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.
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.
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.
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.
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.»
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.
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.
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 approach.» langdon sat up straight and slid his lecture notes back into his leather daybag. 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 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.
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.
«i hate to embarrass you, professor,» the woman said, sounding sheepish, «but 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.»
The woman laughed. «Those turtlenecks you wear are so dated. You’d look much sharper in a tie!»
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
