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Hmmph. Never did like deadlines.
Jun. 29th, 2004 08:58 amAs usual, Robert Langdon awoke from a dream in the middle of the night. Usually it was chases up Egyptian pyramids, or Yin chasing Yang around the Maypole. But Langdon was in England, where the last thing anyone dreams of is sex. So it was a 1972 speech by Edward Heath which was being interrupted by the pounding on his door.
His seemingly incognito door. When lecturing on the European circuit as he often did, Langdon was usually offered the finest of accommodations. But in London, he preferred the four stars and quiet of Bloomsbury's Russell Hotel to the Ritzier digs usually proposed by his handlers.
The Russell had all the advantages a professor-lecturer-international man of mystery could want. Historic- actually mentioned in the works of Eliot and well known to Virginia Wolff and that whole Bloomsbury crowd. The hotel even named its bright and tasteful public restaurant for Virginia. Convenient- steps away from the tube but more importantly from the British Museum, situs of Langdon's current research. And most importantly, considering all the powerful enemies he'd acquired in recent years, hidden- well away from the bright lights of better known hotels on more traveled carriageways.
Not hidden enough, Langdon grunted to himself, as the pounding continued.
Through the peephole he spotted an unknown man in clerical garb.
Oh no, not again, he thought.
* * *
"Good evening, Mr. Langdon," the cleric began. "I am Cardinal LaRussa."
Evening was hardly the word to use. It was 3 a.m. local time, 10 the previous night to Langdon's still jetlagged rhythms, and a mere three hours after he had begun his first full night of sleep in two days.
But Langdon was more focused on the name. He recognized the man now, who usually traveled in the more elaborate robes of a Cardinal of the Church. What brought him in this semi-disguise? And how did he know how to find Langdon?
"I apologize for the intrusion," the Cardinal said in perfect if accented English. "His Holiness considers this a matter of the highest importance, and was so appreciative of your work for the Church in Rome that he has forgiven that whole Paris episode and will again allow you to help."
Gee, thanks, Langdon thought. The Pope's gonna LET me be dragged through another adventure which, when published, will cause yet another aircraft to crash from the unaccounted weight of 800 hardcover copies of the book about it onboard. He had never forgiven himself for that happening near Philadelphia the year before, when the skies over Consohocken were littered with tattered pages of a 454-page book mixed in with coffee-table-size presentations of The Complete Works of Leonardo DaVinci.
Since this was, after all, one of the highest authorities of the Church, Langdon held his tongue. Mostly. "I promise nothing, Your Eminence. I am really getting tired of these late night encounters over antiquities. My students come to see me during office hours and I wish you people would, too."
"I beg forgiveness and forgive your impetuousness, my son," LaRussa replied. "The evidence before us is fresh and cannot wait until morning. There is a killer on the loose, impugning the good name and offices of the Holy Mother Church. We must act."
"Fine," Langdon grumbled. "I assume there's a photo or a fax you want me to see."
LaRussa showed him.
Langdon looked more amused and annoyed than shocked.
"Very funny. A man crushed under a chair and another man in a red robe and aviator glasses holding a rope. If this is about my assistance for the Vatican Halloween party, I'm afraid I'm busy that night."
"This is no joke," LaRussa said levelly. "I know of the popular misconceptions- I'm not the only one who does- but I assure you, a man is dead."
"And I suppose he was killed by agents of the Spanish Inquisition," Langdon replied, struggling to keep his eyes from rolling.
"Quite the contrary," LaRussa said. "The man you see here, known to the world as Professor Bernardo Leonardo, was the London agent of our Inquisition."
[to be continued, naturally]
His seemingly incognito door. When lecturing on the European circuit as he often did, Langdon was usually offered the finest of accommodations. But in London, he preferred the four stars and quiet of Bloomsbury's Russell Hotel to the Ritzier digs usually proposed by his handlers.
The Russell had all the advantages a professor-lecturer-international man of mystery could want. Historic- actually mentioned in the works of Eliot and well known to Virginia Wolff and that whole Bloomsbury crowd. The hotel even named its bright and tasteful public restaurant for Virginia. Convenient- steps away from the tube but more importantly from the British Museum, situs of Langdon's current research. And most importantly, considering all the powerful enemies he'd acquired in recent years, hidden- well away from the bright lights of better known hotels on more traveled carriageways.
Not hidden enough, Langdon grunted to himself, as the pounding continued.
Through the peephole he spotted an unknown man in clerical garb.
Oh no, not again, he thought.
* * *
"Good evening, Mr. Langdon," the cleric began. "I am Cardinal LaRussa."
Evening was hardly the word to use. It was 3 a.m. local time, 10 the previous night to Langdon's still jetlagged rhythms, and a mere three hours after he had begun his first full night of sleep in two days.
But Langdon was more focused on the name. He recognized the man now, who usually traveled in the more elaborate robes of a Cardinal of the Church. What brought him in this semi-disguise? And how did he know how to find Langdon?
"I apologize for the intrusion," the Cardinal said in perfect if accented English. "His Holiness considers this a matter of the highest importance, and was so appreciative of your work for the Church in Rome that he has forgiven that whole Paris episode and will again allow you to help."
Gee, thanks, Langdon thought. The Pope's gonna LET me be dragged through another adventure which, when published, will cause yet another aircraft to crash from the unaccounted weight of 800 hardcover copies of the book about it onboard. He had never forgiven himself for that happening near Philadelphia the year before, when the skies over Consohocken were littered with tattered pages of a 454-page book mixed in with coffee-table-size presentations of The Complete Works of Leonardo DaVinci.
Since this was, after all, one of the highest authorities of the Church, Langdon held his tongue. Mostly. "I promise nothing, Your Eminence. I am really getting tired of these late night encounters over antiquities. My students come to see me during office hours and I wish you people would, too."
"I beg forgiveness and forgive your impetuousness, my son," LaRussa replied. "The evidence before us is fresh and cannot wait until morning. There is a killer on the loose, impugning the good name and offices of the Holy Mother Church. We must act."
"Fine," Langdon grumbled. "I assume there's a photo or a fax you want me to see."
LaRussa showed him.
Langdon looked more amused and annoyed than shocked.
"Very funny. A man crushed under a chair and another man in a red robe and aviator glasses holding a rope. If this is about my assistance for the Vatican Halloween party, I'm afraid I'm busy that night."
"This is no joke," LaRussa said levelly. "I know of the popular misconceptions- I'm not the only one who does- but I assure you, a man is dead."
"And I suppose he was killed by agents of the Spanish Inquisition," Langdon replied, struggling to keep his eyes from rolling.
"Quite the contrary," LaRussa said. "The man you see here, known to the world as Professor Bernardo Leonardo, was the London agent of our Inquisition."
[to be continued, naturally]