SB4 . . . SB3 . . . SB2 . . . SB1 . . .
They continued past an unmarked door, but Anderson stopped short when the numbers began ascending again.
HB1 . . . HB2 . . .
“Sorry,” Anderson said. “Missed it. I almost never come down this deep.”
The group backed up a few yards to an old metal door, which Langdon now realized was located at the hallway’s central point—the meridian that divided the Senate Basement (SB) and the House Basement (HB). As it turned out, the door was indeed marked, but its engraving was so faded, it was almost imperceptible.
SBB
“Here we are,” Anderson said. “Keys will be arriving any moment.”
Sato frowned and checked her watch.
Langdon eyed the SBB marking and asked Anderson, “Why is this space associated with the
Senate
side even though it’s in the middle?”
Anderson looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“It says SBB, which begins with an
S,
not an
H
.”
Anderson shook his head. “The
S
in SBB doesn’t stand for Senate. It—”
“Chief?” a guard called out in the distance. He came jogging up the hallway toward them, holding out a key. “Sorry, sir, it took a few minutes. We couldn’t locate the main SBB key. This is a spare from an auxiliary box.”
“The original is missing?” Anderson said, sounding surprised.
“Probably lost,” the guard replied, arriving out of breath. “Nobody has requested access down here for ages.”
Anderson took the key. “No secondary key for SBB Thirteen?”
“Sorry, so far we’re not finding keys for
any
of the rooms in the SBB. MacDonald’s on it now.” The guard pulled out his radio and spoke into it. “Bob? I’m with the chief. Any additional info yet on the key for SBB Thirteen?”
The guard’s radio crackled, and a voice replied, “Actually, yeah. It’s strange. I’m seeing no entries since we computerized, but the hard logs indicate all the storage rooms in the SBB were cleaned out and abandoned more than twenty years ago. They’re now listed as unused space.” He paused. “All except for SBB Thirteen.”
Anderson grabbed the radio. “This is the chief. What do you mean, all
except
SBB Thirteen?”
“Well, sir,” the voice replied, “I’ve got a handwritten notation here that designates SBB Thirteen as ‘private.’ It was a long time ago, but it’s written and initialed by the Architect himself.”
The term
Architect
, Langdon knew, was not a reference to the man who had designed the Capitol, but rather to the man who
ran
it. Similar to a building manager, the man appointed as Architect of the Capitol was in charge of everything including maintenance, restoration, security, hiring personnel, and assigning offices.
“The strange thing . . .” the voice on the radio said, “is that the Architect’s notation indicates that this ‘private space’ was set aside for the use of Peter Solomon.”
Langdon, Sato, and Anderson all exchanged startled looks.
“I’m guessing, sir,” the voice continued, “that Mr. Solomon has our primary key to the SBB as well as any keys to SBB Thirteen.”
Langdon could not believe his ears.
Peter has a private room in the basement of the Capitol?
He had always known Peter Solomon had secrets, but this was surprising even to Langdon.
“Okay,” Anderson said, clearly unamused. “We’re hoping to get access to SBB Thirteen specifically, so keep looking for a secondary key.”
“Will do, sir. We’re also working on the digital image that you requested—”
“Thank you,” Anderson interrupted, pressing the talk button and cutting him off. “That will be all. Send that file to Director Sato’s BlackBerry as soon as you have it.”
“Understood, sir.” The radio went silent.
Anderson handed the radio back to the guard in front of them.
The guard pulled out a photocopy of a blueprint and handed it to his chief. “Sir, the SBB is in gray, and we’ve notated with an
X
which room is SBB Thirteen, so it shouldn’t be hard to find. The area is quite small.”
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.
W
hat 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.
Nuñez shrugged.
As if I was going to ask
?
Bellamy strode directly toward the escalators. “Where are they?”
“They just went to the lower levels.” Nuñez hastened after him.
Bellamy glanced back with a look of concern. “Downstairs? Why?” “I don’t really know—I just heard it on my radio.”
Bellamy was moving faster now. “Take me to them right away.”
“Yes, sir.”
As the two men hurried across the open expanse, Nuñez caught a glimpse of a large golden ring on Bellamy’s finger.
Nuñez pulled out his radio. “I’ll alert the chief that you’re coming down.”
“No.” Bellamy’s eyes flashed dangerously. “I’d prefer to be unannounced.”
Nuñez had made some big mistakes tonight, but failing to alert Chief Anderson that the Architect was now in the building would be his last. “Sir?” he said, uneasy. “I think Chief Anderson would prefer—”
“You are aware that I
employ
Mr. Anderson?” Bellamy said.
Nuñez nodded.
“Then I think he would prefer you obey my wishes.”
CHAPTER
34
Trish Dunne
entered the SMSC lobby and looked up with surprise. The guest waiting here looked nothing like the usual bookish, flannel-clad doctors who entered this building—those of anthropology, oceanography, geology, and other scientific fields. Quite to the contrary, Dr. Abaddon looked almost aristocratic in his impeccably tailored suit. He was tall, with a broad torso, well-tanned face, and perfectly combed blond hair that gave Trish the impression he was more accustomed to luxuries than to laboratories.
“Dr. Abaddon, I presume?” Trish said, extending her hand.
The man looked uncertain, but he took Trish’s plump hand in his broad palm. “I’m sorry. And
you
are?”
“Trish Dunne,” she replied. “I’m Katherine’s assistant. She asked me to escort you back to her lab.”
“Oh, I see.” The man smiled now. “Very nice to meet you, Trish. My apologies if I seemed confused. I was under the impression Katherine was here alone this evening.” He motioned down the hall. “But I’m all yours. Lead the way.”
Despite the man’s quick recovery, Trish had seen the flash of disappointment in his eyes. She now suspected the motive for Katherine’s secrecy earlier about Dr. Abaddon.
A budding romance, maybe?
Katherine never discussed her social life, but her visitor was attractive and well-groomed, and although younger than Katherine, he clearly came from her world of wealth and privilege. Nonetheless, whatever Dr. Abaddon had imagined tonight’s visit might entail, Trish’s presence did not seem to be part of his plan.
At the lobby’s security checkpoint, a lone guard quickly pulled off his headphones, and Trish could hear the Redskins game blaring. The guard put Dr. Abaddon through the usual visitor routine of metal detectors and temporary security badges.
“Who’s winning?” Dr. Abaddon said affably as he emptied his pockets of a cell phone, some keys, and a cigarette lighter.
“Skins by three,” the guard said, sounding eager to get back. “Helluva game.”
“Mr. Solomon will be arriving shortly,” Trish told the guard. “Would you please send him back to the lab once he arrives?”
“Will do.” The guard gave an appreciative wink as they passed through. “Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll look busy.”
Trish’s comment had been not only for the benefit of the guard but also to remind Dr. Abaddon that Trish was not the only one intruding on his private evening here with Katherine.
“So how do you know Katherine?” Trish asked, glancing up at the mysterious guest.
Dr. Abaddon chuckled. “Oh, it’s a long story. We’ve been working on something together.”