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 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 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.
Sumber ::
http://www.thelostsymbol.com/#excerpt
