CHAPTER 1
Robert Langdon awoke slowly.
A telephone was ringing in the darkness—a tinny, unfamiliar ring. He
fumbled
for the bedside lamp and turned it on. Squinting at his surroundings he
saw a
plush Renaissance bedroom with Louis XVI furniture, hand-frescoed
walls, and a
colossal mahogany four-poster bed.
Where the hell am I?
The jacquard bathrobe hanging on his bedpost bore the monogram: HOTEL
RITZ
PARIS.
Slowly, the fog began to lift.
Langdon picked up the receiver. "Hello?"
"Monsieur Langdon?" a man's voice said. "I hope I have not awoken you?"
Dazed, Langdon looked at the bedside clock. It was 12:32 A.M. He had
been
asleep only an hour, but he felt like the dead.
"This is the concierge, monsieur. I apologize for this intrusion, but
you have
a visitor. He insists it is urgent."
Langdon still felt fuzzy. A visitor? His eyes focused now on a crumpled
flyer
on his bedside table.
THE AMERICAN UNIVERSITY OF PARIS
proudly presents
AN EVENING WITH ROBERT LANGDON
PROFESSOR OF RELIGIOUS SYMBOLOGY,
HARVARD UNIVERSITY
Langdon groaned. Tonight's lecture—a slide show about pagan symbolism
hidden
in the stones of Chartres Cathedral—had probably ruffled some
conservative
feathers in the audience. Most likely, some religious scholar had
trailed him
home to pick a fight.
"I'm sorry," Langdon said, "but I'm very tired and—"
"Mais, monsieur," the concierge pressed, lowering his voice to an
urgent
whisper. "Your guest is an important man."
Langdon had little doubt. His books on religious paintings and cult
symbology
had made him a reluctant celebrity in the art world, and last year
Langdon's
visibility had increased a hundredfold after his involvement in a
widely
publicized incident at the Vatican. Since then, the stream of
self-important
historians and art buffs arriving at his door had seemed never-ending.
"If you would be so kind," Langdon said, doing his best to remain
polite, "could you take the man's name and number, and tell him I'll
try to
call him before I leave Paris on Tuesday? Thank you." He hung up before
the
concierge could protest.
Sitting up now, Langdon frowned at his bedside Guest Relations
Handbook, whose
cover boasted: SLEEP LIKE A BABY IN THE CITY OF LIGHTS. SLUMBER AT THE
PARIS
RITZ. He turned and gazed tiredly into the full-length mirror across
the room.
The man staring back at him was a stranger—tousled and weary.
You need a vacation, Robert.
The past year had taken a heavy toll on him, but he didn't appreciate
seeing
proof in the mirror. His usually sharp blue eyes looked hazy and drawn
tonight. A dark stubble was shrouding his strong jaw and dimpled chin.
Around
his temples, the gray highlights were advancing, making their way
deeper into
his thicket of coarse black hair. Although his female colleagues
insisted the
gray only accentuated his bookish appeal, Langdon knew better.
If Boston Magazine could see me now.
Last month, much to Langdon's embarrassment, Boston Magazine had listed
him as
one of that city's top ten most intriguing people—a dubious honor that
made
him the brunt of endless ribbing by his Harvard colleagues. Tonight,
three
thousand miles from home, the accolade had resurfaced to haunt him at
the
lecture he had given.
"Ladies and gentlemen..." the hostess had announced to a full house at
the
American University of Paris's Pavilion Dauphine, "Our guest tonight
needs no
introduction. He is the author of numerous books: The Symbology of
Secret
Sects, The An of the Illuminati, The Lost Language of Ideograms, and
when I
say he wrote the book on Religious Iconology, I mean that quite
literally.
Many of you use his textbooks in class."
The students in the crowd nodded enthusiastically.
"I had planned to introduce him tonight by sharing his impressive
curriculum
vitae. However..." She glanced playfully at Langdon, who was seated
onstage. "An audience member has just handed me a far more, shall we
say...
intriguing introduction."
She held up a copy of Boston Magazine.
Langdon cringed. Where the hell did she get that?
The hostess began reading choice excerpts from the inane article, and
Langdon
felt himself sinking lower and lower in his chair. Thirty seconds
later, the
crowd was grinning, and the woman showed no signs of letting up. "And
Mr.
Langdon's refusal to speak publicly about his unusual role in last
year's
Vatican conclave certainly wins him points on our intrigue-o-meter."
The
hostess goaded the crowd. "Would you like to hear more?"
The crowd applauded.
Somebody stop her, Langdon pleaded as she dove into the article again.
"Although Professor Langdon might not be considered hunk-handsome like
some of
our younger awardees, this forty-something academic has more than his
share of
scholarly allure. His captivating presence is punctuated by an
unusually low,
baritone speaking voice, which his female students describe as
'chocolate for
the ears.' "
The hall erupted in laughter.
Langdon forced an awkward smile. He knew what came next—some ridiculous
line
about "Harrison Ford in Harris tweed"—and because this evening he had
figured
it was finally safe again to wear his Harris tweed and Burberry
turtleneck, he
decided to take action.
"Thank you, Monique," Langdon said, standing prematurely and edging her
away
from the podium. "Boston Magazine clearly has a gift for fiction." He
turned
to the audience with an embarrassed sigh. "And if I find which one of
you
provided that article, I'll have the consulate deport you."
The crowd laughed.
"Well, folks, as you all know, I'm here tonight to talk about the power
of
symbols..."
The ringing of Langdon's hotel phone once again broke the silence.
Groaning in disbelief, he picked up. "Yes?"
As expected, it was the concierge. "Mr. Langdon, again my apologies. I
am
calling to inform you that your guest is now en route to your room. I
thought
I should alert you."
Langdon was wide awake now. "You sent someone to my room?"
"I apologize, monsieur, but a man like this... I cannot presume the
authority
to stop him."
"Who exactly is he?"
But the concierge was gone.
Almost immediately, a heavy fist pounded on Langdon's door.
Uncertain, Langdon slid off the bed, feeling his toes sink deep into
the
savonniere carpet. He donned the hotel bathrobe and moved toward the
door. "Who is it?"
"Mr. Langdon? I need to speak with you." The man's English was
accented—a
sharp, authoritative bark. "My name is Lieutenant Jerome Collet.
Direction
Centrale Police Judiciaire."
Langdon paused. The Judicial Police? The DCPJ was the rough equivalent
of the
U.S. FBI.
Leaving the security chain in place, Langdon opened the door a few
inches. The
face staring back at him was thin and washed out. The man was
exceptionally
lean, dressed in an official-looking blue uniform.
"May I come in?" the agent asked.
Langdon hesitated, feeling uncertain as the stranger's sallow eyes
studied
him. "What is this all about?"
"My capitaine requires your expertise in a private matter."
"Now?" Langdon managed. "It's after midnight."
"Am I correct that you were scheduled to meet with the curator of the
Louvre
this evening?"
Langdon felt a sudden surge of uneasiness. He and the revered curator
Jacques
Saunière had been slated to meet for drinks after Langdon's lecture
tonight,
but Saunière had never shown up. "Yes. How did you know that?"
"We found your name in his daily planner."
"I trust nothing is wrong?"
The agent gave a dire sigh and slid a Polaroid snapshot through the
narrow
opening in the door.
When Langdon saw the photo, his entire body went rigid.
"This photo was taken less than an hour ago. Inside the Louvre."
As Langdon stared at the bizarre image, his initial revulsion and shock
gave
way to a sudden upwelling of anger. "Who would do this!"
"We had hoped that you might help us answer that very question,
considering
your knowledge in symbology and your plans to meet with him."
Langdon stared at the picture, his horror now laced with fear. The
image was
gruesome and profoundly strange, bringing with it an unsettling sense
of déjà
vu. A little over a year ago, Langdon had received a photograph of a
corpse
and a similar request for help. Twenty-four hours later, he had almost
lost
his life inside Vatican City. This photo was entirely different, and
yet
something about the scenario felt disquietingly familiar.
The agent checked his watch. "My capitaine is waiting, sir."
Langdon barely heard him. His eyes were still riveted on the picture.
"This
symbol here, and the way his body is so oddly..."
"Positioned?" the agent offered.
Langdon nodded, feeling a chill as he looked up. "I can't imagine who
would do
this to someone."
The agent looked grim. "You don't understand, Mr. Langdon. What you see
in
this photograph..." He paused. "Monsieur Saunière did that to himself."
hocete li jos
da ti ja nešto kažem danas je 21.09.2005 znači 2+1+9+2+5 = 19 a to ti je tajni broj njujorških špekulanata na berzi - da nisi ti jedan od njih aaa?
