2009م - 1444هـ
The Lost Symbol



The Otis elevator climbing the south pillar of the Eiffel Tower was overflowing with

tourists. Inside the cramped lift, an austere businessman in a pressed suit gazed down at

the boy beside him. “You look pale, son. You should have stayed on the ground.”

“I’m okay . . .” the boy answered, struggling to control his anxiety. “I’ll get out on the

next level.” I can’t breathe.

The man leaned closer. “I thought by now you would have gotten over this.” He brushed

the child’s cheek affectionately.

The boy felt ashamed to disappoint his father, but he could barely hear through the

ringing in his ears. I can’t breathe. I’ve got to get out of this box!

The elevator operator was saying something reassuring about the lift’s articulated pistons

and puddled-iron construction. Far beneath them, the streets of Paris stretched out in all

directions.

Almost there, the boy told himself, craning his neck and looking up at the unloading

platform. Just hold on.

As the lift angled steeply toward the upper viewing deck, the shaft began to narrow, its

massive struts contracting into a tight, vertical tunnel.

“Dad, I don’t think—”

Suddenly a staccato crack echoed overhead. The carriage jerked, swaying awkwardly to

one side. Frayed cables began whipping around the carriage, thrashing like snakes. The

boy reached out for his father.