“Of course. All bags are scanned.”
“I want to see that X-ray. I want to know what’s in his bag.”
Anderson looked over at the bag Langdon had been carrying all evening. “But . . . wouldn’t it be easier just to ask him?”
“What part of my request was unclear?”
Anderson pulled out his radio again and called in her request. Sato gave Anderson her BlackBerry address and requested that his team e-mail her a digital copy of the X-ray as soon as they had located it. Reluctantly Anderson complied.
Forensics was now collecting the severed hand for the Capitol Police, but Sato ordered them to deliver it directly to her team at Langley. Anderson was too tired to protest. He had just been run over by a tiny Japanese steamroller.
“And I want that ring,” Sato called over to Forensics.
The chief technician seemed ready to question her but thought better of it. He removed the gold ring from Peter’s hand, placed it in a clear specimen bag, and gave it to Sato. She slipped it into her jacket pocket, and then turned to Langdon.
“We’re leaving, Professor. Bring your things.”
“Where are we going?” Langdon replied.
“Just follow Mr. Anderson.”
Yes,
Anderson thought,
and follow me closely.
The SBB was a section of the Capitol that few ever visited. To reach it, they would pass through a sprawling labyrinth of tiny chambers and tight passages buried beneath the crypt. Abraham Lincoln’s youngest son, Tad, had once gotten lost down there and almost perished. Anderson was starting to suspect that if Sato had her way, Robert Langdon might suffer a similar fate.
CHAPTER
27
Systems security
specialist Mark Zoubianis had always prided himself on his ability to multitask. At the moment, he was seated on his futon along with a TV remote, a cordless phone, a laptop, a PDA, and a large bowl of Pirate’s Booty. With one eye on the muted Redskins game and one eye on his laptop, Zoubianis was speaking on his Bluetooth headset with a woman he had not heard from in over a year.
Leave it to Trish Dunne to call on the night of a play-off game.
Confirming her social ineptitude yet again, his former colleague had chosen the Redskins game as a perfect moment to chat him up and request a favor. After some brief small talk about the old days and how she missed his great jokes, Trish had gotten to her point: she was trying to unmask a hidden IP address, probably that of a secure server in the D.C. area. The server contained a small text document, and she wanted access to it . . . or at the very least, some information about whose document it was.
Right guy, wrong timing,
he had told her. Trish then showered him with her finest geek flattery, most of which was true, and before Zoubianis knew it, he was typing a strange-looking IP address into his laptop.
Zoubianis took one look at the number and immediately felt uneasy. “Trish, this IP has a funky format. It’s written in a protocol that isn’t even publicly available yet. It’s probably gov intel or military.”
“Military?” Trish laughed. “Believe me, I just pulled a redacted document off this server, and it was
not
military.” Zoubianis pulled up his terminal window and tried a traceroute. “You said your traceroute died?”
“Yeah. Twice. Same hop.”
“Mine, too.” He pulled up a diagnostic probe and launched it. “And what’s so interesting about this IP?”
“I ran a delegator that tapped a search engine at this IP and pulled a redacted document. I need to see the rest of the document. I’m happy to pay them for it, but I can’t figure out who owns the IP or how to access it.”
Zoubianis frowned at his screen. “Are you sure about this? I’m running a diagnostic, and this firewall coding looks . . . pretty serious.”
“That’s why you get the big bucks.”
Zoubianis considered it. They’d offered him a fortune for a job this easy. “One question, Trish. Why are you so hot on this?”
Trish paused. “I’m doing a favor for a friend.”
“Must be a special friend.”
“She is.”
Zoubianis chuckled and held his tongue.
I knew it.
“Look,” Trish said, sounding impatient. “Are you good enough to unmask this IP? Yes or no?”
“Yes, I’m good enough. And yes, I know you’re playing me like a fiddle.”
“How long will it take you?”
“Not long,” he said, typing as he spoke. “I should be able to get into a machine on their network within ten minutes or so. Once I’m in and know what I’m looking at, I’ll call you back.”
“I appreciate it. So, are you doing well?”
Now she asks?
“Trish, for God’s sake, you called me on the night of a play-off game and now you want to chat? Do you want me to hack this IP or not?”
“Thanks, Mark. I appreciate it. I’ll be waiting for your call.”
“Fifteen minutes.” Zoubianis hung up, grabbed his bowl of Pirate’s Booty, and unmuted the game.
Women.
CHAPTER
28
Where are
they taking me?
As Langdon hurried with Anderson and Sato into the depths of the Capitol, he felt his heart rate increasing with each downward step. They had begun their journey through the west portico of the Rotunda, descending a marble staircase and then doubling back through a wide doorway into the famous chamber directly beneath the Rotunda floor.
The Capitol Crypt.
The air was heavier here, and Langdon was already feeling claustrophobic. The crypt’s low ceiling and soft uplighting accentuated the robust girth of the forty Doric columns required to support the vast stone floor directly overhead.
Relax, Robert.
“This way,” Anderson said, moving quickly as he angled to the left across the wide circular space.
Thankfully, this particular crypt contained no bodies. Instead it contained several statues, a model of the Capitol, and a low storage area for the wooden catafalque on which coffins were laid for state funerals. The entourage hurried through, without even a glance at the four-pointed marble compass in the center of the floor where the Eternal Flame had once burned.
Anderson seemed to be in a hurry, and Sato once again had her head buried in her BlackBerry. Cellular service, Langdon had heard, was boosted and broadcast to all corners of the Capitol Building to support the hundreds of government phone calls that took place here every day.
After diagonally crossing the crypt, the group entered a dimly lit foyer and began winding through a convoluted series of hallways and dead ends. The warren of passages contained numbered doorways, each of which bore an identification number. Langdon read the doors as they snaked their way around.
S154 . . . S153 . . . S152 . . .
He had no idea what lay behind these doors, but at least one thing now seemed clear—the meaning of the tattoo on Peter Solomon’s palm.
SBB13 appeared to be a numbered doorway somewhere in the bowels of the U.S. Capitol Building.
“What are all these doorways?” Langdon asked, clutching his daybag tightly to his ribs and wondering what Solomon’s tiny package could possibly have to do with a door marked SBB13.
“Offices and storage,” Anderson said. “
Private
offices and storage,” he added, glancing back at Sato.
Sato did not even glance up from her BlackBerry.
“They look tiny,” Langdon said.
“Glorified closets, most of them, but they’re still some of the most sought-after real estate in D.C. This is the heart of the original Capitol, and the old Senate chamber is two stories above us.”
“And SBB Thirteen?” Langdon asked. “Whose office is that?”
“Nobody’s. The SBB is a private storage area, and I must say, I’m puzzled how—”
“Chief Anderson,” Sato interrupted without looking up from her BlackBerry. “Just take us there, please.”
Anderson clenched his jaw and guided them on in silence through what was now feeling like a hybrid self-storage facility and epic labyrinth. On almost every wall, directional signs pointed back and forth, apparently attempting to locate specific office blocks in this network of hallways.
S142 to S152 . . .
ST1 to ST70 . . .
H1 to H166 & HT1 to HT67 . . .
Langdon doubted he could ever find his way out of here alone.
This place is a maze.
From all he could gather, office numbers began with either an
S
or an
H
depending on whether they were on the Senate side of the building or the House side. Areas designated ST and HT were apparently on a level that Anderson called Terrace Level.
Still no signs for SBB.
Finally they arrived at a heavy steel security door with a key-card entry box.
SB Level
Langdon sensed they were getting closer.
Anderson reached for his key card but hesitated, looking uncomfortable with Sato’s demands.
“Chief,” Sato prompted. “We don’t have all night.”
Anderson reluctantly inserted his key card. The steel door released. He
pushed it open, and they stepped through into the foyer beyond. The heavy door clicked shut behind them.
Langdon wasn’t sure what he had hoped to see in this foyer, but the sight in front of him was definitely not it. He was staring at a descending stairway. “Down again?” he said, stopping short. “There’s a level
under
the crypt?”
“Yes,” Anderson said. “
SB
stands for ‘Senate Basement.’ ”
Langdon groaned.
Terrific.
CHAPTER
29
The headlights
winding up the SMSC’s wooded access road were the first the guard had seen in the last hour. Dutifully, he turned down the volume on his portable TV set and stashed his snacks beneath the counter.
Lousy timing.
The Redskins were completing their opening drive, and he didn’t want to miss it.
As the car drew closer, the guard checked the name on the notepad in front of him.
Dr. Christopher Abaddon.
Katherine Solomon had just called to alert Security of this guest’s imminent arrival. The guard had no idea who this doctor might be, but he was apparently very good at doctoring; he was arriving in a black stretch limousine. The long, sleek vehicle rolled to a stop beside the guardhouse, and the driver’s tinted window lowered silently.
“Good evening,” the chauffeur said, doffing his cap. He was a powerfully built man with a shaved head. He was listening to the football game on his radio. “I have Dr. Christopher Abaddon for Ms. Katherine Solomon?”
The guard nodded. “Identification, please.”
The chauffeur looked surprised. “I’m sorry, didn’t Ms. Solomon call ahead?”
The guard nodded, stealing a glance at the television. “I’m still required to scan and log visitor identification. Sorry, regulations. I’ll need to see the doctor’s ID.”
“Not a problem.” The chauffeur turned backward in his seat and spoke in hushed tones through the privacy screen. As he did, the guard stole another peek at the game. The Redskins were breaking from the huddle now, and he hoped to get this limo through before the next play.
The chauffeur turned forward again and held out the ID that he’d apparently just received through the privacy screen.
The guard took the card and quickly scanned it into his system. The D.C. driver’s license showed one Christopher Abaddon from Kalorama Heights. The photo depicted a handsome blond gentleman wearing a blue
blazer, a necktie, and a satin pocket square.
Who the hell wears a pocket square to the DMV?
A muffled cheer went up from the television set, and the guard wheeled just in time to see a Redskins player dancing in the end zone, his finger pointed skyward. “I missed it,” the guard grumbled, returning to the window.
“Okay,” he said, returning the license to the chauffeur. “You’re all set.”
As the limo pulled through, the guard returned to his TV, hoping for a replay.
As Mal’akh drove his limo up the winding access road, he couldn’t help but smile. Peter Solomon’s secret museum had been simple to breach. Sweeter still, tonight was the second time in twenty-four hours that Mal’akh had broken into one of Solomon’s private spaces. Last night, a similar visit had been made to Solomon’s home.
Although Peter Solomon had a magnificent country estate in Potomac, he spent much of his time in the city at his penthouse apartment at the exclusive Dorchester Arms. His building, like most that catered to the super-rich, was a veritable fortress. High walls. Guard gates. Guest lists. Secured underground parking.
Mal’akh had driven this very limousine up to the building’s guardhouse, doffed his chauffeur’s cap from his shaved head, and proclaimed, “I have Dr. Christopher Abaddon. He is an invited guest of Mr. Peter Solomon.” Mal’akh spoke the words as if he were announcing the Duke of York.
The guard checked a log and then Abaddon’s ID. “Yes, I see Mr. Solomon is expecting Dr. Abaddon.” He pressed a button and the gate opened. “Mr. Solomon is in the penthouse apartment. Have your guest use the
last
elevator on the right. It goes all the way up.”
“Thank you.” Mal’akh tipped his hat and drove through.
As he wound deep into the garage, he scanned for security cameras. Nothing. Apparently, those who lived here were neither the kind of people who broke into cars nor the kind of people who appreciated being watched.
