The Lost Symbol Chapter 1-3

Part 1 The Otis lift climbing the south mainstay of the Eiffel Tower was flooding with vacationers. Inside the confined lift, a severe specialist in a squeezed suit looked down at the kid close to him. â€Å"You look pale, child. You ought to have remained on the ground.† â€Å"I'm alright . . .† the kid replied, battling to control his uneasiness. â€Å"I'll get out on the following level.† I can't relax. The man inclined nearer. â€Å"I thought at this point you would have gotten over this.† He brushed the youngster's cheek tenderly. The kid felt embarrassed to frustrate his dad, yet he could scarcely hear through the ringing in his ears. I can't relax. I must escape this case! The lift administrator was saying something consoling regarding the lift's verbalized cylinders and puddled-iron development. Far underneath them, the avenues of Paris loosened up every which way. Nearly there, the kid let himself know, extending his neck and gazing toward the emptying stage. Simply hang on. As the lift calculated steeply toward the upper review deck, the pole started to limit, its enormous swaggers contracting into a tight, vertical passage. â€Å"Dad, I don't thinkâ€â€Å" Abruptly a staccato break reverberated overhead. The carriage snapped, influencing gracelessly aside. Frayed links started whipping around the carriage, whipping like snakes. The kid connected for his dad. â€Å"Dad!† Their eyes bolted for one frightening second. At that point the base dropped out. Robert Langdon shocked upstanding in his delicate calfskin seat, frightening out of the half-conscious fantasy. He was sitting in solitude in the colossal lodge of a Falcon 2000EX corporate fly as it skiped its way through choppiness. Out of sight, the double Pratt and Whitney motors murmured uniformly. â€Å"Mr. Langdon?† The radio snapped overhead. â€Å"We're on last approach.† Langdon sat upright and slid his talk notes once again into his calfskin daybag. He'd been part of the way through auditing Masonic symbology when his brain had floated. The fantasy about his late dad, Langdon suspected, had been mixed by this current morning's sudden greeting from Langdon's long-term guide, Peter Solomon. The other man I never need to baffle. The fifty-eight-year-old giver, history specialist, and researcher had encouraged Langdon about thirty years back, from various perspectives filling the void left by Langdon's dad's passing. Regardless of the man's persuasive family tradition and huge riches, Langdon had discovered lowliness and warmth in Solomon's delicate dim eyes. Outside the window the sun had set, yet Langdon could at present make out the slim outline of the world's biggest pillar, ascending not too far off like the tower of an old gnomon. The 555-foot marble-confronted monolith denoted this present country's heart. All around the tower, the careful geometry of roads and landmarks emanated outward. Indeed, even from the air, Washington, D.C., oozed a practically mysterious force. Langdon cherished this city, and as the fly contacted down, he felt a rising energy about what lay ahead. The fly navigated to a private terminal some place in the huge territory of Dulles International Airport and halted. Langdon accumulated his things, expressed gratitude toward the pilots, and ventured out of the stream's rich inside onto the foldout flight of stairs. The cool January air felt freeing. Inhale, Robert, he thought, valuing the all the way open spaces. A cover of white haze crawled over the runway, and Langdon had the sensation he was venturing into a swamp as he plummeted onto the foggy landing area. â€Å"Hello! Hello!† a repetitious British voice yelled from over the landing area. â€Å"Professor Langdon?† Langdon admired see a moderately aged lady with an identification and clipboard hustling toward him, waving joyfully as he drew nearer. Wavy light hair jutted from under a polished weave fleece cap. â€Å"Welcome to Washington, sir!† Langdon grinned. â€Å"Thank you.† â€Å"My name is Pam, from traveler services.† The lady talked with an abundance that was nearly disrupting. â€Å"If you'll accompany me, sir, your vehicle is waiting.† Langdon followed her over the runway toward the Signature terminal, which was encircled by sparkling personal jets. A taxi represent the rich and well known. â€Å"I hate to humiliate you, Professor,† the lady stated, sounding timid, â€Å"but you are the Robert Langdon who composes books about images and religion, aren't you?† Langdon delayed and afterward gestured. â€Å"I thought so!† she stated, radiating. â€Å"My book bunch read your book about the consecrated female and the congregation! What a heavenly embarrassment that one caused! You do appreciate placing the fox in the henhouse!† Langdon grinned. â€Å"Scandal wasn't generally my intention.† The lady appeared to detect Langdon was not in the mind-set to talk about his work. â€Å"I'm sorry. Hear me out shaking on. I realize you presumably become weary of being perceived . . . be that as it may, it's your own fault.† She energetically motioned to his apparel. â€Å"Your uniform gave you away.† My uniform? Langdon looked down at his clothing. He was wearing his typical charcoal turtleneck, Harris Tweed coat, khakis, and university cordovan loafers . . . his standard clothing for the study hall, address circuit, creator photographs, and get-togethers. The lady chuckled. â€Å"Those turtlenecks you wear are so dated. You'd look a lot more keen in a tie!† Zero chance, Langdon thought. Little nooses. Bowties had been required six days every week when Langdon went to Phillips Exeter Academy, and notwithstanding the director's sentimental cases that the inception of the cravat returned to the silk fascalia worn by Roman speakers to warm their vocal ropes, Langdon realized that, etymologically, cravat really got from a merciless band of â€Å"Croat† hired soldiers who wore hitched neckerchiefs before they raged into fight. Right up 'til the present time, this old fight clothing was wore by current office warriors wanting to scare their adversaries in day by day meeting room fights. â€Å"Thanks for the advice,† Langdon said with a laugh. â€Å"I'll consider a connection the future.† Tolerantly, an expert glancing man in a dull suit escaped a smooth Lincoln Town Car left close to the terminal and held up his finger. â€Å"Mr. Langdon? I'm Charles with Beltway Limousine.† He opened the traveler entryway. â€Å"Good evening, sir. Welcome to Washington.† Langdon tipped Pam for her accommodation and afterward moved into the extravagant inside of the Town Car. The driver indicated him the temperature controls, the filtered water, and the bushel of hot biscuits. Seconds after the fact, Langdon was hurrying ceaselessly on a private access street. So this is the manner by which the other half lives. As the driver gunned the vehicle up Windsock Drive, he counseled his traveler show and put a speedy call. â€Å"This is Beltway Limousine,† the driver said with proficient productivity. â€Å"I was approached to affirm once my traveler had landed.† He delayed. â€Å"Yes, sir. Your visitor, Mr. Langdon, has shown up, and I will convey him to the Capitol Building by seven P.M. The pleasure is all mine, sir.† He hung up. Langdon needed to grin. No stone left unturned. Subside Solomon's scrupulousness was one of his most intense resources, permitting him to deal with his significant force no sweat. A couple billion dollars in the bank doesn't hurt either. Langdon sunk into the extravagant calfskin seat and shut his eyes as the clamor of the air terminal blurred behind him. The U.S. Legislative hall was a half hour away, and he valued the time alone to assemble his considerations. Everything had occurred so rapidly today that Langdon just currently had started to contemplate the mind boggling evening that lay ahead. Showing up under a smoke screen, Langdon thought, delighted by the possibility. Ten miles from the Capitol Building, a solitary figure was excitedly getting ready for Robert Langdon's appearance. Section 2 The person who called himself Mal'akh squeezed the tip of the needle against his shaved head, murmuring with joy as the sharp device plunged all through his tissue. The delicate murmur of the electric gadget was addictive . . . just like the chomp of the needle sliding profound into his dermis and storing its color. I am a magnum opus. The objective of inking was never excellence. The objective was change. From the scarified Nubian ministers of 2000 B.C., to the inked acolytes of the Cybele clique of old Rome, to the moko scars of the cutting edge Maori, people have inked themselves as a method of presenting their bodies in fractional penance, bearing the physical torment of adornment and developing changed creatures. In spite of the unpropitious reprimands of Leviticus 19:28, which disallowed the stamping of one's substance, tattoos had become a transitional experience shared by a huge number of individuals in the cutting edge ageâ€everyone from clean-slice adolescents to bad-to-the-bone medication clients to rural housewives. The demonstration of inking one's skin was a transformative revelation of intensity, a declaration to the world: I am in charge of my own substance. The inebriating sentiment of control got from physical change had dependent millions to substance modifying rehearses . . . restorative medical procedure, body puncturing, lifting weights, and steroids . . . indeed, even bulimia and transgendering. The human soul aches for dominance over its lustful shell. A solitary ringer tolled on Mal'akh's pendulum clock, and he gazed upward. Six thirty P.M. Leaving his devices, he wrapped the Kiryu silk robe around his stripped, six-foot-three body and walked a few doors down. The air inside this rambling house was overwhelming with the impactful aroma of his skin colors and smoke from the beeswax candles he used to disinfect his needles. The transcending youngster descended the hall past extremely valuable Italian antiquesâ€a Piranesi carving, a Savonarola seat, a silver Bugarini oil light. He looked through a story to-roof window as he passed, appreciating the old style skyli