Kohler looked over. "What do you mean?"

"Whoever wrote that note made a mistake. That column isn’t Ionic. Ionic columns are uniform in width. That one’s tapered. It’s Doric—the Greek counterpart. A common mistake."

Kohler did not smile. "The author meant it as a joke, Mr. Langdon. Ionic means containing ions—electrically charged particles. Most objects contain them."

Langdon looked back at the column and groaned.

Langdon was still feeling stupid when he stepped from the elevator on the top floor of Building C. He followed Kohler down a well-appointed corridor. The decor was unexpected—traditional colonial French—a cherry divan, porcelain floor vase, and scrolled woodwork.

"We like to keep our tenured scientists comfortable," Kohler explained.

Evidently, Langdon thought. "So the man in the fax lived up here? One of your upper-level employees?"

"Quite," Kohler said. "He missed a meeting with me this morning and did not answer his page. I came up here to locate him and found him dead in his living room."

Langdon felt a sudden chill realizing that he was about to see a dead body. His stomach had never been particularly stalwart. It was a weakness he’d discovered as an art student when the teacher informed the class that Leonardo da Vinci had gained his expertise in the human form by exhuming corpses and dissecting their musculature.

Kohler led the way to the far end of the hallway. There was a single door. "The Penthouse, as you would say," Kohler announced, dabbing a bead of perspiration from his forehead.

Langdon eyed the lone oak door before them. The name plate read:

"Leonardo Vetra," Kohler said, "would have been fifty-eight next week. He was one of the most brilliant scientists of our time. His death is a profound loss for science."