The Lost Symbol Chapter 76-78

CHAPTER 76 independence Plaza is a map.Located at the recess of Pennsylvania Avenue and Thirteenth Street, the piazzas vast surface of inlaid st wholeness depicts the streets of Washington as they were origin in ally envisioned by Pierre LEnfant. The plaza is a popular tourist destination non however because the large map is fun to walk on, nevertheless also because Martin Luther King Jr., for whom e creationcipation Plaza is named, wrote much of his I Have a Dream patois in the nearby Willard Hotel.D.C. cabdriver Omar Amirana brought tourists to Freedom Plaza all the eon, but to dark, his twain passengers were obviously no ordinary sightseers. The CIA is chasing them? Omar had b atomic number 18ly come to a stop at the curb onward the military personnel and adult female had jumped prohibited. lie duty here the existence in the tweed coat told Omar. Well be right bumOmar check intoed the two people dash issue onto the go forthlaw(a) posts of the enormous map, po inting and shouting as they scanned the geometry of intersecting streets. Omar grabbed his cell telephone traffic circle false the dashboard. Sir, atomic number 18 you establish oer in that respect?Yes, Omar a vo rubbish shouted, b bely sonic every rig a thundering noise on his end of the line. Where are they now?Out on the map. It seems standardised theyre looking for something.Do non allow them out of your sight, the broker shouted. Im al close thereOmar watched as the two fugitives rapidly found the plazas far-famed Great sealing waxone of the largest tan medallions ever cast. They stood over it a mo manpowert and quickly began pointing to the southwestwardwest. then(prenominal) the man in tweed came racing derriere toward the cab. Omar quickly set his phone down on the dashboard as the man arrived, breathless.Which direction is Alexandria, Virginia? he demanded.Alexandria? Omar pointed southwest, the exact same direction the man and cleaning lady had just now pointed toward.I knew it the man whispe rosy under his breath. He spun and shouted binding to the woman. Youre right AlexandriaThe woman now pointed across the plaza to an illuminated Metro trace nearby. The Blue Line goes flat there. We want King Street pointOmar mat a surge of panic. Oh no.The man off-key rearwards to Omar and handed him entirely too many bills for the fare. Thanks. Were all set. He hoisted his lash bag and ran cancelled.Wait I can drive you I go there all the time tho it was too late. The man and woman were already dashing across the plaza. They disappeared down the stairs into the Metro affectionateness pipe station.Omar grabbed his cell phone. Sir They ran down into the pipe I couldnt stop them Theyre taking the Blue Line to AlexandriaStay right there the federal agent shouted. Ill be there in fifteen secondsOmar looked down at the wad of bills the man had given him. The bill on top was apparently the one they had been piece of writing on. It had a Jewish star on top of the Great Seal of the United States. Sure enough, the stars points fell on letters that spelled MASON.Without warning, Omar matt-up a deafening vibration all near him, as if a tractor drone pipe were intimately to collide with his cab. He looked up, but the street was deserted. The noise increased, and curtly a sleek glum chopper dropped down out of the nighttime and landed hard in the middle of the plaza map.A assort of black-clad men jumped out. Most ran toward the subway station, but one came dashing toward Omars cab. He yanked open the passenger room access. Omar? Is that you?Omar nodded, speechless.Did they say where they were chieftained? the agent demanded.Alexandria King Street Station, Omar blurted. I suggested to drive, butDid they say where in Alexandria they were press release?No They looked at the medallion of the Great Seal on the plaza, then they asked about Alexandria, and they paid me with this. He handed the agent the dolla r bill with the bizarre diagram. As the agent studied the bill, Omar suddenly put it all together. The Masons Alexandria unmatched of the most famous masonic buildings in America was in Alexandria. Thats it he blurted. The George Washington Masonic repository Its directly across from King Street StationThat it is, the agent said, apparently having just come to the same realization as the time out of the agents came sprinting back from the station.We missed them one of the men yelled. Blue Line just left Theyre not down thereAgent Simkins checked his watch and turned back to Omar. How long does the subway take to Alexandria? Ten minutes at least. Probably much than.Omar, youve done an excellent job. Thank you.Sure. Whats this all about?But Agent Simkins was already holdning back to the eggbeater, shouting as he went. King Street Station Well get there sooner they doBewildered, Omar watched the great black bird lift off. It banked hard to the south across Pennsylvania Avenue, and then thundered off into the night.Underneath the cabbies feet, a subway mark off was picking up speed as it headed extraneous from Freedom Plaza. On board, Robert Langdon and Katherine Solomon sit breathless, neither one saying a intelligence information as the delay whisked them toward their destination.CHAPTER 77The memory always began the same way.He was falling . . . plummeting backward toward an ice-covered river at the bottom of a deep ravine. higher up him, the merciless gray eyes of rooster Solomon stared down over the bbl of Andross handgun. As he fell, the world above him receded, everything disappearing as he was enveloped by the cloud of billo flank mist from the waterfall upstream.For an instant, everything was white, like heaven. indeed he hit the ice.Cold. Black. Pain.He was tumbling . . . macrocosm dragged by a business leaderful force that pounded him relentlessly across rocks in an impossibly nippy void. His lungs ached for air, and yet his chest mu scles had contracted so violently in the polar that he was unable even to inhale.Im under the ice.The ice near the waterfall was apparently thin on account of the turbulent water, and Andros had broken directly done it. Now he was being washed downstream, trapped beneath a transparent ceiling. He clawed at the underside of the ice, laborious to conflagrate out, but he had no leverage. The searing pain from the bullet jumble in his shoulder was evaporating, as was the sting of the bird stroking both were blotted out now by the crippling throb of his body going numb.The current was accelerating, slingshotting him around a bend in the river. His body screamed for oxygen. all at once he was tangled in branches, lodged against a tree that had fallen into the water. call in He groped wildly at the branch, working his way toward the surface, finding the peak where the branch pierced up through the ice. His fingertips found the tiny space of open water surrounding the branch, and he pulled at the edges, trying to break the hole wider once, twice, the opening was growing, now several inches across.Propping himself against the branch, he tipped his head back and pressed his mouth against the minute opening. The winter air that poured into his lungs mat up warm. The sudden burst of oxygen fueled his hope. He planted his feet on the tree trunk and pressed his back and shoulders forcefully upward. The ice around the fallen tree, perforated by branches and debris, was weakened already, and as he legion his powerful legs into the trunk, his head and shoulders broke through the ice, crashing up into the winter night. manner poured into his lungs. Still mostly submerged, he wriggled desperately upward, pushing with his legs, pulling with his arms, until lastly he was out of the water, hypocrisy breathless on the bare ice.Andros tear off his soaked ski mask and pocketed it, glancing back upstream for calamus Solomon. The bend in the river obscured his view. Hi s chest was burning again. Quietly, he dragged a small branch over the hole in the ice in set out to hide it. The hole would be frozen again by morning.As Andros staggered into the woods, it began to play false. He had no idea how far he had run when he stumbled out of the woods onto an embankment beside a small highway. He was delirious and hyp primal(a)mic. The snow was falling harder now, and a single set of head glisters approached in the distance. Andros waved wildly, and the lone tone arm truck straightway pulled over. It had Vermont plates. An old man in a red plaid shirt jumped out.Andros staggered toward him, holding his bleeding chest. A hunter . . . shot me I need a . . . hospitalWithout hesitation, the old man helped Andros up into the passenger seat of the truck and turned up the heater. Wheres the nearest hospital?Andros had no idea, but he pointed south. close exit. Were not going to a hospital.The old man from Vermont was reported missing the attached day, b ut nought had any idea where on his journey from Vermont he might bring on disappeared in the blinding snowstorm. Nor did anyone link his disappearance to the opposite intelligence summons composition that dominated the headlines the next daythe shocking murder of Isabel Solomon.When Andros awoke, he was lying in a desolate bedroom of a cheap motel that had been boarded up for the season. He recalled breaking in and binding his wounds with torn bedsheets, and then burrowing into a flimsy bed beneath a pile of musty blankets. He was famished.He limped to the bathroom and saw the pile of bloody bird-shot pellets in the sink. He vaguely recalled prying them out of his chest. Raising his eyes to the dirty mirror, he reluctantly unwrapped his bloody bandages to survey the damage. The hard muscles of his chest and venter had stopped the bird shot from penetrating too deep, and yet his body, once perfect, was now ruined with wounds. The single bullet fired by dig Solomon had appare ntly gone cleanly through his shoulder, leaving a bloody crater.Making matters worse, Andros had failed to obtain that for which he had traveled all this distance. The pyramid. His stomach growled, and he limped outside to the mans truck, hoping maybe to find food. The pickup was now covered with minatory snow, and Andros wondered how long he had been sleeping in this old motel. Thank idol I woke up. Andros found no food anywhere in the straw man seat, but he did find some arthritis painkillers in the glove compartment. He took a handful, washing them down with several mouthfuls of snow.I need food.A few hours subsequently, the pickup that pulled out from behind the old motel looked nothing like the truck that had pulled in two days earlier. The cab cap was missing, as were the hubcaps, bumper stickers, and all of the trim. The Vermont plates were gone, replaced by those from an old maintenance truck Andros had found position by the motel Dumpster, into which he had thrown all the bloody sheets, bird shot, and other evidence that he had ever been at the motel.Andros had not given up on the pyramid, but for the moment it would have to wait. He needed to hide, heal, and above all, eat. He found a roadside diner where he gorged himself on eggs, bacon, hash browns, and three glasses of orange juice. When he was done, he say much food to go. Back on the road, Andros listened to the trucks old radio. He had not seen a television or newspaper since his ordeal, and when he finally hear a local news station, the report stunned him.FBI investigators, a news announcer said, continue their search for the armed intruder who murdered Isabel Solomon in her Potomac national two days ago. The murderer is believed to have fallen through the ice and been washed out to sea.Andros froze. Murdered Isabel Solomon? He drove on in bewildered silence, listening to the full report.It was time to get far, far away from this place.The Upper West Side apartment offered breathtaking views of exchange Park. Andros had elect it because the sea of green outside his window reminded him of his lost view of the Adriatic. Although he knew he should be happy to be alive, he was not. The emptiness had never left him, and he found himself fixated on his failed attempt to steal Peter Solomons pyramid.Andros had spent long hours researching the Legend of the Masonic Pyramid, and although nobody seemed to agree on whether or not the pyramid was real, they all concurred on its famous cry of vast wiseness and power. The Masonic Pyramid is real, Andros told himself. My deep down information is irrefutable. helping had placed the pyramid within Andross reach, and he knew that ignoring it was like holding a winning lottery ticket and never cashing it in. I am the only non-Mason alive who knows the pyramid is real . . . as well as the individuality of the man who guards it.Months had passed, and although his body had healed, Andros was no longer the cocky specimen he had be en in Greece. He had stopped working out, and he had stopped admiring himself in the altogether in the mirror. He felt as if his body were lightning to march signs of age. His once-perfect skin was a patchwork of s cars, and this only depressed him further. He still relied on the painkillers that had nursed him through his recovery, and he felt himself slipping back to the lifestyle that had put him in Soganlik Prison. He didnt care. The body craves what the body craves.One night, he was in Greenwich Village buying drugs from a man whose build up had been tattooed with a long, jagged lightning bolt. Andros asked him about it, and the man told him the tattoo was covering a long scar he had gotten in a car accident. visual perception the scar every day reminded me of the accident, the dealer said, and so I tattooed over it with a symbol of personal power. I took back control.That night, high on his new stash of drugs, Andros staggered into a local tattoo parlor and took off his sh irt. I want to hide these scars, he announced. I want to take back control.Hide them? The tattoo mechanic eyed his chest. With what?Tattoos.Yes . . . I pissed tattoos of what? Andros shrugged, wanting nothing more than to hide the ugly reminders of his past. I dont know. You choose.The artist shook his head and handed Andros a pamphlet on the antique and sublime tradition of tattooing. Come back when youre ready.Andros discovered that the New York world Library had in its collection fifty-three books on tattooing, and within a few weeks, he had read them all. Having rediscovered his passion for reading, he began carrying entire backpacks of books back and forth in the midst of the library and his apartment, where he voraciously devoured them while overlooking Central Park.These books on tattoos had opened a door to a peculiar world Andros had never known existeda world of symbols, mysticism, mythology, and the magical arts. The more he read, the more he cognize how blind he had been. He began keeping notebooks of his ideas, his sketches, and his strange dreams. When he could no longer find what he wanted at the library, he paid rare-book dealers to purchase for him some of the most esoteric texts on earth.De Praestigiis Daemonum . . . Lemegeton . . . Ars Almadel . . . Grimorium Verum . . . Ars Notoria . . . and on and on. He read them all, becoming more and more certain that the world still had many apprizes yet to offer him. there are secrets out there that transcend human understanding.Then he discovered the writings of Aleister Crowleya visionary mystic from the early 1900s whom the church had deemed the most evil man who ever lived. Great minds are always feared by lesser minds. Andros learned about the power of ritual and incantation. He learned that sacred words, if properly spoken, functioned like keys that opened gateways to other worlds. There is a shadow universe beyond this one . . . a world from which I can draw power. And although Andr os longed to harness that power, he knew there were rules and tasks to be completed beforehand.Become something holy, Crowley wrote. Make yourself sacred.The antediluvian patriarch rite of sacred making had once been the law of the land. From the early Hebrews who made burnt offerings at the Temple, to the Mayans who beheaded humans atop the pyramids of Chichen Itza, to Jesus Christ, who offered his body on the cross, the antediluvians understood Gods requirement for afford. Sacrifice was the original ritual by which humans pull favor from the gods and made themselves holy.Sacrasacred.Face ferment.Even though the rite of sacrifice had been abandoned eons ago, its power remained. There had been a handful of modern mystics, including Aleister Crowley, who secure the Art, perfecting it over time, and transforming themselves gradually into something more. Andros craved to transform himself as they had. And yet he knew he would have to cross a dangerous bridge to do so.Blood is all that separates the light from the dark.One night, a crow flew through Andross open bathroom window and got trapped in his apartment. Andros watched the bird joggle around for a while and then finally stop, apparently evaluate its inability to escape. Andros had learned enough to recognize a sign. I am being urged onward.Clutching the bird in one hand, he stood at the jury-rigged altar in his kitchen and raised a sharp wound, speaking obstreperously the incantation he had memorized.Camiach, Eomiahe, Emial, Macbal, Emoii, Zazean . . . by the most holy names of the angels in the Book of Assamaian, I conjure thee that thou assist me in this operation by the power of the One True God. Andros now lowered the knife and cautiously pierced the large vein on the right wing of the panicked bird. The crow began to bleed. As he watched the stream of red melted flowing down into the metal cup he had placed as a receptacle, he felt an unexpected chill in the air. Nonetheless, he continued.A lmighty Adonai, Arathron, Ashai, Elohim, Elohi, Elion, Asher Eheieh, Shaddai . . . be my aid, so that this blood may have power and efficacy in all wherein I shall wish, and in all that I shall demand.That night, he dreamed of birds . . . of a giant phoenix rising from a billowing fire. The next morning, he awoke with an energy he had not felt since childhood. He went running in the park, faster and farther than hed imagined possible. When he could run no longer, he stopped to do pushups and sit-ups. Countless repetitions. Still he had energy.That night, again, he dreamed of the phoenix.Autumn had fallen again on Central Park, and the wildlife were scurrying about searching for food for winter. Andros despised the cold, and yet his carefully hidden traps were now overflowing with live rats and squirrels. He took them home in his backpack, performing rituals of change magnitude complexity.Emanual, Massiach, Yod, He, Vaud . . . please find me worthy.The blood rituals fueled his vital ity. Andros felt younger every day. He continued to read day and nightancient mystical texts, epic medieval poems, the early philosophersand the more he learned about the original nature of things, the more he realized that all hope for mankind was lost. They are blind . . . wandering aimlessly in a world they will never understand.Andros was still a man, but he sensed he was evolving into something else. Something greater. Something sacred. His massive physique had emerged from dormancy, more powerful now than ever before. He finally understood its true purpose. My body is but a vessel for my most potent treasure . . . my mind.Andros knew his true potential had not yet been realized, and he delved deeper. What is my destiny? exclusively the ancient texts spoke of good and evil . . . and of mans need to choose between them. I made my choice long ago, he knew, and yet he felt no remorse. What is evil, if not a natural law? tincture followed light. Chaos followed order. Entropy was fundamental. Everything decayed. The perfectly ordered crystal eventually turned into random particles of dust.There are those who create . . . and those who destroy.It was not until Andros read rump Miltons Paradise Lost that he saw his destiny materialize before him. He read of the great fallen angel . . . the warrior demon who fought against the light . . . the valiant one . . . the angel called Moloch. Moloch walked the earth as a god. The angels name, Andros later learned, when translated to the ancient tongue, became Malakh.And so shall I.Like all great transformations, this one had to begin with a sacrifice . . . but not of rats, nor birds. No, this transformation required a true sacrifice.There is but one worthy sacrifice.Suddenly he had a sense of clarity unlike anything he had ever see in his life. His entire destiny had materialized. For three straight days he sketched on an enormous sheet of paper. When he was done, he had created a purpose of what he would become.He hung the life-size sketch on his wall and gazed into it as if into a mirror.I am a masterpiece.The next day, he took his force to the tattoo parlor.He was ready.CHAPTER 78The George Washington Masonic Memorial stands atop Shuters Hill in Alexandria, Virginia. Built in three distinct tiers of increasing architectural complexity from bottom to topDoric, Ionic, and Corinthianthe structure stands as a physical symbol of mans intellectual ascent. Inspired by the ancient Pharos lighthouse of Alexandria, Egypt, this soaring tower is capped by an Egyptian pyramid with a flamelike finial.Inside the spectacular marble foyer sits a massive bronze of George Washington in full Masonic regalia, along with the actual trowel he used to lay the cornerstone of the Capitol Building. supra the foyer, nine different levels bear names like the Grotto, the Crypt Room, and the Knights Templar Chapel. Among the treasures housed within these spaces are over twenty thousand volumes of Masonic writings, a da zzling facsimile of the Ark of the Covenant, and even a scale model of the throne room in King Solomons Temple.CIA agent Simkins checked his watch as the modified UH-60 chopper skimmed in low over the Potomac. Six minutes until their set arrives. He exhaled and gazed out the window at the shining Masonic Memorial on the horizon. He had to admit, the brilliantly shining tower was as thundering as any building on the National Mall. Simkins had never been inwardly the memorial, and tonight would be no different. If all went according to plan, Robert Langdon and Katherine Solomon would never make it out of the subway station.Over there Simkins shouted to the pilot, pointing down at the King Street subway station across from the memorial. The pilot banked the helicopter and set it down on a grassy area at the foot of Shuters Hill.Pedestrians looked up in surprise as Simkins and his squad piled out, rush across the street, and ran down into King Street Station. In the stairwell, sev eral departing passengers leaped out of the way, plastering themselves to the walls as the phalanx of armed men in black thundered past them.The King Street Station was larger than Simkins had anticipated, apparently fate several different linesBlue, Yellow, and Amtrak. He raced over to the Metro map on the wall, found Freedom Plaza and the direct line to this location.Blue Line, south platform Simkins shouted. Get down there and clear everyone out His team dart off.Simkins rushed over to the ticket booth, flashed his identification, and shouted to the woman inside. The next train from Metro Centerwhat time is it due?The woman inside looked frightened. Im not sure. Blue Line arrives every eleven minutes. Theres no set schedule.How long since the last train?Five . . . six minutes, maybe? No more than that.Turner did the math. Perfect. The next train had to be Langdons.Inside a fast-moving subway car, Katherine Solomon shifted uncomfortably on the hard plastic seat. The bright lig ht lights overhead hurt her eyes, and she fought the impulse to let her eyelids close, even for a second. Langdon sat beside her in the empty car, staring blankly down at the leather bag at his feet. His eyelids looked heavy, too, as if the rhythmic sway of the moving car were lulling him into a trance.Katherine pictured the strange contents of Langdons bag. Why does the CIA want this pyramid? Bellamy had said that Sato might be pursuing the pyramid because she knew its true potential. But even if this pyramid somehow did reveal the hiding place of ancient secrets, Katherine found it hard to believe that its promise of primeval mystical wisdom would interest the CIA.Then again, she reminded herself, the CIA had been caught several times running parapsychological or psi schedules that bordered on ancient magic and mysticism. In 1995, the Stargate/Scannate scandalisation had exposed a classified CIA technology called remote viewinga kind of telepathic mind travel that enabled a view er to beguile his minds eye to any location on earth and spy there, without being physically present. Of course, the technology was nothing new. Mystics called it astral projection, and yogis called it out-of-body experience. Unfortunately, horrified American taxpayers called it absurd, and the program had been scuttled. At least publicly.Ironically, Katherine saw remarkable connections between the CIAs failed programs and her own breakthroughs in Noetic Science.Katherine felt eager to call the police and find out if they had discovered anything in Kalorama Heights, but she and Langdon were phoneless now, and making contact with the authorities would likely be a mistake anyway there was no express how far Satos reach extended.Patience, Katherine. Within minutes, they would be in a near hiding place, guests of a man who had assured them he could provide answers. Katherine hoped his answers, whatever they might be, would help her save her brother.Robert? she whispered, glancing u p at the subway map. Next stop is ours.Langdon emerged belatedly from his daydream. Right, thanks. As the train mutteringd toward the station, he collected his daybag and gave Katherine an unsealed glance. Lets just hope our arrival is uneventful.By the time Turner Simkins dashed down to join his men, the subway platform had been entirely cleared, and his team was fanning out, taking up positions behind the support pillars that ran the length of the platform. A distant rumble echoed in the tunnel at the other end of the platform, and as it grew louder, Simkins felt the push of stale warm air billowing around him.No escape, Mr. Langdon.Simkins turned to the two agents he had told to join him on the platform. Identification and weapons out. These trains are automated, but they all have a film director who opens the doors. Find him.The trains headlight now appeared down the tunnel, and the sound of squealing brakes pierced the air. As the train burst into the station and began slo wing down, Simkins and his two agents leaned out over the track, waving CIA identification badges and straining to make eye contact with the conductor before he could open the doors.The train was closing fast. In the deuce-ace car, Simkins finally saw the startled face of the conductor, who was apparently trying to control out why three men in black were all waving identification badges at him. Simkins jogged toward the train, which was now nearing a full stop.CIA Simkins shouted, holding up his ID. Do NOT open the doors As the train glided slowly past him, he went toward the conductors car, shouting in at him. Do not open your doors Do you understand? Do NOT open your doorsThe train came to a full stop, its wide-eyed conductor nodding repeatedly. Whats wrong? the man demanded through his side window.Dont let this train move, Simkins said. And dont open the doors.Okay.Can you let us into the commencement ceremony car?The conductor nodded. Looking fearful, he stepped out of the tr ain, closing the door behind him. He escorted Simkins and his men to the first car, where he manually opened the door.Lock it behind us, Simkins said, pulling his weapon. Simkins and his men stepped quickly into the stark light of the first car. The conductor locked the door behind them.The first car contained only four passengersthree teenage boys and an old womanall of whom looked understandably startled to see three armed men entering. Simkins held up his ID. Everythings fine. Just stay seated.Simkins and his men now began their sweep, pushing toward the back of the sealed train one car at a timesqueezing toothpaste, as it was called during his training at the Farm. Very few passengers were on this train, and halfway to the back, the agents still had seen nobody even remotely resembling the description of Robert Langdon and Katherine Solomon. Nonetheless, Simkins remained confident. There was absolutely no place to hide on a subway car. No bathrooms, no storage, and no alternativ e exits. Even if the targets had seen them board the train and fled to the back, there was no way out. Prying open a door was almost impossible, and Simkins had men watching the platform and both sides of the train anyway.Patience.By the time Simkins reached the second-to-last car, however, he was feeling edgy. This penultimate car had only one passengera Chinese man. Simkins and his agents move through, scanning for any place to hide. There was none.Last car, Simkins said, raising his weapon as the threesome moved toward the threshold of the trains final section. As they stepped into the last car, all three of them immediately stopped and stared.What the . . . ? Simkins raced to the rear of the deserted cabin, searching behind all the seats. He spun back to his men, blood boiling. Where the hell did they go?