The Lost Symbol

«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 Nuсez 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 Nuсez guess military. Those who had served in the U.S. armed forces were among the most common visitors to Washington.

«Good evening, sir,» Nuсez 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,» Nuсez replied. «Everyone’s watching the Redskins tonight.» Nuсez 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, Nuсez watched him carefully. Human instinct made special allowances for the injured and handicapped, but it was an instinct Nuсez had been trained to override.

Nuсez waited while the visitor removed from his pockets the usual assortment of loose change, keys, and a couple of cell phones. «Sprain?» nuсez 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,» Nuсez said. «I’ll use the wand.»

Nuсez 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. Nuсez 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 Nuсez 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.» Nuсez 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, Nuсez’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 self-tanner or concealer makeup on his face. Whatever. Everyone hates to be pale in the winter.

«You’re fine,» Nuсez said, completing his sweep and stowing the wand.

«Thanks.» The man started collecting his belongings from the tray.

As he did, Nuсez 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, Nuсez 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,» nuсez 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.»