08

CHAPTER 8
Robert Langdon stood frozen in the doorway of the National Statuary Hall and studied the startling scene
before him. The room was precisely as he remembered it—a balanced semicircle built in the style of a Greek
amphitheater. The graceful arched walls of sandstone and Italian plaster were punctuated by columns of
variegated breccia, interspersed with the nation’s statuary collection—life-size statues of thirty-eight great
Americans standing in a semicircle on a stark expanse of black-and-white marble tile.
It was exactly as Langdon had recalled from the lecture he had once attended here.
Except for one thing.
Tonight, the room was empty.
No chairs. No audience. No Peter Solomon. Just a handful of tourists milling around aimlessly, oblivious to
Langdon’s grand entrance. Did Peter mean the Rotunda? He peered down the south corridor toward the
Rotunda and could see tourists milling around in there, too.
The echoes of the clock chime had faded. Langdon was now officially late.
He hurried back into the hallway and found a docent. “Excuse me, the lecture for the Smithsonian event
tonight? Where is that being held?”
The docent hesitated. “I’m not sure, sir. When does it start?”
“Now!”
The man shook his head. “I don’t know about any Smithsonian event this evening—not here, at least.”
Bewildered, Langdon hurried back toward the center of the room, scanning the entire space. Is Solomon
playing some kind of joke? Langdon couldn’t imagine it. He pulled out his cell phone and the fax page from
this morning and dialed Peter’s number.
His phone took a moment to locate a signal inside the enormous building. Finally, it began to ring.
The familiar southern accent answered. “Peter Solomon’s office, this is Anthony. May I help you?”
“Anthony!” Langdon said with relief. “I’m glad you’re still there. This is Robert Langdon. There seems to be
some confusion about the lecture. I’m standing in the Statuary Hall, but there’s nobody here. Has the lecture
been moved to a different room?”
“I don’t believe so, sir. Let me check.” His assistant paused a moment. “Did you confirm with Mr. Solomon
directly?”
Langdon was confused. “No, I confirmed with you, Anthony. This morning!”
“Yes, I recall that.” There was a silence on the line. “That was a bit careless of you, don’t you think,
Professor?”
Langdon was now fully alert. “I beg your pardon?”
“Consider this . . .” the man said. “You received a fax asking you to call a number, which you did. You spoke
to a total stranger who said he was Peter Solomon’s assistant. Then you willingly boarded a private plane to
Washington and climbed into a waiting car. Is that right?”
Langdon felt a chill race through his body. “Who the hell is this? Where is Peter?”
“I’m afraid Peter Solomon has no idea you’re in Washington today.” The man’s southern accent disappeared,
and his voice morphed into a deeper, mellifluous whisper. “You are here, Mr. Langdon, because I want you
here.”
CHAPTER 9
Inside the Statuary Hall, Robert Langdon clutched his cell phone to his ear and paced in a tight circle. “Who
the hell are you?”
The man’s reply was a silky calm whisper. “Do not be alarmed, Professor. You have been summoned here
for a reason.”
“Summoned?” Langdon felt like a caged animal. “Try kidnapped!”
“Hardly.” The man’s voice was eerily serene. “If I wanted to harm you, you would be dead in your Town Car
right now.” He let the words hang for a moment. “My intentions are purely noble, I assure you. I would
simply like to offer you an invitation.”
No thanks. Ever since his experiences in Europe over the last several years, Langdon’s unwanted celebrity
had made him a magnet for nut-cases, and this one had just crossed a very serious line. “Look, I don’t know
what the hell is going on here, but I’m hanging up—”
“Unwise,” said the man. “Your window of opportunity is very small if you want to save Peter Solomon’s
soul.”
Langdon drew a sharp breath. “What did you say?”
“I’m sure you heard me.”
The way this man had uttered Peter’s name had stopped Langdon cold. “What do you know about Peter?”
“At this point, I know his deepest secrets. Mr. Solomon is my guest, and I can be a persuasive host.”
This can’t be happening. “You don’t have Peter.”
“I answered his private cell phone. That should give you pause.”
“I’m calling the police.”
“No need,” the man said. “The authorities will join you momentarily.”
What is this lunatic talking about? Langdon’s tone hardened. “If you have Peter, put him on the phone right
now.” “
“That’s impossible. Mr. Solomon is trapped in an unfortunate place.” The man paused. “He is in the Araf.”
“Where?” Langdon realized he was clutching his phone so tightly his fingers were going numb.
“The Araf? Hamistagan? That place to which Dante devoted the canticle immediately following his
legendary Inferno?”
The man’s religious and literary references solidified Langdon’s suspicion that he was dealing with a
madman. The second canticle. Langdon knew it well; nobody escaped Phillips Exeter Academy without
reading Dante. “You’re saying you think Peter Solomon is . . . in purgatory?”
“A crude word you Christians use, but yes, Mr. Solomon is in the in-between.”
The man’s words hung in Langdon’s ear. “Are you saying Peter is . . . dead?”
“Not exactly, no.”
“Not exactly?!” Langdon yelled, his voice echoing sharply in the hall. A family of tourists looked over at
him. He turned away and lowered his voice. “Death is usually an all-or-nothing thing!”
“You surprise me, Professor. I expected you to have a better understanding of the mysteries of life and death.
There is a world in between—a world in which Peter Solomon is hovering at the moment. He can either
return to your world, or he can move on to the next . . . depending on your actions right now.”
Langdon tried to process this. “What do you want from me?”
“It’s simple. You have been given access to something quite ancient. And tonight, you will share it with me.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“No? You pretend not to understand the ancient secrets that have been entrusted to you?”
Langdon felt a sudden sinking sensation, now guessing what this was probably about. Ancient secrets. He
had not uttered a word to anyone about his experiences in Paris several years earlier, but Grail fanatics had
followed the media coverage closely, some connecting the dots and believing Langdon was now privy to
secret information regarding the Holy Grail—perhaps even its location.
“Look,” Langdon said, “if this is about the Holy Grail, I can assure you I know nothing more than—”
“Don’t insult my intelligence, Mr. Langdon,” the man snapped. “I have no interest in anything so frivolous as
the Holy Grail or mankind’s pathetic debate over whose version of history is correct. Circular arguments
over the semantics of faith hold no interest for me. Those are questions answered only through death.”
The stark words left Langdon confused. “Then what the hell is this about?”
The man paused for several seconds. “As you may know, there exists within this city an ancient portal.”
An ancient portal?
“And tonight, Professor, you will unlock it for me. You should be honored I contacted you—this is the
invitation of your lifetime. You alone have been chosen.”
And you have lost your mind. “I’m sorry, but you’ve chosen poorly,” Langdon said. “I don’t know anything
about any ancient portal.”
“You don’t understand, Professor. It was not I who chose you . . . it was Peter Solomon.”
“What?” Langdon replied, his voice barely a whisper.
“Mr. Solomon told me how to find the portal, and he confessed to me that only one man on earth could
unlock it. And he said that man is you.”
“If Peter said that, he was mistaken . . . or lying.”
“I think not. He was in a fragile state when he confessed that fact, and I am inclined to believe him.”
Langdon felt a stab of anger. “I’m warning you, if you hurt Peter in any—”
“It’s far too late for that,” the man said in an amused tone. “I’ve already taken what I need from Peter
Solomon. But for his sake, I suggest you provide what I need from you. Time is of the essence . . . for both of
you. I suggest you find the portal and unlock it. Peter will point the way.”
Peter? “I thought you said Peter was in ‘purgatory.’”
“As above, so below,” the man said.
Langdon felt a deepening chill. This strange response was an ancient Hermetic adage that proclaimed a belief
in the physical connection between heaven and earth. As above, so below. Langdon eyed the vast room and
wondered how everything had veered so suddenly out of control tonight. “Look, I don’t know how to find
any ancient portal. I’m calling the police.”
“It really hasn’t dawned on you yet, has it? Why you were chosen?”
“No,” Langdon said.
“It will,” he replied, chuckling. “Any moment now.”
Then the line went dead.
Langdon stood rigid for several terrifying moments, trying to process what had just happened.
Suddenly, in the distance, he heard an unexpected sound.
It was coming from the Rotunda.
Someone was screaming.