Page 6 of The Lost Symbol

Langdon did a double take. “Me?” This was not at all what he had expected. “I’m sure Peter could find a far better substitute.”

“You’re Mr. Solomon’s first choice, Professor, and you’re being much too modest. The institution’s guests would be thrilled to hear from you, and Mr. Solomon thought you could give the same lecture you gave on Bookspan TV a few years back? That way, you wouldn’t have to prepare a thing. He said your talk involved symbolism in the architecture of our nation’s capital—it sounds absolutely perfect for the venue.”

Langdon was not so sure. “If I recall, that lecture had more to do with the Masonic history of the building than—”

“Exactly! As you know, Mr. Solomon is a Mason, as are many of his professional friends who will be in attendance. I’m sure they would love to hear you speak on the topic.”

I admit it would be easy. Langdon had kept the lecture notes from every talk he’d ever given. “I suppose I could consider it. What date is the event?”

The assistant cleared his throat, sounding suddenly uncomfortable. “Well, actually, sir, it’s tonight.”

Langdon laughed out loud. “Tonight?!”

“That’s why it’s so hectic here this morning. The Smithsonian is in a deeply embarrassing predicament . . .” The assistant spoke more hurriedly now. “Mr. Solomon is ready to send a private jet to Boston for you. The flight is only an hour, and you would be back home before midnight. You’re familiar with the private air terminal at Boston’s Logan Airport?”

“I am,” Langdon admitted reluctantly. No wonder Peter always gets his way.

“Wonderful! Would you be willing to meet the jet there at say . . . five o’clock?”

“You haven’t left me much choice, have you?” Langdon chuckled.

“I just want to make Mr. Solomon happy, sir.”

Peter has that effect on people. Langdon considered it a long moment, seeing no way out. “All right. Tell him I can do it.”

“Outstanding!” the assistant exclaimed, sounding deeply relieved. He gave Langdon the jet’s tail number and various other information.

When Langdon finally hung up, he wondered if Peter Solomon had ever been told no.

Returning to his coffee preparation, Langdon scooped some additional beans into the grinder. A little extra caffeine this morning, he thought. It’s going to be a long day.

CHAPTER 4

The U.S. Capitol Building stands regally at the eastern end of the National Mall, on a raised plateau that city designer Pierre L’Enfant described as “a pedestal waiting for a monument.” The Capitol’s massive footprint measures more than 750 feet in length and 350 feet deep. Housing more than sixteen acres of floor space, it contains an astonishing 541 rooms. The neoclassical architecture is meticulously designed to echo the grandeur of ancient Rome, whose ideals were the inspiration for America’s founders in establishing the laws and culture of the new republic.

The new security checkpoint for tourists entering the Capitol Building is located deep within the recently completed subterranean visitor center, beneath a magnificent glass skylight that frames the Capitol Dome. Newly hired security guard Alfonso Nuñez carefully studied the male visitor now approaching his checkpoint. The man had a shaved head and had been lingering in the lobby, completing a phone call before entering the building. His right arm was in a sling, and he moved with a slight limp. He was wearing a tattered army-navy surplus coat, which, combined with his shaved head, made Nuñez guess military. Those who had served in the U.S. armed forces were among the most common visitors to Washington.

“Good evening, sir,” Nuñez said, following the security protocol of verbally engaging any male visitor who entered alone.

“Hello,” the visitor said, glancing around at the nearly deserted entry. “Quiet night.”

“NFC play-offs,” Nuñez replied. “Everyone’s watching the Redskins tonight.” Nuñez wished he were, too, but this was his first month on the job, and he’d drawn the short straw. “Metal objects in the dish, please.”

As the visitor fumbled to empty the pockets of his long coat with his one working hand, Nuñez watched him carefully. Human instinct made special allowances for the injured and handicapped, but it was an instinct Nuñez had been trained to override.

Nuñez waited while the visitor removed from his pockets the usual assortment of loose change, keys, and a couple of cell phones. “Sprain?” Nuñez asked, eyeing the man’s injured hand, which appeared to be wrapped in a series of thick Ace bandages.

The bald man nodded. “Slipped on the ice. A week ago. Still hurts like hell.”

“Sorry to hear that. Walk through, please.”

The visitor limped through the detector, and the machine buzzed in protest.

The visitor frowned. “I was afraid of that. I’m wearing a ring under these bandages. My finger was too swollen to get it off, so the doctors wrapped right over it.”

“No problem,” Nuñez said. “I’ll use the wand.”

Nuñez ran the metal-detection wand over the visitor’s wrapped hand. As expected, the only metal he detected was a large lump on the man’s injured ring finger. Nuñez took his time rubbing the metal detector over every inch of the man’s sling and finger. He knew his supervisor was probably monitoring him on the closed circuit in the building’s security center, and Nuñez needed this job. Always better to be cautious. He carefully slid the wand up inside the man’s sling.