The Lost Symbol Chapter 1-3

Part 1 The Otis lift climbing the south mainstay of the Eiffel Tower was flooding with voyagers. Inside the confined lift, a grim specialist in a squeezed suit looked down at the kid adjacent 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 nervousness. 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 warmly. The kid felt embarrassed to frustrate his dad, however he could scarcely hear through the ringing in his ears. I can't relax. I must escape this crate! The lift administrator was saying something consoling regarding the lift's explained cylinders and puddled-iron development. Far underneath them, the lanes 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 survey deck, the pole started to limit, its monstrous swaggers contracting into a tight, vertical passage. â€Å"Dad, I don't thinkâ€â€Å" Unexpectedly a staccato split reverberated overhead. The carriage snapped, influencing clumsily to the other side. 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 drowsy fantasy. He was sitting in solitude in the huge lodge of a Falcon 2000EX corporate stream as it ricocheted its way through choppiness. Out of sight, the double Pratt and Whitney motors murmured uniformly. â€Å"Mr. Langdon?† The radio popped overhead. â€Å"We're on last approach.† Langdon sat upright and slid his talk notes over into his cowhide daybag. He'd been part of the way through looking into Masonic symbology when his psyche had floated. The fantasy about his late dad, Langdon suspected, had been blended by this current morning's surprising greeting from Langdon's long-lasting guide, Peter Solomon. The other man I never need to baffle. The fifty-eight-year-old altruist, student of history, and researcher had encouraged Langdon almost thirty years back, from numerous points of view filling the void left by Langdon's dad's passing. Regardless of the man's powerful family tradition and gigantic riches, Langdon had discovered quietude and warmth in Solomon's delicate dark eyes. Outside the window the sun had set, however Langdon could in any case 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., radiated a practically enchanted force. Langdon adored this city, and as the stream contacted down, he felt a rising energy about what lay ahead. The fly maneuvered to a private terminal some place in the tremendous scope of Dulles International Airport and halted. Langdon accumulated his things, expressed gratitude toward the pilots, and ventured out of the fly's lavish inside onto the foldout flight of stairs. The cool January air felt freeing. Inhale, Robert, he thought, valuing the fully open spaces. A cover of white haze crawled over the runway, and Langdon had the sensation he was venturing into a swamp as he slipped onto the hazy 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 cheerfully as he drew nearer. Wavy light hair projected from under a slick sew 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 extravagance that was nearly agitating. 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 flickering personal jets. A taxi represent the rich and popular. 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 wavered and afterward gestured. â€Å"I thought so!† she stated, radiating. â€Å"My book bunch read your book about the holy female and the congregation! What a flavorful 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 . . . in any case, it's your own fault.† She energetically motioned to his garments. 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 giggled. â€Å"Those turtlenecks you wear are so dated. You'd look a lot more keen in a tie!† No way, Langdon thought. Little nooses. Bowties had been required six days every week when Langdon went to Phillips Exeter Academy, and regardless of the dean's sentimental cases that the inception of the cravat returned to the silk fascalia worn by Roman speakers to warm their vocal strings, Langdon realized that, etymologically, cravat really got from a merciless band of â€Å"Croat† soldiers of fortune 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 planning to scare their foes in day by day meeting room fights. â€Å"Thanks for the advice,† Langdon said with a laugh. â€Å"I'll consider a tie in the future.† Benevolently, an expert glancing man in a dim 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 cordiality and afterward moved into the rich inside of the Town Car. The driver indicated him the temperature controls, the filtered water, and the crate of hot biscuits. Seconds after the fact, Langdon was dashing endlessly on a private access street. So this is the way the other half lives. As the driver gunned the vehicle up Windsock Drive, he counseled his traveler show and set a snappy call. â€Å"This is Beltway Limousine,† the driver said with proficient effectiveness. 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. My pleasure, sir.† He hung up. Langdon needed to grin. No stone left unturned. Subside Solomon's scrupulousness was one of his most strong resources, permitting him to deal with his generous force without hardly lifting a finger. A couple billion dollars in the bank doesn't hurt either. Langdon subsided into the rich calfskin seat and shut his eyes as the clamor of the air terminal blurred behind him. The U.S. Legislative center was a half hour away, and he valued the time alone to assemble his considerations. Everything had occurred so rapidly today that Langdon just presently had started to ponder the unbelievable night that lay ahead. Showing up under a subtle pretense, Langdon thought, delighted by the possibility. Ten miles from the Capitol Building, a solitary figure was enthusiastically 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 delight as the sharp device plunged all through his substance. The delicate murmur of the electric gadget was addictive . . . just like the nibble of the needle sliding profound into his dermis and keeping its color. I am a magnum opus. The objective of inking was never magnificence. The objective was change. From the scarified Nubian clerics 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, persevering through the physical torment of frivolity and developing changed creatures. In spite of the unpropitious reprobations of Leviticus 19:28, which restricted the checking of one's tissue, tattoos had become a transitional experience shared by a great many individuals in the advanced ageâ€everyone from clean-slice adolescents to in-your-face medicate 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 tissue. The inebriating sentiment of control got from physical change had dependent millions to tissue modifying rehearses . . . restorative medical procedure, body puncturing, lifting weights, and steroids . . . indeed, even bulimia and transgendering. The human soul hungers for dominance over its fleshly shell. A solitary ringer tolled on Mal'akh's pendulum clock, and he turned upward. Six thirty P.M. Leaving his instruments, he wrapped the Kiryu silk robe around his exposed, six-foot-three body and walked a few doors down. The air inside this rambling house was substantial with the sharp aroma of his skin colors and smoke from the beeswax candles he used to sanitize 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, respecting the old style skyli