Novel

[Camelo]

CHAPTER 1
Robert Langdon awoke slowly.
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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.
-- Advertisement --
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 hundred fold
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 Sauniere had
been slated to meet for drinks after Langdon's
lecture tonight, but Sauniere 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 deja 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 Sauniere did that to
himself."