Pain erupted . . . and then darkness.
Gray light.
Throbbing. Wisps of memory. Langdon was being dragged, half conscious, down, down, down. His captor was chanting something.
Verbum significatium . . . Verbum omnificum . . . Verbum perdo . . .
CHAPTER 110
Director Sato stood alone in the study, waiting while the CIA satellite-imaging division processed her request. One of the luxuries of working in the D.C. area was the satellite coverage. With luck, one of them might have been properly positioned to get photos of this home tonight . . . possibly capturing a vehicle leaving the place in the last half hour.
"Sorry, ma'am," the satellite technician said. "No coverage of those coordinates tonight. Do you want to make a reposition request?"
"No thanks. Too late." She hung up.
Sato exhaled, now having no idea how they would figure out where their target had gone. She walked out to the foyer, where her men had bagged Agent Hartmann's body and were carrying it toward the chopper. Sato had ordered Agent Simkins to gather his men and prepare for the return to Langley, but Simkins was in the living room on his hands and knees. He looked like he was ill.
"You okay?"
He glanced up, an odd look on his face. "Did you see this?" He pointed at the living-room floor.
Sato came over and looked down at the plush carpet. She shook her head, seeing nothing.
"Crouch down," Simkins said. "Look at the nap of the carpet."
She did. After a moment, she saw it. The fibers of the carpet looked like they had been mashed down . . . depressed along two straight lines as if the wheels of something heavy had been rolled across the room.
"The strange thing," Simkins said, "is where the tracks go." He pointed.
Sato's gaze followed the faint parallel lines across the living-room carpet. The tracks seemed to disappear beneath a large floor-to-ceiling painting that hung beside the fireplace. What in the world?
Simkins walked over to the painting and tried to lift it down from the wall. It didn't budge. "It's fixed," he said, now running his fingers around the edges. "Hold on, there's something underneath . . ." His finger hit a small lever beneath the bottom edge, and something clicked.
Sato stepped forward as Simkins pushed the frame and the entire painting rotated slowly on its center, like a revolving door.
He raised his flashlight and shined it into the dark space beyond.
Sato's eyes narrowed. Here we go.
At the end of a short corridor stood a heavy metal door.
The memories that had billowed through the blackness of Langdon's mind had come and gone. In their wake, a trail of red-hot sparks was swirling, along with the same eerie, distant whisper.
Verbum significatium . . . Verbum omnificum . . . Verbum perdo.
The chanting continued like the drone of voices in a medieval canticle.
Verbum significatium . . . Verbum omnificum. The words now tumbled through the empty void, fresh voices echoing all around him.
Apocalypsis . . . Franklin . . . Apocalypsis . . . Verbum . . . Apocalypsis . . .
Without warning, a mournful bell began tolling somewhere in the distance. The bell rang on and on, growing louder. It tolled more urgently now, as if hoping Langdon would understand, as if urging his mind to follow.
CHAPTER 111
The tolling bell in the clock tower rang for three full minutes, rattling the crystal chandelier that hung above Langdon's head. Decades ago, he had attended lectures in this well-loved assembly hall at Phillips Exeter Academy. Today, however, he was here to listen to a dear friend address the student body. As the lights dimmed, Langdon took a seat against the back wall, beneath a pantheon of headmaster portraits.
A hush fell across the crowd. In total darkness, a tall, shadowy figure crossed the stage and took the podium. "Good morning," the faceless voice whispered into the microphone.
Everyone sat up, straining to see who was addressing them.
A slide projector flashed to life, revealing a faded sepia photograph--a dramatic castle with a red sandstone facade, high square towers, and Gothic embellishments.
The shadow spoke again. "Who can tell me where this is?"
"England!" a girl declared in the darkness. "This facade is a blend of early Gothic and late Romanesque, making this the quintessential Norman castle and placing it in England at about the twelfth century."
"Wow," the faceless voice replied. "Someone knows her architecture."
Quiet groans all around.
"Unfortunately," the shadow added, "you missed by three thousand miles and half a millennium."
The room perked up.
The projector now flashed a full-color, modern photo of the same castle from a different angle. The castle's Seneca Creek sandstone towers dominated the foreground, but in the background, startlingly close, stood the majestic, white, columned dome of the U.S. Capitol Building.
"Hold on!" the girl exclaimed. "There's a Norman castle in D.C.?!"
"Since 1855," the voice replied. "Which is when this next photo was taken."
A new slide appeared--a black-and-white interior shot, depicting a massive vaulted ballroom, furnished with animal skeletons, scientific display cases, glass jars with biological samples, archaeological artifacts, and plaster casts of prehistoric reptiles.
"This wondrous castle," the voice said, "was America's first real science museum. It was a gift to America from a wealthy British scientist who, like our forefathers, believed our fledgling country could become the land of enlightenment. He bequeathed to our forefathers a massive fortune and asked them to build at the core of our nation `an establishment for the increase and diffusion of knowledge.' " He paused a long moment. "Who can tell me the name of this generous scientist?"
A timid voice in front ventured, "James Smithson?"
A whisper of recognition rippled through the crowd. "Smithson indeed," the man on stage replied. Peter Solomon now stepped into the light, his gray eyes flashing playfully. "Good morning. My name is Peter Solomon, and I am secretary of the Smithsonian Institution."
The students broke into wild applause.
In the shadows, Langdon watched with admiration as Peter captivated the young minds with a photographic tour of the Smithsonian Institution's early history. The show began with Smithsonian Castle, its basement science labs, corridors lined with exhibits, a salon full of mollusks, scientists who called themselves "the curators of crustaceans," and even an old photo of the castle's two most popular residents--a pair of now-deceased owls named Diffusion and Increase. The half-hour slide show ended with an impressive satellite photo of the National Mall, now lined with enormous Smithsonian museums.
"As I said when I began," Solomon stated in conclusion, "James Smithson and our forefathers envisioned our great country to be a land of enlightenment. I believe today they would be proud. Their great Smithsonian Institution stands as a symbol of science and knowledge at the very core of America. It is a living, breathing, working tribute to our forefathers' dream for America--a country founded on the principles of knowledge, wisdom, and science."
Solomon clicked off the slides to an energetic round of applause. The houselights came up, along with dozens of eager hands with questions.
Solomon called on a small red-haired boy in the middle.
"Mr. Solomon?" the boy said, sounding puzzled. "You said our forefathers fled the religious oppression of Europe to establish a country on the principles of scientific advancement."