Prologue
House of the Temple
8:33 P.M.
 

The secret is how to die.

Since the beginning of time, the secret had always been how to
die.

The thirty-four-year-old initiate gazed down at the human skull
cradled in his palms. The skull was hollow, like a bowl, filled
with bloodred wine.

Drink it, he told himself. You have nothing to
fear.

 

As was tradition, he had begun this journey adorned in the
ritualistic garb of a medieval heretic being led to the gallows,
his loose-fitting shirt gaping open to reveal his pale chest, his
left pant leg rolled up to the knee, and his right sleeve rolled up
to the elbow. Around his neck hung a heavy rope noose --- a
"cable-tow" as the brethren called it. Tonight, however, like the
brethren bearing witness, he was dressed as a master.

The assembly of brothers encircling him all were adorned in
their full regalia of lambskin aprons, sashes, and white gloves.
Around their necks hung ceremonial jewels that glistened like
ghostly eyes in the muted light. Many of these men held powerful
stations in life, and yet the initiate knew their worldly ranks
meant nothing within these walls. Here all men were equals, sworn
brothers sharing a mystical bond.

As he surveyed the daunting assembly, the initiate wondered who
on the outside would ever believe that this collection of men would
assemble in one place . . . much less this place. The room
looked like a holy sanctuary from the ancient world.

The truth, however, was stranger still.

I am just blocks away from the White House.

This colossal edifice, located at 1733 Sixteenth Street NW in
Washington, D.C., was a replica of a pre-Christian temple --- the
temple of King Mausolus, the original mausoleum . . . a
place to be taken after death. Outside the main entrance, two
seventeen-ton sphinxes guarded the bronze doors. The interior was
an ornate labyrinth of ritualistic chambers, halls, sealed vaults,
libraries, and even a hollow wall that held the remains of two
human bodies. The initiate had been told every room in this
building held a secret, and yet he knew no room held deeper secrets
than the gigantic chamber in which he was currently kneeling with a
skull cradled in his palms.

The Temple Room.

This room was a perfect square. And cavernous. The ceiling
soared an astonishing one hundred feet overhead, supported by
monolithic columns of green granite. A tiered gallery of dark
Russian walnut seats with hand-tooled pigskin encircled the room. A
thirty-three-foot-tall throne dominated the western wall, with a
concealed pipe organ opposite it. The walls were a kaleidoscope of
ancient symbols . . . Egyptian, Hebraic, astronomical, alchemical,
and others yet unknown.

Tonight, the Temple Room was lit by a series of precisely
arranged candles. Their dim glow was aided only by a pale shaft of
moonlight that filtered down through the expansive oculus in the
ceiling and illuminated the room's most startling feature --- an
enormous altar hewn from a solid block of polished Belgian black
marble, situated dead center of the square chamber.

The secret is how to die, the initiate reminded
himself.

"It is time," a voice whispered.

The initiate let his gaze climb the distinguished white-robed
figure standing before him. The Supreme Worshipful Master.
The man, in his late fifties, was an American icon, well loved,
robust, and incalculably wealthy. His once-dark hair was turning
silver, and his famous visage reflected a lifetime of power and a
vigorous intellect.

"Take the oath," the Worshipful Master said, his voice soft like
falling snow. "Complete your journey."

The initiate's journey, like all such journeys, had begun at the
first degree. On that night, in a ritual similar to this one, the
Worshipful Master had blindfolded him with a velvet hoodwink and
pressed a ceremonial dagger to his bare chest, demanding: "Do you
seriously declare on your honor, uninfluenced by mercenary or any
other unworthy motive, that you freely and voluntarily offer
yourself as a candidate for the mysteries and privileges of this
brotherhood?"

"I do," the initiate had lied.

"Then let this be a sting to your consciousness," the master had
warned him, "as well as instant death should you ever betray the
secrets to be imparted to you."

At the time, the initiate had felt no fear. They will never
know my true purpose here.

Tonight, however, he sensed a foreboding solemnity in the Temple
Room, and his mind began replaying all the dire warnings he had
been given on his journey, threats of terrible consequences if he
ever shared the ancient secrets he was about to learn: Throat
cut from ear to ear . . . tongue torn out by its roots . . . bowels
taken out and burned . . . scattered to the four winds of heaven .
. . heart plucked out and given to the beasts of the field
---

"Brother," the gray-eyed master said, placing his left hand on
the initiate's shoulder. "Take the final oath."

Steeling himself for the last step of his journey, the initiate
shifted his muscular frame and turned his attention back to the
skull cradled in his palms. The crimson wine looked almost black in
the dim candlelight. The chamber had fallen deathly silent, and he
could feel all of the witnesses watching him, waiting for him to
take his final oath and join their elite ranks.

Tonight, he thought, something is taking place
within these walls that has never before occurred in the history of
this brotherhood. Not once, in centuries.

He knew it would be the spark . . . and it would give him
unfathomable power. Energized, he drew a breath and spoke aloud the
same words that countless men had spoken before him in countries
all over the world.

"May this wine I now drink become a deadly poison to me . .
. should I ever knowingly or willfully violate my oath."

His words echoed in the hollow space.

Then all was quiet.

Steadying his hands, the initiate raised the skull to his mouth
and felt his lips touch the dry bone. He closed his eyes and tipped
the skull toward his mouth, drinking the wine in long, deep
swallows. When the last drop was gone, he lowered the skull.

For an instant, he thought he felt his lungs growing tight, and
his heart began to pound wildly. My God, they know! Then,
as quickly as it came, the feeling passed.

A pleasant warmth began to stream through his body. The initiate
exhaled, smiling inwardly as he gazed up at the unsuspecting
gray-eyed man who had foolishly admitted him into this
brotherhood's most secretive ranks.

Soon you will lose everything you hold most dear.

Chapter 1

The Otis elevator climbing the south pillar of the Eiffel Tower
was overflowing with tourists. Inside the cramped lift, an austere
businessman in a pressed suit gazed down at the boy beside him.
"You look pale, son. You should have stayed on the ground."

"I'm okay . . ." the boy answered, struggling to control his
anxiety. "I'll get out on the next level." I can't
breathe.

The man leaned closer. "I thought by now you would have gotten
over this." He brushed the child's cheek affectionately.

The boy felt ashamed to disappoint his father, but he could
barely hear through the ringing in his ears. I can't breathe.
I've got to get out of this box!

The elevator operator was saying something reassuring about the
lift's articulated pistons and puddled-iron construction. Far
beneath them, the streets of Paris stretched out in all
directions.

Almost there, the boy told himself, craning his neck
and looking up at the unloading platform. Just hold
on.

As the lift angled steeply toward the upper viewing deck, the
shaft began to narrow, its massive struts contracting into a tight,
vertical tunnel.

"Dad, I don't think --- "

Suddenly a staccato crack echoed overhead. The carriage jerked,
swaying awkwardly to one side. Frayed cables began whipping around
the carriage, thrashing like snakes. The boy reached out for his
father.

"Dad!"

Their eyes locked for one terrifying second.

Then the bottom dropped out.

Robert Langdon jolted upright in his soft leather seat,
startling out of the semiconscious daydream. He was sitting all
alone in the enormous cabin of a Falcon 2000EX corporate jet as it
bounced its way through turbulence. In the background, the dual
Pratt & Whitney engines hummed evenly.

"Mr. Langdon?" The intercom crackled overhead. "We're on final
approach."

Langdon sat up straight and slid his lecture notes back into his
leather daybag. He'd been halfway through reviewing Masonic
symbology when his mind had drifted. The daydream about his late
father, Langdon suspected, had been stirred by this morning's
unexpected invitation from Langdon's longtime mentor, Peter
Solomon.

The other man I never want to disappoint.

The fifty-eight-year-old philanthropist, historian, and
scientist had taken Langdon under his wing nearly thirty years ago,
in many ways filling the void left by Langdon's father's death.
Despite the man's influential family dynasty and massive wealth,
Langdon had found humility and warmth in Solomon's soft gray
eyes.

Outside the window the sun had set, but Langdon could still make
out the slender silhouette of the world's largest obelisk, rising
on the horizon like the spire of an ancient gnomon. The 555-foot
marble-faced obelisk marked this nation's heart. All around the
spire, the meticulous geometry of streets and monuments radiated
outward.

Even from the air, Washington, D.C., exuded an almost mystical
power.

Langdon loved this city, and as the jet touched down, he felt a
rising excitement about what lay ahead. The jet taxied to a private
terminal somewhere in the vast expanse of Dulles International
Airport and came to a stop.

Langdon gathered his things, thanked the pilots, and stepped out
of the jet's luxurious interior onto the foldout staircase. The
cold January air felt liberating.

Breathe, Robert, he thought, appreciating the wide-open
spaces.

A blanket of white fog crept across the runway, and Langdon had
the sensation he was stepping into a marsh as he descended onto the
misty tarmac.

"Hello! Hello!" a singsong British voice shouted from across the
tarmac. "Professor Langdon?"

Langdon looked up to see a middle-aged woman with a badge and
clipboard hurrying toward him, waving happily as he approached.
Curly blond hair protruded from under a stylish knit wool hat.

"Welcome to Washington, sir!"

Langdon smiled. "Thank you."

"My name is Pam, from passenger services." The woman spoke with
an exuberance that was almost unsettling. "If you'll come with me,
sir, your car is waiting."

Langdon followed her across the runway toward the Signature
terminal, which was surrounded by glistening private jets. A
taxi stand for the rich and famous.

"I hate to embarrass you, Professor," the woman said, sounding
sheepish, "but you are the Robert Langdon who writes books
about symbols and religion, aren't you?"

Langdon hesitated and then nodded.

"I thought so!" she said, beaming. "My book group read your book
about the sacred feminine and the church! What a delicious scandal
that one caused! You do enjoy putting the fox in the henhouse!"

Langdon smiled. "Scandal wasn't really my intention."

The woman seemed to sense Langdon was not in the mood to discuss
his work. "I'm sorry. Listen to me rattling on. I know you probably
get tired of being recognized . . . but it's your own fault." She
playfully motioned to his clothing. "Your uniform gave you
away."


My uniform?
Langdon glanced down at his attire. He was wearing
his usual charcoal turtleneck, Harris Tweed jacket, khakis, and
collegiate cordovan loafers . . . his standard attire for the
classroom, lecture circuit, author photos, and social events.

The woman laughed. "Those turtlenecks you wear are so dated.
You'd look much sharper in a tie!"


No chance,
Langdon thought. Little
nooses.



Neckties had been required six days a week when Langdon attended
Phillips Exeter Academy, and despite the headmaster's romantic
claims that the origin of the cravat went back to the silk
fascalia worn by Roman orators to warm their vocal cords,
Langdon knew that, etymologically, cravat actually derived
from a ruthless band of "Croat" mercenaries who donned knotted
neckerchiefs before they stormed into battle. To this day, this
ancient battle garb was donned by modern office warriors hoping to
intimidate their enemies in daily boardroom battles.

"Thanks for the advice," Langdon said with a chuckle. "I'll
consider a tie in the future."

Mercifully, a professional-looking man in a dark suit got out of
a sleek Lincoln Town Car parked near the terminal and held up his
finger. "Mr. Langdon? I'm Charles with Beltway Limousine." He
opened the 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.

Excerpted from THE LOST SYMBOL © Copyright 2011 by Dan
Brown. Reprinted with permission by Anchor. All rights
reserved.