The Lost Symbol

“Mine, too.” He pulled up a diagnostic probe and launched it. “And what’s so interesting about this IP?”

“I ran a delegator that tapped a search engine at this IP and pulled a redacted document. I need to see the rest of the document. I’m happy to pay them for it, but I can’t figure out who owns the IP or how to access it.”

Zoubianis frowned at his screen. “Are you sure about this? I’m running a diagnostic, and this firewall coding looks. pretty serious.”

“That’s why you get the big bucks.”

Zoubianis considered it. They’d offered him a fortune for a job this easy. “One question, Trish. Why are you so hot on this?”

Trish paused. “I’m doing a favor for a friend.”

“Must be a special friend.”

“She is.”

Zoubianis chuckled and held his tongue. I knew it.

“Look,” Trish said, sounding impatient. “Are you good enough to unmask this IP? Yes or no?”

“Yes, I’m good enough. And yes, I know you’re playing me like a fiddle.”

“How long will it take you?”

“Not long,” he said, typing as he spoke. “I should be able to get into a machine on their network within ten minutes or so. Once I’m in and know what I’m looking at, I’ll call you back.”

“I appreciate it. So, are you doing well?”

Now she asks? “Trish, for God’s sake, you called me on the night of a play-off game and now you want to chat? Do you want me to hack this IP or not?”

“Thanks, Mark. I appreciate it. I’ll be waiting for your call.”

“Fifteen minutes.” Zoubianis hung up, grabbed his bowl of Pirate’s Booty, and unmuted the game.

Women.

CHAPTER 28

Where arethey taking me?

As Langdon hurried with Anderson and Sato into the depths of the Capitol, he felt his heart rate increasing with each downward step. They had begun their journey through the west portico of the Rotunda, descending a marble staircase and then doubling back through a wide doorway into the famous chamber directly beneath the Rotunda floor.

The Capitol Crypt.

The air was heavier here, and Langdon was already feeling claustrophobic. The crypt’s low ceiling and soft uplighting accentuated the robust girth of the forty Doric columns required to support the vast stone floor directly overhead. Relax, Robert.

“This way,” Anderson said, moving quickly as he angled to the left across the wide circular space.

Thankfully, this particular crypt contained no bodies. Instead it contained several statues, a model of the Capitol, and a low storage area for the wooden catafalque on which coffins were laid for state funerals. The entourage hurried through, without even a glance at the four-pointed marble compass in the center of the floor where the Eternal Flame had once burned.

Anderson seemed to be in a hurry, and Sato once again had her head buried in her BlackBerry. Cellular service, Langdon had heard, was boosted and broadcast to all corners of the Capitol Building to support the hundreds of government phone calls that took place here every day.

After diagonally crossing the crypt, the group entered a dimly lit foyer and began winding through a convoluted series of hallways and dead ends. The warren of passages contained numbered doorways, each of which bore an identification number. Langdon read the doors as they snaked their way around.

S154. S153. S152.

He had no idea what lay behind these doors, but at least one thing now seemed clear — the meaning of the tattoo on Peter Solomon’s palm.

SBB13 appeared to be a numbered doorway somewhere in the bowels of the U.S. Capitol Building.

“What are all these doorways?” Langdon asked, clutching his daybag tightly to his ribs and wondering what Solomon’s tiny package could possibly have to do with a door marked SBB13.

“Offices and storage,” Anderson said. “Private offices and storage,” he added, glancing back at Sato.

Sato did not even glance up from her BlackBerry.

“They look tiny,” Langdon said.

“Glorified closets, most of them, but they’re still some of the most sought-after real estate in D.C. This is the heart of the original Capitol, and the old Senate chamber is two stories above us.”

“And SBB Thirteen?” Langdon asked. “Whose office is that?”

“Nobody’s. The SBB is a private storage area, and I must say, I’m puzzled how —”

“Chief Anderson,” Sato interrupted without looking up from her BlackBerry. “Just take us there, please.”

Anderson clenched his jaw and guided them on in silence through what was now feeling like a hybrid self-storage facility and epic labyrinth. On almost every wall, directional signs pointed back and forth, apparently attempting to locate specific office blocks in this network of hallways.

S142 to S152.

ST1 to ST70.

H1 to H166 & HT1 to HT67.