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»
Langdon
was
feeling
anything
but
fortunate
,
and
coincidence
was
a
concept
he
did
not
entirely
trust
.
As
someone
who
had
spent
his
life
exploring
the
hidden
interconnectivity
of
disparate
emblems
and
ideologies
,
Langdon
viewed
the
world
as
a
web
of
profoundly
intertwined
histories
and
events
.
The
connections
may
be
invisible
,
he
often
preached
to
his
symbology
classes
at
Harvard
,
but
they
are
always
there
,
buried
just
beneath
the
surface
.
«
I
assume
,
»
Langdon
said
,
»
that
the
American
University
of
Paris
told
you
where
I
was
staying
?
»
The
driver
shook
his
head
.
«
Interpol
.
»
Interpol
,
Langdon
thought
.
Of
course
.
He
had
forgotten
that
the
seemingly
innocuous
request
of
all
European
hotels
to
see
a
passport
at
check
-
in
was
more
than
a
quaint
formality
–
it
was
the
law
.
On
any
given
night
,
all
across
Europe
,
Interpol
officials
could
pinpoint
exactly
who
was
sleeping
where
.
Finding
Langdon
at
the
Ritz
had
probably
taken
all
of
five
seconds
.
As
the
Citroën
accelerated
southward
across
the
city
,
the
illuminated
profile
of
the
Eiffel
Tower
appeared
,
shooting
skyward
in
the
distance
to
the
right
.
Seeing
it
,
Langdon
thought
of
Vittoria
,
recalling
their
playful
promise
a
year
ago
that
every
six
months
they
would
meet
again
at
a
different
romantic
spot
on
the
globe
.
The
Eiffel
Tower
,
Langdon
suspected
,
would
have
made
their
list
.
Sadly
,
he
last
kissed
Vittoria
in
a
noisy
airport
in
Rome
more
than
a
year
ago
.
«
Did
you
mount
her
?
»
the
agent
asked
,
looking
over
.
Langdon
glanced
up
,
certain
he
had
misunderstood
.
«
I
beg
your
pardon
?
»
«
She
is
lovely
,
no
?
»
The
agent
motioned
through
the
windshield
toward
the
Eiffel
Tower
.
«
Have
you
mounted
her
?
»
Langdon
rolled
his
eyes
.
«
No
,
I
haven
’
t
climbed
the
tower
.
»
«
She
is
the
symbol
of
France
.
I
think
she
is
perfect
.
»
Langdon
nodded
absently
.
Symbologists
often
remarked
that
France
–
a
country
renowned
for
machismo
,
womanizing
,
and
diminutive
insecure
leaders
like
Napoleon
and
Pepin
the
Short
–
could
not
have
chosen
a
more
apt
national
emblem
than
a
thousand
-
foot
phallus
.
When
they
reached
the
intersection
at
Rue
de
Rivoli
,
the
traffic
light
was
red
,
but
the
Citroen
didn
’
t
slow
.
The
agent
gunned
the
sedan
across
the
junction
and
sped
onto
a
wooded
section
of
Rue
Castiglione
,
which
served
as
the
northern
entrance
to
the
famed
Tuileries
Gardens
–
Paris
’
s
own
version
of
Central
Park
.
Most
tourists
mistranslated
Jardins
des
Tuileries
as
relating
to
the
thousands
of
tulips
that
bloomed
here
,
but
Tuileries
was
actually
a
literal
reference
to
something
far
less
romantic
.
This
park
had
once
been
an
enormous
,
polluted
excavation
pit
from
which
Parisian
contractors
mined
clay
to
manufacture
the
city
’
s
famous
red
roofing
tiles
–
or
tuiles
.
