A round-faced man in a blue flight suit emerged from behind the building. "Robert Langdon?" he called. The man’s voice was friendly. He had an accent Langdon couldn’t place.

"That’s me," Langdon said, locking his car.

"Perfect timing," the man said. "I’ve just landed. Follow me, please."

As they circled the building, Langdon felt tense. He was not accustomed to cryptic phone calls and secret rendezvous with strangers. Not knowing what to expect he had donned his usual classroom attire—a pair of chinos, a turtleneck, and a Harris tweed suit jacket. As they walked, he thought about the fax in his jacket pocket, still unable to believe the image it depicted.

The pilot seemed to sense Langdon’s anxiety. "Flying’s not a problem for you, is it, sir?"

"Not at all," Langdon replied. Branded corpses are a problem for me. Flying I can handle.

The man led Langdon the length of the hangar. They rounded the corner onto the runway.

Langdon stopped dead in his tracks and gaped at the aircraft parked on the tarmac. "We’re riding in that?"

The man grinned. "Like it?"

Langdon stared a long moment. "Like it? What the hell is it?"

The craft before them was enormous. It was vaguely reminiscent of the space shuttle except that the top had been shaved off, leaving it perfectly flat. Parked there on the runway, it resembled a colossal wedge. Langdon’s first impression was that he must be dreaming. The vehicle looked as airworthy as a Buick. The wings were practically nonexistent—just two stubby fins on the rear of the fuselage. A pair of dorsal guiders rose out of the aft section. The rest of the plane was hull—about 200 feet from front to back—no windows, nothing but hull.