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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.

CHAPTER 2

The one who called himself Mal’akh pressed the tip of the needle against his shaved head, sighing with

pleasure as the sharp tool plunged in and out of his flesh. The soft hum of the electric device was addictive . .

. as was the bite of the needle sliding deep into his dermis and depositing its dye.

I am a masterpiece.

The goal of tattooing was never beauty. The goal was change. From the scarified Nubian priests of 2000

B.C., to the tattooed acolytes of the Cybele cult of ancient Rome, to the moko scars of the modern Maori,

humans have tattooed themselves as a way of offering up their bodies in partial sacrifice, enduring the

physical pain of embellishment and emerging changed beings.

Despite the ominous admonitions of Leviticus 19:28, which forbade the marking of one’s flesh, tattoos had

become a rite of passage shared by millions of people in the modern age—everyone from clean-cut teenagers

to hard-core drug users to suburban housewives.

The act of tattooing one’s skin was a transformative declaration of power, an announcement to the world: I

am in control of my own flesh. The intoxicating feeling of control derived from physical transformation had

addicted millions to flesh-altering practices . . . cosmetic surgery, body piercing, bodybuilding, and steroids .

. . even bulimia and transgendering. The human spirit craves mastery over its carnal shell.

A single bell chimed on Mal’akh’s grandfather clock, and he looked up. Six thirty P.M. Leaving his tools, he

wrapped the Kiryu silk robe around his naked, six-foot-three body and strode down the hall. The air inside

this sprawling mansion was heavy with the pungent fragrance of his skin dyes and smoke from the beeswax

candles he used to sterilize his needles. The towering young man moved down the corridor past priceless

Italian antiques—a Piranesi etching, a Savonarola chair, a silver Bugarini oil lamp.

He glanced through a floor-to-ceiling window as he passed, admiring the classical skyline in the distance.

The luminous dome of the U.S. Capitol glowed with solemn power against the dark winter sky.

This is where it is hidden, he thought. It is buried out there somewhere.

Few men knew it existed . . . and even fewer knew its awesome power or the ingenious way in which it had

been hidden. To this day, it remained this country’s greatest untold secret. Those few who did know the truth

kept it hidden behind a veil of symbols, legends, and allegory.

Now they have opened their doors to me, Mal’akh thought.

Three weeks ago, in a dark ritual witnessed by America’s most influential men, Mal’akh had ascended to the

thirty-third degree, the highest echelon of the world’s oldest surviving brotherhood. Despite Mal’akh’s new

rank, the brethren had told him nothing. Nor will they, he knew. That was not how it worked. There were

circles within circles . . . brotherhoods within brotherhoods. Even if Mal’akh waited years, he might never

earn their ultimate trust.

Fortunately, he did not need their trust to obtain their deepest secret.

My initiation served its purpose.

Now, energized by what lay ahead, he strode toward his bedroom. Throughout his entire home, audio

speakers broadcast the eerie strains of a rare recording of a castrato singing the “Lux Aeterna” from the Verdi

Requiem—a reminder of a previous life. Mal’akh touched a remote control to bring on the thundering “Dies

Irae.” Then, against a backdrop of crashing timpani and parallel fifths, he bounded up the marble staircase,

his robe billowing as he ascended on sinewy legs.

As he ran, his empty stomach growled in protest. For two days now, Mal’akh had fasted, consuming only

water, preparing his body in accordance with the ancient ways. Your hunger will be satisfied by dawn, he

reminded himself. Along with your pain.

Mal’akh entered his bedroom sanctuary with reverence, locking the door behind him. As he moved toward

his dressing area, he paused, feeling himself drawn to the enormous gilded mirror. Unable to resist, he turned

and faced his own reflection. Slowly, as if unwrapping a priceless gift, Mal’akh opened his robe to unveil his

naked form. The vision awed him.

I am a masterpiece.

His massive body was shaved and smooth. He lowered his gaze first to his feet, which were tattooed with the

scales and talons of a hawk. Above that, his muscular legs were tattooed as carved pillars—his left leg

spiraled and his right vertically striated. Boaz and Jachin. His groin and abdomen formed a decorated

archway, above which his powerful chest was emblazoned with the double-headed phoenix . . . each head in

profile with its visible eye formed by one of Mal’akh’s nipples. His shoulders, neck, face, and shaved head

were completely covered with an intricate tapestry of ancient symbols and sigils.

I am an artifact . . . an evolving icon.

One mortal man had seen Mal’akh naked, eighteen hours earlier. The man had shouted in fear. “Good God,

you’re a demon!”

“If you perceive me as such,” Mal’akh had replied, understanding as had the ancients that angels and demons

were identical—interchangeable archetypes—all a matter of polarity: the guardian angel who conquered your

enemy in battle was perceived by your enemy as a demon destroyer.

Mal’akh tipped his face down now and got an oblique view of the top of his head. There, within the

crownlike halo, shone a small circle of pale, untattooed flesh. This carefully guarded canvas was Mal’akh’s

only remaining piece of virgin skin. The sacred space had waited patiently . . . and tonight, it would be filled.

Although Mal’akh did not yet possess what he required to complete his masterpiece, he knew the moment

was fast approaching.

Exhilarated by his reflection, he could already feel his power growing. He closed his robe and walked to the

window, again gazing out at the mystical city before him. It is buried out there somewhere.

Refocusing on the task at hand, Mal’akh went to his dressing table and carefully applied a base of concealer

makeup to his face, scalp, and neck until his tattoos had disappeared. Then he donned the special set of

clothing and other items he had meticulously prepared for this evening. When he finished, he checked

himself in the mirror. Satisfied, he ran a soft palm across his smooth scalp and smiled.

It is out there, he thought. And tonight, one man will help me find it.

As Mal’akh exited his home, he prepared himself for the event that would soon shake the U.S. Capitol

Building. He had gone to enormous lengths to arrange all the pieces for tonight.

And now, at last, his final pawn had entered the game.

CHAPTER 3

Robert Langdon was busy reviewing his note cards when the hum of the Town Car’s tires changed pitch on

the road beneath him. Langdon glanced up, surprised to see where they were.

Memorial Bridge already?

He put down his notes and gazed out at the calm waters of the Potomac passing beneath him. A heavy mist

hovered on the surface. Aptly named, Foggy Bottom had always seemed a peculiar site on which to build the

nation’s capital. Of all the places in the New World, the forefathers had chosen a soggy riverside marsh on

which to lay the cornerstone of their utopian society.

Langdon gazed left, across the Tidal Basin, toward the gracefully rounded silhouette of the Jefferson

Memorial—America’s Pantheon, as many called it. Directly in front of the car, the Lincoln Memorial rose

with rigid austerity, its orthogonal lines reminiscent of Athens’s ancient Parthenon. But it was farther away

that Langdon saw the city’s centerpiece—the same spire he had seen from the air. Its architectural inspiration

was far, far older than the Romans or the Greeks.

America’s Egyptian obelisk.

The monolithic spire of the Washington Monument loomed dead ahead, illuminated against the sky like the

majestic mast of a ship. From Langdon’s oblique angle, the obelisk appeared ungrounded tonight . . .

swaying against the dreary sky as if on an unsteady sea. Langdon felt similarly ungrounded. His visit to

Washington had been utterly unexpected. I woke up this morning anticipating a quiet Sunday at home . . .

and now I’m a few minutes away from the U.S. Capitol.

This morning at four forty-five, Langdon had plunged into dead-calm water, beginning his day as he always

did, swimming fifty laps in the deserted Harvard Pool. His physique was not quite what it had been in his

college days as a water-polo all-American, but he was still lean and toned, respectable for a man in his

forties. The only difference now was the amount of effort it took Langdon to keep it that way.

When Langdon arrived home around six, he began his morning ritual of hand-grinding Sumatra coffee beans

and savoring the exotic scent that filled his kitchen. This morning, however, he was surprised to see the

blinking red light on his voice-mail display. Who calls at six A.M. on a Sunday? He pressed the button and

listened to the message.

“Good morning, Professor Langdon, I’m terribly sorry for this early-morning call.” The polite voice was

noticeably hesitant, with a hint of a southern accent. “My name is Anthony Jelbart, and I’m Peter Solomon’s

executive assistant. Mr. Solomon told me you’re an early riser . . . he has been trying to reach you this

morning on short notice. As soon as you receive this message, would you be so kind as to call Peter directly?

You probably have his new private line, but if not, it’s 202-329-5746.”

Langdon felt a sudden concern for his old friend. Peter Solomon was impeccably well-bred and courteous,

and certainly not the kind of man to call at daybreak on a Sunday unless something was very wrong.

Langdon left his coffee half made and hurried toward his study to return the call.

I hope he’s okay.

Peter Solomon had been a friend, mentor, and, although only twelve years Langdon’s senior, a father figure

to him ever since their first meeting at Princeton University. As a sophomore, Langdon had been required to

attend an evening guest lecture by the well-known young historian and philanthropist. Solomon had spoken

with a contagious passion, presenting a dazzling vision of semiotics and archetypal history that had sparked

in Langdon what would later become his lifelong passion for symbols. It was not Peter Solomon’s brilliance,

however, but the humility in his gentle gray eyes that had given Langdon the courage to write him a thank-

you letter. The young sophomore had never dreamed that Peter Solomon, one of America’s wealthiest and

most intriguing young intellectuals, would ever write back. But Solomon did. And it had been the beginning

of a truly gratifying friendship.

A prominent academic whose quiet manner belied his powerful heritage, Peter Solomon came from the

ultrawealthy Solomon family, whose names appeared on buildings and universities all over the nation. Like

the Rothschilds in Europe, the surname Solomon had always carried the mystique of American royalty and

success. Peter had inherited the mantle at a young age after the death of his father, and now, at fifty-eight, he

had held numerous positions of power in his life. He currently served as the head of the Smithsonian

Institution. Langdon occasionally ribbed Peter that the lone tarnish on his sterling pedigree was his diploma

from a second-rate university—Yale.

Now, as Langdon entered his study, he was surprised to see that he had received a fax from Peter as well.

 Peter Solomon

OFFICE OF THE SECRETARY

THE SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTION

Good morning, Robert,

I need to speak with you at once. Please call me this morning as soon as you can at 202-329-5746.

Peter

Langdon immediately dialed the number, sitting down at his hand-carved oak desk to wait as the call went

through.

“Office of Peter Solomon,” the familiar voice of the assistant answered. “This is Anthony. May I help you?”

“Hello, this is Robert Langdon. You left me a message earlier—”

“Yes, Professor Langdon!” The young man sounded relieved. “Thank you for calling back so quickly. Mr.

Solomon is eager to speak to you. Let me tell him you’re on the line. May I put you on hold?”

“Of course.”

As Langdon waited for Solomon to get on the line, he gazed down at Peter’s name atop the Smithsonian

letterhead and had to smile. Not many slackers in the Solomon clan. Peter’s ancestral tree burgeoned with the

names of wealthy business magnates, influential politicians, and a number of distinguished scientists, some

even fellows of London’s Royal Society. Solomon’s only living family member, his younger sister,

Katherine, had apparently inherited the science gene, because she was now a leading figure in a new cutting-

edge discipline called Noetic Science.