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."
罗伯特。兰登慢慢醒来。
黑暗中电话铃响了起来--一种微弱的、不熟悉的响声。他伸手去摸床头灯，把灯打开。他眯着眼打量了一下环境，发现这是一间文艺复兴风格的豪华卧室，路易十六世的家俱，装饰有手工壁面的墙面，还有一张宽大的四柱红木床。
我到底是在什么地方？
挂在床柱上提花浴衣上写着：巴黎里茨酒店。
雾在慢慢散去。
兰登拿起听筒。"您好！"
"兰登先生吗？"一个男人的声音问道："但愿我没有吵醒您！"
他睡眼惺忪地看了看床边的钟。午夜12时32分。他刚睡了一个小时，但感觉如昏死过去一般。
"我是酒店门房接待员，先生。打扰您了，很抱歉，但是有位客人要见您。他非坚持说事情非常紧急。"
兰登还是丈二和尚摸不着头脑。客人？这时他的目光汇聚到床头柜上一页皱皱巴巴的宣传单：巴黎美国大学 将举办一场学术晚会 哈佛大学宗教符号学教授 罗伯特。兰登将莅临赐教兰登哼了一声。今晚的报告-一幅有关隐藏于沙特尔大教堂基石上的异教符号幻灯片很可能呛了哪位保守听众的肺管了。极有可能是有宗教学者上门找碴儿来了。
"对不起，我累了，而且……"兰登说。
"可是，先生。"接待员赶紧打断了他，压低了声音，急迫地耳语道："您的客人是位重要人物。"
毫无疑问，他的那些关于宗教绘画和邪教符号学的书使他不太情愿地成了艺术圈子里的名人。去年他与一个在梵蒂冈的广为流传的事件有牵连，此后他露面的频率提高了上百倍。打那以后，自认为了不起的历史学家和艺术迷们便似乎源源不断地涌向他家门口。
兰登尽量保持礼貌的言语："麻烦您记下那人的姓名和电话号码，告诉他我在周二离开巴黎前会给他打电话的。谢谢。"接待员还没来得及回话，他便挂上了电话。
兰登坐了起来，对着旁边的客人关系手册蹙着眉头。手册封面上自吹自擂地写道：如婴儿般沉睡在灯火辉煌的城市，酣睡在巴黎里茨。他转过头疲倦地凝视着对面的大镜子。回望着他的是个陌生人，头发乱蓬蓬的，疲惫不堪。
你需要休假，罗伯特。
去年他可损失惨重，憔悴了许多。但他不愿意在镜子里得到证明。他本来锐利的眼睛今晚看起来模糊呆滞。硕大干瘪的下巴上满是黑黑的胡茬儿。在太阳穴周围，花白的毛发显得一天比一天多，正深深地钻进他那浓密的又粗又黑的头发中。虽然他的女同事们一直说花白的头发使他显得更儒雅，可兰登不那么想。
幸亏波士顿杂志不是现在采访的我。
颇使兰登感到尴尬的是，上个月波士顿杂志把他列进该市十大最引人注目的人，--莫名其妙的荣誉使他不断成为哈佛同事们的首当其冲调笑的对象。
今晚在离家三千英里的地方，他作报告时，那种赞扬再度出现令他惴惴不安。
女主持人向巴黎美国大学的妃子亭里满满一屋子人宣布道："女士们，先生们，我们今晚的客人不需要介绍。他写了好多本书，如：《秘密教派符号学》、《光照派的艺术》和《表意符号语言的遗失》等。我说他写了《宗教符号学》一书，其实我也只是知道书名，你们许多人上课都用他的书。"
人群中的学生们拼命点头。
"我本打算通过与大家分享他不凡的履历来介绍他，然而……"，她以调侃的眼神瞥了一眼坐在台上的兰登。"一位听众刚递给我一个……什么呢？……可以说是更有趣的介绍。"
她举起了一本波士顿杂志。
兰登缩了缩身子。她到底从哪搞到的那玩意？
女主持人开始从那篇空洞的文章中有选择地朗读已选取的片断。兰登感到自己在椅子上越陷越深。三十秒钟后，人们龇着牙笑了起来，而那女人还没有停下来的意思。"兰登先生拒绝公开谈及去年他在梵蒂冈秘密会议上所起的非凡作用，这使人们对他越发产生了兴趣。"女主持人进一步挑逗听众说："大家想不想多听一些？"
大家一齐鼓掌。
但愿能有人让她停下来。兰登默默祈祷道。但她又继续念那篇文章。
"虽然兰登教授可能不像有些年轻的崇拜者认为的那样风流倜傥，可这位四十几岁学者却拥有他这个年龄不多见的学术魅力。他只要露面就能吸引许多人，而他那极低的男中音更是使他魅力大增，他的女学生把他的声音描述为"供耳朵享用的巧克力。"大厅内爆发出一阵大笑。
兰登有些尴尬，只能强装笑脸。他知道她马上又会说出"哈里森。福特穿着哈里斯花格尼"这样不着边际的句话，因为他穿着哈里斯花格尼裤子和博贝利高领绒衣。他原以为今晚终于可以安全地这么穿而不致惹出那样荒谬的说法来。他决定采取措施。
"谢谢您，莫尼卡。"兰登提前站了起来，并把女主持挤下讲台。"波士顿杂志显然非常会编故事。"他转向听众并发出了窘迫的叹息声。"如果我知道你们谁提供了那篇文章，我就请领事把他驱逐出境。"
听众又大笑起来。
"好喽，伙计们，你们知道，我今晚到这儿是要谈谈符号的重要作用。"
兰登房间的电话铃再一次打破沉寂。
他拿起电话，迟疑地咕哝道："喂！"
不出所料，正是门房接待员。"兰登先生，真抱歉，又打扰您。我打电话是想告诉您，您的客人正在去您房间的路上，我想我应该提醒您一下。"
兰登现在一点睡意也没有了。"是你把那个人打发到我房间的？"
"抱歉，先生，但像他这样的人……，我想我不敢冒昧地阻止他。"
"到底是谁？"
但是门房接待员已挂断了电话。
话音未落，已有人用拳头重重地敲门。
兰登感到一阵不安。他匆忙下床，感到脚趾头深深地陷到地上的萨伏纳里地毯里。他穿上酒店提供的睡衣朝门口走去。"哪一位？"
"兰登先生吗？我需要和您谈谈。"对方以尖利的、颇具权威的口吻大声喊道。他说英语有很重的口音。"我是中央司法警察部的杰罗姆。科莱上尉。"
兰登怔了一下。司法警察？这大致相当于美国的联邦调查局。
把安全链放好后，兰登把门开了几英寸宽的小缝。盯着他望的那个人的脸削瘦而苍白。那人极瘦，身着蓝制服，看样子像个当官的。
"我可以进来吗？"那特工问道。
那陌生人灰黄的眼睛打量着兰登，使他感到局促不安。"到底是怎么回事？"
"我们的警务局长在一件私事上需要您发挥一下您的专长。"
"现在吗？深更半夜的。"兰登挤出一句话来。
"你本打算今晚和卢浮宫博物馆长会面的，是吧？"
兰登突然感到一阵不安。他和那位德高望重的博物馆长雅克。索尼埃本来约定在今晚的报告后见一面，小酌一番，可索尼埃根本就没露面。"你怎么知道的。"
"我们在他的‘每日计划’中看到了你的名字。"
"但愿没出什么乱子。"
特工沉重地叹了一口气，从窄窄的门缝里塞进一张宝丽莱快照。
看了照片，兰登浑身都僵住了。
"照片是不足半小时前拍的--在卢浮宫内拍的。"
凝望这奇怪的照片，他先是感受到恶心和震惊，继而感到怒不可遏。
"谁竟然干出这种事！"
"鉴于你是符号学方面的专家，且你原打算见他，我们希望你能帮助我们回答这个问题。"
兰登看着照片，既恐惧又担心。那景象奇怪得让人不寒而栗，他有一种不安的，似曾相识的感觉。一年多以前兰登也看到过一具尸体的照片，也遇到了类似的求助。二十四小时后，他险些在梵蒂冈城丧了命。这幅照片和那幅完全不同，但情景却是那样相似，使人不安。
特工看了看表说："我们局长正在等您，先生。"
兰登没太听清他说什么。他的眼睛还在盯着那张照片。"这个符号，尸体如此奇怪地……"
"放置。"特工接着说道。 兰登点了点头，又抬起头来，感觉到有一股逼人的寒气袭来。"这是谁竟会对人干出这等事来。"
特工似乎面无表情。"您不知道，兰登先生，你在照片上看到的……"，他顿了顿说道。"那是索尼埃先生自己干的。"