Page 55 of The Lost Symbol

Anderson thanked the guard and turned his focus to the blueprint as the young man hurried off. Langdon looked on, surprised to see the astonishing number of cubicles that made up the bizarre maze beneath the U.S. Capitol.

Anderson studied the blueprint for a moment, nodded, and then stuffed it into his pocket. Turning to the door marked SBB, he raised the key, but hesitated, looking uneasy about opening it. Langdon felt similar misgivings; he had no idea what was behind this door, but he was quite certain that whatever Solomon had hidden down here, he wanted to keep private. Very private.

Sato cleared her throat, and Anderson got the message. The chief took a deep breath, inserted the key, and tried to turn it. The key didn’t move. For a split second, Langdon felt hopeful the key was wrong. On the second try, though, the lock turned, and Anderson heaved the door open.

As the heavy door creaked outward, damp air rushed out into the corridor.

Langdon peered into the darkness but could see nothing at all.

“Professor,” Anderson said, glancing back at Langdon as he groped blindly for a light switch. “To answer your question, the S in SBB doesn’t stand for Senate. It stands for sub.”

“Sub?” Langdon asked, puzzled.

Anderson nodded and flicked the switch just inside the door. A single bulb illuminated an alarmingly steep staircase descending into inky blackness. “SBB is the Capitol’s subbasement.”

CHAPTER 33

Systems security specialist Mark Zoubianis was sinking deeper into his futon and scowling at the information on his laptop screen.

What the hell kind of address is this?

His best hacking tools were entirely ineffective at breaking into the document or at unmasking Trish’s mysterious IP address. Ten minutes had passed, and Zoubianis’s program was still pounding away in vain at the network firewalls. They showed little hope of penetration. No wonder they’re overpaying me. He was about to retool and try a different approach when his phone rang.

Trish, for Christ’s sake, I said I’d call you. He muted the football game and answered. “Yeah?”

“Is this Mark Zoubianis?” a man asked. “At 357 Kingston Drive in Washington?”

Zoubianis could hear other muffled conversations in the background. A telemarketer during the play-offs? Are they insane? “Let me guess, I won a week in Anguilla?”

“No,” the voice replied with no trace of humor. “This is systems security for the Central Intelligence Agency. We would like to know why you are attempting to hack one of our classified databases?”

Three stories above the Capitol Building’s subbasement, in the wide-open spaces of the visitor center, security guard Nuñez locked the main entry doors as he did every night at this time. As he headed back across the expansive marble floors, he thought of the man in the army-surplus jacket with the tattoos.

I let him in. Nuñez wondered if he would have a job tomorrow.

As he headed toward the escalator, a sudden pounding on the outside doors caused him to turn. He squinted back toward the main entrance and saw an elderly African American man outside, rapping on the glass with his open palm and motioning to be let in.

Nuñez shook his head and pointed to his watch.

The man pounded again and stepped into the light. He was immaculately dressed in a blue suit and had close-cropped graying hair. Nuñez’s pulse quickened. Holy shit. Even at a distance, Nuñez now recognized who this man was. He hurried back to the entrance and unlocked the door. “I’m sorry, sir. Please, please come in.”

Warren Bellamy—Architect of the Capitol—stepped across the threshold and thanked Nuñez with a polite nod. Bellamy was lithe and slender, with an erect posture and piercing gaze that exuded the confidence of a man in full control of his surroundings. For the last twenty-five years, Bellamy had served as the supervisor of the U.S. Capitol.

“May I help you, sir?” Nuñez asked.

“Thank you, yes.” Bellamy enunciated his words with crisp precision. As a northeastern Ivy League graduate, his diction was so exacting he sounded almost British. “I’ve just learned that you had an incident here this evening.” He looked deeply concerned.

“Yes, sir. It was—”

“Where’s Chief Anderson?”

“Downstairs with Director Sato from the CIA’s Office of Security.”

Bellamy’s eyes widened with concern. “The CIA is here?”

“Yes, sir. Director Sato arrived almost immediately after the incident.”

“Why?” Bellamy demanded.