The Lost Symbol
Dan Brown
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.
These exclusive excerpts are from Dan Brown’s The Lost Symbol. Copyright
© 2009 by Dan Brown. Published by arrangement with Doubleday, a division of
Random House Inc.
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