The pilot seemed to sense Langdon’s anxiety. "Flying’s not a problem for you, is it, sir?"
"Not at all," Langdon replied. Branded corpses are a problem for me. Flying I can handle.
The man led Langdon the length of the hangar. They rounded the corner onto the runway.
Langdon stopped dead in his tracks and gaped at the aircraft parked on the tarmac. "We’re riding in that?"
The man grinned. "Like it?"
Langdon stared a long moment. "Like it? What the hell is it?"
The craft before them was enormous. It was vaguely reminiscent of the space shuttle except that the top had been shaved off, leaving it perfectly flat. Parked there on the runway, it resembled a colossal wedge. Langdon’s first impression was that he must be dreaming. The vehicle looked as airworthy as a Buick. The wings were practically nonexistent—just two stubby fins on the rear of the fuselage. A pair of dorsal guiders rose out of the aft section. The rest of the plane was hull—about 200 feet from front to back—no windows, nothing but hull.
"Two hundred fifty thousand kilos fully fueled," the pilot offered, like a father bragging about his newborn. "Runs on slush hydrogen. The shell’s a titanium matrix with silicon carbide fibers. She packs a 20:1 thrust/weight ratio; most jets run at 7:1. The director must be in one helluva a hurry to see you. He doesn’t usually send the big boy."
"This thing flies?" Langdon said.
The pilot smiled. "Oh yeah." He led Langdon across the tarmac toward the plane. "Looks kind of startling, I know, but you better get used to it. In five years, all you’ll see are these babies—HSCT’s—High Speed Civil Transports. Our lab’s one of the first to own one."
Must be one hell of a lab, Langdon thought.
"This one’s a prototype of the Boeing X-33," the pilot continued, "but there are dozens of others—the National Aero Space Plane, the Russians have Scramjet, the Brits have HOTOL. The future’s here, it’s just taking some time to get to the public sector. You can kiss conventional jets good-bye."
Langdon looked up warily at the craft. "I think I’d prefer a conventional jet."
The pilot motioned up the gangplank. "This way, please, Mr. Langdon. Watch your step."
Minutes later, Langdon was seated inside the empty cabin. The pilot buckled him into the front row and disappeared toward the front of the aircraft.
The cabin itself looked surprisingly like a wide-body commercial airliner. The only exception was that it had no windows, which made Langdon uneasy. He had been haunted his whole life by a mild case of claustrophobia—the vestige of a childhood incident he had never quite overcome.
Langdon’s aversion to closed spaces was by no means debilitating, but it had always frustrated him. It manifested itself in subtle ways. He avoided enclosed sports like racquetball or squash, and he had gladly paid a small fortune for his airy, high-ceilinged Victorian home even though economical faculty housing was readily available. Langdon had often suspected his attraction to the art world as a young boy sprang from his love of museums’ wide open spaces.
The engines roared to life beneath him, sending a deep shudder through the hull. Langdon swallowed hard and waited. He felt the plane start taxiing. Piped-in country music began playing quietly overhead.
A phone on the wall beside him beeped twice. Langdon lifted the receiver.
"Hello?"
"Comfortable, Mr. Langdon?"
"Not at all."
"Just relax. We’ll be there in an hour."
"And where exactly is there?" Langdon asked, realizing he had no idea where he was headed.
"Geneva," the pilot replied, revving the engines. "The lab’s in Geneva."
"Geneva," Langdon repeated, feeling a little better. "Upstate New York. I’ve actually got family near Seneca Lake. I wasn’t aware Geneva had a physics lab."
The pilot laughed. "Not Geneva, New York, Mr. Langdon. Geneva, Switzerland."
The word took a long moment to register. "Switzerland?" Langdon felt his pulse surge. "I thought you said the lab was only an hour away!"
"It is, Mr. Langdon." The pilot chuckled. "This plane goes Mach fifteen."
5
On a busy European street, the killer serpentined through a crowd. He was a powerful man. Dark and potent. Deceptively agile. His muscles still felt hard from the thrill of his meeting.
It went well, he told himself. Although his employer had never revealed his face, the killer felt honored to be in his presence. Had it really been only fifteen days since his employer had first made contact? The killer still remembered every word of that call…
"My name is Janus," the caller had said. "We are kinsmen of a sort. We share an enemy. I hear your skills are for hire."
"It depends whom you represent," the killer replied.
The caller told him.
"Is this your idea of a joke?"
"You have heard our name, I see," the caller replied.
"Of course. The brotherhood is legendary."
"And yet you find yourself doubting I am genuine."
"Everyone knows the brothers have faded to dust."
"A devious ploy. The most dangerous enemy is that which no one fears."
The killer was skeptical. "The brotherhood endures?"
"Deeper underground than ever before. Our roots infiltrate everything you see… even the sacred fortress of our most sworn enemy."
"Impossible. They are invulnerable."
"Our reach is far."
"No one’s reach is that far."
"Very soon, you will believe. An irrefutable demonstration of the brotherhood’s power has already transpired. A single act of treachery and proof."
"What have you done?"
The caller told him.
The killer’s eyes went wide. "An impossible task."
The next day, newspapers around the globe carried the same headline. The killer became a believer.
Now, fifteen days later, the killer’s faith had solidified beyond the shadow of a doubt. The brotherhood endures, he thought. Tonight they will surface to reveal their power.
As he made his way through the streets, his black eyes gleamed with foreboding. One of the most covert and feared fraternities ever to walk the earth had called on him for service. They have chosen wisely, he thought. His reputation for secrecy was exceeded only by that of his deadliness.
So far, he had served them nobly. He had made his kill and delivered the item to Janus as requested. Now, it was up to Janus to use his power to ensure the item’s placement.
The placement…
The killer wondered how Janus could possibly handle such a staggering task. The man obviously had connections on the inside. The brotherhood’s dominion seemed limitless.
Janus, the killer thought. A code name, obviously. Was it a reference, he wondered, to the Roman two-faced god… or to the moon of Saturn? Not that it made any difference. Janus wielded unfathomable power. He had proven that beyond a doubt.
As the killer walked, he imagined his ancestors smiling down on him. Today he was fighting their battle, he was fighting the same enemy they had fought for ages, as far back as the eleventh century… when the enemy’s crusading armies had first pillaged his land, raping and killing his people, declaring them unclean, defiling their temples and gods.
His ancestors had formed a small but deadly army to defend themselves. The army became famous across the land as protectors—skilled executioners who wandered the countryside slaughtering any of the enemy they could find. They were renowned not only for their brutal killings, but also for celebrating their slayings by plunging themselves into drug-induced stupors. Their drug of choice was a potent intoxicant they called hashish.