As Langdon sat on his brass Maharishi’s chest and savored the warmth of the chocolate, the bay window caught his reflection. The image was distorted and pale… like a ghost. An aging ghost, he thought, cruelly reminded that his youthful spirit was living in a mortal shell.
Although not overly handsome in a classical sense, the forty-five-year-old Langdon had what his female colleagues referred to as an "erudite" appeal—wisps of gray in his thick brown hair, probing blue eyes, an arrestingly deep voice, and the strong, carefree smile of a collegiate athlete. A varsity diver in prep school and college, Langdon still had the body of a swimmer, a toned, six-foot physique that he vigilantly maintained with fifty laps a day in the university pool.
Langdon’s friends had always viewed him as a bit of an enigma—a man caught between centuries. On weekends he could be seen lounging on the quad in blue jeans, discussing computer graphics or religious history with students; other times he could be spotted in his Harris tweed and paisley vest, photographed in the pages of upscale art magazines at museum openings where he had been asked to lecture.
Although a tough teacher and strict disciplinarian, Langdon was the first to embrace what he hailed as the "lost art of good clean fun." He relished recreation with an infectious fanaticism that had earned him a fraternal acceptance among his students. His campus nickname—"The Dolphin"—was a reference both to his affable nature and his legendary ability to dive into a pool and outmaneuver the entire opposing squad in a water polo match.
As Langdon sat alone, absently gazing into the darkness, the silence of his home was shattered again, this time by the ring of his fax machine. Too exhausted to be annoyed, Langdon forced a tired chuckle.
God’s people, he thought. Two thousand years of waiting for their Messiah, and they’re still persistent as hell.
Wearily, he returned his empty mug to the kitchen and walked slowly to his oak-paneled study. The incoming fax lay in the tray. Sighing, he scooped up the paper and looked at it.
Instantly, a wave of nausea hit him.
The image on the page was that of a human corpse. The body had been stripped naked, and its head had been twisted, facing completely backward. On the victim’s chest was a terrible burn. The man had been branded… imprinted with a single word. It was a word Langdon knew well. Very well. He stared at the ornate lettering in disbelief.
"Illuminati," he stammered, his heart pounding. It can’t be…
In slow motion, afraid of what he was about to witness, Langdon rotated the fax 180 degrees. He looked at the word upside down.
Instantly, the breath went out of him. It was like he had been hit by a truck. Barely able to believe his eyes, he rotated the fax again, reading the brand right-side up and then upside down.
"Illuminati," he whispered.
Stunned, Langdon collapsed in a chair. He sat a moment in utter bewilderment. Gradually, his eyes were drawn to the blinking red light on his fax machine. Whoever had sent this fax was still on the line… waiting to talk. Langdon gazed at the blinking light a long time.
Then, trembling, he picked up the receiver.
2
"Do I have your attention now?" the man’s voice said when Langdon finally answered the line.
"Yes, sir, you damn well do. You want to explain yourself?"
"I tried to tell you before." The voice was rigid, mechanical. "I’m a physicist. I run a research facility. We’ve had a murder. You saw the body."
"How did you find me?" Langdon could barely focus. His mind was racing from the image on the fax.
"I already told you. The Worldwide Web. The site for your book, The Art of the Illuminati."
Langdon tried to gather his thoughts. His book was virtually unknown in mainstream literary circles, but it had developed quite a following on-line. Nonetheless, the caller’s claim still made no sense. "That page has no contact information," Langdon challenged. "I’m certain of it."
"I have people here at the lab very adept at extracting user information from the Web."
Langdon was skeptical. "Sounds like your lab knows a lot about the Web."
"We should," the man fired back. "We invented it."
Something in the man’s voice told Langdon he was not joking.
"I must see you," the caller insisted. "This is not a matter we can discuss on the phone. My lab is only an hour’s flight from Boston."
Langdon stood in the dim light of his study and analyzed the fax in his hand. The image was overpowering, possibly representing the epigraphical find of the century, a decade of his research confirmed in a single symbol.
"It’s urgent," the voice pressured.
Langdon’s eyes were locked on the brand. Illuminati, he read over and over. His work had always been based on the symbolic equivalent of fossils—ancient documents and historical hearsay—but this image before him was today. Present tense. He felt like a paleontologist coming face to face with a living dinosaur.
"I’ve taken the liberty of sending a plane for you," the voice said. "It will be in Boston in twenty minutes."
Langdon felt his mouth go dry. An hour’s flight…
"Please forgive my presumption," the voice said. "I need you here."
Langdon looked again at the fax—an ancient myth confirmed in black and white. The implications were frightening. He gazed absently through the bay window. The first hint of dawn was sifting through the birch trees in his backyard, but the view looked somehow different this morning. As an odd combination of fear and exhilaration settled over him, Langdon knew he had no choice.
"You win," he said. "Tell me where to meet the plane."
3
Thousands of miles away, two men were meeting. The chamber was dark. Medieval. Stone.
"Benvenuto," the man in charge said. He was seated in the shadows, out of sight. "Were you successful?"
"Si," the dark figure replied. "Perfectamente." His words were as hard as the rock walls.
"And there will be no doubt who is responsible?"
"None."
"Superb. Do you have what I asked for?"
The killer’s eyes glistened, black like oil. He produced a heavy electronic device and set it on the table.
The man in the shadows seemed pleased. "You have done well."
"Serving the brotherhood is an honor," the killer said.
"Phase two begins shortly. Get some rest. Tonight we change the world."
4
Robert Langdon’s Saab 900S tore out of the Callahan Tunnel and emerged on the east side of Boston Harbor near the entrance to Logan Airport. Checking his directions Langdon found Aviation Road and turned left past the old Eastern Airlines Building. Three hundred yards down the access road a hangar loomed in the darkness. A large number 4 was painted on it. He pulled into the parking lot and got out of his car.
A round-faced man in a blue flight suit emerged from behind the building. "Robert Langdon?" he called. The man’s voice was friendly. He had an accent Langdon couldn’t place.
"That’s me," Langdon said, locking his car.
"Perfect timing," the man said. "I’ve just landed. Follow me, please."
As they circled the building, Langdon felt tense. He was not accustomed to cryptic phone calls and secret rendezvous with strangers. Not knowing what to expect he had donned his usual classroom attire—a pair of chinos, a turtleneck, and a Harris tweed suit jacket. As they walked, he thought about the fax in his jacket pocket, still unable to believe the image it depicted.