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.
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.
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.
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.
The goal of tattooing was never beauty. The goal was
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:
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.
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
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.
Fortunately, he did not need their trust to obtain their deepest secret.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
