Angels & Demons - Страница 2

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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.

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.