"Hello?"

"I’m looking for Robert Langdon," a man’s voice said.

Langdon sat up in his empty bed and tried to clear his mind. "This… is Robert Langdon." He squinted at his digital clock. It was 5:18 A.M.

"I must see you immediately."

"Who is this?"

"My name is Maximilian Kohler. I’m a discrete particle physicist."

"A what?" Langdon could barely focus. "Are you sure you’ve got the right Langdon?"

"You’re a professor of religious iconology at Harvard University. You’ve written three books on symbology and—"

"Do you know what time it is?"

"I apologize. I have something you need to see. I can’t discuss it on the phone."

A knowing groan escaped Langdon’s lips. This had happened before. One of the perils of writing books about religious symbology was the calls from religious zealots who wanted him to confirm their latest sign from God. Last month a stripper from Oklahoma had promised Langdon the best sex of his life if he would fly down and verify the authenticity of a cruciform that had magically appeared on her bed sheets. The Shroud of Tulsa, Langdon had called it.

"How did you get my number?" Langdon tried to be polite, despite the hour.

"On the Worldwide Web. The site for your book."

Langdon frowned. He was damn sure his book’s site did not include his home phone number. The man was obviously lying.

"I need to see you," the caller insisted. "I’ll pay you well."

Now Langdon was getting mad. "I’m sorry, but I really—"

"If you leave immediately, you can be here by—"

"I’m not going anywhere! It’s five o’clock in the morning!" Langdon hung up and collapsed back in bed. He closed his eyes and tried to fall back asleep. It was no use. The dream was emblazoned in his mind. Reluctantly, he put on his robe and went downstairs.