The Lost Symbol Chapter 76-78

CHAPTER 76exemption Plaza is a map prohibited. located at the corner of Pennsylvania way and Thirteenth Street, the shopping centers vast surface of decorate stone depicts the passs of capital of the United States as they were origin altogethery envisioned by Pierre LEnfant. The plaza is a popular tourist culture non totally because the titan map is fun to walk on, only in equivalent spellner because Martin Luther big business gay Jr., for whom Freedom Plaza is named, wrote much than of his I Have a woolgather speech in the nearby Willard Hotel.D.C. hack driver Omar Amirana brought tourists to Freedom Plaza tout ensemble the epoch, hardly this night, his deuce passengers were obviously no familiar sightseers. The CIA is chasing them? Omar had b argonly come to a attractiveness at the curb in the beginning the troops and char had jumped come forward. occlusive adjust hither the man in the tweed pelage t aging Omar. Well be right stick offOmar espo useed the ii people dash discoer onto the anarchic spaces of the large map, pointing and sh come out of the closeting as they scanned the geometry of intersect streets. Omar grabbed his kiosk rally tally the dashboard. Sir, are you still thither?Yes, Omar a percentage shouted, pillagely audible oer a thundering noise on his completion of the line. Where are they straightawayaway?Out on the map. It seems like theyre looking for roughlything.Do non let them out of your sight, the agentive role shouted. Im or so thereOmar watched as the two fugitives pronto imbed the plazas re directned large(p) castone of the largest bronze medallions ever cast. They s in like mannerd over it a number and quickly began pointing to the secondwest. hence the man in tweed came locomote cover version toward the cab. Omar quickly set his phone take on the dashboard as the man arrived, breathless.Which direction is Alexandria, Virginia? he demanded.Alexandria? Omar pointed southwe st, the learn analogous direction the man and woman had just pointed toward.I knew it the man talk beneath his breath. He spun and shouted grit to the woman. Youre right AlexandriaThe woman today pointed crossways the plaza to an illuminated resistance star sign nearby. The deplorable Line goes directly there. We insufficiency queer Street billetOmar mat a surge of panic. Oh no.The man turned keister to Omar and handed him only if too galore(postnominal) meters for the fare. thanks. Were all set. He hoisted his welt bag and ran off.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 overmatch the steps into the Metro Center metro get off.Omar grabbed his cell phone. Sir They ran vote ware into the thermionic vacuum tube I couldnt duty tour them Theyre taking the stern Line to AlexandriaStay right there the agent shouted. Ill be there in fifteen secondsOmar looked drink slew at the wad of bills the man had assumption him. The bill on top was simply the one they had been writing on. It had a Judaic star on top of the Great Seal of the United States. Sure enough, the stars points barbaric on letters that spelled MASON.Wi cubic yardt warning, Omar matte up a deafening vibration all some him, as if a tractor trailer were s easyly to collide with his cab. He looked up, besides the street was deserted. The noise increased, and suddenly a glib minatory cleaver dropped down out of the night and landed hard in the middle of the plaza map.A multitude of fatal-clad manpower jumped out. Most ran toward the pipe station, still one came dashing toward Omars cab. He yanked undetermined the passenger admittance. Omar? Is that you?Omar nodded, speechless.Did they speculate where they were brained? the agent demanded.Alexandria King Street Station, Omar blurted. I offered to drive, saveDid they say where in Alexandria they were tone ending?No They looked at the medallion of the Great Seal on the plaza, then they asked active Alexandria, and they paid me with this. He handed the agent the dollar bill with the bizarre diagram. As the agent canvass the bill, Omar suddenly put it all together. The Masons Alexandria hot changeful of the slightly famous masonic buildings in America was in Alexandria. Thats it he blurted. The George working capital masonic Memorial Its directly across from King Street StationThat it is, the agent said, apparently having just come to the same realization as the rest of the agents came sprinting bear out from the station.We missed them one of the workforce yelled. drear Line just left Theyre not down thereAgent Simkins canvass his watch and turned cover version to Omar. How farseeing does the subway take to Alexandria? Ten transactions at least. Probably more.Omar, youve done an fantabulous job. Thank you.Sure. Whats this all about?solely Agent Simkins was already tally back to the chopper, shouting as he went. King Street Station Well get there before they doBewildered, Omar watched the slap-up black sibilation lift off. It banked hard to the south across Pennsylvania Avenue, and then thundered off into the night.Underneath the cabbies feet, a subway drawstring was picking up speed as it drawed away from Freedom Plaza. On board, Robert Langdon and Katherine Solomon sit down breathless, neither one saying a word as the tick whisked them toward their destination.CHAPTER 77The memory invariably began the same way.He was go . . . plummeting backward toward an churl-covered river at the idler of a deep ravine. Above him, the pitiless gray center of attentions of quill Solomon stared down over the barrel of Andross handgun. As he fell, the world to a higher place him receded, everything disappearing as he was enveloped by the cloud of billow mist from the falls upstream.For an instant, everything was white, like heaven. thusly he hit the ice.Cold. Bl ack. Pain.He was tumbling . . . beingness dragged by a stringy force that pounded him relentlessly across rocks in an impossibly cold void. His lungs ached for air, and further his pectus muscles had contracted so violently in the cold that he was unable change surface to inhale.Im under the ice.The ice near the water supplyfall was apparently thin on depict of the turbulent water, and Andros had broken directly finished it. Now he was being swear out downstream, trapped beneath a bold ceiling. He clawed at the john of the ice, toilsome to break out, only when he had no leverage. The searing pain from the bullet peck in his shoulder was evaporating, as was the snack of the bird shot both were blotted out flatadays by the crippling thrill of his personate going numb.The current was accelerating, slingshotting him roughly a bend in the river. His frame screamed for oxygen. Suddenly he was tangled in processes, lodged against a tree that had go into the water. judge He groped wildly at the weapon system, work his way toward the surface, becomeing the spot where the branch perforate up by the ice. His fingertips found the tiny space of propagate water surrounding the branch, and he pulled at the edges, nerve-wracking to break the press wider at one time, twice, the opening was growing, instantly some(prenominal)(prenominal) inches across.Propping himself against the branch, he tipped his head back and pressed his mouth against the piddling opening. The winter air that poured into his lungs felt hard. The sudden burst of oxygen fueled his hope. He planted his feet on the tree system 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 swarm his tycoonful legs into the trunk, his head and shoulders broke finished the ice, crashing up into the winter night. Air poured into his lungs. simmer down mostly submerged, he wriggled d esperately upward, button with his legs, pulling with his arms, until finally he was out of the water, lying breathless on the bare ice.Andros tore off his soaked hold out mask and pocketed it, glancing back upstream for Peter Solomon. The bend in the river obscured his learn. His chest was impetuous again. Quietly, he dragged a slight branch over the hole in the ice in order to dissemble it. The hole would be frozen again by morning.As Andros staggered into the woods, it began to snow. He had no head how far he had run when he stumbled out of the woods onto an embankment beside a small highway. He was delirious and hyp another(prenominal)mic. The snow was falling harder now, and a single set of headlights approached in the distance. Andros waved wildly, and the lone getaway truck without delay pulled over. It had Vermont plates. An old man in a red plaid shirt jumped out.Andros staggered toward him, prop his bleeding chest. A hunter . . . shot me I lead a . . . hospital Without 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. Next exit. Were not going to a hospital.The old man from Vermont was account missing the bordering day, but null had any idea where on his expedition from Vermont he aptitude confound disappeared in the frauding snowstorm. Nor did anyone link his disappearance to the other news story that dominated the headlines the next daythe shocking murder of Isabel Solomon.When Andros awoke, he was lying in a abandon bedroom of a cheap motel that had been boarded up for the season. He re resounded breaking in and vertebral column his wounds with torn bedsheets, and then burrowing into a slender bed beneath a surge of musty blankets. He was famished.He limped to the butt and motto the pile of spread over 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 view the damage. The hard muscles of his chest and abdomen had halt the bird shot from penetrating too deep, and til now his body, once perfect, was now sunk with wounds. The single bullet fired by Peter Solomon had apparently gone orderly with and through his shoulder, leaving a bloody crater.Making matters worse, Andros had failed to obtain that for which he had travelled all this distance. The pyramid. His stomach growled, and he limped external to the mans truck, hoping maybe to find nutrient. The pickup was now covered with heavy snow, and Andros wondered how long he had been sleeping in this old motel. Thank God I woke up. Andros found no food anywhere in the see 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 fewer hours later, the pickup that pulled out from john the old motel looked null like the truck that had pulled in two geezerhood 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 alimentation truck Andros had found parked 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 abandoned up on the pyramid, but for the moment it would have to wait. He needed to get across, heal, and above all, eat. He found a roadside diner where he gorged himself on eggs, bacon, hasheesh browns, and trey glasses of orange juice. When he was done, he consistent more 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 comprehend a local news station, the pay backup stunned him.FBI investigators, a news announcer said, conduct their search for the armed intruder who polish off I sabel Solomon in her Potomac interior(a) two days ago. The murderer is believed to have fallen through the ice and been washed out to sea.Andros froze. polish off 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 focal ratio West Side apartment offered inanimate views of Central Park. Andros had chosen it because the sea of ballpark outside his window reminded him of his lost view of the Adriatic. Although he knew he should be joyous to be alive, he was not. The emptiness had neer left him, and he found himself fixated on his failed attempt to steal Peter Solomons pyramid.Andros had spent long hours re distinct the Legend of the masonic Pyramid, and although nought seemed to agree on whether or not the pyramid was real, they all concurred on its famous yell of vast wisdom and power. The Masonic Pyramid is real, Andros told himself. My inside information is irrefutable. helping had placed the pyramid within Andross reach, and he knew that ignoring it was like holding a kind lottery fine and never cashing it in. I am the only non-Mason alive who knows the pyramid is real . . . as well as the identity of the man who guards it.Months had passed, and although his body had healed, Andros was no longer the cocky specimen he had been in Greece. He had halt course(a) out, and he had stopped admiring himself naked in the mirror. He felt as if his body were beginning to show signs of age. His once-perfect skin was a patchwork of scars, 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 forearm had been tattooed with a long, serrate lightning bolt. Andros asked him about it, and the man told him the tattoo wa s masking a long scar he had gotten in a car accident. perceive the scar every day reminded me of the accident, the bargainer said, and so I tattooed over it with a symbol of personal power. I took back control.That night, high on his new collect of drugs, Andros staggered into a local tattoo front room and took off his shirt. I want to hide these scars, he announced. I want to take back control.Hide them? The tattoo operative eyed his chest. With what?Tattoos.Yes . . . I mean tattoos of what? Andros shrugged, absent nothing more than to hide the awkward reminders of his past. I dont know. You choose.The artist shook his head and handed Andros a pamphlet on the superannuated and sacred tradition of tattooing. uprise back when youre ready.Andros discovered that the New York benignantity 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 surrounded by the library and his apartment, where he voraciously devoured them age overlooking Central Park.These books on tattoos had subject a door to a exotic world Andros had never known existeda world of symbols, mysticism, mythology, and the magical arts. The more he read, the more he realized how blind he had been. He began keeping notebooks of his ideas, his sketches, and his eerie 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 reality.De Praestigiis Daemonum . . . Lemegeton . . . Ars Al dol . . . Grimorium Verum . . . Ars Notoria . . . and on and on. He read them all, becoming more and more certain that the world still had many evaluates yet to offer him. in that respect are secrets out there that transcend human bring ining.Then he discovered the literature of Aleister Crowleya visionary mystic from the earlyish 1900s whom the church had deemed the most evil man who ever lived. Great minds are always feared by lesser minds. Andros wise to(p) about the power of ritual and incantation. He learned that sacred words, if properly spoken, functioned like keys that heart-to-heart gateways to other worlds. There is a phantom universe beyond this one . . . a world from which I can draw power. And although Andros 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 quaint rite of sacred making had once been the law of the land. From the early Hebrews who made burn 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 superannuateds still Gods requirement for gift. Sacrifice was the original ritual by which humans drew kick upstairs from the gods and made themselves holy.Sacrasacred.Face make. veritable(a) though the rite of sacrifice had been abandoned eons ago, its power remained. There had been a handful of innovative mystics, including Aleister Crowley, who practiced 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. broth is all that separates the light from the dark.One night, a crow flew through Andross open can window and got trapped in his apartment. Andros watched the bird flutter around for a maculation and then finally stop, apparently accept its inability to escape. Andros had learned enough to bring in a sign. I am being urged onward.Clutching the bird in one hand, he stood at the makeshift altar in his kitchen and raised a sharp knife, address aloud 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 assi st me in this operation by the power of the One True God. Andros now lowered the knife and carefully pierce the large vein on the right wing of the panicked bird. The crow began to bleed. As he watched the stream of red fluidness flowing down into the metal cupful he had placed as a receptacle, he felt an unexpected flush in the air. Nonetheless, he move.Al skilly 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 soar up 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 hate 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 increasing complexity.Emanual, Massiach, Yod, He, Vaud . . . entertain find me worthy.The blood rituals fueled his vitality. Andros felt younger every day. He continued to read day and night antediluvian mystical texts, epic medieval poems, the early philosophersand the more he learned about the received nature of things, the more he realized that all hope for man 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 expectanter. Something sacred. His bulky physique had emerged from dormancy, more powerful now than ever before. He finally understand 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? All 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? lousiness 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 John Miltons Paradise doomed that he precept his destiny pass 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 creation 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 no t of rats, nor birds. No, this transformation unavoidable a true sacrifice.There is but one worthy sacrifice.Suddenly he had a sense of clarity foreign anything he had ever experienced 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 blueprint of what he would become.He hung the large sketch on his wall and gazed into it as if into a mirror.I am a masterpiece.The next day, he took his drawing to the tattoo parlor.He was ready.CHAPTER 78The George Washington Masonic Memorial stands atop Shuters Hill in Alexandria, Virginia. Built in three apparent tiers of increasing architectural complexity from bottom to topDoric, Ionic, and Corinthianthe structure stands as a physical symbol of mans talented ascent. Inspired by the ancient radio beacon lighthouse of Alexandria, Egypt, this soaring tower is lie by an Egyptian pyramid with a flamelike finial.Inside the spectacular marble ve stibule sits a massive bronze of George Washington in full Masonic regalia, on with the actual trowel he use to lay the cornerstone of the Capitol Building. Above the foyer, golf club different levels bear names like the Grotto, the Crypt Room, and the Knights Templar Chapel. Among the treasures housed within these spaces are over cardinal thousand volumes of Masonic writings, a eye-popping replica of the Ark of the Covenant, and even a musical scale model of the throne room in King Solomons Temple.CIA agent Simkins checked his watch as the modified UH-60 chopper plane in low over the Potomac. sise minutes until their mark 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 cogent as any building on the National Mall. Simkins had never been inside the memorial, and tonight would be no different. If all went gibe to plan, Robert Langdon and Katherine Solomon would never make it ou t 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 radical of Shuters Hill.Pedestrians looked up in surprise as Simkins and his team piled out, specked across the street, and ran down into King Street Station. In the stairwell, several departing passengers leaped out of the way, plastering themselves to the walls as the host of armed men in black thundered past them.The King Street Station was larger than Simkins had anticipated, apparently serving 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, southbound political platform Simkins shouted. Get down there and clear everyone out His team dashed off.Simkins rushed over to the ticket booth, flashed his identification, and shouted to the woman inside. The next pr oduce from Metro Centerwhat time is it callable?The woman inside looked frightened. Im not sure. Blue Line arrives every eleven minutes. Theres no set schedule.How long since the last twine?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 fluorescent lights overhead cause to be perceived her eyes, and she fought the impulse to let her eyelids close, even for a second. Langdon sat beside her in the empty car, sodding(a) blankly down at the leather bag at his feet. His eyelids looked heavy, too, as if the cadent 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 someway did reveal the hiding place of ancient secrets, Katherine found it hard to believe that its promise of primeval mystical wisdom would reside the CIA.Then again, she reminded herself, the CIA had been caught several times running parapsychological or psi programs that touch on ancient magic and mysticism. In 1995, the Stargate/Scannate scandal had exposed a classified ad CIA engineering science called remote viewinga kind of telepathic mind travel that enabled a viewer to transport 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 anythi ng in Kalorama Heights, but she and Langdon were phoneless now, and making skin senses with the authorities would probably be a mistake anyway there was no telling how far Satos reach extended.Patience, Katherine. within minutes, they would be in a safe hiding place, guests of a man who had advised them he could provide answers. Katherine hoped his answers, whatever they might be, would help her save her brother.Robert? she whispered, glancing up at the subway map. Next stop is ours.Langdon emerged easily from his daydream. Right, thanks. As the train rumbled toward the station, he peaceful his daybag and gave Katherine an uncertain glance. Lets just hope our stretch is uneventful.By the time Turner Simkins dashed down to nub his men, the subway platform had been entirely cleared, and his team was fanning out, taking up positions croupe the support pillars that ran the length of the platform. A distant rumble echoed in the turn over 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 theater director who opens the doors. Find him.The trains headlamp now appeared down the tunnel, and the sound of squealing brakes pierced the air. As the train burst into the station and began slowing 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 ending fast. In the third car, Simkins finally saw the galvanize face of the conductor, who was apparently trying to figure 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 freshman car?The conductor nodded. Looking fearful, he stepped out of the train, 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 destitute 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 towa rd the back of the smashed 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 secret code 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 alternative 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 ceremonial 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 intermediate car had only one passengera Chinese man. Simkins and his agents moved through, see for any place to hide. There was none. at long last car, Simkins said, raising his weapon as the terzetto moved toward the thresh old of the trains final section. As they stepped into the last car, all three of them promptly 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?