The Lost Symbol Chapter 98-101

Section 98 Robert Langdon recovered awareness with a devastating migraine. Where am I? Any place he was, it was dull. Profound cavern dull, and completely quiet. He was lying on his back with his arms next to him. Confounded, he had a go at moving his fingers and toes, soothed to discover they moved unreservedly with no agony. What was the deal? Except for his cerebral pain and the significant obscurity, everything appeared to be pretty much ordinary. Nearly everything. Langdon acknowledged he was lying on a hard floor that felt uncommonly smooth, similar to a sheet of glass. More bizarre still, he could feel that the smooth surface was in direct contact with his uncovered tissue . . . shoulders, back, rear end, thighs, calves. Am I bare? Bewildered, he ran his hands over his body. Jesus! Where the hellfire are my garments? In the obscurity, the spider webs started to lift, and Langdon saw glimmers of memory . . . startling depictions . . . a dead CIA specialist . . . the essence of an inked mammoth . . . Langdon's head crushing into the floor. The pictures came quicker . . . also, presently he reviewed the nauseating picture of Katherine Solomon bound and choked on the lounge area floor. My God! Langdon sat straight as an arrow, and as he did, his temple crushed into something suspended just crawls above him. Agony detonated through his skull and he fell back, wavering close to obviousness. Lethargic, he came to up with his hands, grabbing in the dimness to discover the obstruction. What he discovered look bad to him. It appeared this present room's roof was not exactly a foot above him. What on the planet? As he spread his arms to his sides trying to turn over, both of his hands hit sidewalls. Reality currently occurred to him. Robert Langdon was not in a room by any means. I'm in a container! In the murkiness of his little, coffinlike compartment, Langdon started beating uncontrollably with his clench hand. He yelled again and again for help. The dread that grasped him extended with each passing moment until it was insufferable. I have been covered alive. The cover of Langdon's odd casket would not move, even with the full power of his arms and legs pushing upward in wild frenzy. The crate, from everything he could tell, was made of substantial fiberglass. Sealed shut. Soundproof. Lightproof. Departure verification. I will suffocate alone in this crate. He thought of the profound well into which he had fallen as a little fellow, and of the alarming night he spent stepping water alone in the obscurity of a no-limit pit. That injury had scarred Langdon's mind, troubling him with a staggering fear of encased spaces. This evening, covered alive, Robert Langdon was experiencing his definitive bad dream. Katherine Solomon trembled peacefully on the floor of Mal'akh's lounge area. The sharp wire around her wrists and lower legs had just cut into her, and the smallest developments appeared to be just to fix her bonds. The inked man had fiercely thumped Langdon oblivious and hauled his limp body over the floor alongside his calfskin pack and the stone pyramid. Where they had gone, Katherine had no clue. The operator who had went with them was dead. She had not heard a sound in numerous minutes, and she thought about whether the inked man and Langdon were as yet inside the house. She had been attempting to shout for help, however with each endeavor, the cloth in her mouth crawled back perilously nearer to her windpipe. Presently she felt moving toward strides on the floor, and she turned her head, daring to dream that somebody was coming to help. The huge outline of her captor emerged in the lobby. Katherine pulled back as she flashed on the picture of him remaining in her family home ten years sooner. He murdered my family. Presently he walked toward her. Langdon was no place to be seen. The man hunched down and grasped her around the midriff, raising her generally onto his shoulder. The wire cut into her wrists, and the cloth muted her quieted cries of torment. He conveyed her down the lobby toward the front room, where, prior today, both of them had smoothly tasted tea together. Where is he taking me?! He conveyed Katherine over the family room and halted straightforwardly before the enormous oil painting of the Three Graces that she had respected this evening. â€Å"You referenced you preferred this painting,† the man murmured, his lips essentially contacting her ear. â€Å"I'm happy. It might be the exact opposite wonderful thing you see.† With that, he connected and squeezed his palm into the correct side of the tremendous casing. To Katherine's stun, the painting pivoted into the divider, turning on a focal rotate like a spinning entryway. A shrouded entryway. Katherine attempted to wriggle free, however the man held her solidly, bringing her through the opening behind the canvas. As the Three Graces rotated shut behind them, she could see substantial protection on the rear of the canvas. Whatever sounds were made back here were evidently not intended to be heard by the outside world. The space behind the composition was confined, more like a passage than a room. The man conveyed her to the far side and opened an overwhelming entryway, bringing her through it onto a little arrival. Katherine wound up looking down a thin incline into a profound cellar. She attracted a breath to shout, yet the cloth was gagging her. The slope was steep and limited. The dividers on either side were made of concrete, inundated with a somewhat blue light that appeared to radiate from underneath. The air that floated up was warm and impactful, weighed down with a creepy mix of scents . . . the sharp nibble of synthetic concoctions, the smooth quiet of incense, the natural musk of human perspiration, and, swarming it each of the, a particular air of instinctive, creature dread. â€Å"Your science intrigued me,† the man murmured as they arrived at the base of the incline. â€Å"I trust mine intrigues you.† Section 99 CIA field specialist Turner Simkins hunkered in the dimness of Franklin Park and kept his watchful eye on Warren Bellamy. No one had taken the trap yet, yet it was still early. Simkins' handset signaled, and he enacted it, trusting one of his men had spotted something. Be that as it may, it was Sato. She had new data. Simkins tuned in and concurred with her anxiety. â€Å"Hold on,† he said. â€Å"I'll check whether I can get a visual.† He slithered through the hedges wherein he was stowing away and looked back toward the path from which he had entered the square. After some moving, he at last opened a sight line. Good lord. He was gazing at a structure that resembled an Old World mosque. Settled between two a lot bigger structures, the Moorish exterior was made of sparkling earthenware tile laid in mind boggling kaleidoscopic plans. Over the three huge entryways, two levels of lancet windows looked as though Arabian bowmen may show up and open fire in the event that anybody moved toward excluded. â€Å"I see it,† Simkins said. â€Å"Any activity?† â€Å"Nothing.† â€Å"Good. I need you to reposition and watch it cautiously. It's known as the Almas Shrine Temple, and it's the central station of a mysterious order.† Simkins had worked in the D.C. zone for quite a while however was inexperienced with this sanctuary or any antiquated supernatural request headquartered on Franklin Square. â€Å"This building,† Sato stated, â€Å"belongs to a gathering called the Ancient Arabic Order of Nobles of the Mystic Shrine.† â€Å"Never knew about them.† â€Å"I think you have,† Sato said. â€Å"They're an appendant body of the Masons, all the more ordinarily known as the Shriners.† Simkins shot a questionable look at the lavish structure. The Shriners? The folks who assemble clinics for kids? He could envision no â€Å"order† less dismal sounding than a club of donors who wore minimal red fezzes and walked in marches. All things being equal, Sato's interests were legitimate. â€Å"Ma'am, if our objective understands that this structure is in certainty 'The Order' on Franklin Square, he won't need the location. He'll basically sidestep the meet and go straightforwardly to the right location.† â€Å"My contemplations precisely. Watch out for the entrance.† â€Å"Yes, ma'am.† â€Å"Any word from Agent Hartmann in Kalorama Heights?† â€Å"No, ma'am. You requested that he telephone you directly.† â€Å"Well, he hasn't.† Odd, Simkins thought, checking his watch. He's past due. Section 100 Robert Langdon lay shuddering, stripped and alone in complete darkness. Deadened by dread, he was done beating or yelling. Rather, he had shut his eyes and was giving a valiant effort to control his pounding heart and his terrified relaxing. You are lying underneath a huge, evening time sky, he attempted to persuade himself. There is nothing above you except for miles of all the way open space. This quieting perception had been the main way he had figured out how to endure an ongoing stretch in an encased MRI machine . . . that and a triple portion of Valium. Today around evening time, notwithstanding, the perception was having no impact at all. The cloth in Katherine Solomon's mouth had moved in reverse and was everything except gagging her. Her captor had conveyed her down a limited slope and into a dim storm cellar passage. At the most distant finish of the lobby, she had witnessed a room lit with a spooky ruddy purple light, yet they'd never made it that far. The man had halted rather at a little side room, conveyed her inside, and put her on a wooden seat. He had put her down with her bound wrists behind the seat back so she was unable to move. Presently Katherine could feel the wire on her wrists cutting further into her substance. The torment scarcely enlisted close to the rising frenzy she was feeling over being not able to relax. The fabric in her mouth was slipping further into her throat, and she felt herself choking reflexively. Her vision began to burrow. Behind her, the inked man shut the room's solitary entryway and flipped on the light. Katherine's eyes were watering bountifully now, and she could no longer separate items in her quick environmental factors. Everything had become a haze. A contorted vision of vivid tissue showed up before her, and Katherine felt her eyes beginning to shudder as she wavered on the brin