can’t be too careful these days.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” Nuñez liked this guy. Strangely, that counted for a lot around here. Human instinct was
America’s first line of defense against terrorism. It was a proven fact that human intuition was a more
accurate detector of danger than all the electronic gear in the world—the gift of fear, as one of their security
reference books termed it.
In this case, Nuñez’s instincts sensed nothing that caused him any fear. The only oddity that he noticed, now
that they were standing so close, was that this tough-looking guy appeared to have used some kind of selftanner
or concealer makeup on his face. Whatever. Everyone hates to be pale in the winter.
“You’re fine,” Nuñez said, completing his sweep and stowing the wand.
“Thanks.” The man started collecting his belongings from the tray.
As he did, Nuñez noticed that the two fingers protruding from his bandage each bore a tattoo; the tip of his
index finger bore the image of a crown, and the tip of his thumb bore that of a star. Seems everyone has
tattoos these days, Nuñez thought, although the pads of his fingertips seemed like painful spots to get them.
“Those tats hurt?”
The man glanced down at his fingertips and chuckled. “Less than you might think.”
“Lucky,” Nuñez said. “Mine hurt a lot. I got a mermaid on my back when I was in boot camp.”
“A mermaid?” The bald man chuckled.
“Yeah,” he said, feeling sheepish. “The mistakes we make in our youth.”
“I hear you,” the bald man said. “I made a big mistake in my youth, too. Now I wake up with her every
morning.”
They both laughed as the man headed off.
Child’s play, Mal’akh thought as he moved past Nuñez and up the escalator toward the Capitol Building. The
entry had been easier than anticipated. Mal’akh’s slouching posture and padded belly had hidden his true
physique, while the makeup on his face and hands had hidden the tattoos that covered his body. The true
genius, however, was the sling, which disguised the potent object Mal’akh was transporting into the building.
A gift for the one man on earth who can help me obtain what I seek.