FOR BLYTHE

Acknowledgments

My profound thanks to three dear friends with whom I have the great luxury of working: my editor, Jason

Kaufman; my agent, Heide Lange; and my counselor, Michael Rudell. In addition, I would like to express

my immense gratitude to Doubleday, to my publishers around the world, and, of course, to my readers.

This novel could not have been written without the generous assistance of countless individuals who shared

their knowledge and expertise. To all of you, I extend my deep appreciation.

To live in the world without becoming

aware of the meaning of the world is

like wandering about in a great library

without touching the books.

The Secret Teachings

of All Ages

————————————

FACT:

In 1991, a document was locked in the safe of the director of the CIA. The document is still there today. Its

cryptic text includes references to an ancient portal and an unknown location underground. The document

also contains the phrase “It’s buried out there somewhere.”

All organizations in this novel exist, including the Freemasons, the Invisible College, the Office of Security,

the SMSC, and the Institute of Noetic Sciences.

All rituals, science, artwork, and monuments in this novel are real.

Prologue

House of the Temple

8:33 P.M.

The secret is how to die.

Since the beginning of time, the secret had always been how to die.

The thirty-four-year-old initiate gazed down at the human skull cradled in his palms. The skull was hollow,

like a bowl, filled with bloodred wine.

Drink it, he told himself. You have nothing to fear.

As was tradition, he had begun this journey adorned in the ritualistic garb of a medieval heretic being led to

the gallows, his loose-fitting shirt gaping open to reveal his pale chest, his left pant leg rolled up to the knee,

and his right sleeve rolled up to the elbow. Around his neck hung a heavy rope noose—a “cable-tow” as the

brethren called it. Tonight, however, like the brethren bearing witness, he was dressed as a master.

The assembly of brothers encircling him all were adorned in their full regalia of lambskin aprons, sashes, and

white gloves. Around their necks hung ceremonial jewels that glistened like ghostly eyes in the muted light.

Many of these men held powerful stations in life, and yet the initiate knew their worldly ranks meant nothing

within these walls. Here all men were equals, sworn brothers sharing a mystical bond.

As he surveyed the daunting assembly, the initiate wondered who on the outside would ever believe that this

collection of men would assemble in one place . . . much less this place. The room looked like a holy

sanctuary from the ancient world.

The truth, however, was stranger still.

I am just blocks away from the White House.

This colossal edifice, located at 1733 Sixteenth Street NW in Washington, D.C., was a replica of a pre-

Christian temple—the temple of King Mausolus, the original mausoleum . . . a place to be taken after death.

Outside the main entrance, two seventeen-ton sphinxes guarded the bronze doors. The interior was an ornate

labyrinth of ritualistic chambers, halls, sealed vaults, libraries, and even a hollow wall that held the remains

of two human bodies. The initiate had been told every room in this building held a secret, and yet he knew no

room held deeper secrets than the gigantic chamber in which he was currently kneeling with a skull cradled

in his palms.

The Temple Room.

This room was a perfect square. And cavernous. The ceiling soared an astonishing one hundred feet

overhead, supported by monolithic columns of green granite. A tiered gallery of dark Russian walnut seats

with hand-tooled pigskin encircled the room. A thirty-three-foot-tall throne dominated the western wall, with

a concealed pipe organ opposite it. The walls were a kaleidoscope of ancient symbols . . . Egyptian, Hebraic,

astronomical, alchemical, and others yet unknown.

Tonight, the Temple Room was lit by a series of precisely arranged candles. Their dim glow was aided only

by a pale shaft of moonlight that filtered down through the expansive oculus in the ceiling and illuminated

the room's most startling feature—an enormous altar hewn from a solid block of polished Belgian black

marble, situated dead center of the square chamber.

The secret is how to die, the initiate reminded himself.

“It is time,” a voice whispered.

The initiate let his gaze climb the distinguished white-robed figure standing before him. The Supreme

Worshipful Master. The man, in his late fifties, was an American icon, well loved, robust, and incalculably

wealthy. His once-dark hair was turning silver, and his famous visage reflected a lifetime of power and a

vigorous intellect.

“Take the oath,” the Worshipful Master said, his voice soft like falling snow. “Complete your journey.”

The initiate's journey, like all such journeys, had begun at the first degree. On that night, in a ritual similar to

this one, the Worshipful Master had blindfolded him with a velvet hoodwink and pressed a ceremonial

dagger to his bare chest, demanding: “Do you seriously declare on your honor, uninfluenced by mercenary or

any other unworthy motive, that you freely and voluntarily offer yourself as a candidate for the mysteries and

privileges of this brotherhood?”

“I do,” the initiate had lied.

“Then let this be a sting to your consciousness,” the master had warned him, “as well as instant death should

you ever betray the secrets to be imparted to you.”

At the time, the initiate had felt no fear. They will never know my true purpose here.

Tonight, however, he sensed a foreboding solemnity in the Temple Room, and his mind began replaying all

the dire warnings he had been given on his journey, threats of terrible consequences if he ever shared the

ancient secrets he was about to learn: Throat cut from ear to ear . . . tongue torn out by its roots . . . bowels taken out and burned . . . scattered to the four winds of heaven . . . heart plucked out and given to the beasts

of the field—

“Brother,” the gray-eyed master said, placing his left hand on the initiate's shoulder. “Take the final oath.”

Steeling himself for the last step of his journey, the initiate shifted his muscular frame and turned his

attention back to the skull cradled in his palms. The crimson wine looked almost black in the dim candlelight.

The chamber had fallen deathly silent, and he could feel all of the witnesses watching him, waiting for him to

take his final oath and join their elite ranks.

Tonight, he thought, something is taking place within these walls that has never before occurred in the

history of this brotherhood. Not once, in centuries.

He knew it would be the spark . . . and it would give him unfathomable power. Energized, he drew a breath

and spoke aloud the same words that countless men had spoken before him in countries all over the world.

“May this wine I now drink become a deadly poison to me . . . should I ever knowingly or willfully violate my

oath.”

His words echoed in the hollow space.

Then all was quiet.

Steadying his hands, the initiate raised the skull to his mouth and felt his lips touch the dry bone. He closed

his eyes and tipped the skull toward his mouth, drinking the wine in long, deep swallows. When the last drop

was gone, he lowered the skull.

For an instant, he thought he felt his lungs growing tight, and his heart began to pound wildly. My God, they

know! Then, as quickly as it came, the feeling passed.

A pleasant warmth began to stream through his body. The initiate exhaled, smiling inwardly as he gazed up

at the unsuspecting gray-eyed man who had foolishly admitted him into this brotherhood's most secretive

ranks.

Soon you will lose everything you hold most dear.

CHAPTER 1

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.

“Dad!”

Their eyes locked for one terrifying second.

Then the bottom dropped out.

Robert Langdon jolted upright in his soft leather seat, startling out of the semiconscious daydream. He was

sitting all alone in the enormous cabin of a Falcon 2000EX corporate jet as it bounced its way through

turbulence. In the background, the dual Pratt & Whitney engines hummed evenly.

“Mr. Langdon?” The intercom crackled overhead. “We’re on final approach.”

Langdon sat up straight and slid his lecture notes back into his leather daybag. He’d been halfway through

reviewing Masonic symbology when his mind had drifted. The daydream about his late father, Langdon

suspected, had been stirred by this morning’s unexpected invitation from Langdon’s longtime mentor, Peter

Solomon.

The other man I never want to disappoint.

The fifty-eight-year-old philanthropist, historian, and scientist had taken Langdon under his wing nearly

thirty years ago, in many ways filling the void left by Langdon’s father’s death. Despite the man’s influential

family dynasty and massive wealth, Langdon had found humility and warmth in Solomon’s soft gray eyes.

Outside the window the sun had set, but Langdon could still make out the slender silhouette of the world’s

largest obelisk, rising on the horizon like the spire of an ancient gnomon. The 555-foot marble-faced obelisk

marked this nation’s heart. All around the spire, the meticulous geometry of streets and monuments radiated

outward.

Even from the air, Washington, D.C., exuded an almost mystical power.

Langdon loved this city, and as the jet touched down, he felt a rising excitement about what lay ahead. The

jet taxied to a private terminal somewhere in the vast expanse of Dulles International Airport and came to a

stop.

Langdon gathered his things, thanked the pilots, and stepped out of the jet’s luxurious interior onto the

foldout staircase. The cold January air felt liberating.

Breathe, Robert, he thought, appreciating the wide-open spaces.

A blanket of white fog crept across the runway, and Langdon had the sensation he was stepping into a marsh

as he descended onto the misty tarmac.

“Hello! Hello!” a singsong British voice shouted from across the tarmac. “Professor Langdon?”

Langdon looked up to see a middle-aged woman with a badge and clipboard hurrying toward him, waving

happily as he approached. Curly blond hair protruded from under a stylish knit wool hat.

“Welcome to Washington, sir!”

Langdon smiled. “Thank you.”

“My name is Pam, from passenger services.” The woman spoke with an exuberance that was almost

unsettling. “If you’ll come with me, sir, your car is waiting.”

Langdon followed her across the runway toward the Signature terminal, which was surrounded by glistening

private jets. A taxi stand for the rich and famous.

“I hate to embarrass you, Professor,” the woman said, sounding sheepish, “but you are the Robert Langdon

who writes books about symbols and religion, aren’t you?”

Langdon hesitated and then nodded.

“I thought so!” she said, beaming. “My book group read your book about the sacred feminine and the church!

What a delicious scandal that one caused! You do enjoy putting the fox in the henhouse!”

Langdon smiled. “Scandal wasn’t really my intention.”

The woman seemed to sense Langdon was not in the mood to discuss his work. “I’m sorry. Listen to me

rattling on. I know you probably get tired of being recognized . . . but it’s your own fault.” She playfully

motioned to his clothing. “Your uniform gave you away.”

My uniform? Langdon glanced down at his attire. He was wearing his usual charcoal turtleneck, Harris

Tweed jacket, khakis, and collegiate cordovan loafers . . . his standard attire for the classroom, lecture circuit,

author photos, and social events.

The woman laughed. “Those turtlenecks you wear are so dated. You’d look much sharper in a tie!”

No chance, Langdon thought. Little nooses.

Neckties had been required six days a week when Langdon attended Phillips Exeter Academy, and despite

the headmaster’s romantic claims that the origin of the cravat went back to the silk fascalia worn by Roman

orators to warm their vocal cords, Langdon knew that, etymologically, cravat actually derived from a

ruthless band of “Croat” mercenaries who donned knotted neckerchiefs before they stormed into battle. To

this day, this ancient battle garb was donned by modern office warriors hoping to intimidate their enemies in

daily boardroom battles.

“Thanks for the advice,” Langdon said with a chuckle. “I’ll consider a tie in the future.”

Mercifully, a professional-looking man in a dark suit got out of a sleek Lincoln Town Car parked near the

terminal and held up his finger. “Mr. Langdon? I’m Charles with Beltway Limousine.” He opened the

passenger door. “Good evening, sir. Welcome to Washington.”

Langdon tipped Pam for her hospitality and then climbed into the plush interior of the Town Car. The driver

showed him the temperature controls, the bottled water, and the basket of hot muffins. Seconds later,

Langdon was speeding away on a private access road. So this is how the other half lives.

As the driver gunned the car up Windsock Drive, he consulted his passenger manifest and placed a quick

call. “This is Beltway Limousine,” the driver said with professional efficiency. “I was asked to confirm once

my passenger had landed.” He paused. “Yes, sir. Your guest, Mr. Langdon, has arrived, and I will deliver

him to the Capitol Building by seven P.M. You’re welcome, sir.” He hung up.

Langdon had to smile. No stone left unturned. Peter Solomon’s attention to detail was one of his most potent

assets, allowing him to manage his substantial power with apparent ease. A few billion dollars in the bank

doesn’t hurt either.

Langdon settled into the plush leather seat and closed his eyes as the noise of the airport faded behind him.

The U.S. Capitol was a half hour away, and he appreciated the time alone to gather his thoughts. Everything

had happened so quickly today that Langdon only now had begun to think in earnest about the incredible

evening that lay ahead.

Arriving under a veil of secrecy, Langdon thought, amused by the prospect.

Ten miles from the Capitol Building, a lone figure was eagerly preparing for Robert Langdon’s arrival.

CHAPTER 2

The one who called himself Mal’akh pressed the tip of the needle against his shaved head, sighing with

pleasure as the sharp tool plunged in and out of his flesh. The soft hum of the electric device was addictive . .

. as was the bite of the needle sliding deep into his dermis and depositing its dye.

I am a masterpiece.

The goal of tattooing was never beauty. The goal was change. From the scarified Nubian priests of 2000

B.C., to the tattooed acolytes of the Cybele cult of ancient Rome, to the moko scars of the modern Maori,

humans have tattooed themselves as a way of offering up their bodies in partial sacrifice, enduring the

physical pain of embellishment and emerging changed beings.

Despite the ominous admonitions of Leviticus 19:28, which forbade the marking of one’s flesh, tattoos had

become a rite of passage shared by millions of people in the modern age—everyone from clean-cut teenagers

to hard-core drug users to suburban housewives.

The act of tattooing one’s skin was a transformative declaration of power, an announcement to the world: I

am in control of my own flesh. The intoxicating feeling of control derived from physical transformation had

addicted millions to flesh-altering practices . . . cosmetic surgery, body piercing, bodybuilding, and steroids .

. . even bulimia and transgendering. The human spirit craves mastery over its carnal shell.

A single bell chimed on Mal’akh’s grandfather clock, and he looked up. Six thirty P.M. Leaving his tools, he

wrapped the Kiryu silk robe around his naked, six-foot-three body and strode down the hall. The air inside

this sprawling mansion was heavy with the pungent fragrance of his skin dyes and smoke from the beeswax

candles he used to sterilize his needles. The towering young man moved down the corridor past priceless

Italian antiques—a Piranesi etching, a Savonarola chair, a silver Bugarini oil lamp.

He glanced through a floor-to-ceiling window as he passed, admiring the classical skyline in the distance.

The luminous dome of the U.S. Capitol glowed with solemn power against the dark winter sky.

This is where it is hidden, he thought. It is buried out there somewhere.

Few men knew it existed . . . and even fewer knew its awesome power or the ingenious way in which it had

been hidden. To this day, it remained this country’s greatest untold secret. Those few who did know the truth kept it hidden behind a veil of symbols, legends, and allegory.

Now they have opened their doors to me, Mal’akh thought.

Three weeks ago, in a dark ritual witnessed by America’s most influential men, Mal’akh had ascended to the

thirty-third degree, the highest echelon of the world’s oldest surviving brotherhood. Despite Mal’akh’s new

rank, the brethren had told him nothing. Nor will they, he knew. That was not how it worked. There were

circles within circles . . . brotherhoods within brotherhoods. Even if Mal’akh waited years, he might never

earn their ultimate trust.

Fortunately, he did not need their trust to obtain their deepest secret.

My initiation served its purpose.

Now, energized by what lay ahead, he strode toward his bedroom. Throughout his entire home, audio

speakers broadcast the eerie strains of a rare recording of a castrato singing the “Lux Aeterna” from the Verdi

Requiem—a reminder of a previous life. Mal’akh touched a remote control to bring on the thundering “Dies

Irae.” Then, against a backdrop of crashing timpani and parallel fifths, he bounded up the marble staircase,

his robe billowing as he ascended on sinewy legs.

As he ran, his empty stomach growled in protest. For two days now, Mal’akh had fasted, consuming only

water, preparing his body in accordance with the ancient ways. Your hunger will be satisfied by dawn, he

reminded himself. Along with your pain.

Mal’akh entered his bedroom sanctuary with reverence, locking the door behind him. As he moved toward

his dressing area, he paused, feeling himself drawn to the enormous gilded mirror. Unable to resist, he turned

and faced his own reflection. Slowly, as if unwrapping a priceless gift, Mal’akh opened his robe to unveil his

naked form. The vision awed him.

I am a masterpiece.

His massive body was shaved and smooth. He lowered his gaze first to his feet, which were tattooed with the

scales and talons of a hawk. Above that, his muscular legs were tattooed as carved pillars—his left leg

spiraled and his right vertically striated. Boaz and Jachin. His groin and abdomen formed a decorated

archway, above which his powerful chest was emblazoned with the double-headed phoenix . . . each head in

profile with its visible eye formed by one of Mal’akh’s nipples. His shoulders, neck, face, and shaved head

were completely covered with an intricate tapestry of ancient symbols and sigils.

I am an artifact . . . an evolving icon.

One mortal man had seen Mal’akh naked, eighteen hours earlier. The man had shouted in fear. “Good God,

you’re a demon!”

“If you perceive me as such,” Mal’akh had replied, understanding as had the ancients that angels and demons

were identical—interchangeable archetypes—all a matter of polarity: the guardian angel who conquered your

enemy in battle was perceived by your enemy as a demon destroyer.

Mal’akh tipped his face down now and got an oblique view of the top of his head. There, within the

crownlike halo, shone a small circle of pale, untattooed flesh. This carefully guarded canvas was Mal’akh’s

only remaining piece of virgin skin. The sacred space had waited patiently . . . and tonight, it would be filled.

Although Mal’akh did not yet possess what he required to complete his masterpiece, he knew the moment

was fast approaching.

Exhilarated by his reflection, he could already feel his power growing. He closed his robe and walked to the

window, again gazing out at the mystical city before him. It is buried out there somewhere.

Refocusing on the task at hand, Mal’akh went to his dressing table and carefully applied a base of concealer

makeup to his face, scalp, and neck until his tattoos had disappeared. Then he donned the special set of

clothing and other items he had meticulously prepared for this evening. When he finished, he checked

himself in the mirror. Satisfied, he ran a soft palm across his smooth scalp and smiled.

It is out there, he thought. And tonight, one man will help me find it.

As Mal’akh exited his home, he prepared himself for the event that would soon shake the U.S. Capitol

Building. He had gone to enormous lengths to arrange all the pieces for tonight.

And now, at last, his final pawn had entered the game.

CHAPTER 3

Robert Langdon was busy reviewing his note cards when the hum of the Town Car’s tires changed pitch on

the road beneath him. Langdon glanced up, surprised to see where they were.

Memorial Bridge already?

He put down his notes and gazed out at the calm waters of the Potomac passing beneath him. A heavy mist

hovered on the surface. Aptly named, Foggy Bottom had always seemed a peculiar site on which to build the

nation’s capital. Of all the places in the New World, the forefathers had chosen a soggy riverside marsh on

which to lay the cornerstone of their utopian society.

Langdon gazed left, across the Tidal Basin, toward the gracefully rounded silhouette of the Jefferson

Memorial—America’s Pantheon, as many called it. Directly in front of the car, the Lincoln Memorial rose

with rigid austerity, its orthogonal lines reminiscent of Athens’s ancient Parthenon. But it was farther away

that Langdon saw the city’s centerpiece—the same spire he had seen from the air. Its architectural inspiration

was far, far older than the Romans or the Greeks.

America’s Egyptian obelisk.

The monolithic spire of the Washington Monument loomed dead ahead, illuminated against the sky like the

majestic mast of a ship. From Langdon’s oblique angle, the obelisk appeared ungrounded tonight . . .

swaying against the dreary sky as if on an unsteady sea. Langdon felt similarly ungrounded. His visit to

Washington had been utterly unexpected. I woke up this morning anticipating a quiet Sunday at home . . .

and now I’m a few minutes away from the U.S. Capitol.

This morning at four forty-five, Langdon had plunged into dead-calm water, beginning his day as he always

did, swimming fifty laps in the deserted Harvard Pool. His physique was not quite what it had been in his

college days as a water-polo all-American, but he was still lean and toned, respectable for a man in his

forties. The only difference now was the amount of effort it took Langdon to keep it that way.

When Langdon arrived home around six, he began his morning ritual of hand-grinding Sumatra coffee beans

and savoring the exotic scent that filled his kitchen. This morning, however, he was surprised to see the

blinking red light on his voice-mail display. Who calls at six A.M. on a Sunday? He pressed the button and

listened to the message.

“Good morning, Professor Langdon, I’m terribly sorry for this early-morning call.” The polite voice was

noticeably hesitant, with a hint of a southern accent. “My name is Anthony Jelbart, and I’m Peter Solomon’s

executive assistant. Mr. Solomon told me you’re an early riser . . . he has been trying to reach you this

morning on short notice. As soon as you receive this message, would you be so kind as to call Peter directly?

You probably have his new private line, but if not, it’s 202-329-5746.”

Langdon felt a sudden concern for his old friend. Peter Solomon was impeccably well-bred and courteous,

and certainly not the kind of man to call at daybreak on a Sunday unless something was very wrong.

Langdon left his coffee half made and hurried toward his study to return the call.

I hope he’s okay.

Peter Solomon had been a friend, mentor, and, although only twelve years Langdon’s senior, a father figure

to him ever since their first meeting at Princeton University. As a sophomore, Langdon had been required to

attend an evening guest lecture by the well-known young historian and philanthropist. Solomon had spoken

with a contagious passion, presenting a dazzling vision of semiotics and archetypal history that had sparked

in Langdon what would later become his lifelong passion for symbols. It was not Peter Solomon’s brilliance,

however, but the humility in his gentle gray eyes that had given Langdon the courage to write him a thank-

you letter. The young sophomore had never dreamed that Peter Solomon, one of America’s wealthiest and

most intriguing young intellectuals, would ever write back. But Solomon did. And it had been the beginning

of a truly gratifying friendship.

A prominent academic whose quiet manner belied his powerful heritage, Peter Solomon came from the

ultrawealthy Solomon family, whose names appeared on buildings and universities all over the nation. Like

the Rothschilds in Europe, the surname Solomon had always carried the mystique of American royalty and

success. Peter had inherited the mantle at a young age after the death of his father, and now, at fifty-eight, he

had held numerous positions of power in his life. He currently served as the head of the Smithsonian

Institution. Langdon occasionally ribbed Peter that the lone tarnish on his sterling pedigree was his diploma

from a second-rate university—Yale.

Now, as Langdon entered his study, he was surprised to see that he had received a fax from Peter as well.

Peter Solomon

OFFICE OF THE SECRETARY

THE SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTION

Good morning, Robert,

I need to speak with you at once. Please call me this morning as soon as you can at 202-329-5746.

Peter

Langdon immediately dialed the number, sitting down at his hand-carved oak desk to wait as the call went

through.

“Office of Peter Solomon,” the familiar voice of the assistant answered. “This is Anthony. May I help you?”

“Hello, this is Robert Langdon. You left me a message earlier—”

“Yes, Professor Langdon!” The young man sounded relieved. “Thank you for calling back so quickly. Mr.

Solomon is eager to speak to you. Let me tell him you’re on the line. May I put you on hold?”

“Of course.”

As Langdon waited for Solomon to get on the line, he gazed down at Peter’s name atop the Smithsonian

letterhead and had to smile. Not many slackers in the Solomon clan. Peter’s ancestral tree burgeoned with the names of wealthy business magnates, influential politicians, and a number of distinguished scientists, some

even fellows of London’s Royal Society. Solomon’s only living family member, his younger sister,

Katherine, had apparently inherited the science gene, because she was now a leading figure in a new cutting-

edge discipline called Noetic Science.

All Greek to me, Langdon thought, amused to recall Katherine’s unsuccessful attempt to explain Noetic

Science to him at a party at her brother’s home last year. Langdon had listened carefully and then replied,

“Sounds more like magic than science.”

Katherine winked playfully. “They’re closer than you think, Robert.”

Now Solomon’s assistant returned to the phone. “I’m sorry, Mr. Solomon is trying to get off a conference

call. Things are a little chaotic here this morning.”

“That’s not a problem. I can easily call back.”

“Actually, he asked me to fill you in on his reason for contacting you, if you don’t mind?”

“Of course not.”

The assistant inhaled deeply. “As you probably know, Professor, every year here in Washington, the board of

the Smithsonian hosts a private gala to thank our most generous supporters. Many of the country’s cultural

elite attend.”

Langdon knew his own bank account had too few zeros to qualify him as culturally elite, but he wondered if

maybe Solomon was going to invite him to attend nonetheless.

“This year, as is customary,” the assistant continued, “the dinner will be preceded by a keynote address.

We’ve been lucky enough to secure the National Statuary Hall for that speech.”

The best room in all of D.C., Langdon thought, recalling a political lecture he had once attended in the

dramatic semicircular hall. It was hard to forget five hundred folding chairs splayed in a perfect arc,

surrounded by thirty-eight life-size statues, in a room that had once served as the nation’s original House of

Representatives chamber.

“The problem is this,” the man said. “Our speaker has fallen ill and has just informed us she will be unable to

give the address.” He paused awkwardly. “This means we are desperate for a replacement speaker. And Mr.

Solomon is hoping you would consider filling in.”

Langdon did a double take. “Me?” This was not at all what he had expected. “I’m sure Peter could find a far

better substitute.”

“You’re Mr. Solomon’s first choice, Professor, and you’re being much too modest. The institution’s guests

would be thrilled to hear from you, and Mr. Solomon thought you could give the same lecture you gave on

Bookspan TV a few years back? That way, you wouldn’t have to prepare a thing. He said your talk involved

symbolism in the architecture of our nation’s capital—it sounds absolutely perfect for the venue.”

Langdon was not so sure. “If I recall, that lecture had more to do with the Masonic history of the building

than—”

“Exactly! As you know, Mr. Solomon is a Mason, as are many of his professional friends who will be in

attendance. I’m sure they would love to hear you speak on the topic.”

I admit it would be easy. Langdon had kept the lecture notes from every talk he’d ever given. “I suppose I

could consider it. What date is the event?”

The assistant cleared his throat, sounding suddenly uncomfortable. “Well, actually, sir, it’s tonight.”

Langdon laughed out loud. “Tonight?!”

“That’s why it’s so hectic here this morning. The Smithsonian is in a deeply embarrassing predicament . . .”

The assistant spoke more hurriedly now. “Mr. Solomon is ready to send a private jet to Boston for you. The

flight is only an hour, and you would be back home before midnight. You’re familiar with the private air

terminal at Boston’s Logan Airport?”

“I am,” Langdon admitted reluctantly. No wonder Peter always gets his way.

“Wonderful! Would you be willing to meet the jet there at say . . . five o’clock?”

“You haven’t left me much choice, have you?” Langdon chuckled.

“I just want to make Mr. Solomon happy, sir.”

Peter has that effect on people. Langdon considered it a long moment, seeing no way out. “All right. Tell

him I can do it.”

“Outstanding!” the assistant exclaimed, sounding deeply relieved. He gave Langdon the jet’s tail number and

various other information.

When Langdon finally hung up, he wondered if Peter Solomon had ever been told no.

Returning to his coffee preparation, Langdon scooped some additional beans into the grinder. A little extra

caffeine this morning, he thought. It’s going to be a long day.

CHAPTER 4

The U.S. Capitol Building stands regally at the eastern end of the National Mall, on a raised plateau that city designer Pierre L’Enfant described as “a pedestal waiting for a monument.” The Capitol’s massive footprint

measures more than 750 feet in length and 350 feet deep. Housing more than sixteen acres of floor space, it

contains an astonishing 541 rooms. The neoclassical architecture is meticulously designed to echo the

grandeur of ancient Rome, whose ideals were the inspiration for America’s founders in establishing the laws

and culture of the new republic.

The new security checkpoint for tourists entering the Capitol Building is located deep within the recently

completed subterranean visitor center, beneath a magnificent glass skylight that frames the Capitol Dome.

Newly hired security guard Alfonso Nuсez carefully studied the male visitor now approaching his

checkpoint. The man had a shaved head and had been lingering in the lobby, completing a phone call before

entering the building. His right arm was in a sling, and he moved with a slight limp. He was wearing a

tattered army-navy surplus coat, which, combined with his shaved head, made Nuсez guess military. Those

who had served in the U.S. armed forces were among the most common visitors to Washington.

“Good evening, sir,” Nuсez said, following the security protocol of verbally engaging any male visitor who

entered alone.

“Hello,” the visitor said, glancing around at the nearly deserted entry. “Quiet night.”

“NFC play-offs,” Nuсez replied. “Everyone’s watching the Redskins tonight.” Nuсez wished he were, too,

but this was his first month on the job, and he’d drawn the short straw. “Metal objects in the dish, please.”

As the visitor fumbled to empty the pockets of his long coat with his one working hand, Nuсez watched him

carefully. Human instinct made special allowances for the injured and handicapped, but it was an instinct

Nuсez had been trained to override.

Nuсez waited while the visitor removed from his pockets the usual assortment of loose change, keys, and a

couple of cell phones. “Sprain?” Nuсez asked, eyeing the man’s injured hand, which appeared to be wrapped

in a series of thick Ace bandages.

The bald man nodded. “Slipped on the ice. A week ago. Still hurts like hell.”

“Sorry to hear that. Walk through, please.”

The visitor limped through the detector, and the machine buzzed in protest.

The visitor frowned. “I was afraid of that. I’m wearing a ring under these bandages. My finger was too

swollen to get it off, so the doctors wrapped right over it.”

“No problem,” Nuсez said. “I’ll use the wand.”

Nuсez ran the metal-detection wand over the visitor’s wrapped hand. As expected, the only metal he detected

was a large lump on the man’s injured ring finger. Nuсez took his time rubbing the metal detector over every

inch of the man’s sling and finger. He knew his supervisor was probably monitoring him on the closed circuit

in the building’s security center, and Nuсez needed this job. Always better to be cautious. He carefully slid the wand up inside the man’s sling.

The visitor winced in pain.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” the man said. “You can’t be too careful these days.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Nuсez liked this guy. Strangely, that counted for a lot around here. Human instinct was

America’s first line of defense against terrorism. It was a proven fact that human intuition was a more

accurate detector of danger than all the electronic gear in the world—the gift of fear, as one of their security reference books termed it.

In this case, Nuсez’s instincts sensed nothing that caused him any fear. The only oddity that he noticed, now

that they were standing so close, was that this tough-looking guy appeared to have used some kind of self-

tanner or concealer makeup on his face. Whatever. Everyone hates to be pale in the winter.

“You’re fine,” Nuсez said, completing his sweep and stowing the wand.

“Thanks.” The man started collecting his belongings from the tray.

As he did, Nuсez noticed that the two fingers protruding from his bandage each bore a tattoo; the tip of his

index finger bore the image of a crown, and the tip of his thumb bore that of a star. Seems everyone has

tattoos these days, Nuсez thought, although the pads of his fingertips seemed like painful spots to get them.

“Those tats hurt?”

The man glanced down at his fingertips and chuckled. “Less than you might think.”

“Lucky,” Nuсez said. “Mine hurt a lot. I got a mermaid on my back when I was in boot camp.”

“A mermaid?” The bald man chuckled.

“Yeah,” he said, feeling sheepish. “The mistakes we make in our youth.”

“I hear you,” the bald man said. “I made a big mistake in my youth, too. Now I wake up with her every

morning.”

They both laughed as the man headed off.

Child’s play, Mal’akh thought as he moved past Nuсez and up the escalator toward the Capitol Building. The

entry had been easier than anticipated. Mal’akh’s slouching posture and padded belly had hidden his true

physique, while the makeup on his face and hands had hidden the tattoos that covered his body. The true

genius, however, was the sling, which disguised the potent object Mal’akh was transporting into the building.

A gift for the one man on earth who can help me obtain what I seek.

CHAPTER 5

The world’s largest and most technologically advanced museum is also one of the world’s best-kept secrets.

It houses more pieces than the Hermitage, the Vatican Museum, and the New York Metropolitan . . .

combined. Yet despite its magnificent collection, few members of the public are ever invited inside its

heavily guarded walls.

Located at 4210 Silver Hill Road just outside of Washington, D.C., the museum is a massive zigzag-shaped

edifice constructed of five interconnected pods—each pod larger than a football field. The building’s bluish

metal exterior barely hints at the strangeness within—a six-hundred-thousand-square-foot alien world that

contains a “dead zone,” a “wet pod,” and more than twelve miles of storage cabinets.

Tonight, scientist Katherine Solomon was feeling unsettled as she drove her white Volvo up to the building’s

main security gate.

The guard smiled. “Not a football fan, Ms. Solomon?” He lowered the volume on the Redskins play-off

pregame show.

Katherine forced a tense smile. “It’s Sunday night.”

“Oh, that’s right. Your meeting.”

“Is he here yet?” she asked anxiously.

He glanced down at his paperwork. “I don’t see him on the log.”

“I’m early.” Katherine gave a friendly wave and continued up the winding access road to her usual parking

spot at the bottom of the small, two-tiered lot. She began collecting her things and gave herself a quick check

in the rearview mirror—more out of force of habit than actual vanity.

Katherine Solomon had been blessed with the resilient Mediterranean skin of her ancestry, and even at fifty

years old she had a smooth olive complexion. She used almost no makeup and wore her thick black hair

unstyled and down. Like her older brother, Peter, she had gray eyes and a slender, patrician elegance.

You two might as well be twins, people often told them.

Their father had succumbed to cancer when Katherine was only seven, and she had little memory of him. Her

brother, eight years Katherine’s senior and only fifteen when their father died, had begun his journey toward

becoming the Solomon patriarch much sooner than anyone had ever dreamed. As expected, though, Peter had

grown into the role with the dignity and strength befitting their family name. To this day, he still watched

over Katherine as though they were just kids.

Despite her brother’s occasional prodding, and no shortage of suitors, Katherine had never married. Science

had become her life partner, and her work had proven more fulfilling and exciting than any man could ever

hope to be. Katherine had no regrets.

Her field of choice—Noetic Science—had been virtually unknown when she first heard of it, but in recent

years it had started opening new doors of understanding into the power of the human mind.

Our untapped potential is truly shocking.

Katherine’s two books on Noetics had established her as a leader in this obscure field, but her most recent

discoveries, when published, promised to make Noetic Science a topic of mainstream conversation around

the world.

Tonight, however, science was the last thing on her mind. Earlier in the day, she had received some truly

upsetting information relating to her brother. I still can’t believe it’s true. She’d thought of nothing else all afternoon.

A pattering of light rain drummed on her windshield, and Katherine quickly gathered her things to get inside.

She was about to step out of her car when her cell phone rang.

She checked the caller ID and inhaled deeply.

Then she tucked her hair behind her ears and settled in to take the call.

Six miles away, Mal’akh was moving through the corridors of the U.S. Capitol Building with a cell phone

pressed to his ear. He waited patiently as the line rang.

Finally, a woman’s voice answered. “Yes?”

“We need to meet again,” Mal’akh said.

There was a long pause. “Is everything all right?”

“I have new information,” Mal’akh said.

“Tell me.”

Mal’akh took a deep breath. “That which your brother believes is hidden in D.C. . . . ?”

“Yes?”

“It can be found.”

Katherine Solomon sounded stunned. “You’re telling me—it is real?”

Mal’akh smiled to himself. “Sometimes a legend that endures for centuries . . . endures for a reason.”

CHAPTER 6

Is this as close as you can get?” Robert Langdon felt a sudden wave of anxiety as his driver parked on First

Street, a good quarter mile from the Capitol Building.

“Afraid so,” the driver said. “Homeland Security. No vehicles near landmark buildings anymore. I’m sorry,

sir.”

Langdon checked his watch, startled to see it was already 6:50. A construction zone around the National Mall

had slowed them down, and his lecture was to begin in ten minutes.

“Weather’s turning,” the driver said, hopping out and opening Langdon’s door for him. “You’ll want to

hurry.” Langdon reached for his wallet to tip the driver, but the man waved him off. “Your host already

added a very generous tip to the charge.”

Typical Peter, Langdon thought, gathering his things. “Okay, thanks for the ride.”

The first few raindrops began to fall as Langdon reached the top of the gracefully arched concourse that

descended to the new “underground” visitors’ entrance.

The Capitol Visitor Center had been a costly and controversial project. Described as an underground city to

rival parts of Disney World, this subterranean space reportedly provided over a half-million square feet of

space for exhibits, restaurants, and meeting halls.

Langdon had been looking forward to seeing it, although he hadn’t anticipated quite this long a walk. The

skies were threatening to open at any moment, and he broke into a jog, his loafers offering almost no traction

on the wet cement. I dressed for a lecture, not a four-hundred-yard downhill dash through the rain!

When he arrived at the bottom, he was breathless and panting. Langdon pushed through the revolving door,

taking a moment in the foyer to catch his breath and brush off the rain. As he did, he raised his eyes to the

newly completed space before him.

Okay, I’m impressed.

The Capitol Visitor Center was not at all what he had expected. Because the space was underground,

Langdon had been apprehensive about passing through it. A childhood accident had left him stranded at the

bottom of a deep well overnight, and Langdon now lived with an almost crippling aversion to enclosed

spaces. But this underground space was . . . airy somehow. Light. Spacious.

The ceiling was a vast expanse of glass with a series of dramatic light fixtures that threw a muted glow across

the pearl-colored interior finishes.

Normally, Langdon would have taken a full hour in here to admire the architecture, but with five minutes

until showtime, he put his head down and dashed through the main hall toward the security checkpoint and

escalators. Relax, he told himself. Peter knows you’re on your way. The event won’t start without you.

At the security point, a young Hispanic guard chatted with him while Langdon emptied his pockets and

removed his vintage watch.

“Mickey Mouse?” the guard said, sounding mildly amused.

Langdon nodded, accustomed to the comments. The collector’s edition Mickey Mouse watch had been a gift

from his parents on his ninth birthday. “I wear it to remind me to slow down and take life less seriously.”

“I don’t think it’s working,” the guard said with a smile. “You look like you’re in a serious hurry.”

Langdon smiled and put his daybag through the X-ray machine. “Which way to the Statuary Hall?”

The guard motioned toward the escalators. “You’ll see the signs.”

“Thanks.” Langdon grabbed his bag off the conveyor and hurried on.

As the escalator ascended, Langdon took a deep breath and tried to gather his thoughts. He gazed up through

the rain-speckled glass ceiling at the mountainous form of the illuminated Capitol Dome overhead. It was an

astonishing building. High atop her roof, almost three hundred feet in the air, the Statue of Freedom peered

out into the misty darkness like a ghostly sentinel. Langdon always found it ironic that the workers who

hoisted each piece of the nineteen-and-a-half-foot bronze statue to her perch were slaves—a Capitol secret

that seldom made the syllabi of high school history classes.

This entire building, in fact, was a treasure trove of bizarre arcana that included a “killer bathtub” responsible

for the pneumonic murder of Vice President Henry Wilson, a staircase with a permanent bloodstain over

which an inordinate number of guests seemed to trip, and a sealed basement chamber in which workers in

1930 discovered General John Alexander Logan’s long-deceased stuffed horse.

No legends were as enduring, however, as the claims of thirteen different ghosts that haunted this building.

The spirit of city designer Pierre L’Enfant frequently was reported wandering the halls, seeking payment of

his bill, now two hundred years overdue. The ghost of a worker who fell from the Capitol Dome during

construction was seen wandering the corridors with a tray of tools. And, of course, the most famous

apparition of all, reported numerous times in the Capitol basement—an ephemeral black cat that prowled the

substructure’s eerie maze of narrow passageways and cubicles.

Langdon stepped off the escalator and again checked his watch. Three minutes. He hurried down the wide

corridor, following the signs toward the Statuary Hall and rehearsing his opening remarks in his head.

Langdon had to admit that Peter’s assistant had been correct; this lecture topic would be a perfect match for

an event hosted in Washington, D.C., by a prominent Mason.

It was no secret that D.C. had a rich Masonic history. The cornerstone of this very building had been laid in a

full Masonic ritual by George Washington himself. This city had been conceived and designed by Master

Masons—George Washington, Ben Franklin, and Pierre L’Enfant—powerful minds who adorned their new

capital with Masonic symbolism, architecture, and art.

Of course, people see in those symbols all kinds of crazy ideas.

Many conspiracy theorists claimed the Masonic forefathers had concealed powerful secrets throughout

Washington along with symbolic messages hidden in the city’s layout of streets. Langdon never paid any

attention. Misinformation about the Masons was so commonplace that even educated Harvard students

seemed to have surprisingly warped conceptions about the brotherhood.

Last year, a freshman had rushed wild-eyed into Langdon’s classroom with a printout from the Web. It was a

street map of D.C. on which certain streets had been highlighted to form various shapes—satanic pentacles, a

Masonic compass and square, the head of Baphomet—proof apparently that the Masons who designed

Washington, D.C., were involved in some kind of dark, mystical conspiracy.

“Fun,” Langdon said, “but hardly convincing. If you draw enough intersecting lines on a map, you’re bound

to find all kinds of shapes.”

“But this can’t be coincidence!” the kid exclaimed.

Langdon patiently showed the student that the same exact shapes could be formed on a street map of Detroit.

The kid seemed sorely disappointed.

“Don’t be disheartened,” Langdon said. “Washington does have some incredible secrets . . . just none on this

street map.”

The young man perked up. “Secrets? Like what?”

“Every spring I teach a course called Occult Symbols. I talk a lot about D.C. You should take the course.”

“Occult symbols!” The freshman looked excited again. “So there are devil symbols in D.C.!”

Langdon smiled. “Sorry, but the word occult, despite conjuring images of devil worship, actually means

‘hidden’ or ‘obscured.’ In times of religious oppression, knowledge that was counterdoctrinal had to be kept

hidden or ‘occult,’ and because the church felt threatened by this, they redefined anything ‘occult’ as evil,

and the prejudice survived.”

“Oh.” The kid slumped.

Nonetheless, that spring, Langdon spotted the freshman seated in the front row as five hundred students

bustled into Harvard’s Sanders Theatre, a hollow old lecture hall with creaking wooden benches.

“Good morning, everybody,” Langdon shouted from the expansive stage. He turned on a slide projector, and

an image materialized behind him. “As you’re getting settled, how many of you recognize the building in this

picture?”

“U.S. Capitol!” dozens of voices called out in unison. “Washington, D.C.!”

“Yes. There are nine million pounds of ironwork in that dome. An unparalleled feat of architectural ingenuity

for the 1850s.”

“Awesome!” somebody shouted.

Langdon rolled his eyes, wishing somebody would ban that word. “Okay, and how many of you have ever

been to Washington?”

A scattering of hands went up.

“So few?” Langdon feigned surprise. “And how many of you have been to Rome, Paris, Madrid, or

London?”

Almost all the hands in the room went up.

As usual. One of the rites of passage for American college kids was a summer with a Eurorail ticket before

the harsh reality of real life set in. “It appears many more of you have visited Europe than have visited your

own capital. Why do you think that is?”

“No drinking age in Europe!” someone in back shouted.

Langdon smiled. “As if the drinking age here stops any of you?”

Everyone laughed.

It was the first day of school, and the students were taking longer than usual to get settled, shifting and

creaking in their wooden pews. Langdon loved teaching in this hall because he always knew how engaged

the students were simply by listening to how much they fidgeted in their pews.

“Seriously,” Langdon said, “Washington, D.C., has some of the world’s finest architecture, art, and

symbolism. Why would you go overseas before visiting your own capital?”

“Ancient stuff is cooler,” someone said.

“And by ancient stuff,” Langdon clarified, “I assume you mean castles, crypts, temples, that sort of thing?”

Their heads nodded in unison.

“Okay. Now, what if I told you that Washington, D.C., has every one of those things? Castles, crypts,

pyramids, temples . . . it’s all there.”

The creaking diminished.

“My friends,” Langdon said, lowering his voice and moving to the front of the stage, “in the next hour, you

will discover that our nation is overflowing with secrets and hidden history. And exactly as in Europe, all of

the best secrets are hidden in plain view.”

The wooden pews fell dead silent.

Gotcha.

Langdon dimmed the lights and called up his second slide. “Who can tell me what George Washington is

doing here?”

The slide was a famous mural depicting George Washington dressed in full Masonic regalia standing before

an odd-looking contraption—a giant wooden tripod that supported a rope-and-pulley system from which was

suspended a massive block of stone. A group of well-dressed onlookers stood around him.

“Lifting that big block of stone?” someone ventured.

Langdon said nothing, preferring that a student make the correction if possible.

“Actually,” another student offered, “I think Washington is lowering the rock. He’s wearing a Masonic

costume. I’ve seen pictures of Masons laying cornerstones before. The ceremony always uses that tripod

thing to lower the first stone.”

“Excellent,” Langdon said. “The mural portrays the Father of Our Country using a tripod and pulley to lay

the cornerstone of our Capitol Building on September 18, 1793, between the hours of eleven fifteen and

twelve thirty.” Langdon paused, scanning the class. “Can anyone tell me the significance of that date and

time?”

Silence.

“What if I told you that precise moment was chosen by three famous Masons—George Washington,

Benjamin Franklin, and Pierre L’Enfant, the primary architect for D.C.?”

More silence.

“Quite simply, the cornerstone was set at that date and time because, among other things, the auspicious

Caput Draconis was in Virgo.”

Everyone exchanged odd looks.

“Hold on,” someone said. “You mean . . . like astrology?”

“Exactly. Although a different astrology than we know today.”

A hand went up. “You mean our Founding Fathers believed in astrology?”

Langdon grinned. “Big-time. What would you say if I told you the city of Washington, D.C., has more

astrological signs in its architecture than any other city in the world—zodiacs, star charts, cornerstones laid at precise astrological dates and times? More than half of the framers of our Constitution were Masons, men

who strongly believed that the stars and fate were intertwined, men who paid close attention to the layout of

the heavens as they structured their new world.”

“But that whole thing about the Capitol cornerstone being laid while Caput Draconis was in Virgo—who

cares? Can’t that just be coincidence?”

“An impressive coincidence considering that the cornerstones of the three structures that make up Federal

Triangle—the Capitol, the White House, the Washington Monument—were all laid in different years but

were carefully timed to occur under this exact same astrological condition.”

Langdon’s gaze was met by a room full of wide eyes. A number of heads dipped down as students began

taking notes.

A hand in back went up. “Why did they do that?”

Langdon chuckled. “The answer to that is an entire semester’s worth of material. If you’re curious, you

should take my mysticism course. Frankly, I don’t think you guys are emotionally prepared to hear the

answer.”

“What?” the person shouted. “Try us!”

Langdon made a show of considering it and then shook his head, toying with them. “Sorry, I can’t do that.

Some of you are only freshmen. I’m afraid it might blow your minds.”

“Tell us!” everyone shouted.

Langdon shrugged. “Perhaps you should join the Masons or Eastern Star and learn about it from the source.”

“We can’t get in,” a young man argued. “The Masons are like a supersecret society!”

“Supersecret? Really?” Langdon remembered the large Masonic ring that his friend Peter Solomon wore

proudly on his right hand. “Then why do Masons wear obvious Masonic rings, tie clips, or pins? Why are

Masonic buildings clearly marked? Why are their meeting times in the newspaper?” Langdon smiled at all

the puzzled faces. “My friends, the Masons are not a secret society . . . they are a society with secrets.”

“Same thing,” someone muttered.

“Is it?” Langdon challenged. “Would you consider Coca-Cola a secret society?”

“Of course not,” the student said.

“Well, what if you knocked on the door of corporate headquarters and asked for the recipe for Classic

Coke?”

“They’d never tell you.”

“Exactly. In order to learn Coca-Cola’s deepest secret, you would need to join the company, work for many

years, prove you were trustworthy, and eventually rise to the upper echelons of the company, where that

information might be shared with you. Then you would be sworn to secrecy.”

“So you’re saying Freemasonry is like a corporation?” “Only insofar as they have a strict hierarchy and they

take secrecy very seriously.”

“My uncle is a Mason,” a young woman piped up. “And my aunt hates it because he won’t talk about it with

her. She says Masonry is some kind of strange religion.”

“A common misperception.”

“It’s not a religion?”

“Give it the litmus test,” Langdon said. “Who here has taken Professor Witherspoon’s comparative religion

course?”

Several hands went up.

“Good. So tell me, what are the three prerequisites for an ideology to be considered a religion?”

“ABC,” one woman offered. “Assure, Believe, Convert.”

“Correct,” Langdon said. “Religions assure salvation; religions believe in a precise theology; and religions convert nonbelievers.” He paused. “Masonry, however, is batting zero for three. Masons make no promises

of salvation; they have no specific theology; and they do not seek to convert you. In fact, within Masonic

lodges, discussions of religion are prohibited.”

“So . . . Masonry is anti religious?”

“On the contrary. One of the prerequisites for becoming a Mason is that you must believe in a higher power.

The difference between Masonic spirituality and organized religion is that the Masons do not impose a

specific definition or name on a higher power. Rather than definitive theological identities like God, Allah,

Buddha, or Jesus, the Masons use more general terms like Supreme Being or Great Architect of the Universe.

This enables Masons of different faiths to gather together.”

“Sounds a little far-out,” someone said.

“Or, perhaps, refreshingly open-minded?” Langdon offered. “In this age when different cultures are killing

each other over whose definition of God is better, one could say the Masonic tradition of tolerance and open-

mindedness is commendable.” Langdon paced the stage. “ Moreover, Masonry is open to men of all races,

colors, and creeds, and provides a spiritual fraternity that does not discriminate in any way.”

“Doesn’t discriminate?” A member of the university’s Women’s Center stood up. “How many women are

permitted to be Masons, Professor Langdon?”

Langdon showed his palms in surrender. “A fair point. Freemasonry had its roots, traditionally, in the stone

masons’ guilds of Europe and was therefore a man’s organization. Several hundred years ago, some say as

early as 1703, a women’s branch called Eastern Star was founded. They have more than a million members.”

“Nonetheless,” the woman said, “Masonry is a powerful organization from which women are excluded.”

Langdon was not sure how powerful the Masons really were anymore, and he was not going to go down that

road; perceptions of the modern Masons ranged from their being a group of harmless old men who liked to

play dress-up . . . all the way to an underground cabal of power brokers who ran the world. The truth, no

doubt, was somewhere in the middle.

“Professor Langdon,” called a young man with curly hair in the back row, “if Masonry is not a secret society,

not a corporation, and not a religion, then what is it?”

“Well, if you were to ask a Mason, he would offer the following definition: Masonry is a system of morality,

veiled in allegory and illustrated by symbols.”

“Sounds to me like a euphemism for ‘freaky cult.’ ”

“Freaky, you say?”

“Hell yes!” the kid said, standing up. “I heard what they do inside those secret buildings! Weird candlelight

rituals with coffins, and nooses, and drinking wine out of skulls. Now that’s freaky!”

Langdon scanned the class. “Does that sound freaky to anyone else?”

“Yes!” they all chimed in.

Langdon feigned a sad sigh. “Too bad. If that’s too freaky for you, then I know you’ll never want to join my

cult.”

Silence settled over the room. The student from the Women’s Center looked uneasy. “You’re in a cult?”

Langdon nodded and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t tell anyone, but on the pagan day

of the sun god Ra, I kneel at the foot of an ancient instrument of torture and consume ritualistic symbols of

blood and flesh.”

The class looked horrified.

Langdon shrugged. “And if any of you care to join me, come to the Harvard chapel on Sunday, kneel beneath

the crucifix, and take Holy Communion.”

The classroom remained silent.

Langdon winked. “Open your minds, my friends. We all fear what we do not understand.”

The tolling of a clock began echoing through the Capitol corridors.

Seven o’clock.

Robert Langdon was now running. Talk about a dramatic entrance. Passing through the House Connecting

Corridor, he spotted the entrance to the National Statuary Hall and headed straight for it.

As he neared the door, he slowed to a nonchalant stroll and took several deep breaths. Buttoning his jacket,

he lifted his chin ever so slightly and turned the corner just as the final chime sounded.

Showtime.

As Professor Robert Langdon strode into the National Statuary Hall, he raised his eyes and smiled warmly.

An instant later, his smile evaporated. He stopped dead in his tracks.

Something was very, very wrong.

CHAPTER 7

Katherine Solomon hurried across the parking lot through the cold rain, wishing she had worn more than

jeans and a cashmere sweater. As she neared the building’s main entrance, the roar of the giant air purifiers

got louder. She barely heard them, her ears still ringing from the phone call she’d just received.

That which your brother believes is hidden in D.C. . . . it can be found.

Katherine found the notion almost impossible to believe. She and the caller still had much to discuss and had

agreed to do so later that evening.

Reaching the main doors, she felt the same sense of excitement she always felt upon entering the gargantuan

building. Nobody knows this place is here.

The sign on the door announced:

SMITHSONIAN MUSEUM

SUPPORT CENTER

(SMSC)

The Smithsonian Institution, despite having more than a dozen massive museums on the National Mall, had a

collection so huge that only 2 percent of it could be on display at any one time. The other 98 percent of the

collection had to be stored somewhere. And that somewhere . . . was here.

Not surprisingly, this building was home to an astonishingly diverse array of artifacts—giant Buddhas,

handwritten codices, poisoned darts from New Guinea, jewel-encrusted knives, a kayak made of baleen.

Equally mind-boggling were the building’s natural treasures—plesiosaur skeletons, a priceless meteorite

collection, a giant squid, even a collection of elephant skulls brought back from an African safari by Teddy

Roosevelt.

But none of this was why the Smithsonian secretary, Peter Solomon, had introduced his sister to the SMSC

three years ago. He had brought her to this place not to behold scientific marvels, but rather to create them.

And that was exactly what Katherine had been doing.

Deep within this building, in the darkness of the most remote recesses, was a small scientific laboratory

unlike any other in the world. The recent breakthroughs Katherine had made here in the field of Noetic

Science had ramifications across every discipline—from physics, to history, to philosophy, to religion. Soon

everything will change, she thought.

As Katherine entered the lobby, the front desk guard quickly stashed his radio and yanked the earplugs from

his ears. “Ms. Solomon!” He smiled broadly.

“Redskins?”

He blushed, looking guilty. “Pregame.”

She smiled. “I won’t tell.” She walked to the metal detector and emptied her pockets. When she slid the gold

Cartier watch from her wrist, she felt the usual pang of sadness. The timepiece had been a gift from her

mother for Katherine’s eighteenth birthday. Almost ten years had now passed since her mother had died

violently . . . passing away in Katherine’s arms.

“So, Ms. Solomon?” the guard whispered jokingly. “Are you ever gonna tell anybody what you’re doing

back there?”

She glanced up. “Someday, Kyle. Not tonight.”

“Come on,” he pressed. “A secret lab . . . in a secret museum? You must be doing something cool.”

Miles beyond cool, Katherine thought as she collected her things. The truth was that Katherine was doing

science so advanced that it no longer even resembled science.

CHAPTER 8

Robert Langdon stood frozen in the doorway of the National Statuary Hall and studied the startling scene

before him. The room was precisely as he remembered it—a balanced semicircle built in the style of a Greek

amphitheater. The graceful arched walls of sandstone and Italian plaster were punctuated by columns of

variegated breccia, interspersed with the nation’s statuary collection—life-size statues of thirty-eight great

Americans standing in a semicircle on a stark expanse of black-and-white marble tile.

It was exactly as Langdon had recalled from the lecture he had once attended here.

Except for one thing.

Tonight, the room was empty.

No chairs. No audience. No Peter Solomon. Just a handful of tourists milling around aimlessly, oblivious to

Langdon’s grand entrance. Did Peter mean the Rotunda? He peered down the south corridor toward the

Rotunda and could see tourists milling around in there, too.

The echoes of the clock chime had faded. Langdon was now officially late.

He hurried back into the hallway and found a docent. “Excuse me, the lecture for the Smithsonian event

tonight? Where is that being held?”

The docent hesitated. “I’m not sure, sir. When does it start?”

“Now!”

The man shook his head. “I don’t know about any Smithsonian event this evening—not here, at least.”

Bewildered, Langdon hurried back toward the center of the room, scanning the entire space. Is Solomon

playing some kind of joke? Langdon couldn’t imagine it. He pulled out his cell phone and the fax page from

this morning and dialed Peter’s number.

His phone took a moment to locate a signal inside the enormous building. Finally, it began to ring.

The familiar southern accent answered. “Peter Solomon’s office, this is Anthony. May I help you?”

“Anthony!” Langdon said with relief. “I’m glad you’re still there. This is Robert Langdon. There seems to be

some confusion about the lecture. I’m standing in the Statuary Hall, but there’s nobody here. Has the lecture

been moved to a different room?”

“I don’t believe so, sir. Let me check.” His assistant paused a moment. “Did you confirm with Mr. Solomon

directly?”

Langdon was confused. “No, I confirmed with you, Anthony. This morning!”

“Yes, I recall that.” There was a silence on the line. “That was a bit careless of you, don’t you think,

Professor?”

Langdon was now fully alert. “I beg your pardon?”

“Consider this . . .” the man said. “You received a fax asking you to call a number, which you did. You spoke

to a total stranger who said he was Peter Solomon’s assistant. Then you willingly boarded a private plane to

Washington and climbed into a waiting car. Is that right?”

Langdon felt a chill race through his body. “Who the hell is this? Where is Peter?”

“I’m afraid Peter Solomon has no idea you’re in Washington today.” The man’s southern accent disappeared,

and his voice morphed into a deeper, mellifluous whisper. “You are here, Mr. Langdon, because I want you

here.”

CHAPTER 9

Inside the Statuary Hall, Robert Langdon clutched his cell phone to his ear and paced in a tight circle. “Who

the hell are you?”

The man’s reply was a silky calm whisper. “Do not be alarmed, Professor. You have been summoned here

for a reason.”

“Summoned?” Langdon felt like a caged animal. “Try kidnapped!”

“Hardly.” The man’s voice was eerily serene. “If I wanted to harm you, you would be dead in your Town Car

right now.” He let the words hang for a moment. “My intentions are purely noble, I assure you. I would

simply like to offer you an invitation.”

No thanks. Ever since his experiences in Europe over the last several years, Langdon’s unwanted celebrity

had made him a magnet for nut-cases, and this one had just crossed a very serious line. “Look, I don’t know

what the hell is going on here, but I’m hanging up—”

“Unwise,” said the man. “Your window of opportunity is very small if you want to save Peter Solomon’s

soul.”

Langdon drew a sharp breath. “What did you say?”

“I’m sure you heard me.”

The way this man had uttered Peter’s name had stopped Langdon cold. “What do you know about Peter?”

“At this point, I know his deepest secrets. Mr. Solomon is my guest, and I can be a persuasive host.”

This can’t be happening. “You don’t have Peter.”

“I answered his private cell phone. That should give you pause.”

“I’m calling the police.”

“No need,” the man said. “The authorities will join you momentarily.”

What is this lunatic talking about? Langdon’s tone hardened. “If you have Peter, put him on the phone right

now.” “

“That’s impossible. Mr. Solomon is trapped in an unfortunate place.” The man paused. “He is in the Araf.”

“Where?” Langdon realized he was clutching his phone so tightly his fingers were going numb.

“The Araf? Hamistagan? That place to which Dante devoted the canticle immediately following his

legendary Inferno?”

The man’s religious and literary references solidified Langdon’s suspicion that he was dealing with a

madman. The second canticle. Langdon knew it well; nobody escaped Phillips Exeter Academy without

reading Dante. “You’re saying you think Peter Solomon is . . . in purgatory?”

“A crude word you Christians use, but yes, Mr. Solomon is in the in-between.”

The man’s words hung in Langdon’s ear. “Are you saying Peter is . . . dead?”

“Not exactly, no.”

“Not exactly?!” Langdon yelled, his voice echoing sharply in the hall. A family of tourists looked over at

him. He turned away and lowered his voice. “Death is usually an all-or-nothing thing!”

“You surprise me, Professor. I expected you to have a better understanding of the mysteries of life and death.

There is a world in between—a world in which Peter Solomon is hovering at the moment. He can either

return to your world, or he can move on to the next . . . depending on your actions right now.”

Langdon tried to process this. “What do you want from me?”

“It’s simple. You have been given access to something quite ancient. And tonight, you will share it with me.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“No? You pretend not to understand the ancient secrets that have been entrusted to you?”

Langdon felt a sudden sinking sensation, now guessing what this was probably about. Ancient secrets. He

had not uttered a word to anyone about his experiences in Paris several years earlier, but Grail fanatics had

followed the media coverage closely, some connecting the dots and believing Langdon was now privy to

secret information regarding the Holy Grail—perhaps even its location.

“Look,” Langdon said, “if this is about the Holy Grail, I can assure you I know nothing more than—”

“Don’t insult my intelligence, Mr. Langdon,” the man snapped. “I have no interest in anything so frivolous as

the Holy Grail or mankind’s pathetic debate over whose version of history is correct. Circular arguments

over the semantics of faith hold no interest for me. Those are questions answered only through death.”

The stark words left Langdon confused. “Then what the hell is this about?”

The man paused for several seconds. “As you may know, there exists within this city an ancient portal.”

An ancient portal?

“And tonight, Professor, you will unlock it for me. You should be honored I contacted you—this is the

invitation of your lifetime. You alone have been chosen.”

And you have lost your mind. “I’m sorry, but you’ve chosen poorly,” Langdon said. “I don’t know anything

about any ancient portal.”

“You don’t understand, Professor. It was not I who chose you . . . it was Peter Solomon.”

“What?” Langdon replied, his voice barely a whisper.

“Mr. Solomon told me how to find the portal, and he confessed to me that only one man on earth could

unlock it. And he said that man is you.”

“If Peter said that, he was mistaken . . . or lying.”

“I think not. He was in a fragile state when he confessed that fact, and I am inclined to believe him.”

Langdon felt a stab of anger. “I’m warning you, if you hurt Peter in any—”

“It’s far too late for that, ” the man said in an amused tone. “I’ve already taken what I need from Peter

Solomon. But for his sake, I suggest you provide what I need from you. Time is of the essence . . . for both of you. I suggest you find the portal and unlock it. Peter will point the way.”

Peter? “I thought you said Peter was in ‘purgatory.’”

“As above, so below,” the man said.

Langdon felt a deepening chill. This strange response was an ancient Hermetic adage that proclaimed a belief

in the physical connection between heaven and earth. As above, so below. Langdon eyed the vast room and

wondered how everything had veered so suddenly out of control tonight. “Look, I don’t know how to find

any ancient portal. I’m calling the police.”

“It really hasn’t dawned on you yet, has it? Why you were chosen?”

“No,” Langdon said.

“It will, ” he replied, chuckling. “Any moment now.”

Then the line went dead.

Langdon stood rigid for several terrifying moments, trying to process what had just happened.

Suddenly, in the distance, he heard an unexpected sound.

It was coming from the Rotunda.

Someone was screaming.

CHAPTER 10

Robert Langdon had entered the Capitol Rotunda many times in his life, but never at a full sprint. As he ran

through the north entrance, he spotted a group of tourists clustered in the center of the room. A small boy was

screaming, and his parents were trying to console him. Others were crowding around, and several security

guards were doing their best to restore order.

“He pulled it out of his sling,” someone said frantically, “and just left it there!”

As Langdon drew nearer, he got his first glimpse of what was causing all the commotion. Admittedly, the

object on the Capitol floor was odd, but its presence hardly warranted screaming.

The device on the floor was one Langdon had seen many times. The Harvard art department had dozens of

these—life-size plastic models used by sculptors and painters to help them render the human body’s most

complex feature, which, surprisingly, was not the human face but rather the human hand. Someone left a

mannequin hand in the Rotunda?

Mannequin hands, or handequins as some called them, had articulated fingers enabling an artist to pose the

hand in whatever position he wanted, which for sophomoric college students was often with the middle

finger extended straight up in the air. This handequin, however, had been positioned with its index finger and

thumb pointing up toward the ceiling.

As Langdon drew nearer, though, he realized this handequin was unusual. Its plastic surface was not smooth

like most. Instead, the surface was mottled and slightly wrinkled, and appeared almost . . .

Like real skin.

Langdon stopped abruptly.

Now he saw the blood. My God!

The severed wrist appeared to have been skewered onto a spiked wooden base so that it would stand up. A

wave of nausea rushed over him. Langdon inched closer, unable to breathe, seeing now that the tips of the

index finger and thumb had been decorated with tiny tattoos. The tattoos, however, were not what held

Langdon’s attention. His gaze moved instantly to the familiar golden ring on the fourth finger.

No.

Langdon recoiled. His world began to spin as he realized he was looking at the severed right hand of Peter

Solomon.

CHAPTER 11

Why isn’t Peter answering? Katherine Solomon wondered as she hung up her cell phone. Where is he?

For three years, Peter Solomon had always been the first to arrive for their weekly seven P.M. Sunday-night

meetings. It was their private family ritual, a way to remain connected before the start of a new week, and for

Peter to stay up-to-date on Katherine’s work at the lab.

He’s never late, she thought, and he always answers his phone. To make matters worse, Katherine was still not sure what she was going to say to him when he did finally arrive. How do I even begin to ask him about what I found out today?

Her footsteps clicked rhythmically down the cement corridor that ran like a spine through the SMSC. Known

as “The Street,” the corridor connected the building’s five massive storage pods. Forty feet overhead, a

circulatory system of orange ductwork throbbed with the heartbeat of the building—the pulsing sounds of

thousands of cubic feet of filtered air being circulated.

Normally, during her nearly quarter-mile walk to her lab, Katherine felt calmed by the breathing sounds of

the building. Tonight, however, the pulsing had her on edge. What she had learned about her brother today

would have troubled anyone, and yet because Peter was the only family she had in the world, Katherine felt

especially disturbed to think he might be keeping secrets from her.

As far as she knew, he had kept a secret from her only once . . . a wonderful secret that was hidden at the end of this very hallway. Three years ago, her brother had walked Katherine down this corridor, introducing her

to the SMSC by proudly showing off some of the building’s more unusual items—the Mars meteorite ALH-

84001, the handwritten pictographic diary of Sitting Bull, a collection of wax-sealed Ball jars containing

original specimens collected by Charles Darwin.

At one point, they walked past a heavy door with a small window. Katherine caught a glimpse of what lay

beyond and gasped. “What in the world is that?!”

Her brother chuckled and kept walking. “Pod Three. It’s called Wet Pod. Pretty unusual sight, isn’t it?”

Terrifying is more like it. Katherine hurried after him. This building was like another planet .

“What I really want to show you is in Pod Five,” her brother said, guiding her down the seemingly endless

corridor. “It’s our newest addition. It was built to house artifacts from the basement of the National Museum

of Natural History. That collection is scheduled for relocation here in about five years, which means Pod

Five is sitting empty at the moment.”

Katherine glanced over. “Empty? So why are we looking at it?”

Her brother’s gray eyes flashed a familiar mischief. “It occurred to me that because nobody is using the

space, maybe you could use it.”

“Me?”

“Sure. I thought maybe you could use a dedicated lab space—a facility where you can actually perform some

of the theoretical experiments you’ve been developing for all these years.”

Katherine stared at her brother in shock. “But, Peter, those experiments are theoretical! To actually perform them would be almost impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible, Katherine, and this building is perfect for you. The SMSC is not just a warehouse of

treasures; it’s one of the world’s most advanced scientific research facilities. We’re constantly taking pieces

from the collection and examining them with the best quantitative technologies money can buy. All the

equipment you could possibly need would be here at your disposal.”

“Peter, the technologies required to run these experiments are—”

“Already in place.” He smiled broadly. “The lab is done.”

Katherine stopped short.

Her brother pointed down the long corridor. “We’re going to see it now.”

Katherine could barely speak. “You . . . you built me a lab?”

“It’s my job. The Smithsonian was established to advance scientific knowledge. As secretary, I must take

that charge seriously. I believe the experiments you’ve proposed have the potential to push the boundaries of

science into uncharted territory.” Peter stopped and looked her squarely in the eyes. “Whether or not you

were my sister, I would feel obliged to support this research. Your ideas are brilliant. The world deserves to

see where they lead.”

“Peter, I can’t possibly—”

“Okay, relax . . . it was my own money, and nobody’s using Pod Five right now. When you’re done with

your experiments, you’ll move out. Besides, Pod Five has some unique properties that will be perfect for

your work.”

Katherine could not imagine what a massive, empty pod might offer that would serve her research, but she

sensed she was about to find out. They had just reached a steel door with boldly stenciled letters:

POD 5

Her brother inserted his key card into a slot and an electronic keypad lit up. He raised his finger to type his

access code, but paused, arching his eyebrows in the same mischievous way he always had as a boy. “You

sure you’re ready?”

She nodded. My brother, always the showman.

“Stand back.” Peter hit the keys.

The steel door hissed loudly open.

Beyond the threshold was only inky blackness . . . a yawning void. A hollow moan seemed to echo out of the

depths. Katherine felt a cold blast of air emanating from within. It was like staring into the Grand Canyon at

night.

“Picture an empty airline hangar waiting for a fleet of Airbuses,” her brother said, “and you get the basic

idea.”

Katherine felt herself take a step backward.

“The pod itself is far too voluminous to be heated, but your lab is a thermally insulated cinder-block room,

roughly a cube, located in the farthest corner of the pod for maximum separation.”

Katherine tried to picture it. A box inside a box. She strained to see into the darkness, but it was absolute.

“How far back?”

“Pretty far . . . a football field would fit easily in here. I should warn you, though, the walk is a little

unnerving. It’s exceptionally dark.”

Katherine peered tentatively around the corner. “No light switch?”

“Pod Five is not yet wired for electricity.”

“But . . . then how can a lab function?”

He winked. “Hydrogen fuel cell.”

Katherine’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Enough clean power to run a small town. Your lab enjoys full radio-frequency separation from the rest of

the building. What’s more, all pod exteriors are sealed with photo-resistant membranes to protect the artifacts

inside from solar radiation. Essentially, this pod is a sealed, energy-neutral environment.”

Katherine was starting to comprehend the appeal of Pod 5. Because much of her work centered on

quantifying previously unknown energy fields, her experiments needed to be performed in a location isolated

from any extraneous radiation or “white noise.” This included interference as subtle as “brain radiation” or

“thought emissions” generated by people nearby. For this reason, a university campus or hospital lab

wouldn’t work, but a deserted pod at the SMSC could not have been more perfect.

“Let’s go back and have a look.” Her brother was grinning as he stepped into the vast darkness. “Just follow

me.”

Katherine stalled at the threshold. Over a hundred yards in total darkness? She wanted to suggest a

flashlight, but her brother had already disappeared into the abyss.

“Peter?” she called.

“Leap of faith,” he called back, his voice already fading away. “You’ll find your way. Trust me.”

He’s kidding, right? Katherine’s heart was pounding as she stepped a few feet over the threshold, trying to

peer into the darkness. I can’t see a thing! Suddenly the steel door hissed and slammed shut behind her,

plunging her into total blackness. Not a speck of light anywhere. “Peter?!”

Silence.

You’ll find your way. Trust me.

Tentative, she inched forward blindly. Leap of faith? Katherine could not even see her hand directly in front of her face. She kept moving forward, but within a matter of seconds, she was entirely lost. Where am I

going?

That was three years ago.

Now, as Katherine arrived at the same heavy metal door, she realized how far she had come since that first

night. Her lab—nicknamed the Cube—had become her home, a sanctuary within the depths of Pod 5.

Exactly as her brother had predicted, she had found her way through the darkness that night, and every day

since—thanks to an ingeniously simple guidance system that her brother had let her discover for herself.

Far more important, her brother’s other prediction had come true as well: Katherine’s experiments had

produced astonishing results, particularly in the last six months, breakthroughs that would alter entire

paradigms of thinking. Katherine and her brother had agreed to keep her results absolutely secret until the

implications were more fully understood. One day soon, however, Katherine knew she would publish some

of the most transformative scientific revelations in human history.

A secret lab in a secret museum, she thought, inserting her key card into the Pod 5 door. The keypad lit up, and Katherine typed her PIN.

The steel door hissed open.

The familiar hollow moan was accompanied by the same blast of cold air. As always, Katherine felt her pulse

rate start to climb.

Strangest commute on earth.

Steeling herself for the journey, Katherine Solomon glanced at her watch as she stepped into the void.

Tonight, however, a troubled thought followed her inside. Where is Peter?

CHAPTER 12

Capitol police chief Trent Anderson had overseen security in the U.S. Capitol Complex for over a decade. A

burly, square-chested man with a chiseled face and red hair, he kept his hair cropped in a buzz cut, giving

him an air of military authority. He wore a visible sidearm as a warning to anyone foolish enough to question

the extent of his authority.

Anderson spent the majority of his time coordinating his small army of police officers from a high-tech

surveillance center in the basement of the Capitol. Here he oversaw a staff of technicians who watched visual

monitors, computer readouts, and a telephone switchboard that kept him in contact with the many security

personnel he commanded.

This evening had been unusually quiet, and Anderson was pleased. He had been hoping to catch a bit of the

Redskins game on the flat-panel television in his office. The game had just kicked off when his intercom

buzzed.

“Chief?”

Anderson groaned and kept his eyes on the television as he pressed the button. “Yeah.”

“We’ve got some kind of disturbance in the Rotunda. I’ve got officers arriving now, but I think you’ll want

to have a look.”

“Right.” Anderson walked into the security nerve center—a compact, neomodern facility packed with

computer monitors. “What have you got?”

The technician was cueing a digital video clip on his monitor. “Rotunda east balcony camera. Twenty

seconds ago.” He played the clip.

Anderson watched over the technician’s shoulder.

The Rotunda was almost deserted today, dotted with just a few tourists. Anderson’s trained eye went

immediately to the one person who was alone and moving faster than all the others. Shaved head. Green

army-surplus jacket. Injured arm in a sling. Slight limp. Slouched posture. Talking on a cell phone.

The bald man’s footfalls echoed crisply on the audio feed until, suddenly, arriving at the exact center of the

Rotunda, he stopped short, ended his phone call, and then knelt down as if to tie his shoe. But instead of

tying a shoe, he pulled something out of his sling and set it on the floor. Then he stood up and limped briskly

toward the east exit.

Anderson eyed the oddly shaped object the man had left behind. What in the world? It was about eight inches

tall and standing vertically. Anderson crouched closer to the screen and squinted. That can’t be what it looks

like!

As the bald man hurried off, disappearing through the east portico, a little boy nearby could be heard saying,

“Mommy, that man dropped something.” The boy drifted toward the object but suddenly stopped short. After

a long, motionless beat, he pointed and let out a deafening scream.

Instantly, the police chief spun and ran for the door, barking orders as he went. “Radio all points! Find the

bald guy with the sling and detain him! NOW!”

Dashing out of the security center, he bounded up the treads of the well-worn staircase three at a time. The

security feed had shown the bald man with the sling leave the Rotunda via the east portico. The shortest route

out of the building would therefore take him through the east-west corridor, which was just ahead.

I can head him off.

As he reached the top of the stairs and rounded the corner, Anderson surveyed the quiet hallway before him.

An elderly couple strolled at the far end, hand in hand. Nearby, a blond tourist wearing a blue blazer was

reading a guidebook and studying the mosaic ceiling outside the House chamber.

“Excuse me, sir!” Anderson barked, running toward him. “Have you seen a bald man with a sling on his

arm?”

The man looked up from his book with a confused expression.

“A bald man with a sling!” Anderson repeated more firmly. “Have you seen him?”

The tourist hesitated and glanced nervously toward the far eastern end of the hallway. “Uh . . . yes,” he said.

“I think he just ran past me . . . to that staircase over there.” He pointed down the hall.

Anderson pulled out his radio and yelled into it. “All points! The suspect is headed for the southeast exit.

Converge!” He stowed the radio and yanked his sidearm from its holster, running toward the exit.

Thirty seconds later, at a quiet exit on the east side of the Capitol, the powerfully built blond man in the blue

blazer stepped into the damp night air. He smiled, savoring the coolness of the evening.

Transformation.

It had been so easy.

Only a minute ago he had limped quickly out of the Rotunda in an army-surplus coat. Stepping into a

darkened alcove, he shed his coat, revealing the blue blazer he wore underneath. Before abandoning his

surplus jacket, he pulled a blond wig from the pocket and fit it snugly on his head. Then he stood up straight,

pulled a slim Washington guidebook from his blazer, and stepped calmly from the niche with an elegant gait.

Transformation. This is my gift.

As Mal’akh’s mortal legs carried him toward his waiting limousine, he arched his back, standing to his full

six-foot-three height and throwing back his shoulders. He inhaled deeply, letting the air fill his lungs. He

could feel the wings of the tattooed phoenix on his chest opening wide.

If they only knew my power, he thought, gazing out at the city. Tonight my transformation will be complete.

Mal’akh had played his cards artfully within the Capitol Building, showing obeisance to all the ancient

etiquettes. The ancient invitation has been delivered. If Langdon had not yet grasped his role here tonight, soon he would.

CHAPTER 13

For Robert Langdon, the Capitol Rotunda—like St. Peter's Basilica—always had a way of taking him by

surprise. Intellectually, he knew the room was so large that the Statue of Liberty could stand comfortably

inside it, but somehow the Rotunda always felt larger and more hallowed than he anticipated, as if there were

spirits in the air. Tonight, however, there was only chaos.

Capitol police officers were sealing the Rotunda while attempting to herd distraught tourists away from the

hand. The little boy was still crying. A bright light flashed—a tourist taking a photo of the hand—and several

guards immediately detained the man, taking his camera and escorting him off. In the confusion, Langdon

felt himself moving forward in a trance, slipping through the crowd, inching closer to the hand.

Peter Solomon's severed right hand was standing upright, the flat plane of the detached wrist skewered down

onto the spike of a small wooden stand. Three of the fingers were closed in a fist, while the thumb and index

finger were fully extended, pointing up toward the soaring dome.

“Everyone back!” an officer called.

Langdon was close enough now that he could see dried blood, which had run down from the wrist and

coagulated on the wooden base. Postmortem wounds don't bleed . . . which means Peter is alive. Langdon

didn't know whether to be relieved or nauseated. Peter's hand was removed while he was alive? Bile rose in

his throat. He thought of all the times his dear friend had extended this same hand to shake Langdon's or

offer a warm embrace.

For several seconds, Langdon felt his mind go blank, like an untuned television set broadcasting only static.

The first clear image that broke through was utterly unexpected.

A crown . . . and a star.

Langdon crouched down, eyeing the tips of Peter's thumb and index finger. Tattoos? Incredibly, the monster

who had done this appeared to have tattooed tiny symbols on Peter's fingertips.

On the thumb—a crown. On the index finger—a star.

This can't be. The two symbols registered instantly in Langdon's mind, amplifying this already horrific scene into something almost otherworldly. These symbols had appeared together many times in history, and always

in the same place—on the fingertips of a hand. It was one of the ancient world's most coveted and secretive

icons.

The Hand of the Mysteries.

The icon was rarely seen anymore, but throughout history it had symbolized a powerful call to action.

Langdon strained to comprehend the grotesque artifact now before him. Someone crafted the Hand of the

Mysteries out of Peter's hand? It was unthinkable. Traditionally, the icon was sculpted in stone or wood or

rendered as a drawing. Langdon had never heard of the Hand of the Mysteries being fashioned from actual

flesh. The concept was abhorrent.

“Sir?” a guard said behind Langdon. “Please step back.”

Langdon barely heard him. There are other tattoos. Although he could not see the fingertips of the three

clenched fingers, Langdon knew these fingertips would bear their own unique markings. That was the

tradition. Five symbols in total. Through the millennia, the symbols on the fingertips of the Hand of the

Mysteries had never changed . . . nor had the hand's iconic purpose.

The hand represents . . . an invitation.

Langdon felt a sudden chill as he recalled the words of the man who had brought him here. Professor, tonight

you are receiving the invitation of your lifetime. In ancient times, the Hand of the Mysteries actually served as the most coveted invitation on earth. To receive this icon was a sacred summons to join an elite group—

those who were said to guard the secret wisdom of all the ages. The invitation not only was a great honor, but

it signified that a master believed you were worthy to receive this hidden wisdom. The hand of the master

extended to the initiate.

“Sir,” the guard said, putting a firm hand on Langdon's shoulder. “I need you to back up right now.”

“I know what this means,” Langdon managed. “I can help you.”

“Now!” the guard said.

“My friend is in trouble. We have to—”

Langdon felt powerful arms pulling him up and leading him away from the hand. He simply let it happen . . .

feeling too off balance to protest.

A formal invitation had just been delivered. Someone was summoning Langdon to unlock a mystical portal

that would unveil a world of ancient mysteries and hidden knowledge.

But it was all madness.

Delusions of a lunatic.

CHAPTER 14

Mal’akh’s stretch limousine eased away from the U.S. Capitol, moving eastward down Independence

Avenue. A young couple on the sidewalk strained to see through the tinted rear windows, hoping to glimpse

a VIP.

I’m in front, Mal’akh thought, smiling to himself.

Mal’akh loved the feeling of power he got from driving this massive car all alone. None of his other five cars

offered him what he needed tonight—the guarantee of privacy . Total privacy. Limousines in this city

enjoyed a kind of unspoken immunity. Embassies on wheels. Police officers who worked near Capitol Hill

were never certain what power broker they might mistakenly pull over in a limousine, and so most simply

chose not to take the chance.

As Mal’akh crossed the Anacostia River into Maryland, he could feel himself moving closer to Katherine,

pulled onward by destiny’s gravity. I am being called to a second task tonight . . . one I had not imagined.

Last night, when Peter Solomon told the last of his secrets, Mal’akh had learned of the existence of a secret

lab in which Katherine Solomon had performed miracles—staggering breakthroughs that Mal’akh realized

would change the world if they were ever made known.

Her work will unveil the true nature of all things.

For centuries the “brightest minds” on earth had ignored the ancient sciences, mocking them as ignorant

superstitions, arming themselves instead with smug skepticism and dazzling new technologies—tools that led

them only further from the truth. Every generation’s breakthroughs are proven false by the next generation’s

technology. And so it had gone through the ages. The more man learned, the more he realized he did not

know.

For millennia, mankind had wandered in the darkness . . . but now, as had been prophesied, there was a

change coming. After hurtling blindly through history, mankind had reached a crossroads. This moment had

been predicted long ago, prophesied by the ancient texts, by the primeval calendars, and even by the stars

themselves. The date was specific, its arrival imminent. It would be preceded by a brilliant explosion of

knowledge . . . a flash of clarity to illuminate the darkness and give mankind a final chance to veer away

from the abyss and take the path of wisdom.

I have come to obscure the light, Mal’akh thought. This is my role.

Fate had linked him to Peter and Katherine Solomon. The breakthroughs Katherine Solomon had made

within the SMSC would risk opening floodgates of new thinking, starting a new Renaissance. Katherine’s

revelations, if made public, would become a catalyst that would inspire mankind to rediscover the knowledge

he had lost, empowering him beyond all imagination.

Katherine’s destiny is to light this torch.

Mine is to extinguish it.

CHAPTER 15

In total darkness, Katherine Solomon groped for the outer door of her lab. Finding it, she heaved open the

lead-lined door and hurried into the small entry room. The journey across the void had taken only ninety

seconds, and yet her heart was pounding wildly. After three years, you’d think I’d be used to that. Katherine always felt relieved to escape the blackness of Pod 5 and step into this clean, well-lit space.

The “Cube” was a massive windowless box. Every inch of the interior walls and ceiling was covered with a

stiff mesh of titanium-coated lead fiber, giving the impression of a giant cage built inside a cement enclosure.

Dividers of frosted Plexiglas separated the space into different compartments—a laboratory, a control room,

a mechanical room, a bathroom, and a small research library.

Katherine strode briskly into the main lab. The bright and sterile work space glistened with advanced

quantitative equipment: paired electro encephalographs, a femtosecond comb, a magneto-optical trap, and

quantum-indeterminate electronic noise REGs, more simply known as Random Event Generators.

Despite Noetic Science’s use of cutting-edge technologies, the discoveries themselves were far more

mystical than the cold, high-tech machines that were producing them. The stuff of magic and myth was fast

becoming reality as the shocking new data poured in, all of it supporting the basic ideology of Noetic

Science—the untapped potential of the human mind.

The overall thesis was simple: We have barely scratched the surface of our mental and spiritual capabilities.

Experiments at facilities like the Institute of Noetic Sciences (IONS) in California and the Princeton

Engineering Anomalies Research Lab (PEAR) had categorically proven that human thought, if properly

focused, had the ability to affect and change physical mass. Their experiments were no “spoon-bending”

parlor tricks, but rather highly controlled inquiries that all produced the same extraordinary result: our

thoughts actually interacted with the physical world, whether or not we knew it, effecting change all the way down to the subatomic realm.

Mind over matter.

In 2001, in the hours following the horrifying events of September 11, the field of Noetic Science made a

quantum leap forward. Four scientists discovered that as the frightened world came together and focused in

shared grief on this single tragedy, the outputs of thirty-seven different Random Event Generators around the

world suddenly became significantly less random. Somehow, the oneness of this shared experience, the

coalescing of millions of minds, had affected the randomizing function of these machines, organizing their

outputs and bringing order from chaos.

The shocking discovery, it seemed, paralleled the ancient spiritual belief in a “cosmic consciousness”—a vast

coalescing of human intention that was actually capable of interacting with physical matter. Recently, studies

in mass meditation and prayer had produced similar results in Random Event Generators, fueling the claim

that human consciousness, as Noetic author Lynne McTaggart described it, was a substance outside the confines of the body . . . a highly ordered energy capable of changing the physical world. Katherine had been

fascinated by McTaggart’s book The Intention Experiment, and her global, Web-based study—

theintentionexperiment.com—aimed at discovering how human intention could affect the world. A handful

of other progressive texts had also piqued Katherine’s interest.

From this foundation, Katherine Solomon’s research had vaulted forward, proving that “focused thought”

could affect literally anything—the growth rate of plants, the direction that fish swam in a bowl, the manner in which cells divided in a petri dish, the synchronization of separately automated systems, and the chemical

reactions in one’s own body. Even the crystalline structure of a newly forming solid was rendered mutable by

one’s mind; Katherine had created beautifully symmetrical ice crystals by sending loving thoughts to a glass

of water as it froze. Incredibly, the converse was also true: when she sent negative, polluting thoughts to the water, the ice crystals froze in chaotic, fractured forms.

Human thought can literally transform the physical world.

As Katherine’s experiments grew bolder, her results became more astounding. Her work in this lab had

proven beyond the shadow of a doubt that “mind over matter” was not just some New Age self-help mantra.

The mind had the ability to alter the state of matter itself, and, more important, the mind had the power to

encourage the physical world to move in a specific direction.

We are the masters of our own universe.

At the subatomic level, Katherine had shown that particles themselves came in and out of existence based

solely on her intention to observe them. In a sense, her desire to see a particle . . . manifested that particle.

Heisenberg had hinted at this reality decades ago, and now it had be come a fundamental principle of Noetic

Science. In the words of Lynne McTaggart: “Living consciousness somehow is the influence that turns the

possibility of something into something real. The most essential ingredient in creating our universe is the consciousness that observes it.”

The most astonishing aspect of Katherine’s work, however, had been the realization that the mind’s ability to

affect the physical world could be augmented through practice. Intention was a learned skill. Like

meditation, harnessing the true power of “thought” required practice. More important . . . some people were

born more skilled at it than others. And throughout history, there had been those few who had become true

masters.

This is the missing link between modern science and ancient mysticism.

Katherine had learned this from her brother, Peter, and now, as her thoughts turned back to him, she felt a

deepening concern. She walked to the lab’s research library and peered in. Empty.

The library was a small reading room—two Morris chairs, a wooden table, two floor lamps, and a wall of

mahogany bookshelves that held some five hundred books. Katherine and Peter had pooled their favorite

texts here, writings on everything from particle physics to ancient mysticism. Their collection had grown into

an eclectic fusion of new and old . . . of cutting-edge and historical. Most of Katherine’s books bore titles like

Quantum Consciousness, The New Physics, and Principles of Neural Science. Her brother’s bore older, more esoteric titles like the Kybalion, the Zohar, The Dancing Wu Li Masters, and a translation of the Sumerian tablets from the British Museum.

“The key to our scientific future,” her brother often said, “is hidden in our past.” A lifelong scholar of

history, science, and mysticism, Peter had been the first to encourage Katherine to boost her university

science education with an understanding of early Hermetic philosophy. She had been only nineteen years old

when Peter sparked her interest in the link between modern science and ancient mysticism.

“So tell me, Kate,” her brother had asked while she was home on vacation during her sophomore year at

Yale. “What are Elis reading these days in theoretical physics?”

Katherine had stood in her family’s book-filled library and recited her demanding reading list.

“Impressive,” her brother replied. “Einstein, Bohr, and Hawking are modern geniuses. But are you reading

anything older?”

Katherine scratched her head. “You mean like . . . Newton?”

He smiled. “Keep going.” At twenty-seven, Peter had already made a name for himself in the academic

world, and he and Katherine had grown to savor this kind of playful intellectual sparring.

Older than Newton? Katherine’s head now filled with distant names like Ptolemy, Pythagoras, and Hermes

Trismegistus. Nobody reads that stuff anymore.

Her brother ran a finger down the long shelf of cracked leather bindings and old dusty tomes. “The scientific

wisdom of the ancients was staggering . . . modern physics is only now beginning to comprehend it all.”

“Peter,” she said, “you already told me that the Egyptians understood levers and pulleys long before Newton,

and that the early alchemists did work on a par with modern chemistry, but so what? Today’s physics deals

with concepts that would have been unimaginable to the ancients.”

“Like what?”

“Well . . . like entanglement theory, for one!” Subatomic research had now proven categorically that all

matter was interconnected . . . entangled in a single unified mesh . . . a kind of universal oneness. “You’re

telling me the ancients sat around discussing entanglement theory?”

“Absolutely!” Peter said, pushing his long, dark bangs out of his eyes. “Entanglement was at the core of

primeval beliefs. Its names are as old as history itself . . . Dharmakaya, Tao, Brahman. In fact, man’s oldest

spiritual quest was to perceive his own entanglement, to sense his own interconnection with all things. He

has always wanted to become ‘one’ with the universe . . . to achieve the state of ‘at-one-ment.’ ” Her brother

raised his eyebrows. “To this day, Jews and Christians still strive for ‘atonement’ . . . although most of us

have forgotten it is actually ‘at-one-ment’ we’re seeking.”

Katherine sighed, having forgotten how hard it was to argue with a man so well versed in history. “Okay, but

you’re talking in generalities. I’m talking specific physics.”

“Then be specific.” His keen eyes challenged her now.

“Okay, how about something as simple as polarity—the positive/negative balance of the subatomic realm.

Obviously, the ancients didn’t underst—”

“Hold on!” Her brother pulled down a large dusty text, which he dropped loudly on the library table.

“Modern polarity is nothing but the ‘dual world’ described by Krishna here in the Bhagavad Gita over two

thousand years ago. A dozen other books in here, including the Kybalion, talk about binary systems and the

opposing forces in nature.”

Katherine was skeptical. “Okay, but if we talk about modern discoveries in subatomics—the Heisenberg

uncertainty principle, for example—”

“Then we must look here, ” Peter said, striding down his long bookshelf and pulling out another text. “The

sacred Hindu Vendantic scriptures known as the Upanishads.” He dropped the tome heavily on the first.

“Heisenberg and Schrцdinger studied this text and credited it with helping them formulate some of their

theories.”

The showdown continued for several minutes, and the stack of dusty books on the desk grew taller and taller.

Finally Katherine threw up her hands in frustration. “Okay! You made your point, but I want to study

cutting-edge theoretical physics. The future of science! I really doubt Krishna or Vyasa had much to say

about superstring theory and multidimensional cosmological models.”

“You’re right. They didn’t.” Her brother paused, a smile crossing his lips. “If you’re talking superstring

theory . . .” He wandered over to the bookshelf yet again. “Then you’re talking this book here.” He heaved

out a colossal leather-bound book and dropped it with a crash onto the desk. “Thirteenth-century translation

of the original medieval Aramaic.”

“Superstring theory in the thirteenth century?!” Katherine wasn’t buying it. “Come on!”

Superstring theory was a brand-new cosmological model. Based on the most recent scientific observations, it

suggested the multidimensional universe was made up not of three . . . but rather of ten dimensions, which all interacted like vibrating strings, similar to resonating violin strings.

Katherine waited as her brother heaved open the book, ran through the ornately printed table of contents, and

then flipped to a spot near the beginning of the book. “Read this.” He pointed to a faded page of text and

diagrams.

Dutifully, Katherine studied the page. The translation was old-fashioned and very hard to read, but to her

utter amazement, the text and drawings clearly outlined the exact same universe heralded by modern

superstring theory—a ten-dimensional universe of resonating strings. As she continued reading, she suddenly

gasped and recoiled. “My God, it even describes how six of the dimensions are entangled and act as one?!”

She took a frightened step backward. “What is this book?!”

Her brother grinned. “Something I’m hoping you’ll read one day.” He flipped back to the title page, where an

ornately printed plate bore three words.

The Complete Zohar.

Although Katherine had never read the Zohar, she knew it was the fundamental text of early Jewish

mysticism, once believed so potent that it was reserved only for the most erudite rabbis.

Katherine eyed the book. “You’re saying the early mystics knew their universe had ten dimensions?”

“Absolutely.” He motioned to the page’s illustration of ten intertwined circles called Sephiroth. “Obviously,

the nomenclature is esoteric, but the physics is very advanced.”

Katherine didn’t know how to respond. “But . . . then why don’t more people study this?”

Her brother smiled. “They will.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Katherine, we have been born into wonderful times. A change is coming. Human beings are poised on the

threshold of a new age when they will begin turning their eyes back to nature and to the old ways . . . back to

the ideas in books like the Zohar and other ancient texts from around the world. Powerful truth has its own

gravity and eventually pulls people back to it. There will come a day when modern science begins in earnest

to study the wisdom of the ancients . . . that will be the day that mankind begins to find answers to the big

questions that still elude him.”

That night, Katherine eagerly began reading her brother’s ancient texts and quickly came to understand that

he was right. The ancients possessed profound scientific wisdom. Today’s science was not so much making

“discoveries” as it was making “rediscoveries.” Mankind, it seemed, had once grasped the true nature of the

universe . . . but had let go . . . and forgotten.

Modern physics can help us remember! This quest had become Katherine’s mission in life—to use advanced

science to rediscover the lost wisdom of the ancients. It was more than academic thrill that kept her

motivated. Beneath it all was her conviction that the world needed this understanding . . . now more than

ever.

At the rear of the lab, Katherine saw her brother’s white lab coat hanging on its hook along with her own.

Reflexively, she pulled out her phone to check for messages. Nothing. A voice echoed again in her memory.

That which your brother believes is hidden in D.C. . . . it can be found. Sometimes a legend that endures for

centuries . . . endures for a reason.

“No,” Katherine said aloud. “It can’t possibly be real.”

Sometimes a legend was just that—a legend.

CHAPTER 16

Security chief Trent Anderson stormed back toward the Capitol Rotunda, fuming at the failure of his

security team. One of his men had just found a sling and an army-surplus jacket in an alcove near the east

portico.

The goddamn guy walked right out of here!

Anderson had already assigned teams to start scanning exterior video, but by the time they found anything,

this guy would be long gone.

Now, as Anderson entered the Rotunda to survey the damage, he saw that the situation had been contained as

well as could be expected. All four entrances to the Rotunda were closed with as inconspicuous a method of

crowd control as Security had at its disposal—a velvet swag, an apologetic guard, and a sign that read THIS

ROOM TEMPORARILY CLOSED FOR CLEANING. The dozen or so witnesses were all being herded

into a group on the eastern perimeter of the room, where the guards were collecting cell phones and cameras;

the last thing Anderson needed was for one of these people to send a cell-phone snapshot to CNN.

One of the detained witnesses, a tall, dark-haired man in a tweed sport coat, was trying to break away from

the group to speak to the chief. The man was currently in a heated discussion with the guards.

“I’ll speak to him in a moment,” Anderson called over to the guards. “For now, please hold everyone in the

main lobby until we sort this out.”

Anderson turned his eyes now to the hand, which stood at attention in the middle of the room. For the love of

God. In fifteen years on security detail for the Capitol Building, he had seen some strange things. But nothing like this.

Forensics had better get here fast and get this thing out of my building.

Anderson moved closer, seeing that the bloody wrist had been skewered on a spiked wooden base to make

the hand stand up. Wood and flesh, he thought. Invisible to metal detectors. The only metal was a large gold ring, which Anderson assumed had either been wanded or casually pulled off the dead finger by the suspect

as if it were his own.

Anderson crouched down to examine the hand. It looked as if it had belonged to a man of about sixty. The

ring bore some kind of ornate seal with a two-headed bird and the number 33. Anderson didn’t recognize it.

What really caught his eye were the tiny tattoos on the tips of the thumb and index finger.

A goddamn freak show.

“Chief?” One of the guards hurried over, holding out a phone. “Personal call for you. Security switchboard

just patched it through.”

Anderson looked at him like he was insane. “I’m in the middle of something here,” he growled.

The guard’s face was pale. He covered the mouthpiece and whispered. “It’s CIA.”

Anderson did a double take. CIA heard about this already?!

“It’s their Office of Security.”

Anderson stiffened. Holy shit. He glanced uneasily at the phone in the guard’s hand.

In Washington’s vast ocean of intelligence agencies, the CIA’s Office of Security was something of a

Bermuda Triangle—a mysterious and treacherous region from which all who knew of it steered clear

whenever possible. With a seemingly self-destructive mandate, the OS had been created by the CIA for one

strange purpose—to spy on the CIA itself. Like a powerful internal-affairs office, the OS monitored all CIA

employees for illicit behavior: misappropriation of funds, selling of secrets, stealing classified technologies,

and use of illegal torture tactics, to name a few.

They spy on America’s spies.

With investigative carte blanche in all matters of national security, the OS had a long and potent reach.

Anderson could not fathom why they would be interested in this incident at the Capitol, or how they had

found out so fast. Then again, the OS was rumored to have eyes everywhere . For all Anderson knew, they

had a direct feed of U.S. Capitol security cameras. This incident did not match OS directives in any way,

although the timing of the call seemed too coincidental to Anderson to be about anything other than this

severed hand.

“Chief?”The guard was holding the phone out to him like a hot potato. “You need to take this call right now.

It’s . . .” He paused and silently mouthed two syllables. “SA-TO.”

Anderson squinted hard at the man. You’ve got to be kidding. He felt his palms begin to sweat. Sato is

handling this personally?

The overlord of the Office of Security—Director Inoue Sato—was a legend in the intelligence community.

Born inside the fences of a Japanese internment camp in Manzanar, California, in the aftermath of Pearl

Harbor, Sato was a toughened survivor who had never forgotten the horrors of war, or the perils of

insufficient military intelligence. Now, having risen to one of the most secretive and potent posts in U.S.

intelligence work, Sato had proven an uncompromising patriot as well as a terrifying enemy to any who

stood in opposition. Seldom seen but universally feared, the OS director cruised the deep waters of the CIA

like a leviathan who surfaced only to devour its prey.

Anderson had met Sato face-to-face only once, and the memory of looking into those cold black eyes was

enough to make him count his blessings that he would be having this conversation by telephone.

Anderson took the phone and brought it to his lips. “Director Sato,” he said in as friendly a voice as possible.

“This is Chief Anderson. How may I—”

“There is a man in your building to whom I need to speak immediately.” The OS director’s voice was

unmistakable—like gravel grating on a chalkboard. Throat cancer surgery had left Sato with a profoundly

unnerving intonation and a repulsive neck scar to match. “I want you to find him for me immediately.”

That’s all? You want me to page someone? Anderson felt suddenly hopeful that maybe the timing of this call

was pure coincidence. “Who are you looking for?”

“His name is Robert Langdon. I believe he is inside your building right now.”

Langdon? The name sounded vaguely familiar, but Anderson couldn’t quite place it. He was now wondering

if Sato knew about the hand. “I’m in the Rotunda at the moment,” Anderson said, “but we’ve got some

tourists here . . . hold on.” He lowered his phone and called out to the group, “Folks, is there anyone here by

the name of Langdon?”

After a short silence, a deep voice replied from the crowd of tourists. “Yes. I’m Robert Langdon.”

Sato knows all. Anderson craned his neck, trying to see who had spoken up.

The same man who had been trying to get to him earlier stepped away from the others. He looked distraught .

. . but familiar somehow.

Anderson raised the phone to his lips. “Yes, Mr. Langdon is here.”

“Put him on,” Sato said coarsely.

Anderson exhaled. Better him than me. “Hold on.” He waved Langdon over. As Langdon approached,

Anderson suddenly realized why the name sounded familiar. I just read an article about this guy. What the

hell is he doing here?

Despite Langdon’s six-foot frame and athletic build, Anderson saw none of the cold, hardened edge he

expected from a man famous for surviving an explosion at the Vatican and a manhunt in Paris. This guy

eluded the French police . . . in loafers? He looked more like someone Anderson would expect to find

hearthside in some Ivy League library reading Dostoyevsky.

“Mr. Langdon?”Anderson said, walking halfway to meet him. “I’m Chief Anderson. I handle security here.

You have a phone call.”

“For me?” Langdon’s blue eyes looked anxious and uncertain.

Anderson held out the phone. “It’s the CIA’s Office of Security.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

Anderson smiled ominously. “Well, sir, it’s heard of you.”

Langdon put the phone to his ear. “Yes?”

“Robert Langdon?” Director Sato’s harsh voice blared in the tiny speaker, loud enough that Anderson could

hear.

“Yes?” Langdon replied.

Anderson stepped closer to hear what Sato was saying.

“This is Director Inoue Sato, Mr. Langdon. I am handling a crisis at the moment, and I believe you have

information that can help me.”

Langdon looked hopeful. “Is this about Peter Solomon? Do you know where he is?!”

Peter Solomon? Anderson felt entirely out of the loop.

“Professor,” Sato replied. “I am asking the questions at the moment.”

“Peter Solomon is in very serious trouble,” Langdon exclaimed. “Some madman just—”

“Excuse me,” Sato said, cutting him off.

Anderson cringed. Bad move. Interrupting a top CIA official’s line of questioning was a mistake only a

civilian would make. I thought Langdon was supposed to be smart.

“Listen carefully,” Sato said. “As we speak, this nation is facing a crisis. I have been advised that you have

information that can help me avert it. Now, I am going to ask you again. What information do you possess?”

Langdon looked lost. “Director, I have no idea what you’re talking about. All I’m concerned with is finding

Peter and—”

“No idea?” Sato challenged.

Anderson saw Langdon bristle. The professor now took a more aggressive tone. “No, sir. No damned idea at

all.” Anderson winced. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Robert Langdon had just made a very costly mistake in

dealing with Director Sato.

Incredibly, Anderson now realized it was too late. To his astonishment, Director Sato had just appeared on

the far side of the Rotunda, and was approaching fast behind Langdon. Sato is in the building! Anderson held his breath and braced for impact. Langdon has no idea.

The director’s dark form drew closer, phone held to ear, black eyes locked like two lasers on Langdon’s

back.

Langdon clutched the police chief’s phone and felt a rising frustration as the OS director pressed him. “I’m

sorry, sir,” Langdon said tersely, “but I can’t read your mind. What do you want from me?”

“What do I want from you?” The OS director’s grating voice crackled through Langdon’s phone, scraping

and hollow, like that of a dying man with strep throat.

As the man spoke, Langdon felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned and his eyes were drawn down . . . directly

into the face of a tiny Japanese woman. She had a fierce expression, a mottled complexion, thinning hair,

tobacco-stained teeth, and an unsettling white scar that sliced horizontally across her neck. The woman’s

gnarled hand held a cell phone to her ear, and when her lips moved, Langdon heard the familiar raspy voice

through his cell phone.

“What do I want from you, Professor?” She calmly closed her phone and glared at him. “For starters, you can

stop calling me ‘sir.’ ”

Langdon stared, mortified. “Ma’am, I . . . apologize. Our connection was poor and—”

“Our connection was fine, Professor,” she said. “And I have an extremely low tolerance for bullshit.”

CHAPTER 17

Director Inoue Sato was a fearsome specimen—a bristly tempest of a woman who stood a mere four feet

ten inches. She was bone thin, with jagged features and a dermatological condition known as vitiligo, which

gave her complexion the mottled look of coarse granite blotched with lichen. Her rumpled blue pantsuit hung

on her emaciated frame like a loose sack, the open-necked blouse doing nothing to hide the scar across her

neck. It had been noted by her coworkers that Sato’s only acquiescence to physical vanity appeared to be that

of plucking her substantial mustache.

For over a decade, Inoue Sato had overseen the CIA’s Office of Security. She possessed an off-the-chart IQ

and chillingly accurate instincts, a combination which girded her with a self-confidence that made her

terrifying to anyone who could not perform the impossible. Not even a terminal diagnosis of aggressive

throat cancer had knocked her from her perch. The battle had cost her one month of work, half her voice box,

and a third of her body weight, but she returned to the office as if nothing had happened. Inoue Sato appeared

to be indestructible.

Robert Langdon suspected he was probably not the first to mistake Sato for a man on the phone, but the

director was still glaring at him with simmering black eyes.

“Again, my apologies, ma’am,” Langdon said. “I’m still trying to get my bearings here—the person who

claims to have Peter Solomon tricked me into coming to D.C. this evening.” He pulled the fax from his

jacket. “This is what he sent me earlier. I wrote down the tail number of the plane he sent, so maybe if you

call the FAA and track the—”

Sato’s tiny hand shot out and snatched the sheet of paper. She stuck it in her pocket without even opening it.

“Professor, I am running this investigation, and until you start telling me what I want to know, I suggest you

not speak unless spoken to.”

Sato now spun to the police chief.

“Chief Anderson,” she said, stepping entirely too close and staring up at him through tiny black eyes, “would

you care to tell me what the hell is going on here? The guard at the east gate told me you found a human

hand on the floor. Is that true?”

Anderson stepped to the side and revealed the object in the center of the floor. “Yes, ma’am, only a few

minutes ago.”

She glanced at the hand as if it were nothing more than a misplaced piece of clothing. “And yet you didn’t

mention it to me when I called?”

“I . . . I thought you knew.”

“Do not lie to me.”

Anderson wilted under her gaze, but his voice remained confident. “Ma’am, this situation is under control.”

“I really doubt that,” Sato said, with equal confidence.

“A forensics team is on the way. Whoever did this may have left fingerprints.”

Sato looked skeptical. “I think someone clever enough to walk through your security checkpoint with a

human hand is probably clever enough not to leave fingerprints.”

“That may be true, but I have a responsibility to investigate.”

“Actually, I am relieving you of your responsibility as of this moment. I’m taking over.”

Anderson stiffened. “This is not exactly OS domain, is it?”

“Absolutely. This is an issue of national security.”

Peter’s hand? Langdon wondered, watching their exchange in a daze. National security? Langdon was

sensing that his own urgent goal of finding Peter was not Sato’s. The OS director seemed to be on another

page entirely.

Anderson looked puzzled as well. “National security? With all due respect, ma’am—”

“The last I checked,” she interrupted, “I outrank you. I suggest you do exactly as I say, and that you do it

without question.”

Anderson nodded and swallowed hard. “But shouldn’t we at least print the fingers to confirm the hand

belongs to Peter Solomon?”

“I’ll confirm it,” Langdon said, feeling a sickening certainty. “I recognize his ring . . . and his hand.” He

paused. “The tattoos are new, though. Someone did that to him recently.”

“I’m sorry?” Sato looked unnerved for the first time since arriving. “The hand is tattooed?”

Langdon nodded. “The thumb has a crown. And the index finger a star.”

Sato pulled out a pair of glasses and walked toward the hand, circling like a shark.

“Also,” Langdon said, “although you can’t see the other three fingers, I’m certain they will have tattoos on

the fingertips as well.”

Sato looked intrigued by the comment and motioned to Anderson. “Chief, can you look at the other fingertips

for us, please?”

Anderson crouched down beside the hand, being careful not to touch it. He put his cheek near the floor and

looked up under the clenched fingertips. “He’s right, ma’am. All of the fingertips have tattoos, although I

can’t quite see what the other—”

“A sun, a lantern, and a key,” Langdon said flatly.

Sato turned fully to Langdon now, her small eyes appraising him. “And how exactly would you know that?”

Langdon stared back. “The image of a human hand, marked in this way on the fingertips, is a very old icon.

It’s known as ‘the Hand of the Mysteries.’ ”

Anderson stood up abruptly. “This thing has a name?”

Langdon nodded. “It’s one of the most secretive icons of the ancient world.”

Sato cocked her head. “Then might I ask what the hell it’s doing in the middle of the U.S. Capitol?”

Langdon wished he would wake up from this nightmare. “Traditionally, ma’am, it was used as an invitation.”

“An invitation . . . to what?” she demanded.

Langdon looked down at the symbols on his friend’s severed hand. “For centuries, the Hand of the Mysteries

served as a mystical summons. Basically, it’s an invitation to receive secret knowledge—protected wisdom

known only to an elite few.”

Sato folded her thin arms and stared up at him with jet-black eyes. “Well, Professor, for someone who claims

to have no clue why he’s here . . . you’re doing quite well so far.”

CHAPTER 18

Katherine Solomon donned her white lab coat and began her usual arrival routine—her “rounds” as her

brother called them.

Like a nervous parent checking on a sleeping baby, Katherine poked her head into the mechanical room. The

hydrogen fuel cell was running smoothly, its backup tanks all safely nestled in their racks.

Katherine continued down the hall to the data-storage room. As always, the two redundant holographic

backup units hummed safely within their temperature-controlled vault. All of my research, she thought,

gazing in through the three-inch-thick shatterproof glass. Holographic data-storage devices, unlike their

refrigerator-size ancestors, looked more like sleek stereo components, each perched atop a columnar

pedestal.

Both of her lab’s holographic drives were synchronized and identical—serving as redundant backups to

safeguard identical copies of her work. Most backup protocols advocated a secondary backup system off-site

in case of earthquake, fire, or theft, but Katherine and her brother agreed that secrecy was paramount; once

this data left the building to an off-site server, they could no longer be certain it would stay private.

Content that everything was running smoothly here, she headed back down the hallway. As she rounded the

corner, however, she spotted something unexpected across the lab. What in the world? A muted glow was

glinting off all the equipment. She hurried in to have a look, surprised to see light emanating from behind the

Plexiglas wall of the control room.

He’s here. Katherine flew across the lab, arriving at the control-room door and heaving it open. “Peter!” she said, running in. The plump woman seated at the control room’s terminal jumped up. “Oh my God!

Katherine! You scared me!”

Trish Dunne—the only other person on earth allowed back here—was Katherine’s metasystems analyst and

seldom worked weekends. The twenty-six-year-old redhead was a genius data modeler and had signed a

nondisclosure document worthy of the KGB. Tonight, she was apparently analyzing data on the control

room’s plasma wall—a huge flat-screen display that looked like something out of NASA mission control.

“Sorry,” Trish said. “I didn’t know you were here yet. I was trying to finish up before you and your brother

arrived.”

“Have you spoken to him? He’s late and he’s not answering his phone.”

Trish shook her head. “I bet he’s still trying to figure out how to use that new iPhone you gave him.”

Katherine appreciated Trish’s good humor, and Trish’s presence here had just given her an idea. “Actually,

I’m glad you’re in tonight. You might be able to help me with something, if you don’t mind?”

“Whatever it is, I’m sure it beats football.”

Katherine took a deep breath, calming her mind. “I’m not sure how to explain this, but earlier today, I heard

an unusual story . . .”

Trish Dunne didn’t know what story Katherine Solomon had heard, but clearly it had her on edge. Her boss’s

usually calm gray eyes looked anxious, and she had tucked her hair behind her ears three times since entering

the room—a nervous “tell, ” as Trish called it. Brilliant scientist. Lousy poker player.

“To me,” Katherine said, “this story sounds like fiction . . . an old legend. And yet . . .” She paused, tucking a

wisp of hair behind her ears once again.

“And yet?”

Katherine sighed. “And yet I was told today by a trusted source that the legend is true.”

“Okay . . .” Where is she going with this?

“I’m going to talk to my brother about it, but it occurs to me that maybe you can help me shed some light on

it before I do. I’d love to know if this legend has ever been corroborated anywhere else in history.”

“In all of history?”

Katherine nodded. “Anywhere in the world, in any language, at any point in history.”

Strange request, Trish thought, but certainly feasible. Ten years ago, the task would have been impossible.

Today, however, with the Internet, the World Wide Web, and the ongoing digitization of the great libraries

and museums in the world, Katherine’s goal could be achieved by using a relatively simple search engine

equipped with an army of translation modules and some well-chosen keywords.

“No problem,” Trish said. Many of the lab’s research books contained passages in ancient languages, and so

Trish was often asked to write specialized Optical Character Recognition translation modules to generate

English text from obscure languages. She had to be the only metasystems specialist on earth who had built

OCR translation modules in Old Frisian, Maek, and Akkadian.

The modules would help, but the trick to building an effective search spider was all in choosing the right key

words . Unique but not overly restrictive.

Katherine looked to be a step ahead of Trish and was already jotting down possible keywords on a slip of

paper. Katherine had written down several when she paused, thought a moment, and then wrote several more.

“Okay,” she finally said, handing Trish the slip of paper.

Trish perused the list of search strings, and her eyes grew wide. What kind of crazy legend is Katherine

investigating? “You want me to search for all of these key phrases?” One of the words Trish didn’t even recognize. Is that even English? “Do you really think we’ll find all of these in one place? Verbatim?”

“I’d like to try.”

Trish would have said impossible, but the I-word was banned here. Katherine considered it a dangerous

mind-set in a field that often transformed preconceived falsehoods into confirmed truths. Trish Dunne

seriously doubted this key-phrase search would fall into that category.

“How long for results?” Katherine asked.

“A few minutes to write the spider and launch it. After that, maybe fifteen for the spider to exhaust itself.”

“So fast?” Katherine looked encouraged.

Trish nodded. Traditional search engines often required a full day to crawl across the entire online universe,

find new documents, digest their content, and add it to their searchable database. But this was not the kind of

search spider Trish would write.

“I’ll write a program called a delegator, ” Trish explained. “It’s not entirely kosher, but it’s fast. Essentially, it’s a program that orders other people’s search engines to do our work. Most databases have a search

function built in—libraries, museums, universities, governments. So I write a spider that finds their search

engines, inputs your keywords, and asks them to search. This way, we harness the power of thousands of

engines, working in unison.”

Katherine looked impressed. “Parallel processing.”

A kind of metasystem. “I’ll call you if I get anything.”

“I appreciate it,Trish.” Katherine patted her on the back and headed for the door. “I’ll be in the library.”

Trish settled in to write the program. Coding a search spider was a menial task far below her skill level, but

Trish Dunne didn’t care. She would do anything for Katherine Solomon. Sometimes Trish still couldn’t

believe the good fortune that had brought her here.

You’ve come a long way, baby.

Just over a year ago, Trish had quit her job as a metasystems analyst in one of the high-tech industry’s many

cubicle farms. In her off-hours, she did some freelance programming and started an industry blog—“Future

Applications in Computational Metasystem Analysis”—although she doubted anyone read it. Then one

evening her phone rang.

“Trish Dunne?” a woman’s voice asked politely.

“Yes, who’s calling, please?”

“My name is Katherine Solomon.”

Trish almost fainted on the spot. Katherine Solomon? “I just read your book— Noetic Science: Modern

Gateway to Ancient Wisdom—and I wrote about it on my blog!”

“Yes, I know,” the woman replied graciously. “That’s why I’m calling.”

Of course it is, Trish realized, feeling dumb. Even brilliant scientists Google themselves.

“Your blog intrigues me,” Katherine told her. “I wasn’t aware metasystems modeling had come so far.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Trish managed, starstruck. “Data models are an exploding technology with far-reaching

applications.”

For several minutes, the two women chatted about Trish’s work in metasystems, discussing her experience

analyzing, modeling, and predicting the flow of massive data fields.

“Obviously, your book is way over my head,” Trish said, “but I understood enough to see an intersection

with my metasystems work.”

“Your blog said you believe metasystems modeling can transform the study of Noetics?”

“Absolutely. I believe metasystems could turn Noetics into real science . ”

“Real science?” Katherine’s tone hardened slightly. “As opposed to . . . ?”

Oh shit, that came out wrong. “Um, what I meant is that Noetics is more . . . esoteric.”

Katherine laughed. “Relax, I’m kidding. I get that all the time.”

I’m not surprised, Trish thought . Even the Institute of Noetic Sciences in California described the field in arcane and abstruse language, defining it as the study of mankind’s “direct and immediate access to

knowledge beyond what is available to our normal senses and the power of reason.”

The word noetic, Trish had learned, derived from the ancient Greek nous—translating roughly to “inner knowledge” or “intuitive consciousness.”

“I’m interested in your metasystems work,” Katherine said, “and how it might relate to a project I’m working

on. Any chance you’d be willing to meet? I’d love to pick your brain.”

Katherine Solomon wants to pick my brain? It felt like Maria Sharapova had called for tennis tips.

The next day a white Volvo pulled into Trish’s driveway and an attractive, willowy woman in blue jeans got

out. Trish immediately felt two feet tall. Great, she groaned. Smart, rich, and thin—and I’m supposed to believe God is good? But Katherine’s unassuming air set Trish instantly at ease.

The two of them settled in on Trish’s huge back porch overlooking an impressive piece of property.

“Your house is amazing,” Katherine said.

“Thanks. I got lucky in college and licensed some software I’d written.”

“Metasystems stuff?”

“A precursor to metasystems. Following 9/11, the government was intercepting and crunching enormous data

fields—civilian e-mail, cell phone, fax, text, Web sites—sniffing for keywords associated with terrorist

communications. So I wrote a piece of software that let them process their data field in a second way . . .

pulling from it an additional intelligence product.” She smiled. “Essentially, my software let them take

America’s temperature.”

“I’m sorry?”

Trish laughed. “Yeah, sounds crazy, I know. What I mean is that it quantified the nation’s emotional state. It offered a kind of cosmic consciousness barometer, if you will.” Trish explained how, using a data field of the

nation’s communications, one could assess the nation’s mood based on the “occurrence density” of certain

keywords and emotional indicators in the data field. Happier times had happier language, and stressful times

vice versa. In the event, for example, of a terrorist attack, the government could use data fields to measure

the shift in America’s psyche and better advise the president on the emotional impact of the event.

“Fascinating,” Katherine said, stroking her chin. “So essentially you’re examining a population of

individuals . . . as if it were a single organism.”

“Exactly. A metasystem. A single entity defined by the sum of its parts. The human body, for example,

consists of millions of individual cells, each with different attributes and different purposes, but it functions

as a single entity.”

Katherine nodded enthusiastically. “Like a flock of birds or a school of fish moving as one. We call it

convergence or entanglement.”

Trish sensed her famous guest was starting to see the potential of metasystem programming in her own field

of Noetics. “My software,” Trish explained, “was designed to help government agencies better evaluate and

respond appropriately to wide-scale crises—pandemic diseases, national tragedies, terrorism, that sort of

thing.” She paused. “Of course, there’s always the potential that it could be used in other directions . . .

perhaps to take a snapshot of the national mind-set and predict the outcome of a national election or the

direction the stock market will move at the opening bell.”

“Sounds powerful.”

Trish motioned to her big house. “The government thought so.”

Katherine’s gray eyes focused in on her now. “Trish, might I ask about the ethical dilemma posed by your

work?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you created a piece of software that can easily be abused. Those who possess it have access to

powerful information not available to everyone. You didn’t feel any hesitation creating it?”

Trish didn’t blink. “Absolutely not. My software is no different than say . . . a flight simulator program.

Some users will practice flying first-aid missions into underdeveloped countries. Some users will practice

flying passenger jets into skyscrapers. Knowledge is a tool, and like all tools, its impact is in the hands of the

user.”

Katherine sat back, looking impressed. “So let me ask you a hypothetical question.”

Trish suddenly sensed their conversation had just turned into a job interview.

Katherine reached down and picked up a tiny speck of sand off the deck, holding it up for Trish to see. “It

occurs to me,” she said, “that your metasystems work essentially lets you calculate the weight of an entire

sandy beach . . . by weighing one grain at a time.”

“Yes, basically that’s right.”

“As you know, this little grain of sand has mass. A very small mass, but mass nonetheless.”

Trish nodded.

“And because this grain of sand has mass, it therefore exerts gravity. Again, too small to feel, but there.”

“Right.”

“Now,” Katherine said, “if we take trillions of these sand grains and let them attract one another to form . . .

say, the moon, then their combined gravity is enough to move entire oceans and drag the tides back and forth across our planet.”

Trish had no idea where this was headed, but she liked what she was hearing.

“So let’s take a hypothetical,” Katherine said, discarding the sand grain. “What if I told you that a thought . .

. any tiny idea that forms in your mind . . . actually has mass? What if I told you that a thought is an actual thing, a measurable entity, with a measurable mass? A minuscule mass, of course, but mass nonetheless.

What are the implications?”

“Hypothetically speaking ? Well, the obvious implications are . . . if a thought has mass, then a thought exerts gravity and can pull things toward it.”

Katherine smiled. “You’re good. Now take it a step further. What happens if many people start focusing on

the same thought? All the occurrences of that same thought begin to merge into one, and the cumulative mass

of this thought begins to grow. And therefore, its gravity grows.”

“Okay.”

“Meaning . . . if enough people begin thinking the same thing, then the gravitational force of that thought

becomes tangible . . . and it exerts actual force.” Katherine winked. “And it can have a measurable effect in

our physical world.”

CHAPTER 19

Director Inoue Sato stood with her arms folded, her eyes locked skeptically on Langdon as she processed

what he had just told her. “He said he wants you to unlock an ancient portal? What am I supposed to do with

that, Professor?”

Langdon shrugged weakly. He was feeling ill again and tried not to look down at his friend’s severed hand.

“That’s exactly what he told me. An ancient portal . . . hidden somewhere in this building. I told him I knew

of no portal.”

“Then why does he think you can find it?”

“Obviously, he’s insane.” He said Peter would point the way. Langdon looked down at Peter’s upstretched

finger, again feeling repulsed by his captor’s sadistic play on words. Peter will point the way. Langdon had already permitted his eyes to follow the pointing finger up to the dome overhead. A portal? Up there?

Insane.

“This man who called me,” Langdon told Sato, “was the only one who knew I was coming to the Capitol

tonight, so whoever informed you I was here tonight, that’s your man. I recommend—”

“Where I got my information is not your concern,” Sato interrupted, voice sharpening. “My top priority at the

moment is to cooperate with this man, and I have information suggesting you are the only one who can give

him what he wants.”

“And my top priority is to find my friend,” Langdon replied, frustrated.

Sato inhaled deeply, her patience clearly being tested. “If we want to find Mr. Solomon, we have one course

of action, Professor—to start cooperating with the one person who seems to know where he is.” Sato checked

her watch. “Our time is limited. I can assure you it is imperative we comply with this man’s demands

quickly.”

“How?” Langdon asked, incredulous. “By locating and unlocking an ancient portal? There is no portal,

Director Sato. This guy’s a lunatic.”

Sato stepped close, less than a foot from Langdon. “If I may point this out . . . your lunatic deftly

manipulated two fairly smart individuals already this morning.” She stared directly at Langdon and then

glanced at Anderson. “In my business, one learns there is a fine line between insanity and genius. We would

be wise to give this man a little respect.”

“He cut off a man’s hand!”

“My point exactly. That is hardly the act of an uncommitted or uncertain individual. More important,

Professor, this man obviously believes you can help him. He brought you all the way to Washington—and he

must have done it for a reason.”

“He said the only reason he thinks I can unlock this ‘portal’ is that Peter told him I can unlock it,” Langdon countered.

“And why would Peter Solomon say that if it weren’t true?”

“I’m sure Peter said no such thing. And if he did, then he did so under duress. He was confused . . . or

frightened.”

“Yes. It’s called interrogational torture, and it’s quite effective. All the more reason Mr. Solomon would tell

the truth.” Sato spoke as if she’d had personal experience with this technique. “Did he explain why Peter

thinks you alone can unlock the portal?”

Langdon shook his head.

“Professor, if your reputations are correct, then you and Peter Solomon both share an interest in this sort of

thing—secrets, historical esoterica, mysticism, and so on. In all of your discussions with Peter, he never once

mentioned to you anything about a secret portal in Washington, D.C.?”

Langdon could scarcely believe he was being asked this question by a high-ranking officer of the CIA. “I’m

certain of it. Peter and I talk about some pretty arcane things, but believe me, I’d tell him to get his head

examined if he ever told me there was an ancient portal hidden anywhere at all. Particularly one that leads to

the Ancient Mysteries.”

She glanced up. “I’m sorry? The man told you specifically what this portal leads to?”

“Yes, but he didn’t have to.” Langdon motioned to the hand. “The Hand of the Mysteries is a formal

invitation to pass through a mystical gateway and acquire ancient secret knowledge—powerful wisdom

known as the Ancient Mysteries . . . or the lost wisdom of all the ages.”

“So you’ve heard of the secret he believes is hidden here.”

“A lot of historians have heard of it.”

“Then how can you say the portal does not exist?”

“With respect, ma’am, we’ve all heard of the Fountain of Youth and Shangri-la, but that does not mean they

exist.”

The loud squawk of Anderson’s radio interrupted them.

“Chief?” the voice on the radio said.

Anderson snatched his radio from his belt. “Anderson here.”

“Sir, we’ve completed a search of the grounds. There’s no one here that fits the description. Any further

orders, sir?”

Anderson shot a quick glance at Sato, clearly expecting a reprimand, but Director Sato seemed uninterested.

Anderson moved away from Langdon and Sato, speaking quietly into his radio.

Sato’s unwavering focus remained on Langdon. “You’re saying the secret he believes is hidden in

Washington . . . is a fantasy?”

Langdon nodded. “A very old myth. The secret of the Ancient Mysteries is pre-Christian, actually.

Thousands of years old.”

“And yet it’s still around?”

“As are many equally improbable beliefs.” Langdon often reminded his students that most modern religions

included stories that did not hold up to scientific scrutiny: everything from Moses parting the Red Sea . . . to

Joseph Smith using magic eyeglasses to translate the Book of Mormon from a series of gold plates he found

buried in upstate New York. Wide acceptance of an idea is not proof of its validity.

“I see. So what exactly are these . . . Ancient Mysteries?”

Langdon exhaled. Have you got a few weeks? “In short, the Ancient Mysteries refer to a body of secret

knowledge that was amassed long ago. One intriguing aspect of this knowledge is that it allegedly enables its

practitioners to access powerful abilities that lie dormant in the human mind. The enlightened Adepts who

possessed this knowledge vowed to keep it veiled from the masses because it was considered far too potent

and dangerous for the uninitiated.”

“Dangerous in what way?”

“The information was kept hidden for the same reason we keep matches from children. In the correct hands,

fire can provide illumination . . . but in the wrong hands, fire can be highly destructive.”

Sato took off her glasses and studied him. “Tell me, Professor, do you believe such powerful information

could truly exist?”

Langdon was not sure how to respond. The Ancient Mysteries had always been the greatest paradox of his

academic career. Virtually every mystical tradition on earth revolved around the idea that there existed

arcane knowledge capable of imbuing humans with mystical, almost godlike, powers: tarot and I Ching gave

men the ability to see the future; alchemy gave men immortality through the fabled Philosopher’s Stone;

Wicca permitted advanced practitioners to cast powerful spells. The list went on and on.

As an academic, Langdon could not deny the historical record of these traditions—troves of documents,

artifacts, and artwork that, indeed, clearly suggested the ancients had a powerful wisdom that they shared

only through allegory, myths, and symbols, ensuring that only those properly initiated could access its power.

Nonetheless, as a realist and a skeptic, Langdon remained unconvinced.

“Let’s just say I’m a skeptic,” he told Sato. “I have never seen anything in the real world to suggest the

Ancient Mysteries are anything other than legend—a recurring mythological archetype. It seems to me that if

it were possible for humans to acquire miraculous powers, there would be evidence. And yet, so far, history

has given us no men with superhuman powers.”

Sato arched her eyebrows. “That’s not entirely true.”

Langdon hesitated, realizing that for many religious people, there was indeed a precedent for human gods,

Jesus being the most obvious. “Admittedly,” he said, “there are plenty of educated people who believe this

empowering wisdom truly exists, but I’m not yet convinced.”

“Is Peter Solomon one of those people?” Sato asked, glancing toward the hand on the floor.

Langdon could not bring himself to look at the hand. “Peter comes from a family lineage that has always had

a passion for all things ancient and mystical.”

“Was that a yes?” Sato asked.

“I can assure you that even if Peter believes the Ancient Mysteries are real, he does not believe they are

accessible through some kind of portal hidden in Washington, D.C. He understands metaphorical symbolism,

which is something his captor apparently does not.”

Sato nodded. “So you believe this portal is a metaphor.”

“Of course,” Langdon said. “In theory, anyway. It’s a very common metaphor—a mystical portal through

which one must travel to become enlightened. Portals and doorways are common symbolic constructs that

represent transformative rites of passage. To look for a literal portal would be like trying to locate the actual Gates of Heaven.”

Sato seemed to consider this momentarily. “But it sounds like Mr. Solomon’s captor believes you can unlock

an actual portal.”

Langdon exhaled. “He’s made the same error many zealots make—confusing metaphor with a literal reality.”

Similarly, early alchemists had toiled in vain to transform lead into gold, never realizing that lead-to-gold

was nothing but a metaphor for tapping into true human potential—that of taking a dull, ignorant mind and

transforming it into a bright, enlightened one.

Sato motioned to the hand. “If this man wants you to locate some kind of portal for him, why wouldn’t he

simply tell you how to find it? Why all the dramatics? Why give you a tattooed hand?”

Langdon had asked himself the same question and the answer was unsettling. “Well, it seems the man we are

dealing with, in addition to being mentally unstable, is also highly educated. This hand is proof that he is well

versed in the Mysteries as well as their codes of secrecy. Not to mention with the history of this room.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Everything he has done tonight was done in perfect accordance with ancient protocols. Traditionally, the

Hand of the Mysteries is a sacred invitation, and therefore it must be presented in a sacred place.”

Sato’s eyes narrowed. “This is the Rotunda of the U.S. Capitol Building, Professor, not some sacred shrine to

ancient mystical secrets.”

“Actually, ma’am,” Langdon said, “I know a great number of historians who would disagree with you.”

At that moment, across town, Trish Dunne was seated in the glow of the plasma wall inside the Cube. She

finished preparing her search spider and typed in the five key phrases Katherine had given her.

Here goes nothing.

Feeling little optimism, she launched the spider, effectively commencing a worldwide game of Go Fish. At

blinding speed, the phrases were now being compared to texts all over the world . . . looking for a perfect

match.

Trish couldn’t help but wonder what this was all about, but she had come to accept that working with the

Solomons meant never quite knowing the entire story.

CHAPTER 20

Robert Langdon stole an anxious glance at his wristwatch: 7:58 P.M. The smiling face of Mickey Mouse

did little to cheer him up. I’ve got to find Peter. We’re wasting time.

Sato had stepped aside for a moment to take a phone call, but now she returned to Langdon. “Professor, am I

keeping you from something?”

“No, ma’am,” Langdon said, pulling his sleeve down over his watch. “I’m just extremely concerned about

Peter.”

“I can understand, but I assure you the best thing you can do to help Peter is to help me understand the mind-

set of his captor.”

Langdon was not so sure, but he sensed he was not going anywhere until the OS director got the information

she desired.

“A moment ago,” Sato said, “you suggested this Rotunda is somehow sacred to the idea of these Ancient

Mysteries?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Explain that to me.”

Langdon knew he would have to choose his words sparingly. He had taught for entire semesters on the

mystical symbolism of Washington, D.C., and there was an almost inexhaustible list of mystical references in

this building alone.

America has a hidden past.

Every time Langdon lectured on the symbology of America, his students were confounded to learn that the

true intentions of our nation’s forefathers had absolutely nothing to do with what so many politicians now

claimed.

America’s intended destiny has been lost to history.

The forefathers who founded this capital city first named her “Rome.” They had named her river the Tiber

and erected a classical capital of pantheons and temples, all adorned with images of history’s great gods and

goddesses—Apollo, Minerva, Venus, Helios, Vulcan, Jupiter. In her center, as in many of the great classical

cities, the founders had erected an enduring tribute to the ancients—the Egyptian obelisk. This obelisk, larger

even than Cairo’s or Alexandria’s, rose 555 feet into the sky, more than thirty stories, proclaiming thanks and

honor to the demigod forefather for whom this capital city took its newer name.

Washington.

Now, centuries later, despite America’s separation of church and state, this state-sponsored Rotunda

glistened with ancient religious symbolism. There were over a dozen different gods in the Rotunda—more

than the original Pantheon in Rome. Of course, the Roman Pantheon had been converted to Christianity in

609 . . . but this pantheon was never converted; vestiges of its true history still remained in plain view.

“As you may know,” Langdon said, “this Rotunda was designed as a tribute to one of Rome’s most venerated

mystical shrines. The Temple of Vesta.”

“As in the vestal virgins?” Sato looked doubtful that Rome’s virginal guardians of the flame had anything to

do with the U.S. Capitol Building.

“The Temple of Vesta in Rome,” Langdon said, “was circular, with a gaping hole in the floor, through which

the sacred fire of enlightenment could be tended by a sisterhood of virgins whose job it was to ensure the

flame never went out.”

Sato shrugged. “This Rotunda is a circle, but I see no gaping hole in this floor.”

“No, not anymore, but for years the center of this room had a large opening precisely where Peter’s hand is

now.” Langdon motioned to the floor. “In fact, you can still see the marks in the floor from the railing that

kept people from falling in.”

“What?” Sato demanded, scrutinizing the floor. “I’ve never heard that.”

“Looks like he’s right.” Anderson pointed out the circle of iron nubs where the posts had once been. “I’ve

seen these before, but I never had any idea why they were there.”

You’re not alone, Langdon thought, imagining the thousands of people every day, including famous

lawmakers, who strode across the center of the Rotunda having no idea there was once a day when they

would have plunged down into the Capitol Crypt—the level beneath the Rotunda floor.

“The hole in the floor,” Langdon told them, “was eventually covered, but for a good while, those who visited

the Rotunda could see straight down to the fire that burned below.”

Sato turned. “Fire? In the U.S. Capitol?”

“More of a large torch, actually—an eternal flame that burned in the crypt directly beneath us. It was

supposed to be visible through the hole in the floor, making this room a modern Temple of Vesta. This

building even had its own vestal virgin—a federal employee called the Keeper of the Crypt—who

successfully kept the flame burning for fifty years, until politics, religion, and smoke damage snuffed out the

idea.”

Both Anderson and Sato looked surprised.

Nowadays, the only reminder that a flame once burned here was the four-pointed star compass embedded in

the crypt floor one story below them—a symbol of America’s eternal flame, which once shed illumination

toward the four corners of the New World.

“So, Professor,” Sato said, “your contention is that the man who left Peter’s hand here knew all this?”

“Clearly. And much, much more. There are symbols all over this room that reflect a belief in the Ancient

Mysteries.”

“Secret wisdom,” Sato said with more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “Knowledge that lets men acquire

godlike powers?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That hardly fits with the Christian underpinnings of this country.”

“So it would seem, but it’s true. This transformation of man into God is called apotheosis. Whether or not

you’re aware of it, this theme—transforming man into god—is the core element in this Rotunda’s

symbolism.”

“Apotheosis?” Anderson spun with a startled look of recognition.

“Yes.” Anderson works here. He knows. “The word apotheosis literally means ‘divine transformation’—that of man becoming God. It’s from the ancient Greek: apo—‘to become,’ theos—‘god.’ ”

Anderson looked amazed. “Apotheosis means ‘to become God’? I had no idea.”

“What am I missing?” Sato demanded.

“Ma’am,” Langdon said, “the largest painting in this building is called The Apotheosis of Washington. And it clearly depicts George Washington being transformed into a god.”

Sato looked doubtful. “I’ve never seen anything of the sort.”

“Actually, I’m sure you have.” Langdon raised his index finger, pointing straight up. “It’s directly over your head.”

CHAPTER 21

The Apotheosis of Washington—a 4,664-square-foot fresco that covers the canopy of the Capitol Rotunda—

was completed in 1865 by Constantino Brumidi.

Known as “The Michelangelo of the Capitol,” Brumidi had laid claim to the Capitol Rotunda in the same

way Michelangelo had laid claim to the Sistine Chapel, by painting a fresco on the room’s most lofty

canvas—the ceiling. Like Michelangelo, Brumidi had done some of his finest work inside the Vatican.

Brumidi, however, immigrated to America in 1852, abandoning God’s largest shrine in favor of a new shrine,

the U.S. Capitol, which now glistened with examples of his mastery—from the trompe l’oeil of the Brumidi

Corridors to the frieze ceiling of the Vice President’s Room. And yet it was the enormous image hovering

above the Capitol Rotunda that most historians considered to be Brumidi’s masterwork.

Robert Langdon gazed up at the massive fresco that covered the ceiling. He usually enjoyed his students’

startled reactions to this fresco’s bizarre imagery, but at the moment he simply felt trapped in a nightmare he

had yet to understand.

Director Sato was standing next to him with her hands on her hips, frowning up at the distant ceiling.

Langdon sensed she was having the same reaction many had when they first stopped to examine the painting

at the core of their nation.

Utter confusion.

You’re not alone, Langdon thought. For most people, The Apotheosis of Washington got stranger and

stranger the longer they looked at it. “That’s George Washington on the central panel,” Langdon said,

pointing 180 feet upward into the middle of the dome. “As you can see, he’s dressed in white robes, attended

by thirteen maidens, and ascending on a cloud above mortal man. This is the moment of his apotheosis . . .

his transformation into a god.”

Sato and Anderson said nothing.

“Nearby,” Langdon continued, “you can see a strange, anachronistic series of figures: ancient gods

presenting our forefathers with advanced knowledge. There’s Minerva giving technological inspiration to our

nation’s great inventors—Ben Franklin, Robert Fulton, Samuel Morse.” Langdon pointed them out one by

one. “And over there is Vulcan helping us build a steam engine. Beside them is Neptune demonstrating how

to lay the transatlantic cable. Beside that is Ceres, goddess of grain and root of our word cereal; she’s sitting on the McCormick reaper, the farming breakthrough that enabled this country to become a world leader in

food production. The painting quite overtly portrays our forefathers receiving great wisdom from the gods.”

He lowered his head, looking at Sato now. “Knowledge is power, and the right knowledge lets man perform

miraculous, almost godlike tasks.”

Sato dropped her gaze back down to Langdon and rubbed her neck. “Laying a phone cable is a far cry from

being a god.”

“Perhaps to a modern man,” Langdon replied. “But if George Washington knew that we had become a race

that possessed the power to speak to one another across oceans, fly at the speed of sound, and set foot on our

moon, he would assume that we had become gods, capable of miraculous tasks.” He paused. “In the words of

futurist Arthur C. Clarke, ‘Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.’ ”

Sato pursed her lips, apparently deep in thought. She glanced down at the hand, and then followed the

direction of the outstretched index finger up into the dome. “Professor, you were told, ‘Peter will point the

way.’ Is that correct?”

“Yes, ma’am, but—”

“Chief,” Sato said, turning away from Langdon, “can you get us a closer look at the painting?”

Anderson nodded. “There’s a catwalk around the interior of the dome.” Langdon looked way, way up to the

tiny railing visible just beneath the painting and felt his body go rigid. “There’s no need to go up there.” He

had experienced that seldom-visited catwalk once before, as the guest of a U.S. senator and his wife, and he

had almost fainted from the dizzying height and perilous walkway.

“No need?” Sato demanded. “Professor, we have a man who believes this room contains a portal that has the

potential to make him a god; we have a ceiling fresco that symbolizes the transformation of a man into a god;

and we have a hand pointing straight at that painting. It seems everything is urging us upward. ”

“Actually,” Anderson interjected, glancing up, “not many people know this, but there is one hexagonal coffer

in the dome that actually swings open like a portal, and you can peer down through it and—”

“Wait a second,” Langdon said, “you’re missing the point. The portal this man is looking for is a figurative

portal—a gateway that doesn’t exist. When he said, ‘Peter will point the way,’ he was talking in metaphorical

terms. This pointing-hand gesture—with its index finger and thumb extended upward—is a well-known

symbol of the Ancient Mysteries, and it appears all over the world in ancient art. This same gesture appears

in three of Leonardo da Vinci’s most famous encoded masterpieces— The Last Supper, Adoration of the

Magi, and Saint John the Baptist. It’s a symbol of man’s mystical connection to God.” As above, so below.

The madman’s bizarre choice of words was starting to feel more relevant now.

“I’ve never seen it before,” Sato said.

Then watch ESPN, Langdon thought, always amused to see professional athletes point skyward in gratitude

to God after a touchdown or home run. He wondered how many knew they were continuing a pre-Christian

mystical tradition of acknowledging the mystical power above, which, for one brief moment, had

transformed them into a god capable of miraculous feats.

“If it’s of any help,” Langdon said, “Peter’s hand is not the first such hand to make an appearance in this

Rotunda.”

Sato eyed him like he was insane. “I beg your pardon?”

Langdon motioned to her BlackBerry. “Google ‘George Washington Zeus.’ ”

Sato looked uncertain but started typing. Anderson inched toward her, looking over her shoulder intently.

Langdon said, “This Rotunda was once dominated by a massive sculpture of a bare-chested George

Washington . . . depicted as a god. He sat in the same exact pose as Zeus in the Pantheon, bare chest exposed,

left hand holding a sword, right hand raised with thumb and finger extended.”

Sato had apparently found an online image, because Anderson was staring at her BlackBerry in shock. “Hold

on, that’s George Washington?”

“Yes,” Langdon said. “Depicted as Zeus.”

“Look at his hand,” Anderson said, still peering over Sato’s shoulder. “His right hand is in the same exact

position as Mr. Solomon’s.”

As I said, Langdon thought, Peter’s hand is not the first to make an appearance in this room. When Horatio Greenough’s statue of a naked George Washington was first unveiled in the Rotunda, many joked that

Washington must be reaching skyward in a desperate attempt to find some clothes. As American religious

ideals changed, however, the joking criticism turned to controversy, and the statue was removed, banished to

a shed in the east garden. Currently, it made its home at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American

History, where those who saw it had no reason to suspect that it was one of the last vestigial links to a time

when the father of the country had watched over the U.S. Capitol as a god . . . like Zeus watching over the

Pantheon.

Sato began dialing a number on her BlackBerry, apparently seeing this as an opportune moment to check in

with her staff. “What have you got?” She listened patiently. “I see . . .” She glanced directly at Langdon, then

at Peter’s hand. “You’re certain?” She listened a moment longer. “Okay, thanks.” She hung up and turned

back toward Langdon. “My support staff did some research and confirms the existence of your so-called

Hand of the Mysteries, corroborating everything you said: five fingertip markings—the star, the sun, the key,

the crown, and the lantern—as well as the fact that this hand served as an ancient invitation to learn secret

wisdom.”

“I’m glad,” Langdon said.

“Don’t be,” she replied curtly. “It appears we’re now at a dead end until you share whatever it is you’re still

not telling me.”

“Ma’am?”

Sato stepped toward him. “We’ve come full circle, Professor. You’ve told me nothing I could not have

learned from my own staff. And so I will ask you once more. Why were you brought here tonight? What

makes you so special? What is it that you alone know?”

“We’ve been through this,” Langdon fired back. “I don’t know why this guy thinks I know anything at all!”

Langdon was half tempted to demand how the hell Sato knew that he was in the Capitol tonight, but they’d

been through that, too. Sato isn’t talking. “If I knew the next step,” he told her, “I’d tell you. But I don’t.

Traditionally, the Hand of the Mysteries is extended by a teacher to a student. And then, shortly afterward,

the hand is followed up with a set of instructions . . . directions to a temple, the name of the master who will

teach you— something! But all this guy left for us is five tattoos! Hardly—” Langdon stopped short.

Sato eyed him. “What is it?”

Langdon’s eyes shot back to the hand. Five tattoos. He now realized that what he was saying might not be

entirely true.

“Professor?” Sato pressed.

Langdon inched toward the gruesome object. Peter will point the way.

“Earlier, it crossed my mind that maybe this guy had left an object clenched in Peter’s palm—a map, or a

letter, or a set of directions.”

“He didn’t,” Anderson said. “As you can see, those three fingers are not clenched tightly.”

“You’re right,” Langdon said. “But it occurs to me . . .” He crouched down now, trying to see up under the

fingers to the hidden part of Peter’s palm. “Maybe it’s not written on paper.”

“Tattooed?” Anderson said.

Langdon nodded.

“Do you see anything on the palm?” Sato asked.

Langdon crouched lower, trying to peer up under the loosely clenched fingers. “The angle is impossible. I

can’t—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Sato said, moving toward him. “Just open the damned thing!”

Anderson stepped in front of her. “Ma’am! We should really wait for forensics before we touch—”

“I want some answers,” Sato said, pushing past him. She crouched down, edging Langdon away from the

hand.

Langdon stood up and watched in disbelief as Sato pulled a pen from her pocket, sliding it carefully under

the three clenched fingers. Then, one by one, she pried each finger upward until the hand stood fully open,

with its palm visible.

She glanced up at Langdon, and a thin smile spread across her face. “Right again, Professor.”

CHAPTER 22

Pacing the library, Katherine Solomon pulled back the sleeve of her lab coat and checked her watch. She

was not a woman accustomed to waiting, but at the moment, she felt as if her whole world were on hold. She

was waiting for Trish’s search-spider results, she was waiting for word from her brother, and also, she was

waiting for a callback from the man who was responsible for this entire troubling situation.

I wish he hadn’t told me, she thought. Normally, Katherine was extremely careful about making new

acquaintances, and although she had met this man for the first time only this afternoon, he had earned her

trust in a matter of minutes. Completely.

His call had come this afternoon while Katherine was at home enjoying her usual Sunday-afternoon pleasure

of catching up on the week’s scientific journals.

“Ms. Solomon?” an unusually airy voice had said. “My name is Dr. Christopher Abaddon. I was hoping I

might speak to you for a moment about your brother?”

“I’m sorry, who is this?” she had demanded. And how did you get my private cell-phone number?

“Dr. Christopher Abaddon?”

Katherine did not recognize the name.

The man cleared his throat, as if the situation had just become awkward. “I apologize, Ms. Solomon. I was

under the impression your brother had told you about me. I’m his doctor. Your cell number was listed as his

emergency contact.”

Katherine’s heart skipped. Emergency contact? “Is something wrong?”

“No . . . I don’t think so,” the man said. “Your brother missed an appointment this morning, and I can’t reach

him on any of his numbers. He never misses appointments without calling, and I’m just a little worried. I

hesitated to phone you, but—”

“No, no, not at all, I appreciate the concern.” Katherine was still trying to place the doctor’s name. “I haven’t

spoken to my brother since yesterday morning, but he probably just forgot to turn on his cell.” Katherine had

recently given him a new iPhone, and he still hadn’t taken the time to figure out how to use it.

“You say you’re his doctor?” she asked. Does Peter have an illness he’s keeping from me?

There was a weighty pause on the line. “I’m terribly sorry, but I’ve obviously just made a rather serious

professional error by calling you. Your brother told me you were aware of his visits to me, but now I see

that’s not the case.”

My brother lied to his doctor? Katherine’s concern was now growing steadily. “Is he sick?”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Solomon, doctor-patient confidentiality precludes me from discussing your brother’s

condition, and I’ve already said too much by admitting he is my patient. I’m going to hang up now, but if you

hear from him today, please ask him to call me so I know he’s okay.”

“Wait!” Katherine said. “Please tell me what’s wrong with Peter!”

Dr. Abaddon exhaled, sounding displeased with his mistake. “Ms. Solomon, I can hear you’re upset, and I

don’t blame you. I’m sure your brother is fine. He was in my office just yesterday.”

“Yesterday? And he’s scheduled again today? This sounds urgent.”

The man heaved a sigh. “I suggest we give him a little more time before we—”

“I’m coming by your office right now,” Katherine said, heading for the door. “Where are you located?”

Silence.

“Dr. Christopher Abaddon?” Katherine said. “I can look up your address myself, or you can simply give it to

me. Either way, I’m coming over.”

The doctor paused. “If I meet with you, Ms. Solomon, would you please do me the courtesy of saying

nothing to your brother until I’ve had a chance to explain my misstep?”

“That’s fine.”

“Thank you. My office is in Kalorama Heights.” He gave her an address.

Twenty minutes later, Katherine Solomon was navigating the stately streets of Kalorama Heights. She had

phoned all of her brother’s numbers with no reply. She did not feel overly concerned about her brother’s

whereabouts, and yet, the news that he was secretly seeing a doctor . . . was troubling.

When Katherine finally located the address, she stared up at the building in confusion. This is a doctor’s

office?

The opulent mansion before her had a wrought-iron security fence, electronic cameras, and lush grounds. As

she slowed to double-check the address, one of the security cameras rotated toward her, and the gate swung

open. Tentatively, Katherine drove up the driveway and parked next to a six-car garage and a stretch limo.

What kind of doctor is this guy?

As she got out of her car, the front door of the mansion opened, and an elegant figure drifted out onto the

landing. He was handsome, exceptionally tall, and younger than she had imagined. Even so, he projected the

sophistication and polish of an older man. He was impeccably dressed in a dark suit and tie, and his thick

blond hair was immaculately coiffed.

“Ms. Solomon, I’m Dr. Christopher Abaddon,” he said, his voice a breathy whisper. When they shook hands,

his skin felt smooth and well tended.

“Katherine Solomon,” she said, trying not to stare at his skin, which was unusually smooth and bronzed. Is

he wearing makeup?

Katherine felt a growing disquiet as she stepped into the home’s beautifully appointed foyer. Classical music

played softly in the background, and it smelled as if someone had burned incense. “This is lovely,” she said,

“although I expected more of . . . an office.”

“I’m fortunate to work out of my home.” The man led her into a living room, where there was a crackling

fire. “Please make yourself comfortable. I’m just steeping some tea. I’ll bring it out, and we can talk.” He

strode toward the kitchen and disappeared.

Katherine Solomon did not sit. Female intuition was a potent instinct that she had learned to trust, and

something about this place was making her skin crawl. She saw nothing that looked anything like any

doctor’s office she had ever seen. The walls of this antique-adorned living room were covered with classical

art, primarily paintings with strange mythical themes. She paused before a large canvas depicting the Three

Graces, whose nude bodies were spectacularly rendered in vivid colors.

“That’s the original Michael Parkes oil.” Dr. Abaddon appeared without warning beside her, holding a tray

of steaming tea. “I thought we’d sit by the fire?” He led her over to the living room and offered her a seat.

“There’s no reason to be nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” Katherine said entirely too quickly.

He gave her a reassuring smile. “Actually, it is my business to know when people are nervous.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m a practicing psychiatrist, Ms. Solomon. That is my profession. I’ve been seeing your brother for almost

a year now. I’m his therapist.”

Katherine could only stare. My brother is in therapy?

“Patients often choose to keep their therapy to themselves,” the man said. “I made a mistake by calling you,

although in my defense, your brother did mislead me.”

“I . . . I had no idea.”

“I apologize if I made you nervous,” he said, sounding embarrassed. “I noticed you studying my face when

we met, and yes, I do wear makeup.” He touched his own cheek, looking self-conscious. “I have a

dermatological condition, which I prefer to hide. My wife usually puts the makeup on for me, but when she’s

not here, I have to rely on my own heavy touch.”

Katherine nodded, too embarrassed to speak.

“And this lovely hair . . .” He touched his lush blond mane. “A wig. My skin condition affected my scalp

follicles as well, and all my hair jumped ship.” He shrugged. “I’m afraid my one sin is vanity.”

“Apparently mine is rudeness,” Katherine said.

“Not at all.” Dr. Abaddon’s smile was disarming. “Shall we start over? Perhaps with some tea?”

They sat in front of the fire and Abaddon poured tea. “Your brother got me in the habit of serving tea during

our sessions. He said the Solomons are tea drinkers.”

“Family tradition,” Katherine said. “Black, please.”

They sipped their tea and made small talk for a few minutes, but Katherine was eager for information about

her brother. “Why was my brother coming to you?” she asked. And why didn’t he tell me? Admittedly, Peter

had endured more than his fair share of tragedy in his life—losing his father at a young age, and then, within

a span of five years, burying his only son and then his mother. Even so, Peter had always found a way to

cope.

Dr. Abaddon took a sip of tea. “Your brother came to me because he trusts me. We have a bond beyond that

of normal patient and doctor.” He motioned to a framed document near the fireplace. It looked like a

diploma, until Katherine spied the double-headed phoenix.

“You’re a Mason?” The highest degree, no less.

“Peter and I are brothers of sorts.”

“You must have done something important to be invited into the thirty-third degree.”

“Not really,” he said. “I have family money, and I give a lot of money to Masonic charities.”

Katherine now realized why her brother trusted this young doctor. A Mason with family money, interested in

philanthropy and ancient mythology?

Dr. Abaddon had more in common with her brother than she had initially imagined.

“When I asked why my brother came to you,” she said, “I didn’t mean why did he choose you. I meant, why

is he seeking the services of a psychiatrist?”

Dr. Abaddon smiled. “Yes, I know. I was trying to sidestep the question politely. It’s really not something I

should be discussing.” He paused. “Although I must say I’m puzzled that your brother would keep our

discussions from you, considering that they relate so directly to your research.”

“My research?” Katherine said, taken totally off guard. My brother talks about my research?

“Recently, your brother came to me looking for a professional opinion about the psychological impact of the

breakthroughs you are making in your lab.”

Katherine almost choked on the tea. “Really? I’m . . . surprised,” she managed. What is Peter thinking? He

told his shrink about my work?! Their security protocol involved not discussing with anyone what Katherine was working on. Moreover, the confidentiality had been her brother’s idea.

“Certainly you are aware, Ms. Solomon, that your brother is deeply concerned about what will happen when

your research goes public. He sees the potential for a significant philosophical shift in the world . . . and he

came here to discuss the possible ramifications . . . from a psychological perspective.”

“I see,” Katherine said, her teacup now shaking slightly.

“The questions we discuss are challenging ones: What happens to the human condition if the great mysteries

of life are finally revealed? What happens when those beliefs that we accept on faith . . . are suddenly

categorically proven as fact? Or disproved as myth? One could argue that there exist certain questions that are best left unanswered.”

Katherine could not believe what she was hearing, and yet she kept her emotions in check. “I hope you don’t

mind, Dr. Abaddon, but I’d prefer not to discuss the details of my work. I have no immediate plans to make

anything public. For the time being, my discoveries will remain safely locked in my lab.”

“Interesting.” Abaddon leaned back in his chair, lost in thought for a moment. “In any event, I asked your

brother to come back today because yesterday he suffered a bit of a break. When that happens, I like to have

clients—”

“Break?” Katherine’s heart was pounding. “ As in breakdown?” She couldn’t imagine her brother breaking

down over anything.

Abaddon reached out kindly. “Please, I can see I’ve upset you. I’m sorry. Considering these awkward

circumstances, I can understand how you might feel entitled to answers.”

“Whether I’m entitled or not,” Katherine said, “my brother is all I have left of my family. Nobody knows him

better than I do, so if you tell me what the hell happened, maybe I can help you. We all want the same

thing—what’s best for Peter.”

Dr. Abaddon fell silent for several long moments and then began slowly nodding as if Katherine might have

a point. Finally, he spoke. “For the record, Ms. Solomon, if I decide to share this information with you, I

would do so only because I think your insights might help me assist your brother.”

“Of course.”

Abaddon leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. “Ms. Solomon, as long as I’ve been seeing your

brother, I’ve sensed in him a deep struggle with feelings of guilt. I’ve never pressed him on it because that’s

not why he comes to me. And yet yesterday, for a number of reasons, I finally asked him about it.” Abaddon

locked eyes with her. “Your brother opened up, rather dramatically and unexpectedly. He told me things I

had not expected to hear . . . including everything that happened the night your mother died.”

Christmas Eve—almost exactly ten years ago. She died in my arms.

“He told me your mother was murdered during a robbery attempt at your home? A man broke in looking for

something he believed your brother was hiding?”

“That’s correct.”

Abaddon’s eyes were appraising her. “Your brother said he shot the man dead?”

“Yes.”

Abaddon stroked his chin. “Do you recall what the intruder was looking for when he broke into your home?”

Katherine had tried in vain for ten years to block out the memory. “Yes, his demand was very specific.

Unfortunately, none of us knew what he was talking about. His demand never made sense to any of us.”

“Well, it made sense to your brother.”

“What?” Katherine sat up.

“At least according to the story he told me yesterday, Peter knew exactly what the intruder was looking for.

And yet your brother did not want to hand it over, so he pretended not to understand.”

“That’s absurd. Peter couldn’t possibly have known what the man wanted. His demands made no sense!”

“Interesting.” Dr. Abaddon paused and took a few notes. “As I mentioned, however, Peter told me he did

know. Your brother believes if he had only cooperated with the intruder, maybe your mother would be alive

today. This decision is the source of all his guilt.”

Katherine shook her head. “That’s crazy . . .”

Abaddon slumped, looking troubled. “Ms. Solomon, this has been useful feedback. As I feared, your brother

seems to have had a little break with reality. I must admit, I was afraid this might be the case. That’s why I

asked him to come back today. These delusional episodes are not uncommon when they relate to traumatic

memories.”

Katherine shook her head again. “Peter is far from delusional, Dr. Abaddon.”

“I would agree, except . . .”

“Except what?”

“Except that his recounting of the attack was just the beginning . . . a tiny fraction of the long and far-fetched

tale he told me.”

Katherine leaned forward in her seat. “What did Peter tell you?”

Abaddon gave a sad smile. “Ms. Solomon, let me ask you this. Has your brother ever discussed with you

what he believes is hidden here in Washington, D.C. . . . or the role he believes he plays in protecting a great

treasure . . . of lost ancient wisdom?”

Katherine’s jaw fell open. “What in the world are you talking about?”

Dr. Abaddon heaved a long sigh. “What I am about to tell you will be a bit shocking, Katherine.” He paused

and locked eyes with her. “But it will be immeasurably helpful if you can tell me anything you may know

about it.” He reached for her cup. “More tea?”

CHAPTER 23

Another tattoo.

Langdon crouched anxiously beside Peter’s open palm and examined the seven tiny symbols that had been

hidden beneath the lifeless clenched fingers.

“They appear to be numbers,” Langdon said, surprised. “Although I don’t recognize them.”

“The first is a Roman numeral,” Anderson said.

“Actually, I don’t think so,” Langdon corrected. “The Roman numeral I-I-I-X doesn’t exist. It would be

written V-I-I.”

“How about the rest of it?” Sato asked.

“I’m not sure. It looks like eight-eight-five in Arabic numbers.”

“Arabic?” Anderson asked. “They look like normal numbers.”

“Our normal numbers are Arabic.” Langdon had become so accustomed to clarifying this point for his

students that he’d actually prepared a lecture about the scientific advances made by early Middle Eastern

cultures, one of them being our modern numbering system, whose advantages over Roman numerals

included ‘positional notation’ and the invention of the number zero. Of course, Langdon always ended this

lecture with a reminder that Arab culture had also given mankind the word al-kuhl—the favorite beverage of Harvard freshmen—known as alcohol.

Langdon scrutinized the tattoo, feeling puzzled. “And I’m not even sure about the eight-eight-five. The

rectilinear writing looks unusual. Those may not be numbers.”

“Then what are they? Sato asked.

“I’m not sure. The whole tattoo looks almost . . . runic.”

“Meaning?” Sato asked.

“Runic alphabets are composed solely of straight lines. Their letters are called runes and were often used for

carving in stone because curves were too difficult to chisel.”

“If these are runes,” Sato said, “what is their meaning?”

Langdon shook his head. His expertise extended only to the most rudimentary runic alphabet—Futhark—a

third-century Teutonic system, and this was not Futhark. “To be honest, I’m not even sure these are runes.

You’d need to ask a specialist. There are dozens of different forms—Hдlsinge, Manx, the ‘dotted’

Stungnar—”

“Peter Solomon is a Mason, is he not?”

Langdon did a double take. “Yes, but what does that have to do with this?” He stood up now, towering over

the tiny woman.

“You tell me. You just said that runic alphabets are used for stone carvings, and it is my understanding that

the original Freemasons were stone craftsmen. I mention this only because when I asked my office to search

for a connection between the Hand of the Mysteries and Peter Solomon, their search returned one link in

particular.” She paused, as if to emphasize the importance of her finding. “The Masons.”

Langdon exhaled, fighting the impulse to tell Sato the same thing he constantly told his students: “Google”

is not a synonym for “research.” In these days of massive, worldwide keyword searches, it seemed

everything was linked to everything. The world was becoming one big entangled web of information that

was getting denser every day.

Langdon maintained a patient tone. “I’m not surprised the Masons appeared in your staff’s search. Masons

are a very obvious link between Peter Solomon and any number of esoteric topics.”

“Yes,” Sato said, “which is another reason I have been surprised this evening that you have not yet

mentioned the Masons. After all, you’ve been talking about secret wisdom protected by an enlightened few.

That sounds very Masonic, does it not?”

“It does . . . and it also sounds very Rosicrucian, Kabbalistic, Alumbradian, and any number of other esoteric

groups.”

“But Peter Solomon is a Mason—a very powerful Mason, at that. It seems the Masons would come to mind

if we were talking about secrets. Heaven knows the Masons love their secrets.”

Langdon could hear the distrust in her voice, and he wanted no part of it. “If you want to know anything

about the Masons, you would be far better served to ask a Mason.”

“Actually,” Sato said, “I’d prefer to ask someone I can trust.”

Langdon found the comment both ignorant and offensive. “For the

record, ma’am, the entire Masonic philosophy is built on honesty and integrity. Masons are among the most

trustworthy men you could ever hope to meet.”

“I have seen persuasive evidence to the contrary.”

Langdon was liking Director Sato less and less with each passing moment. He had spent years writing about

the Masons’ rich tradition of metaphorical iconography and symbols, and knew that Masons had always been

one of the most unfairly maligned and misunderstood organizations in the world. Regularly accused of

everything from devil worship to plotting a one-world government, the Masons also had a policy of never

responding to their critics, which made them an easy target.

“Regardless,” Sato said, her tone biting, “we are again at an impasse, Mr. Langdon. It seems to me there is

either something you are missing . . . or something you are not telling me. The man we’re dealing with said

that Peter Solomon chose you specifically.” She leveled a cold stare at Langdon. “I think it’s time we move

this conversation to CIA headquarters. Maybe we’ll have more luck there.”

Sato’s threat barely registered with Langdon. She had just said something that had lodged in his mind. Peter

Solomon chose you. The comment, combined with the mention of Masons, had hit Langdon strangely. He

looked down at the Masonic ring on Peter’s finger. The ring was one of Peter’s most prized possessions—a

Solomon family heirloom that bore the symbol of the double-headed phoenix—the ultimate mystical icon of

Masonic wisdom. The gold glinted in the light, sparking an unexpected memory.

Langdon gasped, recalling the eerie whisper of Peter’s captor: It really hasn’t dawned on you yet, has it?

Why you were chosen?

Now, in one terrifying moment, Langdon’s thoughts snapped into focus and the fog lifted.

All at once, Langdon’s purpose here was crystal clear.

Ten miles away, driving south on Suitland Parkway, Mal’akh heard a distinctive vibration on the seat beside

him. It was Peter Solomon’s iPhone, which had proven a powerful tool today. The visual caller ID now

displayed the image of an attractive middle-aged woman with long black hair.

INCOMING CALL—KATHERINE SOLOMON

Mal’akh smiled, ignoring the call. Destiny pulls me closer.

He had lured Katherine Solomon to his home this afternoon for one reason only—to determine if she had

information that could assist him . . . perhaps a family secret that might help Mal’akh locate what he sought.

Clearly, however, Katherine’s brother had told her nothing of what he had been guarding all these years.

Even so, Mal’akh had learned something else from Katherine. Something that has earned her a few extra

hours of life today. Katherine had confirmed for him that all of her research was in one location, safely locked inside her lab.

I must destroy it.

Katherine’s research was poised to open a new door of understanding, and once the door was opened even a

crack, others would follow. It would just be a matter of time before everything changed. I cannot let that

happen. The world must stay as it is . . . adrift in ignorant darkness.

The iPhone beeped, indicating Katherine had left a voice mail. Mal’akh retrieved it.

“Peter, it’s me again.” Katherine’s voice sounded concerned. “Where are you? I’m still thinking about my

conversation with Dr. Abaddon . . . and I’m worried. Is everything okay? Please call me. I’m at the lab.”

The voice mail ended.

Mal’akh smiled. Katherine should worry less about her brother, and more about herself. He turned off

Suitland Parkway onto Silver Hill Road. Less than a mile later, in the darkness, he spotted the faint outline of

the SMSC nestled in the trees off the highway to his right. The entire complex was surrounded by a high

razor-wire fence.

A secure building? Mal’akh chuckled to himself. I know someone who will open the door for me.

CHAPTER 24

The revelation crashed over Langdon like a wave.

I know why I am here.

Standing in the center of the Rotunda, Langdon felt a powerful urge to turn and run away . . . from Peter’s

hand, from the shining gold ring, from the suspicious eyes of Sato and Anderson. Instead, he stood dead still,

clinging more tightly to the leather daybag that hung on his shoulder. I’ve got to get out of here.

His jaw clenched as his memory began replaying the scene from that cold morning, years ago in Cambridge.

It was six A.M. and Langdon was entering his classroom as he always did following his ritual morning laps

in the Harvard Pool. The familiar smells of chalk dust and steam heat greeted him as he crossed the

threshold. He took two steps toward his desk but stopped short.

A figure was waiting there for him—an elegant gentleman with an aquiline face and regal gray eyes.

“Peter?” Langdon stared in shock.

Peter Solomon’s smile flashed white in the dimly lit room. “Good morning, Robert. Surprised to see me?”

His voice was soft, and yet there was power there.

Langdon hurried over and warmly shook his friend’s hand. “What in the world is a Yale blue blood doing on

the Crimson campus before dawn?”

“Covert mission behind enemy lines,” Solomon said, laughing. He motioned to Langdon’s trim waistline.

“Laps are paying off. You’re in good shape.”

“Just trying to make you feel old,” Langdon said, toying with him. “It’s great to see you, Peter. What’s up?”

“Short business trip,” the man replied, glancing around the deserted classroom. “I’m sorry to drop in on you

like this, Robert, but I have only a few minutes. There’s something I needed to ask you . . . in person. A

favor.”

That’s a first. Langdon wondered what a simple college professor could possibly do for the man who had

everything. “Anything at all,” he replied, pleased for any opportunity to do something for someone who had

given him so much, especially when Peter’s life of good fortune had also been marred by so much tragedy.

Solomon lowered his voice. “I was hoping you would consider looking after something for me.”

Langdon rolled his eyes. “Not Hercules, I hope.” Langdon had once agreed to take care of Solomon’s

hundred-fifty-pound mastiff, Hercules, during Solomon’s travels. While at Langdon’s home, the dog

apparently had become homesick for his favorite leather chew toy and had located a worthy substitute in

Langdon’s study—an original vellum, hand-calligraphed, illuminated Bible from the 1600s. Somehow “bad

dog” didn’t quite seem adequate.

“You know, I’m still searching for a replacement,” Solomon said, smiling sheepishly.

“Forget it. I’m glad Hercules got a taste of religion.”

Solomon chuckled but seemed distracted. “Robert, the reason I came to see you is I’d like you to keep an eye

on something that is quite valuable to me. I inherited it a while back, but I’m no longer comfortable leaving it

in my home or in my office.”

Langdon immediately felt uncomfortable. Anything “quite valuable” in Peter Solomon’s world had to be

worth an absolute fortune. “How about a safe-deposit box?” Doesn’t your family have stock in half the banks

in America?

“That would involve paperwork and bank employees; I’d prefer a trusted friend. And I know you can keep

secrets.” Solomon reached in his pocket and pulled out a small package, handing it to Langdon.

Considering the dramatic preamble, Langdon had expected something more impressive. The package was a

small cube-shaped box, about three inches square, wrapped in faded brown packing paper and tied with

twine. From the package’s heavy weight and size, it felt like its contents must be rock or metal. This is it?

Langdon turned the box in his hands, now noticing the twine had been carefully secured on one side with an

embossed wax seal, like an ancient edict. The seal bore a double-headed phoenix with the number 33

emblazoned on its chest—the traditional symbol of the highest degree of Freemasonry.

“Really, Peter,” Langdon said, a lopsided grin creeping across his face. “You’re the Worshipful Master of a

Masonic lodge, not the pope. Sealing packages with your ring?”

Solomon glanced down at his gold ring and gave a chuckle. “I didn’t seal this package, Robert. My great-

grandfather did. Almost a century ago.”

Langdon’s head snapped up. “What?!”

Solomon held up his ring finger. “This Masonic ring was his. After that, it was my grandfather’s, then my

father’s . . . and eventually mine.”

Langdon held up the package. “Your great-grandfather wrapped this a century ago and nobody has opened

it?”

“That’s right.”

“But . . . why not?”

Solomon smiled. “Because it’s not time.”

Langdon stared. “Time for what?”

“Robert, I know this will sound odd, but the less you know, the better. Just put this package somewhere safe,

and please tell no one I gave it to you.”

Langdon searched his mentor’s eyes for a glint of playfulness. Solomon had a propensity for dramatics, and

Langdon wondered if he wasn’t being played a bit here. “Peter, are you sure this isn’t just a clever ploy to

make me think I’ve been entrusted with some kind of ancient Masonic secret so I’ll be curious and decide to

join?”

“The Masons do not recruit, Robert, you know that. Besides, you’ve already told me you’d prefer not to

join.”

This was true. Langdon had great respect for Masonic philosophy and symbolism, and yet he had decided

never to be initiated; the order’s vows of secrecy would prevent him from discussing Freemasonry with his

students. It had been for this same reason that Socrates had refused to formally participate in the Eleusinian

Mysteries.

As Langdon now regarded the mysterious little box and its Masonic seal, he could not help but ask the

obvious question. “Why not entrust this to one of your Masonic brothers?”

“Let’s just say I have an instinct it would be safer stored outside the brotherhood. And please don’t let the size of this package fool you. If what my father told me is correct, then it contains something of substantial

power.” He paused. “A talisman, of sorts.”

Did he say a talisman? By definition, a talisman was an object with magical powers. Traditionally, talismans were used for bringing luck, warding off evil spirits, or aiding in ancient rituals. “Peter, you do realize that talismans went out of vogue in the Middle Ages, right?”

Peter laid a patient hand on Langdon’s shoulder. “I know how this sounds, Robert. I’ve known you a long

time, and your skepticism is one of your greatest strengths as an academic. It is also your greatest weakness. I

know you well enough to know you’re not a man I can ask to believe . . . only to trust. So now I am asking you to trust me when I tell you this talisman is powerful. I was told it can imbue its possessor with the ability

to bring order from chaos.”

Langdon could only stare. The idea of “order from chaos” was one of the great Masonic axioms. Ordo ab

chao. Even so, the claim that a talisman could impart any power at all was absurd, much less the power to bring order from chaos.

“This talisman,” Solomon continued, “would be dangerous in the wrong hands, and unfortunately, I have

reason to believe powerful people want to steal it from me.” His eyes were as serious as Langdon could ever

recall. “I would like you to keep it safe for me for a while. Can you do that?”

That night, Langdon sat alone at his kitchen table with the package and tried to imagine what could possibly

be inside. In the end, he simply chalked it up to Peter’s eccentricity and locked the package in his library’s

wall safe, eventually forgetting all about it.

That was . . . until this morning.

The phone call from the man with the southern accent.

“Oh, Professor, I almost forgot!” the assistant had said after giving Langdon the specifics of his travel

arrangements to D.C. “There is one more thing Mr. Solomon requested.”

“Yes?” Langdon replied, his mind already moving to the lecture he had just agreed to give.

“Mr. Solomon left a note here for you.” The man began reading awkwardly, as if trying to decipher Peter’s

penmanship. “‘Please ask Robert . . . to bring . . . the small, sealed package I gave him many years ago.’ ”

The man paused. “Does this make any sense to you?”

Langdon felt surprised as he recalled the small box that had been sitting in his wall safe all this time.

“Actually, yes. I know what Peter means.”

“And you can bring it?”

“Of course. Tell Peter I’ll bring it.”

“Wonderful.” The assistant sounded relieved. “Enjoy your speech tonight. Safe travels.”

Before leaving home, Langdon had dutifully retrieved the wrapped package from the back of his safe and

placed it in his shoulder bag.

Now he was standing in the U.S. Capitol, feeling certain of only one thing. Peter Solomon would be horrified

to know how badly Langdon had failed him.

CHAPTER 25

My God, Katherine was right. As usual.

Trish Dunne stared in amazement at the search-spider results that were materializing on the plasma wall

before her. She had doubted the search would turn up any results at all, but in fact, she now had over a dozen hits. And they were still coming in.

One entry in particular looked quite promising.

Trish turned and shouted in the direction of the library. “Katherine? I think you’ll want to see this!”

It had been a couple of years since Trish had run a search spider like this, and tonight’s results astounded her.

A few years ago, this search would have been a dead end. Now, however, it seemed that the quantity of

searchable digital material in the world had exploded to the point where someone could find literally

anything. Incredibly, one of the keywords was a word Trish had never even heard before . . . and the search

even found that.

Katherine rushed through the control-room door. “What have you got?”

“A bunch of candidates.” Trish motioned to the plasma wall. “Every one of these documents contains all of

your key phrases verbatim.”

Katherine tucked her hair behind her ear and scanned the list.

“Before you get too excited,” Trish added, “I can assure you that most of these documents are not what

you’re looking for. They’re what we call black holes. Look at the file sizes. Absolutely enormous. They’re

things like compressed archives of millions of e-mails, giant unabridged encyclopedia sets, global message

boards that have been running for years, and so forth. By virtue of their size and diverse content, these files

contain so many potential keywords that they suck in any search engine that comes anywhere near them.”

Katherine pointed to one of the entries near the top of the list. “How about that one?”

Trish smiled. Katherine was a step ahead, having found the sole file on the list that had a small file size.

“Good eyes. Yeah, that’s really our only candidate so far. In fact, that file’s so small it can’t be more than a page or so.”

“Open it.” Katherine’s tone was intense.

Trish could not imagine a one-page document containing all the strange search strings Katherine had

provided. Nonetheless, when she clicked and opened the document, the key phrases were there . . . crystal

clear and easy to spot in the text.

Katherine strode over, eyes riveted to the plasma wall. “This document is . . . redacted?”

Trish nodded. “Welcome to the world of digitized text.”

Automatic redaction had become standard practice when offering digitized documents. Redaction was a

process wherein a server allowed a user to search the entire text, but then revealed only a small portion of

it—a teaser of sorts—only that text immediately flanking the requested keywords. By omitting the vast

majority of the text, the server avoided copyright infringement and also sent the user an intriguing message: I

have the information you’re searching for, but if you want the rest of it, you’ll have to buy it from me.

“As you can see,” Trish said, scrolling through the heavily abridged page, “the document contains all of your

key phrases.”

Katherine stared up at the redaction in silence.

Trish gave her a minute and then scrolled back to the top of the page. Each of Katherine’s key phrases was

underlined in capital letters and accompanied by a small sample of teaser text—the two words that appeared

on either side of the requested phrase.

Trish could not imagine what this document was referring to. And what the heck is a “symbolon”?

Katherine stepped eagerly toward the screen. “Where did this document come from? Who wrote it?”

Trish was already working on it. “Give me a second. I’m trying to chase down the source.”

“I need to know who wrote this,” Katherine repeated, her voice intense. “I need to see the rest of it.”

“I’m trying,” Trish said, startled by the edge in Katherine’s tone.

Strangely, the file’s location was not displaying as a traditional Web address but rather as a numeric Internet

Protocol address. “I can’t unmask the IP,” Trish said. “The domain name’s not coming up. Hold on.” She

pulled up her terminal window. “I’ll run a traceroute.”

Trish typed the sequence of commands to ping all the “hops” between her control room’s machine and

whatever machine was storing this document.

“Tracing now,” she said, executing the command.

Traceroutes were extremely fast, and a long list of network devices appeared almost instantly on the plasma

wall. Trish scanned down . . . down . . . through the path of routers and switches that connected her machine

to . . .

What the hell? Her trace had stopped before reaching the document’s server. Her ping, for some reason, had

hit a network device that swallowed it rather than bouncing it back. “It looks like my traceroute got blocked,”

Trish said. Is that even possible?

“Run it again.”

Trish launched another traceroute and got the same result. “Nope. Dead end. It’s like this document is on a

server that is untraceable.” She looked at the last few hops before the dead end. “I can tell you, though, it’s located somewhere in the D.C. area.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Not surprising,” Trish said. “These spider programs spiral out geographically, meaning the first results are

always local. Besides, one of your search strings was ‘Washington, D.C.’ ”

“How about a ‘who is’ search?” Katherine prompted. “Wouldn’t that tell you who owns the domain?”

A bit lowbrow, but not a bad idea. Trish navigated to the “who is” database and ran a search for the IP,

hoping to match the cryptic numbers to an actual domain name. Her frustration was now tempered by rising

curiosity. Who has this document? The “who is” results appeared quickly, showing no match, and Trish held

up her hands in defeat. “It’s like this IP address doesn’t exist. I can’t get any information about it at all.”

“Obviously the IP exists. We’ve just searched a document that’s stored there!”

True. And yet whoever had this document apparently preferred not to share his or her identity. “I’m not sure what to tell you. Systems traces aren’t really my thing, and unless you want to call in someone with hacking

skills, I’m at a loss.”

“Do you know someone?”

Trish turned and stared at her boss. “Katherine, I was kidding. It’s not exactly a great idea.”

“But it is done?” She checked her watch.

“Um, yeah . . . all the time. Technically it’s pretty easy.”

“Who do you know?”

“Hackers?” Trish laughed nervously. “Like half the guys at my old job.”

“Anyone you trust?”

Is she serious? Trish could see Katherine was dead serious. “Well, yeah,” she said hurriedly. “I know this

one guy we could call. He was our systems security specialist—serious computer geek. He wanted to date

me, which kind of sucked, but he’s a good guy, and I’d trust him. Also, he does freelance.”

“Can he be discreet?”

“He’s a hacker. Of course he can be discreet. That’s what he does. But I’m sure he’d want at least a thousand

bucks to even look—”

“Call him. Offer him double for fast results.”

Trish was not sure what made her more uncomfortable—helping Katherine Solomon hire a hacker . . . or

calling a guy who probably still found it impossible to believe a pudgy, redheaded metasystems analyst

would rebuff his romantic advances. “You’re sure about this?”

“Use the phone in the library,” Katherine said. “It’s got a blocked number. And obviously don’t use my

name.”

“Right.” Trish headed for the door but paused when she heard Katherine’s iPhone chirp. With luck, the

incoming text message might be information that would grant Trish a reprieve from this distasteful task. She

waited as Katherine fished the iPhone from her lab coat’s pocket and eyed the screen.

Katherine Solomon felt a wave of relief to see the name on her iPhone.

At last.

PETER SOLOMON

“It’s a text message from my brother,” she said, glancing over at Trish.

Trish looked hopeful. “So maybe we should ask him about all this . . . before we call a hacker?”

Katherine eyed the redacted document on the plasma wall and heard Dr. Abaddon’s voice. That which your

brother believes is hidden in D.C. . . . it can be found. Katherine had no idea what to believe anymore, and this document represented information about the far-fetched ideas with which Peter had apparently become

obsessed.

Katherine shook her head. “I want to know who wrote this and where it’s located. Make the call.”

Trish frowned and headed for the door.

Whether or not this document would be able to explain the mystery of what her brother had told Dr.

Abaddon, there was at least one mystery that had been solved today. Her brother had finally learned how to

use the text-messaging feature on the iPhone Katherine had given him.

“And alert the media,” Katherine called after Trish. “The great Peter Solomon just sent his first text

message.”

In a strip-mall parking lot across the street from the SMSC, Mal’akh stood beside his limo, stretching his legs

and waiting for the phone call he knew would be coming. The rain had stopped, and a winter moon had

started to break through the clouds. It was the same moon that had shone down on Mal’akh through the

oculus of the House of the Temple three months ago during his initiation.

The world looks different tonight.

As he waited, his stomach growled again. His two-day fast, although uncomfortable, was critical to his

preparation. Such were the ancient ways. Soon all physical discomforts would be inconsequential.

As Mal’akh stood in the cold night air, he chuckled to see that fate had deposited him, rather ironically,

directly in front of a tiny church. Here, nestled between Sterling Dental and a minimart, was a tiny sanctuary.

LORD’S HOUSE OF GLORY.

Mal’akh gazed at the window, which displayed part of the church’s doctrinal statement: WE BELIEVE

THAT JESUS CHRIST WAS BEGOTTEN BY THE HOLY SPIRIT, AND BORN OF THE VIRGIN

MARY, AND IS BOTH TRUE MAN AND GOD.

Mal’akh smiled. Yes, Jesus is indeed both—man and God—but a virgin birth is not the prerequisite for

divinity. That is not how it happens.

The ring of a cell phone cut the night air, quickening his pulse. The phone that was now ringing was

Mal’akh’s own—a cheap disposable phone he had purchased yesterday. The caller ID indicated it was the

call he had been anticipating.

A local call, Mal’akh mused, gazing out across Silver Hill Road toward the faint moonlit outline of a zigzag roofline over the treetops. Mal’akh flipped open his phone.

“This is Dr. Abaddon,” he said, tuning his voice deeper.

“It’s Katherine,” the woman’s voice said. “I finally heard from my brother.”

“Oh, I’m relieved. How is he?”

“He’s on his way to my lab right now,” Katherine said. “In fact, he suggested you join us.”

“I’m sorry?” Mal’akh feigned hesitation. “In your . . . lab?”

“He must trust you deeply. He never invites anyone back there.”

“I suppose maybe he thinks a visit might help our discussions, but I feel like it’s an intrusion.”

“If my brother says you’re welcome, then you’re welcome. Besides, he said he has a lot to tell us both, and

I’d love to get to the bottom of what’s going on.”

“Very well, then. Where exactly is your lab?”

“At the Smithsonian Museum Support Center. Do you know where that is?”

“No,” Mal’akh said, staring across the parking lot at the complex. “I’m actually in my car right now, and I

have a guidance system. What’s the address?”

“Forty-two-ten Silver Hill Road.”

“Okay, hold on. I’ll type it in.” Mal’akh waited for ten seconds and then said, “Ah, good news, it looks like

I’m closer than I thought. The GPS says I’m only about ten minutes away.”

“Great. I’ll phone the security gate and tell them you’re coming through.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll see you shortly.”

Mal’akh pocketed the disposable phone and looked out toward the SMSC. Was I rude to invite myself?

Smiling, he now pulled out Peter Solomon’s iPhone and admired the text message he had sent Katherine

several minutes earlier.

Got your messages. All’s fine. Busy day. Forgot appointment with Dr. Abaddon. Sorry not to mention him

sooner. Long story. Am headed to lab now. If available, have Dr. Abaddon join us inside. I trust him fully,

and I have much to tell you both. —Peter

Not surprisingly, Peter’s iPhone now pinged with an incoming reply from Katherine.

peter, congrats on learning to text! relieved you’re okay. spoke to dr. A., and he is coming to lab. see you

shortly! —k

Clutching Solomon’s iPhone, Mal’akh crouched down under his limousine and wedged the phone between

the front tire and the pavement. This phone had served Mal’akh well . . . but now it was time it became

untraceable. He climbed behind the wheel, put the car in gear, and crept forward until he heard the sharp

crack of the iPhone imploding.

Mal’akh put the car back in park and stared out at the distant silhouette of the SMSC. Ten minutes. Peter

Solomon’s sprawling warehouse housed over thirty million treasures, but Mal’akh had come here tonight to

obliterate only the two most valuable.

All of Katherine Solomon’s research.

And Katherine Solomon herself.

CHAPTER 26

Professor Langdon?” Sato said. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Are you okay?”

Langdon hoisted his daybag higher onto his shoulder and laid his hand on top of it, as if somehow this might

better hide the cube-shaped package he was carrying. He could feel his face had gone ashen. “I’m . . . just

worried about Peter.”

Sato cocked her head, eyeing him askew.

Langdon felt a sudden wariness that Sato’s involvement tonight might relate to this small package that

Solomon had entrusted to him. Peter had warned Langdon: Powerful people want to steal this. It would be

dangerous in the wrong hands. Langdon couldn’t imagine why the CIA would want a little box containing a

talisman . . . or even what the talisman could be. Ordo ab chao?

Sato stepped closer, her black eyes probing. “I sense you’ve had a revelation?”

Langdon felt himself sweating now. “No, not exactly.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“I just . . .” Langdon hesitated, having no idea what to say. He had no intention of revealing the existence of

the package in his bag, and yet if Sato took him to the CIA, his bag most certainly would be searched on the

way in. “Actually . . .” he fibbed, “I have another idea about the numbers on Peter’s hand.”

Sato’s expression revealed nothing. “Yes?” She glanced over at Anderson now, who was just arriving from

greeting the forensics team that had finally arrived.

Langdon swallowed hard and crouched down beside the hand, wondering what he could possibly come up

with to tell them. You’re a teacher, Robert—improvise! He took one last look at the seven tiny symbols,

hoping for some sort of inspiration.

Nothing. Blank.

As Langdon’s eidetic memory skimmed through his mental encyclopedia of symbols, he could find only one

possible point to make. It was something that had occurred to him initially, but had seemed unlikely. At the

moment, however, he had to buy time to think.

“Well,” he began, “a symbologist’s first clue that he’s on the wrong track when deciphering symbols and

codes is when he starts interpreting symbols using multiple symbolic languages. For example, when I told

you this text was Roman and Arabic, that was a poor analysis because I used multiple symbolic systems. The

same is true for Roman and runic.”

Sato crossed her arms and arched her eyebrows as if to say, “Go on.”

“In general, communications are made in one language, not multiple languages, and so a symbologist’s first

job with any text is to find a single consistent symbolic system that applies to the entire text.”

“And you see a single system now?”

“Well, yes . . . and no.” Langdon’s experience with the rotational symmetry of ambigrams had taught him

that symbols sometimes had meanings from multiple angles. In this case, he realized there was indeed a way

to view all seven symbols in a single language. “If we manipulated the hand slightly, the language will

become consistent.” Eerily, the manipulation Langdon was about to perform was one that seemed to have

been suggested by Peter’s captor already when he spoke the ancient Hermetic adage. As above, so below.

Langdon felt a chill as he reached out and grasped the wooden base on which Peter’s hand was secured.

Gently, he turned the base upside down so that Peter’s extended fingers were now pointing straight down.

The symbols on the palm instantly transformed themselves.

“From this angle,” Langdon said, “X-I-I-I becomes a valid Roman numeral—thirteen. Moreover, the rest of

the characters can be interpreted using the Roman alphabet—SBB.” Langdon assumed the analysis would

elicit blank shrugs, but Anderson’s expression immediately changed.

“SBB?” the chief demanded.

Sato turned to Anderson. “If I’m not mistaken, that sounds like a familiar numbering system here in the

Capitol Building.”

Anderson looked pale. “It is.”

Sato gave a grim smile and nodded to Anderson. “Chief, follow me, please. I’d like a word in private.”

As Director Sato led Chief Anderson out of earshot, Langdon stood alone in bewilderment. What the hell is

going on here? And what is SBB XIII?

Chief Anderson wondered how this night could possibly get any stranger. The hand says SBB13? He was

amazed any outsider had even heard of SBB . . . much less SBB13. Peter Solomon’s index finger, it seemed,

was not directing them upward as it had appeared . . . but rather was pointing in quite the opposite direction.

Director Sato led Anderson over to a quiet area near the bronze statue of Thomas Jefferson. “Chief,” she

said, “I trust you know exactly where SBB Thirteen is located?”

“Of course.”

“Do you know what’s inside?”

“No, not without looking. I don’t think it’s been used in decades.”

“Well, you’re going to open it up.”

Anderson did not appreciate being told what he would do in his own building. “Ma’am, that may be

problematic. I’ll have to check the assignment roster first. As you know, most of the lower levels are private

offices or storage, and security protocol regarding private—”

“You will unlock SBB Thirteen for me,” Sato said, “or I will call OS and send in a team with a battering

ram.”

Anderson stared at her a long moment and then pulled out his radio, raising it to his lips. “This is Anderson. I

need someone to unlock the SBB. Have someone meet me there in five minutes.”

The voice that replied sounded confused. “Chief, confirming you said SBB?”

“Correct. SBB. Send someone immediately. And I’ll need a flashlight.” He stowed his radio. Anderson’s

heart was pounding as Sato stepped closer, lowering her voice even further.

“Chief, time is short,” she whispered, “and I want you to get us down to SBB Thirteen as quickly as

possible.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I also need something else from you.”

In addition to breaking and entering? Anderson was in no position to protest, and yet it had not gone

unnoticed by him that Sato had arrived within minutes of Peter’s hand appearing in the Rotunda, and that she

now was using the situation to demand access to private sections of the U.S. Capitol. She seemed so far

ahead of the curve tonight that she was practically defining it.

Sato motioned across the room toward the professor. “The duffel bag on Langdon’s shoulder.”

Anderson glanced over. “What about it?”

“I assume your staff X-rayed that bag when Langdon entered the building?”

“Of course. All bags are scanned.”

“I want to see that X-ray. I want to know what’s in his bag.”

Anderson looked over at the bag Langdon had been carrying all evening. “But . . . wouldn’t it be easier just

to ask him?”

“What part of my request was unclear?”

Anderson pulled out his radio again and called in her request. Sato gave Anderson her BlackBerry address

and requested that his team e-mail her a digital copy of the X-ray as soon as they had located it. Reluctantly

Anderson complied.

Forensics was now collecting the severed hand for the Capitol Police, but Sato ordered them to deliver it

directly to her team at Langley. Anderson was too tired to protest. He had just been run over by a tiny

Japanese steamroller.

“And I want that ring,” Sato called over to Forensics.

The chief technician seemed ready to question her but thought better of it. He removed the gold ring from

Peter’s hand, placed it in a clear specimen bag, and gave it to Sato. She slipped it into her jacket pocket, and

then turned to Langdon.

“We’re leaving, Professor. Bring your things.”

“Where are we going?” Langdon replied.

“Just follow Mr. Anderson.”

Yes, Anderson thought, and follow me closely. The SBB was a section of the Capitol that few ever visited. To reach it, they would pass through a sprawling labyrinth of tiny chambers and tight passages buried beneath

the crypt. Abraham Lincoln’s youngest son, Tad, had once gotten lost down there and almost perished.

Anderson was starting to suspect that if Sato had her way, Robert Langdon might suffer a similar fate.

CHAPTER 27

Systems security specialist Mark Zoubianis had always prided himself on his ability to multitask. At the

moment, he was seated on his futon along with a TV remote, a cordless phone, a laptop, a PDA, and a large

bowl of Pirate’s Booty. With one eye on the muted Redskins game and one eye on his laptop, Zoubianis was

speaking on his Bluetooth headset with a woman he had not heard from in over a year.

Leave it to Trish Dunne to call on the night of a play-off game.

Confirming her social ineptitude yet again, his former colleague had chosen the Redskins game as a perfect

moment to chat him up and request a favor. After some brief small talk about the old days and how she

missed his great jokes, Trish had gotten to her point: she was trying to unmask a hidden IP address, probably

that of a secure server in the D.C. area. The server contained a small text document, and she wanted access to

it . . . or at the very least, some information about whose document it was.

Right guy, wrong timing, he had told her. Trish then showered him with her finest geek flattery, most of

which was true, and before Zoubianis knew it, he was typing a strange-looking IP address into his laptop.

Zoubianis took one look at the number and immediately felt uneasy. “Trish, this IP has a funky format. It’s

written in a protocol that isn’t even publicly available yet. It’s probably gov intel or military.”

“Military?” Trish laughed. “Believe me, I just pulled a redacted document off this server, and it was not

military.” Zoubianis pulled up his terminal window and tried a traceroute. “You said your traceroute died?”

“Yeah. Twice. Same hop.”

“Mine, too.” He pulled up a diagnostic probe and launched it. “And what’s so interesting about this IP?”

“I ran a delegator that tapped a search engine at this IP and pulled a redacted document. I need to see the rest

of the document. I’m happy to pay them for it, but I can’t figure out who owns the IP or how to access it.”

Zoubianis frowned at his screen. “Are you sure about this? I’m running a diagnostic, and this firewall coding

looks . . . pretty serious.”

“That’s why you get the big bucks.”

Zoubianis considered it. They’d offered him a fortune for a job this easy. “One question, Trish. Why are you

so hot on this?”

Trish paused. “I’m doing a favor for a friend.”

“Must be a special friend.”

“She is.”

Zoubianis chuckled and held his tongue. I knew it.

“Look,” Trish said, sounding impatient. “Are you good enough to unmask this IP? Yes or no?”

“Yes, I’m good enough. And yes, I know you’re playing me like a fiddle.”

“How long will it take you?”

“Not long,” he said, typing as he spoke. “I should be able to get into a machine on their network within ten

minutes or so. Once I’m in and know what I’m looking at, I’ll call you back.”

“I appreciate it. So, are you doing well?”

Now she asks? “Trish, for God’s sake, you called me on the night of a play-off game and now you want to

chat? Do you want me to hack this IP or not?”

“Thanks, Mark. I appreciate it. I’ll be waiting for your call.”

“Fifteen minutes.” Zoubianis hung up, grabbed his bowl of Pirate’s Booty, and unmuted the game.

Women.

CHAPTER 28

Where are they taking me?

As Langdon hurried with Anderson and Sato into the depths of the Capitol, he felt his heart rate increasing

with each downward step. They had begun their journey through the west portico of the Rotunda, descending

a marble staircase and then doubling back through a wide doorway into the famous chamber directly beneath

the Rotunda floor.

The Capitol Crypt.

The air was heavier here, and Langdon was already feeling claustrophobic. The crypt’s low ceiling and soft

uplighting accentuated the robust girth of the forty Doric columns required to support the vast stone floor

directly overhead. Relax, Robert.

“This way,” Anderson said, moving quickly as he angled to the left across the wide circular space.

Thankfully, this particular crypt contained no bodies. Instead it contained several statues, a model of the

Capitol, and a low storage area for the wooden catafalque on which coffins were laid for state funerals. The

entourage hurried through, without even a glance at the four-pointed marble compass in the center of the

floor where the Eternal Flame had once burned.

Anderson seemed to be in a hurry, and Sato once again had her head buried in her BlackBerry. Cellular

service, Langdon had heard, was boosted and broadcast to all corners of the Capitol Building to support the

hundreds of government phone calls that took place here every day.

After diagonally crossing the crypt, the group entered a dimly lit foyer and began winding through a

convoluted series of hallways and dead ends. The warren of passages contained numbered doorways, each of

which bore an identification number. Langdon read the doors as they snaked their way around.

S154 . . . S153 . . . S152 . . .

He had no idea what lay behind these doors, but at least one thing now seemed clear—the meaning of the

tattoo on Peter Solomon’s palm.

SBB13 appeared to be a numbered doorway somewhere in the bowels of the U.S. Capitol Building.

“What are all these doorways?” Langdon asked, clutching his daybag tightly to his ribs and wondering what

Solomon’s tiny package could possibly have to do with a door marked SBB13.

“Offices and storage,” Anderson said. “Private offices and storage,” he added, glancing back at Sato.

Sato did not even glance up from her BlackBerry.

“They look tiny,” Langdon said.

“Glorified closets, most of them, but they’re still some of the most sought-after real estate in D.C. This is the

heart of the original Capitol, and the old Senate chamber is two stories above us.”

“And SBB Thirteen?” Langdon asked. “Whose office is that?”

“Nobody’s. The SBB is a private storage area, and I must say, I’m puzzled how—”

“Chief Anderson,” Sato interrupted without looking up from her BlackBerry. “Just take us there, please.”

Anderson clenched his jaw and guided them on in silence through what was now feeling like a hybrid self-

storage facility and epic labyrinth. On almost every wall, directional signs pointed back and forth, apparently

attempting to locate specific office blocks in this network of hallways.

S142 to S152 . . .

ST1 to ST70 . . .

H1 to H166 & HT1 to HT67 . . .

Langdon doubted he could ever find his way out of here alone. This place is a maze. From all he could

gather, office numbers began with either an S or an H depending on whether they were on the Senate side of the building or the House side. Areas designated ST and HT were apparently on a level that Anderson called

Terrace Level.

Still no signs for SBB.

Finally they arrived at a heavy steel security door with a key-card entry box.

SB Level

Langdon sensed they were getting closer.

Anderson reached for his key card but hesitated, looking uncomfortable with Sato’s demands.

“Chief,” Sato prompted. “We don’t have all night.”

Anderson reluctantly inserted his key card. The steel door released. He pushed it open, and they stepped

through into the foyer beyond. The heavy door clicked shut behind them.

Langdon wasn’t sure what he had hoped to see in this foyer, but the sight in front of him was definitely not it.

He was staring at a descending stairway. “Down again?” he said, stopping short. “There’s a level under the

crypt?”

“Yes,” Anderson said. “SB stands for ‘Senate Basement.’ ”

Langdon groaned. Terrific.

CHAPTER 29

The headlights winding up the SMSC’s wooded access road were the first the guard had seen in the last

hour. Dutifully, he turned down the volume on his portable TV set and stashed his snacks beneath the

counter. Lousy timing. The Redskins were completing their opening drive, and he didn’t want to miss it.

As the car drew closer, the guard checked the name on the notepad in front of him.

Dr. Christopher Abaddon.

Katherine Solomon had just called to alert Security of this guest’s imminent arrival. The guard had no idea

who this doctor might be, but he was apparently very good at doctoring; he was arriving in a black stretch

limousine. The long, sleek vehicle rolled to a stop beside the guardhouse, and the driver’s tinted window

lowered silently.

“Good evening,” the chauffeur said, doffing his cap. He was a powerfully built man with a shaved head. He

was listening to the football game on his radio. “I have Dr. Christopher Abaddon for Ms. Katherine

Solomon?”

The guard nodded. “Identification, please.”

The chauffeur looked surprised. “I’m sorry, didn’t Ms. Solomon call ahead?”

The guard nodded, stealing a glance at the television. “I’m still required to scan and log visitor identification.

Sorry, regulations. I’ll need to see the doctor’s ID.”

“Not a problem.” The chauffeur turned backward in his seat and spoke in hushed tones through the privacy

screen. As he did, the guard stole another peek at the game. The Redskins were breaking from the huddle

now, and he hoped to get this limo through before the next play.

The chauffeur turned forward again and held out the ID that he’d apparently just received through the

privacy screen.

The guard took the card and quickly scanned it into his system. The D.C. driver’s license showed one

Christopher Abaddon from Kalorama Heights. The photo depicted a handsome blond gentleman wearing a

blue blazer, a necktie, and a satin pocket square. Who the hell wears a pocket square to the DMV?

A muffled cheer went up from the television set, and the guard wheeled just in time to see a Redskins player

dancing in the end zone, his finger pointed skyward. “I missed it,” the guard grumbled, returning to the

window.

“Okay,” he said, returning the license to the chauffeur. “You’re all set.”

As the limo pulled through, the guard returned to his TV, hoping for a replay.

As Mal’akh drove his limo up the winding access road, he couldn’t help but smile. Peter Solomon’s secret

museum had been simple to breach. Sweeter still, tonight was the second time in twenty-four hours that

Mal’akh had broken into one of Solomon’s private spaces. Last night, a similar visit had been made to

Solomon’s home.

Although Peter Solomon had a magnificent country estate in Potomac, he spent much of his time in the city

at his penthouse apartment at the exclusive Dorchester Arms. His building, like most that catered to the

super-rich, was a veritable fortress. High walls. Guard gates. Guest lists. Secured underground parking.

Mal’akh had driven this very limousine up to the building’s guardhouse, doffed his chauffeur’s cap from his

shaved head, and proclaimed, “I have Dr. Christopher Abaddon. He is an invited guest of Mr. Peter

Solomon.” Mal’akh spoke the words as if he were announcing the Duke of York.

The guard checked a log and then Abaddon’s ID. “Yes, I see Mr. Solomon is expecting Dr. Abaddon.” He

pressed a button and the gate opened. “Mr. Solomon is in the penthouse apartment. Have your guest use the

last elevator on the right. It goes all the way up.”

“Thank you.” Mal’akh tipped his hat and drove through.

As he wound deep into the garage, he scanned for security cameras. Nothing. Apparently, those who lived

here were neither the kind of people who broke into cars nor the kind of people who appreciated being

watched.

Mal’akh parked in a dark corner near the elevators, lowered the divider between the driver’s compartment

and the passenger compartment, and slithered through the opening into the back of the limo. Once in back, he

got rid of his chauffeur’s cap and donned his blond wig. Straightening his jacket and tie, he checked the

mirror to make sure he had not smeared his makeup. Mal’akh was not about to take any chances. Not tonight.

I have waited too long for this.

Seconds later, Mal’akh was stepping into the private elevator. The ride to the top was silent and smooth.

When the door opened, he found himself in an elegant, private foyer. His host was already waiting.

“Dr. Abaddon, welcome.”

Mal’akh looked into the man’s famous gray eyes and felt his heart begin to race. “Mr. Solomon, I appreciate

your seeing me.”

“Please, call me Peter.” The two men shook hands. As Mal’akh gripped the older man’s palm, he saw the

gold Masonic ring on Solomon’s hand . . . the same hand that had once aimed a gun at Mal’akh. A voice

whispered from Mal’akh’s distant past. If you pull that trigger, I will haunt you forever.

“Please come in,” Solomon said, ushering Mal’akh into an elegant living room whose expansive windows

offered an astonishing view of the Washington skyline.

“Do I smell tea steeping?” Mal’akh asked as he entered.

Solomon looked impressed. “My parents always greeted guests with tea. I’ve carried on that tradition.” He

led Mal’akh into the living room, where a tea service was waiting in front of the fire. “Cream and sugar?”

“Black, thank you.”

Again Solomon looked impressed. “A purist.” He poured them both a cup of black tea. “You said you needed

to discuss something with me that was sensitive in nature and could be discussed only in private.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your time.”

“You and I are Masonic brothers now. We have a bond. Tell me how I can help you.”

“First, I would like to thank you for the honor of the thirty-third degree a few months ago. This is deeply

meaningful to me.”

“I’m glad, but please know that those decisions are not mine alone. They are by vote of the Supreme

Council.”

“Of course.” Mal’akh suspected Peter Solomon had probably voted against him, but within the Masons, as

with all things, money was power. Mal’akh, after achieving the thirty-second degree in his own lodge, had

waited only a month before making a multimillion-dollar donation to charity in the name of the Masonic

Grand Lodge. The unsolicited act of selflessness, as Mal’akh anticipated, was enough to earn him a quick

invitation into the elite thirty-third degree. And yet I have learned no secrets.

Despite the age-old whispers—“All is revealed at the thirty-third degree”—Mal’akh had been told nothing

new, nothing of relevance to his quest. But he had never expected to be told. The inner circle of Freemasonry

contained smaller circles still . . . circles Mal’akh would not see for years, if ever. He didn’t care. His

initiation had served its purpose. Something unique had happened within that Temple Room, and it had given

Mal’akh power over all of them. I no longer play by your rules.

“You do realize,” Mal’akh said, sipping his tea, “that you and I met many years ago.”

Solomon looked surprised. “Really? I don’t recall.”

“It was quite a long time ago.” And Christopher Abaddon is not my real name.

“I’m so sorry. My mind must be getting old. Remind me how I know you?”

Mal’akh smiled one last time at the man he hated more than any other man on earth. “It’s unfortunate that

you don’t recall.”

In one fluid motion, Mal’akh pulled a small device from his pocket and extended it outward, driving it hard

into the man’s chest. There was a flash of blue light, the sharp sizzle of the stun-gun discharge, and a gasp of

pain as one million volts of electricity coursed through Peter Solomon’s body. His eyes went wide, and he

slumped motionless in his chair. Mal’akh stood up now, towering over the man, salivating like a lion about to

consume his injured prey.

Solomon was gasping, straining to breathe.

Mal’akh saw fear in his victim’s eyes and wondered how many people had ever seen the great Peter Solomon

cower. Mal’akh savored the scene for several long seconds. He took a sip of tea, waiting for the man to catch

his breath.

Solomon was twitching, attempting to speak. “Wh-why?” he finally managed.

“Why do you think?” Mal’akh demanded.

Solomon looked truly bewildered. “You want . . . money?”

Money? Mal’akh laughed and took another sip of tea. “I gave the Masons millions of dollars; I have no need

of wealth.” I come for wisdom, and he offers me wealth.

“Then what . . . do you want?”

“You possess a secret. You will share it with me tonight.”

Solomon struggled to lift his chin so he could look Mal’akh in the eye. “I don’t . . . understand.”

“No more lies!” Mal’akh shouted, advancing to within inches of the paralyzed man. “I know what is hidden

here in Washington.”

Solomon’s gray eyes were defiant. “I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

Mal’akh took another sip of tea and set the cup on a coaster. “You spoke those same words to me ten years

ago, on the night of your mother’s death.”

Solomon’s eyes shot wide open. “You . . . ?”

“She didn’t have to die. If you had given me what I demanded . . .”

The older man’s face contorted in a mask of horrified recognition . . . and disbelief.

“I warned you,” Mal’akh said, “if you pulled the trigger, I would haunt you forever.”

“But you’re—”

Mal’akh lunged, driving the Taser hard into Solomon’s chest again. There was another flash of blue light,

and Solomon went completely limp.

Mal’akh put the Taser back in his pocket and calmly finished his tea. When he was done, he dabbed his lips

with a monogrammed linen napkin and peered down at his victim. “Shall we go?”

Solomon’s body was motionless, but his eyes were wide and engaged.

Mal’akh got down close and whispered in the man’s ear. “I’m taking you to a place where only truth

remains.”

Without another word, Mal’akh wadded up the monogrammed napkin and stuffed it into Solomon’s mouth.

Then he hoisted the limp man onto his broad shoulders and headed for the private elevator. On his way out,

he picked up Solomon’s iPhone and keys from the hall table.

Tonight you will tell me all your secrets, Mal’akh thought. Including why you left me for dead all those years ago.

CHAPTER 30

SB level.

Senate basement.

Robert Langdon’s claustrophobia gripped him more tightly with every hastening step of their descent. As

they moved deeper into the building’s original foundation, the air became heavy, and the ventilation seemed

nonexistent. The walls down here were an uneven blend of stone and yellow brick.

Director Sato typed on her BlackBerry as they walked. Langdon sensed a suspicion in her guarded manner,

but the feeling was quickly becoming reciprocal. Sato still hadn’t told him how she knew Langdon was here

tonight. An issue of national security? He had a hard time understanding any relation between ancient

mysticism and national security. Then again, he had a hard time understanding much of anything about this

situation.

Peter Solomon entrusted me with a talisman . . . a deluded lunatic tricked me into bringing it to the Capitol

and wants me to use it to unlock a mystical portal . . . possibly in a room called SBB13.

Not exactly a clear picture.

As they pressed on, Langdon tried to shake from his mind the horrible image of Peter’s tattooed hand,

transformed into the Hand of the Mysteries. The gruesome picture was accompanied by Peter’s voice: The

Ancient Mysteries, Robert, have spawned many myths . . . but that does not mean they themselves are fiction.

Despite a career studying mystical symbols and history, Langdon had always struggled intellectually with the

idea of the Ancient Mysteries and their potent promise of apotheosis.

Admittedly, the historical record contained indisputable evidence that secret wisdom had been passed down

through the ages, apparently having come out of the Mystery Schools in early Egypt. This knowledge moved

underground, resurfacing in Renaissance Europe, where, according to most accounts, it was entrusted to an

elite group of scientists within the walls of Europe’s premier scientific think tank—the Royal Society of

London—enigmatically nicknamed the Invisible College.

This concealed “college” quickly became a brain trust of the world’s most enlightened minds—those of Isaac

Newton, Francis Bacon, Robert Boyle, and even Benjamin Franklin. Today, the list of modern “fellows” was

no less impressive—Einstein, Hawking, Bohr, and Celsius. These great minds had all made quantum leaps in

human understanding, advances that, according to some, were the result of their exposure to ancient wisdom

hidden within the Invisible College. Langdon doubted this was true, although certainly there had been an

unusual amount of “mystical work” taking place within those walls.

The discovery of Isaac Newton’s secret papers in 1936 had stunned the world by revealing Newton’s all-

consuming passion for the study of ancient alchemy and mystical wisdom. Newton’s private papers included

a handwritten letter to Robert Boyle in which he exhorted Boyle to keep “high silence” regarding the

mystical knowledge they had learned. “It cannot be communicated,” Newton wrote, “without immense

damage to the world.”

The meaning of this strange warning was still being debated today.

“Professor,” Sato said suddenly, glancing up from her BlackBerry, “despite your insistence that you have no

idea why you’re here tonight, perhaps you could shed light on the meaning of Peter Solomon’s ring.”

“I can try,” Langdon said, refocusing.

She produced the specimen bag and handed it to Langdon. “Tell me about the symbols on his ring.”

Langdon examined the familiar ring as they moved through the deserted passageway. Its face bore the image

of a double-headed phoenix holding a banner proclaiming ORDO AB CHAO, and its chest was emblazoned

with the number 33. “The double-headed phoenix with the number thirty-three is the emblem of the highest

Masonic degree.” Technically, this prestigious degree existed solely within the Scottish Rite. Nonetheless,

the rites and degrees of Masonry were a complex hierarchy that Langdon had no desire to detail for Sato

tonight. “Essentially, the thirty-third degree is an elite honor reserved for a small group of highly

accomplished Masons. All the other degrees can be attained by successful completion of the previous degree,

but ascension to the thirty-third degree is controlled. It’s by invitation only.”

“So you were aware that Peter Solomon was a member of this elite inner circle?”

“Of course. Membership is hardly a secret.”

“And he is their highest-ranking official?”

“Currently, yes. Peter heads the Supreme Council Thirty-third Degree, which is the governing body of the

Scottish Rite in America.” Langdon always loved visiting their headquarters—the House of the Temple—a

classical masterpiece whose symbolic ornamentation rivaled that of Scotland’s Rosslyn Chapel.

“Professor, did you notice the engraving on the ring’s band? It bears the words ‘All is revealed at the thirty-

third degree.’ ”

Langdon nodded. “It’s a common theme in Masonic lore.”

“Meaning, I assume, that if a Mason is admitted to this highest thirty-third degree, then something special is

revealed to him?”

“Yes, that’s the lore, but probably not the reality. There’s always been conspiratorial conjecture that a select

few within this highest echelon of Masonry are made privy to some great mystical secret. The truth, I

suspect, is probably far less dramatic.”

Peter Solomon often made playful allusions to the existence of a precious Masonic secret, but Langdon

always assumed it was just a mischievous attempt to coax him into joining the brotherhood. Unfortunately,

tonight’s events had been anything but playful, and there had been nothing mischievous about the seriousness

with which Peter had urged Langdon to protect the sealed package in his daybag.

Langdon glanced forlornly at the plastic bag containing Peter’s gold ring. “Director,” he asked, “would you

mind if I held on to this?”

She looked over. “Why?”

“It’s very valuable to Peter, and I’d like to return it to him tonight.”

She looked skeptical. “Let’s hope you get that chance.”

“Thanks.” Langdon pocketed the ring.

“Another question,” Sato said as they hastened deeper into the labyrinth. “My staff said that while cross-

checking the concepts of the ‘thirty-third degree’ and ‘portal’ with Masonry, they turned up literally

hundreds of references to a ‘ pyramid’?”

“That’s not surprising, either,” Langdon said. “The pyramid builders of Egypt are the forerunners of the

modern stonemasons, and the pyramid, along with Egyptian themes, is very common in Masonic

symbolism.”

“Symbolizing what?”

“The pyramid essentially represents enlightenment. It’s an architectural symbol emblematic of ancient man’s

ability to break free from his earthly plane and ascend upward toward heaven, toward the golden sun, and

ultimately, toward the supreme source of illumination.”

She waited a moment. “Nothing else?”

Nothing else?! Langdon had just described one of history’s most elegant symbols. The structure through

which man elevated himself into the realm of the gods.

“According to my staff,” she said, “it sounds like there is a much more relevant connection tonight. They tell

me there exists a popular legend about a specific pyramid here in Washington—a pyramid that relates

specifically to the Masons and the Ancient Mysteries?”

Langdon now realized what she was referring to, and he tried to dispel the notion before they wasted any

more time. “I am familiar with the legend, Director, but it’s pure fantasy. The Masonic Pyramid is one of

D.C.’s most enduring myths, probably stemming from the pyramid on the Great Seal of the United States.”

“Why didn’t you mention it earlier?”

Langdon shrugged. “Because it has no basis in fact. Like I said, it’s a myth. One of many associated with the

Masons.”

“And yet this particular myth relates directly to the Ancient Mysteries?”

“Sure, as do plenty of others. The Ancient Mysteries are the foundation for countless legends that have

survived in history—stories about powerful wisdom protected by secret guardians like the Templars, the

Rosicrucians, the Illuminati, the Alumbrados—the list goes on and on. They are all based on the Ancient

Mysteries . . . and the Masonic Pyramid is just one example.”

“I see,” Sato said. “And what does this legend actually say?”

Langdon considered it for a few steps and then replied, “Well, I’m no specialist in conspiracy theory, but I

am educated in mythology, and most accounts go something like this: The Ancient Mysteries—the lost

wisdom of the ages—have long been considered mankind’s most sacred treasure, and like all great treasures,

they have been carefully protected. The enlightened sages who understood the true power of this wisdom

learned to fear its awesome potential. They knew that if this secret knowledge were to fall into uninitiated

hands, the results could be devastating; as we said earlier, powerful tools can be used either for good or for

evil. So, in order to protect the Ancient Mysteries, and mankind in the process, the early practitioners formed

secret fraternities. Inside these brotherhoods, they shared their wisdom only with the properly initiated,

passing the wisdom from sage to sage. Many believe we can look back and see the historical remnants of

those who mastered the Mysteries . . . in the stories of sorcerers, magicians, and healers.”

“And the Masonic Pyramid?” Sato asked. “How does that fit in?”

“Well,” Langdon said, striding faster now to keep pace, “this is where history and myth begin to merge.

According to some accounts, by the sixteenth century in Europe, almost all of these secret fraternities had

become extinct, most of them exterminated by a growing tide of religious persecution. The Freemasons, it is

said, became the last surviving custodians of the Ancient Mysteries. Understandably, they feared that if their

own brotherhood one day died off like its predecessors, the Ancient Mysteries would be lost for all time.”

“And the pyramid?” Sato again pressed.

Langdon was getting to it. “The legend of the Masonic Pyramid is quite simple. It states that the Masons, in

order to fulfill their responsibility of protecting this great wisdom for future generations, decided to hide it in

a great fortress.” Langdon tried to gather his recollections of the story. “Again, I stress this is all myth, but

allegedly, the Masons transported their secret wisdom from the Old World to the New World—here, to

America—a land they hoped would remain free from religious tyranny. And here they built an impenetrable

fortress—a hidden pyramid—designed to protect the Ancient Mysteries until the time that all of mankind was ready to handle the awesome power that this wisdom could communicate. According to the myth, the

Masons crowned their great pyramid with a shining, solid-gold capstone as symbol of the precious treasure

within—the ancient wisdom capable of empowering mankind to his full human potential. Apotheosis.”

“Quite a story,” Sato said.

“Yes. The Masons fall victim to all kinds of crazy legends.”

“Obviously you don’t believe such a pyramid exists.”

“Of course not,” Langdon replied. “There’s no evidence whatsoever to suggest that our Masonic forefathers

built any kind of pyramid in America, much less in D.C . It’s pretty difficult to hide a pyramid, especially one large enough to hold all the lost wisdom of the ages.”

The legend, as Langdon recalled, never explained exactly what was supposed to be inside the Masonic

Pyramid—whether it was ancient texts, occult writings, scientific revelations, or something far more

mysterious—but the legend did say that the precious information inside was ingeniously encoded . . . and

understandable only to the most enlightened souls.

“Anyway,” Langdon said, “this story falls into a category we symbologists call an ‘archetypal hybrid’—a

blend of other classic legends, borrowing so many elements from popular mythology that it could only be a

fictional construct . . . not historical fact.”

When Langdon taught his students about archetypal hybrids, he used the example of fairy tales, which were

recounted across generations and exaggerated over time, borrowing so heavily from one another that they

evolved into homogenized morality tales with the same iconic elements—virginal damsels, handsome

princes, impenetrable fortresses, and powerful wizards. By way of fairy tales, this primeval battle of “good

vs. evil” is ingrained into us as children through our stories: Merlin vs. Morgan le Fay, Saint George vs. the

Dragon, David vs. Goliath, Snow White vs. the Witch, and even Luke Skywalker battling Darth Vader.

Sato scratched her head as they turned a corner and followed Anderson down a short flight of stairs. “Tell me

this. If I’m not mistaken, pyramids were once considered mystical portals through which the deceased

pharaohs could ascend to the gods, were they not?”

“True.”

Sato stopped short and caught Langdon’s arm, glaring up at him with an expression somewhere between

surprise and disbelief. “You’re saying Peter Solomon’s captor told you to find a hidden portal, and it didn’t occur to you that he was talking about the Masonic Pyramid from this legend?”

“By any name, the Masonic Pyramid is a fairy tale. It’s purely fantasy.”

Sato stepped closer to him now, and Langdon could smell her cigarette breath. “I understand your position on

that, Professor, but for the sake of my investigation, the parallel is hard to ignore. A portal leading to secret

knowledge? To my ear, this sounds a lot like what Peter Solomon’s captor claims you, alone, can unlock.”

“Well, I can hardly believe—”

“What you believe is not the point. No matter what you believe, you must concede that this man might

himself believe that the Masonic Pyramid is real.”

“The man’s a lunatic! He may well believe that SBB Thirteen is the entrance to a giant underground pyramid

that contains all the lost wisdom of the ancients!”

Sato stood perfectly still, her eyes seething. “The crisis I am facing tonight is not a fairy tale, Professor. It is quite real, I assure you.”

A cold silence hung between them.

“Ma’am?” Anderson finally said, gesturing to another secure door ten feet away. “We’re almost there, if

you’d like to continue.” Sato finally broke eye contact with Langdon, motioning for Anderson to move on.

They followed the security chief through the secure doorway, which deposited them in a narrow passage.

Langdon looked left and then right.

You’ve got to be kidding.

He was standing in the longest hallway he had ever seen.

CHAPTER 31

Trish Dunne felt the familiar surge of adrenaline as she exited the bright lights of the Cube and moved into

the raw darkness of the void. The SMSC’s front gate had just called to say that Katherine’s guest, Dr.

Abaddon, had arrived and required an escort back to Pod 5. Trish had offered to bring him back, mostly out

of curiosity. Katherine had said very little about the man who would be visiting them, and Trish was

intrigued. The man was apparently someone Peter Solomon trusted deeply; the Solomons never invited

anyone back to the Cube. This was a first.

I hope he handles the crossing okay, Trish thought as she moved through the frigid darkness. The last thing

she needed was Katherine’s VIP panicking when he realized what he had to do to get to the lab. The first time

is always the worst.

Trish’s first time had been about a year ago. She had accepted Katherine’s job offer, signed a nondisclosure,

and then come to the SMSC with Katherine to see the lab. The two women had walked the length of “The

Street,” arriving at a metal door marked POD 5. Even though Katherine had tried to prepare her by

describing the lab’s remote location, Trish was not ready for what she saw when the pod door hissed open.

The void.

Katherine stepped over the threshold, walked a few feet into the perfect blackness, and then motioned for

Trish to follow. “Trust me. You won’t get lost.”

Trish pictured herself wandering in a pitch-black, stadium-size room and broke a sweat at the mere thought.

“We have a guidance system to keep you on track.” Katherine pointed to the floor. “Very low-tech.”

Trish squinted through the darkness at the rough cement floor. It took a moment to see it in the darkness, but

there was a narrow carpet runner that had been laid down in a straight line. The carpet ran like a roadway,

disappearing into the darkness.

“See with your feet,” Katherine said, turning and walking off. “Just follow right behind me.”

As Katherine disappeared into the blackness, Trish swallowed her fear and followed. This is insane! She had

taken only a few steps down the carpet when the Pod 5 door swung shut behind her, snuffing out the last faint

hint of light. Pulse racing, Trish turned all of her attention to the feeling of the carpet beneath her feet. She

had ventured only a handful of steps down the soft runner when she felt the side of her right foot hit hard

cement. Startled, she instinctively corrected to the left, getting both feet back on soft carpet.

Katherine’s voice materialized up ahead in the blackness, her words almost entirely swallowed by the lifeless

acoustics of this abyss. “The human body is amazing,” she said. “If you deprive it of one sensory input, the

other senses take over, almost instantly. Right now, the nerves in your feet are literally ‘tuning’ themselves to

become more sensitive.”

Good thing, Trish thought, correcting course again.

They walked in silence for what seemed entirely too long. “How much farther?” Trish finally asked.

“We’re about halfway.” Katherine’s voice sounded more distant now.

Trish sped up, doing her best to stay composed, but the breadth of the darkness felt like it would engulf her. I

can’t see one millimeter in front of my face! “Katherine? How do you know when to stop walking?”

“You’ll know in a moment,” Katherine said.

That was a year ago, and now, tonight, Trish was once again in the void, heading in the opposite direction,

out to the lobby to retrieve her boss’s guest. A sudden change in carpet texture beneath her feet alerted her

that she was three yards from the exit. The warning track, as it was called by Peter Solomon, an avid baseball fan. Trish stopped short, pulled out her key card, and groped in the darkness along the wall until she found

the raised slot and inserted her card.

The door hissed open.

Trish squinted into the welcoming light of the SMSC hallway.

Made it . . . again.

Moving through the deserted corridors, Trish found herself thinking about the bizarre redacted file they had

found on a secure network. Ancient portal? Secret location underground? She wondered if Mark Zoubianis

was having any luck figuring out where the mysterious document was located.

Inside the control room, Katherine stood in the soft glow of the plasma wall and gazed up at the enigmatic

document they had uncovered. She had isolated her key phrases now and felt increasingly certain that the

document was talking about the same far-flung legend that her brother had apparently shared with Dr.

Abaddon.

. . . secret location UNDERGROUND where the . . .

. . . somewhere in WASHINGTON, D.C., the coordinates . . .

. . . uncovered an ANCIENT PORTAL that led . . .

. . . warning the PYRAMID holds dangerous . . .

. . . decipher this ENGRAVED SYMBOLON to unveil . . .

I need to see the rest of the file, Katherine thought.

She stared a moment longer and then flipped the plasma wall’s power switch. Katherine always turned off

this energy-intensive display so as not to waste the fuel cell’s liquid hydrogen reserves.

She watched as her keywords slowly faded, collapsing down into a tiny white dot, which hovered in the

middle of the wall and then finally twinkled out.

She turned and walked back toward her office. Dr. Abaddon would be arriving momentarily, and she wanted

to make him feel welcome.

CHAPTER 32

“Almost there,” Anderson said, guiding Langdon and Sato down the seemingly endless corridor that ran the

entire length of the Capitol’s eastern foundation. “In Lincoln’s day, this passage had a dirt floor and was

filled with rats.”

Langdon felt grateful the floor had been tiled; he was not a big fan of rats. The group continued on, their

footfalls drumming up an eerie, uneven echo in the long passageway. Doorways lined the long hallway, some

closed but many ajar. Many of the rooms down on this level looked abandoned. Langdon noticed the

numbers on the doors were now descending and, after a while, seemed to be running out.

SB4 . . . SB3 . . . SB2 . . . SB1 . . .

They continued past an unmarked door, but Anderson stopped short when the numbers began ascending

again.

HB1 . . . HB2 . . .

“Sorry,” Anderson said. “Missed it. I almost never come down this deep.”

The group backed up a few yards to an old metal door, which Langdon now realized was located at the

hallway’s central point—the meridian that divided the Senate Basement (SB) and the House Basement (HB).

As it turned out, the door was indeed marked, but its engraving was so faded, it was almost imperceptible.

SBB

“Here we are,” Anderson said. “Keys will be arriving any moment.”

Sato frowned and checked her watch.

Langdon eyed the SBB marking and asked Anderson, “Why is this space associated with the Senate side

even though it’s in the middle?”

Anderson looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“It says SBB, which begins with an S, not an H.”

Anderson shook his head. “The S in SBB doesn’t stand for Senate. It—”

“Chief?” a guard called out in the distance. He came jogging up the hallway toward them, holding out a key.

“Sorry, sir, it took a few minutes. We couldn’t locate the main SBB key. This is a spare from an auxiliary

box.”

“The original is missing?” Anderson said, sounding surprised.

“Probably lost,” the guard replied, arriving out of breath. “Nobody has requested access down here for ages.”

Anderson took the key. “No secondary key for SBB Thirteen?”

“Sorry, so far we’re not finding keys for any of the rooms in the SBB. MacDonald’s on it now.” The guard

pulled out his radio and spoke into it. “Bob? I’m with the chief. Any additional info yet on the key for SBB

Thirteen?”

The guard’s radio crackled, and a voice replied, “Actually, yeah. It’s strange. I’m seeing no entries since we

computerized, but the hard logs indicate all the storage rooms in the SBB were cleaned out and abandoned

more than twenty years ago. They’re now listed as unused space.” He paused. “All except for SBB Thirteen.”

Anderson grabbed the radio. “This is the chief. What do you mean, all except SBB Thirteen?”

“Well, sir,” the voice replied, “I’ve got a handwritten notation here that designates SBB Thirteen as ‘private.’

It was a long time ago, but it’s written and initialed by the Architect himself.”

The term Architect, Langdon knew, was not a reference to the man who had designed the Capitol, but rather

to the man who ran it. Similar to a building manager, the man appointed as Architect of the Capitol was in

charge of everything including maintenance, restoration, security, hiring personnel, and assigning offices.

“The strange thing . . .” the voice on the radio said, “is that the Architect’s notation indicates that this ‘private space’ was set aside for the use of Peter Solomon.”

Langdon, Sato, and Anderson all exchanged startled looks.

“I’m guessing, sir,” the voice continued, “that Mr. Solomon has our primary key to the SBB as well as any

keys to SBB Thirteen.”

Langdon could not believe his ears. Peter has a private room in the basement of the Capitol? He had always

known Peter Solomon had secrets, but this was surprising even to Langdon.

“Okay,” Anderson said, clearly unamused. “We’re hoping to get access to SBB Thirteen specifically, so keep

looking for a secondary key.”

“Will do, sir. We’re also working on the digital image that you requested—”

“Thank you,” Anderson interrupted, pressing the talk button and cutting him off. “That will be all. Send that

file to Director Sato’s BlackBerry as soon as you have it.”

“Understood, sir.” The radio went silent.

Anderson handed the radio back to the guard in front of them.

The guard pulled out a photocopy of a blueprint and handed it to his chief. “Sir, the SBB is in gray, and

we’ve notated with an X which room is SBB Thirteen, so it shouldn’t be hard to find. The area is quite

small.”

Anderson thanked the guard and turned his focus to the blueprint as the young man hurried off. Langdon

looked on, surprised to see the astonishing number of cubicles that made up the bizarre maze beneath the

U.S. Capitol.

Anderson studied the blueprint for a moment, nodded, and then stuffed it into his pocket. Turning to the door

marked SBB, he raised the key, but hesitated, looking uneasy about opening it. Langdon felt similar

misgivings; he had no idea what was behind this door, but he was quite certain that whatever Solomon had

hidden down here, he wanted to keep private. Very private.

Sato cleared her throat, and Anderson got the message. The chief took a deep breath, inserted the key, and

tried to turn it. The key didn’t move. For a split second, Langdon felt hopeful the key was wrong. On the

second try, though, the lock turned, and Anderson heaved the door open.

As the heavy door creaked outward, damp air rushed out into the corridor.

Langdon peered into the darkness but could see nothing at all.

“Professor,” Anderson said, glancing back at Langdon as he groped blindly for a light switch. “To answer

your question, the S in SBB doesn’t stand for Senate. It stands for sub. ”

“Sub?” Langdon asked, puzzled.

Anderson nodded and flicked the switch just inside the door. A single bulb illuminated an alarmingly steep

staircase descending into inky blackness. “SBB is the Capitol’s subbasement.”

CHAPTER 33

Systems security specialist Mark Zoubianis was sinking deeper into his futon and scowling at the

information on his laptop screen.

W hat the hell kind of address is this?

His best hacking tools were entirely ineffective at breaking into the document or at unmasking Trish’s

mysterious IP address. Ten minutes had passed, and Zoubianis’s program was still pounding away in vain at

the network firewalls. They showed little hope of penetration. No wonder they’re overpaying me. He was

about to retool and try a different approach when his phone rang.

Trish, for Christ’s sake, I said I’d call you. He muted the football game and answered. “Yeah?”

“Is this Mark Zoubianis?” a man asked. “At 357 Kingston Drive in Washington?”

Zoubianis could hear other muffled conversations in the background. A telemarketer during the play-offs?

Are they insane? “Let me guess, I won a week in Anguilla?”

“No,” the voice replied with no trace of humor. “This is systems security for the Central Intelligence Agency.

We would like to know why you are attempting to hack one of our classified databases?”

Three stories above the Capitol Building’s subbasement, in the wide-open spaces of the visitor center,

security guard Nuсez locked the main entry doors as he did every night at this time. As he headed back

across the expansive marble floors, he thought of the man in the army-surplus jacket with the tattoos.

I let him in. Nuсez wondered if he would have a job tomorrow.

As he headed toward the escalator, a sudden pounding on the outside doors caused him to turn. He squinted

back toward the main entrance and saw an elderly African American man outside, rapping on the glass with

his open palm and motioning to be let in.

Nuсez shook his head and pointed to his watch.

The man pounded again and stepped into the light. He was immaculately dressed in a blue suit and had close-

cropped graying hair. Nuсez’s pulse quickened. Holy shit. Even at a distance, Nuсez now recognized who

this man was. He hurried back to the entrance and unlocked the door. “I’m sorry, sir. Please, please come in.”

Warren Bellamy—Architect of the Capitol—stepped across the threshold and thanked Nuсez with a polite

nod. Bellamy was lithe and slender, with an erect posture and piercing gaze that exuded the confidence of a

man in full control of his surroundings. For the last twenty-five years, Bellamy had served as the supervisor

of the U.S. Capitol.

“May I help you, sir?” Nuсez asked.

“Thank you, yes.” Bellamy enunciated his words with crisp precision. As a northeastern Ivy League

graduate, his diction was so exacting he sounded almost British. “I’ve just learned that you had an incident

here this evening.” He looked deeply concerned.

“Yes, sir. It was—”

“Where’s Chief Anderson?”

“Downstairs with Director Sato from the CIA’s Office of Security.”

Bellamy’s eyes widened with concern. “The CIA is here?”

“Yes, sir. Director Sato arrived almost immediately after the incident.”

“Why?” Bellamy demanded.

Nuсez shrugged. As if I was going to ask?

Bellamy strode directly toward the escalators. “Where are they?”

“They just went to the lower levels.” Nuсez hastened after him.

Bellamy glanced back with a look of concern. “Downstairs? Why?” “I don’t really know—I just heard it on

my radio.”

Bellamy was moving faster now. “Take me to them right away.”

“Yes, sir.”

As the two men hurried across the open expanse, Nuсez caught a glimpse of a large golden ring on

Bellamy’s finger.

Nuсez pulled out his radio. “I’ll alert the chief that you’re coming down.”

“No.” Bellamy’s eyes flashed dangerously. “I’d prefer to be unannounced.”

Nuсez had made some big mistakes tonight, but failing to alert Chief Anderson that the Architect was now in

the building would be his last. “Sir?” he said, uneasy. “I think Chief Anderson would prefer—”

“You are aware that I employ Mr. Anderson?” Bellamy said.

Nuсez nodded.

“Then I think he would prefer you obey my wishes.”

CHAPTER 34

Trish Dunne entered the SMSC lobby and looked up with surprise. The guest waiting here looked nothing

like the usual bookish, flannel-clad doctors who entered this building—those of anthropology, oceanography,

geology, and other scientific fields. Quite to the contrary, Dr. Abaddon looked almost aristocratic in his

impeccably tailored suit. He was tall, with a broad torso, well-tanned face, and perfectly combed blond hair

that gave Trish the impression he was more accustomed to luxuries than to laboratories.

“Dr. Abaddon, I presume?” Trish said, extending her hand.

The man looked uncertain, but he took Trish’s plump hand in his broad palm. “I’m sorry. And you are?”

“Trish Dunne,” she replied. “I’m Katherine’s assistant. She asked me to escort you back to her lab.”

“Oh, I see.” The man smiled now. “Very nice to meet you, Trish. My apologies if I seemed confused. I was

under the impression Katherine was here alone this evening.” He motioned down the hall. “But I’m all yours.

Lead the way.”

Despite the man’s quick recovery, Trish had seen the flash of disappointment in his eyes. She now suspected

the motive for Katherine’s secrecy earlier about Dr. Abaddon. A budding romance, maybe? Katherine never

discussed her social life, but her visitor was attractive and well-groomed, and although younger than

Katherine, he clearly came from her world of wealth and privilege. Nonetheless, whatever Dr. Abaddon had

imagined tonight’s visit might entail, Trish’s presence did not seem to be part of his plan.

At the lobby’s security checkpoint, a lone guard quickly pulled off his headphones, and Trish could hear the

Redskins game blaring. The guard put Dr. Abaddon through the usual visitor routine of metal detectors and

temporary security badges.

“Who’s winning?” Dr. Abaddon said affably as he emptied his pockets of a cell phone, some keys, and a

cigarette lighter.

“Skins by three,” the guard said, sounding eager to get back. “Helluva game.”

“Mr. Solomon will be arriving shortly,” Trish told the guard. “Would you please send him back to the lab

once he arrives?”

“Will do.” The guard gave an appreciative wink as they passed through. “Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll look

busy.”

Trish’s comment had been not only for the benefit of the guard but also to remind Dr. Abaddon that Trish

was not the only one intruding on his private evening here with Katherine.

“So how do you know Katherine?” Trish asked, glancing up at the mysterious guest.

Dr. Abaddon chuckled. “Oh, it’s a long story. We’ve been working on something together.”

Understood, Trish thought. None of my business.

“This is an amazing facility,” Abaddon said, glancing around as they moved down the massive corridor.

“I’ve never actually been here.”

His airy tone was becoming more genial with every step, and Trish noticed he was actively taking it all in. In

the bright lights of the hallway, she also noticed that his face looked like he had a fake tan. Odd. Nonetheless, as they navigated the deserted corridors, Trish gave him a general synopsis of the SMSC’s purpose and

function, including the various pods and their contents.

The visitor looked impressed. “Sounds like this place has a treasure trove of priceless artifacts. I would have

expected guards posted everywhere.”

“No need,” Trish said, motioning to the row of fish-eye lenses lining the ceiling high above. “Security here is

automated. Every inch of this corridor is recorded twenty-four/seven, and this corridor is the spine of the

facility. It’s impossible to access any of the rooms off this corridor without a key card and PIN number.”

“Efficient use of cameras.”

“Knock on wood, we’ve never had a theft. Then again, this is not the kind of museum anyone would rob—

there’s not much call on the black market for extinct flowers, Inuit kayaks, or giant squid carcasses.”

Dr. Abaddon chuckled. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Our biggest security threat is rodents and insects.” Trish explained how the building prevented insect

infestations by freezing all SMSC refuse and also by an architectural feature called a “dead zone”—an

inhospitable compartment between double walls, which surrounded the entire building like a sheath.

“Incredible,” Abaddon said. “So, where is Katherine and Peter’s lab?”

“Pod Five,” Trish said. “It’s all the way at the end of this hallway.”

Abaddon halted suddenly, spinning to his right, toward a small window. “My word! Will you look at that!”

Trish laughed. “Yeah, that’s Pod Three. They call it Wet Pod.”

“Wet?” Abaddon said, face pressed to the glass.

“There are over three thousand gallons of liquid ethanol in there. Remember the giant squid carcass I

mentioned earlier?”

“That’s the squid?!” Dr. Abaddon turned from the window momentarily, his eyes wide. “It’s huge!”

“A female Architeuthis,” Trish said. “She’s over forty feet.”

Dr. Abaddon, apparently enraptured by the sight of the squid, seemed unable to pull his eyes away from the

glass. For a moment, the grown man reminded Trish of a little boy at a pet-store window, wishing he could

go in and see a puppy. Five seconds later, he was still staring longingly through the window.

“Okay, okay,” Trish finally said, laughing as she inserted her key card and typed her PIN number. “Come on.

I’ll show you the squid.”

As Mal’akh stepped into the dimly lit world of Pod 3, he scanned the walls for security cameras. Katherine’s

pudgy little assistant began rattling on about the specimens in this room. Mal’akh tuned her out. He had no

interest whatsoever in giant squids. His only interest was in using this dark, private space to solve an

unexpected problem.

CHAPTER 35

The wooden stairs descending to the Capitol’s subbasement were as steep and shallow as any stairs Langdon

had ever traversed . His breathing was faster now, and his lungs felt tight. The air down here was cold and

damp, and Langdon couldn’t help but flash on a similar set of stairs he had taken a few years back into the

Vatican’s Necropolis. The City of the Dead.

Ahead of him, Anderson led the way with his flashlight. Behind Langdon, Sato followed closely, her tiny

hands occasionally pressing into Langdon’s back. I’m going as fast as I can. Langdon inhaled deeply, trying

to ignore the cramped walls on either side of him. There was barely room for his shoulders on this staircase,

and his daybag now scraped down the sidewall.

“Maybe you should leave your bag above,” Sato offered behind him.

“I’m fine,” Langdon replied, having no intention of letting it out of his sight. He pictured Peter’s little

package and could not begin to imagine how it might relate to anything in the subbasement of the U.S.

Capitol.

“Just a few more steps,” Anderson said. “Almost there.”

The group had descended into darkness, moving beyond the reach of the staircase’s lone lightbulb. When

Langdon stepped off the final wooden tread, he could feel that the floor beneath his feet was dirt. Journey to

the center of the Earth. Sato stepped down behind him.

Anderson now raised his beam, examining their surroundings. The subbasement was less of a basement than

it was an ultranarrow corridor that ran perpendicular to the stairs. Anderson shone his light left and then

right, and Langdon could see the passage was only about fifty feet long and lined on both sides with small

wooden doors. The doors abutted one another so closely that the rooms behind them could not have been

more than ten feet wide.

ACME Storage meets the Catacombs of Domatilla, Langdon thought as Anderson consulted the blueprint.

The tiny section depicting the subbasement was marked with an X to show the location of SBB13. Langdon

couldn’t help but notice that the layout was identical to a fourteen-tomb mausoleum—seven vaults facing

seven vaults—with one removed to accommodate the stairs they had just descended. Thirteen in all.

He suspected America’s “thirteen” conspiracy theorists would have a field day if they knew there were

exactly thirteen storage rooms buried beneath the U.S. Capitol. Some found it suspicious that the Great Seal

of the United States had thirteen stars, thirteen arrows, thirteen pyramid steps, thirteen shield stripes, thirteen

olive leaves, thirteen olives, thirteen letters in annuit coeptis, thirteen letters in e pluribus unum, and on and on.

“It does look abandoned,” Anderson said, shining the beam into the chamber directly in front of them. The

heavy wooden door was wide open. The shaft of light illuminated a narrow stone chamber—about ten feet

wide by some thirty feet deep—like a dead-end hallway to nowhere. The chamber contained nothing more

than a couple of old collapsed wooden boxes and some crumpled packing paper.

Anderson shone his light on a copper plate mounted on the door. The plate was covered with verdigris, but

the old marking was legible:

SBB IV

“SBB Four,” Anderson said.

“Which one is SBB Thirteen?” Sato asked, faint wisps of steam curling out of her mouth in the cold

subterranean air.

Anderson turned the beam toward the south end of the corridor. “Down there.”

Langdon peered down the narrow passage and shivered, feeling a light sweat despite the cold.

As they moved through the phalanx of doorways, all of the rooms looked the same, doors ajar, apparently

abandoned long ago. When they reached the end of the line, Anderson turned to his right, raising the beam to

peer into room SBB13. The flashlight beam, however, was impeded by a heavy wooden door.

Unlike the others, the door to SBB13 was closed.

This final door looked exactly like the others—heavy hinges, iron handle, and a copper number plate

encrusted with green. The seven characters on the number plate were the same characters on Peter’s palm

upstairs.

SBB XIII

Please tell me the door is locked, Langdon thought.

Sato spoke without hesitation. “Try the door.”

The police chief looked uneasy, but he reached out, grasped the heavy iron handle, and pushed down on it.

The handle didn’t budge. He shone the light now, illuminating a heavy, old-fashioned lock plate and keyhole.

“Try the master key,” Sato said.

Anderson produced the main key from the entry door upstairs, but it was not even close to fitting.

“Am I mistaken,” Sato said, her tone sarcastic, “or shouldn’t Security have access to every corner of a

building in case of emergency?”

Anderson exhaled and looked back at Sato. “Ma’am, my men are checking for a secondary key, but—”

“Shoot the lock,” she said, nodding toward the key plate beneath the lever.

Langdon’s pulse leaped.

Anderson cleared his throat, sounding uneasy. “Ma’am, I’m waiting for news on a secondary key. I am not

sure I’m comfortable blasting our way into—”

“Perhaps you’d be more comfortable in prison for obstructing a CIA investigation?”

Anderson looked incredulous. After a long beat, he reluctantly handed the light to Sato and unsnapped his

holster.

“Wait!” Langdon said, no longer able to stand idly by. “Think about it. Peter gave up his right hand rather

than reveal whatever might be behind this door. Are you sure we want to do this? Unlocking this door is

essentially complying with the demands of a terrorist.”

“Do you want to get Peter Solomon back?” Sato asked.

“Of course, but—”

“Then I suggest you do exactly what his captor is requesting.”

“Unlock an ancient portal? You think this is the portal?”

Sato shone the light in Langdon’s face. “Professor, I have no idea what the hell this is. Whether it’s a storage

unit or the secret entrance to an ancient pyramid, I intend to open it. Do I make myself clear?”

Langdon squinted into the light and finally nodded.

Sato lowered the beam and redirected it at the door’s antique key plate. “Chief? Go ahead.”

Still looking averse to the plan, Anderson extracted his sidearm very, very slowly, gazing down at it with

uncertainty.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Sato’s tiny hands shot out, and she grabbed the weapon from him. She stuffed the

flashlight into his now empty palm. “Shine the damned light.” She handled the gun with the confidence of

someone who had trained with weapons, wasting no time turning off the pistol’s safety, cocking the weapon,

and aiming at the lock.

“Wait!” Langdon yelled, but he was too late.

The gun roared three times.

Langdon’s eardrums felt like they had exploded. Is she insane?! The gunshots in the tiny space had been

deafening.

Anderson also looked shaken, his hand wavering a bit as he shone the flashlight on the bullet-riddled door.

The lock mechanism was now in tatters, the wood surrounding it entirely pulverized. The lock had released,

the door now having fallen ajar.

Sato extended the pistol and pressed the tip of the barrel against the door, giving it a push. The door swung

fully into the blackness beyond.

Langdon peered in but could see nothing in the darkness. What in the world is that smell? An unusual, fetid

odor wafted out of the darkness.

Anderson stepped into the doorway and shone the light on the floor, tracing carefully down the length of the

barren dirt floor. This room was like the others—a long, narrow space. The sidewalls were rugged stone,

giving the room the feel of an ancient prison cell. But that smell . . .

“There’s nothing here,” Anderson said, moving the beam farther down the chamber floor. Finally, as the

beam reached the end of the floor, he raised it up to illuminate the chamber’s farthest wall.

“My God . . . !” Anderson shouted.

Everyone saw it and jumped back.

Langdon stared in disbelief at the deepest recess of the chamber.

To his horror, something was staring back.

CHAPTER 36

“What in God’s name . . . ?” At the threshold of SBB13, Anderson fumbled with his light and retreated a

step.

Langdon also recoiled, as did Sato, who looked startled for the first time all night.

Sato aimed the gun at the back wall and motioned for Anderson to shine the light again. Anderson raised the

light. The beam was dim by the time it reached the far wall, but the light was enough to illuminate the shape

of a pallid and ghostly face, staring back at them through lifeless sockets.

A human skull.

The skull sat atop a rickety wooden desk positioned against the rear wall of the chamber. Two human leg

bones sat beside the skull, along with a collection of other items that were meticulously arranged on the desk

in shrinelike fashion—an antique hourglass, a crystal flask, a candle, two saucers of pale powder, and a sheet

of paper. Propped against the wall beside the desk stood the fearsome shape of a long scythe, its curved blade

as familiar as that of the grim reaper.

Sato stepped into the room. “Well, now . . . it appears Peter Solomon keeps more secrets than I imagined.”

Anderson nodded, inching after her. “Talk about skeletons in your closet.” He raised the light and surveyed

the rest of the empty chamber. “And that smell?” he added, crinkling his nose. “What is it?”

“Sulfur,” Langdon replied evenly behind them. “There should be two saucers on the desk. The saucer on the

right will contain salt. And the other sulfur.”

Sato wheeled in disbelief. “How the hell would you know that?!”

“Because, ma’am, there are rooms exactly like this all over the world.”

One story above the subbasement, Capitol security guard Nuсez escorted the Architect of the Capitol,

Warren Bellamy, down the long hallway that ran the length of the eastern basement. Nuсez could have sworn

that he had just heard three gunshots down here, muffled and underground.

There’s no way.

“Subbasement door is open,” Bellamy said, squinting down the hallway at a door that stood ajar in the

distance.

Strange evening indeed, Nuсez thought. Nobody goes down there. “I’ll be glad to find out what’s going on,”

he said, reaching for his radio.

“Go back to your duties,” Bellamy said. “I’m fine from here.”

Nuсez shifted uneasily. “You sure?”

Warren Bellamy stopped, placing a firm hand on Nuсez’s shoulder. “Son, I’ve worked here for twenty-five

years. I think I can find my way.”

CHAPTER 37

Mal’akh had seen some eerie spaces in his life, but few rivaled the unearthly world of Pod 3. Wet Pod. The massive room looked as if a mad scientist had taken over a Walmart and packed every aisle and shelf with

specimen jars of all shapes and sizes. Lit like a photographic darkroom, the space was bathed in a reddish

haze of “safelight” that emanated from beneath the shelves, filtering upward and illuminating the ethanol-

filled containers. The clinical smell of preservative chemicals was nauseating.

“This pod houses over twenty thousand species,” the chubby girl was saying. “Fish, rodents, mammals,

reptiles.”

“All dead, I hope?” Mal’akh asked, making a show of sounding nervous.

The girl laughed. “Yes, yes. All very much dead. I’ll admit, I didn’t dare come in for at least six months after

I started work.”

Mal’akh could understand why. Everywhere he looked there were specimen jars of dead life-forms—

salamanders, jellyfish, rats, bugs, birds, and other things he could not begin to identify. As if this collection

were not unsettling enough on its own, the hazy red safelights that protected these photosensitive specimens

from long-term light exposure gave the visitor the feeling he was standing inside a giant aquarium, where

lifeless creatures were somehow congregating to watch from the shadows.

“That’s a coelacanth,” the girl said, pointing to a big Plexiglas container that held the ugliest fish Mal’akh

had ever seen. “They were thought to be extinct with the dinosaurs, but this was caught off Africa a few

years back and donated to the Smithsonian.”

Lucky you, Mal’akh thought, barely listening. He was busy scanning the walls for security cameras. He saw

only one—trained on the entry door—not surprising, considering that entrance was probably the only way in.

“And here is what you wanted to see . . .” she said, leading him to the giant tank he had seen from the

window. “Our longest specimen.” She swept her arm out over the vile creature like a game-show host

displaying a new car. “Architeuthis.”

The squid tank looked like a series of glass phone booths had been laid on their sides and fused end to end.

Within the long, clear Plexiglas coffin hovered a sickeningly pale and amorphous shape. Mal’akh gazed

down at the bulbous, saclike head and its basketball-size eyes. “Almost makes your coelacanth look

handsome,” he said.

“Wait till you see her lit.”

Trish flipped back the long lid of the tank. Ethanol fumes wafted out as she reached down into the tank and

flipped a switch just above the liquid line. A string of fluorescent lights flickered to life along the entire base

of the tank. Architeuthis was now shining in all her glory—a colossal head attached to a slithery mass of

decaying tentacles and razor-sharp suckers.

She began talking about how Architeuthis could beat a sperm whale in a fight.

Mal’akh heard only empty prattling.

The time had come.

Trish Dunne always felt a bit uneasy in Pod 3, but the chill that had just run through her felt different.

Visceral. Primal.

She tried to ignore it, but it grew quickly now, clawing deeply at her. Although Trish could not seem to place

the source of her anxiety, her gut was clearly telling her it was time to leave.

“Anyhow, that’s the squid,” she said, reaching into the tank and turning off the display light. “We should

probably get back to Katherine’s—”

A broad palm clamped hard over her mouth, yanking her head back. Instantly, a powerful arm was wrapped

around her torso, pinning her against a rock-hard chest. For a split second, Trish went numb with shock.

Then came the terror.

The man groped across her chest, grabbing her key card and yanking down hard. The cord burned the back of

her neck before snapping. The key card fell on the floor at their feet. She fought, trying to twist away, but she

was no match for the man’s size and strength. She tried to scream, but his hand remained tightly across her

mouth. He leaned down and placed his mouth next to her ear, whispering, “When I take my hand off your

mouth, you will not scream, is that clear?”

She nodded vigorously, her lungs burning for air. I can’t breathe!

The man removed his hand from her mouth, and Trish gasped, inhaling deeply.

“Let me go!” she demanded, breathless. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Tell me your PIN number,” the man said.

Trish felt totally at a loss. Katherine! Help! Who is this man?! “Security can see you!” she said, knowing full well they were out of range of the cameras. And nobody is watching anyway.

“Your PIN number,” the man repeated. “The one that matches your key card.”

An icy fear churned in her gut, and Trish spun violently, wriggling an arm free and twisting around, clawing

at the man’s eyes. Her fingers hit flesh and raked down one cheek. Four dark gashes opened on his flesh

where she scratched him. Then she realized the dark stripes on his flesh were not blood. The man was

wearing makeup, which she had just scratched off, revealing dark tattoos hidden underneath.

Who is this monster?!

With seemingly superhuman strength, the man spun her around and hoisted her up, pushing her out over the

open squid tank, her face now over the ethanol. The fumes burned her nostrils.

“What is your PIN number?” he repeated.

Her eyes burned, and she could see the pale flesh of the squid submerged beneath her face.

“Tell me,” he said, pushing her face closer to the surface. “What is it?”

Her throat was burning now. “Zero-eight-zero-four!” she blurted, barely able to breathe. “Let me go! Zero-

eight-zero-four!”

“If you’re lying,” he said, pushing down farther, her hair in the ethanol now.

“I’m not lying!” she said, coughing. “August 4! It’s my birthday!”

“Thank you, Trish.”

His powerful hands clasped her head tighter, and a crushing force rammed her downward, plunging her face

into the tank. Searing pain burned her eyes. The man pressed down harder, driving her whole head under the

ethanol. Trish felt her face pressing into the fleshy head of the squid.

Summoning all of her strength, she bucked violently, arching backward, trying to pull her head out of the

tank. But the powerful hands did not budge.

I have to breathe!

She remained submerged, straining not to open her eyes or mouth. Her lungs burned as she fought the

powerful urge to breathe in. No! Don’t! But Trish’s inhalation reflex finally took over.

Her mouth flew open, and her lungs expanded violently, attempting to suck in the oxygen that her body

craved. In a searing rush, a wave of ethanol poured into her mouth. As the chemicals gushed down her throat

into her lungs, Trish felt a pain like nothing she had ever imagined possible. Mercifully, it lasted only a few

seconds before her world went black.

Mal’akh stood beside the tank, catching his breath and surveying the damage.

The lifeless woman lay slumped over the rim of the tank, her face still submerged in ethanol. Seeing her

there, Mal’akh flashed on the only other woman he had ever killed.

Isabel Solomon.

Long ago. Another life.

Mal’akh gazed down now at the woman’s flaccid corpse. He grabbed her ample hips and lifted with his legs,

hoisting her up, pushing forward, until she began to slide over the rim of the squid tank. Trish Dunne

slithered headfirst down into the ethanol. The rest of her body followed, sloshing down. Gradually, the

ripples subsided, leaving the woman hovering limp over the huge sea creature. As her clothing got heavier,

she began to sink, slipping into the darkness. Bit by bit, Trish Dunne’s body settled on top of the great beast.

Mal’akh wiped his hands and replaced the Plexiglas lid, sealing the tank.

Wet Pod has a new specimen.

He retrieved Trish’s key card from the floor and slipped it in his pocket: 0804.

When Mal’akh had first seen Trish in the lobby, he’d seen a liability. Then he’d realized her key card and

password were his insurance. If Katherine’s data-storage room was as secure as Peter had implied, then

Mal’akh was anticipating some challenges persuading Katherine to unlock it for him. I now have my own set

of keys. He was pleased to know he would no longer have to waste time bending Katherine to his will.

As Mal’akh stood up straight, he saw his own reflection in the window and could tell his makeup was badly

mangled. It didn’t matter anymore. By the time Katherine put it all together, it would be too late.

CHAPTER 38

“This room is Masonic?” Sato demanded, turning from the skull and staring at Langdon in the darkness.

Langdon nodded calmly. “It’s called a Chamber of Reflection. These rooms are designed as cold, austere

places in which a Mason can reflect on his own mortality. By meditating on the inevitability of death, a

Mason gains a valuable perspective on the fleeting nature of life.”

Sato looked around the eerie space, apparently not convinced. “This is some kind of meditation room?”

“Essentially, yes. These chambers always incorporate the same symbols—skull and crossed bones, scythe,

hourglass, sulfur, salt, blank paper, a candle, et cetera. The symbols of death inspire Masons to ponder how

better to lead their lives while on this earth.”

“It looks like a death shrine,” Anderson said.

That’s kind of the point. “Most of my symbology students have the same reaction at first.” Langdon often

assigned them Symbols of Freemasonry by Beresniak, which contained beautiful photos of Chambers of

Reflection.

“And your students,” Sato demanded, “don’t find it unnerving that Masons meditate with skulls and

scythes?”

“No more unnerving than Christians praying at the feet of a man nailed to a cross, or Hindus chanting in

front of a four-armed elephant named Ganesh. Misunderstanding a culture’s symbols is a common root of

prejudice.”

Sato turned away, apparently in no mood for a lecture. She moved toward the table of artifacts. Anderson

tried to light her way with the flashlight, but the beam was beginning to dim. He tapped the heel of the light

and coaxed it to burn a little brighter.

As the threesome moved deeper into the narrow space, the pungent tang of sulfur filled Langdon’s nostrils.

The subbasement was damp, and the humidity in the air was activating the sulfur in the bowl. Sato arrived at

the table and stared down at the skull and accompanying objects.

Anderson joined her, doing his best to light the desk with the weakening beam of his flashlight.

Sato examined everything on the table and then placed her hands on her hips, sighing. “What is all this

junk?”

The artifacts in this room, Langdon knew, were carefully selected and arranged. “Symbols of

transformation,” he told her, feeling confined as he inched forward and joined them at the table. “The skull,

or c aput mortuum, represents man’s final transformation through decay; it’s a reminder that we all shed our

mortal flesh one day. The sulfur and salt are alchemical catalysts that facilitate transformation. The hourglass

represents the transformational power of time.” He motioned to the unlit candle. “And this candle represents

the formative primordial fire and the awakening of man from his ignorant slumber—transformation through

illumination.”

“And . . . that?” Sato asked, pointing into the corner.

Anderson swung his dimming flashlight beam to the giant scythe that leaned against the back wall.

“Not a death symbol, as most assume,” Langdon said. “The scythe is actually a symbol of the transformative

nourishment of nature—the reaping of nature’s gifts.”

Sato and Anderson fell silent, apparently trying to process their bizarre surroundings.

Langdon wanted nothing more than to get out of the place. “I realize this room may seem unusual,” he told

them, “but there’s nothing to see here; it’s really quite normal. A lot of Masonic lodges have chambers

exactly like this one.”

“But this is not a Masonic lodge!”Anderson declared. “It’s the U.S. Capitol, and I’d like to know what the

hell this room is doing in my building.”

“Sometimes Masons set aside rooms like this in their offices or private homes as meditation spaces. It is not

uncommon.” Langdon knew a heart surgeon in Boston who had converted a closet in his office into a

Masonic Chamber of Reflection so he could ponder mortality before going into surgery.

Sato looked troubled. “You’re saying Peter Solomon comes down here to reflect on death?”

“I really don’t know,” Langdon said sincerely. “Maybe he created it as a sanctuary for his Masonic brothers

who work in the building, giving them a spiritual sanctuary away from the chaos of the material world . . . a

place for a powerful lawmaker to reflect before making decisions that affect his fellow man.”

“Lovely sentiment,” Sato said, her tone sarcastic, “but I have a feeling Americans might have a problem with

their leaders praying in closets with scythes and skulls.”

Well, they shouldn’t, Langdon thought, imagining how different a world it might be if more leaders took time to ponder the finality of death before racing off to war.

Sato pursed her lips and carefully surveyed all four corners of the candle lit chamber. “There must be

something in here besides human bones and bowls of chemicals, Professor. Someone transported you all the

way from your home in Cambridge to be in this precise room.”

Langdon clutched his daybag to his side, still unable to imagine how the package he carried might relate to

this chamber. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I don’t see anything out of the ordinary here.” Langdon hoped that now

at last they could get to the business of trying to find Peter.

Anderson’s light flickered again, and Sato spun on him, her temper starting to show. “For Christ’s sake, is it

too much to ask?” She plunged her hand into her pocket and yanked out a cigarette lighter. Striking her

thumb on the flint, she held out the flame and lit the desk’s lone candle. The wick sputtered and then caught,

spreading a ghostly luminescence throughout the constricted space. Long shadows raked the stone walls. As

the flame grew brighter, an unexpected sight materialized before them.

“Look!” Anderson said, pointing.

In the candlelight, they could now see a faded patch of graffiti—seven capital letters scrawled across the rear

wall.

VITRIOL

“An odd choice of word,” Sato said as the candlelight cast a frightening skull-shaped silhouette across the

letters.

“Actually, it’s an acronym,” Langdon said. “It’s written on the rear wall of most chambers like this as a

shorthand for the Masonic meditative mantra: Visita interiora terrae, rectificando invenies occultum

lapidem.”

Sato eyed him, looking almost impressed. “Meaning?”

“Visit the interior of the earth, and by rectifying, you will find the hidden stone.”

Sato’s gaze sharpened. “Does the hidden stone have any connection to a hidden pyramid?”

Langdon shrugged, not wanting to encourage the comparison. “Those who enjoy fantasizing about hidden

pyramids in Washington would tell you that occultum lapidem refers to the stone pyramid, yes. Others will

tell you it’s a reference to the Philosopher’s Stone—a substance alchemists believed could bring them

everlasting life or turn lead into gold. Others claim it’s a reference to the Holy of Holies, a hidden stone

chamber at the core of the Great Temple. Some say it’s a Christian reference to the hidden teachings of Saint

Peter—the Rock. Every esoteric tradition interprets ‘the stone’ in its own way, but invariably the occultum

lapidem is a source of power and enlightenment.”

Anderson cleared his throat. “Is it possible Solomon lied to this guy? Maybe he told him there was something

down here . . . and there really isn’t.”

Langdon was having similar thoughts .

Without warning, the candle flame flickered, as if caught by a draft. It dimmed for a moment and then

recovered, burning brightly again.

“That’s odd,” Anderson said. “I hope no one closed the door upstairs.” He strode out of the chamber into the

darkness of the hallway. “Hello?”

Langdon barely noticed him leave. His gaze had been drawn suddenly to the rear wall. What just happened?

“Did you see that?” Sato asked, also staring with alarm at the wall.

Langdon nodded, his pulse quickening. What did I just see?

A moment earlier, the rear wall seemed to have shimmered, as if a ripple of energy had passed through it.

Anderson now strode back into the room. “No one’s out there.” As he entered, the wall shimmered again.

“Holy shit!” he exclaimed, jumping back.

All three stood mute for a long moment, staring in unison at the back wall. Langdon felt another chill run

through him as he realized what they were seeing. He reached out tentatively, until his fingertips touched the

rear surface of the chamber. “It’s not a wall,” he said.

Anderson and Sato stepped closer, peering intently.

“It’s a canvas,” Langdon said.

“But it billowed,” Sato said quickly.

Yes, in a very strange way. Langdon examined the surface more closely. The sheen on the canvas had

refracted the candlelight in a startling manner because the canvas had just billowed away from the room . . .

fluttering backward through the plane of the rear wall.

Langdon extended his outstretched fingers very gently, pressing the canvas backward. Startled, he yanked his

hand back. There’s an opening!

“Pull it aside,” Sato ordered.

Langdon’s heart pounded wildly now. He reached up and clutched the edge of the canvas banner, slowly

pulling the fabric to one side. He stared in disbelief at what lay hidden behind it. My God.

Sato and Anderson stood in stunned silence as they looked through the opening in the rear wall.

Finally, Sato spoke. “It appears we’ve just found our pyramid.”

CHAPTER 39

Robert Langdon stared at the opening in the rear wall of the chamber. Hidden behind the canvas banner, a

perfectly square hole had been hollowed out of the wall. The opening, about three feet across, appeared to

have been created by removing a series of bricks. For a moment, in the darkness, Langdon thought the hole

was a window to a room beyond.

Now he saw it was not.

The opening extended only a few feet into the wall before terminating. Like a rough-hewn cubbyhole, the

recessed niche reminded Langdon of a museum alcove designed to hold a statuette. Fittingly, this niche

displayed one small object.

About nine inches tall, it was a piece of carved, solid granite. The surface was elegant and smooth with four

polished sides that shone in the candlelight.

Langdon could not fathom what it was doing here. A stone pyramid?

“From your look of surprise,” Sato said, sounding self-satisfied, “I take it this object is not typical within a Chamber of Reflection?”

Langdon shook his head.

“Then perhaps you would like to reassess your previous claims regarding the legend of a Masonic Pyramid

hidden in Washington?” Her tone now was almost smug.

“Director,” Langdon replied instantly, “this little pyramid is not the Masonic Pyramid.”

“So it is merely coincidence that we found a pyramid hidden at the heart of the U.S. Capitol in a secret

chamber belonging to a Masonic leader?”

Langdon rubbed his eyes and tried to think clearly. “Ma’am, this pyramid doesn’t resemble the myth in any

way. The Masonic Pyramid is described as enormous, with a tip forged of solid gold.”

Moreover, Langdon knew, this little pyramid—with its flat top—was not even a true pyramid. Without its

tip, this was another symbol entirely. Known as an Unfinished Pyramid, it was a symbolic reminder that

man’s ascent to his full human potential was always a work in progress. Though few realized it, this symbol

was the most widely published symbol on earth. Over twenty billion in print. Adorning every one-dollar bill

in circulation, the Unfinished Pyramid waited patiently for its shining capstone, which hovered above it as a

reminder of America’s yet-unfulfilled destiny and the work yet to be done, both as a country and as

individuals.

“Lift it down,” Sato said to Anderson, motioning to the pyramid. “I want a closer look.” She began making

room on the desk by shoving the skull and crossed bones to one side with no reverence whatsoever.

Langdon was starting to feel like they were common grave robbers, desecrating a personal shrine.

Anderson maneuvered past Langdon, reached into the niche, and clamped his large palms on either side of

the pyramid. Then, barely able to lift at this awkward angle, he slid the pyramid toward him and lowered it

with a hard thud onto the wooden desk. He stepped back to give Sato room.

The director repositioned the candle close to the pyramid and studied its polished surface. Slowly, she ran her

tiny fingers over it, examining every inch of the flat top, and then the sides. She wrapped her hands around to

feel the back, then frowned in apparent disappointment. “Professor, earlier you said the Masonic Pyramid

was constructed to protect secret information.”

“That’s the legend, yes.”

“So, hypothetically speaking, if Peter’s captor believed this was the Masonic Pyramid, he would believe it

contained powerful information.”

Langdon nodded, exasperated. “Yes, although even if he found this information, he probably would not be

able to read it. According to legend, the contents of the pyramid are encoded, making them indecipherable . .

. except to the most worthy.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Despite Langdon’s growing impatience, he replied with an even tone. “Mythological treasures are always

protected by tests of worthiness. As you may recall, in the legend of the Sword in the Stone, the stone refuses

to give up the sword except to Arthur, who was spiritually prepared to wield the sword’s awesome power.

The Masonic Pyramid is based on the same idea. In this case, the information is the treasure, and it is said to be written in an encoded language—a mystical tongue of lost words—legible only to the worthy.”

A faint smile crossed Sato’s lips. “That may explain why you were summoned here tonight.”

“I’m sorry?”

Calmly, Sato rotated the pyramid in place, turning it a full 180 degrees. The pyramid’s fourth side now shone

in the candlelight.

Robert Langdon stared at it with surprise.

“It appears,” Sato said, “that someone believes you’re worthy.”

CHAPTER 40

What’s taking Trish so long?

Katherine Solomon checked her watch again. She’d forgotten to warn Dr. Abaddon about the bizarre

commute to her lab, but she couldn’t imagine the darkness had slowed them down this much. They should

have arrived by now.

Katherine walked over to the exit and heaved open the lead-lined door, staring out into the void. She listened

for a moment, but heard nothing.

“Trish?” she called out, her voice swallowed by the darkness.

Silence.

Puzzled, she closed the door, took out her cell phone, and called the lobby. “This is Katherine. Is Trish out

there?”

“No, ma’am,” the lobby guard said. “She and your guest headed back about ten minutes ago.”

“Really? I don’t think they’re even inside Pod Five yet.”

“Hold on. I’ll check.” Katherine could hear the guard’s fingers clicking on his computer keyboard. “You’re

right. According to Ms. Dunne’s key-card logs, she has not yet opened the Pod Five door. Her last access

event was about eight minutes ago . . . at Pod Three. I guess she’s giving your guest a little tour on his way

in.”

Katherine frowned. Apparently. The news was a bit odd, but at least she knew Trish wouldn’t be long in Pod

3. The smell in there is terrible. “Thanks. Has my brother arrived yet?”

“No, ma’am, not yet.”

“Thank you.”

As Katherine hung up, she felt an unexpected twinge of trepidation. The uneasy feeling made her pause, but

only for a moment. It was the same exact disquiet she’d felt earlier when she stepped into Dr. Abaddon’s

house. Embarrassingly, her feminine intuition had failed her there. Badly.

It’s nothing, Katherine told herself.

CHAPTER 41

Robert Langdon studied the stone pyramid. This isn’t possible.

“An ancient encoded language,” Sato said without looking up. “Tell me, does this qualify?”

On the newly exposed face of the pyramid, a series of sixteen characters was precisely engraved into the

smooth stone.

Beside Langdon, Anderson’s mouth now gaped open, mirroring Langdon’s own shock. The security chief

looked like he had just seen some kind of alien keypad.

“Professor?” Sato said. “I assume you can read this?”

Langdon turned. “Why would you assume that?”

“Because you were brought here, Professor. You were chosen. This inscription appears to be a code of some

sort, and considering your reputation, it seems obvious to me that you were brought here to decipher it.”

Langdon had to admit that after his experiences in Rome and Paris, he’d received a steady flow of requests

asking for his help deciphering some of history’s great unsolved codes—the Phaistos Disk, the Dorabella

Cipher, the mysterious Voynich Manuscript.

Sato ran her finger over the inscription. “Can you tell me the meaning of these icons?”

They’re not icons, Langdon thought . They’re symbols. The language was one he had recognized

immediately—an encrypted cipher language from the seventeenth century. Langdon knew very well how to

break it. “Ma’am,” he said, feeling hesitant, “this pyramid is Peter’s private property.”

“Private or not, if this code is indeed the reason you were brought to Washington, I am not giving you a

choice in the matter. I want to know what it says.”

Sato’s BlackBerry pinged loudly, and she yanked the device from her pocket, studying the incoming message

for several moments. Langdon was amazed that the Capitol Building’s internal wireless network provided

service this far down.

Sato grunted and raised her eyebrows, giving Langdon an odd look.

“Chief Anderson?” she said, turning to him. “A word in private, if I may?” The director motioned for

Anderson to join her, and they disappeared into the pitch-black hallway, leaving Langdon alone in the

flickering candlelight of Peter’s Chamber of Reflection.

Chief Anderson wondered when this night would end. A severed hand in my Rotunda? A death shrine in my

basement? Bizarre engravings on a stone pyramid? Somehow, the Redskins game no longer felt significant.

As he followed Sato into the darkness of the hall, Anderson flicked on his flashlight. The beam was weak but

better than nothing. Sato led him down the hall a few yards, out of sight of Langdon.

“Have a look at this,” she whispered, handing Anderson her BlackBerry.

Anderson took the device and squinted at the illuminated screen. It displayed a black-and-white image—the

X-ray of Langdon’s bag that Anderson had requested be sent to Sato. As in all X-rays, the objects of greatest

density appeared in the brightest white. In Langdon’s bag, a lone item outshone everything else. Obviously

extremely dense, the object glowed like a dazzling jewel in a murky jumble of other items. Its shape was

unmistakable.

He’s been carrying that all night? Anderson looked over at Sato in surprise. “Why didn’t Langdon mention

this?”

“Damned good question,” Sato whispered.

“The shape . . . it can’t be coincidence.”

“No,” Sato said, her tone angry now. “I would say not.”

A faint rustle in the corridor drew Anderson’s attention. Startled, he pointed his flashlight down the black

passageway. The dying beam revealed only a deserted corridor, lined with open doors.

“Hello?” Anderson said. “Is somebody there?”

Silence.

Sato gave him an odd look, apparently having heard nothing.

Anderson listened a moment longer and then shook it off. I’ve got to get out of here.

Alone in the candlelit chamber, Langdon ran his fingers over the sharply carved edges of the pyramid’s

engraving. He was curious to know what the message said, and yet he was not about to intrude on Peter

Solomon’s privacy any more than they already had. And why would this lunatic care about this small

pyramid anyway?

“We have a problem, Professor,” Sato’s voice declared loudly behind him. “I’ve just received a new piece of

information, and I’ve had enough of your lies.”

Langdon turned to see the OS director marching in, BlackBerry in hand and fire in her eyes. Taken aback,

Langdon looked to Anderson for help, but the chief was now standing guard at the door, his expression

unsympathetic. Sato arrived in front of Langdon and thrust her BlackBerry in his face.

Bewildered, Langdon looked at the screen, which displayed an inverted black-and-white photograph, like a

ghostly film negative. The photo looked like a jumble of objects, and one of them shone very brightly.

Though askew and off center, the brightest object was clearly a little, pointed pyramid.

A tiny pyramid? Langdon looked at Sato. “What is this?”

The question seemed only to incense Sato further. “You’re pretending you don’t know?”

Langdon’s temper flared. “I’m not pretending anything! I’ve never seen this before in my life!”

“Bullshit!” Sato snapped, her voice cutting through the musty air. “You’ve been carrying it in your bag all

night!”

“I—” Langdon stalled midsentence. His eyes moved slowly down to the daybag on his shoulder. Then he

raised them again to the BlackBerry. My God . . . the package. He looked more closely at the image. Now he

saw it. A ghostly cube, enclosing the pyramid. Stunned, Langdon realized he was looking at an X-ray of his

bag . . . and also of Peter’s mysterious cube-shaped package. The cube was, in fact, a hollow box . . . a small

pyramid.

Langdon opened his mouth to speak, but his words failed him. He felt the breath go out of his lungs as a new

revelation struck him.

Simple. Pure. Devastating.

My God. He looked back at the truncated stone pyramid on the desk. Its apex was flat—a small square area—

a blank space symbolically awaiting its final piece . . . that piece which would transform it from an

Unfinished Pyramid into a True Pyramid.

Langdon now realized the tiny pyramid he was carrying was not a pyramid at all. It’s a capstone. At that

instant, he knew why he alone could unlock the mysteries of this pyramid.

I hold the final piece.

And it is indeed . . . a talisman.

When Peter had told Langdon the package contained a talisman, Langdon had laughed. Now he realized his

friend was right. This tiny capstone was a talisman, but not the magic kind . . . the far older kind. Long before talisman had magical connotations, it had another meaning—“completion.” From the Greek telesma,

meaning “complete,” a talisman was any object or idea that completed another and made it whole. The

finishing element. A capstone, symbolically speaking, was the ultimate talisman, transforming the Unfinished Pyramid into a symbol of completed perfection.

Langdon now felt an eerie convergence that forced him to accept one very strange truth: with the exception

of its size, the stone pyramid in Peter’s Chamber of Reflection seemed to be transforming itself, bit by bit,

into something vaguely resembling the Masonic Pyramid of legend.

From the brightness with which the capstone shone on the X-ray, Langdon suspected it was made of metal . .

. a very dense metal . Whether or not it was solid gold, he had no way of knowing, and he was not about to let his mind start playing tricks on him. This pyramid is too small. The code’s too easy to read. And . . . it’s a

myth, for heaven’s sake!

Sato was watching him. “For a bright man, Professor, you’ve made some dumb choices tonight. Lying to an

intelligence director? Intentionally obstructing a CIA investigation?”

“I can explain, if you’ll let me.”

“You will be explaining at CIA headquarters. As of this moment, I am detaining you.”

Langdon’s body went rigid. “You can’t possibly be serious.”

“Deadly serious. I made it very clear to you that the stakes tonight were high, and you chose not to cooperate.

I strongly suggest you start thinking about explaining the inscription on this pyramid, because when we

arrive at the CIA . . .” She raised her BlackBerry and took a close-up snapshot of the engraving on the stone

pyramid. “My analysts will have had a head start.”

Langdon opened his mouth to protest, but Sato was already turning to Anderson at the door. “Chief,” she

said, “put the stone pyramid in Langdon’s bag and carry it. I’ll handle taking Mr. Langdon into custody.

Your weapon, if I may?”

Anderson was stone-faced as he advanced into the chamber, unsnapping his shoulder holster as he came. He

gave his gun to Sato, who immediately aimed it at Langdon.

Langdon watched as if in a dream. This cannot be happening.

Anderson now came to Langdon and removed the daybag from his shoulder, carrying it over to the desk and

setting it on the chair. He unzipped the bag, propped it open, and then hoisted the heavy stone pyramid off

the desk and into the bag, along with Langdon’s notes and the tiny package.

Suddenly there was a rustle of movement in the hallway. A dark outline of a man materialized in the

doorway, rushing into the chamber and approaching fast behind Anderson. The chief never saw him coming.

In an instant, the stranger had lowered his shoulder and crashed into Anderson’s back. The chief launched

forward, his head cracking into the edge of the stone niche. He fell hard, crumpling on the desk, sending

bones and artifacts flying. The hourglass shattered on the floor. The candle toppled to the floor, still burning.

Sato reeled amid the chaos, raising the gun, but the intruder grabbed a femur and lashed out with it, striking

her shoulder with the leg bone. Sato let out a cry of pain and fell back, dropping the weapon. The newcomer

kicked the gun away and then wheeled toward Langdon. The man was tall and slender, an elegant African

American whom Langdon had never seen before in his life.

“Grab the pyramid!” the man commanded. “Follow me!”

CHAPTER 42

The African American man leading Langdon through the Capitol’s subterranean maze was clearly someone

of power. Beyond knowing his way through all the side corridors and back rooms, the elegant stranger

carried a key ring that seemed to unlock every door that blocked their way.

Langdon followed, quickly running up an unfamiliar staircase. As they climbed, he felt the leather strap of

his daybag cutting hard into his shoulder. The stone pyramid was so heavy that Langdon feared the bag’s

strap might break.

The past few minutes defied all logic, and now Langdon found himself moving on instinct alone. His gut told

him to trust this stranger. Beyond saving Langdon from Sato’s arrest, the man had taken dangerous action to

protect Peter Solomon’s mysterious pyramid. Whatever the pyramid may be. While his motivation remained

a mystery, Langdon had glimpsed a telltale shimmer of gold on the man’s hand—a Masonic ring—the

double-headed phoenix and the number 33. This man and Peter Solomon were more than trusted friends.

They were Masonic brothers of the highest degree.

Langdon followed him to the top of the stairs, into another corridor, and then through an unmarked door into

a utilitarian hallway. They ran past supply boxes and bags of garbage, veering off suddenly through a service

door that deposited them in an utterly unexpected world—a plush movie theater of some sort. The older man

led the way up the side aisle and out the main doors into the light of a large atrium. Langdon now realized

they were in the visitor center through which he had entered earlier tonight.

Unfortunately, so was a Capitol police officer.

As they came face-to-face with the officer, all three men stopped, staring at one another. Langdon recognized

the young Hispanic officer from the X-ray machine earlier tonight.

“Officer Nuсez,” the African American man said. “Not a word. Follow me.”

The guard looked uneasy but obeyed without question.

Who is this guy?

The three of them hurried toward the southeast corner of the visitor center, where they arrived at a small

foyer and a set of heavy doors blocked with orange pylons. The doors were sealed with masking tape,

apparently to keep the dust of whatever was happening beyond out of the visitor center. The man reached up

and peeled off the tape on the door. Then he flipped through his key ring as he spoke to the guard. “Our

friend Chief Anderson is in the subbasement. He may be injured. You’ll want to check on him.”

“Yes, sir.” Nuсez looked as baffled as he did alarmed.

“Most important, you did not see us.” The man found a key, took it off the key ring, and used it to turn the

heavy dead bolt. He pulled open the steel door and tossed the key to the guard. “Lock this door behind us.

Put the tape back on as best as you can. Pocket the key and say nothing. To anyone. Including the chief. Is

that clear, Officer Nuсez?”

The guard eyed the key as if he’d just been entrusted with a precious gem. “It is, sir.”

The man hurried through the door, and Langdon followed. The guard locked the heavy bolt behind them, and

Langdon could hear him re-applying the masking tape.

“Professor Langdon,” the man said as they strode briskly down a modern-looking corridor that was obviously

under construction. “My name is Warren Bellamy. Peter Solomon is a dear friend of mine.”

Langdon shot a startled glance at the stately man. You’re Warren Bellamy? Langdon had never met the

Architect of the Capitol, but he certainly knew the man’s name.

“Peter speaks very highly of you,” Bellamy said, “and I’m sorry we are meeting under these dreadful

circumstances.”

“Peter is in terrible trouble. His hand . . .”

“I know.” Bellamy sounded grim. “That’s not the half of it, I’m afraid.”

They reached the end of the lit section of corridor, and the passageway took an abrupt left. The remaining

length of corridor, wherever it went, was pitch-black.

“Hold on,” Bellamy said, disappearing into a nearby electrical room from which a tangle of heavy-duty

orange extension cords snaked out, running away from them into the darkness of the corridor. Langdon

waited while Bellamy rooted around inside. The Architect must have located the switch that sent power to

the extension cords, because suddenly the route before them became illuminated.

Langdon could only stare.

Washington, D.C.—like Rome—was a city laced with secret passageways and underground tunnels. The

passage before them now reminded Langdon of the passetto tunnel connecting the Vatican to Castel

Sant’Angelo. Long. Dark. Narrow. Unlike the ancient passetto, however, this passage was modern and not yet complete. It was a slender construction zone that was so long it seemed to narrow to nothing at its distant

end. The only lighting was a string of intermittent construction bulbs that did little more than accentuate the

tunnel’s impossible length.

Bellamy was already heading down the passage. “Follow me. Watch your step.”

Langdon felt himself fall into step behind Bellamy, wondering where on earth this tunnel led.

At that moment, Mal’akh stepped out of Pod 3 and strode briskly down the deserted main corridor of the

SMSC toward Pod 5. He clutched Trish’s key card in his hand and quietly whispered, “Zero-eight-zero-

four.”

Something else was cycling through his mind as well. Mal’akh had just received an urgent message from the

Capitol Building. My contact has run into unforeseen difficulties. Even so, the news remained encouraging:

Robert Langdon now possessed both the pyramid and the capstone. Despite the unexpected way in which it

had happened, the crucial pieces were falling into place. It was almost as if destiny itself were guiding

tonight’s events, ensuring Mal’akh’s victory.

CHAPTER 43

Langdon hurried to keep pace with Warren Bellamy’s brisk footsteps as they moved without a word down

the long tunnel. So far, the Architect of the Capitol appeared far more intent on putting distance between Sato

and this stone pyramid than he did on explaining to Langdon what was going on. Langdon had a growing

apprehension that there was far more going on than he could imagine.

The CIA? The Architect of the Capitol? Two Thirty-third-degree Masons?

The shrill sound of Langdon’s cell phone cut the air. He pulled his phone from his jacket. Uncertain, he

answered. “Hello?” The voice that spoke was an eerie, familiar whisper. “Professor, I hear you had

unexpected company.”

Langdon felt an icy chill. “Where the hell is Peter?!” he demanded, his words reverberating in the enclosed

tunnel. Beside him, Warren Bellamy glanced over, looking concerned and motioning for Langdon to keep

walking.

“Don’t worry,” the voice said. “As I told you, Peter is somewhere safe.”

“You cut off his hand, for God’s sake! He needs a doctor!”

“He needs a priest,” the man replied. “But you can save him. If you do as I command, Peter will live. I give

you my word.”

“The word of a madman means nothing to me.”

“Madman? Professor, surely you appreciate the reverence with which I have adhered to the ancient protocols

tonight. The Hand of the Mysteries guided you to a portal—the pyramid that promises to unveil ancient

wisdom. I know you now possess it.”

“You think this is the Masonic Pyramid?” Langdon demanded. “It’s a chunk of rock.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. “Mr. Langdon, you’re too smart to play dumb. You know very

well what you’ve uncovered tonight. A stone pyramid . . . hidden at the core of Washington, D.C. . . . by a

powerful Mason?”

“You’re chasing a myth! Whatever Peter told you, he told you in fear.

The Legend of the Masonic Pyramid is fiction. The Masons never built any pyramid to protect secret

wisdom. And even if they did, this pyramid is far too small to be what you think it is.”

The man chuckled. “I see Peter has told you very little. Nonetheless, Mr. Langdon, whether or not you

choose to accept what it is you now possess, you will do as I say. I am well aware that the pyramid you are

carrying has an encrypted engraving. You will decipher that engraving for me. Then, and only then, will I

return Peter Solomon to you.”

“Whatever you believe this engraving reveals,” Langdon said, “it won’t be the Ancient Mysteries.”

“Of course not,” he replied. “The mysteries are far too vast to be written on the side of a little stone

pyramid.”

The response caught Langdon off guard. “But if this engraving is not the Ancient Mysteries, then this

pyramid is not the Masonic Pyramid. Legend clearly states the Masonic Pyramid was constructed to protect

the Ancient Mysteries.”

The man’s tone was condescending now. “Mr. Langdon, the Masonic Pyramid was constructed to preserve

the Ancient Mysteries, but with a twist you’ve apparently not yet grasped. Did Peter never tell you? The

power of the Masonic Pyramid is not that it reveals the mysteries themselves . . . but rather that it reveals the secret location where the mysteries are buried.”

Langdon did a double take.

“Decipher the engraving,” the voice continued, “and it will tell you the hiding place of mankind’s greatest

treasure.” He laughed. “Peter did not entrust you with the treasure itself, Professor.”

Langdon came to an abrupt halt in the tunnel. “Hold on. You’re saying this pyramid is . . . a map?

” Bellamy jolted to a stop now, too, his expression one of shock and alarm. Clearly, the caller had just hit a

raw nerve. The pyramid is a map.

“This map,” the voice whispered, “or pyramid, or portal, or whatever you choose to call it . . . was created

long ago to ensure the hiding place of the Ancient Mysteries would never be forgotten . . . that it would never

be lost to history.”

“A grid of sixteen symbols doesn’t look much like a map.”

“Appearances can be deceiving, Professor. But regardless, you alone have the power to read that inscription.”

“You’re wrong,” Langdon fired back, picturing the simplistic cipher. “Anyone could decipher this engraving.

It’s not very sophisticated.”

“I suspect there is more to the pyramid than meets the eye. Regardless, you alone possess the capstone.”

Langdon pictured the little capstone in his bag. Order from chaos? He didn’t know what to believe anymore,

but the stone pyramid in his bag seemed to be getting heavier with every passing moment.

Mal’akh pressed the cell phone to his ear, enjoying the sound of Langdon’s anxious breathing on the other

end. “Right now, I have business to attend to, Professor, and so do you. Call me as soon as you have

deciphered the map. We will go together to the hiding place and make our trade. Peter’s life . . . for all the

wisdom of the ages.”

“I will do nothing,” Langdon declared. “Especially not without proof Peter is alive.”

“I suggest you not test me. You are a very small cog in a vast machine. If you disobey me, or attempt to find

me, Peter will die. This I swear.”

“For all I know, Peter is already dead.”

“He is very much alive, Professor, but he desperately needs your help.”

“What are you really looking for?” Langdon shouted into the phone.

Mal’akh paused before answering. “Many people have pursued the Ancient Mysteries and debated their

power. Tonight, I will prove the mysteries are real.”

Langdon was silent.

“I suggest you get to work on the map immediately,” Mal’akh said. “I need this information today.”

“Today?! It’s already after nine o’clock!”

“Exactly. Tempus fugit. ”

CHAPTER 44

New York editor Jonas Faukman was just turning off the lights in his Manhattan office when his phone rang.

He had no intention of picking up at this hour—that is, until he glimpsed the caller-ID display. This ought to

be good, he thought, reaching for the receiver.

“Do we still publish you?” Faukman asked, half serious.

“Jonas!” Robert Langdon’s voice sounded anxious. “Thank God you’re there. I need your help.”

Faukman’s spirits lifted. “You’ve got pages for me to edit, Robert?” Finally?

“No, I need information. Last year, I connected you with a scientist named Katherine Solomon, the sister of

Peter Solomon?”

Faukman frowned. No pages.

“She was looking for a publisher for a book on Noetic Science? Do you remember her?”

Faukman rolled his eyes. “Sure. I remember. And thanks a million for that introduction. Not only did she

refuse to let me read the results of her research, she didn’t want to publish anything until some magical date

in the future.”

“Jonas, listen to me, I don’t have time. I need Katherine’s phone number. Right now. Do you have it?”

“I’ve got to warn you . . . you’re acting a little desperate. She’s great looking, but you’re not going to impress

her by—”

“This is no joke, Jonas, I need her number now.”

“All right . . . hold on.” Faukman and Langdon had been close friends for enough years that Faukman knew

when Langdon was serious. Jonas typed the name Katherine Solomon into a search window and began

scanning the company’s e-mail server.

“I’m looking now,” Faukman said. “And for what it’s worth, when you call her, you may not want to call

from the Harvard Pool. It sounds like you’re in an asylum.”

“I’m not at the pool. I’m in a tunnel under the U.S. Capitol.”

Faukman sensed from Langdon’s voice that he was not joking. What is it with this guy? “Robert, why can’t

you just stay home and write?” His computer pinged. “Okay, hold on . . . I got it.” He moused through the

old e-mail thread. “It looks like all I have is her cell.”

“I’ll take it.”

Faukman gave him the number.

“Thanks, Jonas,” Langdon said, sounding grateful. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me a manuscript, Robert. Do you have any idea how long—”

The line went dead.

Faukman stared at the receiver and shook his head. Book publishing would be so much easier without the

authors.

CHAPTER 45

Katherine Solomon did a double take when she saw the name on her caller ID. She had imagined the

incoming call was from Trish, checking in to explain why she and Christopher Abaddon were taking so long.

But the caller was not Trish.

Far from it.

Katherine felt a blushing smile cross her lips. Could tonight get any stranger? She flipped open her phone.

“Don’t tell me,” she said playfully. “Bookish bachelor seeking single Noetic Scientist?”

“Katherine!” The deep voice belonged to Robert Langdon. “Thank God you’re okay.”

“Of course I’m okay,” she replied, puzzled. “Other than the fact that you never called me after that party at

Peter’s house last summer.”

“Something has happened tonight. Please listen.” His normally smooth voice sounded ragged. “I’m so sorry

to have to tell you this . . . but Peter is in serious trouble.”

Katherine’s smile disappeared. “What are you talking about?”

“Peter . . .” Langdon hesitated as if searching for words. “I don’t know how to say it, but he’s been . . . taken.

I’m not sure how or by whom, but—”

“Taken?” Katherine demanded. “Robert, you’re scaring me. Taken . . . where?”

“Taken captive.” Langdon’s voice cracked as if he were overwhelmed. “It must have happened earlier today

or maybe yesterday.”

“This isn’t funny,” she said angrily. “My brother is fine. I just spoke to him fifteen minutes ago!”

“You did?!” Langdon sounded stunned.

“Yes! He just texted me to say he was coming to the lab.”

“He texted you . . .” Langdon thought out loud. “But you didn’t actually hear his voice?”

“No, but—”

“Listen to me. The text you received was not from your brother. Someone has Peter’s phone. He’s

dangerous. Whoever it is tricked me into coming to Washington tonight.”

“Tricked you? You’re not making any sense!”

“I know, I’m so sorry.” Langdon seemed uncharacteristically disorientated. “Katherine, I think you could be

in danger.”

Katherine Solomon was sure that Langdon would never joke about something like this, and yet he sounded

like he had lost his mind. “I’m fine,” she said. “I’m locked inside a secure building!”

“Read me the message you got from Peter’s phone. Please.”

Bewildered, Katherine pulled up the text message and read it to Langdon, feeling a chill as she came to the

final part referencing Dr. Abaddon. “‘If available, have Dr. Abaddon join us inside. I trust him fully . . .’ ”

“Oh God . . .” Langdon’s voice was laced with fear. “Did you invite this man inside?”

“Yes! My assistant just went out to the lobby to get him. I expect them back any—”

“Katherine, get out!” Langdon yelled. “Now!”

At the other side of the SMSC, inside the security room, a phone began ringing, drowning out the Redskins

game. The guard reluctantly pulled out his earbuds one more time.

“Lobby,” he answered. “This is Kyle.”

“Kyle, it’s Katherine Solomon!” Her voice sounded anxious, out of breath.

“Ma’am, your brother has not yet—”

“Where’s Trish?!” she demanded. “Can you see her on the monitors?”

The guard rolled his chair over to look at the screens. “She hasn’t gotten back to the Cube yet?”

“No!” Katherine shouted, sounding alarmed.

The guard now realized that Katherine Solomon was out of breath, as if she were running. What’s going on

back there?

The guard quickly worked the video joystick, skimming through frames of digital video at rapid speed.

“Okay, hold on, scrolling through playback . . . I’ve got Trish with your guest leaving the lobby . . . they

move down the Street . . . fast-forwarding . . . okay, they’re going into Wet Pod . . . Trish uses her key card to

unlock the door . . . both of them step into Wet Pod . . . fast-forwarding . . . okay, here they are coming out of

Wet Pod just a minute ago . . . heading down . . .” He cocked his head, slowing the playback. “Wait a minute.

That’s odd.”

“What?”

“The gentleman came out of Wet Pod alone.”

“Trish stayed inside?”

“Yes, it looks that way. I’m watching your guest now . . . he’s in the hall on his own.”

“Where is Trish?” Katherine asked more frantically.

“I don’t see her on the video feed,” he replied, an edge of anxiety creeping into his voice. He looked back at

the screen and noticed that the man’s jacket sleeves appeared to be wet . . . all the way up to his elbows.

What in the world did he do in Wet Pod? The guard watched as the man began to move purposefully down

the main hallway toward Pod 5, clutching in his hand what looked like . . . a key card.

The guard felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. “Ms. Solomon, we’ve got a serious problem.”

Tonight was a night of firsts for Katherine Solomon.

In two years, she had never used her cell phone inside the void. Nor had she ever crossed the void at a dead

run. At the moment, however, Katherine had a cell phone pressed to her ear while she was dashing blindly

along the endless length of carpet. Each time she felt a foot stray from the carpet, she corrected back to

center, racing on through the sheer darkness.

“Where is he now?” Katherine asked the guard, breathless.

“Checking now,” the guard replied. “Fast-forwarding . . . okay, here he is walking down the hall . . . moving

toward Pod Five . . .”

Katherine ran harder, hoping to reach the exit before she got trapped back here. “How long until he gets to

the Pod Five entrance?”

The guard paused. “Ma’am, you don’t understand. I’m still fast-forwarding. This is recorded playback. This

already happened.” He paused. “Hold on, let me check the entry event monitor.” He paused and then said,

“Ma’am, Ms. Dunne’s key card shows a Pod Five entry event about a minute ago.”

Katherine slammed on the brakes, sliding to a halt in the middle of the abyss. “He already unlocked Pod

Five?” she whispered into the phone.

The guard was typing frantically. “Yes, it looks like he entered . . . ninety seconds ago.”

Katherine’s body went rigid. She stopped breathing. The darkness felt suddenly alive all around her.

He’s in here with me.

In an instant, Katherine realized that the only light in the entire space was coming from her cell phone,

illuminating the side of her face. “Send help,” she whispered to the guard. “And get to Wet Pod to help

Trish.” Then she quietly closed her phone, extinguishing the light.

Absolute darkness settled around her.

She stood stock-still and breathed as quietly as possible. After a few seconds, the pungent scent of ethanol

wafted out of the darkness in front of her. The smell got stronger. She could sense a presence, only a few feet

in front of her on the carpet. In the silence, the pounding of Katherine’s heart seemed loud enough to give her

away. Silently, she stepped out of her shoes and inched to her left, sidestepping off the carpet. The cement

felt cold under her feet. She took one more step to clear the carpet.

One of her toes cracked.

It sounded like a gunshot in the stillness.

Only a few yards away, a rustle of clothing suddenly came at her out of the darkness. Katherine bolted an

instant too late and a powerful arm snagged her, groping in the darkness, hands violently attempting to gain

purchase. She spun away as a viselike grip caught her lab coat, yanking her backward, reeling her in.

Katherine threw her arms backward, slithering out of her lab coat and slipping free. Suddenly, with no idea

anymore which way was out, Katherine Solomon found herself dashing, dead blind, across an endless black

abyss.

CHAPTER 46

Despite containing what many have called “the most beautiful room in the world,” the Library of Congress

is known less for its breathtaking splendor than for its vast collections. With over five hundred miles of

shelves—enough to stretch from Washington, D.C., to Boston—it easily claims the title of largest library on

earth. And yet still it expands, at a rate of over ten thousand items per day.

As an early repository for Thomas Jefferson’s personal collection of books on science and philosophy, the

library stood as a symbol of America’s commitment to the dissemination of knowledge. One of the first

buildings in Washington to have electric lights, it literally shone like a beacon in the darkness of the New

World.

As its name implies, the Library of Congress was established to serve Congress, whose venerated members

worked across the street in the Capitol Building. This age-old bond between library and Capitol had been

fortified recently by the construction of a physical connection—a long tunnel beneath Independence Avenue

that linked the two buildings.

Tonight, inside this dimly lit tunnel, Robert Langdon followed Warren Bellamy through a construction zone,

trying to quell his own deepening concern for Katherine. This lunatic is at her lab?! Langdon didn’t even

want to imagine why. When he had called to warn her, Langdon had told Katherine exactly where to meet

him before they hung up. How much longer is this damned tunnel? His head ached now, a roiling torrent of

interconnected thoughts: Katherine, Peter, the Masons, Bellamy, pyramids, ancient prophecy . . . and a map.

Langdon shook it all off and pressed on. Bellamy promised me answers.

When the two men finally reached the end of the passage, Bellamy guided Langdon through a set of double

doors that were still under construction. Finding no way to lock the unfinished doors behind them, Bellamy

improvised, grabbing an aluminum ladder from the construction supplies and leaning it precariously against

the outside of the door. Then he balanced a metal bucket on top. If anyone opened the door, the bucket would

crash loudly to the floor.

That’s our alarm system? Langdon eyed the perched bucket, hoping Bellamy had a more comprehensive plan

for their safety tonight. Everything had happened so fast, and Langdon was only now starting to process the

repercussions of his fleeing with Bellamy. I’m a fugitive from the CIA.

Bellamy led the way around a corner, where the two men began ascending a wide staircase that was

cordoned off with orange pylons. Langdon’s daybag weighed him down as he climbed. “The stone pyramid,”

he said, “I still don’t understand—”

“Not here,” Bellamy interrupted. “We’ll examine it in the light. I know a safe place.”

Langdon doubted such a place existed for anyone who had just physically assaulted the director of the CIA’s

Office of Security.

As the two men reached the top of the stairs, they entered a wide hallway of Italian marble, stucco, and gold

leaf. The hall was lined with eight pairs of statues—all depicting the goddess Minerva. Bellamy pressed on,

leading Langdon eastward, through a vaulted archway, into a far grander space.

Even in the dim, after-hours lighting, the library’s great hall shone with the classical grandeur of an opulent

European palace. Seventy-five feet overhead, stained-glass skylights glistened between paneled beams

adorned with rare “aluminum leaf”—a metal that was considered to be more precious than gold at one time.

Beneath that, a stately course of paired pillars lined the second-floor balcony, accessible by two magnificent

curling staircases whose newel posts supported giant bronze female figures raising torches of enlightenment.

In a bizarre attempt to reflect this theme of modern enlightenment and yet stay within the decorative register

of Renaissance architecture, the stairway banisters had been carved with cupidlike putti portrayed as modern

scientists. An angelic electrician holding a telephone? A cherubic entomologist with a specimen box?

Langdon wondered what Bernini would have thought.

“We’ll talk over here,” Bellamy said, leading Langdon past the bulletproof display cases that contained the

library’s two most valuable books—the Giant Bible of Mainz, handwritten in the 1450s, and America’s copy

of the Gutenberg Bible, one of only three perfect vellum copies in the world. Fittingly, the vaulted ceiling

overhead bore John White Alexander’s six-panel painting titled The Evolution of the Book.

Bellamy strode directly to a pair of elegant double doors at the center rear of the east-corridor wall. Langdon

knew what room lay beyond those doors, but it seemed a strange choice for a conversation. Notwithstanding

the irony of talking in a space filled with “Silence Please” signs, this room hardly seemed like a “safe place.”

Located dead center of the library’s cruciform-shaped floor plan, this chamber served as the heart of the

building. Hiding in here was like breaking into a cathedral and hiding on the altar.

Nonetheless, Bellamy unlocked the doors, stepped into the darkness beyond, and groped for the lights. When

he flipped the switch, one of America’s great architectural masterpieces seemed to materialize out of thin air.

The famous reading room was a feast for the senses. A voluminous octagon rose 160 feet at its center, its

eight sides finished in chocolate-brown Tennessee marble, cream-colored Siena marble, and apple-red

Algerian marble. Because it was lit from eight angles, no shadows fell anywhere, creating the effect that the

room itself was glowing.

“Some say it’s the most striking room in Washington,” Bellamy said, ushering Langdon inside.

Maybe in the whole world, Langdon thought as he stepped across the threshold. As always, his gaze first

ascended straight up to the towering central collar, where rays of arabesque coffers curled down the dome to

an upper balcony. Encircling the room, sixteen bronze “portrait” statues peered down from the balustrade.

Beneath them, a stunning arcade of archways formed a lower balcony. Down at floor level, three concentric

circles of burnished wood desks radiated out from the massive octagonal circulation desk.

Langdon returned his focus to Bellamy, who was now propping the room’s double doors wide open. “I

thought we were hiding,” Langdon said, confused.

“If anyone enters the building,” Bellamy said, “I want to hear them coming.”

“But won’t they find us instantly in here?”

“No matter where we hide, they’ll find us. But if anyone corners us in this building, you’ll be very glad I

chose this room.”

Langdon had no idea why, but Bellamy apparently wasn’t looking to discuss it. He was already on the move

toward the center of the room, where he selected one of the available reading desks, pulled up two chairs, and

flipped on the reading light. Then he motioned to Langdon’s bag.

“Okay, Professor, let’s have a closer look.”

Not wanting to risk scratching its polished surface with a rough piece of granite, Langdon hoisted his entire

bag onto the desk and unzipped it, folding the sides all the way down to reveal the pyramid inside. Warren

Bellamy adjusted the reading lamp and studied the pyramid carefully. He ran his fingers over the unusual

engraving.

“I assume you recognize this language?” Bellamy asked.

“Of course,” Langdon replied, eyeing the sixteen symbols.

Known as the Freemason’s Cipher, this encoded language had been used for private communication among

early Masonic brothers. The encryption method had been abandoned long ago for one simple reason—it was

much too easy to break. Most of the students in Langdon’s senior symbology seminar could break this code

in about five minutes. Langdon, with a pencil and paper, could do it in under sixty seconds.

The notorious breakability of this centuries-old encryption scheme now presented a couple of paradoxes.

First, the claim that Langdon was the only person on earth who could break it was absurd. Second, for Sato

to suggest that a Masonic cipher was an issue of national security was like her suggesting our nuclear launch

codes were encrypted with a Cracker Jack decoder ring. Langdon was still struggling to believe any of it.

This pyramid is a map ? Pointing to the lost wisdom of the ages?

“Robert,” Bellamy said, his tone grave. “Did Director Sato tell you why she is so interested in this?”

Langdon shook his head. “Not specifically. She just kept saying it was an issue of national security. I assume

she’s lying.”

“Perhaps,” Bellamy said, rubbing the back of his neck. He seemed to be struggling with something. “But

there is a far more troubling possibility.” He turned to look Langdon in the eye. “It’s possible that Director

Sato has discovered this pyramid’s true potential.”

CHAPTER 47

The blackness engulfing Katherine Solomon felt absolute.

Having fled the familiar safety of the carpet, she was now groping blindly forward, her outstretched hands

touching only empty space as she staggered deeper into the desolate void. Beneath her stockinged feet, the

endless expanse of cold cement felt like a frozen lake . . . a hostile environment from which she now needed

to escape.

No longer smelling ethanol, she stopped and waited in darkness. Standing dead still, she listened, willing her

heart to stop pounding so loudly. The heavy footsteps behind her seemed to have stopped. Did I lose him?

Katherine closed her eyes and tried to imagine where she was. Which direction did I run? Where is the door?

It was no use. She was so turned around now that the exit could be anywhere.

Fear, Katherine had once heard, acted as a stimulant, sharpening the mind’s ability to think. Right now,

however, her fear had turned her mind into a tumbling torrent of panic and confusion. Even if I find the exit, I

can’t get out. Her key card had been lost when she’d shed her lab coat. Her only hope seemed to be that she

was now a needle in a haystack—a single point on a thirty-thousand-square-foot grid. Despite the

overwhelming urge to flee, Katherine’s analytical mind told her instead to make the only logical move—no

move at all. Stay still. Don’t make a sound. The security guard was on his way, and for some unknown

reason, her attacker smelled strongly of ethanol. If he gets too close, I’ll know it.

As Katherine stood in silence, her mind raced over what Langdon had said. Your brother . . . he’s been taken.

She felt a bead of cold sweat materialize on her arm and trickle down, toward the cell phone still clenched in

her right hand. It was a danger she had forgotten to consider. If the phone rang, it would give away her

position, and she could not turn it off without opening it and illuminating the display.

Set down the phone . . . and move away from it.

But it was too late. The smell of ethanol approached on her right. And now it grew stronger. Katherine

struggled to stay calm, forcing herself to

override the instinct to run. Carefully, slowly, she took one step to her left. The faint rustle of her clothing

was apparently all her attacker needed. She heard him lunge, and the smell of ethanol washed over her as a

powerful hand grabbed at her shoulder. She twisted away, raw terror gripping her. Mathematical probability

went out the window, and Katherine broke into a blind sprint. She veered hard to the left, changing course,

dashing blindly now into the void.

The wall materialized out of nowhere.

Katherine hit it hard, knocking the wind from her lungs. Pain blossomed in her arm and shoulder, but she

managed to stay on her feet. The oblique angle at which she had collided with the wall had spared her the full

force of the blow, but it was little comfort now. The sound had echoed everywhere. He knows where I am.

Doubled over in pain, she turned her head and stared out into the blackness of the pod and sensed him staring

back at her.

Change your location. Now!

Still struggling to catch her breath, she began moving down the wall, touching her left hand quietly to each

exposed steel stud as she passed. Stay along the wall. Slip past him before he corners you. In her right hand, Katherine still clutched her cell phone, ready to hurl it as a projectile if need be.

Katherine was in no way prepared for the sound she heard next—the clear rustle of clothing directly in front

of her . . . against the wall. She froze, stock-still, and stopped breathing. How could he be on the wall

already? She felt a faint puff of air, laced with the stench of ethanol. He’s moving down the wall toward me!

Katherine backed up several steps. Then, turning silently 180 degrees, she began moving quickly in the

opposite direction down the wall. She moved twenty feet or so when the impossible happened. Once again,

directly in front of her, along the wall, she heard the rustling sound of clothing. Then came the same puff of

air and the smell of ethanol. Katherine Solomon froze in place.

My God, he’s everywhere!

Bare-chested, Mal’akh stared into the darkness.

The smell of ethanol on his sleeves had proven a liability, and so he had transformed it into an asset,

stripping off his shirt and jacket and using them to help corner his prey. Throwing his jacket against the wall

to the right, he had heard Katherine stop short and change direction. Now, having thrown his shirt ahead to

the left, Mal’akh had heard her stop again. He had effectively corralled Katherine against the wall by

establishing points beyond which she dared not pass.

Now he waited, ears straining in the silence. She has only one direction she can move—directly toward me.

Even so, Mal’akh heard nothing. Either Katherine was paralyzed with fear, or she had decided to stand still

and wait for help to enter Pod 5. Either way she loses. Nobody would be entering Pod 5 anytime soon;

Mal’akh had disabled the outer keypad with a very crude, yet very effective, technique. After using Trish’s

key card, he had rammed a single dime deep into the key-card slot to prevent any other key-card use without

first dismantling the entire mechanism.

You and I are alone, Katherine . . . for as long as this takes.

Mal’akh inched silently forward, listening for any movement. Katherine Solomon would die tonight in the

darkness of her brother’s museum. A poetic end. Mal’akh looked forward to sharing the news of Katherine’s

death with her brother. The old man’s anguish would be long-awaited revenge.

Suddenly in the darkness, to Mal’akh’s great surprise, he saw a tiny glow in the distance and realized

Katherine had just made a deadly error in judgment. She’s phoning for help?! The electronic display that had just flickered to life was hovering waist high, about twenty yards ahead, like a shining beacon on a vast

ocean of black. Mal’akh had been prepared to wait Katherine out, but now he wouldn’t have to.

Mal’akh sprang into motion, racing toward the hovering light, knowing he had to reach her before she could

complete her call for help. He was there in a matter of seconds, and he lunged, arms outstretched on either

side of her glowing cell phone, preparing to engulf her.

Mal’akh’s fingers jammed into a solid wall, bending backward and almost breaking. His head collided next,

crashing into a steel beam. He cried out in pain as he crumpled beside the wall. Cursing, he clambered back

to his feet, pulling himself up by the waist-high, horizontal strut on which Katherine Solomon had cleverly

placed her open cell phone.

Katherine was running again, this time with no concern for the noise her hand was making as it bounced

rhythmically off the evenly spaced metal studs of Pod 5. Run! If she followed the wall all the way around the pod, she knew that sooner or later she would feel the exit door.

Where the hell is the guard?

The even spacing of the studs continued as she ran with her left hand on the sidewall and her right out in

front of her for protection. When will I reach the corner? The sidewall seemed to go on and on, but suddenly the rhythm of the studs was broken. Her left hand hit empty space for several long strides, and then the studs

began again. Katherine slammed on the brakes and backed up, feeling her way across the smooth metal

panel. Why are there no studs here?

She could hear her attacker lumbering loudly after her now, groping his way down the wall in her direction.

Even so, it was a different sound that scared Katherine even more—the distant rhythmic banging of a

security guard pounding his flashlight against the Pod 5 door.

The guard can’t get in?

While the thought was terrifying, the location of his banging—diagonally to her right—instantly oriented

Katherine. She could now picture where in Pod 5 she was located. The visual flash brought with it an

unexpected realization. She now knew what this flat panel on the wall was.

Every pod was equipped with a specimen bay—a giant movable wall that could be retracted for transporting

oversize specimens in and out of the pods. Like those of an airplane hangar, this door was mammoth, and

Katherine in her wildest dreams had never imagined needing to open it. At the moment, though, it seemed

like her only hope.

Is it even operable?

Katherine fumbled blindly in the blackness, searching the bay door until she found the large metal handle.

Grasping it, she threw her weight backward, trying to slide open the door. Nothing. She tried again. It didn’t

budge.

She could hear her attacker closing faster now, homing in on the sounds of her efforts. The bay door is

locked! Wild with panic, she slid her hands all over the door, feeling the surface for any latch or lever. She suddenly hit what felt like a vertical pole. She followed it down to the floor, crouching, and could feel it was

inserted into a hole in the cement. A security rod! She stood up, grabbed the pole, and, lifting with her legs, slid the rod up and out of the hole.

He’s almost here!

Katherine groped now for the handle, found it again, and heaved back on it with all her might. The massive

panel seemed barely to move, and yet a sliver of moonlight now sliced into Pod 5. Katherine pulled again.

The shaft of light from outside the building grew wider. A little more! She pulled one last time, sensing her attacker was now only a few feet away.

Leaping toward the light, Katherine wriggled her slender body sideways into the opening. A hand

materialized in the darkness, clawing at her, trying to pull her back inside. She heaved herself through the

opening, pursued by a massive bare arm that was covered with tattooed scales. The terrifying arm writhed

like an angry snake trying to seize her.

Katherine spun and fled down the long, pale outer wall of Pod 5. The bed of loose stones that surrounded the

entire perimeter of the SMSC cut into her stockinged feet as she ran, but she pressed on, heading for the main

entrance. The night was dark, but with her eyes fully dilated from the utter blackness of Pod 5, she could see

perfectly—almost as if it were daylight. Behind her, the heavy bay door ground open, and she heard heavy

footsteps accelerating in pursuit down the side of the building. The footsteps seemed impossibly fast.

I’ll never outrun him to the main entrance. She knew her Volvo was closer, but even that would be too far.

I’m not going to make it.

Then Katherine realized she had one final card to play.

As she neared the corner of Pod 5, she could hear his footsteps quickly overtaking her in the darkness. Now

or never. Instead of rounding the corner, Katherine suddenly cut hard to her left, away from the building, out onto the grass. As she did so, she closed her eyes tightly, placed both hands over her face, and began running

totally blind across the lawn.

The motion-activated security lighting that blazed to life around Pod 5 transformed night into day instantly.

Katherine heard a scream of pain behind her as the brilliant floodlights seared into her assailant’s hyper

dilated pupils with over twenty-five-million candlepower of light. She could hear him stumbling on the loose

stones.

Katherine kept her eyes tightly closed, trusting herself on the open lawn. When she sensed she was far

enough away from the building and the lights, she opened her eyes, corrected her course, and ran like hell

through the dark.

Her Volvo’s keys were exactly where she always left them, in the center console. Breathless, she seized the

keys in her trembling hands and found the ignition. The engine roared to life, and her headlights flipped on,

illuminating a terrifying sight.

A hideous form raced toward her.

Katherine froze for an instant.

The creature caught in her headlights was a bald and bare-chested animal, its skin covered with tattooed

scales, symbols, and text. He bellowed as he ran into the glare, raising his hands before his eyes like a cave-

dwelling beast seeing sunlight for the first time. She reached for the gearshift but suddenly he was there,

hurling his elbow through her side window, sending a shower of safety glass into her lap.

A massive scale-covered arm burst through her window, groping half blind, finding her neck. She threw the

car in reverse, but her attacker had latched on to her throat, squeezing with unimaginable force. She turned

her head in an attempt to escape his grasp, and suddenly she was staring at his face. Three dark stripes, like

fingernail scratches, had torn through his face makeup to reveal the tattoos beneath. His eyes were wild and

ruthless.

“I should have killed you ten years ago,” he growled. “The night I killed your mother.”

As his words registered, Katherine was seized by a horrifying memory: that feral look in his eyes—she had

seen it before. It’s him. She would have screamed had it not been for the viselike grip around her neck.

She smashed her foot onto the accelerator, and the car lurched backward, almost snapping her neck as he was

dragged beside her car. The Volvo careened up an inclined median, and Katherine could feel her neck about

to give way beneath his weight. Suddenly tree branches were scraping the side of her car, slapping through

the side windows, and the weight was gone.

The car burst through the evergreens and out into the upper parking lot, where Katherine slammed on the

brakes. Below her, the half-naked man clambered to his feet, staring into her headlights. With a terrifying

calm, he raised a menacing scale-covered arm and pointed directly at her.

Katherine’s blood coursed with raw fear and hatred as she spun the wheel and hit the gas. Seconds later, she

was fishtailing out onto Silver Hill Road.

CHAPTER 48

In the heat of the moment, Capitol police officer Nuсez had seen no option but to help the Capitol Architect

and Robert Langdon escape. Now, however, back in the basement police headquarters, Nuсez could see the

storm clouds gathering fast.

Chief Trent Anderson was holding an ice pack to his head while another officer was tending to Sato’s

bruises. Both of them were standing with the video surveillance team, reviewing digital playback files in an

attempt to locate Langdon and Bellamy.

“Check the playback on every hallway and exit,” Sato demanded. “I want to know where they went!”

Nuсez felt ill as he looked on. He knew it would be only a matter of minutes before they found the right

video clip and learned the truth. I helped them escape. Making matters worse was the arrival of a four-man

CIA field team that was now staging nearby, prepping to go after Langdon and Bellamy. These guys looked

nothing like the Capitol Police. These guys were dead-serious soldiers . . . black camouflage, night vision,

futuristic-looking handguns.

Nuсez felt like he would throw up. Making up his mind, he motioned discreetly to Chief Anderson. “A word,

Chief?”

“What is it?” Anderson followed Nuсez into the hall.

“Chief, I made a bad mistake,” Nuсez said, breaking a sweat. “I’m sorry, and I’m resigning.” You’ll fire me

in a few minutes anyway.

“I beg your pardon?”

Nuсez swallowed hard. “Earlier, I saw Langdon and Architect Bellamy in the visitor center on their way out

of the building.”

“What?!” Anderson bellowed. “Why didn’t you say something?!”

“The Architect told me not to say a word.”

“You work for me, goddamm it!” Anderson’s voice echoed down the corridor. “Bellamy smashed my head

into a wall, for Christ’s sake!”

Nuсez handed Anderson the key that the Architect had given him.

“What is this?” Anderson demanded.

“A key to the new tunnel under Independence Avenue. Architect Bellamy had it. That’s how they escaped.”

Anderson stared down at the key, speechless.

Sato poked her head out into the hallway, eyes probing. “What’s going on out here?”

Nuсez felt himself go pale. Anderson was still holding the key, and Sato clearly had seen it. As the hideous

little woman drew near, Nuсez improvised as best as he could, hoping to protect his chief. “I found a key on

the floor in the subbasement. I was just asking Chief Anderson if he knew what it might go to.”

Sato arrived, eyeing the key. “And does the chief know?”

Nuсez glanced up at Anderson, who was clearly weighing all his options before speaking. Finally, the chief

shook his head. “Not offhand. I’d have to check the—”

“Don’t bother,” Sato said. “This key unlocks a tunnel off the visitor center.”

“Really?” Anderson said. “How do you know that?”

“We just found the surveillance clip. Officer Nuсez here helped Langdon and Bellamy escape and then

relocked that tunnel door behind them. Bellamy gave Nuсez that key.”

Anderson turned to Nuсez with a flare of anger. “Is this true?!”

Nuсez nodded vigorously, doing his best to play along. “I’m sorry, sir. The Architect told me not to tell a

soul!”

“I don’t give a damn what the Architect told you!” Anderson yelled. “I expect—”

“Shut up, Trent,” Sato snapped. “You’re both lousy liars. Save it for your CIA inquisition.” She snatched the

Architect’s tunnel key from Anderson. “You’re done here.”

CHAPTER 49

Robert Langdon hung up his cell phone, feeling increasingly worried. Katherine’s not answering her cell?

Katherine had promised to call him as soon as she was safely out of the lab and on her way to meet him here,

but she had never done so.

Bellamy sat beside Langdon at the reading-room desk. He, too, had just made a call, his to an individual he

claimed could offer them sanctuary—a safe place to hide. Unfortunately, this person was not answering

either, and so Bellamy had left an urgent message, telling him to call Langdon’s cell phone right away.

“I’ll keep trying,” he said to Langdon, “but for the moment, we’re on our own. And we need to discuss a plan

for this pyramid.”

The pyramid. For Langdon, the spectacular backdrop of the reading room had all but disappeared, his world

constricting now to include only what was directly in front of him—a stone pyramid, a sealed package

containing a capstone, and an elegant African American man who had materialized out of the darkness and

rescued him from the certainty of a CIA interrogation.

Langdon had expected a modicum of sanity from the Architect of the Capitol, but now it seemed Warren

Bellamy was no more rational than the madman claiming Peter was in purgatory. Bellamy was insisting this

stone pyramid was, in fact, the Masonic Pyramid of legend. An ancient map? That guides us to powerful

wisdom?

“Mr. Bellamy,” Langdon said politely, “this idea that there exists some kind of ancient knowledge that can

imbue men with great power . . . I simply can’t take it seriously.”

Bellamy’s eyes looked both disappointed and earnest, making Langdon’s skepticism all the more awkward.

“Yes, Professor, I had imagined you might feel this way, but I suppose I should not be surprised. You are an

outsider looking in. There exist certain Masonic realities that you will perceive as myth because you are not

properly initiated and prepared to understand them.”

Now Langdon felt patronized. I wasn’t a member of Odysseus’s crew, but I’m certain the Cyclops is a myth.

“Mr. Bellamy, even if the legend is true . . . this pyramid cannot possibly be the Masonic Pyramid.”

“No?” Bellamy ran a finger across the Masonic cipher on the stone. “It looks to me like it fits the description

perfectly. A stone pyramid with a shining metal capstone, which, according to Sato’s X-ray, is exactly what

Peter entrusted to you.” Bellamy picked up the little cube-shaped package, weighing it in his hand.

“This stone pyramid is less than a foot tall,” Langdon countered. “Every version of the story I’ve ever heard

describes the Masonic Pyramid as enormous.”

Bellamy had clearly anticipated this point. “As you know, the legend speaks of a pyramid rising so high that

God Himself can reach out and touch it.”

“Exactly.”

“I can see your dilemma, Professor. However, both the Ancient Mysteries and Masonic philosophy celebrate

the potentiality of God within each of us. Symbolically speaking, one could claim that anything within reach

of an enlightened man . . . is within reach of God.”

Langdon felt unswayed by the wordplay.

“Even the Bible concurs,” Bellamy said. “If we accept, as Genesis tells us, that ‘God created man in his own

image,’ then we also must accept what this implies—that mankind was not created inferior to God. In Luke 17:20 we are told, ‘The kingdom of God is within you.’ ”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know any Christians who consider themselves God’s equal.”

“Of course not,” Bellamy said, his tone hardening. “Because most Christians want it both ways. They want to

be able to proudly declare they are believers in the Bible and yet simply ignore those parts they find too

difficult or too inconvenient to believe.”

Langdon made no response.

“Anyhow,” Bellamy said, “the Masonic Pyramid’s age-old description as being tall enough to be touched by

God . . . this has long led to misinterpretations about its size. Conveniently, it keeps academics like yourself

insisting the pyramid is a legend, and nobody searches for it.”

Langdon looked down at the stone pyramid. “I apologize that I’m frustrating you,” he said. “I’ve simply

always thought of the Masonic Pyramid as a myth.”

“Does it not seem perfectly fitting to you that a map created by stonemasons would be carved in stone?

Throughout history, our most important guideposts have always been carved in stone—including the tablets

God gave Moses—Ten Commandments to guide our human conduct.”

“I understand, and yet it is always referred to as the Legend of the Masonic Pyramid. Legend implies it is mythical.”

“Yes, legend.” Bellamy chuckled. “I’m afraid you’re suffering from the same problem Moses had.”

“I’m sorry?”

Bellamy looked almost amused as he turned in his seat, glancing up at the second-tier balcony, where sixteen

bronze statues peered down at them. “Do you see Moses?”

Langdon gazed up at the library’s celebrated statue of Moses. “Yes.”

“He has horns.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“But do you know why he has horns?”

Like most teachers, Langdon did not enjoy being lectured to. The Moses above them had horns for the same

reason thousands of Christian images of Moses had horns—a mistranslation of the book of Exodus. The

original Hebrew text described Moses as having “karan ’ohr panav” —“facial skin that glowed with rays of

light”—but when the Roman Catholic Church created the official Latin translation of the Bible, the translator

bungled Moses’s description, rendering it as “cornuta esset facies sua,” meaning “his face was horned.”

From that moment on, artists and sculptors, fearing reprisals if they were not true to the Gospels, began

depicting Moses with horns.

“It was a simple mistake,” Langdon replied. “A mistranslation by Saint Jerome around four hundred A.D.”

Bellamy looked impressed. “Exactly. A mistranslation. And the result is . . . poor Moses is now misshapen

for all history.”

“Misshapen” was a nice way to put it. Langdon, as a child, had been terrified when he saw Michelangelo’s

diabolical “horned Moses”—the centerpiece of Rome’s Basilica of St. Peter in Chains.

“I mention the horned Moses,” Bellamy now said, “to illustrate how a single word, misunderstood, can

rewrite history.”

You’re preaching to the choir, Langdon thought, having learned the lesson firsthand in Paris a number of

years back. SanGreal: Holy Grail. SangReal: Royal Blood.

“In the case of the Masonic Pyramid,” Bellamy continued, “people heard whispers about a ‘legend.’ And the

idea stuck. The Legend of the Masonic Pyramid sounded like a myth. But the word legend was referring to something else. It had been misconstrued. Much like the word talisman. ” He smiled. “Language can be very

adept at hiding the truth.”

“That’s true, but you’re losing me here.”

“Robert, the Masonic Pyramid is a map. And like every map, it has a legend—a key that tells you how to read it.” Bellamy took the cube-shaped package and held it up. “Don’t you see? This capstone is the legend

to the pyramid. It is the key that tells you how to read the most powerful artifact on earth . . . a map that

unveils the hiding place of mankind’s greatest treasure—the lost wisdom of the ages.”

Langdon fell silent.

“I humbly submit,” Bellamy said, “that your towering Masonic Pyramid is only this . . . a modest stone

whose golden capstone reaches high enough to be touched by God. High enough that an enlightened man can

reach down and touch it.”

Silence hung between the two men for several seconds.

Langdon felt an unexpected pulse of excitement as he looked down at the pyramid, seeing it in a new light.

His eyes moved again to the Masonic cipher. “But this code . . . it seems so . . .”

“Simple?”

Langdon nodded. “Almost anyone could decipher this.”

Bellamy smiled and retrieved a pencil and paper for Langdon. “Then perhaps you should enlighten us?”

Langdon felt uneasy about reading the code, and yet considering the circumstances, it seemed a minor

betrayal of Peter’s trust. Moreover, whatever the engraving said, he could not imagine that it unveiled a

secret hiding place of anything at all . . . much less that of one of history’s greatest treasures.

Langdon accepted the pencil from Bellamy and tapped it on his chin as he studied the cipher. The code was

so simple that he barely needed pencil and paper. Even so, he wanted to ensure he made no mistakes, and so

he dutifully put pencil to paper and wrote down the most common decryption key for a Masonic cipher. The

key consisted of four grids—two plain and two dotted—with the alphabet running through them in order.

Each letter of the alphabet was now positioned inside a uniquely shaped “enclosure” or “pen.” The shape of

each letter’s enclosure became the symbol for that letter.

The scheme was so simple, it was almost infantile.

Langdon double-checked his handiwork. Feeling confident the decryption key was correct, he now turned his

attention back to the code inscribed on the pyramid. To decipher it, all he had to do was to find the matching

shape on his decryption key and write down the letter inside it.

The first character on the pyramid looked like a down arrow or a chalice. Langdon quickly found the chalice-

shaped segment on the decryption key. It was located in the lower left-hand corner and enclosed the letter S.

Langdon wrote down S.

The next symbol on the pyramid was a dotted square missing its right side. That shape on the decryption grid

enclosed the letter O.

He wrote down O.

The third symbol was a simple square, which enclosed the letter E.

Langdon wrote down E.

S O E . . .

He continued, picking up speed until he had completed the entire grid.

Now, as he gazed down at his finished translation, Langdon let out a puzzled sigh. Hardly what I’d call a

eureka moment.

Bellamy’s face showed the hint of a smile. “As you know, Professor, the Ancient Mysteries are reserved only

for the truly enlightened.”

“Right,” Langdon said, frowning. Apparently, I don’t qualify.

CHAPTER 50

In a basement office deep inside CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, the same sixteen-character Masonic

cipher glowed brightly on a high-definition computer monitor. Senior OS analyst Nola Kaye sat alone and

studied the image that had been e-mailed to her ten minutes ago by her boss, Director Inoue Sato.

Is this some kind of joke? Nola knew it was not, of course; Director Sato had no sense of humor, and the

events of tonight were anything but a joking matter. Nola’s high-level clearance within the CIA’s all-seeing

Office of Security had opened her eyes to the shadow worlds of power. But what Nola had witnessed in the

last twenty-four hours had changed her impressions forever of the secrets that powerful men kept.

“Yes, Director,” Nola now said, cradling the phone on her shoulder as she talked to Sato. “The engraving is

indeed the Masonic cipher. However, the cleartext is meaningless. It appears to be a grid of random letters.”

She gazed down at her decryption.

“It must say something, ” Sato insisted.

“Not unless it has a second layer of encryption that I’m not aware of.”

“Any guesses?” Sato asked.

“It’s a grid-based matrix, so I could run the usual—Vigenиre, grilles, trellises, and so forth—but no promises,

especially if it’s a onetime pad.”

“Do what you can. And do it fast. How about the X-ray?”

Nola swiveled her chair to a second system, which displayed a standard

security X-ray of someone’s bag. Sato had requested information on what appeared to be a small pyramid

inside a cube-shaped box. Normally, a two-inch-tall object would not be an issue of national security unless

it was made of enriched plutonium. This one was not. It was made of something almost equally startling.

“Image-density analysis was conclusive,” Nola said. “Nineteen-point-three grams per cubic centimeter. It’s

pure gold. Very, very valuable.”

“Anything else?”

“Actually, yes. The density scan picked up minor irregularities on the surface of the gold pyramid. It turns

out the gold is engraved with text.”

“Really?” Sato sounded hopeful. “What does it say?”

“I can’t tell yet. The inscription is extremely faint. I’m trying to enhance with filters, but the resolution on the

X-ray is not great.”

“Okay, keep trying. Call me when you have something.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And, Nola?” Sato’s tone turned ominous. “As with everything you have learned in the last twenty-four

hours, the images of the stone pyramid and gold capstone are classified at the highest levels of security. You

are to consult no one. You report to me directly. I want to make sure that is clear.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

“Good. Keep me posted.” Sato hung up.

Nola rubbed her eyes and looked blearily back at her computer screens. She had not slept in over thirty-six

hours, and she knew damn well she would not sleep again until this crisis had reached its conclusion.

Whatever that may be.

Back at the Capitol Visitor Center, four black-clad CIA field-op specialists stood at the entrance to the

tunnel, peering hungrily down the dimly lit shaft like a pack of dogs eager for the hunt.

Sato approached, having just hung up from a call. “Gentlemen,” she said, still holding the Architect’s key,

“are your mission parameters clear?”

“Affirmative,” the lead agent replied. “We have two targets. The first is an engraved stone pyramid,

approximately one foot tall. The second is a smaller, cube-shaped package, approximately two inches tall.

Both were last seen in Robert Langdon’s shoulder bag.”

“Correct,” Sato said. “These two items must be retrieved quickly and intact. Do you have any questions?”

“Parameters for use of force?”

Sato’s shoulder was still throbbing from where Bellamy had struck her with a bone. “As I said, it is of critical

importance that these items be retrieved.”

“Understood.” The four men turned and headed into the darkness of the tunnel.

Sato lit a cigarette and watched them disappear.

CHAPTER 51

Katherine Solomon had always been a prudent driver, but now she was pushing her Volvo at over ninety as

she fled blindly up the Suitland Parkway. Her trembling foot had been lodged on the accelerator for a full

mile before her panic began to lift. She now realized her uncontrollable shivering was no longer solely from

fear.

I’m freezing.

The wintry night air was gushing through her shattered window, buffeting her body like an arctic wind. Her

stockinged feet were numb, and she reached down for her spare pair of shoes, which she kept beneath the

passenger seat. As she did, she felt a stab of pain from the bruise on her throat, where the powerful hand had

latched on to her neck.

The man who had smashed through her window bore no resemblance to the blond-haired gentleman whom

Katherine knew as Dr. Christopher Abaddon. His thick hair and smooth, tanned complexion had disappeared.

His shaved head, bare chest, and makeup-smeared face had been unveiled as a terrifying tapestry of tattoos.

She heard his voice again, whispering to her in the howl of wind outside her broken window. Katherine, I

should have killed you years ago . . . the night I killed your mother.

Katherine shivered, feeling no doubt. That was him. She had never forgotten the look of fiendish violence in his eyes. Nor had she ever forgotten the sound of her brother’s single gunshot, which had killed this man,

propelling him off a high ledge into the frozen river below, where he plummeted through the ice and never

resurfaced. Investigators had searched for weeks, never finding his body, and finally decided it had been

washed away by the current out to the Chesapeake Bay.

They were wrong, she now knew. He is still alive.

And he’s back.

Katherine felt angst-ridden as the memories flooded back. It was almost exactly ten years ago. Christmas

Day. Katherine, Peter, and their mother—her entire family—were gathered at their sprawling stone mansion

in Potomac, nestled on a two-hundred-acre wooded estate with its own river running through it.

As was tradition, their mother worked diligently in the kitchen, rejoicing in the holiday custom of cooking

for her two children. Even at seventy-five years of age, Isabel Solomon was an exuberant cook, and tonight

the mouthwatering smells of roast venison, parsnip gravy, and garlic mashed potatoes wafted through the

house. While Mother prepared the feast, Katherine and her brother relaxed in the conservatory, discussing

Katherine’s latest fascination—a new field called Noetic Science. An unlikely fusion of modern particle

physics and ancient mysticism, Noetics had absolutely captivated Katherine’s imagination.

Physics meets philosophy.

Katherine told Peter about some of the experiments she was dreaming up, and she could see in his eyes that

he was intrigued. Katherine felt particularly pleased to give her brother something positive to think about this

Christmas, since the holiday had also become a painful reminder of a terrible tragedy.

Peter’s son, Zachary.

Katherine’s nephew’s twenty-first birthday had been his last. The family had been through a nightmare, and

it seemed that her brother was only now finally learning how to laugh again.

Zachary had been a late bloomer, frail and awkward, a rebellious and angry teenager. Despite his deeply

loving and privileged upbringing, the boy seemed determined to detach himself from the Solomon

“establishment.” He was kicked out of prep school, partied hard with the “celebrati,” and shunned his

parents’ exhaustive attempts to provide him firm and loving guidance.

He broke Peter’s heart.

Shortly before Zachary’s eighteenth birthday, Katherine had sat down with her mother and brother and

listened to them debating whether or not to withhold Zachary’s inheritance until he was more mature. The

Solomon inheritance—a centuries-old tradition in the family—bequeathed a staggeringly generous piece of

the Solomon wealth to every Solomon child on his or her eighteenth birthday. The Solomons believed that an

inheritance was more helpful at the beginning of someone’s life than at the end. Moreover, placing large

pieces of the Solomon fortune in the hands of eager young descendants had been the key to growing the

family’s dynastic wealth.

In this case, however, Katherine’s mother argued that it was dangerous to give Peter’s troubled son such a

large sum of money. Peter disagreed.

“The Solomon inheritance,” her brother had said, “is a family tradition that should not be broken. This

money may well force Zachary to be more responsible.”

Sadly, her brother had been wrong.

The moment Zachary received the money, he broke from the family, disappearing from the house without

taking any of his belongings. He surfaced a few months later in the tabloids: TRUST FUND PLAYBOY

LIVING EUROPEAN HIGH LIFE.

The tabloids took joy in documenting Zachary’s spoiled life of debauchery. The photos of wild parties on

yachts and drunken disco stupors were hard for the Solomons to take, but the photos of their wayward teen

turned from tragic to frightening when the papers reported Zachary had been caught carrying cocaine across

a border in Eastern Europe: SOLOMON MILLIONAIRE IN TURKISH PRISON.

The prison, they learned, was called Soganlik—a brutal F-class detention center located in the Kartal district

outside of Istanbul. Peter Solomon, fearing for his son’s safety, flew to Turkey to retrieve him. Katherine’s

distraught brother returned empty-handed, having been forbidden even to visit with Zachary. The only

promising news was that Solomon’s influential contacts at the U.S. State Department were working on

getting him extradited as quickly as possible.

Two days later, however, Peter received a horrifying international phone call. The next morning, headlines

blared: SOLOMON HEIR MURDERED IN PRISON.

The prison photos were horrific, and the media callously aired them all, even long after the Solomons’

private burial ceremony. Peter’s wife never forgave him for failing to free Zachary, and their marriage came

to an end six months later. Peter had been alone ever since.

It was years later that Katherine, Peter, and their mother, Isabel, were gathered quietly for Christmas. The

pain was still a presence in their family, but mercifully it was fading with each passing year. The pleasant

rattle of pots and pans now echoed from the kitchen as their mother prepared the traditional feast. Out in the

conservatory, Peter and Katherine were enjoying a baked Brie and relaxed holiday conversation.

Then came an utterly unexpected sound.

“Hello, Solomons,” an airy voice said behind them.

Startled, Katherine and her brother spun to see an enormous muscular figure stepping into the conservatory.

He wore a black ski mask that covered all of his face except his eyes, which shone with feral ferocity.

Peter was on his feet in an instant. “Who are you?! How did you get in here?!”

“I knew your little boy, Zachary, in prison. He told me where this key was hidden.” The stranger held up an

old key and grinned like a beast. “Right before I bludgeoned him to death.”

Peter’s mouth fell open.

A pistol appeared, aimed directly at Peter’s chest. “Sit.”

Peter fell back into his chair.

As the man moved into the room, Katherine was frozen in place. Behind his mask, the man’s eyes were wild

like those of a rabid animal.

“Hey!” Peter yelled, as if trying to warn their mother in the kitchen. “Whoever you are, take what you want,

and get out!”

The man leveled his gun at Peter’s chest. “And what is it you think I want?”

“Just tell me how much,” Solomon said. “We don’t have money in the house, but I can—”

The monster laughed. “Do not insult me. I have not come for money. I have come tonight for Zachary’s other

birthright.” He grinned. “He told me about the pyramid.”

Pyramid? Katherine thought in bewildered terror. What pyramid?

Her brother was defiant. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play dumb with me! Zachary told me what you keep in your study vault. I want it. Now.”

“Whatever Zachary told you, he was confused,” Peter said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“No?” The intruder turned and aimed the gun at Katherine’s face. “How about now?”

Peter’s eyes filled with terror. “You must believe me! I don’t know what it is you want!”

“Lie to me one more time,” he said, still aiming at Katherine, “and I swear I will take her from you.” He

smiled. “And from what Zachary said, your little sister is more precious to you than all your—”

“What’s going on?!” Katherine’s mother shouted, marching into the room with Peter’s Browning Citori

shotgun—which she aimed directly at the man’s chest. The intruder spun toward her, and the feisty seventy-

five-year-old woman wasted no time. She fired a deafening blast of pellets. The intruder staggered backward,

firing his handgun wildly in all directions, shattering windows as he fell and crashed through the glass

doorway, dropping the pistol as he fell.

Peter was instantly in motion, diving on the loose handgun. Katherine had fallen, and Mrs. Solomon hurried

to her side, kneeling beside her. “My God, are you hurt?!”

Katherine shook her head, mute with shock. Outside the shattered glass door, the masked man had clambered

to his feet and was running into the woods, clutching his side as he ran. Peter Solomon glanced back to make

sure his mother and sister were safe, and seeing they were fine, he held the pistol and raced out the door after

the intruder.

Katherine’s mother held her hand, trembling. “Thank heavens you’re okay.” Then suddenly her mother

pulled away. “Katherine? You’re bleeding! There’s blood! You’re hurt!”

Katherine saw the blood. A lot of blood. It was all over her. But she felt no pain.

Her mother frantically searched Katherine’s body for a wound. “Where does it hurt!”

“Mom, I don’t know, I don’t feel anything!”

Then Katherine saw the source of the blood, and she went cold. “Mom, it’s not me . . .” She pointed to the

side of her mother’s white satin blouse, where blood was running freely, and a small tattered hole was

visible. Her mother glanced down, looking more confused than anything else. She winced and shrank back,

as if the pain had just hit her.

“Katherine?” Her voice was calm, but suddenly it carried the weight of her seventy-five years. “I need you to

call an ambulance.”

Katherine ran to the hall phone and called for help. When she got back to the conservatory, she found her

mother lying motionless in a pool of blood. She ran to her, crouching down, cradling her mother’s body in

her arms.

Katherine had no idea how much time had passed when she heard the distant gunshot in the woods. Finally,

the conservatory door burst open, and her brother, Peter, rushed in, eyes wild, gun still in his hand. When he

saw Katherine sobbing, holding their lifeless mother in her arms, his face contorted in anguish. The scream

that echoed through the conservatory was a sound Katherine Solomon would never forget.

CHAPTER 52

Mal’akh could feel the tattooed muscles on his back rippling as he sprinted back around the building toward

the open bay door of Pod 5.

I must gain access to her lab.

Katherine’s escape had been unanticipated . . . and problematic. Not only did she know where Mal’akh lived,

she now knew his true identity . . . and that he was the one who had invaded their home a decade earlier.

Mal’akh had not forgotten that night either. He had come within inches of possessing the pyramid, but

destiny had obstructed him. I was not yet ready. But he was ready now. More powerful. More influential.

Having endured unthinkable hardship in preparation for his return, Mal’akh was poised tonight to fulfill his

destiny at last. He felt certain that before the night was over, he would indeed be staring into the dying eyes

of Katherine Solomon.

As Mal’akh reached the bay door, he reassured himself that Katherine had not truly escaped; she had only

prolonged the inevitable. He slid through the opening and strode confidently across the darkness until his feet

hit the carpet. Then he took a right turn and headed for the Cube. The banging on the door of Pod 5 had

stopped, and Mal’akh suspected the guard was now trying to remove the dime Mal’akh had jammed into the

key panel to render it useless.

When Mal’akh reached the door that led into the Cube, he located the outer keypad and inserted Trish’s key

card. The panel lit up. He entered Trish’s PIN and went inside. The lights were all ablaze, and as he moved

into the sterile space, he squinted in amazement at the dazzling array of equipment. Mal’akh was no stranger

to the power of technology; he performed his own breed of science in the basement of his home, and last

night some of that science had borne fruit.

The Truth.

Peter Solomon’s unique confinement—trapped alone in the in-between—had laid bare all of the man’s

secrets. I can see his soul. Mal’akh had learned certain secrets he anticipated, and others he had not,

including the news about Katherine’s lab and her shocking discoveries. Science is getting close, Mal’akh had realized. And I will not allow it to light the way for the unworthy.

Katherine’s work here had begun using modern science to answer ancient philosophical questions. Does

anyone hear our prayers? Is there life after death? Do humans have souls? Incredibly, Katherine had

answered all of these questions, and more. Scientifically. Conclusively. The methods she used were

irrefutable. Even the most skeptical of people would be persuaded by the results of her experiments. If this

information were published and made known, a fundamental shift would begin in the consciousness of man.

They will start to find their way. Mal’akh’s last task tonight, before his transformation, was to ensure that this did not happen.

As he moved through the lab, Mal’akh located the data room that Peter had told him about. He peered

through the heavy glass walls at the two holographic data-storage units. Exactly as he said they would be.

Mal’akh found it hard to imagine that the contents of these little boxes could change the course of human

development, and yet Truth had always been the most potent of all the catalysts.

Eyeing the holographic storage units, Mal’akh produced Trish’s key card and inserted it in the door’s

security panel. To his surprise, the panel did not light up. Apparently, access to this room was not a trust

extended to Trish Dunne. He now reached for the key card he had found in Katherine’s lab-coat pocket.

When he inserted this one, the panel lit up.

Mal’akh had a problem. I never got Katherine’s PIN. He tried Trish’s PIN, but it didn’t work. Stroking his

chin, he stepped back and examined the three-inch-thick Plexiglas door. Even with an ax, he knew he would

be unable to break through and obtain the drives he needed to destroy.

Mal’akh had planned for this contingency, however.

Inside the power-supply room, exactly as Peter had described, Mal’akh located the rack holding several

metal cylinders resembling large scuba tanks. The cylinders bore the letters LH, the number 2, and the

universal symbol for combustible. One of the canisters was connected to the lab’s hydrogen fuel cell .

Mal’akh left one canister connected and carefully heaved one of the reserve cylinders down onto a dolly

beside the rack. Then he rolled the cylinder out of the power-supply room, across the lab, to the Plexiglas

door of the data-storage room. Although this location would certainly be plenty close enough, he had noticed

one weakness in the heavy Plexiglas door—the small space between the bottom and the jamb.

At the threshold, he carefully laid the canister on its side and slid the flexible rubber tube beneath the door. It

took him a moment to remove the safety seals and access the cylinder’s valve, but once he did, ever so

gently, he uncocked the valve. Through the Plexiglas, he could see the clear, bubbling liquid begin draining

out of the tube onto the floor inside the storage room. Mal’akh watched the puddle expand, oozing across the

floor, steaming and bubbling as it grew. Hydrogen remained in liquid form only when it was cold, and as it

warmed up, it would start to boil off. The resulting gas, conveniently, was even more flammable than the

liquid.

Remember the Hindenburg.

Mal’akh hurried now into the lab and retrieved the Pyrex jug of Bunsen-burner fuel—a viscous, highly

flammable, yet noncombustible oil. He carried it to the Plexiglas door, pleased to see the liquid hydrogen

canister was still draining, the puddle of boiling liquid inside the data-storage room now covering the entire

floor, encircling the pedestals that supported the holographic storage units. A whitish mist now rose from the

boiling puddle as the liquid hydrogen began turning to gas . . . filling the small space.

Mal’akh raised the jug of Bunsen-burner fuel and squirted a healthy amount on the hydrogen canister, the

tubing, and into the small opening beneath the door. Then, very carefully, he began backing out of the lab,

leaving an unbroken stream of oil on the floor as he went.

The dispatch operator handling 911 calls for Washington, D.C., had been unusually busy tonight. Football,

beer, and a full moon, she thought as yet another emergency call appeared on her screen, this one from a gasstation pay phone on the Suitland Parkway in Anacostia. A car accident probably.

“Nine-one-one,” she answered. “What is your emergency?”

“I was just attacked at the Smithsonian Museum Support Center,” a panicked woman’s voice said. “Please

send the police! Forty-two-ten Silver Hill Road!”

“Okay, slow down,” the operator said. “You need to—”

“I need you to send officers also to a mansion in Kalorama Heights where I think my brother may be held

captive!”

The operator sighed. Full moon.

CHAPTER 53

As I tried to tell you,” Bellamy was saying to Langdon, “there is more to this pyramid than meets the eye.”

Apparently so. Langdon had to admit that the stone pyramid sitting in his unzipped daybag looked much

more mysterious to him now. His decryption of the Masonic cipher had rendered a seemingly meaningless

grid of letters.

Chaos.

For a long while, Langdon examined the grid, searching for any hint of meaning within the letters—hidden

words, anagrams, clues of any sort—but he found nothing.

“The Masonic Pyramid,” Bellamy explained, “is said to guard its secrets behind many veils. Each time you

pull back a curtain, you face another. You have unveiled these letters, and yet they tell you nothing until you

peel back another layer. Of course, the way to do that is known only to the one who holds the capstone. The

capstone, I suspect, has an inscription as well, which tells you how to decipher the pyramid.”

Langdon glanced at the cube-shaped package on the desk. From what Bellamy had said, Langdon now

understood that the capstone and pyramid were a “segmented cipher”—a code broken into pieces. Modern

cryptologists used segmented ciphers all the time, although the security scheme had been invented in ancient

Greece. The Greeks, when they wanted to store secret information, inscribed it on a clay tablet and then

shattered the tablet into pieces, storing each piece in a separate location. Only when all the pieces were

gathered together could the secrets be read. This kind of inscribed clay tablet—called a symbolon—was in

fact the origin of the modern word symbol.

“Robert,” Bellamy said, “this pyramid and capstone have been kept apart for generations, ensuring the

secret’s safety.” His tone turned rueful. “Tonight, however, the pieces have come dangerously close. I’m sure

I don’t have to say this . . . but it is our duty to ensure this pyramid is not assembled.”

Langdon found Bellamy’s sense of drama to be somewhat overwrought. Is he describing the capstone and

pyramid . . . or a detonator and nuclear bomb? He still couldn’t quite accept Bellamy’s claims, but it hardly seemed to matter. “Even if this is the Masonic Pyramid, and even if this inscription does somehow reveal the

location of ancient knowledge, how could that knowledge possibly impart the kind of power it is said to

impart?”

“Peter always told me you were a hard man to convince—an academic who prefers proof to speculation.”

“You’re saying you do believe that?” Langdon demanded, feeling impatient now. “Respectfully . . . you are a

modern, educated man. How could you believe such a thing?”

Bellamy gave a patient smile. “The craft of Freemasonry has given me a deep respect for that which

transcends human understanding. I’ve learned never to close my mind to an idea simply because it seems

miraculous.”

CHAPTER 54

Frantically, the SMSC perimeter patrolman dashed down the gravel pathway that ran along the outside of

the building. He’d just received a call from an officer inside saying that the keypad to Pod 5 had been

sabotaged, and that a security light indicated that Pod 5’s specimen bay door was now open.

What the hell is going on?!

As he arrived at the specimen bay, sure enough he found the door open a couple of feet. Bizarre, he thought.

This can only be unlocked from the inside. He took the flashlight off his belt and shone it into the inky

blackness of the pod. Nothing. Having no desire to step into the unknown, he moved only as far as the

threshold and then stuck the flashlight through the opening, swinging it to the left, and then to the—

Powerful hands seized his wrist and yanked him into the blackness. The guard felt himself being spun around

by an invisible force. He smelled ethanol. The flashlight flew out of his hand, and before he could even

process what was happening, a rock-hard fist collided with his sternum. The guard crumpled to the cement

floor . . . groaning in pain as a large black form stepped away from him.

The guard lay on his side, gasping and wheezing for breath. His flashlight lay nearby, its beam spilling across

the floor and illuminating what appeared to be a metal can of some sort. The can’s label said it was fuel oil

for a Bunsen burner.

A cigarette lighter sparked, and the orange flame illuminated a vision that hardly seemed human. Jesus

Christ! The guard barely had time to process what he was seeing before the bare-chested creature knelt down

and touched the flame to the floor.

Instantly, a strip of fire materialized, leaping away from them, racing into the void. Bewildered, the guard

looked back, but the creature was already slipping out the open bay door into the night.

The guard managed to sit up, wincing in pain as his eyes followed the thin ribbon of fire. What the hell?! The flame looked too small to be truly

dangerous, and yet now he saw something utterly terrifying. The fire was no longer illuminating only the

darkened void. It had traveled all the way to the back wall, where it was now illuminating a massive cinder-

block structure. The guard had never been permitted inside Pod 5, but he knew very well what this structure

must be.

The Cube.

Katherine Solomon’s lab.

The flame raced in a straight line directly to the lab’s outer door. The guard clambered to his feet, knowing

full well that the ribbon of oil probably continued beneath the lab door . . . and would soon start a fire inside.

But as he turned to run for help, he felt an unexpected puff of air sucking past him.

For a brief instant, all of Pod 5 was bathed in light.

The guard never saw the hydrogen fireball erupting skyward, ripping the roof off Pod 5 and billowing

hundreds of feet into the air. Nor did he see the sky raining fragments of titanium mesh, electronic

equipment, and droplets of melted silicon from the lab’s holographic storage units.

Katherine Solomon was driving north when she saw the sudden flash of light in her rearview mirror. A deep

rumble thundered through the night air, startling her.

Fireworks? she wondered. Do the Redskins have a halftime show?

She refocused on the road, her thoughts still on the 911 call she’d placed from the deserted gas station’s pay

phone.

Katherine had successfully convinced the 911 dispatcher to send the police to the SMSC to investigate a

tattooed intruder and, Katherine prayed, to find her assistant, Trish. In addition, she urged the dispatcher to

check Dr. Abaddon’s address in Kalorama Heights, where she thought Peter was being held hostage.

Unfortunately, Katherine had been unable to obtain Robert Langdon’s unlisted cell-phone number. So now,

seeing no other option, she was speeding toward the Library of Congress, where Langdon had told her he

was headed.

The terrifying revelation of Dr. Abaddon’s true identity had changed everything. Katherine had no idea what

to believe anymore. All she knew for certain was that the same man who had killed her mother and nephew

all those years ago had now captured her brother and had come to kill her. Who is this madman? What does

he want? The only answer she could come up with made no sense. A pyramid? Equally confusing was why this man had come to her lab tonight. If he wanted to hurt her, why hadn’t he done so in the privacy of his

own home earlier today? Why go to the trouble of sending a text message and risk breaking into her lab?

Unexpectedly, the fireworks in her rearview mirror grew brighter, the initial flash followed by an unexpected

sight—a blazing orange fireball that Katherine could see rising above the tree line. What in the world?! The fireball was accompanied by dark black smoke . . . and it was nowhere near the Redskins’ FedEx Field.

Bewildered, she tried to determine what industry might be located on the other side of those trees . . . just

southeast of the parkway.

Then, like an oncoming truck, it hit her.

CHAPTER 55

Warren Bellamy stabbed urgently at the buttons on his cell phone, trying again to make contact with

someone who could help them, whoever that might be.

Langdon watched Bellamy, but his mind was with Peter, trying to figure out how best to find him. Decipher

the engraving, Peter’s captor had commanded, and it will tell you the hiding place of mankind’s greatest treasure . . . We will go together . . . and make our trade.

Bellamy hung up, frowning. Still no answer.

“Here’s what I don’t understand,” Langdon said. “Even if I could somehow accept that this hidden wisdom

exists . . . and that this pyramid somehow points to its underground location . . . what am I looking for? A

vault? A bunker?”

Bellamy sat quietly for a long moment. Then he gave a reluctant sigh and spoke guardedly. “Robert,

according to what I’ve heard through the years, the pyramid leads to the entrance of a spiral staircase.”

“A staircase?”

“That’s right. A staircase that leads down into the earth . . . many hundreds of feet.”

Langdon could not believe what he was hearing. He leaned closer.

“I’ve heard it said that the ancient wisdom is buried at the bottom.”

Robert Langdon stood up and began pacing. A spiral staircase descending hundreds of feet into the earth . . .

in Washington, D.C. “ And nobody has ever seen this staircase?”

“Allegedly the entrance has been covered with an enormous stone.”

Langdon sighed. The idea of a tomb covered with an enormous stone was right out of the biblical accounts of

Jesus’ tomb. This archetypal hybrid was the grandfather of them all. “Warren, do you believe this secret

mystical staircase into the earth exists?”

“I’ve never seen it personally, but a few of the older Masons swear it exists. I was trying to call one of them

just now.”

Langdon continued pacing, uncertain what to say next.

“Robert, you leave me a difficult task with respect to this pyramid.” Warren Bellamy’s gaze hardened in the

soft glow of the reading lamp. “I know of no way to force a man to believe what he does not want to believe.

And yet I hope you understand your duty to Peter Solomon.”

Yes, I have a duty to help him, Langdon thought.

“I don’t need you to believe in the power this pyramid can unveil. Nor do I need you to believe in the

staircase it supposedly leads to. But I do need you to believe that you are morally obliged to protect this

secret . . . whatever it may be.” Bellamy motioned to the little cube-shaped package. “Peter entrusted the

capstone to you because he had faith you would obey his wishes and keep it secret. And now you must do

exactly that, even if it means sacrificing Peter’s life.”

Langdon stopped short and wheeled around. “What?!”

Bellamy remained seated, his expression pained but resolute. “It’s what he would want. You need to forget

Peter. He’s gone. Peter did his job, doing the best he could to protect the pyramid. Now it is our job to make sure his efforts were not in vain.”

“I can’t believe you’re saying this!” Langdon exclaimed, temper flaring. “Even if this pyramid is everything

you say it is, Peter is your Masonic brother. You’re sworn to protect him above all else, even your country!”

“No, Robert. A Mason must protect a fellow Mason above all things . . . except one—the great secret our

brotherhood protects for all mankind. Whether or not I believe this lost wisdom has the potential that history

suggests, I have taken a vow to keep it out of the hands of the unworthy. And I would not give it over to

anyone . . . even in exchange for Peter Solomon’s life.”

“I know plenty of Masons,” Langdon said angrily, “including the most advanced, and I’m damned sure these

men are not sworn to sacrifice their lives for the sake of a stone pyramid. And I’m also damned sure none of

them believes in a secret staircase that descends to a treasure buried deep in the earth.”

“There are circles within circles, Robert. Not every one knows every thing.”

Langdon exhaled, trying to control his emotions. He, like everyone, had heard the rumors of elite circles

within the Masons. Whether or not it was true seemed irrelevant in the face of this situation. “Warren, if this

pyramid and capstone truly reveal the ultimate Masonic secret, then why would Peter involve me? I’m not

even a brother . . . much less part of any inner circle.”

“I know, and I suspect that is precisely why Peter chose you to guard it. This pyramid has been targeted in the past, even by those who infiltrated our brotherhood with unworthy motives. Peter’s choice to store it outside

the brotherhood was a clever one.”

“Were you aware I had the capstone?” Langdon asked.

“No. And if Peter told anyone at all, it would have been only one man.” Bellamy pulled out his cell phone

and hit redial. “And so far, I’ve been unable to reach him.” He got a voice-mail greeting and hung up. “Well,

Robert, it looks like you and I are on our own for the moment. And we have a decision to make.”

Langdon looked at his Mickey Mouse watch. 9:42 P.M. “You do realize that Peter’s captor is waiting for me

to decipher this pyramid tonight and tell him what it says.”

Bellamy frowned. “Great men throughout history have made deep personal sacrifices to protect the Ancient

Mysteries. You and I must do the same.” He stood up now. “We should keep moving. Sooner or later Sato

will figure out where we are.”

“What about Katherine?!” Langdon demanded, not wanting to leave. “I can’t reach her, and she never

called.”

“Obviously, something happened.”

“But we can’t just abandon her!”

“Forget Katherine!” Bellamy said, his voice commanding now. “Forget Peter! Forget everyone! Don’t you

understand, Robert, that you’ve been entrusted with a duty that is bigger than all of us—you, Peter,

Katherine, myself?” He locked eyes with Langdon. “We need to find a safe place to hide this pyramid and

capstone far from—”

A loud metallic crash echoed in the direction of the great hall.

Bellamy wheeled, eyes filling with fear. “That was fast.”

Langdon turned toward the door. The sound apparently had come from the metal bucket that Bellamy had

placed on the ladder blocking the tunnel doors. They’re coming for us.

Then, quite unexpectedly, the crash echoed again.

And again.

And again.

The homeless man on the bench in front of the Library of Congress rubbed his eyes and watched the strange

scene unfolding before him.

A white Volvo had just jumped the curb, lurched across the deserted pedestrian walkway, and screeched to a

halt at the foot of the library’s main entrance. An attractive, dark-haired woman had leaped out, anxiously

surveyed the area, and, spotting the homeless man, had shouted, “Do you have a phone?”

Lady, I don’t have a left shoe.

Apparently realizing as much, the woman dashed up the staircase toward the library’s main doors. Arriving

at the top of the stairs, she grabbed the handle and tried desperately to open each of the three giant doors.

The library’s closed, lady.

But the woman didn’t seem to care. She seized one of the heavy ring-shaped handles, heaved it backward,

and let it fall with a loud crash against the door. Then she did it again. And again. And again.

Wow, the homeless man thought, she must really need a book.

CHAPTER 56

When Katherine Solomon finally saw the massive bronze doors of the library swing open before her, she

felt as if an emotional floodgate had burst. All the fear and confusion she had bottled up tonight came

pouring through.

The figure in the library doorway was Warren Bellamy, a friend and confidant of her brother’s. But it was the

man behind Bellamy in the shadows whom Katherine felt happiest to see. The feeling was apparently mutual.

Robert Langdon’s eyes filled with relief as she rushed through the doorway . . . directly into his arms.

As Katherine lost herself in the comforting embrace of an old friend, Bellamy closed the front door. She

heard the heavy lock click into place, and at last she felt safe. Tears came unexpectedly, but she fought them

back.

Langdon held her. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “You’re okay.”

Because you saved me, Katherine wanted to tell him. He destroyed my lab . . . all my work. Years of

research . . . up in smoke. She wanted to tell him everything, but she could barely breathe.

“We’ll find Peter.” Langdon’s deep voice resonated against her chest, comforting her somehow. “I promise.”

I know who did this! Katherine wanted to yell. The same man who killed my mother and nephew! Before she could explain herself, an unexpected sound broke the silence of the library.

The loud crash echoed up from beneath them in a vestibule stairwell—as if a large metal object had fallen on

a tile floor. Katherine felt Langdon’s muscles stiffen instantly.

Bellamy stepped forward, his expression dire. “We’re leaving. Now.”

Bewildered, Katherine followed as the Architect and Langdon hurried across the great hall toward the

library’s famed reading room, which was ablaze with light. Bellamy quickly locked the two sets of doors

behind them, first the outer, then the inner.

Katherine followed in a daze as Bellamy hustled them both toward the center of the room. The threesome

arrived at a reading desk where a leather bag sat beneath a light. Beside the bag, there was a tiny cube-shaped

package, which Bellamy scooped up and placed inside the bag, alongside a—

Katherine stopped short. A pyramid?

Although she had never seen this engraved stone pyramid, she felt her entire body recoil in recognition.

Somehow her gut knew the truth. Katherine Solomon had just come face-to-face with the object that had so

deeply damaged her life. The pyramid.

Bellamy zipped up the bag and handed it to Langdon. “Don’t let this out of your sight.”

A sudden explosion rocked the room’s outer doors. The tinkling of shattered glass followed.

“This way!” Bellamy spun, looking scared now as he rushed them over to the central circulation desk—eight

counters around a massive octagonal cabinet. He guided them in behind the counters and then pointed to an

opening in the cabinet. “Get in there!”

“In there?” Langdon demanded. “They’ll find us for sure!”

“Trust me,” Bellamy said. “It’s not what you think.”

CHAPTER 57

Mal’akh gunned his limousine north toward Kalorama Heights. The explosion in Katherine’s lab had been

bigger than he had anticipated, and he had been lucky to escape unscathed. Conveniently, the ensuing chaos

had enabled him to slip out without opposition, powering his limousine past a distracted gate guard who was

busy yelling into a telephone.

I’ve got to get off the road, he thought. If Katherine hadn’t yet phoned the police, the explosion would

certainly draw their attention. And a shirtless man driving a limousine would be hard to miss.

After years of preparation, Mal’akh could scarcely believe the night was now upon him. The journey to this

moment had been a long, difficult one. What began years ago in misery . . . will end tonight in glory.

On the night it all began, he had not had the name Mal’akh. In fact, on the night it all began, he had not had

any name at all. Inmate 37. Like most of the prisoners at the brutal Soganlik Prison outside of Istanbul,

Inmate 37 was here because of drugs.

He had been lying on his bunk in a cement cell, hungry and cold in the darkness, wondering how long he

would be incarcerated. His new cellmate, whom he’d met only twenty-four hours ago, was sleeping in the

bunk above him. The prison administrator, an obese alcoholic who hated his job and took it out on the

inmates, had just killed all the lights for the night.

It was almost ten o’clock when Inmate 37 heard the conversation filtering in through the ventilation shaft.

The first voice was unmistakably clear—the piercing, belligerent accent of the prison administrator, who

clearly did not appreciate being woken up by a late-night visitor.

“Yes, yes, you’ve come a long way,” he was saying, “but there are no visitors for the first month. State

regulations. No exceptions.”

The voice that replied was soft and refined, filled with pain. “Is my son safe?”

“He is a drug addict.”

“Is he being treated well?”

“Well enough,” the administrator said. “This is not a hotel.”

There was a pained pause. “You do realize the U.S. State Department will request extradition.”

“Yes, yes, they always do. It will be granted, although the paperwork might take us a couple of weeks . . . or

even a month . . . depending.”

“Depending on what?”

“Well,” the administrator said, “we are understaffed.” He paused. “Of course, sometimes concerned parties

like yourself make donations to the prison staff to help us push things through more quickly.”

The visitor did not reply.

“Mr. Solomon,” the administrator continued, lowering his voice, “for a man like yourself, for whom money

is no object, there are always options. I know people in government. If you and I work together, we may be

able to get your son out of here . . . tomorrow, with all the charges dropped. He would not even have to face prosecution at home.”

The response was immediate. “Forgetting the legal ramifications of your suggestion, I refuse to teach my son

that money solves all problems or that there is no accountability in life, especially in a serious matter like

this.”

“You’d like to leave him here?”

“I’d like to speak to him. Right now.”

“As I said, we have rules. Your son is unavailable to you . . . unless you would like to negotiate his

immediate release.”

A cold silence hung for several moments. “The State Department will be contacting you. Keep Zachary safe.

I expect him on a plane home within the week. Good night.”

The door slammed.

Inmate 37 could not believe his ears. What kind of father leaves his son in this hellhole in order to teach him

a lesson? Peter Solomon had even rejected an offer to clear Zachary’s record.

It was later that night, lying awake in his bunk, that Inmate 37 had realized how he would free himself. If

money was the only thing separating a prisoner from freedom, then Inmate 37 was as good as free. Peter

Solomon might not be willing to part with money, but as anyone who read the tabloids knew, his son,

Zachary, had plenty of money, too. The next day, Inmate 37 spoke privately to the administrator and

suggested a plan—a bold, ingenious scheme that would give them both exactly what they wanted.

“Zachary Solomon would have to die for this to work,” explained Inmate 37. “But we could both disappear

immediately. You could retire to the Greek Islands. You would never see this place again.”

After some discussion, the two men shook hands. Soon Zachary Solomon will be dead, Inmate 37 thought,

smiling to think how easy it would be.

It was two days later that the State Department contacted the Solomon family with the horrific news. The

prison snapshots showed their son’s brutally bludgeoned body, lying curled and lifeless on the floor of his

prison cell. His head had been bashed in by a steel bar, and the rest of him was battered and twisted beyond

what was humanly imaginable. He appeared to have been tortured and finally killed. The prime suspect was

the prison administrator himself, who had disappeared, probably with all of the murdered boy’s money.

Zachary had signed papers moving his vast fortune into a private numbered account, which had been emptied

immediately following his death. There was no telling where the money was now.

Peter Solomon flew to Turkey on a private jet and returned with their son’s casket, which they buried in the

Solomon family cemetery. The prison administrator was never found. Nor would he be, Inmate 37 knew. The

Turk’s rotund body was now resting at the bottom of the Sea of Marmara, feeding the blue manna crabs that

migrated in through the Bosporus Strait. The vast fortune belonging to Zachary Solomon had all been moved

to an untraceable numbered account. Inmate 37 was a free man again—a free man with a massive fortune.

The Greek Islands were like heaven. The light. The water. The women.

There was nothing money couldn’t buy—new identities, new passports, new hope. He chose a Greek name—

Andros Dareios— Andros meaning “warrior,” and Dareios meaning “wealthy.” The dark nights in prison had frightened him, and Andros vowed never to go back. He shaved off his shaggy hair and shunned the drug

world entirely. He began life anew—exploring never-before-imagined sensual pleasures. The serenity of

sailing alone on the ink-blue Aegean Sea became his new heroin trance; the sensuality of sucking moist arni

souvlakia right off the skewer became his new Ecstasy; and the rush of cliff diving into the foam-filled

ravines of Mykonos became his new cocaine.

I am reborn.

Andros bought a sprawling villa on the island of Syros and settled in among the bella gente in the exclusive

town of Possidonia. This new world was a community not only of wealth, but of culture and physical

perfection. His neighbors took great pride in their bodies and minds, and it was contagious. The newcomer

suddenly found himself jogging on the beach, tanning his pale body, and reading books. Andros read

Homer’s Odyssey, captivated by the images of powerful bronze men doing battle on these islands. The next

day, he began lifting weights, and was amazed to see how quickly his chest and arms grew larger. Gradually,

he began to feel women’s eyes on him, and the admiration was intoxicating. He longed to grow stronger still.

And he did. With the help of aggressive cycles of steroids intermixed with black-market growth hormones

and endless hours of weight lifting, Andros transformed himself into something he had never imagined he

could be—a perfect male specimen. He grew in both height and musculature, developing flawless pectorals

and massive, sinewy legs, which he kept perfectly tanned.

Everyone was looking now.

As Andros had been warned, the heavy steroids and hormones changed not only his body, but also his voice

box, giving him an eerie, breathy whisper, which made him feel more mysterious. The soft, enigmatic voice,

combined with his new body, his wealth, and his refusal to speak about his mysterious past, served as catnip

for the women who met him. They gave themselves willingly, and he satisfied them all—from fashion

models visiting his island on photo shoots, to nubile American college girls on vacation, to the lonely wives

of his neighbors, to the occasional young man. They could not get enough.

I am a masterpiece.

As the years passed, however, Andros’s sexual adventures began to lose their thrill. As did everything. The

island’s sumptuous cuisine lost its taste, books no longer held his interest, and even the dazzling sunsets from

his villa looked dull. How could this be? He was only in his midtwenties, and yet he felt old. What more is there to life? He had sculpted his body into a masterpiece; he had educated himself and nourished his mind

with culture; he had made his home in paradise; and he had the love of anyone he desired.

And yet, incredibly, he felt as empty as he had in that Turkish prison.

What is it I am missing?

The answer had come to him several months later. Andros was sitting alone in his villa, absently surfing

channels in the middle of the night, when he stumbled across a program about the secrets of Freemasonry.

The show was poorly done, posing more questions than answers, and yet he found himself intrigued by the

plethora of conspiracy theories surrounding the brotherhood. The narrator described legend after legend.

Freemasons and the New World Order . . .

The Great Masonic Seal of the United States . . .

The P2 Masonic Lodge . . .

The Lost Secret of Freemasonry . . .

The Masonic Pyramid . . .

Andros sat up, startled. Pyramid. The narrator began recounting the story of a mysterious stone pyramid

whose encrypted engraving promised to lead to lost wisdom and unfathomable power. The story, though

seemingly implausible, sparked in him a distant memory . . . a faint recollection from a much darker time.

Andros remembered what Zachary Solomon had heard from his father about a mysterious pyramid.

Could it be? Andros strained to recall the details.

When the show ended, he stepped out onto the balcony, letting the cool air clear his mind. He remembered

more now, and as it all came back, he began to sense there might be some truth to this legend after all. And if

so, then Zachary Solomon—although long dead—still had something to offer.

What do I have to lose?

Three weeks later, his timing carefully planned, Andros stood in the frigid cold outside the conservatory of

the Solomons’ Potomac estate. Through the glass, he could see Peter Solomon chatting and laughing with his

sister, Katherine. It looks like they’ve had no trouble forgetting Zachary, he thought.

Before he pulled the ski mask over his face, Andros took a hit of cocaine, his first in ages. He felt the familiar

rush of fearlessness. He pulled out a handgun, used an old key to unlock the door, and stepped inside. “Hello,

Solomons.”

Unfortunately, the night had not gone as Andros had planned. Rather than obtaining the pyramid for which

he had come, he found himself riddled with bird shot and fleeing across the snow-covered lawn toward the

dense woods. To his surprise, behind him, Peter Solomon was giving chase, pistol glinting in his hand.

Andros dashed into the woods, running down a trail along the edge of a deep ravine. Far below, the sounds of

a waterfall echoed up through the crisp winter air. He passed a stand of oak trees and rounded a corner to his

left. Seconds later, he was skidding to a stop on the icy path, narrowly escaping death.

My God!

Only feet in front of him, the path ended, plunging straight down into an icy river far below. The large

boulder at the side of the path had been carved by the unskilled hand of a child:

On the far side of the ravine, the path continued on. So where’s the bridge?! The cocaine was no longer

working. I’m trapped! Panicking now, Andros turned to flee back up the path, but he found himself facing

Peter Solomon, who stood breathless before him, pistol in hand.

Andros looked at the gun and took a step backward. The drop behind him was at least fifty feet to an ice-

covered river. The mist from the waterfall upstream billowed around them, chilling him to the bone.

“Zach’s bridge rotted out long ago,” Solomon said, panting. “He was the only one who ever came down this

far.” Solomon held the gun remarkably steady. “Why did you kill my son?”

“He was nothing,” Andros replied. “A drug addict. I did him a favor.”

Solomon moved closer, gun aimed directly at Andros’s chest. “Perhaps I should do you the same favor.” His

tone was surprisingly fierce. “You bludgeoned my son to death. How does a man do such a thing?”

“Men do the unthinkable when pushed to the brink.”

“You killed my son!”

“No,” Andros replied, hotly now. “You killed your son. What kind of man leaves his son in a prison when he

has the option to get him out! You killed your son! Not me.”

“You know nothing!” Solomon yelled, his voice filled with pain.

You’re wrong, Andros thought. I know everything.

Peter Solomon drew closer, only five yards away now, gun leveled. Andros’s chest was burning, and he

could tell he was bleeding badly. The warmth ran down over his stomach. He looked over his shoulder at the

drop. Impossible. He turned back to Solomon. “I know more about you than you think,” he whispered. “I

know you are not the kind of man who kills in cold blood.”

Solomon stepped closer, taking dead aim.

“I’m warning you,” Andros said, “if you pull that trigger, I will haunt you forever.”

“You already will.” And with that, Solomon fired.

As he raced his black limousine back toward Kalorama Heights, the one who now called himself Mal’akh

reflected on the miraculous events that had delivered him from certain death atop that icy ravine. He had

been transformed forever. The gunshot had echoed only for an instant, and yet its effects had reverberated

across decades. His body, once tanned and perfect, was now marred by scars from that night . . . scars he kept

hidden beneath the tattooed symbols of his new identity.

I am Mal’akh.

This was my destiny all along.

He had walked through fire, been reduced to ashes, and then emerged again . . . transformed once more.

Tonight would be the final step of his long and magnificent journey.

CHAPTER 58

The coyly nicknamed explosive Key4 had been developed by Special Forces specifically for opening locked

doors with minimal collateral damage. Consisting primarily of cyclotrimethylenetrinitramine with a

diethylhexyl plasticizer, it was essentially a piece of C-4 rolled into paper-thin sheets for insertion into

doorjambs. In the case of the library’s reading room, the explosive had worked perfectly.

Operation leader Agent Turner Simkins stepped over the wreckage of the doors and scanned the massive

octagonal room for any signs of movement. Nothing.

“Kill the lights,” Simkins said.

A second agent found the wall panel, threw the switches, and plunged the room into darkness. In unison, all

four men reached up and yanked down their night-vision headgear, adjusting the goggles over their eyes.

They stood motionless, surveying the reading room, which now materialized in shades of luminescent green

inside their goggles.

The scene remained unchanged.

Nobody made a dash for it in the dark.

The fugitives were probably unarmed, and yet the field team entered the room with weapons raised. In the

darkness, their firearms projected four menacing rods of laser light. The men washed the beams in all

directions, across the floor, up the far walls, into the balconies, probing the darkness. Oftentimes, a mere

glimpse of a laser-sighted weapon in a darkened room was enough to induce instant surrender.

Apparently not tonight.

Still no movement.

Agent Simkins raised his hand, motioning his team into the space. Silently, the men fanned out. Moving

cautiously up the center aisle, Simkins reached up and flipped a switch on his goggles, activating the newest

addition to the CIA’s arsenal. Thermal imaging had been around for years, but recent advances in

miniaturization, differential sensitivity, and dual-source integration had facilitated a new generation of vision

enhancing equipment that gave field agents eyesight that bordered on superhuman.

We see in the dark. We see through walls. And now . . . we see back in time.

Thermal-imaging equipment had become so sensitive to heat differentials that it could detect not only a

person’s location . . . but their previous locations. The ability to see into the past often proved the most

valuable asset of all. And tonight, once again, it proved its worth. Agent Simkins now spied a thermal

signature at one of the reading desks. The two wooden chairs luminesced in his goggles, registering a

reddish-purple color, indicating those chairs were warmer than the other chairs in the room. The desk lamp’s

bulb glowed orange. Obviously the two men had been sitting at the desk, but the question now was in which

direction they had gone.

He found his answer on the central counter that surrounded the large wooden console in the middle of the

room. A ghostly handprint, glowing crimson.

Weapon raised, Simkins moved toward the octagonal cabinet, training his laser sight across the surface. He

circled until he saw an opening in the side of the console. Did they really corner themselves in a cabinet?

The agent scanned the trim around the opening and saw another glowing handprint on it. Clearly someone

had grabbed the doorjamb as he ducked inside the console.

The time for silence was over.

“Thermal signature!” Simkins shouted, pointing at the opening. “Flanks converge!”

His two flanks moved in from opposite sides, effectively surrounding the octagonal console.

Simkins moved toward the opening. Still ten feet away, he could see a light source within. “Light inside the

console!” he shouted, hoping the sound of his voice might convince Mr. Bellamy and Mr. Langdon to exit

the cabinet with their hands up.

Nothing happened.

Fine, we’ll do this the other way.

As Simkins drew closer to the opening, he could hear an unexpected hum rumbling from within. It sounded

like machinery. He paused, trying to imagine what could be making such a noise in such a small space. He

inched closer, now hearing voices over the sound of machinery. Then, just as he arrived at the opening, the

lights inside went out.

Thank you, he thought, adjusting his night vision. Advantage, us.

Standing at the threshold, he peered through the opening. What lay beyond was unexpected. The console was

less of a cabinet than a raised ceiling over a steep set of stairs that descended into a room below. The agent

aimed his weapon down the stairs and began descending. The hum of machinery grew louder with every

step.

What the hell is this place?

The room beneath the reading room was a small, industrial-looking space. The hum he heard was indeed

machinery, although he was not sure whether it was running because Bellamy and Langdon had activated it,

or because it ran around the clock. Either way, it clearly made no difference. The fugitives had left their

telltale heat signatures on the room’s lone exit—a heavy steel door whose keypad showed four clear

fingerprints glowing on the numbers. Around the door, slivers of glowing orange shone beneath the

doorjamb, indicating that lights were illuminated on the other side.

“Blow the door,” Simkins said. “This was their escape route.”

It took eight seconds to insert and detonate a sheet of Key4. When the smoke cleared, the field-team agents

found themselves peering into a strange underground world known here as “the stacks.”

The Library of Congress had miles and miles of bookshelves, most of them underground. The endless rows

of shelves looked like some kind of “infinity” optical illusion created with mirrors.

A sign announced

TEMPERATURE-CONTROLLED ENVIRONMENT

Keep this door closed at all times.

Simkins pushed through the mangled doors and felt cool air beyond. He couldn’t help but smile. Could this

get any easier? Heat signatures in controlled environments showed up like solar flares, and already his

goggles revealed a glowing red smear on a banister up ahead, which Bellamy or Langdon had grabbed on to

while running past.

“You can run,” he whispered to himself, “but you can’t hide.”

As Simkins and his team advanced into the maze of stacks, he realized the playing field was tipped so

heavily in his favor that he would not even need his goggles to track his prey . Under normal circumstances,

this maze of stacks would have been a respectable hiding place, but the Library of Congress used motion-

activated lights to save energy, and the fugitives’ escape route was now lit up like a runway. A narrow strip

of illumination stretched into the distance, dodging and weaving as it went.

All the men ripped off their goggles. Surging ahead on well-trained legs, the field team followed the trail of

lights, zigging and zagging through a

seemingly endless labyrinth of books. Soon Simkins began seeing lights flickering on in the darkness up

ahead. We’re gaining. He pushed harder, faster, until he heard footsteps and labored breathing ahead. Then

he saw a target.

“I’ve got visual!” he yelled.

The lanky form of Warren Bellamy was apparently bringing up the rear. The primly dressed African

American staggered through the stacks, obviously out of breath. It’s no use, old man.

“Stop right there, Mr. Bellamy!” Simkins yelled.

Bellamy kept running, turning sharp corners, weaving through the rows of books. At every turn, the lights

kept coming on over his head.

As the team drew within twenty yards, they shouted again to stop, but Bellamy ran on.

“Take him down!” Simkins commanded.

The agent carrying the team’s nonlethal rifle raised it and fired. The projectile that launched down the aisle

and wrapped itself around Bellamy’s legs was nicknamed Silly String, but there was nothing silly about it. A

military technology invented at Sandia National Laboratories, this nonlethal “incapacitant” was a thread of

gooey polyurethane that turned rock hard on contact, creating a rigid web of plastic across the back of the

fugitive’s knees. The effect on a running target was that of jamming a stick into the spokes of a moving bike.

The man’s legs seized midstride, and he pitched forward, crashing to the floor. Bellamy slid another ten feet

down a darkened aisle before coming to a stop, the lights above him flickering unceremoniously to life.

“I’ll deal with Bellamy,” Simkins shouted. “You keep going after Langdon! He must be up ahead some—”

The team leader stopped, now seeing that the library stacks ahead of Bellamy were all pitch-black.

Obviously, there was no one else running in front of Bellamy. He’s alone?

Bellamy was still on his chest, breathing heavily, his legs and ankles all tangled with hardened plastic. The

agent walked over and used his foot to roll the old man over onto his back.

“Where is he?!” the agent demanded.

Bellamy’s lip was bleeding from the fall. “Where is who?”

Agent Simkins lifted his foot and placed his boot squarely on Bellamy’s pristine silk tie. Then he leaned in,

applying some pressure. “Believe me, Mr. Bellamy, you do not want to play this game with me.”

CHAPTER 59

Robert Langdon felt like a corpse.

He lay supine, hands folded on his chest, in total darkness, trapped in the most confined of spaces. Although

Katherine lay nearby in a similar position near his head, Langdon could not see her. He had his eyes closed to

prevent himself from catching even a fleeting glimpse of his frightening predicament.

The space around him was small.

Very small.

Sixty seconds ago, with the double doors of the reading room crashing down, he and Katherine had followed

Bellamy into the octagonal console, down a steep set of stairs, and into the unexpected space below.

Langdon had realized at once where they were. The heart of the library’s circulation system. Resembling a

small airport baggage distribution center, the circulation room had numerous conveyor belts that angled off

in different directions. Because the Library of Congress was housed in three separate buildings, books

requested in the reading room often had to be transported great distances by a system of conveyors through a

web of underground tunnels.

Bellamy immediately crossed the room to a steel door, where he inserted his key card, typed a sequence of

buttons, and pushed open the door. The space beyond was dark, but as the door opened, a span of motion-

sensor lights flickered to life.

When Langdon saw what lay beyond, he realized he was looking at something few people ever saw. The

Library of Congress stacks. He felt encouraged by Bellamy’s plan. What better place to hide than in a giant labyrinth?

Bellamy did not guide them into the stacks, however. Instead, he propped the door open with a book and

turned back to face them. “I had hoped to be able to explain a lot more to you, but we have no time.” He gave

Langdon his key card. “You’ll need this.”

“You’re not coming with us?” Langdon asked.

Bellamy shook his head. “You’ll never make it unless we split up. The most important thing is to keep that

pyramid and capstone in safe hands.”

Langdon saw no other way out except the stairs back up to the reading room. “And where are you going?”

“I’ll coax them into the stacks away from you,” Bellamy said. “It’s all I can do to help you escape.”

Before Langdon could ask where he and Katherine were supposed to go, Bellamy was heaving a large crate

of books off one of the conveyors. “Lie on the belt,” Bellamy said. “Keep your hands in.”

Langdon stared. You cannot be serious! The conveyor belt extended a short distance then disappeared into a

dark hole in the wall. The opening looked large enough to permit passage of a crate of books, but not much

more. Langdon glanced back longingly at the stacks.

“Forget it,” Bellamy said. “The motion-sensor lights will make it impossible to hide.”

“Thermal signature!” a voice upstairs shouted. “Flanks converge!”

Katherine apparently had heard all she needed to hear. She climbed onto the conveyor belt with her head

only a few feet from the opening in the wall. She crossed her hands over her chest like a mummy in a

sarcophagus.

Langdon stood frozen.

“Robert,” Bellamy urged, “if you won’t do this for me, do it for Peter.”

The voices upstairs sounded closer now.

As if in a dream, Langdon moved to the conveyor. He slung his daybag onto the belt and then climbed on,

placing his head at Katherine’s feet. The hard rubber conveyor felt cold against his back. He stared at the

ceiling and felt like a hospital patient preparing for insertion headfirst into an MRI machine.

“Keep your phone on,” Bellamy said. “Someone will call soon . . . and offer help. Trust him.”

Someone will call? Langdon knew that Bellamy had been trying to reach someone with no luck and had left a

message earlier. And only moments ago, as they hurried down the spiral staircase, Bellamy had tried one last

time and gotten through, speaking very briefly in hushed tones and then hanging up.

“Follow the conveyor to the end,” Bellamy said. “And jump off quickly before you circle back. Use my key

card to get out.”

“Get out of where?!” Langdon demanded.

But Bellamy was already pulling levers. All the different conveyors in the room hummed to life. Langdon

felt himself jolt into motion, and the ceiling began moving overhead.

God save me.

As Langdon approached the opening in the wall, he looked back and saw Warren Bellamy race through the

doorway into the stacks, closing the door behind him. An instant later, Langdon slid into the darkness,

swallowed up by the library . . . just as a glowing red laser dot came dancing down the stairs.

CHAPTER 60

The underpaid female security guard from Preferred Security double-checked the Kalorama Heights address

on her call sheet. This is it? The gated driveway before her belonged to one of the neighborhood’s largest and quietest estates, and so it seemed odd that 911 had just received an urgent call about it.

As usual with unconfirmed call-ins, 911 had contacted the local alarm company before bothering the police.

The guard often thought the alarm company’s motto—“Your first line of defense”—could just as easily have

been “False alarms, pranks, lost pets, and complaints from wacky neighbors.”

Tonight, as usual, the guard had arrived with no details about the specific concern. Above my pay grade. Her job was simply to show up with her yellow bubble light spinning, assess the property, and report anything

unusual. Normally, something innocuous had tripped the house alarm, and she would use her override keys

to reset it. This house, however, was silent. No alarm. From the road, everything looked dark and peaceful.

The guard buzzed the intercom at the gate, but got no answer. She typed her override code to open the gate

and pulled into the driveway. Leaving her engine running and her bubble light spinning, she walked up to the

front door and rang the bell. No answer. She saw no lights and no movement.

Reluctantly following procedure, she flicked on her flashlight to begin her trek around the house to check the

doors and windows for signs of break-in. As she rounded the corner, a black stretch limousine drove past the

house, slowing for a moment before continuing on. Rubbernecking neighbors.

Bit by bit, she made her way around the house, but saw nothing out of place. The house was bigger than she

had imagined, and by the time she reached the backyard, she was shivering from the cold. Obviously there

was nobody home.

“Dispatch?” she called in on her radio. “I’m on the Kalorama Heights call? Owners aren’t home. No signs of

trouble. Finished the perimeter check. No indication of an intruder. False alarm.”

“Roger that,” the dispatcher replied. “Have a good night.”

The guard put her radio back on her belt and began retracing her steps, eager to get back to the warmth of her

vehicle. As she did so, however, she spotted something she had missed earlier—a tiny speck of bluish light

on the back of the house.

Puzzled, she walked over to it, now seeing the source—a low transom window, apparently to the home’s

basement. The glass of the window had been blacked out, coated on the inside with an opaque paint. Some

kind of darkroom maybe? The bluish glow she had seen was emanating through a tiny spot on the window

where the black paint had started to peel.

She crouched down, trying to peer through, but she couldn’t see much through the tiny opening. She tapped

on the glass, wondering if maybe someone was working down there.

“Hello?” she shouted.

There was no answer, but as she knocked on the window, the paint chip suddenly detached and fell off,

affording her a more complete view. She leaned in, nearly pressing her face to the window as she scanned the

basement. Instantly, she wished she hadn’t.

What in the name of God?!

Transfixed, she remained crouched there for a moment, staring in abject horror at the scene before her.

Finally, trembling, the guard groped for the radio on her belt.

She never found it.

A sizzling pair of Taser prongs slammed into the back of her neck, and a searing pain shot through her body.

Her muscles seized, and she pitched forward, unable even to close her eyes before her face hit the cold

ground.

CHAPTER 61

Tonight was not the first time Warren Bellamy had been blindfolded. Like all of his Masonic brothers, he

had worn the ritual “hoodwink” during his ascent to the upper echelons of Masonry. That, however, had

taken place among trusted friends. Tonight was different. These rough-handed men had bound him, placed a

bag on his head, and were now marching him through the library stacks.

The agents had physically threatened Bellamy and demanded to know the whereabouts of Robert Langdon.

Knowing his aging body couldn’t take much punishment, Bellamy had told his lie quickly.

“Langdon never came down here with me!” he had said, gasping for air. “I told him to go up to the balcony

and hide behind the Moses statue, but I don’t know where he is now!” The story apparently had been

convincing, because two of the agents had run off in pursuit. Now the remaining two agents were marching

him in silence through the stacks.

Bellamy’s only solace was in knowing Langdon and Katherine were whisking the pyramid off to safety.

Soon Langdon would be contacted by a man who could offer sanctuary. Trust him. The man Bellamy had

called knew a great deal about the Masonic Pyramid and the secret it held—the location of a hidden spiral

staircase that led down into the earth to the hiding place of potent ancient wisdom buried long ago. Bellamy

had finally gotten through to the man as they were escaping the reading room, and he felt confident that his

short message would be understood perfectly.

Now, as he moved in total darkness, Bellamy pictured the stone pyramid and golden capstone in Langdon’s

bag. It has been many years since those two pieces were in the same room.

Bellamy would never forget that painful night. The first of many for Peter. Bellamy had been asked to come

to the Solomon estate in Potomac for Zachary Solomon’s eighteenth birthday. Zachary, despite being a

rebellious child, was a Solomon, which meant tonight, following family tradition, he would receive his

inheritance. Bellamy was one of Peter’s dearest friends and a trusted Masonic brother, and therefore was

asked to attend as a witness. But it was not only the transference of money that Bellamy had been asked to

witness. There was far more than money at stake tonight.

Bellamy had arrived early and waited, as requested, in Peter’s private study. The wonderful old room smelled

of leather, wood fires, and loose-leaf tea. Warren was seated when Peter led his son, Zachary, into the room.

When the scrawny eighteen-year-old saw Bellamy, he frowned. “What are you doing here?”

“Bearing witness,” Bellamy offered. “Happy birthday, Zachary.”

The boy mumbled and looked away.

“Sit down, Zach,” Peter said.

Zachary sat in the solitary chair facing his father’s huge wooden desk. Solomon bolted the study door.

Bellamy took a seat off to one side.

Solomon addressed Zachary in a serious tone. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“I think so,” Zachary said.

Solomon sighed deeply. “I know you and I have not seen eye to eye for quite some time, Zach. I’ve done my

best to be a good father and to prepare you for this moment.”

Zachary said nothing.

“As you know, every Solomon child, upon reaching adulthood, is presented with his or her birthright—a

share of the Solomon fortune—which is intended to be a seed . . . a seed for you to nurture, make grow, and

use to help nourish mankind.”

Solomon walked to a vault in the wall, unlocked it, and removed a large black folder. “Son, this portfolio

contains everything you need to legally transfer your financial inheritance into your own name.” He laid it on

the desk. “The aim is that you use this money to build a life of productivity, prosperity, and philanthropy.”

Zachary reached for the folder. “Thanks.”

“Hold on,” his father said, putting his hand on the portfolio. “There’s something else I need to explain.”

Zachary shot his father a contemptuous look and slumped back down.

“There are aspects of the Solomon inheritance of which you are not yet aware.” His father was staring

straight into Zachary’s eyes now. “You are my firstborn, Zachary, which means you are entitled to a choice.”

The teenager sat up, looking intrigued.

“It is a choice that may well determine the direction of your future, and so I urge you to ponder it carefully.”

“What choice?”

His father took a deep breath. “It is the choice . . . between wealth or wisdom.”

Zachary gave him a blank stare. “Wealth or wisdom? I don’t get it.”

Solomon stood, walking again to the vault, where he pulled out a heavy stone pyramid with Masonic

symbols carved into it. Peter heaved the stone onto the desk beside the portfolio. “This pyramid was created

long ago and has been entrusted to our family for generations.”

“A pyramid?” Zachary didn’t look very excited.

“Son, this pyramid is a map . . . a map that reveals the location of one of humankind’s greatest lost treasures.

This map was created so that the treasure could one day be rediscovered.” Peter’s voice swelled now with

pride. “And tonight, following tradition, I am able to offer it to you . . . under certain conditions.”

Zachary eyed the pyramid suspiciously. “What’s the treasure?”

Bellamy could tell that this coarse question was not what Peter had hoped for. Nonetheless, his demeanor

remained steady.

“Zachary, it’s hard to explain without a lot of background. But this treasure . . . in essence . . . is something

we call the Ancient Mysteries.”

Zachary laughed, apparently thinking his father was joking.

Bellamy could see the melancholy growing now in Peter’s eyes.

“This is very difficult for me to describe, Zach. Traditionally, by the time a Solomon is eighteen years of age,

he is about to embark on his years of higher education in—”

“I told you!” Zachary fired back. “I’m not interested in college!”

“I don’t mean college, ” his father said, his voice still calm and quiet. “I’m talking about the brotherhood of Freemasonry. I’m talking about an education in the enduring mysteries of human science. If you had plans to

join me within their ranks, you would be on the verge of receiving the education necessary to understand the

importance of your decision tonight.”

Zachary rolled his eyes. “Spare me the Masonic lecture again. I know I’m the first Solomon who doesn’t

want to join. But so what? Don’t you get it? I have no interest in playing dress-up with a bunch of old men!”

His father was silent for a long time, and Bellamy noticed the fine age lines that had started to appear around

Peter’s still-youthful eyes.

“Yes, I get it,” Peter finally said. “Times are different now. I understand that Masonry probably appears

strange to you, or maybe even boring. But I want you to know, that doorway will always be open for you

should you change your mind.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Zach grumbled.

“That’s enough!” Peter snapped, standing up. “I realize life has been a struggle for you, Zachary, but I am

not your only guidepost. There are good men waiting for you, men who will welcome you within the

Masonic fold and show you your true potential.”

Zachary chuckled and glanced over at Bellamy. “Is that why you’re here, Mr. Bellamy? So you Masons can

gang up on me?”

Bellamy said nothing, instead directing a respectful gaze back at Peter Solomon—a reminder to Zachary of

who held the power in this room.

Zachary turned back to his father.

“Zach,” Peter said, “we’re getting nowhere . . . so let me just tell you this. Whether or not you comprehend

the responsibility being offered to you tonight, it is my family obligation to present it.” He motioned to the

pyramid. “It is a rare privilege to guard this pyramid. I urge you to consider this opportunity for a few days

before making your decision.”

“Opportunity?” Zachary said. “Babysitting a rock?”

“There are great mysteries in this world, Zach,” Peter said with a sigh. “Secrets that transcend your wildest

imagination. This pyramid protects those secrets. And even more important, there will come a time, probably

within your lifetime, when this pyramid will at last be deciphered and its secrets unearthed. It will be a

moment of great human transformation . . . and you have a chance to play a role in that moment. I want you

to consider it very carefully. Wealth is commonplace, but wisdom is rare.” He motioned to the portfolio and

then to the pyramid. “I beg you to remember that wealth without wisdom can often end in disaster.”

Zachary looked like he thought his father was insane. “Whatever you say, Dad, but there’s no way I’m giving

up my inheritance for this.” He gestured to the pyramid.

Peter folded his hands before him. “If you choose to accept the responsibility, I will hold your money and the

pyramid for you until you have successfully completed your education within the Masons. This will take

years, but you will emerge with the maturity to receive both your money and this pyramid. Wealth and

wisdom. A potent combination.”

Zachary shot up. “Jesus, Dad! You don’t give up, do you? Can’t you see that I don’t give a damn about the

Masons or stone pyramids and ancient mysteries?” He reached down and scooped up the black portfolio,

waving it in front of his father’s face. “This is my birthright! The same birthright of the Solomons who came

before me! I can’t believe you’d try to trick me out of my inheritance with lame stories about ancient treasure

maps!” He tucked the portfolio under his arm and marched past Bellamy to the study’s patio door.

“Zachary, wait!” His father rushed after him as Zachary stalked out into the night. “Whatever you do, you

can never speak of the pyramid you have seen!” Peter Solomon’s voice cracked. “Not to anyone! Ever!”

But Zachary ignored him, disappearing into the night.

Peter Solomon’s gray eyes were filled with pain as he returned to his desk and sat heavily in his leather chair.

After a long silence, he looked up at Bellamy and forced a sad smile. “That went well.”

Bellamy sighed, sharing in Solomon’s pain. “Peter, I don’t mean to sound insensitive . . . but . . . do you trust

him?”

Solomon stared blankly into space.

“I mean . . .” Bellamy pressed, “not to say anything about the pyramid?”

Solomon’s face was blank. “I really don’t know what to say, Warren. I’m not sure I even know him

anymore.”

Bellamy rose and walked slowly back and forth before the large desk. “Peter, you have followed your family

duty, but now, considering what just happened, I think we need to take precautions. I should return the

capstone to you so you can find a new home for it. Someone else should watch over it.”

“Why?” Solomon asked.

“If Zachary tells anyone about the pyramid . . . and mentions my being present tonight . . .”

“He knows nothing of the capstone, and he’s too immature to know the pyramid has any significance. We

don’t need a new home for it. I’ll keep the pyramid in my vault. And you will keep the capstone wherever

you keep it. As we always have.”

It was six years later, on Christmas Day, with the family still healing from Zachary’s death, that the

enormous man claiming to have killed him in prison broke into the Solomon estate. The intruder had come

for the pyramid, but he had taken with him only Isabel Solomon’s life.

Days later, Peter summoned Bellamy to his office. He locked the door and took the pyramid out of his vault,

setting it on the desk between them. “I should have listened to you.”

Bellamy knew Peter was racked with guilt over this. “It wouldn’t have mattered.”

Solomon drew a tired breath. “Did you bring the capstone?”

Bellamy pulled a small cube-shaped package from his pocket. The faded brown paper was tied with twine

and bore a wax seal of Solomon’s ring. Bellamy laid the package on the desk, knowing the two halves of the

Masonic Pyramid were closer together tonight than they should be. “Find someone else to watch this. Don’t

tell me who it is.”

Solomon nodded.

“And I know where you can hide the pyramid,” Bellamy said. He told Solomon about the Capitol Building

subbasement. “There’s no place in Washington more secure.”

Bellamy recalled Solomon liking the idea right away because it felt symbolically apt to hide the pyramid in

the symbolic heart of our nation. Typical Solomon, Bellamy had thought. The idealist even in a crisis.

Now, ten years later, as Bellamy was being shoved blindly through the Library of Congress, he knew the

crisis tonight was far from over. He also now knew whom Solomon had chosen to guard the capstone . . . and

he prayed to God that Robert Langdon was up to the job.

CHAPTER 62

I’m under Second Street.

Langdon’s eyes remained tightly shut as the conveyor rumbled through the darkness toward the Adams

Building. He did his best not to picture the tons of earth overhead and the narrow tube through which he was

now traveling. He could hear Katherine breathing several yards ahead of him, but so far, she had not uttered a

word.

She’s in shock. Langdon was not looking forward to telling her about her brother’s severed hand. You have to, Robert. She needs to know.

“Katherine?” Langdon finally said, without opening his eyes. “Are you okay?”

A tremulous, disembodied voice replied somewhere up ahead. “Robert, the pyramid you’re carrying. It’s

Peter’s, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Langdon replied.

A long silence followed. “I think . . . that pyramid is why my mother was murdered.”

Langdon was well aware that Isabel Solomon had been murdered ten years ago, but he didn’t know the

details, and Peter had never mentioned anything about a pyramid. “What are you talking about?”

Katherine’s voice filled with emotion as she recounted the harrowing events of that night, how the tattooed

man had broken into their estate. “It was a long time ago, but I’ll never forget that he demanded a pyramid.

He said he heard about the pyramid in prison, from my nephew, Zachary . . . right before he killed him.”

Langdon listened in amazement. The tragedy within the Solomon family was almost beyond belief.

Katherine continued, telling Langdon that she had always believed the intruder was killed that night . . . that

is, until this same man had resurfaced today, posing as Peter’s psychiatrist and luring Katherine to his home.

“He knew private things about my brother, my mother’s death, and even my work, ” she said anxiously,

“things he could only have learned from my brother. And so I trusted him . . . and that’s how he got inside

the Smithsonian Museum Support Center.” Katherine took a deep breath and told Langdon she was nearly

certain the man had destroyed her lab tonight.

Langdon listened in utter shock. For several moments, the two of them lay together in silence on the moving

conveyor. Langdon knew he had an obligation to share with Katherine the rest of tonight’s terrible news. He

began slowly, and as gently as he possibly could he told her how her brother had entrusted him with a small

package years earlier, how Langdon had been tricked into bringing this package to Washington tonight, and

finally, about her brother’s hand having been found in the Rotunda of the Capitol Building.

Katherine’s reaction was deafening silence.

Langdon could tell she was reeling, and he wished he could reach out and comfort her, but lying end to end

in the narrow blackness made it impossible. “Peter’s okay,” he whispered. “He’s alive, and we’ll get him

back.” Langdon tried to give her hope. “Katherine, his captor promised me your brother would be returned

alive . . . as long as I decipher the pyramid for him.”

Still Katherine said nothing.

Langdon kept talking. He told her about the stone pyramid, its Masonic cipher, the sealed capstone, and, of

course, about Bellamy’s claims that this pyramid was in fact the Masonic Pyramid of legend . . . a map that

revealed the hiding place of a long spiral staircase that led deep into the earth . . . down hundreds of feet to a

mystical ancient treasure that had been buried in Washington long ago.

Katherine finally spoke, but her voice was flat and emotionless. “Robert, open your eyes.”

Open my eyes? Langdon had no desire to have even the slightest glimpse of how cramped this space really

was.

“Robert!” Katherine demanded, urgently now. “Open your eyes! We’re here!”

Langdon’s eyes flew open as his body emerged through an opening similar to the one it had entered at the

other end. Katherine was already climbing off the conveyor belt. She lifted his daybag off the belt as

Langdon swung his legs over the edge and jumped down onto the tile floor just in time, before the conveyor

turned the corner and headed back the way it came. The space around them was a circulation room much like

the one they had come from in the other building. A small sign read ADAMS BUILDING:

CIRCULATION ROOM 3.

Langdon felt like he had just emerged from some kind of subterranean

birth canal. Born again. He turned immediately to Katherine. “Are you okay?”

Her eyes were red, and she had obviously been crying, but she nodded with a resolute stoicism. She picked

up Langdon’s daybag and carried it across the room without a word, setting it on a cluttered desk. She lit the

desk’s halogen clamp lamp, unzipped the bag, folded down the sides, and peered inside.

The granite pyramid looked almost austere in the clean halogen light. Katherine ran her fingers over the

engraved Masonic cipher, and Langdon sensed deep emotion churning within her. Slowly, she reached into

the daybag and pulled out the cube-shaped package. She held it under the light, examining it closely.

“As you can see,” Langdon quietly said, “the wax seal is embossed with Peter’s Masonic ring. He said this

ring was used to seal the package more than a century ago.”

Katherine said nothing.

“When your brother entrusted the package to me,” Langdon told her, “he said it would give me the power to

create order out of chaos. I’m not entirely sure what that means, but I’ve got to assume the capstone reveals

something important, because Peter was insistent that it not fall into the wrong hands. Mr. Bellamy just told

me the same thing, urging me to hide the pyramid and not let anyone open the package.”

Katherine turned now, looking angry. “Bellamy told you not to open the package?”

“Yes. He was adamant.”

Katherine looked incredulous. “But you said this capstone is the only way we can decipher the pyramid,

right?”

“Probably, yes.”

Katherine’s voice was rising now. “And you said deciphering the pyramid is what you were told to do. It’s

the only way we can get Peter back, right?”

Langdon nodded.

“Then, Robert, why wouldn’t we open the package and decipher this thing right now?!”

Langdon didn’t know how to respond. “Katherine, I had the same exact reaction, and yet Bellamy told me

that keeping this pyramid’s secret intact was more important than anything . . . including your brother’s life.”

Katherine’s pretty features hardened, and she tucked a wisp of hair behind her ears. When she spoke, her

voice was resolved. “This stone

pyramid, whatever it is, has cost me my entire family. First my nephew, Zachary, then my mother, and now

my brother.And let’s face it, Robert, if you hadn’t called tonight to warn me . . .”

Langdon could feel himself trapped between Katherine’s logic and Bellamy’s steadfast urging.

“I may be a scientist,” she said, “but I also come from a family of well-known Masons. Believe me, I’ve

heard all the stories about the Masonic Pyramid and its promise of some great treasure that will enlighten

mankind. Honestly, I find it hard to imagine such a thing exists. However, if it does exist . . . perhaps it’s time to unveil it.” Katherine slid a finger beneath the old twine on the package.

Langdon jumped. “Katherine, no! Wait!”

She paused, but her finger remained beneath the string. “Robert, I’m not going to let my brother die for this.

Whatever this capstone says . . . whatever lost treasures this engraving might reveal . . . those secrets end

tonight.”

With that, Katherine yanked defiantly on the twine, and the brittle wax seal exploded.

CHAPTER 63

In a quiet neighborhood just west of Embassy Row in Washington, there exists a medieval-style walled

garden whose roses, it is said, spring from twelfth-century plants. The garden’s Carderock gazebo—known

as Shadow House—sits elegantly amid meandering pathways of stones dug from George Washington’s

private quarry.

Tonight the silence of the gardens was broken by a young man who rushed through the wooden gate,

shouting as he came.

“Hello?” he called out, straining to see in the moonlight. “Are you in here?”

The voice that replied was frail, barely audible. “In the gazebo . . . just taking some air.”

The young man found his withered superior seated on the stone bench beneath a blanket. The hunched old

man was tiny, with elfin features. The years had bent him in two and stolen his eyesight, but his soul

remained a force to be reckoned with.

Catching his breath, the young man told him, “I just . . . took a call . . . from your friend . . . Warren

Bellamy.”

“Oh?” The old man perked up. “About what?”

“He didn’t say, but he sounded like he was in a big hurry. He told me he left you a message on your voice

mail, which you need to listen to right away.”

“That’s all he said?”

“Not quite.” The young man paused. “He told me to ask you a question.” A very strange question. “He said

he needed your response right away.”

The old man leaned closer. “What question?”

As the young man spoke Mr. Bellamy’s question, the pall that crossed the old man’s face was visible even in

the moonlight. Immediately, he threw off his blanket and began struggling to his feet.

“Please help me inside. Right away.”

CHAPTER 64

No more secrets, thought Katherine Solomon.

On the table in front of her, the wax seal that had been intact for generations now lay in pieces. She finished

removing the faded brown paper from her brother’s precious package. Beside her, Langdon looked decidedly

uneasy.

From within the paper, Katherine extracted a small box made of gray stone. Resembling a polished granite

cube, the box had no hinges, no latch, and no apparent way inside. It reminded Katherine of a Chinese puzzle

box.

“It looks like a solid block,” she said, running her fingers over the edges. “Are you sure the X-ray showed it

was hollow? With a capstone inside?”

“It did,” Langdon said, moving next to Katherine and scrutinizing the mysterious box. He and Katherine

peered at the box from different angles, attempting to find a way in.

“Got it,” Katherine said as her fingernail located the hidden slit along one of the box’s top edges. She set the

box down on the desk and then carefully pried open the lid, which rose smoothly, like the top of a fine

jewelry box.

When the lid fell back, Langdon and Katherine both drew audible breaths. The interior of the box seemed to

be glowing. The inside was shining with an almost supernatural effulgence. Katherine had never seen a piece

of gold this large, and it took her an instant to realize that the precious metal was simply reflecting the

radiance of the desk lamp.

“It’s spectacular,” she whispered. Despite being sealed in a dark stone cube for over a century, the capstone

had not faded or tarnished in any way. Gold resists the entropic laws of decay; that’s one of the reasons the

ancients considered it magical. Katherine felt her pulse quicken as she leaned forward, peering down over

the small golden point. “There’s an inscription.”

Langdon moved closer, their shoulders now touching. His blue eyes flashed with curiosity. He had told

Katherine about the ancient Greek practice of creating a symbolon—a code broken into parts—and how this

capstone, long separated from the pyramid itself, would hold the key to deciphering the pyramid. Allegedly,

this inscription, whatever it said, would bring order from this chaos.

Katherine held the little box up to the light and peered straight down over the capstone.

Though small, the inscription was perfectly visible—a small bit of elegantly engraved text on the face of one

side. Katherine read the six simple words.

Then she read them again.

“No!” she declared. “That can’t be what it says!”

Across the street, Director Sato hurried up the long walkway outside the Capitol Building toward her

rendezvous point on First Street. The update from her field team had been unacceptable. No Langdon. No

pyramid. No capstone. Bellamy was in custody, but he was not telling them the truth. At least not yet.

I’ll make him talk.

She glanced back over her shoulder at one of Washington’s newest vistas—the Capitol Dome framed above

the new visitor center. The illuminated dome only accentuated the significance of what was truly at stake

tonight. Dangerous times.

Sato was relieved to hear her cell phone ring and see her analyst’s ID on the screen.

“Nola,” Sato answered. “What have you got?”

Nola Kaye gave her the bad news. The X-ray of the capstone’s inscription was too faint to read, and the

image-enhancing filters had not helped. Shit. Sato chewed at her lip. “How about the sixteen-letter grid?”

“I’m still trying,” Nola said, “but so far I’ve found no secondary encryption scheme that’s applicable. I’ve

got a computer reshuffling the letters in the grid and looking for anything identifiable, but there are over

twenty trillion possibilities.”

“Stay on it. Let me know.” Sato hung up, scowling. Her hopes of deciphering the pyramid using only a

photograph and X-ray were fading fast. I need that pyramid and capstone . . . and I’m running out of time.

Sato arrived at First Street just as a black Escalade SUV with dark windows roared across the double yellow

and skidded to a stop in front of her at their rendezvous point. A lone agent got out.

“Any word yet on Langdon?” Sato demanded.

“Confidence is high,” the man said, emotionless. “Backup just arrived. All library exits are surrounded. We

even have air support coming in. We’ll flush him with tear gas, and he’ll have nowhere to run.”

“And Bellamy?”

“Tied up in the backseat.”

Good. Her shoulder was still smarting.

The agent handed Sato a plastic Ziploc bag containing cell phone, keys, and wallet. “Bellamy’s effects.”

“Nothing else?”

“No, ma’am. The pyramid and package must still be with Langdon.”

“Okay,” Sato said. “Bellamy knows plenty he’s not telling. I’d like to question him personally.”

“Yes, ma’am. To Langley, then?”

Sato took a deep breath and paced a moment beside the SUV. Strict protocols governed the interrogation of

U.S. civilians, and questioning Bellamy was highly illegal unless it was done at Langley on video with

witnesses, attorneys, blah, blah, blah . . . “Not Langley,” she said, trying to think of somewhere closer. And

more private.

The agent said nothing, standing at attention beside the idling SUV, waiting for orders.

Sato lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and gazed down at the Ziploc bag of Bellamy’s items. His key ring, she

had noticed, included an electronic fob adorned with four letters— USBG. Sato knew, of course, which

government building this fob accessed. The building was very close and, at this hour, very private.

She smiled and pocketed the fob. Perfect.

When she told the agent where she wanted to take Bellamy, she expected the man to look surprised, but he

simply nodded and opened the passenger door for her, his cold stare revealing nothing.

Sato loved professionals.

Langdon stood in the basement of the Adams Building and stared in disbelief at the elegantly inscribed

words on the face of the golden capstone.

That’s all it says?

Beside him, Katherine held the capstone under the light and shook her head. “There’s got to be more,” she

insisted, sounding cheated. “This is what my brother has been protecting all these years?”

Langdon had to admit he was mystified. According to Peter and Bellamy, this capstone was supposed to help

them decipher the stone pyramid. In light of those claims, Langdon had expected something illuminating and

helpful. More like obvious and useless. Once again, he read the six words delicately inscribed on the face of the capstone.

The

secret hides

within The Order

The secret hides within The Order?

At first glance, the inscription appeared to be stating the obvious—that the letters on the pyramid were out of

“order” and that their secret lay in finding their proper sequence. This reading, however, in addition to being

self-evident, seemed unlikely for another reason. “The words the and order are capitalized,” Langdon said.

Katherine nodded blankly. “I saw that.”

The secret hides within The Order. Langdon could think of only one logical implication. “ ‘The Order’ must

be referencing the Masonic Order. ”

“I agree,” Katherine said, “but it’s still no help. It tells us nothing.”

Langdon had to concur. After all, the entire story of the Masonic Pyramid revolved around a secret hidden

within the Masonic Order.

“Robert, didn’t my brother tell you this capstone would give you power to see order where others saw only

chaos?”

He nodded in frustration. For the second time tonight, Robert Langdon was feeling unworthy.

CHAPTER 65

Once Mal’akh had finished dealing with his unexpected visitor—a female security guard from Preferred

Security—he fixed the paint on the window through which she had glimpsed his sacred work space.

Now, ascending out of the soft blue haze of the basement, he emerged through a hidden doorway into his

living room. Inside, he paused, admiring his spectacular painting of the Three Graces and savoring the

familiar smells and sounds of his home.

Soon I will be leaving forever. Mal’akh knew that after tonight he would be unable to return to this place.

After tonight, he thought, smiling, I will have no need for this place.

He wondered if Robert Langdon yet understood the true power of the pyramid . . . or the importance of the

role for which fate had chosen him. Langdon has yet to call me, Mal’akh thought, after double-checking for

messages on his disposable phone. It was now 10:02 P.M. He has less than two hours.

Mal’akh went upstairs to his Italian-marble bathroom and turned on the steam shower to let it heat up.

Methodically, he stripped off his clothes, eager to begin his cleansing ritual.

He drank two glasses of water to calm his starving stomach. Then he walked to the full-length mirror and

studied his naked body. His two days of fasting had accentuated his musculature, and he could not help but

admire that which he had become. By dawn, I will be so much more.

CHAPTER 66

“We should get out of here,” Langdon said to Katherine. “It’s only a matter of time before they figure out

where we are.” He hoped Bellamy had managed to escape.

Katherine still seemed fixated on the gold capstone, looking incredulous that the inscription was so

unhelpful. She had taken the capstone out of the box, examined every side, and was now carefully putting it

back in the box.

The secret hides within The Order, Langdon thought. Big help.

Langdon found himself wondering now if perhaps Peter had been misinformed about the contents of the box.

This pyramid and capstone had been created long before Peter was born, and Peter was simply doing as his

forefathers had told him, keeping a secret that was probably as much a mystery to him as it was to Langdon

and Katherine.

What did I expect? Langdon wondered. The more he learned tonight about the Legend of the Masonic

Pyramid, the less plausible it all seemed. I’m searching for a hidden spiral staircase covered by a huge

stone? Something told Langdon he was chasing shadows. Nonetheless, deciphering this pyramid seemed his

best chance at saving Peter.

“Robert, does the year 1514 mean anything to you?”

Fifteen-fourteen? The question seemed apropos of nothing. Langdon shrugged. “No. Why?”

Katherine handed him the stone box. “Look. The box is dated. Have a look under the light.”

Langdon took a seat at the desk and studied the cube-shaped box beneath the light. Katherine put a soft hand

on his shoulder, leaning in to point out the tiny text she had found carved on the exterior of the box, near the

bottom corner of one side.

“Fifteen-fourteen A.D.,” she said, pointing into the box.

Sure enough, the carving depicted the number 1514, followed by an unusual stylization of the letters A and

D.

“This date,” Katherine was saying, sounding suddenly hopeful, “maybe it’s the link we’re missing? This

dated cube looks a lot like a Masonic cornerstone, so maybe it’s pointing to a real cornerstone? Maybe to a

building built in 1514 A.D.?”

Langdon barely heard her.

Fifteen-fourteen A.D. is not a date.

The symbol

, as any scholar of medieval art would recognize, was a well-known symbature—a symbol

used in place of a signature. Many of the early philosophers, artists, and authors signed their work with their

own unique symbol or monogram rather than their name. This practice added a mysterious allure to their

work and also protected them from persecution should their writings or artwork be deemed

counterestablishment.

In the case of this symbature, the letters A.D. did not stand for Anno Domini . . . they were German for something else entirely.

Langdon instantly saw all the pieces fall into place. Within seconds, he was certain he knew exactly how to

decipher the pyramid. “Katherine, you did it,” he said, packing up. “That’s all we needed. Let’s go. I’ll

explain on the way.”

Katherine looked amazed. “The date 1514 A.D. actually means something to you?”

Langdon winked at her and headed for the door. “A.D. isn’t a date, Katherine. It’s a person. ”

CHAPTER 67

West of Embassy Row, all was silent again inside the walled garden with its twelfth-century roses and

Shadow House gazebo. On the other side of an entry road, the young man was helping his hunched superior

walk across an expansive lawn.

He’s letting me guide him?

Normally, the blind old man refused help, preferring to navigate by memory alone while on the grounds of

his sanctuary. Tonight, however, he was apparently in a hurry to get inside and return Warren Bellamy’s

phone call.

“Thank you,” the old man said as they entered the building that held his private study. “I can find my way

from here.”

“Sir, I would be happy to stay and help—”

“That’s all for tonight,” he said, letting go of his helper’s arm and shuffling hurriedly off into the darkness.

“Good night.”

The young man exited the building and walked back across the great lawn to his modest dwelling on the

grounds. By the time he entered his flat, he could feel his curiosity gnawing at him. The old man clearly had

been upset by the question posed by Mr. Bellamy . . . and yet the question had seemed strange, almost

meaningless.

Is there no help for the widow’s son?

In his wildest imagination, he could not guess what this could mean. Puzzled, he went to his computer and

typed in a search for this precise phrase.

To his great surprise, page after page of references appeared, all citing this exact question. He read the

information in wonderment. It seemed Warren Bellamy was not the first person in history to ask this strange

question. These same words had been uttered centuries ago . . . by King Solomon as he mourned a murdered

friend. The question was allegedly still spoken today by Masons, who used it as a kind of encoded cry for

help. Warren Bellamy, it seemed, was sending a distress call to a fellow Mason.

CHAPTER 68

Albrecht Dьrer?

Katherine was trying to put the pieces together as she hurried with Langdon through the basement of the

Adams Building. A.D. stands for Albrecht Dьrer? The famous sixteenth-century German engraver and

painter was one of her brother’s favorite artists, and Katherine was vaguely familiar with his work. Even so,

she could not imagine how Dьrer would be any help to them in this case. For one thing, he’s been dead more

than four hundred years.

“Dьrer is symbolically perfect,” Langdon was saying as they followed the trail of illuminated EXIT signs.

“He was the ultimate Renaissance mind—artist, philosopher, alchemist, and a lifelong student of the Ancient

Mysteries. To this day, nobody fully understands the messages hidden in Dьrer’s art.”

“That may be true,” she said. “But how does ‘1514 Albrecht Dьrer’ explain how to decipher the pyramid?”

They reached a locked door, and Langdon used Bellamy’s key card to get through.

“The number 1514,” Langdon said as they hurried up the stairs, “is pointing us to a very specific piece of

Dьrer’s work.” They came into a huge corridor. Langdon glanced around and then pointed left. “This way.”

They moved quickly again. “Albrecht Dьrer actually hid the number 1514 in his most mysterious piece of

art— Melencolia I—which he completed in the year 1514. It’s considered the seminal work of the Northern

European Renaissance.”

Peter had once shown Katherine Melencolia I in an old book on ancient mysticism, but she didn’t recall any

hidden number 1514.

“As you may know,” Langdon said, sounding excited, “Melencolia I depicts mankind’s struggle to

comprehend the Ancient Mysteries. The symbolism in Melencolia I is so complex it makes Leonardo da

Vinci look overt.”

Katherine stopped abruptly and looked at Langdon. “Robert, Melencolia I is here in Washington. It hangs in

the National Gallery.”

“Yes,” he said with a smile, “and something tells me that’s not a coincidence. The gallery is closed at this

hour, but I know the curator and—”

“Forget it, Robert, I know what happens when you go to museums.” Katherine headed off into a nearby

alcove, where she saw a desk with a computer.

Langdon followed, looking unhappy.

“Let’s do this the easier way.” It seemed Professor Langdon, the art connoisseur, was having an ethical

dilemma about using the Internet when an original was so nearby. Katherine stepped behind the desk and

powered up the computer. When the machine finally came to life, she realized she had another problem.

“There’s no icon for a browser.”

“It’s an internal library network.” Langdon pointed to an icon on the desktop. “Try that.”

Katherine clicked on the icon marked DIGITAL COLLECTIONS. The computer accessed a new screen,

and Langdon pointed again. Katherine clicked on his choice of icon: FINE PRINTS COLLECTION. The

screen refreshed. FINE PRINTS: SEARCH.

“Type in ‘Albrecht Dьrer.’ ”

Katherine entered the name and then clicked the search key. Within seconds, the screen began displaying a

series of thumbnail images. All of the images looked to be similar in style—intricate black-and-white

engravings. Dьrer had apparently done dozens of similar engravings.

Katherine scanned the alphabetical list of his artwork.

Adam and Eve

Betrayal of Christ

Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse

Great Passion

Last Supper

Seeing all the biblical titles, Katherine recalled that Dьrer practiced something called Mystic Christianity—a

fusion of early Christianity, alchemy, astrology, and science.

Science . . .

The image of her lab in flames rushed through her mind. She could barely process the long-term

ramifications, but for the moment, her thoughts turned to her assistant, Trish. I hope she made it out.

Langdon was saying something about Dьrer’s version of the Last Supper, but Katherine was barely listening.

She had just seen the link for Melencolia I.

She clicked the mouse, and the page refreshed with general information.

Melencolia I, 1514

Albrecht Dьrer

(engraving on laid paper)

Rosenwald Collection

National Gallery of Art

Washington, D.C.

When she scrolled down, a high-res digital image of Dьrer’s masterpiece appeared in all its glory.

Katherine stared in bewilderment, having forgotten just how strange it was.

Langdon gave an understanding chuckle. “As I said, it’s cryptic.”

Melencolia I consisted of a brooding figure with giant wings, seated in front of a stone building, surrounded by the most disparate and bizarre collection of objects imaginable—measuring scales, an emaciated dog,

carpenter’s tools, an hourglass, various geometric solids, a hanging bell, a putto, a blade, a ladder.

Katherine vaguely recalled her brother telling her that the winged figure was a representation of “human

genius”—a great thinker with chin in hand, looking depressed, still unable to achieve enlightenment. The

genius is surrounded with all of the symbols of his human intellect—objects of science, math, philosophy,

nature, geometry, even carpentry—and yet is still unable to climb the ladder to true enlightenment. Even the

human genius has difficulty comprehending the Ancient Mysteries.

“Symbolically,” Langdon said, “this represents mankind’s failed attempt to transform human intellect into

god like power. In alchemical terms, it represents our inability to turn lead into gold.”

“Not a particularly encouraging message,” Katherine agreed. “So how does it help us?” She did not see the

hidden number 1514 that Langdon was talking about.

“Order from chaos,” Langdon said, flashing a lopsided grin. “Just as your brother promised.” He reached in

his pocket and pulled out the grid of letters he had written earlier from the Masonic cipher. “Right now, this

grid is meaningless.” He spread the paper out on the desk.

Katherine eyed the grid. Definitely meaningless.

“But Dьrer will transform it.”

“And how might he do that?”

“Linguistic alchemy.” Langdon motioned to the computer screen. “Look carefully. Hidden in this

masterpiece is something that will make sense of our sixteen letters.” He waited. “Do you see it yet? Look

for the number 1514.”

Katherine was in no mood to play classroom. “Robert, I see nothing—an orb, a ladder, a knife, a polyhedron,

a scale? I give up.”

“Look! There in the background. Carved into that building behind the angel? Beneath the bell? Dьrer

engraved a square that is full of numbers.”

Katherine now saw the square that contained numbers, among them 1514.

“Katherine, that square is the key to deciphering the pyramid!”

She shot him a surprised look. “That’s not just any square,” Langdon said, grinning.

“That, Ms. Solomon, is a magic square.”

CHAPTER 69

Where the hell are they taking me?

Bellamy was still blindfolded in the back of an SUV. After a short stop somewhere close to the Library of

Congress, the vehicle had continued on . . . but only for a minute. Now the SUV had stopped again, having

again traveled only about a block.

Bellamy heard muffled voices talking.

“Sorry . . . impossible . . .” an authoritative voice was saying. “ . . . closed at this hour . . .”

The man driving the SUV replied with equal authority. “CIA investigation . . . national security . . .”

Apparently the exchange of words and IDs was persuasive, because the tone shifted immediately.

“Yes, of course . . . service entrance . . .” There was the loud grinding of what sounded like a garage door,

and as it opened, the voice added, “Shall I accompany you? Once you’re inside, you won’t be able to get

through—”

“No. We have access already.”

If the guard was surprised, it was too late. The SUV was moving again. It advanced about fifty yards and

then came to a stop. The heavy door rumbled closed again behind them.

Silence.

Bellamy realized he was trembling.

With a bang, the SUV’s rear hatch flew open. Bellamy felt a sharp pain in his shoulders as someone dragged

him out by his arms, then lifted him to his feet. Without a word, a powerful force led him across a wide

expanse of pavement. There was a strange, earthy smell here that he could not place. There were footsteps of

someone else walking with them, but whoever it was had yet to speak.

They stopped at a door, and Bellamy heard an electronic ping. The door clicked open. Bellamy was

manhandled through several corridors and could not help but notice that the air was warmer and more humid.

An indoor pool, maybe? No. The smell in the air was not chlorine . . . it was far more earthy and primal.

Where the hell are we?! Bellamy knew he could not be more than a block or two from the Capitol Building.

Again they stopped, and again he heard the electronic beep of a security door. This one slid open with a hiss.

As they pushed him through, the smell that hit him was unmistakable.

Bellamy now realized where they were. My God! He came here often, although never through the service

entrance. This magnificent glass building was only three hundred yards from the Capitol Building and was

technically part of the Capitol Complex. I run this place! Bellamy now realized it was his own key fob that

was giving them access.

Powerful arms pushed him through the doorway, leading him down a familiar, winding walkway. The heavy,

damp warmth of this place usually felt comforting to him. Tonight, he was sweating.

What are we doing here?!

Bellamy was halted suddenly and seated on a bench. The man with the muscles unhooked his handcuffs only

long enough to reaffix them to the bench behind his back.

“What do you want from me?” Bellamy demanded, heart pounding wildly.

The only response he received was the sound of boots walking off and the glass door sliding shut.

Then silence.

Dead silence.

They’re just going to leave me here? Bellamy was sweating more heavily now as he struggled to release his

hands. I can’t even take off my blindfold?

“Help!” he shouted. “Anybody!”

Even as he called out in panic, Bellamy knew nobody was going to hear him. This massive glass room—

known as the Jungle—was entirely airtight when the doors were closed.

They left me in the Jungle, he thought. Nobody will find me until morning.

Then he heard it.

The sound was barely audible, but it terrified Bellamy like no sound he had ever heard in his life. Something

breathing. Very close.

He was not alone on the bench.

The sudden hiss of a sulfur match sizzled so close to his face that he could feel the heat. Bellamy recoiled,

instinctively yanking hard at his chains.

Then, without warning, a hand was on his face, removing his blindfold.

The flame before him reflected in the black eyes of Inoue Sato as she pressed the match against the cigarette

dangling from her lips, only inches away from Bellamy’s face.

She glared at him in the moonlight that filtered down through the glass ceiling. She looked pleased to see his

fear.

“So, Mr. Bellamy,” Sato said, shaking out the match. “Where shall we begin?”

CHAPTER 70

A magic square. Katherine nodded as she eyed the numbered square in Dьrer’s engraving. Most people

would have thought Langdon had lost his mind, but Katherine had quickly realized he was right.

The term magic square referred not to something mystical but to something mathematical—it was the name

given to a grid of consecutive numbers arranged in such a way that all the rows, columns, and diagonals

added up to the same thing. Created some four thousand years ago by mathematicians in Egypt and India,

magic squares were still believed by some to hold magical powers. Katherine had read that even nowadays

devout Indians drew special three-by-three magic squares called the Kubera Kolam on their pooja altars.

Primarily, though, modern man had relegated magic squares to the category of “recreational mathematics,”

some people still deriving pleasure from the quest to discover new “magical” configurations. Sudoku for

geniuses.

Katherine quickly analyzed Dьrer’s square, adding up the numbers in several rows and columns.

“Thirty-four,” she said. “Every direction adds up to thirty-four.”

“Exactly,” Langdon said. “But did you know that this magic square is famous because Dьrer accomplished

the seemingly impossible?” He quickly showed Katherine that in addition to making the rows, columns, and

diagonals add up to thirty-four, Dьrer had also found a way to make the four quadrants, the four center

squares, and even the four corner squares add up to that number. “Most amazing, though, was Dьrer’s ability

to position the numbers 15 and 14 together in the bottom row as an indication of the year in which he

accomplished this incredible feat!”

Katherine scanned the numbers, amazed by all the combinations.

Langdon’s tone grew more excited now. “Extraordinarily, Melencolia I represents the very first time in

history that a magic square appeared in European art. Some historians believe this was Dьrer’s encoded way

of indicating that the Ancient Mysteries had traveled outside the Egyptian Mystery Schools and were now

held by the European secret societies.” Langdon paused. “Which brings us back to . . . this.”

He motioned to the slip of paper bearing the grid of letters from the stone pyramid.

“I assume the layout looks familiar now?” Langdon asked.

“Four-by-four square.”

Langdon picked up the pencil and carefully transcribed Dьrer’s numbered magic square onto the slip of

paper, directly beside the lettered square. Katherine was now seeing just how easy this was going to be. He

stood poised, pencil in hand, and yet . . . strangely, after all this enthusiasm, he seemed to hesitate.

“Robert?”

He turned to her, his expression one of trepidation. “Are you sure we want to do this? Peter expressly—”

“Robert, if you don’t want to decipher this engraving, then I will.” She held out her hand for the pencil.

Langdon could tell there would be no deterring her and so he acquiesced, turning his attention back to the

pyramid. Carefully, he superimposed the magic square over the pyramid’s grid of letters and assigned each

letter a number. Then he created a new grid, placing the Masonic cipher’s letters in the new order as defined

by the sequence in Dьrer’s magic square.

When Langdon was finished, they both examined the result.

Katherine immediately felt confused. “It’s still gibberish.”

Langdon remained silent a long moment. “Actually, Katherine, it’s not gibberish.” His eyes brightened again

with the thrill of discovery. “It’s . . . Latin.”

In a long, dark corridor, an old blind man shuffled as quickly as he could toward his office. When he finally

arrived, he collapsed in his desk chair, his old bones grateful for the reprieve. His answering machine was

beeping. He pressed the button and listened.

“It’s Warren Bellamy,” said the hushed whisper of his friend and Masonic brother. “I’m afraid I have

alarming news . . .”

Katherine Solomon’s eyes shot back to the grid of letters, reexamining the text. Sure enough, a Latin word

now materialized before her eyes. Jeova.

Katherine had not studied Latin, but this word was familiar from her reading of ancient Hebrew texts. Jeova.

Jehovah. As her eyes continued to trace downward, reading the grid like a book, she was surprised to realize she could read the entire text of the pyramid.

Jeova Sanctus Unus.

She knew its meaning at once. This phrase was ubiquitous in modern translations of Hebrew scripture. In the

Torah, the God of the Hebrews was known by many names— Jeova, Jehovah, Jeshua, Yahweh, the Source,

the Elohim— but many Roman translations had consolidated the confusing nomenclature into a single Latin

phrase: Jeova Sanctus Unus.

“One true God?” she whispered to herself. The phrase certainly did not seem like something that would help

them find her brother. “That’s this pyramid’s secret message? One true God? I thought this was a map.”

Langdon looked equally perplexed, the excitement in his eyes evaporating. “This decryption obviously is

correct, but . . .”

“The man who has my brother wants to know a location.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “This is not

going to make him very happy.”

“Katherine,” Langdon said, heaving a sigh. “I’ve been afraid of this. All night, I’ve had a feeling we’re

treating as reality a collection of myths and allegories. Maybe this inscription is pointing to a metaphorical

location—telling us that the true potential of man can be accessed only through the one true God.”

“But that makes no sense!” Katherine replied, her jaw now clenched in frustration. “My family protected this

pyramid for generations! One true God? That’s the secret? And the CIA considers this an issue of national

security? Either they’re lying or we’re missing something!”

Langdon shrugged in accord.

Just then, his phone began to ring.

In a cluttered office lined with old books, the old man hunched over his desk, clutching a phone receiver in

his arthritic hand.

The line rang and rang.

At last, a tentative voice answered. “Hello?” The voice was deep but uncertain.

The old man whispered, “I was told you require sanctuary.”

The man on the line seemed startled. “Who is this? Did Warren Bell—”

“No names, please,” the old man said. “Tell me, have you successfully protected the map that was entrusted

to you?”

A startled pause. “Yes . . . but I don’t think it matters. It doesn’t say much. If it is a map, it seems to be more

metaphorical than—”

“No, the map is quite real, I assure you. And it points to a very real location. You must keep it safe. I cannot impress upon you enough how important this is. You are being pursued, but if you can travel unseen to my

location, I will provide sanctuary . . . and answers.”

The man hesitated, apparently uncertain.

“My friend,” the old man began, choosing his words carefully. “There is a refuge in Rome, north of the

Tiber, which contains ten stones from Mount Sinai, one from heaven itself, and one with the visage of Luke’s

dark father. Do you know my location?”

There was a long pause on the line, and then the man replied, “Yes, I do.”

The old man smiled . I thought you might, Professor. “ Come at once. Make sure you’re not followed.”

CHAPTER 71

Mal’akh stood naked in the billowing warmth of his steam shower. He felt pure again, having washed off

the last remaining scent of ethanol. As the eucalyptus-infused vapors permeated his skin, he could feel his

pores opening to the heat. Then he began his ritual.

First, he rubbed depilatory chemicals across his tattooed body and scalp, removing any traces of body hair.

Hairless were the gods of the seven islands of Heliades. Then he massaged Abramelin oil into his softened

and receptive flesh. Abramelin is the sacred oil of the great Magi. Then he turned his shower lever hard to

the left, and the water turned ice cold. He stood beneath the frigid water for a full minute to close his pores

and trap the heat and energy within his core. The cold served as a reminder of the icy river in which this

transformation had begun.

When he stepped from the shower, he was shivering, but within seconds, his core heat emanated up through

his layers of flesh and warmed him. Mal’akh’s insides felt like a furnace. He stood naked before the mirror

and admired his form . . . perhaps the last time he would see himself as a mere mortal.

His feet were the talons of a hawk. His legs—Boaz and Jachin—were the ancient pillars of wisdom. His hips

and abdomen were the archways of mystical power. Hanging beneath the archway, his massive sex organ

bore the tattooed symbols of his destiny. In another life, this heavy shaft of flesh had been his source of

carnal pleasure. But no longer.

I have been purified.

Like the mystical eunuch monks of Katharoi, Mal’akh had removed his testicles. He had sacrificed his

physical potency for a more worthy one. Gods have no gender. Having shed the human imperfection of

gender along with the earthly pull of sexual temptation, Mal’akh had become like Ouranos, Attis, Sporus,

and the great castrati magicians of Arthurian legend. Every spiritual metamorphosis is preceded by a

physical one. Such was the lesson of all the great gods . . . from Osiris, to Tammuz, to Jesus, to Shiva, to the Buddha himself.

I must shed the man who clothes me.

Abruptly, Mal’akh drew his gaze upward, past the double-headed phoenix on his chest, past the collage of

ancient sigils adorning his face, and directly to the top of his head. He tipped his head toward the mirror,

barely able to see the circle of bare flesh that waited there. This location on the body was sacred. Known as

the fontanel, it was the one area of the human skull that remained open at birth. An oculus to the brain.

Although this physiological portal closes within a matter of months, it remains a symbolic vestige of the lost

connection between the outer and inner worlds.

Mal’akh studied the sacred patch of virginal skin, which was enclosed by the crownlike circle of an

ouroboros—a mystical snake devouring its own tail. The bare flesh seemed to stare back at him . . . bright

with promise.

Robert Langdon soon would uncover the great treasure that Mal’akh required. Once Mal’akh possessed it,

the void on top of his head would be filled, and he would at last be prepared for his final transformation.

Mal’akh padded across his bedroom and took from his bottom drawer a long strip of white silk. As he had

done many times before, he wrapped it around his groin and buttocks. Then he went downstairs.

In his office, his computer had received an e-mail message.

It was from his contact:

WHAT YOU REQUIRE IS NOW WITHIN REACH.

I WILL CONTACT YOU WITHIN THE HOUR. PATIENCE.

Mal’akh smiled. It was time to make final preparations.

CHAPTER 72

The CIA field agent was in a foul mood as he descended from the reading-room balcony. Bellamy lied to us.

The agent had seen no heat signatures whatsoever upstairs near the Moses statue, nor anywhere else upstairs

for that matter.

So where the hell did Langdon go?

The agent retraced his steps now to the only place they’d spotted any heat signatures at all—the library’s

distribution hub. He descended the stairs again, moving beneath the octagonal console. The noise of the

rumbling conveyors was grating. Advancing into the space, he flipped down his thermal goggles and scanned

the room. Nothing. He looked toward the stacks, where the mangled door still showed hot from the

explosion. Other than that, he saw no—

Holy shit!

The agent jumped back as an unexpected luminescence drifted into his field of vision. Like a pair of ghosts,

the dimly glowing imprints of two humanoids had just emerged from the wall on a conveyor belt. Heat

signatures.

Stunned, the agent watched as the two apparitions circled the room on the conveyor loop and then

disappeared headfirst into a narrow hole in the wall . They rode the conveyor out? That’s insanity.

In addition to realizing they had just lost Robert Langdon through a hole in the wall, the field agent was now

aware that he had another problem. Langdon’s not alone?

He was just about to switch on his transceiver and call the team leader, but the team leader beat him to it.

“All points, we’ve got an abandoned Volvo on the plaza in front of the library. Registered to one Katherine

Solomon. Eyewitness says she entered the library not long ago. We suspect she’s with Robert Langdon.

Director Sato has ordered that we find them both immediately.”

“I’ve got heat signatures for both of them!” shouted the field agent in the distribution room. He explained the

situation.

“For Christ’s sake!” the team leader replied. “Where the hell does the conveyor go?”

The field agent was already consulting the employee reference schematic on the bulletin board. “Adams

Building,” he replied. “One block from here.”

“All points. Redirect to the Adams Building! NOW!”

CHAPTER 73

Sanctuary. Answers.

The words echoed in Langdon’s mind as he and Katherine burst through a side door of the Adams Building

and out into the cold winter night. The mysterious caller had conveyed his location cryptically, but Langdon

had understood. Katherine’s reaction to their destination had been surprisingly sanguine: Where better to find

One True God?

Now the question was how to get there.

Langdon spun in place, trying to get his bearings. It was dark, but thankfully the weather had cleared. They

were standing in a small courtyard. In the distance, the Capitol Dome looked startlingly far away, and

Langdon realized this was the first moment he had stepped outside since arriving at the Capitol several hours

ago.

So much for my lecture.

“Robert, look.” Katherine pointed toward the silhouette of the Jefferson Building.

Langdon’s first reaction on seeing the building was astonishment that they had traveled so far underground

on a conveyor belt. His second reaction, however, was alarm. The Jefferson Building was now abuzz with

activity—trucks and cars pulling in, men shouting. Is that a searchlight?

Langdon grabbed Katherine’s hand. “Come on.”

They ran northeast across the courtyard, quickly disappearing from view behind an elegant U-shaped

building, which Langdon realized was the Folger Shakespeare Library. This particular building seemed

appropriate camouflage for them tonight, as it housed the original Latin manuscript of Francis Bacon’s New

Atlantis, the utopian vision on which the American forefathers had allegedly modeled a new world based on

ancient knowledge. Even so, Langdon would not be stopping.

We need a cab.

They arrived at the corner of Third Street and East Capitol. The traffic was sparse, and Langdon felt fading

hope as he scanned for taxis. He and Katherine hurried northward on Third Street, putting distance between

themselves and the Library of Congress. It was not until they had gone an entire block that Langdon finally

spotted a cab rounding the corner. He flagged it down, and the cab pulled over.

Middle Eastern music played on his radio, and the young Arab driver gave them a friendly smile. “Where

to?” the driver asked as they jumped into the car.

“We need to go to—”

“Northwest!” Katherine interjected, pointing up Third Street away from the Jefferson Building. “Drive

toward Union Station, then left on Massachusetts Avenue. We’ll tell you when to stop.”

The driver shrugged, closed the Plexiglas divider, and turned his music back on.

Katherine shot Langdon an admonishing look as if to say: “Leave no trail . ” She pointed out the window,

directing Langdon’s attention to a black helicopter that was skimming in low, approaching the area. Shit.

Sato was apparently dead serious about recovering Solomon’s pyramid.

As they watched the helicopter land between the Jefferson and Adams buildings, Katherine turned to him,

looking increasingly worried. “Can I see your cell phone for a second?”

Langdon handed her his phone.

“Peter told me you have an eidetic memory?” she said, rolling down her window. “And that you remember

every phone number you’ve ever dialed?”

“That’s true, but—”

Katherine hurled his phone out into the night. Langdon spun in his seat and watched as his cell phone

cartwheeled and splintered into pieces on the pavement behind them. “Why did you do that!”

“Off the grid,” Katherine said, her eyes grave. “This pyramid is our only hope of finding my brother, and I

have no intention of letting the CIA steal it from us.”

In the front seat, Omar Amirana bobbed his head and hummed along with his music. Tonight had been slow,

and he felt blessed to finally have a fare. His cab was just passing Stanton Park, when the familiar voice of

his company dispatcher crackled over the radio.

“This is Dispatch. All vehicles in the area of the National Mall. We have just received a bulletin from

government authorities regarding two fugitives in the area of the Adams Building . . .”

Omar listened in amazement as Dispatch described the precise couple

in his cab. He stole an uneasy glance in his rearview mirror. Omar had to admit, the tall guy did look familiar somehow. Did I see him on America’s Most Wanted ?

Gingerly, Omar reached for his radio handset. “Dispatch?” he said, speaking quietly into the transceiver.

“This is cab one-three-four. The two people you asked about—they are in my cab . . . right now.”

Dispatch immediately advised Omar what to do. Omar’s hands were trembling as he called the phone

number Dispatch had given him. The voice that answered was tight and efficient, like that of a soldier.

“This is Agent Turner Simkins, CIA field ops. Who is this?”

“Um . . . I’m the taxi driver?” Omar said. “I was told to call about the two—”

“Are the fugitives currently in your vehicle? Answer only yes or no.”

“Yes.”

“Can they hear this conversation? Yes or no?”

“No. The slider is—”

“Where are you taking them?”

“Northwest on Massachusetts.”

“Specific destination?”

“They didn’t say.”

The agent hesitated. “Is the male passenger carrying a leather bag?”

Omar glanced in the rearview mirror, and his eyes went wide. “Yes! That bag doesn’t have explosives or

anything in—”

“Listen carefully,” the agent said. “You are in no danger so long as you follow my directions exactly. Is that

clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What is your name?”

“Omar,” he said, breaking a sweat.

“Listen, Omar,” the man said calmly. “You’re doing great. I want you to drive as slowly as possible while I

get my team out in front of you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Also, is your cab equipped with an intercom system so you can communicate with them in the backseat?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Here’s what I want you to do.”

CHAPTER 74

The Jungle, as it is known, is the centerpiece of the U.S. Botanic Garden (USBG)—America’s living

museum—located adjacent to the U.S. Capitol Building. Technically a rain forest, the Jungle is housed in a

towering greenhouse, complete with soaring rubber trees, strangler figs, and a canopy catwalk for more

daring tourists.

Normally, Warren Bellamy felt nurtured by the Jungle’s earthy smells and the sunlight glinting through the

mist that filtered down from the vapor nozzles in the glass ceiling. Tonight, however, lit only by moonlight,

the Jungle terrified him. He was sweating profusely, writhing against the cramps that now stabbed at his

arms, still pinned painfully behind him.

Director Sato paced before him, puffing calmly on her cigarette—the equivalent of ecoterrorism in this

carefully calibrated environment. Her face looked almost demonic in the smoke-filled moonlight that

streamed down through the glass ceiling overhead.

“So then,” Sato continued, “when you arrived at the Capitol tonight, and you discovered that I was already

there . . . you made a decision. Rather than making your presence known to me, you descended quietly into

the SBB, where, at great risk to yourself, you attacked Chief Anderson and myself, and you helped Langdon

escape with the pyramid and capstone.” She rubbed her shoulder. “An interesting choice.”

A choice I would make again, Bellamy thought. “Where is Peter?” he demanded angrily.

“How would I know?” Sato said.

“You seem to know everything else!” Bellamy fired back at her, making no attempt to hide his suspicion that

she was somehow behind all this. “You knew to go to the Capitol Building. You knew to find Robert

Langdon. And you even knew to X-ray Langdon’s bag to find the capstone. Obviously, someone is giving

you a lot of inside information.”

Sato laughed coldly and stepped closer to him. “Mr. Bellamy, is that why you attacked me? Do you think I’m

the enemy? Do you think I’m trying to steal your little pyramid?” Sato took a drag on her cigarette and blew

the smoke out of her nostrils. “Listen carefully. No one understands better than I do the importance of

keeping secrets. I believe, as you do, that there is certain information to which the masses should not be

privy. Tonight, however, there are forces at work that I fear you have not yet grasped. The man who

kidnapped Peter Solomon holds enormous power . . . a power that you apparently have yet to realize. Believe

me, he is a walking time bomb . . . capable of initiating a series of events that will profoundly change the

world as you know it.”

“I don’t understand.” Bellamy shifted on the bench, his arms aching in his handcuffs.

“You don’t need to understand. You need to obey. Right now, my only hope of averting a major disaster is to

cooperate with this man . . . and to give him exactly what he wants. Which means, you are going to call Mr.

Langdon and tell him to turn himself in, along with the pyramid and capstone. Once Langdon is in my

custody, he will decrypt the pyramid’s inscription, obtain whatever information this man is demanding, and

provide him with exactly what he wants.”

The location of the spiral staircase that leads to the Ancient Mysteries? “I can’t do that. I’ve taken vows of secrecy.”

Sato erupted. “I don’t give a damn what you’ve vowed, I will throw you in prison so fast—”

“Threaten me all you like,” Bellamy said defiantly. “I will not help you.”

Sato took a deep breath and spoke now in a fearsome whisper. “Mr. Bellamy, you have no idea what’s really

going on tonight, do you?”

The tense silence hung for several seconds, finally broken by the sound of Sato’s phone. She plunged her

hand into her pocket and eagerly snatched it out. “Talk to me,” she answered, listening carefully to the reply.

“Where is their taxi now? How long? Okay, good. Bring them to the U.S. Botanic Garden. Service entrance.

And make sure you get me that god-damn pyramid and capstone.”

Sato hung up and turned back to Bellamy with a smug smile. “Well then . . . it seems you’re fast outliving

your usefulness.”

CHAPTER 75

Robert Langdon stared blankly into space, feeling too tired to urge the slow-moving taxi driver to pick up

the pace. Beside him, Katherine had fallen silent, too, looking frustrated by their lack of understanding of

what made the pyramid so special. They had again been through everything they knew about the pyramid,

the capstone, and the evening’s strange events; they still had no ideas as to how this pyramid could possibly

be considered a map to anything at all.

Jeova Sanctus Unus? The secret hides within The Order?

Their mysterious contact had promised them answers if they could meet him at a specific place. A refuge in

Rome, north of the Tiber. Langdon knew the forefathers’ “new Rome” had been renamed Washington early

in her history, and yet vestiges of their original dream remained: the Tiber’s waters still flowed into the

Potomac; senators still convened beneath a replica of St. Peter’s dome; and Vulcan and Minerva still watched

over the Rotunda’s long-extinguished flame.

The answers sought by Langdon and Katherine were apparently waiting for them just a few miles ahead.

Northwest on Massachusetts Avenue. Their destination was indeed a refuge . . . north of Washington’s Tiber

Creek. Langdon wished the driver would speed up.

Abruptly, Katherine jolted upright in her seat, as if she had made a sudden realization. “Oh my God, Robert!”

She turned to him, her face going white. She hesitated a moment and then spoke emphatically. “We’re going

the wrong way!”

“No, this is right,” Langdon countered. “It’s northwest on Massachu—”

“No! I mean we’re going to the wrong place!”

Langdon was mystified. He had already told Katherine how he knew what location was being described by

the mysterious caller. It contains ten stones from Mount Sinai, one from heaven itself, and one with the

visage of Luke’s dark father. Only one building on earth could make those claims. And that was exactly

where this taxi was headed.

“Katherine, I’m certain the location is correct.”

“No!” she shouted. “We don’t need to go there anymore. I figured out the pyramid and capstone! I know

what this is all about!”

Langdon was amazed. “You understand it?”

“Yes! We have to go to Freedom Plaza instead!”

Now Langdon was lost. Freedom Plaza, although nearby, seemed totally irrelevant.

“Jeova Sanctus Unus!” Katherine said. “The One True God of the Hebrews. The sacred symbol of the

Hebrews is the Jewish star—the Seal of Solomon—an important symbol to the Masons!” She fished a dollar

bill out of her pocket. “Give me your pen.”

Bewildered, Langdon pulled a pen from his jacket.

“Look.” She spread the bill out on her thigh and took his pen, pointing to the Great Seal on the back. “If you

superimpose Solomon’s seal on the Great Seal of the United States . . .” She drew the symbol of a Jewish star

precisely over the pyramid. “Look what you get!”

Langdon looked down at the bill and then back at Katherine as if she were mad.

“Robert, look more closely! Don’t you see what I’m pointing at?”

He glanced back at the drawing.

What in the world is she getting at? Langdon had seen this image before. It was popular among conspiracy

theorists as “proof” that the Masons held secret influence over our early nation. When the six-pointed star

was laid perfectly over the Great Seal of the United States, the star’s top vertex fit perfectly over the Masonic

all-seeing eye . . . and, quite eerily, the other five vertices clearly pointed to the letters M-A-S-O-N.

“Katherine, that’s just a coincidence, and I still don’t see how it has anything to do with Freedom Plaza.”

“Look again!” she said, sounding almost angry now. “You’re not looking where I am pointing! Right there.

Don’t you see it?”

An instant later, Langdon saw it.

CIA field-operations leader Turner Simkins stood outside the Adams Building and pressed his cell phone

tightly to his ear, straining to hear the conversation now taking place in the back of the taxi. Something just

happened. His team was about to board the modified Sikorsky UH-60 helicopter to head northwest and set up

a roadblock, but now it seemed the situation had suddenly changed.

Seconds ago, Katherine Solomon had begun insisting they were going to the wrong destination. Her

explanation—something about the dollar bill and Jewish stars—made no sense to the team leader, nor,

apparently, to Robert Langdon. At least at first. Now, however, Langdon seemed to have grasped her

meaning.

“My God, you’re right!” Langdon blurted. “I didn’t see it earlier!”

Suddenly Simkins could hear someone banging on the driver’s divider, and then it slid open. “Change of

plans,” Katherine shouted to the driver. “Take us to Freedom Plaza!”

“Freedom Plaza?” the cabbie said, sounding nervous. “Not northwest on Massachusetts?”

“Forget that!” Katherine shouted. “Freedom Plaza! Go left here! Here! HERE!”

Agent Simkins heard the cab screeching around a corner. Katherine was talking excitedly again to Langdon,

saying something about the famous bronze cast of the Great Seal embedded in the plaza.

“Ma’am, just to confirm,” the cabbie’s voice interjected, sounding tense. “We’re going to Freedom Plaza—

on the corner of Pennsylvania and Thirteenth?”

“Yes!” Katherine said. “Hurry!”

“It’s very close. Two minutes.”

Simkins smiled. Nicely done, Omar. As he dashed toward the idling helicopter, he shouted to his team.

“We’ve got them! Freedom Plaza! Move!”

CHAPTER 76

Freedom Plaza is a map.

Located at the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and Thirteenth Street, the plaza’s vast surface of inlaid stone

depicts the streets of Washington as they were originally envisioned by Pierre L’Enfant. The plaza is a

popular tourist destination not only because the giant map is fun to walk on, but also because Martin Luther

King Jr., for whom Freedom Plaza is named, wrote much of his “I Have a Dream” speech in the nearby

Willard Hotel.

D.C. cabdriver Omar Amirana brought tourists to Freedom Plaza all the time, but tonight, his two passengers

were obviously no ordinary sightseers. The CIA is chasing them? Omar had barely come to a stop at the curb

before the man and woman had jumped out.

“Stay right here!” the man in the tweed coat told Omar. “We’ll be right back!”

Omar watched the two people dash out onto the wide-open spaces of the enormous map, pointing and

shouting as they scanned the geometry of intersecting streets. Omar grabbed his cell phone off the dashboard.

“Sir, are you still there?”

“Yes, Omar!” a voice shouted, barely audible over a thundering noise on his end of the line. “Where are they

now?”

“Out on the map. It seems like they’re looking for something.”

“Do not let them out of your sight,” the agent shouted. “I’m almost there!”

Omar watched as the two fugitives quickly found the plaza’s famous Great Seal—one of the largest bronze

medallions ever cast. They stood over it a moment and quickly began pointing to the southwest. Then the

man in tweed came racing back toward the cab. Omar quickly set his phone down on the dashboard as the

man arrived, breathless.

“Which direction is Alexandria, Virginia?” he demanded.

“Alexandria?” Omar pointed southwest, the exact same direction the man and woman had just pointed

toward.

“I knew it!” the man whispered beneath his breath. He spun and shouted back to the woman. “You’re right!

Alexandria!”

The woman now pointed across the plaza to an illuminated “Metro” sign nearby. “The Blue Line goes

directly there. We want King Street Station!”

Omar felt a surge of panic. Oh no.

The man turned back to Omar and handed him entirely too many bills for the fare. “Thanks. We’re all set.”

He hoisted his leather bag and ran off.

“Wait! I can drive you! I go there all the time!”

But it was too late. The man and woman were already dashing across the plaza. They disappeared down the

stairs into the Metro Center subway station.

Omar grabbed his cell phone. “Sir! They ran down into the subway! I couldn’t stop them! They’re taking the

Blue Line to Alexandria!”

“Stay right there!” the agent shouted. “I’ll be there in fifteen seconds!”

Omar looked down at the wad of bills the man had given him. The bill on top was apparently the one they

had been writing on. It had a Jewish star on top of the Great Seal of the United States. Sure enough, the star’s

points fell on letters that spelled MASON.

Without warning, Omar felt a deafening vibration all around him, as if a tractor trailer were about to collide

with his cab. He looked up, but the street was deserted. The noise increased, and suddenly a sleek black

helicopter dropped down out of the night and landed hard in the middle of the plaza map.

A group of black-clad men jumped out. Most ran toward the subway station, but one came dashing toward

Omar’s cab. He yanked open the passenger door. “Omar? Is that you?”

Omar nodded, speechless.

“Did they say where they were headed?” the agent demanded.

“Alexandria! King Street Station,” Omar blurted. “I offered to drive, but—”

“Did they say where in Alexandria they were going?”

“No! They looked at the medallion of the Great Seal on the plaza, then they asked about Alexandria, and they

paid me with this.” He handed the agent the dollar bill with the bizarre diagram. As the agent studied the bill, Omar suddenly put it all together. The Masons! Alexandria! One of the most famous Masonic buildings in

America was in Alexandria. “That’s it!” he blurted. “The George Washington Masonic Memorial! It’s

directly across from King Street Station!”

“That it is,” the agent said, apparently having just come to the same realization as the rest of the agents came

sprinting back from the station.

“We missed them!” one of the men yelled. “Blue Line just left! They’re not down there!”

Agent Simkins checked his watch and turned back to Omar. “How long does the subway take to

Alexandria?”

“Ten minutes at least. Probably more.”

“Omar, you’ve done an excellent job. Thank you.”

“Sure. What’s this all about?!”

But Agent Simkins was already running back to the chopper, shouting as he went. “King Street Station!

We’ll get there before they do!”

Bewildered, Omar watched the great black bird lift off. It banked hard to the south across Pennsylvania

Avenue, and then thundered off into the night.

Underneath the cabbie’s feet, a subway train was picking up speed as it headed away from Freedom Plaza.

On board, Robert Langdon and Katherine Solomon sat breathless, neither one saying a word as the train

whisked them toward their destination.

CHAPTER 77

The memory always began the same way.

He was falling . . . plummeting backward toward an ice-covered river at the bottom of a deep ravine. Above

him, the merciless gray eyes of Peter Solomon stared down over the barrel of Andros’s handgun. As he fell,

the world above him receded, everything disappearing as he was enveloped by the cloud of billowing mist

from the waterfall upstream.

For an instant, everything was white, like heaven.

Then he hit the ice.

Cold. Black. Pain.

He was tumbling . . . being dragged by a powerful force that pounded him relentlessly across rocks in an

impossibly cold void. His lungs ached for air, and yet his chest muscles had contracted so violently in the

cold that he was unable even to inhale.

I’m under the ice.

The ice near the waterfall was apparently thin on account of the turbulent water, and Andros had broken

directly through it. Now he was being washed downstream, trapped beneath a transparent ceiling. He clawed

at the underside of the ice, trying to break out, but he had no leverage. The searing pain from the bullet hole

in his shoulder was evaporating, as was the sting of the bird shot; both were blotted out now by the crippling

throb of his body going numb.

The current was accelerating, slingshotting him around a bend in the river. His body screamed for oxygen.

Suddenly he was tangled in branches, lodged against a tree that had fallen into the water. Think! He groped

wildly at the branch, working his way toward the surface, finding the spot where the branch pierced up

through the ice. His fingertips found the tiny space of open water surrounding the branch, and he pulled at

the edges, trying to break the hole wider; once, twice, the opening was growing, now several inches across.

Propping himself against the branch, he tipped his head back and pressed his mouth against the small

opening. The winter air that poured into his lungs felt warm. The sudden burst of oxygen fueled his hope. He

planted his feet on the tree trunk and pressed his back and shoulders forcefully upward. The ice around the

fallen tree, perforated by branches and debris, was weakened already, and as he drove his powerful legs into

the trunk, his head and shoulders broke through the ice, crashing up into the winter night. Air poured into his

lungs. Still mostly submerged, he wriggled desperately upward, pushing with his legs, pulling with his arms,

until finally he was out of the water, lying breathless on the bare ice.

Andros tore off his soaked ski mask and pocketed it, glancing back upstream for Peter Solomon. The bend in

the river obscured his view. His chest was burning again. Quietly, he dragged a small branch over the hole in

the ice in order to hide it. The hole would be frozen again by morning.

As Andros staggered into the woods, it began to snow. He had no idea how far he had run when he stumbled

out of the woods onto an embankment beside a small highway. He was delirious and hypothermic. The snow

was falling harder now, and a single set of headlights approached in the distance. Andros waved wildly, and

the lone pickup truck immediately pulled over. It had Vermont plates. An old man in a red plaid shirt jumped

out.

Andros staggered toward him, holding his bleeding chest. “A hunter . . . shot me! I need a . . . hospital!”

Without hesitation, the old man helped Andros up into the passenger seat of the truck and turned up the

heater. “Where’s the nearest hospital?!”

Andros had no idea, but he pointed south. “Next exit.” We’re not going to a hospital.

The old man from Vermont was reported missing the next day, but nobody had any idea where on his

journey from Vermont he might have disappeared in the blinding snowstorm. Nor did anyone link his

disappearance to the other news story that dominated the headlines the next day—the shocking murder of

Isabel Solomon.

When Andros awoke, he was lying in a desolate bedroom of a cheap motel that had been boarded up for the

season. He recalled breaking in and binding his wounds with torn bedsheets, and then burrowing into a

flimsy bed beneath a pile of musty blankets. He was famished.

He limped to the bathroom and saw the pile of bloody bird-shot pellets in the sink. He vaguely recalled

prying them out of his chest. Raising his eyes to the dirty mirror, he reluctantly unwrapped his bloody

bandages to survey the damage. The hard muscles of his chest and abdomen had stopped the bird shot from

penetrating too deep, and yet his body, once perfect, was now ruined with wounds. The single bullet fired by

Peter Solomon had apparently gone cleanly through his shoulder, leaving a bloody crater.

Making matters worse, Andros had failed to obtain that for which he had traveled all this distance. The

pyramid. His stomach growled, and he limped outside to the man’s truck, hoping maybe to find food. The

pickup was now covered with heavy snow, and Andros wondered how long he had been sleeping in this old

motel. Thank God I woke up. Andros found no food anywhere in the front seat, but he did find some arthritis

painkillers in the glove compartment. He took a handful, washing them down with several mouthfuls of

snow.

I need food.

A few hours later, the pickup that pulled out from behind the old motel looked nothing like the truck that had

pulled in two days earlier. The cab cap was missing, as were the hubcaps, bumper stickers, and all of the

trim. The Vermont plates were gone, replaced by those from an old maintenance truck Andros had found

parked by the motel Dumpster, into which he had thrown all the bloody sheets, bird shot, and other evidence

that he had ever been at the motel.

Andros had not given up on the pyramid, but for the moment it would have to wait. He needed to hide, heal,

and above all, eat. He found a roadside diner where he gorged himself on eggs, bacon, hash browns, and

three glasses of orange juice. When he was done, he ordered more food to go. Back on the road, Andros

listened to the truck’s old radio. He had not seen a television or newspaper since his ordeal, and when he

finally heard a local news station, the report stunned him.

“FBI investigators,” a news announcer said, “continue their search for the armed intruder who murdered

Isabel Solomon in her Potomac home two days ago. The murderer is believed to have fallen through the ice

and been washed out to sea.”

Andros froze. Murdered Isabel Solomon? He drove on in bewildered silence, listening to the full report.

It was time to get far, far away from this place.

The Upper West Side apartment offered breathtaking views of Central Park. Andros had chosen it because

the sea of green outside his window reminded him of his lost view of the Adriatic. Although he knew he

should be happy to be alive, he was not. The emptiness had never left him, and he found himself fixated on

his failed attempt to steal Peter Solomon’s pyramid.

Andros had spent long hours researching the Legend of the Masonic Pyramid, and although nobody seemed

to agree on whether or not the pyramid was real, they all concurred on its famous promise of vast wisdom

and power. The Masonic Pyramid is real, Andros told himself. My inside information is irrefutable.

Fate had placed the pyramid within Andros’s reach, and he knew that ignoring it was like holding a winning

lottery ticket and never cashing it in. I am the only non-Mason alive who knows the pyramid is real . . . as

well as the identity of the man who guards it.

Months had passed, and although his body had healed, Andros was no longer the cocky specimen he had

been in Greece. He had stopped working out, and he had stopped admiring himself naked in the mirror. He

felt as if his body were beginning to show signs of age. His once-perfect skin was a patchwork of scars, and

this only depressed him further. He still relied on the painkillers that had nursed him through his recovery,

and he felt himself slipping back to the lifestyle that had put him in Soganlik Prison. He didn’t care. The body

craves what the body craves.

One night, he was in Greenwich Village buying drugs from a man whose forearm had been tattooed with a

long, jagged lightning bolt. Andros asked him about it, and the man told him the tattoo was covering a long

scar he had gotten in a car accident. “Seeing the scar every day reminded me of the accident,” the dealer said,

“and so I tattooed over it with a symbol of personal power. I took back control.”

That night, high on his new stash of drugs, Andros staggered into a local tattoo parlor and took off his shirt.

“I want to hide these scars,” he announced. I want to take back control.

“Hide them?” The tattoo artist eyed his chest. “With what?”

“Tattoos.”

“Yes . . . I mean tattoos of what?”

Andros shrugged, wanting nothing more than to hide the ugly reminders of his past. “I don’t know. You

choose.”

The artist shook his head and handed Andros a pamphlet on the ancient and sacred tradition of tattooing.

“Come back when you’re ready.”

Andros discovered that the New York Public Library had in its collection fifty-three books on tattooing, and

within a few weeks, he had read them all. Having rediscovered his passion for reading, he began carrying

entire backpacks of books back and forth between the library and his apartment, where he voraciously

devoured them while overlooking Central Park.

These books on tattoos had opened a door to a strange world Andros

had never known existed—a world of symbols, mysticism, mythology, and the magical arts. The more he

read, the more he realized how blind he had been. He began keeping notebooks of his ideas, his sketches, and

his strange dreams. When he could no longer find what he wanted at the library, he paid rare-book dealers to

purchase for him some of the most esoteric texts on earth.

De Praestigiis Daemonum . . . Lemegeton . . . Ars Almadel . . . Grimorium Verum . . . Ars Notoria . . . and on and on. He read them all, becoming more and more certain that the world still had many treasures yet to offer

him. There are secrets out there that transcend human understanding.

Then he discovered the writings of Aleister Crowley—a visionary mystic from the early 1900s—whom the

church had deemed “the most evil man who ever lived.” Great minds are always feared by lesser minds.

Andros learned about the power of ritual and incantation. He learned that sacred words, if properly spoken,

functioned like keys that opened gateways to other worlds. There is a shadow universe beyond this one . . . a

world from which I can draw power. And although Andros longed to harness that power, he knew there were

rules and tasks to be completed beforehand.

Become something holy, Crowley wrote. Make yourself sacred.

The ancient rite of “sacred making” had once been the law of the land. From the early Hebrews who made

burnt offerings at the Temple, to the Mayans who beheaded humans atop the pyramids of Chichйn Itzб, to

Jesus Christ, who offered his body on the cross, the ancients understood God’s requirement for sacrifice.

Sacrifice was the original ritual by which humans drew favor from the gods and made themselves holy.

Sacra— sacred .

Face— make .

Even though the rite of sacrifice had been abandoned eons ago, its power remained. There had been a handful

of modern mystics, including Aleister Crowley, who practiced the Art, perfecting it over time, and

transforming themselves gradually into something more. Andros craved to transform himself as they had.

And yet he knew he would have to cross a dangerous bridge to do so.

Blood is all that separates the light from the dark.

One night, a crow flew through Andros’s open bathroom window and got trapped in his apartment. Andros

watched the bird flutter around for a while and then finally stop, apparently accepting its inability to escape.

Andros had learned enough to recognize a sign. I am being urged onward.

Clutching the bird in one hand, he stood at the makeshift altar in his

kitchen and raised a sharp knife, speaking aloud the incantation he had memorized.

“Camiach, Eomiahe, Emial, Macbal, Emoii, Zazean . . . by the most holy names of the angels in the Book of

Assamaian, I conjure thee that thou assist me in this operation by the power of the One True God.”

Andros now lowered the knife and carefully pierced the large vein on the right wing of the panicked bird.

The crow began to bleed. As he watched the stream of red liquid flowing down into the metal cup he had

placed as a receptacle, he felt an unexpected chill in the air. Nonetheless, he continued.

“Almighty Adonai, Arathron, Ashai, Elohim, Elohi, Elion, Asher Eheieh, Shaddai . . . be my aid, so that this

blood may have power and efficacy in all wherein I shall wish, and in all that I shall demand.”

That night, he dreamed of birds . . . of a giant phoenix rising from a billowing fire. The next morning, he

awoke with an energy he had not felt since childhood. He went running in the park, faster and farther than

he’d imagined possible. When he could run no longer, he stopped to do pushups and sit-ups. Countless

repetitions. Still he had energy.

That night, again, he dreamed of the phoenix.

Autumn had fallen again on Central Park, and the wildlife were scurrying about searching for food for

winter. Andros despised the cold, and yet his carefully hidden traps were now overflowing with live rats and

squirrels. He took them home in his backpack, performing rituals of increasing complexity.

Emanual, Massiach, Yod, He, Vaud . . . please find me worthy.

The blood rituals fueled his vitality. Andros felt younger every day. He continued to read day and night—

ancient mystical texts, epic medieval poems, the early philosophers—and the more he learned about the true

nature of things, the more he realized that all hope for mankind was lost. They are blind . . . wandering

aimlessly in a world they will never understand.

Andros was still a man, but he sensed he was evolving into something else. Something greater. Something

sacred. His massive physique had emerged from dormancy, more powerful now than ever before. He finally

understood its true purpose. My body is but a vessel for my most potent treasure . . . my mind.

Andros knew his true potential had not yet been realized, and he delved deeper. What is my destiny? All the

ancient texts spoke of good and

evil . . . and of man’s need to choose between them. I made my choice long ago, he knew, and yet he felt no

remorse. What is evil, if not a natural law? Darkness followed light. Chaos followed order. Entropy was

fundamental. Everything decayed. The perfectly ordered crystal eventually turned into random particles of

dust.

There are those who create . . . and those who destroy.

It was not until Andros read John Milton’s Paradise Lost that he saw his destiny materialize before him. He

read of the great fallen angel . . . the warrior demon who fought against the light . . . the valiant one . . . the

angel called Moloch.

Moloch walked the earth as a god. The angel’s name, Andros later learned, when translated to the ancient

tongue, became Mal’akh.

And so shall I.

Like all great transformations, this one had to begin with a sacrifice . . . but not of rats, nor birds. No, this

transformation required a true sacrifice.

There is but one worthy sacrifice.

Suddenly he had a sense of clarity unlike anything he had ever experienced in his life. His entire destiny had

materialized. For three straight days he sketched on an enormous sheet of paper. When he was done, he had

created a blueprint of what he would become.

He hung the life-size sketch on his wall and gazed into it as if into a mirror.

I am a masterpiece.

The next day, he took his drawing to the tattoo parlor.

He was ready.

CHAPTER 78

The George Washington Masonic Memorial stands atop Shuter’s Hill in Alexandria, Virginia. Built in three

distinct tiers of increasing architectural complexity from bottom to top—Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian—the

structure stands as a physical symbol of man’s intellectual ascent. Inspired by the ancient Pharos lighthouse

of Alexandria, Egypt, this soaring tower is capped by an Egyptian pyramid with a flamelike finial.

Inside the spectacular marble foyer sits a massive bronze of George Washington in full Masonic regalia,

along with the actual trowel he used to lay the cornerstone of the Capitol Building. Above the foyer, nine

different levels bear names like the Grotto, the Crypt Room, and the Knights Templar Chapel. Among the

treasures housed within these spaces are over twenty thousand volumes of Masonic writings, a dazzling

replica of the Ark of the Covenant, and even a scale model of the throne room in King Solomon’s Temple.

CIA agent Simkins checked his watch as the modified UH-60 chopper skimmed in low over the Potomac. Six

minutes until their train arrives. He exhaled and gazed out the window at the shining Masonic Memorial on

the horizon. He had to admit, the brilliantly shining tower was as impressive as any building on the National

Mall. Simkins had never been inside the memorial, and tonight would be no different. If all went according

to plan, Robert Langdon and Katherine Solomon would never make it out of the subway station.

“Over there!” Simkins shouted to the pilot, pointing down at the King Street subway station across from the

memorial. The pilot banked the helicopter and set it down on a grassy area at the foot of Shuter’s Hill.

Pedestrians looked up in surprise as Simkins and his team piled out, dashed across the street, and ran down

into King Street Station. In the stairwell, several departing passengers leaped out of the way, plastering

themselves to the walls as the phalanx of armed men in black thundered past them.

The King Street Station was larger than Simkins had anticipated, apparently serving several different lines—

Blue, Yellow, and Amtrak. He raced over to the Metro map on the wall, found Freedom Plaza and the direct

line to this location.

“Blue Line, southbound platform!” Simkins shouted. “Get down there and clear everyone out!” His team

dashed off.

Simkins rushed over to the ticket booth, flashed his identification, and shouted to the woman inside. “The

next train from Metro Center—what time is it due?!”

The woman inside looked frightened. “I’m not sure. Blue Line arrives every eleven minutes. There’s no set

schedule.”

“How long since the last train?”

“Five . . . six minutes, maybe? No more than that.”

Turner did the math. Perfect. The next train had to be Langdon’s.

Inside a fast-moving subway car, Katherine Solomon shifted uncomfortably on the hard plastic seat. The

bright fluorescent lights overhead hurt her eyes, and she fought the impulse to let her eyelids close, even for a

second. Langdon sat beside her in the empty car, staring blankly down at the leather bag at his feet. His

eyelids looked heavy, too, as if the rhythmic sway of the moving car were lulling him into a trance.

Katherine pictured the strange contents of Langdon’s bag. Why does the CIA want this pyramid? Bellamy

had said that Sato might be pursuing the pyramid because she knew its true potential. But even if this

pyramid somehow did reveal the hiding place of ancient secrets, Katherine found it hard to believe that its

promise of primeval mystical wisdom would interest the CIA.

Then again, she reminded herself, the CIA had been caught several times running parapsychological or psi

programs that bordered on ancient magic and mysticism. In 1995, the “Stargate/Scannate” scandal had

exposed a classified CIA technology called remote viewing—a kind of telepathic mind travel that enabled a

“viewer” to transport his mind’s eye to any location on earth and spy there, without being physically present.

Of course, the technology was nothing new. Mystics called it astral projection, and yogis called it out-of-

body experience. Unfortunately, horrified American taxpayers called it absurd, and the program had been

scuttled. At least publicly.

Ironically, Katherine saw remarkable connections between the CIA’s failed programs and her own

breakthroughs in Noetic Science.

Katherine felt eager to call the police and find out if they had discovered anything in Kalorama Heights, but

she and Langdon were phoneless now, and making contact with the authorities would probably be a mistake

anyway; there was no telling how far Sato’s reach extended.

Patience, Katherine. Within minutes, they would be in a safe hiding place, guests of a man who had assured

them he could provide answers. Katherine hoped his answers, whatever they might be, would help her save

her brother.

“Robert?” she whispered, glancing up at the subway map. “Next stop is ours.”

Langdon emerged slowly from his daydream. “Right, thanks.” As the train rumbled toward the station, he

collected his daybag and gave Katherine an uncertain glance. “Let’s just hope our arrival is uneventful.”

By the time Turner Simkins dashed down to join his men, the subway platform had been entirely cleared, and

his team was fanning out, taking up positions behind the support pillars that ran the length of the platform. A

distant rumble echoed in the tunnel at the other end of the platform, and as it grew louder, Simkins felt the

push of stale warm air billowing around him.

No escape, Mr. Langdon.

Simkins turned to the two agents he had told to join him on the platform. “Identification and weapons out.

These trains are automated, but they all have a conductor who opens the doors. Find him.”

The train’s headlamp now appeared down the tunnel, and the sound of squealing brakes pierced the air. As

the train burst into the station and began slowing down, Simkins and his two agents leaned out over the track,

waving CIA identification badges and straining to make eye contact with the conductor before he could open

the doors.

The train was closing fast. In the third car, Simkins finally saw the startled face of the conductor, who was

apparently trying to figure out why three men in black were all waving identification badges at him. Simkins

jogged toward the train, which was now nearing a full stop.

“CIA!” Simkins shouted, holding up his ID. “Do NOT open the doors!” As the train glided slowly past him,

he went toward the conductor’s car, shouting in at him. “Do not open your doors! Do you understand?! Do

NOT open your doors!”

The train came to a full stop, its wide-eyed conductor nodding repeatedly. “What’s wrong?!” the man

demanded through his side window.

“Don’t let this train move,” Simkins said. “And don’t open the doors.”

“Okay.”

“Can you let us into the first car?”

The conductor nodded. Looking fearful, he stepped out of the train, closing the door behind him. He escorted

Simkins and his men to the first car, where he manually opened the door.

“Lock it behind us,” Simkins said, pulling his weapon. Simkins and his men stepped quickly into the stark

light of the first car. The conductor locked the door behind them.

The first car contained only four passengers—three teenage boys and an old woman—all of whom looked

understandably startled to see three armed men entering. Simkins held up his ID. “Everything’s fine. Just

stay seated.”

Simkins and his men now began their sweep, pushing toward the back of the sealed train one car at a time—

“squeezing toothpaste,” as it was called during his training at the Farm. Very few passengers were on this

train, and halfway to the back, the agents still had seen nobody even remotely resembling the description of

Robert Langdon and Katherine Solomon. Nonetheless, Simkins remained confident. There was absolutely no

place to hide on a subway car. No bathrooms, no storage, and no alternative exits. Even if the targets had

seen them board the train and fled to the back, there was no way out. Prying open a door was almost

impossible, and Simkins had men watching the platform and both sides of the train anyway.

Patience.

By the time Simkins reached the second-to-last car, however, he was feeling edgy. This penultimate car had

only one passenger—a Chinese man. Simkins and his agents moved through, scanning for any place to hide.

There was none.

“Last car,” Simkins said, raising his weapon as the threesome moved toward the threshold of the train’s final

section. As they stepped into the last car, all three of them immediately stopped and stared.

What the . . . ?! Simkins raced to the rear of the deserted cabin, searching behind all the seats. He spun back to his men, blood boiling. “Where the hell did they go?!”

CHAPTER 79

Eight miles due north of Alexandria, Virginia, Robert Langdon and Katherine Solomon strode calmly across

a wide expanse of frost-covered lawn.

“You should be an actress,” Langdon said, still impressed by Katherine’s quick thinking and improvisational

skills.

“You weren’t half bad yourself.” She gave him a smile.

At first, Langdon had been mystified by Katherine’s abrupt antics in the taxi. Without warning, she had

suddenly demanded they go to Freedom Plaza based on some revelation about a Jewish star and the Great

Seal of the United States. She drew a well-known conspiracy-theory image on a dollar bill and then insisted

Langdon look closely where she was pointing.

Finally, Langdon realized that Katherine was pointing not at the dollar bill but at a tiny indicator bulb on the back of the driver’s seat. The bulb was so covered with grime that he had not even noticed it. As he leaned

forward, however, he could see that the bulb was illuminated, emitting a dull red glow. He could also see the

two faint words directly beneath the lit bulb.

—INTERCOM ON—

Startled, Langdon glanced back at Katherine, whose frantic eyes were urging him to look into the front seat.

He obeyed, stealing a discreet glance through the divider. The cabby’s cell phone was on the dash, wide

open, illuminated, facing the intercom speaker. An instant later, Langdon understood Katherine’s actions.

They know we’re in this cab . . . they’ve been listening to us.

Langdon had no idea how much time he and Katherine had until their taxi was stopped and surrounded, but

he knew they had to act fast. Instantly, he’d begun playing along, realizing that Katherine’s desire to go to

Freedom Plaza had nothing to do with the pyramid but rather with its being a large subway station—Metro

Center—from which they could take the Red, Blue, or Orange lines in any of six different directions.

They jumped out of the taxi at Freedom Plaza, and Langdon took over, doing some improvising of his own,

leaving a trail to the Masonic Memorial in Alexandria before he and Katherine ran down into the subway

station, dashing past the Blue Line platforms and continuing on to the Red Line, where they caught a train in

the opposite direction.

Traveling six stops northbound to Tenleytown, they emerged all alone into a quiet, upscale neighborhood.

Their destination, the tallest structure for miles, was immediately visible on the horizon, just off

Massachusetts Avenue on a vast expanse of manicured lawn.

Now “off the grid,” as Katherine called it, the two of them walked across the damp grass. On their right was

a medieval-style garden, famous for its ancient rosebushes and Shadow House gazebo. They moved past the

garden, directly toward the magnificent building to which they had been summoned. A refuge containing ten

stones from Mount Sinai, one from heaven itself, and one with the visage of Luke’s dark father.

“I’ve never been here at night,” Katherine said, gazing up at the brightly lit towers. “It’s spectacular.”

Langdon agreed, having forgotten how impressive this place truly was. This neo-Gothic masterpiece stood at

the north end of Embassy Row. He hadn’t been here for years, not since writing a piece about it for a kids’

magazine in hopes of generating some excitement among young Americans to come see this amazing

landmark. His article—“Moses, Moon Rocks, and Star Wars”—had been part of the tourist literature for

years.

Washington National Cathedral, Langdon thought, feeling an unexpected anticipation at being back after all

these years. Where better to ask about One True God?

“This cathedral really has ten stones from Mount Sinai?” Katherine asked, gazing up at the twin bell towers.

Langdon nodded. “Near the main altar. They symbolize the Ten Commandments given to Moses on Mount

Sinai.”

“And there’s a lunar rock?”

A rock from heaven itself. “Yes. One of the stained-glass windows is called the Space Window and has a

fragment of moon rock embedded in it.”

“Okay, but you can’t be serious about the last thing.” Katherine glanced over, her pretty eyes flashing

skepticism. “A statue of . . . Darth Vader?”

Langdon chuckled. “Luke Skywalker’s dark father? Absolutely. Vader is one of the National Cathedral’s

most popular grotesques.” He pointed high into the west towers. “Tough to see him at night, but he’s there.”

“What in the world is Darth Vader doing on Washington National Cathedral?”

“A contest for kids to carve a gargoyle that depicted the face of evil. Darth won.”

They reached the grand staircase to the main entrance, which was set back in an eighty-foot archway beneath

a breathtaking rose window. As they began climbing, Langdon’s mind shifted to the mysterious stranger who

had called him. No names, please . . . Tell me, have you successfully protected the map that was entrusted to

you? Langdon’s shoulder ached from carrying the heavy stone pyramid, and he was looking forward to

setting it down. Sanctuary and answers.

As they approached the top of the stairs, they were met with an imposing pair of wooden doors. “Do we just

knock?” Katherine asked.

Langdon had been wondering the same thing, except that now one of the doors was creaking open.

“Who’s there?” a frail voice said. The face of a withered old man appeared in the doorway. He wore priest’s

robes and a blank stare. His eyes were opaque and white, clouded with cataracts.

“My name is Robert Langdon,” he replied. “Katherine Solomon and I are seeking sanctuary.”

The blind man exhaled in relief. “Thank God. I’ve been expecting you.”

CHAPTER 80

Warren Bellamy felt a sudden ray of hope.

Inside the Jungle, Director Sato had just received a phone call from a field agent and had immediately flown

into a tirade. “Well, you damn well better find them!” she shouted into her phone. “We’re running out of

time!” She had hung up and was now stalking back and forth in front of Bellamy as if trying to decide what

to do next.

Finally, she stopped directly in front of him and turned. “Mr. Bellamy, I’m going to ask you this once, and

only once.” She stared deep into his eyes. “Yes or no—do you have any idea where Robert Langdon might

have gone?”

Bellamy had more than a good idea, but he shook his head. “No.”

Sato’s piercing gaze had never left his eyes. “Unfortunately, part of my job is to know when people are

lying.”

Bellamy averted his eyes. “Sorry, I can’t help you.”

“Architect Bellamy,” Sato said, “tonight just after seven P.M., you were having dinner in a restaurant outside

the city when you received a phone call from a man who told you he had kidnapped Peter Solomon.”

Bellamy felt an instant chill and returned his eyes to hers. How could you possibly know that?!

“The man,” Sato continued, “told you that he had sent Robert Langdon to the Capitol Building and given

Langdon a task to complete . . . a task that required your help. He warned that if Langdon failed in this task, your friend Peter Solomon would die. Panicked, you called all of Peter’s numbers but failed to reach him.

Understandably, you then raced to the Capitol.”

Bellamy could not imagine how Sato knew about this phone call.

“As you fled the Capitol,” Sato said behind the smoldering tip of her cigarette, “you sent a text message to

Solomon’s kidnapper, assuring him that you and Langdon had been successful in obtaining the Masonic

Pyramid.”

Where is she getting her information? Bellamy wondered . Not even Langdon knows I sent that text message.

Immediately after entering the tunnel

to the Library of Congress, Bellamy had stepped into the electrical room to plug in the construction lighting.

In the privacy of that moment, he had decided to send a quick text message to Solomon’s captor, telling him

about Sato’s involvement, but reassuring him that he—Bellamy—and Langdon had obtained the Masonic

Pyramid and would indeed cooperate with his demands. It was a lie, of course, but Bellamy hoped the

reassurance might buy time, both for Peter Solomon and also to hide the pyramid.

“Who told you I sent a text?” Bellamy demanded.

Sato tossed Bellamy’s cell phone on the bench next to him. “Hardly rocket science.”

Bellamy now remembered his phone and keys had been taken from him by the agents who captured him.

“As for the rest of my inside information,” Sato said, “the Patriot Act gives me the right to place a wiretap on

the phone of anyone I consider a viable threat to national security. I consider Peter Solomon to be such a

threat, and last night I took action.”

Bellamy could barely get his mind around what she was telling him. “You’re tapping Peter Solomon’s

phone?”

“Yes. This is how I knew the kidnapper called you at the restaurant. You called Peter’s cell phone and left an

anxious message explaining what had just happened.”

Bellamy realized she was right.

“We had also intercepted a call from Robert Langdon, who was in the Capitol Building, deeply confused to

learn he had been tricked into coming there. I went to the Capitol at once, arriving before you because I was

closer. As for how I knew to check the X-ray of Langdon’s bag . . . in light of my realization that Langdon

was involved in all of this, I had my staff reexamine a seemingly innocuous early-morning call between

Langdon and Peter Solomon’s cell phone, in which the kidnapper, posing as Solomon’s assistant, persuaded

Langdon to come for a lecture and also to bring a small package that Peter had entrusted to him. When

Langdon was not forthcoming with me about the package he was carrying, I requested the X-ray of his bag.”

Bellamy could barely think. Admittedly, everything Sato was saying was feasible, and yet something was not

adding up. “But . . . how could you possibly think Peter Solomon is a threat to national security?”

“Believe me, Peter Solomon is a serious national-security threat,” she snapped. “And frankly, Mr. Bellamy,

so are you.”

Bellamy sat bolt upright, the handcuffs chafing against his wrists. “I beg your pardon?!”

She forced a smile. “You Masons play a risky game. You keep a very, very dangerous secret.”

Is she talking about the Ancient Mysteries?

“Thankfully, you’ve always done a good job of keeping your secrets hidden. Unfortunately, recently you’ve

been careless, and tonight, your most dangerous secret is about to be unveiled to the world. And unless we

can stop that from happening, I assure you the results will be catastrophic.”

Bellamy stared in bewilderment.

“If you had not attacked me,” Sato said, “you would have realized that you and I are on the same team.”

The same team. The words sparked in Bellamy an idea that seemed almost impossible to fathom. Is Sato a

member of Eastern Star? The Order of the Eastern Star—often considered a sister organization to the

Masons—embraced a similar mystical philosophy of benevolence, secret wisdom, and spiritual open-

mindedness. The same team? I’m in handcuffs! She’s tapping Peter’s phone!

“You will help me stop this man,” Sato said. “He has the potential to bring about a cataclysm from which this

country might not recover.” Her face was like stone.

“Then why aren’t you tracking him?”

Sato looked incredulous. “Do you think I’m not trying? My trace on Solomon’s cell phone went dead before

we got a location. His other number appears to be a disposable phone—which is almost impossible to track.

The private-jet company told us that Langdon’s flight was booked by Solomon’s assistant, on Solomon’s cell

phone, with Solomon’s Marquis Jet card. There is no trail. Not that it matters anyway. Even if we find out

exactly where he is, I can’t possibly risk moving in and trying to grab him.”

“Why not?!”

“I’d prefer not to share that, as the information is classified,” Sato said, patience clearly waning. “I am asking

you to trust me on this.”

“Well, I don’t!”

Sato’s eyes were like ice. She turned suddenly and shouted across the Jungle. “Agent Hartmann! The

briefcase, please.”

Bellamy heard the hiss of the electronic door, and an agent strode into the Jungle. He was carrying a sleek

titanium briefcase, which he set on the ground beside the OS director.

“Leave us,” Sato said.

As the agent departed, the door hissed again, and then everything fell silent.

Sato picked up the metal case, laid it across her lap, and popped the clasps. Then she raised her eyes slowly

to Bellamy. “I did not want to do this, but our time is running out, and you’ve left me no choice.”

Bellamy eyed the strange briefcase and felt a swell of fear. Is she going to torture me? He strained at his

cuffs again. “What’s in that case?!”

Sato smiled grimly. “Something that will persuade you to see things my way. I guarantee it.”

CHAPTER 81

The subterranean space in which Mal’akh performed the Art was ingeniously hidden. His home’s

basement, to those who entered, appeared quite normal—a typical cellar with boiler, fuse box, woodpile, and

a hodgepodge of storage. This visible cellar, however, was only a portion of Mal’akh’s underground space. A

sizable area had been walled off for his clandestine practices.

Mal’akh’s private work space was a suite of small rooms, each with a specialized purpose. The area’s sole

entrance was a steep ramp secretly accessible through his living room, making the area’s discovery virtually

impossible.

Tonight, as Mal’akh descended the ramp, the tattooed sigils and signs on his flesh seemed to come alive in

the cerulean glow of his basement’s specialized lighting. Moving into the bluish haze, he walked past several

closed doors and headed directly for the largest room at the end of the corridor.

The “sanctum sanctorum,” as Mal’akh liked to call it, was a perfect twelve-foot square. Twelve are the signs

of the zodiac. Twelve are the hours of the day. Twelve are the gates of heaven. In the center of the chamber was a stone table, a seven-by-seven square. Seven are the seals of Revelation. Seven are the steps of the

Temple. Centered over the table hung a carefully calibrated light source that cycled through a spectrum of

preordained colors, completing its cycle every six hours in accordance with the sacred Table of Planetary

Hours. The hour of Yanor is blue. The hour of Nasnia is red. The hour of Salam is white.

Now was the hour of Caerra, meaning the light in the room had modulated to a soft purplish hue. Wearing

only a silken loincloth wrapped around his buttocks and neutered sex organ, Mal’akh began his preparations.

He carefully combined the suffumigation chemicals that he would later ignite to sanctify the air. Then he

folded the virgin silk robe that he would eventually don in place of his loincloth. And finally, he purified a

flask of water for the anointing of his offering. When he was done, he placed all of these prepared ingredients

on a side table.

Next he went to a shelf and retrieved a small ivory box, which he carried to the side table and placed with the

other items. Although he was not yet ready to use it, he could not resist opening the lid and admiring this

treasure.

The knife.

Inside the ivory box, nestled in a cradle of black velvet, shone the sacrificial knife that Mal’akh had been

saving for tonight. He had purchased it for $1.6 million on the Middle Eastern antiquities black market last

year.

The most famous knife in history.

Unimaginably old and believed lost, this precious blade was made of iron, attached to a bone handle. Over

the ages, it had been in the possession of countless powerful individuals. In recent decades, however, it had

disappeared, languishing in a secret private collection. Mal’akh had gone to enormous lengths to obtain it.

The knife, he suspected, had not drawn blood for decades . . . possibly centuries. Tonight, this blade would

again taste the power of the sacrifice for which it was honed.

Mal’akh gently lifted the knife from its cushioned compartment and reverently polished the blade with a silk

cloth soaked in purified water. His skills had progressed greatly since his first rudimentary experiments in

New York. The dark Art that Mal’akh practiced had been known by many names in many languages, but by

any name, it was a precise science. This primeval technology had once held the key to the portals of power,

but it had been banished long ago, relegated to the shadows of occultism and magic. Those few who still

practiced this Art were considered madmen, but Mal’akh knew better. This is not work for those with dull

faculties. The ancient dark Art, like modern science, was a discipline involving precise formulas, specific

ingredients, and meticulous timing.

This Art was not the impotent black magic of today, often practiced halfheartedly by curious souls. This Art,

like nuclear physics, had the potential to unleash enormous power. The warnings were dire: The unskilled

practitioner runs the risk of being struck by a reflux current and destroyed.

Mal’akh finished admiring the sacred blade and turned his attention to a lone sheet of thick vellum lying on

the table before him. He had made this vellum himself from the skin of a baby lamb. As was the protocol, the

lamb was pure, having not yet reached sexual maturity. Beside the vellum was a quill pen he had made from

the feather of a crow, a silver saucer, and three glimmering candles arranged around a solid-brass bowl. The

bowl contained one inch of thick crimson liquid.

The liquid was Peter Solomon’s blood.

Blood is the tincture of eternity.

Mal’akh picked up the quill pen, placed his left hand on the vellum, and dipping the quill tip in the blood, he

carefully traced the outline of his open palm. When he was done, he added the five symbols of the Ancient

Mysteries, one on each fingertip of the drawing.

The crown . . . to represent the king I shall become.

The star . . . to represent the heavens which have ordained my destiny.

The sun . . . to represent the illumination of my soul.

The lantern . . . to represent the feeble light of human understanding.

And the key . . . to represent the missing piece, that which tonight I shall at last possess.

Mal’akh completed his blood tracing and held up the vellum, admiring his work in the light of the three

candles. He waited until the blood was dry and then folded the thick vellum three times. While chanting an

ethereal ancient incantation, Mal’akh touched the vellum to the third candle, and it burst into flames. He set

the flaming vellum on the silver saucer and let it burn. As it did, the carbon in the animal skin dissolved to a

powdery black char. When the flame went out, Mal’akh carefully tapped the ashes into the brass bowl of

blood. Then he stirred the mixture with the crow’s feather.

The liquid turned a deeper crimson, nearly black.

Holding the bowl in both palms, Mal’akh raised it over his head and gave thanks, intoning the blood

eukharistos of the ancients. Then he carefully poured the blackened mixture into a glass vial and corked it.

This would be the ink with which Mal’akh would inscribe the untattooed flesh atop his head and complete

his masterpiece.

CHAPTER 82

Washington National Cathedral is the sixth-largest cathedral in the world and soars higher than a thirty-

story skyscraper. Embellished with over two hundred stained-glass windows, a fifty-three-bell carillon, and a

10,647-pipe organ, this Gothic masterpiece can accommodate more than three thousand worshippers.

Tonight, however, the great cathedral was deserted.

Reverend Colin Galloway—dean of the cathedral—looked like he had been alive forever. Stooped and

withered, he wore a simple black cassock and shuffled blindly ahead without a word. Langdon and Katherine

followed in silence through the darkness of the four-hundred-foot-long nave’s central aisle, which was

curved ever so slightly to the left to create a softening optical illusion. When they reached the Great

Crossing, the dean guided them through the rood screen—the symbolic divider between the public area and

the sanctuary beyond.

The scent of frankincense hung in the air of the chancel. This sacred space was dark, illuminated only by

indirect reflections in the foliated vaults overhead. Flags of the fifty states hung above the quire, which was

ornately appointed with several carved reredos depicting biblical events. Dean Galloway continued on,

apparently knowing this walk by heart. For a moment, Langdon thought they were headed straight for the

high altar, where the ten stones from Mount Sinai were embedded, but the old dean finally turned left and

groped his way through a discreetly hidden door that led into an administrative annex.

They moved down a short hallway to an office door bearing a brass nameplate:

THE REVEREND DR. COLIN GALLOWAY

CATHEDRAL DEAN

Galloway opened the door and turned on the lights, apparently accustomed to remembering this courtesy for

his guests. He ushered them in and closed the door.

The dean’s office was small but elegant, with high bookshelves, a desk, a carved armoire, and a private

bathroom. On the walls hung sixteenth-century tapestries and several religious paintings. The old dean

motioned to the two leather chairs directly opposite his desk. Langdon sat with Katherine and felt grateful

finally to set his heavy shoulder bag on the floor at his feet.

Sanctuary and answers, Langdon thought, settling into the comfortable chair.

The aged man shuffled around behind his desk and eased himself down into his high-backed chair. Then,

with a weary sigh, he raised his head, staring blankly out at them through clouded eyes. When he spoke, his

voice was unexpectedly clear and strong.

“I realize we have never met,” the old man said, “and yet I feel I know you both.” He took out a handkerchief

and dabbed his mouth. “Professor Langdon, I am familiar with your writings, including the clever piece you

did on the symbolism of this cathedral. And, Ms. Solomon, your brother, Peter, and I have been Masonic

brothers for many years now.”

“Peter is in terrible trouble,” Katherine said.

“So I have been told.” The old man sighed. “And I will do everything in my power to help you.”

Langdon saw no Masonic ring on the dean’s finger, and yet he knew many Masons, especially those within

the clergy, chose not to advertise their affiliation.

As they began to talk, it became clear that Dean Galloway already knew some of the night’s events from

Warren Bellamy’s phone message. As Langdon and Katherine filled him in on the rest, the dean looked more

and more troubled.

“And this man who has taken our beloved Peter,” the dean said, “he is insisting you decipher the pyramid in

exchange for Peter’s life?”

“Yes,” Langdon said. “He thinks it’s a map that will lead him to the hiding place of the Ancient Mysteries.”

The dean turned his eerie, opaque eyes toward Langdon. “My ears tell me you do not believe in such things.”

Langdon did not want to waste time going down this road. “It doesn’t matter what I believe. We need to help

Peter. Unfortunately, when we deciphered the pyramid, it pointed nowhere.”

The old man sat straighter. “You’ve deciphered the pyramid?”

Katherine interceded now, quickly explaining that despite Bellamy’s warnings and her brother’s request that

Langdon not unwrap the package, she had done so, feeling her first priority was to help her brother however

she could. She told the dean about the golden capstone, Albrecht Dьrer’s magic square, and how it decrypted

the sixteen-letter Masonic cipher into the phrase Jeova Sanctus Unus.

“That’s all it says?” the dean asked. “One True God?”

“Yes, sir,” Langdon replied. “Apparently the pyramid is more of a metaphorical map than a geographic one.”

The dean held out his hands. “Let me feel it.”

Langdon unzipped his bag and pulled out the pyramid, which he carefully hoisted up on the desk, setting it

directly in front of the reverend.

Langdon and Katherine watched as the old man’s frail hands examined every inch of the stone—the

engraved side, the smooth base, and the truncated top. When he was finished, he held out his hands again.

“And the capstone?”

Langdon retrieved the small stone box, set it on the desk, and opened the lid. Then he removed the capstone

and placed it into the old man’s waiting hands. The dean performed a similar examination, feeling every

inch, pausing on the capstone’s engraving, apparently having some trouble reading the small, elegantly

inscribed text.

“‘The secret hides within The Order,’” Langdon offered. “And the words the and order are capitalized.”

The old man’s face was expressionless as he positioned the capstone on top of the pyramid and aligned it by

sense of touch. He seemed to pause a moment, as if in prayer, and reverently ran his palms over the complete

pyramid several times. Then he reached out and located the cube-shaped box, taking it in his hands, feeling it

carefully, his fingers probing inside and out.

When he was done, he set down the box and leaned back in his chair. “So tell me,” he demanded, his voice

suddenly stern. “Why have you come to me?”

The question took Langdon off guard. “We came, sir, because you told us to. And Mr. Bellamy said we

should trust you.”

“And yet you did not trust him?”

“I’m sorry?”

The dean’s white eyes stared directly through Langdon. “The package containing the capstone was sealed.

Mr. Bellamy told you not to open it,

and yet you did. In addition, Peter Solomon himself told you not to open it. And yet you did.”

“Sir,” Katherine intervened, “we were trying to help my brother. The man who has him demanded we

decipher—”

“I can appreciate that,” the dean declared, “and yet what have you achieved by opening the package?

Nothing. Peter’s captor is looking for a location, and he will not be satisfied with the answer of Jeova Sanctus Unus. ”

“I agree,” Langdon said, “but unfortunately that’s all the pyramid says. As I mentioned, the map seems to be

more figurative than—”

“You’re mistaken, Professor,” the dean said. “The Masonic Pyramid is a real map. It points to a real

location. You do not understand that, because you have not yet deciphered the pyramid fully. Not even

close.”

Langdon and Katherine exchanged startled looks.

The dean laid his hands back on the pyramid, almost caressing it. “This map, like the Ancient Mysteries

themselves, has many layers of meaning. Its true secret remains veiled from you.”

“Dean Galloway,” Langdon said, “we’ve been over every inch of the pyramid and capstone, and there’s

nothing else to see.”

“Not in its current state, no. But objects change.”

“Sir?”

“Professor, as you know, the promise of this pyramid is one of miraculous transformative power. Legend

holds that this pyramid can change its shape . . . alter its physical form to reveal its secrets. Like the famed

stone that released Excalibur into the hands of King Arthur, the Masonic Pyramid can transform itself if it so

chooses . . . and reveal its secret to the worthy.”

Langdon now sensed that the old man’s advanced years had perhaps robbed him of his faculties. “I’m sorry,

sir. Are you saying this pyramid can undergo a literal physical transformation?”

“Professor, if I were to reach out with my hand and transform this pyramid right before your eyes, would you

believe what you had witnessed?”

Langdon had no idea how to respond. “I suppose I would have no choice.”

“Very well, then. In a moment, I shall do exactly that.” He dabbed his mouth again. “Let me remind you that

there was an era when even the brightest minds perceived the earth as flat. For if the earth were round, then

surely the oceans would spill off. Imagine how they would have mocked you if you proclaimed, ‘Not only is

the world a sphere, but there is an invisible, mystical force that holds everything to its surface’!”

“There’s a difference,” Langdon said, “between the existence of gravity . . . and the ability to transform

objects with a touch of your hand.”

“Is there? Is it not possible that we are still living in the Dark Ages, still mocking the suggestion of ‘mystical’

forces that we cannot see or comprehend. History, if it has taught us anything at all, has taught us that the

strange ideas we deride today will one day be our celebrated truths. I claim I can transform this pyramid with

a touch of my finger, and you question my sanity. I would expect more from an historian. History is replete

with great minds who have all proclaimed the same thing . . . great minds who have all insisted that man

possesses mystical abilities of which he is unaware.”

Langdon knew the dean was correct. The famous Hermetic aphorism— Know ye not that ye are gods?— was

one of the pillars of the Ancient Mysteries. As above, so below . . . Man created in God’s image . . .

Apotheosis. This persistent message of man’s own divinity—of his hidden potential—was the recurring

theme in the ancient texts of countless traditions. Even the Holy Bible cried out in Psalms 82:6: Ye are gods!

“Professor,” the old man said, “I realize that you, like many educated people, live trapped between worlds—

one foot in the spiritual, one foot in the physical. Your heart yearns to believe . . . but your intellect refuses to permit it. As an academic, you would be wise to learn from the great minds of history.” He paused and

cleared his throat. “If I’m remembering correctly, one of the greatest minds ever to live proclaimed: ‘That

which is impenetrable to us really exists. Behind the secrets of nature remains something subtle, intangible,

and inexplicable. Veneration for this force beyond anything that we can comprehend is my religion.’ ”

“Who said that?” Langdon said. “Gandhi?”

“No,” Katherine interjected. “Albert Einstein.”

Katherine Solomon had read every word Einstein had ever written and was struck by his profound respect for

the mystical, as well as his predictions that the masses would one day feel the same. The religion of the

future, Einstein had predicted, will be a cosmic religion. It will transcend personal God and avoid dogma and theology.

Robert Langdon appeared to be struggling with the idea. Katherine could sense his rising frustration with the

old Episcopal priest, and she understood. After all, they had traveled here for answers, and they had found

instead a blind man who claimed he could transform objects with a touch of his hands. Even so, the old

man’s overt passion for mystical forces reminded Katherine of her brother.

“Father Galloway,” Katherine said, “Peter is in trouble. The CIA is chasing us. And Warren Bellamy sent us

to you for help. I don’t know what this pyramid says or where it points, but if deciphering it means that we

can help Peter, we need to do that. Mr. Bellamy may have preferred to sacrifice my brother’s life to hide this

pyramid, but my family has experienced nothing but pain because of it. Whatever secret it may hold, it ends

tonight.”

“You are correct,” the old man replied, his tone dire. “It will all end tonight. You’ve guaranteed that.” He

sighed. “Ms. Solomon, when you broke the seal on that box, you set in motion a series of events from which

there will be no return. There are forces at work tonight that you do not yet comprehend. There is no turning

back.”

Katherine stared dumbfounded at the reverend. There was something apocalyptic about his tone, as if he

were referring to the Seven Seals of Revelation or Pandora’s box.

“Respectfully, sir,” Langdon interceded, “I can’t imagine how a stone pyramid could set in motion anything

at all.”

“Of course you can’t, Professor.” The old man stared blindly through him. “You do not yet have eyes to see.”

CHAPTER 83

In the moist air of the Jungle, the Architect of the Capitol could feel the sweat now rolling down his back.

His handcuffed wrists ached, but all of his attention remained riveted on the ominous titanium briefcase that

Sato had just opened on the bench between them.

The contents of this case, Sato had told him, will persuade you to see things my way. I guarantee it.

The tiny Asian woman had unclasped the metal case away from Bellamy’s line of sight, and he had yet to see

its contents, but his imagination was running wild. Sato’s hands were doing something inside the case, and

Bellamy half expected her to extract a series of glistening, razor-sharp tools.

Suddenly a light source flickered inside the case, growing brighter, illuminating Sato’s face from beneath.

Her hands kept moving inside, and the light changed hue. After a few moments, she removed her hands,

grasped the entire case, and turned it toward Bellamy so he could see inside.

Bellamy found himself squinting into the glow of what appeared to be some kind of futuristic laptop with a

handheld phone receiver, two antennae, and a double keyboard. His initial surge of relief turned quickly to

confusion.

The screen bore the CIA logo and the text:

SECURE LOG-IN

USER: INOUE SATO

SECURITY CLEARANCE: LEVEL 5

Beneath the laptop’s log-in window, a progress icon was spinning:

ONE MOMENT PLEASE . . .

DECRYPTING FILE . . .

Bellamy’s gaze shot back up to Sato, whose eyes were locked on his. “I had not wanted to show you this,”

she said. “But you’ve left me no choice.”

The screen flickered again, and Bellamy glanced back down as the file opened, its contents filling the entire

LCD.

For several moments, Bellamy stared at the screen, trying to make sense of what he was looking at.

Gradually, as it began to dawn on him, he felt the blood draining from his face. He stared in horror, unable to

look away. “But this is . . . impossible!” he exclaimed. “How . . . could this be!”

Sato’s face was grim. “You tell me, Mr. Bellamy. You tell me.”

As the Architect of the Capitol began to fully comprehend the ramifications of what he was seeing, he could

feel his entire world teetering precariously on the brink of disaster.

My God . . . I’ve made a terrible, terrible mistake!

CHAPTER 84

Dean Galloway felt alive.

Like all mortals, he knew the time was coming when he would shed his mortal shell, but tonight was not the

night. His corporeal heart was beating strong and fast . . . and his mind felt sharp. There is work to be done.

As he ran his arthritic hands across the pyramid’s smooth surfaces, he could scarcely believe what he was

feeling. I never imagined I would live to witness this moment. For generations, the pieces of the symbolon

map had been kept safely apart from one another. Now they were united at last. Galloway wondered if this

was the foretold time.

Strangely, fate had selected two non-Masons to assemble the pyramid. Somehow, this seemed fitting. The

Mysteries are moving out of the inner circles . . . out of darkness . . . into the light.

“Professor,” he said, turning his head in the direction of Langdon’s breathing. “Did Peter tell you why he

wanted you to watch over the little package?”

“He said powerful people wanted to steal it from him,” Langdon replied.

The dean nodded. “Yes, Peter told me the same thing.”

“He did?” Katherine said suddenly on his left. “You and my brother spoke about this pyramid?”

“Of course,” Galloway said. “Your brother and I have spoken on many things. I was once the Worshipful

Master at the House of the Temple, and he comes to me for guidance at times. It was about a year ago that he

came to me, deeply troubled. He sat exactly where you are now, and he asked me if I believed in supernatural

premonitions.”

“Premonitions?” Katherine sounded concerned. “You mean like . . . visions?”

“Not exactly. It was more visceral. Peter said he was feeling the growing presence of a dark force in his life.

He sensed something was watching him . . . waiting . . . intending to do him great harm.”

“Obviously he was right,” Katherine said, “considering that the same man who killed our mother and Peter’s

son had come to Washington and become one of Peter’s own Masonic brothers.”

“True,” Langdon said, “but it doesn’t explain the involvement of the CIA.”

Galloway was not so sure. “Men in power are always interested in greater power.”

“But . . . the CIA?” Langdon challenged. “And mystical secrets? Something doesn’t add up.”

“Sure it does,” Katherine said. “The CIA thrives on technological advancement and has always experimented

with the mystical sciences—ESP, remote viewing, sensory deprivation, pharmacologically induced highly

mentalized states. It’s all the same thing—tapping the unseen potential of the human mind. If there’s one

thing I’ve learned from Peter, it’s this: Science and mysticism are very closely related, distinguishable only

by their approaches. They have identical goals . . . but different methods.”

“Peter tells me,” Galloway said, “that your field of study is a kind of modern mystical science?”

“Noetics,” Katherine said, nodding. “And it’s proving man has powers unlike anything we can imagine.” She

motioned to a stained-glass window depicting the familiar image of the “Luminous Jesus,” that of Christ with

rays of light flowing from his head and hands. “In fact, I just used a supercooled charge-coupled device to

photograph the hands of a faith healer at work. The photos looked a lot like the image of Jesus in your

stained-glass window . . . streams of energy pouring through the healer’s fingertips.”

The well-trained mind, Galloway thought, hiding a smile. How do you think Jesus healed the sick?

“I realize,” Katherine said, “that modern medicine ridicules healers and shamans, but I saw this with my own

eyes. My CCD cameras clearly photographed this man transmitting a massive energy field from his

fingertips . . . and literally changing the cellular makeup of his patient. If that’s not godlike power, then I don’t know what is.”

Dean Galloway let himself smile. Katherine had the same fiery passion as her brother. “Peter once compared

Noetic Scientists to the early explorers who were mocked for embracing the heretical notion of a spherical

earth. Almost overnight, these explorers went from fools to heroes, discovering uncharted worlds and

expanding the horizons of everyone on the planet. Peter thinks you will do this as well. He has very high

hopes for your work. After all, every great philosophical shift in history began with a single bold idea.”

Galloway knew, of course, that one needn’t go to a lab to witness proof of this bold new idea, this proposal

of man’s untapped potential. This very cathedral held healing prayer circles for the sick, and repeatedly had

witnessed truly miraculous results, medically documented physical transformations. The question was not

whether God had imbued man with great powers . . . but rather how we liberate those powers.

The old dean placed his hands reverently around the sides of the Masonic Pyramid and spoke very quietly.

“My friends, I do not know exactly where this pyramid points . . . but I do know this. There is a great spiritual treasure buried out there somewhere . . . a treasure that has waited patiently in darkness for

generations. I believe it is a catalyst that has the power to transform this world.” He now touched the golden

tip of the capstone. “And now that this pyramid is assembled . . . the time is fast approaching. And why

shouldn’t it? The promise of a great transformational enlightenment has been prophesied forever.”

“Father,” Langdon said, his tone challenging, “we’re all familiar with the Revelation of Saint John and the

literal meaning of the Apocalypse, but biblical prophecy hardly seems—”

“Oh, heavens, the Book of Revelation is a mess!” the dean said. “Nobody knows how to read that. I’m

talking about clear minds writing in clear language—the predictions of Saint Augustine, Sir Francis Bacon,

Newton, Einstein, the list goes on and on, all anticipating a transformative moment of enlightenment. Even

Jesus himself said, ‘Nothing is hidden that will not be made known, nor secret that will not come to light.’”

“It’s a safe prediction to make,” Langdon said. “Knowledge grows exponentially. The more we know, the

greater our ability to learn, and the faster we expand our knowledge base.”

“Yes,” Katherine added. “We see this in science all the time. Each new technology we invent becomes a tool

with which to invent new technologies . . . and it snowballs. That’s why science has advanced more in the

last five years than in the previous five thousand. Exponential growth. Mathematically, as time passes, the

exponential curve of progress becomes almost vertical, and new development occurs incredibly fast.”

Silence fell in the dean’s office, and Galloway sensed that his two guests still had no idea how this pyramid

could possibly help them reveal anything further. That is why fate brought you to me, he thought. I have a role to play.

For many years, the Reverend Colin Galloway, along with his Masonic brothers, had played the role of

gatekeeper. Now it was all changing.

I am no longer a gatekeeper . . . I am a guide.

“Professor Langdon?” Galloway said, reaching out across his desk. “Take my hand if you will.”

Robert Langdon felt uncertain as he stared across at Dean Galloway’s outstretched palm.

Are we going to pray?

Politely, Langdon reached out and placed his right hand in the dean’s withered hand. The old man grasped it

firmly but did not begin to pray. Instead, he found Langdon’s index finger and guided it downward into the

stone box that had once housed the golden capstone.

“Your eyes have blinded you,” the dean said. “If you saw with your fingertips as I do, you would realize this

box has something left to teach you.”

Dutifully, Langdon worked his fingertip around the inside of the box, but he felt nothing. The inside was

perfectly smooth.

“Keep looking,” Galloway prompted.

Finally, Langdon’s fingertip felt something—a tiny raised circle—a minuscule dot in the center of the base of

the box. He removed his hand and peered inside. The little circle was virtually invisible to the naked eye.

What is that?

“Do you recognize that symbol?” Galloway asked.

“Symbol?” Langdon replied. “I can barely see anything at all.”

“Push down on it.”

Langdon did as he asked, pressing his fingertip down onto the spot. What does he think will happen?

“Hold your finger down,” the dean said. “Apply pressure.”

Langdon glanced over at Katherine, who looked puzzled as she tucked a wisp of hair behind her ears.

A few seconds later, the old dean finally nodded. “Okay, remove your hand. The alchemy is complete.”

Alchemy? Robert Langdon removed his hand from the stone box and sat in bewildered silence. Nothing had

changed at all. The box just sat there on the desk.

“Nothing,” Langdon said.

“Look at your fingertip,” the dean replied. “You should see a transformation.”

Langdon looked at his finger, but the only transformation he could see was that he now had an indentation on

his skin made by the circular nubbin—a tiny circle with a dot in the middle.

“Now do you recognize this symbol?” the dean asked.

Although Langdon recognized the symbol, he was more impressed that the dean had been able to feel the

detail of it. Seeing with one’s fingertips was apparently a learned skill.

“It’s alchemical,” Katherine said, sliding her chair closer and examining Langdon’s finger. “It’s the ancient

symbol for gold.”

“Indeed it is.” The dean smiled and patted the box. “Professor, congratulations. You have just achieved what

every alchemist in history has strived for. From a worthless substance, you’ve created gold.”

Langdon frowned, unimpressed. The little parlor trick seemed to be no help at all. “An interesting idea, sir,

but I’m afraid this symbol—a circle with a round dot in the middle—has dozens of meanings. It’s called a

circumpunct, and it’s one of the most widely used symbols in history.”

“What are you talking about?” the dean asked, sounding skeptical.

Langdon was stunned that a Mason was not more familiar with the spiritual importance of this symbol. “Sir,

the circumpunct has countless meanings. In ancient Egypt, it was the symbol for Ra—the sun god—and

modern astronomy still uses it as the solar symbol. In Eastern philosophy, it represents the spiritual insight of

the Third Eye, the divine rose, and the sign of illumination. The Kabbalists use it to symbolize the Kether—

the highest Sephiroth and ‘the most hidden of all hidden things.’ Early mystics called it the Eye of God and

it’s the origin of the All-Seeing Eye on the Great Seal. The Pythagoreans used the circumpunct as the symbol

of the Monad—the Divine Truth, the Prisca Sapientia, the at-one-ment of mind and soul, and the—”

“Enough!” Dean Galloway was chuckling now. “Professor, thank you. You are correct, of course.”

Langdon now realized he had just been played. He knew all that.

“The circumpunct,” Galloway said, still smiling to himself, “is essentially the symbol of the Ancient

Mysteries. For this reason, I would suggest that its presence in this box is not mere coincidence. Legend

holds that the secrets of this map are hidden in the smallest of details.”

“Fine,” Katherine said, “but even if this symbol was inscribed there intentionally, it doesn’t bring us any

closer to deciphering the map, does it?”

“You mentioned earlier that the wax seal you broke was embossed with Peter’s ring?”

“That’s correct.”

“And you said you have that ring with you?”

“I do.” Langdon reached into his pocket, found the ring, took it out of the plastic bag, and placed it on the

desk in front of the dean.

Galloway picked up the ring and began feeling its surfaces. “This unique ring was created at the same time as

the Masonic Pyramid, and traditionally, it is worn by the Mason in charge of protecting the pyramid.

Tonight, when I felt the tiny circumpunct on the bottom of the stone box, I realized that the ring is, in fact,

part of the symbolon.”

“It is?”

“I’m certain of it. Peter is my closest friend, and he wore this ring for many years. I am quite familiar with

it.” He handed the ring to Langdon. “See for yourself.”

Langdon took the ring and examined it, running his fingers over the double-headed phoenix, the number 33,

the words ORDO AB CHAO, and also the words All is revealed at the thirty-third degree. He felt nothing helpful. Then, as his fingers traced down around the outside of the band, he stopped short. Startled, he turned

the ring over and eyed the very bottom of its band.

“Did you find it?” Galloway said.

“I think so, yes!” Langdon said.

Katherine slid her chair closer. “What?”

“The degree sign on the band,” Langdon said, showing her. “ It’s so small that you don’t really notice it with your eyes, but if you feel it, you can tell it’s actually indented—like a tiny circular incision.” The degree sign

was centered on the bottom of the band . . . and admittedly looked to be the same size as the raised nubbin in

the bottom of the cube.

“Is it the same size?” Katherine moved closer still, sounding excited now.

“There’s one way to find out.” He took the ring and lowered it into the box, aligning the two tiny circles. As

he pushed down, the raised circle on the box slid into the ring’s opening, and there was a faint but decisive

click.

They all jumped.

Langdon waited, but nothing happened.

“What was that?!” the priest said.

“Nothing,” Katherine replied. “The ring locked into place . . . but nothing else happened.”

“No great transformation?” Galloway looked puzzled.

We’re not done, Langdon realized, gazing down at the ring’s embossed insignia—a double-headed phoenix

and the number 33. All is revealed at the thirty-third degree. His mind filled with thoughts of Pythagoras,

sacred geometry, and angles; he wondered if perhaps degrees had a mathematical meaning.

Slowly, heart beating faster now, he reached down and grasped the ring, which was affixed to the base of the

cube. Then, slowly, he began turning the ring to the right. All is revealed at the thirty-third degree.

He turned the ring ten degrees . . . twenty degrees . . . thirty degrees—

What happened next, Langdon never saw coming.

CHAPTER 85

Transformation.

Dean Galloway heard it happen, and so he didn’t need to see it.

Across the desk from him, Langdon and Katherine were dead silent, no doubt staring in mute astonishment at

the stone cube, which had just transformed itself loudly before their very eyes.

Galloway couldn’t help but smile. He had anticipated the result, and although he still had no idea how this

development would ultimately help them solve the riddle of the pyramid, he was enjoying the rare chance to

teach a Harvard symbologist something about symbols.

“Professor,” the dean said, “few people realize that the Masons venerate the shape of the cube—or ashlar, as we call it—because it is a three-dimensional representation of another symbol . . . a much older, two-dimensional symbol.” Galloway didn’t need to ask if the professor recognized the ancient symbol now lying

before them on the desk. It was one of the most famous symbols in the world.

Robert Langdon’s thoughts churned as he stared at the transformed box on the desk in front of him. I had no

idea . . .

Moments ago, he had reached into the stone box, grasped the Masonic ring, and gently turned it. As he

rotated the ring through thirty-three degrees, the cube had suddenly changed before his eyes. The square

panels that made up the sides of the box fell away from one another as their hidden hinges released. The box

collapsed all at once, its side panels and lid falling outward, slapping loudly on the desk.

The cube becomes a cross, Langdon thought. Symbolic alchemy.

Katherine looked bewildered by the sight of the collapsed cube. “The Masonic Pyramid relates to . . .

Christianity?”

For a moment, Langdon had wondered the same thing. After all, the Christian crucifix was a respected

symbol within the Masons, and certainly there were plenty of Christian Masons. However, Masons were also

Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, and those who had no name for their God. The presence of an exclusively

Christian symbol seemed restrictive. Then the true meaning of this symbol had dawned on him.

“It’s not a crucifix,” Langdon said, standing up now. “The cross with the circumpunct in the middle is a

binary symbol— two symbols fused to create one.”

“What are you saying?” Katherine’s eyes followed him as he paced the room.

“The cross,” Langdon said, “was not a Christian symbol until the fourth century. Long before that, it was

used by the Egyptians to represent the intersection of two dimensions—the human and the celestial. As

above, so below. It was a visual representation of the juncture where man and God become one.”

“Okay.”

“The circumpunct,” Langdon said, “we already know has many meanings—one of its most esoteric being the

rose, the alchemical symbol for perfection. But, when you place a rose on the center of a cross, you create

another symbol entirely—the Rose Cross.”

Galloway reclined in his chair, smiling. “My, my. Now you’re cooking.”

Katherine stood now, too. “What am I missing?”

“The Rose Cross,” Langdon explained, “is a common symbol in Freemasonry. In fact, one of the degrees of

the Scottish Rite is called ‘Knights of the Rose Cross’ and honors the early Rosicrucians, who contributed to

Masonic mystical philosophy. Peter may have mentioned the Rosicrucians to you. Dozens of great scientists

were members—John Dee, Elias Ashmole, Robert Fludd—”

“Absolutely,” Katherine said. “I’ve read all of the Rosicrucian manifestos in my research.”

Every scientist should, Langdon thought. The Order of the Rose Cross—or more formally the Ancient and

Mystical Order Rosae Crucis—had an enigmatic history that had greatly influenced science and closely

paralleled the legend of the Ancient Mysteries . . . early sages possessing secret wisdom that was passed

down through the ages and studied by only the brightest minds. Admittedly, history’s list of famous

Rosicrucians was a who’s who of European Renaissance luminaries: Paracelsus, Bacon, Fludd, Descartes,

Pascal, Spinoza, Newton, Leibniz.

According to Rosicrucian doctrine, the order was “built on esoteric truths of the ancient past,” truths which

had to be “concealed from the average man” and which promised great insight into “the spiritual realm.” The

brotherhood’s symbol had blossomed over the years into a flowering rose on an ornate cross, but it had

begun as a more modest dotted circle on an unadorned cross—the simplest manifestation of the rose on the

simplest manifestation of the cross.

“Peter and I often discuss Rosicrucian philosophy,” Galloway told Katherine.

As the dean began outlining the interrelationship between Masonry and Rosicrucianism, Langdon felt his

attention drawn back to the same nagging thought he’d had all night. Jeova Sanctus Unus. This phrase is

linked to alchemy somehow. He still could not remember exactly what Peter had told him about the phrase,

but for some reason, the mention of Rosicrucianism seemed to have rekindled the thought. Think, Robert!

“The Rosicrucian founder,” Galloway was saying, “was allegedly a German mystic who went by the name

Christian Rosenkreuz—a pseudonym obviously, perhaps even for Francis Bacon, who some historians

believe founded the group himself, although there is no proof of—”

“A pseudonym!” Langdon declared suddenly, startling even himself. “That’s it! Jeova Sanctus Unus! It’s a

pseudonym!”

“What are you talking about?” Katherine demanded.

Langdon’s pulse had quickened now. “All night, I’ve been trying to remember what Peter told me about

Jeova Sanctus Unus and its relationship to alchemy. Finally I remembered! It’s not about alchemy so much

as about an alchemist! A very famous alchemist!”

Galloway chuckled. “It’s about time, Professor. I mentioned his name twice and also the word pseudonym.”

Langdon stared at the old dean. “You knew?”

“Well, I had my suspicions when you told me the engraving said Jeova Sanctus Unus and had been

decrypted using Dьrer’s alchemical magic square, but when you found the Rose Cross, I was certain. As you

probably know, the personal papers of the scientist in question included a very heavily annotated copy of the

Rosicrucian manifestos.”

“Who?” Katherine asked.

“One of the world’s greatest scientists!” Langdon replied. “He was an alchemist, a member of the Royal

Society of London, a Rosicrucian, and he signed some of his most secretive science papers with a

pseudonym— ‘Jeova Sanctus Unus’!”

“One True God?” Katherine said. “Modest guy.”

“Brilliant guy, actually,” Galloway corrected. “He signed his name that way because, like the ancient Adepts,

he understood himself as divine. In addition, because the sixteen letters in Jeova Sanctus Unus could be rearranged to spell his name in Latin, making it a perfect pseudonym.”

Katherine now looked puzzled. “Jeova Sanctus Unus is an anagram of a famous alchemist’s name in Latin?”

Langdon grabbed a piece of paper and pencil off the dean’s desk, writing as he talked. “Latin interchanges

the letters J for I and the letter V for U, which means Jeova Sanctus Unus can actually be perfectly rearranged to spell this man’s name.”

Langdon wrote down sixteen letters: Isaacus Neutonuus.

He handed the slip of paper to Katherine and said, “I think you’ve heard of him.”

“Isaac Newton?” Katherine demanded, looking at the paper. “That’s what the engraving on the pyramid was

trying to tell us!”

For a moment, Langdon was back in Westminster Abbey, standing at Newton’s pyramidical tomb, where he

had experienced a similar epiphany. And tonight, the great scientist surfaces again. It was no coincidence, of course . . . the pyramids, mysteries, science, hidden knowledge . . . it was all intertwined. Newton’s name had

always been a recurring guidepost for those seeking secret knowledge.

“Isaac Newton,” Galloway said, “must have something to do with how to decipher the meaning of the

pyramid. I can’t imagine what it would be, but—”

“Genius!” Katherine exclaimed, her eyes going wide. “That’s how we transform the pyramid!”

“You understand?” Langdon said.

“Yes!” she said. “I can’t believe we didn’t see it! It has been staring us right in the face. A simple alchemical

process. I can transform this pyramid using basic science! Newtonian science!”

Langdon strained to understand.

“Dean Galloway,” Katherine said. “If you read the ring, it says—”

“Stop!” The old dean suddenly raised his finger in the air and motioned for silence. Gently, he cocked his

head to the side, as if he were listening to something. After a moment, he stood up abruptly. “My friends, this

pyramid obviously has secrets left to reveal. I don’t know what Ms. Solomon is getting at, but if she knows

your next step, then I have played my role. Pack up your things and say no more to me. Leave me in darkness

for the moment. I would prefer to have no information to share should our visitors try to force me.”

“Visitors?” Katherine said, listening. “I don’t hear anyone.”

“You will, ” Galloway said, heading for the door. “Hurry.”

Across town, a cell tower was attempting to contact a phone that lay in pieces on Massachusetts Avenue.

Finding no signal, it redirected the call to voice mail.

“Robert!” Warren Bellamy’s panicked voice shouted. “Where are you?! Call me! Something terrible is

happening!”

CHAPTER 86

In the cerulean glow of his basement lights, Mal’akh stood at the stone table and continued his preparations.

As he worked, his empty stomach growled. He paid no heed. His days of servitude to the whims of his flesh

were behind him.

Transformation requires sacrifice.

Like many of history’s most spiritually evolved men, Mal’akh had committed to his path by making the

noblest of flesh sacrifices. Castration had been less painful than he had imagined. And, he had learned, far

more common. Every year, thousands of men underwent surgical gelding—orchiectomy, as the process was

known—their motivations ranging from transgender issues, to curbing sexual addictions, to deep-seated

spiritual beliefs. For Mal’akh, the reasons were of the highest nature. Like the mythological self-castrated

Attis, Mal’akh knew that achieving immortality required a clean break with the material world of male and

female.

The androgyne is one.

Nowadays, eunuchs were shunned, although the ancients understood the inherent power of this

transmutational sacrifice. Even the early Christians had heard Jesus Himself extol its virtues in Matthew

19:12: “There are those who have made themselves eunuchs for the sake of the kingdom of heaven. He who

is able to accept this, let him accept it.”

Peter Solomon had made a flesh sacrifice, although a single hand was a small price in the grand scheme. By

night’s end, however, Solomon would be sacrificing much, much more.

In order to create, I must destroy.

Such was the nature of polarity.

Peter Solomon, of course, deserved the fate that awaited him tonight. It would be a fitting end. Long ago, he

had played the pivotal role in Mal’akh’s mortal life path. For this reason, Peter had been chosen to play the

pivotal role in Mal’akh’s great transformation. This man had earned all the horror and pain he was about to

endure. Peter Solomon was not the man the world believed he was.

He sacrificed his own son.

Peter Solomon had once presented his son, Zachary, with an impossible choice—wealth or wisdom. Zachary

chose poorly. The boy’s decision had begun a chain of events that eventually dragged the young man into the

depths of hell. Soganlik Prison. Zachary Solomon had died in that Turkish prison. The whole world knew the

story . . . but what they didn’t know was that Peter Solomon could have saved his son.

I was there, Mal’akh thought. I heard it all.

Mal’akh had never forgotten that night. Solomon’s brutal decision had meant the end of his son, Zach, but it

had been the birth of Mal’akh.

Some must die that others may live.

As the light over Mal’akh’s head began changing color again, he realized the hour was late. He completed his

preparations and headed back up the ramp. It was time to attend to matters of the mortal world.

CHAPTER 87

All is revealed at the thirty-third degree, Katherine thought as she ran. I know how to transform the pyramid!

The answer had been right in front of them all night.

Katherine and Langdon were alone now, dashing through the cathedral’s annex, following signs for “The

Garth.” Now, exactly as the dean had promised, they burst out of the cathedral into a massive, walled-in

courtyard.

The cathedral garth was a cloistered, pentagonal garden with a bronze postmodern fountain. Katherine was

amazed how loudly the fountain’s flowing water seemed to be reverberating in the courtyard. Then she

realized it was not the fountain she was hearing.

“Helicopter!” she shouted as a beam of light pierced the night sky above them. “Get under that portico!”

The dazzling glare of a searchlight flooded the garth just as Langdon and Katherine reached the other side,

slipping beneath a Gothic arch into a tunnel that led to the outside lawn. They waited, huddled in the tunnel,

as the helicopter passed overhead and began circling the cathedral in wide arcs.

“I guess Galloway was right about hearing visitors,” Katherine said, impressed. Bad eyes make for great

ears. Her own ears now pounded rhythmically with her racing pulse.

“This way,” Langdon said, clutching his daybag and moving through the passage.

Dean Galloway had given them a single key and a clear set of directions. Unfortunately, when they reached

the end of the short tunnel, they found themselves separated from their destination by a wide-open expanse of

lawn, currently flooded with light from the helicopter overhead.

“We can’t get across,” Katherine said.

“Hold on . . . look.” Langdon pointed to a black shadow that was materializing on the lawn to their left. The

shadow began as an amorphous blob, but it was growing quickly, moving in their direction, becoming more

defined, rushing at them faster and faster, stretching, and finally transforming itself into a massive black

rectangle crowned by two impossibly tall spires.

“The cathedral facade is blocking the searchlight,” Langdon said.

“They’re landing out in front!”

Langdon grabbed Katherine’s hand. “Run! Now!”

Inside the cathedral, Dean Galloway felt a lightness in his step that he had not felt in years. He moved

through the Great Crossing, down the nave toward the narthex and the front doors.

He could hear the helicopter hovering in front of the cathedral now, and he imagined its lights coming

through the rose window in front of him, throwing spectacular colors all over the sanctuary. He recalled the

days when he could see color. Ironically, the lightless void that had become his world had illuminated many

things for him. I see more clearly now than ever.

Galloway had been called to God as a young man and over his lifetime had loved the church as much as any

man could. Like many of his colleagues who had given their lives in earnest to God, Galloway was weary.

He had spent his life straining to be heard above the din of ignorance.

What did I expect?

From the Crusades, to the Inquisition, to American politics—the name Jesus had been hijacked as an ally in

all kinds of power struggles. Since the beginning of time, the ignorant had always screamed the loudest,

herding the unsuspecting masses and forcing them to do their bidding. They defended their worldly desires

by citing Scripture they did not understand. They celebrated their intolerance as proof of their convictions.

Now, after all these years, mankind had finally managed to utterly erode everything that had once been so

beautiful about Jesus.

Tonight, encountering the symbol of the Rose Cross had fueled him with great hope, reminding him of the

prophecies written in the Rosicrucian manifestos, which Galloway had read countless times in the past and

could still recall.

Chapter One: Jehova will redeem humanity by revealing those secrets which he previously reserved only for

the elect.

Chapter Four: The whole world shall become as one book and all the contradictions of science and theology

shall be reconciled.

Chapter Seven: Before the end of the world, God shall create a great flood of spiritual light to alleviate the

suffering of humankind.

Chapter Eight: Before this revelation is possible, the world must sleep away the intoxication of her poisoned

chalice, which was filled with the false life of the theological vine.

Galloway knew the church had long ago lost her way, and he had dedicated his life to righting her course.

Now, he realized, the moment was fast approaching.

It is always darkest before the dawn.

CIA field agent Turner Simkins was perched on the strut of the Sikorsky helicopter as it touched down on the

frosty grass. He leaped off, joined by his men, and immediately waved the chopper back up into the air to

keep an eye on all the exits.

Nobody leaves this building.

As the chopper rose back into the night sky, Simkins and his team ran up the stairs to the cathedral’s main

entrance. Before he could decide which of the six doors to pound on, one of them swung open.

“Yes?” a calm voice said from the shadows.

Simkins could barely make out the hunched figure in priest’s robes. “Are you Dean Colin Galloway?”

“I am,” the old man replied.

“I’m looking for Robert Langdon. Have you seen him?”

The old man stepped forward now, staring past Simkins with eerie blank eyes. “Now, wouldn’t that be a

miracle.”

CHAPTER 88

Time is running out.

Security analyst Nola Kaye was already on edge, and the third mug of coffee she was now drinking had

begun coursing through her like an electric current.

No word yet from Sato.

Finally, her phone rang, and Nola leaped on it. “OS,” she answered. “Nola here.”

“Nola, it’s Rick Parrish in systems security.”

Nola slumped. No Sato. “Hi, Rick. What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to give you a heads-up—our department may have information relevant to what you’re working on

tonight.”

Nola set down her coffee. How the hell do you know what I’m working on tonight? “I beg your pardon?”

“Sorry, it’s the new CI program we’re beta-testing,” Parrish said. “It keeps flagging your workstation

number.”

Nola now realized what he was talking about. The Agency was currently running a new piece of

“collaborative integration” software designed to provide real-time alerts to disparate CIA departments when

they happened to be processing related data fields. In an era of time-sensitive terrorist threats, the key to

thwarting disaster was often as simple as a heads-up telling you that the guy down the hall was analyzing the

very data you needed. As far as Nola was concerned, this CI software had proven more of a distraction than

any real help— constant interruption software, she called it.

“Right, I forgot,” Nola said. “What have you got?” She was positive that nobody else in the building knew

about this crisis, much less could be working on it. The only computer work Nola had done tonight was

historical research for Sato on esoteric Masonic topics . Nonetheless, she was obliged to play the game.

“Well, it’s probably nothing,” Parrish said, “but we stopped a hacker tonight, and the CI program keeps

suggesting I share the information with you.”

A hacker? Nola sipped her coffee. “I’m listening.”

“About an hour ago,” Parrish said, “we snagged a guy named Zoubianis trying to access a file on one of our

internal databases. This guy claims it was a job for hire and that he has no idea why he was being paid to

access this particular file or even that it was on a CIA server.”

“Okay.”

“We finished questioning him, and he’s clean. But here’s the weird thing—the same file he was targeting had

been flagged earlier tonight by an internal search engine. It looks like someone piggybacked into our system,

ran a specific keyword search, and generated a redaction. The thing is, the keywords they used are really

strange. And there’s one in particular that the CI flagged as a high-priority match—one that’s unique to both

of our data sets.” He paused. “Do you know the word . . . symbolon?”

Nola jolted upright, spilling coffee on her desk.

“The other keywords are just as unusual,” Parrish continued. “Pyramid, portal—”

“Get down here,” Nola commanded, mopping up her desk. “And bring everything you’ve got!”

“These words actually mean something to you?”

“NOW!”

CHAPTER 89

Cathedral College is an elegant, castlelike edifice located adjacent to the National Cathedral. The College of Preachers, as it was originally envisioned by the first Episcopal bishop of Washington, was founded to

provide ongoing education for clergy after their ordination. Today, the college offers a wide variety of

programs on theology, global justice, healing, and spirituality.

Langdon and Katherine had made the dash across the lawn and used Galloway’s key to slip inside just as the

helicopter rose back over the cathedral, its floodlights turning night back into day. Now, standing breathless

inside the foyer, they surveyed their surroundings. The windows provided sufficient illumination, and

Langdon saw no reason to turn the lights on and take a chance of broadcasting their whereabouts to the

helicopter overhead. As they moved down the central hallway, they passed a series of conference halls,

classrooms, and sitting areas. The interior reminded Langdon of the neo-Gothic buildings of Yale

University—breathtaking on the outside, and yet surprisingly utilitarian on the inside, their period elegance

having been retrofitted to endure heavy foot traffic.

“Down here,” Katherine said, motioning toward the far end of the hall.

Katherine had yet to share with Langdon her new revelation regarding the pyramid, but apparently the

reference to Isaacus Neutonuus had sparked it. All she had said as they crossed the lawn was that the pyramid

could be transformed using simple science. Everything she needed, she believed, could probably be found in

this building. Langdon had no idea what she needed or how Katherine intended to transform a solid piece of

granite or gold, but considering he had just witnessed a cube metamorphose into a Rosicrucian cross, he was

willing to have faith.

They reached the end of the hall and Katherine frowned, apparently not seeing what she wanted. “You said

this building has dormitory facilities?”

“Yes, for residential conferences.”

“So they must have a kitchen in here somewhere, right?”

“You’re hungry?”

She frowned back at him. “No, I need a lab.”

Of course you do. Langdon spotted a descending staircase that bore a promising symbol. America’s favorite pictogram.

The basement kitchen was industrial looking—lots of stainless steel and big bowls—clearly designed to cook

for large groups. The kitchen had no windows. Katherine closed the door and flipped on the lights. The

exhaust fans came on automatically.

She began rooting around in the cupboards for whatever it was she needed. “Robert,” she directed, “put the

pyramid out on the island, if you would.”

Feeling like the novice sous chef taking orders from Daniel Boulud, Langdon did as he was told, removing

the pyramid from his bag and placing the gold capstone on top of it. When he finished, Katherine was busy

filling an enormous pot with hot tap water.

“Would you please lift this to the stove for me?”

Langdon heaved the sloshing pot onto the stove as Katherine turned on the gas burner and cranked up the

flame.

“Are we doing lobsters?” he asked hopefully.

“Very funny. No, we’re doing alchemy. And for the record, this is a pasta pot, not a lobster pot.” She pointed to the perforated strainer insert that she had removed from the pot and placed on the island beside the

pyramid.

Silly me. “And boiling pasta is going to help us decipher the pyramid?”

Katherine ignored the comment, her tone turning serious. “As I’m sure you know, there is a historical and

symbolic reason the Masons chose thirty-three as their highest degree.”

“Of course,” Langdon said. In the days of Pythagoras, six centuries before Christ, the tradition of numerology

hailed the number 33 as the highest of all the Master Numbers. It was the most sacred figure, symbolizing

Divine Truth. The tradition lived on within the Masons . . . and elsewhere. It was no coincidence that

Christians were taught that Jesus was crucified at age thirty-three, despite no real historical evidence to that

effect. Nor was it coincidence that Joseph was said to have been

thirty-three when he married the Virgin Mary, or that Jesus accomplished thirty-three miracles, or that God’s

name was mentioned thirty-three times in Genesis, or that, in Islam, all the dwellers of heaven were

permanently thirty-three years old.

“Thirty-three,” Katherine said, “is a sacred number in many mystical traditions.”

“Correct.” Langdon still had no idea what this had to do with a pasta pot.

“So it should come as no surprise to you that an early alchemist, Rosicrucian, and mystic like Isaac Newton

also considered the number thirty-three special.”

“I’m sure he did,” Langdon replied. “Newton was deep into numerology, prophecy, and astrology, but what

does—”

“All is revealed at the thirty-third degree.”

Langdon pulled Peter’s ring from his pocket and read the inscription. Then he glanced back at the pot of

water. “Sorry, you lost me.”

“Robert, earlier tonight, we all assumed ‘thirty-third degree’ referred to the Masonic degree, and yet when

we rotated that ring thirty-three degrees, the cube transformed and revealed a cross. At that moment, we

realized the word degree was being used in another sense.”

“Yes. Degrees of arc.”

“Exactly. But degree has a third meaning as well.”

Langdon eyed the pot of water on the stove. “Temperature.”

“Exactly!” she said. “It was right in front of us all night. ‘All is revealed at the thirty-third degree.’ If we

bring this pyramid’s temperature to thirty-three degrees . . . it may just reveal something.”

Langdon knew Katherine Solomon was exceptionally bright, and yet she seemed to be missing a rather

obvious point. “If I’m not mistaken, thirty-three degrees is almost freezing. Shouldn’t we be putting the

pyramid in the freezer?”

Katherine smiled. “Not if we want to follow the recipe written by the great alchemist and Rosicrucian mystic

who signed his papers Jeova Sanctus Unus. ”

Isaacus Neutonuus wrote recipes?

“Robert, temperature is the fundamental alchemical catalyst, and it was not always measured in Fahrenheit

and Celsius. There are far older temperature scales, one of them invented by Isaac—”

“The Newton Scale!” Langdon said, realizing she was right.

“Yes! Isaac Newton invented an entire system of quantifying temperature based entirely on natural

phenomena. The temperature of melting

ice was Newton’s base point, and he called it ‘the zeroth degree.’ ” She paused. “I suppose you can guess

what degree he assigned the temperature of boiling water—the king of all alchemical processes?”

“Thirty-three.”

“Yes, thirty-three! The thirty-third degree. On the Newton Scale, the temperature of boiling water is thirty-

three degrees. I remember asking my brother once why Newton chose that number. I mean, it seemed so

random. Boiling water is the most fundamental alchemical process, and he chose thirty-three? Why not a

hundred? Why not something more elegant? Peter explained that, to a mystic like Isaac Newton, there was no

number more elegant than thirty-three.”

All is revealed at the thirty-third degree. Langdon glanced at the pot of water and then over at the pyramid.

“ Katherine, the pyramid is made out of solid granite and solid gold. Do you really think boiling water is hot enough to transform it?”

The smile on her face told Langdon that Katherine knew something he did not know. Confidently, she

walked over to the island, lifted the gold-capped, granite pyramid, and set it in the strainer. Then she

carefully lowered it into the bubbling water. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

High above the National Cathedral, the CIA pilot locked the helicopter in auto-hover mode and surveyed the

perimeter of the building and the grounds. No movement. His thermal imaging couldn’t penetrate the

cathedral stone, and so he couldn’t tell what the team was doing inside, but if anyone tried to slip out, the

thermal would pick it up.

It was sixty seconds later that a thermal sensor pinged. Working on the same principle as home-security

systems, the detector had identified a strong temperature differential. Usually this meant a human form

moving through a cool space, but what appeared on the monitor was more of a thermal cloud, a patch of hot

air drifting across the lawn. The pilot found the source, an active vent on the side of Cathedral College.

Probably nothing, he thought. He saw these kinds of gradients all the time. Someone cooking or doing

laundry. As he was about to turn away, though, he realized something odd. There were no cars in the parking

lot and no lights on anywhere in the building.

He studied the UH-60’s imaging system for a long moment. Then he radioed down to his team leader.

“Simkins, it’s probably nothing, but . . .”

“Incandescent temperature indicator!” Langdon had to admit, it was clever.

“It’s simple science,” Katherine said. “Different substances incandesce at different temperatures. We call

them thermal markers. Science uses these markers all the time.”

Langdon gazed down at the submerged pyramid and capstone. Wisps of steam were beginning to curl over

the bubbling water, although he was not feeling hopeful. He glanced at his watch, and his heart rate

accelerated: 11:45 P.M. “You believe something here will luminesce as it heats up?”

“Not luminesce, Robert. Incandesce. There’s a big difference. Incandescence is caused by heat, and it occurs at a specific temperature. For example, when steel manufacturers temper beams, they spray a grid on them

with a transparent coating that incandesces at a specific target temperature so they know when the beams are

done. Think of a mood ring. Just put it on your finger, and it changes color from body heat.”

“Katherine, this pyramid was built in the 1800s! I can understand a craftsman making hidden release hinges

in a stone box, but applying some kind of transparent thermal coating?”

“Perfectly feasible,” she said, glancing hopefully at the submerged pyramid. “The early alchemists used

organic phosphors all the time as thermal markers. The Chinese made colored fireworks, and even the

Egyptians—” Katherine stopped midsentence, staring intently into the roiling water.

“What?” Langdon followed her gaze into the turbulent water but saw nothing at all.

Katherine leaned in, staring more intently into the water. Suddenly she turned and ran across the kitchen

toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Langdon shouted.

She slid to a stop at the kitchen light switch, flipped it off. The lights and exhaust fan went off, plunging the

room into total darkness and silence. Langdon turned back to the pyramid and peered through the steam at

the capstone beneath the water. By the time Katherine made it back to his side, his mouth had fallen open in

disbelief.

Exactly as Katherine had predicted, a small section of the metal capstone was starting to glow beneath the

water. Letters were starting to appear, and they were getting brighter as the water heated up.

“Text!” Katherine whispered.

Langdon nodded, dumbstruck. The glowing words were materializing just beneath the engraved inscription

on the capstone. It looked like only three words, and although Langdon could not yet read what the words

said, he wondered if they would unveil everything they had been looking for tonight. The pyramid is a real

map, Galloway had told them, and it points to a real location.

As the letters shone brighter, Katherine turned off the gas, and the water slowly stopped churning. The

capstone now came into focus beneath the water’s calm surface.

Three shining words were clearly legible.

CHAPTER 90

In the dim light of the Cathedral College kitchen, Langdon and Katherine stood over the pot of water and

stared at the transformed capstone beneath the surface. On the side of the golden capstone, an incandescent

message was glowing.

Langdon read the shining text, scarcely able to believe his eyes. He knew the pyramid was rumored to reveal

a specific location . . . but he had never imagined that the location would be quite this specific.

Eight Franklin Square

“A street address,” he whispered, stunned.

Katherine looked equally amazed. “I don’t know what’s there, do you?”

Langdon shook his head. He knew Franklin Square was one of the older sections of Washington, but he

wasn’t familiar with the address. He looked at the tip of the capstone, and read downward, taking in the

entire text.

The

secret hides

within The Order

Eight Franklin Square

Is there some kind of Order on Franklin Square?

Is there a building that hides the opening to a deep spiral staircase?

Whether or not there was actually something buried at that address, Langdon had no idea. The important

issue at this point was that he and Katherine had deciphered the pyramid and now possessed the information

required to negotiate Peter’s release.

And not a moment too soon.

The glowing arms on Langdon’s Mickey Mouse watch indicated that they had less than ten minutes to spare.

“Make the call,” Katherine said, motioning to a phone on the wall in the kitchen. “Now!”

The sudden arrival of this moment startled Langdon, and he found himself hesitating.

“Are we sure about this?”

“I most certainly am.”

“I’m not telling him anything until we know Peter is safe.”

“Of course not. You remember the number, right?”

Langdon nodded and made his way over to the kitchen phone. He lifted the receiver and dialed the man’s

cell-phone number. Katherine came over and placed her head next to his so she could listen in. As the line

began to ring, Langdon prepared himself for the eerie whisper of the man who had tricked him earlier

tonight.

Finally, the call connected.

There was no greeting, though. No voice. Only the sound of breathing at the other end.

Langdon waited and then finally spoke. “I have the information you want, but if you want it, you’ll have to

give us Peter.”

“Who is this?” a woman’s voice replied.

Langdon jumped. “Robert Langdon,” he said reflexively. “Who are you?” For an instant he thought he must

have dialed incorrectly.

“Your name is Langdon?” The woman sounded surprised. “There’s someone here asking for you.”

What? “I’m sorry, who is this?”

“Officer Paige Montgomery with Preferred Security.” Her voice seemed shaky. “Maybe you can help us with

this. About an hour ago, my partner responded to a 911 call in Kalorama Heights . . . a possible hostage

situation. I lost all contact with her, and so I called backup and came to check the residence. We found my

partner dead in the backyard. The home owner was gone, and so we broke in. A cell phone was ringing on

the hall table, and I—”

“You’re inside?” Langdon demanded.

“Yes, and the 911 tip . . . was a good one,” the woman stammered. “Sorry if I sound rattled, but my partner’s

dead, and we found a man being held here against his will. He’s in bad shape, and we’re working on him

now. He’s been asking for two people—one named Langdon and one named Katherine.”

“That’s my brother!” Katherine blurted into the receiver, pressing her head closer to Langdon’s. “I made the

911 call! Is he okay?!”

“Actually, ma’am, he’s . . .” The woman’s voice cracked. “He’s in bad shape. He’s missing his right hand . .

.”

“Please,” Katherine urged. “I want to talk to him!”

“They’re working on him at the moment. He’s in and out of consciousness. If you’re anywhere in the area,

you should get over here. He obviously wants to see you.”

“We’re about six minutes away!” Katherine said.

“Then I suggest you hurry.” There was a muffled noise in the background, and the woman then returned to

the line. “Sorry, it looks like I’m needed. I’ll speak to you when you arrive.”

The line went dead.

CHAPTER 91

Inside Cathedral College, Langdon and Katherine bounded up the basement stairs and hurried down a

darkened hallway looking for a front exit. No longer did they hear the sounds of helicopter blades overhead,

and Langdon felt hopeful they could slip out unseen and find their way up to Kalorama Heights to see Peter.

They found him. He’s alive.

Thirty seconds earlier, when they’d hung up with the female security guard, Katherine had hurriedly hoisted

the steaming pyramid and capstone out of the water. The pyramid was still dripping when she lowered it into

Langdon’s leather bag. Now he could feel the heat radiating through the leather.

Excitement over Peter’s discovery had temporarily trumped any further reflection on the capstone’s glowing

message— Eight Franklin Square— but there would be time for that once they got to Peter.

As they rounded the corner at the top of the stairs, Katherine stopped short and pointed into a sitting room

across the hall. Through the bay window, Langdon could see a sleek black helicopter sitting silent on the

lawn. A lone pilot stood beside it, facing away from them and talking on his radio. There was also a black

Escalade with tinted windows parked nearby.

Staying in the shadows, Langdon and Katherine moved into the sitting room, and peered out the window to

see if they could see the rest of the field team. Thankfully, the huge lawn outside the National Cathedral was

empty.

“They must be inside the cathedral,” Langdon said.

“They’re not,” a deep voice said behind them.

Langdon and Katherine wheeled around to see who had spoken. In the doorway of the sitting room, two

black-clad figures aimed laser-sighted rifles at them. Langdon could see a glowing red dot dancing on his

chest.

“Nice to see you again, Professor,” said a familiar raspy voice. The agents parted, and the tiny form of

Director Sato sliced effortlessly through, crossing the sitting room and stopping directly in front of Langdon.

“You’ve made some exceedingly poor choices tonight.”

“The police found Peter Solomon,” Langdon declared forcefully. “He’s in bad shape, but he’ll live. It’s

over.”

If Sato was surprised Peter had been found, she did not show it. Her eyes were unflinching as she walked to

Langdon and stopped only inches away. “Professor, I can assure you, this is nowhere near over. And if the

police are now involved, it has only become more serious. As I told you earlier this evening, this is an

extremely delicate situation. You never should have run away with that pyramid.”

“Ma’am,” Katherine blurted, “I need to see my brother. You can have the pyramid, but you must let—”

“I must?” Sato demanded, spinning to Katherine. “Ms. Solomon, I assume?” She stared at Katherine with fire

in her eyes and then turned back to Langdon. “Put the leather bag on the table.”

Langdon glanced down at the pair of laser sights on his chest. He set the leather bag on the coffee table. An

agent approached cautiously, unzipped the bag, and pulled the two sides apart. A little puff of trapped steam

billowed up out of the bag. He aimed his light inside, stared for a long, puzzled moment, and then nodded to

Sato.

Sato walked over and peered into the bag. The wet pyramid and capstone glistened in the beam of the

flashlight. Sato crouched down, looking very closely at the golden capstone, which Langdon realized she had

only seen in X-ray.

“The inscription,” Sato demanded. “Does it mean anything to you? ‘The secret hides within The Order’?”

“We’re not sure, ma’am.”

“Why is the pyramid steaming hot?”

“We submerged it in boiling water,” Katherine said without hesitation. “It was part of the process of

deciphering the code. We’ll tell you everything, but please let us go see my brother. He’s been through—”

“You boiled the pyramid?” Sato demanded.

“Turn off the flashlight,” Katherine said. “Look at the capstone. You can probably still see.”

The agent flicked off his light, and Sato knelt down before the capstone. Even from where Langdon was

standing, he could see that the text on the capstone was still glowing slightly.

“Eight Franklin Square?” Sato said, sounding amazed.

“Yes, ma’am. That text was written with an incandescent lacquer or something. The thirty-third degree was

actually—”

“And the address?” Sato demanded. “Is this what this guy wants?”

“Yes,” Langdon said. “He believes the pyramid is a map that will tell him the location of a great treasure—

the key to unlocking the Ancient Mysteries.”

Sato looked again at the capstone, her expression one of disbelief. “Tell me,” she said, fear creeping into her

voice, “have you contacted this man yet? Have you already given him this address?”

“We tried.” Langdon explained what had happened when they called the man’s cell phone.

Sato listened, running her tongue over her yellow teeth as he spoke. Despite looking ready to erupt with

anger over the situation, she turned to one of her agents and spoke in a restrained whisper. “Send him in.

He’s in the SUV.”

The agent nodded and spoke into his transceiver.

“Send who in?” Langdon said.

“The only person who has any hope of fixing the goddamn mess you made!”

“What mess?” Langdon fired back. “Now that Peter is safe, everything is—”

“For Christ’s sake!” Sato exploded. “This is not about Peter! I tried to tell you that at the Capitol Building, Professor, but you chose to work against me rather than with me! Now you’ve made an ungodly mess! When you destroyed your cell phone, which, by the way, we were tracking, you cut off your communication with

this man. And this address you uncovered—whatever the hell it is—this address was our one chance to catch

this lunatic. I needed you to play his game, to provide him with this address so we would know where the

hell to catch him!”

Before Langdon could reply, Sato directed the remainder of her wrath at Katherine.

“And you, Ms. Solomon! You knew where this maniac lived? Why didn’t you tell me? You sent a rent-a-cop to this man’s house? Don’t you see you’ve ruined any chance we had of catching him there? I’m glad your

brother is safe, but let me tell you this, we are facing a crisis tonight whose ramifications far outreach your

family. They will be felt all around the world. The man who took your brother has enormous power, and we

need to catch him immediately.”

As she finished her tirade, the tall, elegant silhouette of Warren Bellamy emerged from the shadows and

stepped into the sitting room. He looked rumpled, bruised, and shaken . . . like he’d been through hell.

“Warren!” Langdon stood up. “Are you okay?”

“No,” he replied. “Not really.”

“Did you hear? Peter is safe!”

Bellamy nodded, looking dazed, as if nothing mattered anymore. “Yes, I just heard your conversation. I’m

glad.”

“Warren, what the hell is going on?”

Sato intervened. “You boys can catch up in a minute. Right now, Mr. Bellamy is going to reach out to this

lunatic and communicate with him. Just like he’s been doing all night.”

Langdon felt lost. “Bellamy hasn’t been communicating with this guy tonight! This guy doesn’t even know

Bellamy is involved!”

Sato turned to Bellamy and raised her eyebrows.

Bellamy sighed. “Robert, I’m afraid I haven’t been entirely honest with you this evening.” Langdon could

only stare. “I thought I was doing the right thing . . .” Bellamy said, looking frightened.

“Well,” Sato said, “now you will do the right thing . . . and we’d all better pray to God it works.” As if to

substantiate Sato’s portentous tone, the mantel clock began chiming the hour. Sato took out a Ziploc bag of

items and tossed it to Bellamy. “Here’s your stuff. Does your cell phone take photos?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Hold up the capstone.”

The message Mal’akh had just received was from his contact—Warren Bellamy—the Mason he had sent to

the Capitol Building earlier tonight to assist Robert Langdon. Bellamy, like Langdon, wanted Peter Solomon

back alive and had assured Mal’akh he would help Langdon acquire and decipher the pyramid. All night,

Mal’akh had been receiving e-mail updates, which had been automatically forwarded to his cell phone.

This should be interesting, Mal’akh thought, opening the message.

From: Warren Bellamy

got separated from langdon

but finally have info you

demanded. proof attached.

call for missing piece. —wb

—one attachment (jpeg)—

Call for missing piece? Mal’akh wondered, opening the attachment.

The attachment was a photo.

When Mal’akh saw it, he gasped out loud, and he could feel his heart start pounding with excitement. He was

looking at a close-up of a tiny golden pyramid. The legendary capstone! The ornate engraving on the face

carried a promising message: The secret hides within The Order.

Beneath the inscription, Mal’akh now saw something that stunned him. The capstone seemed to be glowing.

In disbelief, he stared at the faintly radiant text and realized that the legend was literally true: The Masonic

Pyramid transforms itself to reveal its secret to the worthy.

How this magical transformation had occurred, Mal’akh had no idea, and he didn’t care. The glowing text

was clearly pointing to a specific location in D.C., exactly as prophesied. Franklin Square. Unfortunately, the photo of the capstone also included Warren Bellamy’s index finger, which was strategically positioned on the

capstone to block out a critical piece of information.

The

secret hides

within The Order

Franklin Square

Call for missing piece. Mal’akh now understood Bellamy’s meaning.

The Architect of the Capitol had been cooperative all night, but now he had chosen to play a very dangerous

game.

CHAPTER 92

Beneath the watchful gaze of several armed CIA agents, Langdon, Katherine, and Bellamy waited with Sato

in the Cathedral College sitting room. On the coffee table before them, Langdon’s leather bag was still open,

the golden capstone peeking out the top. The words Eight Franklin Square had now faded away, leaving no

evidence that they had ever existed.

Katherine had pleaded with Sato to let her go see her brother, but Sato had simply shaken her head, eyes

fixed on Bellamy’s cell phone. It sat on the coffee table and had yet to ring.

Why didn’t Bellamy just tell me the truth? Langdon wondered. Apparently, the Architect had been in contact

with Peter’s captor all night, reassuring him that Langdon was making progress deciphering the pyramid. It

was a bluff, an attempt to buy time for Peter. In fact, Bellamy was doing all he could to interfere with anyone

who threatened to unveil the pyramid’s secret. Now, however, it seemed that Bellamy had switched sides. He

and Sato were now prepared to risk the pyramid’s secret in hopes of catching this man.

“Take your hands off me!” shouted an elderly voice in the hall. “I’m blind, not inept! I know my way

through the college!” Dean Galloway was still protesting loudly as a CIA agent manhandled him into the

sitting room and forced him into one of the chairs.

“Who’s here?” Galloway demanded, his blank eyes staring dead ahead. “It sounds like a lot of you. How

many do you need to detain an old man? Really now!”

“There are seven of us,” Sato declared. “Including Robert Langdon, Katherine Solomon, and your Masonic

brother Warren Bellamy.”

Galloway slumped, all his bluster gone.

“We’re okay,” Langdon said. “And we just heard that Peter is safe. He’s in bad shape, but the police are with

him.”

“Thank heavens,” Galloway said. “And the—”

A loud rattling caused everyone in the room to jump. It was Bellamy’s cell phone vibrating against the coffee

table. Everyone fell silent.

“Okay, Mr. Bellamy,” Sato said. “Don’t blow it. You know the stakes.”

Bellamy took a deep breath and exhaled. Then he reached down and pressed the speakerphone button to

connect the call.

“Bellamy here,” he said, speaking loudly toward the phone on the coffee table.

The voice that crackled back through the speaker was familiar, an airy whisper. It sounded like he was

calling from a hands-free speakerphone inside a car. “It’s past midnight, Mr. Bellamy. I was about to put

Peter out of his misery.”

There was an uneasy silence in the room. “Let me talk to him.”

“Impossible,” the man replied. “We’re driving. He’s tied up in the trunk.”

Langdon and Katherine exchanged looks and then began shaking their heads at everyone. He’s bluffing! He

no longer has Peter!

Sato motioned for Bellamy to keep pressing.

“I want proof that Peter’s alive,” Bellamy said. “I’m not giving you the rest of—”

“Your Worshipful Master needs a doctor. Don’t waste time with negotiations. Tell me the street number on

Franklin Square, and I’ll bring Peter to you there.”

“I told you, I want—”

“Now!” the man exploded. “Or I will pull over and Peter Solomon dies this instant!”

“You listen to me,” Bellamy said forcefully. “If you want the rest of the address, you’ll play by my rules.

Meet me at Franklin Square. Once you deliver Peter alive, I’ll tell you the number of the building.”

“How do I know you won’t bring the authorities?”

“Because I can’t risk double-crossing you. Peter’s life is not the only card you hold. I know what’s really at stake tonight.”

“You do realize,” the man on the phone said, “that if I sense so much as a hint of anyone other than you at

Franklin Square, I will keep driving, and you will never find even a trace of Peter Solomon. And of course . .

. that will be the least of your worries.”

“I’ll come alone,” Bellamy replied somberly. “When you turn over Peter, I’ll give you everything you need.”

“Center of the square,” the man said. “It will take me at least twenty minutes to get there. I suggest you wait

for me as long as it takes.”

The line went dead.

Instantly, the room sprang to life. Sato began shouting orders. Several field agents grabbed their radios and

headed for the door. “Move! Move!”

In the chaos, Langdon looked to Bellamy for some kind of explanation as to what was actually going on

tonight, but the older man was already being hurried out the door.

“I need to see my brother!” Katherine shouted. “You have to let us go!”

Sato walked over to Katherine. “I don’t have to do anything, Ms. Solomon. Is that clear?”

Katherine stood her ground and looked desperately into Sato’s small eyes.

“Ms. Solomon, my top priority is apprehending the man at Franklin Square, and you will sit here with one of

my men until I accomplish that task. Then, and only then, will we deal with your brother.”

“You’re missing the point,” Katherine said. “I know exactly where this man lives! It’s literally five minutes up the road in Kalorama Heights, and there will be evidence there that will help you! Besides, you said you

want to keep this quiet. Who knows what Peter will start telling the authorities once he’s stabilized.”

Sato pursed her lips, apparently registering Katherine’s point. Outside, the chopper blades began winding up.

Sato frowned and then turned to one of her men. “Hartmann, you take the Escalade. Transport Ms. Solomon

and Mr. Langdon to Kalorama Heights. Peter Solomon is not to speak to anyone. Is that understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the agent said.

“Call me when you get there. Tell me what you find. And don’t let these two out of your sight.”

Agent Hartmann gave a quick nod, pulled out the Escalade keys, and headed for the door.

Katherine was right behind him.

Sato turned to Langdon. “I’ll see you shortly, Professor. I know you think I’m the enemy, but I can assure

you that’s not the case. Get to Peter at once. This isn’t over yet.”

Off to one side of Langdon, Dean Galloway was sitting quietly at the coffee table. His hands had found the

stone pyramid, which was still sitting in Langdon’s open leather bag on the table in front of him. The old

man was running his hands over the stone’s warm surface.

Langdon said, “Father, are you coming to see Peter?”

“I’d just slow you down.” Galloway removed his hands from the bag and zipped it up around the pyramid.

“I’ll stay right here and pray for Peter’s recovery. We can all speak later. But when you show Peter the

pyramid, would you please tell him something for me?”

“Of course.” Langdon hoisted the bag onto his shoulder.

“Tell him this.” Galloway cleared his throat. “The Masonic Pyramid has always kept her secret . . .

sincerely.”

“I don’t understand.”

The old man winked. “Just tell Peter that. He will understand.”

With that, Dean Galloway bowed his head and began praying.

Perplexed, Langdon left him there and hurried outside. Katherine was already in the front seat of the SUV

giving the agent directions. Langdon climbed in back and had barely closed the door before the giant vehicle

was rocketing across the lawn, racing northward to Kalorama Heights.

CHAPTER 93

Franklin Square is located in the northwest quadrant of downtown Washington, bordered by K and

Thirteenth streets. It is home to many historic buildings, most notably the Franklin School, from which

Alexander Graham Bell sent the world’s first wireless message in 1880.

High above the square, a fast-moving UH-60 helicopter approached from the west, having completed its

journey from the National Cathedral in a matter of minutes. Plenty of time, Sato thought, peering down at the square below. She knew it was critical that her men got into position undetected before their target arrived.

He said he wouldn’t be here for at least twenty minutes.

On Sato’s command, the pilot performed a “touch-hover” on the roof of the tallest building around—the

renowned One Franklin Square—a towering and prestigious office building with two gold spires on top. The

maneuver was illegal, of course, but the chopper was there only a few seconds, and its skids barely touched

the gravel rooftop. Once everyone had jumped out, the pilot immediately lifted off, banking to the east,

where he would climb to “silent altitude” and provide invisible support from above.

Sato waited as her field team collected their things and prepared Bellamy for his task. The Architect was still

looking dazed from having seen the file on Sato’s secure laptop. As I said . . . an issue of national security.

Bellamy had quickly understood Sato’s meaning and was now fully cooperative.

“All set, ma’am,” Agent Simkins said.

On Sato’s command, the agents ushered Bellamy across the rooftop and disappeared down a stairwell,

heading for ground level to take up their positions.

Sato walked to the edge of the building and gazed down. The rectangular wooded park below filled the entire

block. Plenty of cover. Sato’s team fully understood the importance of making an undetected intercept. If

their target sensed a presence here and decided just to slip away . . . the director didn’t even want to think

about it.

The wind up here was gusty and cold. Sato wrapped her arms around herself, and planted her feet firmly to

avoid getting blown over the edge. From this high vantage point, Franklin Square looked smaller than she

recalled, with fewer buildings. She wondered which building was Eight Franklin Square. This was

information she had requested from her analyst Nola, from whom she expected word at any moment.

Bellamy and the agents now appeared, looking like ants fanning out into the darkness of the wooded area.

Simkins positioned Bellamy in a clearing near the center of the deserted park. Then Simkins and his team

melted into the natural cover, disappearing from view. Within seconds, Bellamy was alone, pacing and

shivering in the light of a streetlamp near the center of the park.

Sato felt no pity.

She lit a cigarette and took a long drag, savoring the warmth as it permeated her lungs. Satisfied that

everything below was in order, she stepped back from the edge to await her two phone calls—one from her

analyst Nola and one from Agent Hartmann, whom she had sent to Kalorama Heights.

CHAPTER 94

Slow down! Langdon gripped the backseat of the Escalade as it flew around a corner, threatening to tip up on

two tires. CIA agent Hartmann was either eager to show off his driving skills to Katherine, or he had orders

to get to Peter Solomon before Solomon recuperated enough to say anything he shouldn’t say to the local

authorities.

The high-speed game of beat-the-red-light on Embassy Row had been worrisome enough, but now they were

racing through the winding residential neighborhood of Kalorama Heights. Katherine shouted directions as

they went, having been to this man’s house earlier that afternoon.

With every turn, the leather bag at Langdon’s feet rocked back and forth, and Langdon could hear the clank

of the capstone, which had clearly been jarred from the top of the pyramid and was now bouncing around in

the bottom of his bag. Fearing it might get damaged, he fished around inside until he found it. It was still

warm, but the glowing text had now faded and disappeared, returning to its original engraving:

The secret hides within The Order.

As Langdon was about to place the capstone in a side pocket, he noticed its elegant surface was covered with

tiny white gobs of something. Puzzled, he tried to wipe them off, but they were stuck on and hard to the

touch . . . like plastic. What in the world? He could now see that the surface of the stone pyramid itself was also covered with the little white dots. Langdon used his fingernail and picked one off, rolling it between his

fingers.

“Wax?” he blurted.

Katherine glanced over her shoulder. “What?”

“There are bits of wax all over the pyramid and capstone. I don’t understand it. Where could that possibly

have come from?”

“Something in your bag, maybe?”

“I don’t think so.”

As they rounded a corner, Katherine pointed through the windshield and turned to Agent Hartmann. “That’s

it! We’re here.”

Langdon glanced up and saw the spinning lights of a security vehicle parked in a driveway up ahead. The

driveway gate was pulled aside and the agent gunned the SUV inside the compound.

The house was a spectacular mansion. Every light inside was ablaze, and the front door was wide open. A

half-dozen vehicles were parked haphazardly in the driveway and on the lawn, apparently having arrived in a

hurry. Some of the cars were still running and had their headlights shining, most on the house, but one

askew, practically blinding them as they drove in.

Agent Hartmann skidded to a stop on the lawn beside a white sedan with a brightly colored decal:

PREFERRED SECURITY. The spinning lights and the high beams in their face made it hard to see.

Katherine immediately jumped out and raced for the house. Langdon heaved his bag onto his shoulder

without taking the time to zip it up. He followed Katherine at a jog across the lawn toward the open front

door. The sounds of voices echoed within. Behind Langdon, the SUV chirped as Agent Hartmann locked the

vehicle and hurried after them.

Katherine bounded up the porch stairs, through the main door, and disappeared into the entryway. Langdon

crossed the threshold behind her and could see Katherine was already moving across the foyer and down the

main hallway toward the sound of voices. Beyond her, visible at the end of the hall, was a dining-room table

where a woman in a security uniform was sitting with her back to them.

“Officer!” Katherine shouted as she ran. “Where is Peter Solomon?”

Langdon rushed after her, but as he did so, an unexpected movement caught his eye. To his left, through the

living-room window, he could see the driveway gate was now swinging shut. Odd. Something else caught his

eye . . . something that had been hidden from him by the glare of the spinning lights and the blinding high

beams when they drove in. The half-dozen cars parked haphazardly in the driveway looked nothing like the

police cars and emergency vehicles Langdon had imagined they were.

A Mercedes? . . . a Hummer? . . . a Tesla Roadster?

In that instant, Langdon also realized the voices he heard in the house were nothing but a television blaring in

the direction of the dining room.

Wheeling in slow motion, Langdon shouted down the hallway. “Katherine, wait!”

But as he turned, he could see that Katherine Solomon was no longer running.

She was airborne.

CHAPTER 95

Katherine Solomon knew she was falling . . . but she couldn’t figure out why.

She had been running down the hall toward the security guard in the dining room when suddenly her feet had

become entangled in an invisible obstacle, and her entire body had lurched forward, sailing through the air.

Now she was returning to earth . . . in this case, a hardwood floor.

Katherine crashed down on her stomach, the wind driven violently from her lungs. Above her, a heavy coat

tree teetered precariously and then toppled over, barely missing her on the floor. She raised her head, still

gasping for breath, puzzled to see that the female security guard in the chair had not moved a muscle.

Stranger still, the toppled coat tree appeared to have a thin wire attached to the bottom, which had been

stretched across the hallway.

Why in the world would someone . . . ?

“Katherine!” Langdon was shouting to her, and as Katherine rolled onto her side and looked back at him, she

felt her blood turn to ice. Robert! Behind you! She tried to scream, but she was still gasping for breath. All she could do was watch in terrifying slow motion as Langdon rushed down the hall to help her, completely

unaware that behind him, Agent Hartmann was staggering across the threshold and clutching his throat.

Blood sprayed through Hartmann’s hands as he groped at the handle of a long screwdriver that protruded

from his neck.

As the agent pitched forward, his attacker came into full view.

My God . . . no!

Naked except for a strange undergarment that looked like a loincloth, the massive man had apparently been

hiding in the foyer. His muscular body was covered from head to toe with strange tattoos. The front door was

swinging closed, and he was rushing down the hall after Langdon.

Agent Hartmann hit the floor just as the front door slammed shut. Langdon looked startled and whirled

around, but the tattooed man was already on him, thrusting some kind of device into his back. There was a

flash of light and a sharp electrical sizzle, and Katherine saw Langdon go rigid. Eyes frozen wide, Langdon

lurched forward, collapsing down in a paralyzed heap. He fell hard on top of his leather bag, the pyramid

tumbling out onto the floor.

Without so much as a glance down at his victim, the tattooed man stepped over Langdon and headed directly

for Katherine. She was already crawling backward into the dining room, where she collided with a chair. The

female security guard, who had been propped in that chair, now wobbled and dropped to the floor in a heap

beside her. The woman’s lifeless expression was one of terror. Her mouth was stuffed with a rag.

The enormous man had reached her before Katherine had time to react. He seized her by the shoulders with

impossible strength. His face, no longer covered by makeup, was an utterly terrifying sight. His muscles

flexed, and she felt herself being flipped over onto her stomach like a rag doll. A heavy knee ground into her

back, and for a moment, she thought she would break in two. He grabbed her arms and pulled them

backward.

With her head now turned to one side and her cheek pressed into the carpet, Katherine could see Langdon,

his body still jerking, facing away from her. Beyond that, Agent Hartmann lay motionless in the foyer.

Cold metal pinched Katherine’s wrists, and she realized she was being bound with wire. In terror, she tried to

pull away, but doing so sent searing pain into her hands.

“This wire will cut you if you move,” the man said, finishing with her wrists and moving down to her ankles

with frightening efficiency.

Katherine kicked at him, and he threw a powerful fist into the back of her right thigh, crippling her leg.

Within seconds, her ankles were bound.

“Robert!” she now managed to call out.

Langdon was groaning on the floor in the hallway. He lay crumpled on his leather bag with the stone

pyramid lying on its side near his head. Katherine realized the pyramid was her last hope.

“We deciphered the pyramid!” she told her attacker. “I’ll tell you everything!”

“Yes, you will.” With that, he pulled the cloth from the dead woman’s mouth and firmly stuffed it into

Katherine’s.

It tasted like death.

Robert Langdon’s body was not his own. He lay, numb and immobile, his cheek pressed against the

hardwood floor. He had heard enough about stun guns to know they crippled their victims by temporarily

overloading the nervous system. Their action—something called electromuscular disruption—might as well

have been a bolt of lightning. The excruciating jolt of pain seemed to penetrate every molecule of his body.

Now, despite his mind’s focused intention, his muscles refused to obey the command he was sending them.

Get up!

Facedown, paralyzed on the floor, Langdon was gulping shallow breaths, scarcely able to inhale. He had yet

to lay eyes on the man who had attacked him, but he could see Agent Hartmann lying in an expanding pool

of blood. Langdon had heard Katherine struggling and arguing, but moments ago her voice had become

muffled, as if the man had stuffed something in her mouth.

Get up, Robert! You’ve got to help her!

Langdon’s legs were tingling now, a fiery and painful recovery of feeling, but still they refused to cooperate.

Move! His arms twitched as sensation started to come back, along with feeling in his face and neck. With

great effort, he managed to rotate his head, dragging his cheek roughly across the hardwood floor as he

turned his head to look down into the dining room.

Langdon’s sight line was impeded—by the stone pyramid, which had toppled out of his bag and was lying

sideways on the floor, its base inches from his face.

For an instant, Langdon didn’t understand what he was looking at. The square of stone before him was

obviously the base of the pyramid, and yet it looked somehow different. Very different. It was still square,

and still stone . . . but it was no longer flat and smooth. The base of the pyramid was covered with engraved

markings. How is this possible? He stared for several seconds, wondering if he was hallucinating. I looked at the base of this pyramid a dozen times . . . and there were no markings!

Langdon now realized why.

His breathing reflex kick-started, and he drew a sudden gasp of air, realizing that the Masonic Pyramid had

secrets yet to share. I have witnessed another transformation.

In a flash, Langdon understood the meaning of Galloway’s last request. Tell Peter this: The Masonic

Pyramid has always kept her secret . . . sincerely. The words had seemed strange at the time, but now

Langdon understood that Dean Galloway was sending Peter a code. Ironically, this same code had been a

plot twist in a mediocre thriller Langdon had read years ago.

Sin-cere.

Since the days of Michelangelo, sculptors had been hiding the flaws in

their work by smearing hot wax into the cracks and then dabbing the wax with stone dust. The method was

considered cheating, and therefore, any sculpture “without wax”—literally sine cera—was considered a

“sincere” piece of art. The phrase stuck. To this day we still sign our letters “sincerely” as a promise that we

have written “without wax” and that our words are true.

The engravings on the base of this pyramid had been concealed by the same method. When Katherine

followed the capstone’s directions and boiled the pyramid, the wax melted away, revealing the writing on the

base. Galloway had run his hands over the pyramid in the sitting room, apparently feeling the markings

exposed on the bottom.

Now, if only for an instant, Langdon had forgotten all the danger he and Katherine faced. He stared at the

incredible array of symbols on the base of the pyramid. He had no idea what they meant . . . or what they

would ultimately reveal, but one thing was for certain. The Masonic Pyramid has secrets left to tell. Eight

Franklin Square is not the final answer.

Whether it was this adrenaline-filled revelation or simply the extra few seconds lying there, Langdon did not

know, but he suddenly felt control returning to his body.

Painfully, he swept an arm to one side, pushing the leather bag out of the way to clear his sight line into the

dining room.

To his horror, he saw that Katherine had been tied up, and a large rag had been stuffed deep into her mouth.

Langdon flexed his muscles, trying to climb to his knees, but a moment later, he froze in utter disbelief. The

dining-room doorway had just filled with a chilling sight—a human form unlike anything Langdon had ever

seen.

What in the name of God . . . ?!

Langdon rolled, kicking with his legs, trying to back away, but the huge tattooed man grabbed him, flipping

him onto his back and straddling his chest. He placed his knees on Langdon’s biceps, pinning Langdon pain

fully to the floor. The man’s chest bore a rippling double-headed phoenix. His neck, face, and shaved head

were covered with a dazzling array of unusually intricate symbols—sigils, Langdon knew—which were used

in the rituals of dark ceremonial magic.

Before Langdon could process anything more, the huge man clasped Langdon’s ears between his palms,

lifted his head up off the floor, and, with incredible force, smashed it back down onto the hardwood.

Everything went black.

CHAPTER 96

Mal’akh stood in his hallway and surveyed the carnage around him. His home looked like a battlefield.

Robert Langdon lay unconscious at his feet.

Katherine Solomon was bound and gagged on the dining-room floor.

The corpse of a female security guard lay crumpled nearby, having toppled off the chair where she was

propped. This female guard, eager to save her own life, had done exactly as Mal’akh commanded. With a

knife to her throat, she had answered Mal’akh’s cell phone and told the lie that had coaxed Langdon and

Katherine to come racing out here. She had no partner, and Peter Solomon was certainly not okay. As soon

as the woman had given her performance, Mal’akh had quietly strangled her.

To complete the illusion that Mal’akh was not home, he had phoned Bellamy using the hands-free speaker in

one of his cars. I’m on the road, he had told Bellamy and whoever else had been listening. Peter is in my trunk. In fact, Mal’akh was driving only between his garage and his front yard, where he had left several of his myriad cars parked askew with the headlights on and the engines running.

The deception had worked perfectly.

Almost.

The only wrinkle was the bloody black-clad heap in the foyer with a screwdriver protruding from his neck.

Mal’akh searched the corpse and had to chuckle when he found a high-tech transceiver and cell phone with a

CIA logo. It seems even they are aware of my power. He removed the batteries and crushed both devices with a heavy bronze doorstop.

Mal’akh knew he had to move quickly now, especially if the CIA was involved. He strode back over to

Langdon. The professor was out cold and would be for a while. Mal’akh’s eyes moved with trepidation now

to the stone pyramid on the floor beside the professor’s open bag. His breath caught, and his heart pounded.

I have waited for years . . .

His hands trembled slightly as he reached down and picked up the Masonic Pyramid. As he ran his fingers

slowly across the engravings, he felt awed by their promise. Before he became too entranced, he put the

pyramid back in Langdon’s bag with the capstone and zipped it up.

I will assemble the pyramid soon . . . in a much safer location.

He threw Langdon’s bag over his shoulder and then tried to hoist Langdon himself, but the professor’s toned

physique weighed much more than anticipated. Mal’akh settled on grabbing him beneath the armpits and

dragging him across the floor. He’s not going to like where he ends up, Mal’akh thought.

As he dragged Langdon off, the television in the kitchen blared. The sound of voices from the TV had been

part of the deception, and Mal’akh had yet to turn it off. The station was now broadcasting a televangelist

leading his congregation in the Lord’s Prayer. Mal’akh wondered if any of his hypnotized viewers had any

idea where this prayer really came from.

“ . . . On earth as it is in heaven . . .” the group intoned.

Yes, Mal’akh thought. As above, so below.

“ . . . And lead us not into temptation . . .”

Help us master the weakness of our flesh.

“ . . . Deliver us from evil . . .” they all beseeched.

Mal’akh smiled. That could be difficult. The darkness is growing. Even so, he had to give them credit for

trying. Humans who spoke to invisible forces and requested help were a dying breed in this modern world.

Mal’akh was dragging Langdon across the living room when the congregation declared, “Amen!”

Amon, Mal’akh corrected. Egypt is the cradle of your religion. The god Amon was the prototype for Zeus . . .

for Jupiter . . . and for every modern face of God. To this day, every religion on earth shouted out a variation

of his name. Amen! Amin! Aum!

The televangelist began quoting verses from the Bible describing hierarchies of angels, demons, and spirits

that ruled in heaven and hell. “Protect your souls from evil forces!” he warned them. “Lift your hearts in

prayer! God and his angels will hear you!”

He’s right, Mal’akh knew. But so will the demons.

Mal’akh had learned long ago that through proper application of the Art, a practitioner could open a portal to

the spiritual realm. The invisible forces that existed there, much like man himself, came in many forms, both

good and evil. Those of Light healed, protected, and sought to bring order to the universe. Those of Dark

functioned oppositely . . . bringing destruction and chaos.

If properly summoned, the invisible forces could be persuaded to do a practitioner’s bidding on earth . . . thus

instilling him with seemingly supernatural power. In exchange for helping the summoner, these forces

required offerings—prayers and praise for those of Light . . . and the spilling of blood for those of Dark.

The greater the sacrifice, the greater the power that is transferred. Mal’akh had begun his practice with the blood of inconsequential animals. Over time, however, his choices for sacrifice had become more bold.

Tonight, I take the final step.

“Beware!” the preacher shouted, warning of the coming Apocalypse. “The final battle for the souls of man

will soon be fought!”

Indeed, Mal’akh thought. And I shall become its greatest warrior.

This battle, of course, had begun long, long ago. In ancient Egypt, those who perfected the Art had become

the great Adepts of history, evolving beyond the masses to become true practitioners of Light. They moved

as gods on earth. They built great temples of initiation to which neophytes traveled from around the world to

partake of the wisdom. There arose a race of golden men. For a brief span of time, mankind seemed poised to

elevate himself and transcend his earthly bonds.

The golden age of the Ancient Mysteries.

And yet man, being of the flesh, was susceptible to the sins of hubris, hatred, impatience, and greed. Over

time, there were those who corrupted the Art, perverting it and abusing its power for personal gain. They

began using this perverted version to summon dark forces. A different Art evolved . . . a more potent,

immediate, and intoxicating influence.

Such is my Art.

Such is my Great Work.

The illuminated Adepts and their esoteric fraternities witnessed the rising evil and saw that man was not

using his newfound knowledge for the good of his species. And so they hid their wisdom to keep it from the

eyes of the unworthy. Eventually, it was lost to history.

With this came the Great Fall of Man.

And a lasting darkness.

To this day, the noble descendants of the Adepts soldiered on, grasping blindly for the Light, trying to

recapture the lost power of their past, trying to keep the darkness at bay. They were the priests and

priestesses of the churches, temples, and shrines of all the religions on earth. Time had erased the memories .

. . detached them from their past. They no longer knew the Source from which their potent wisdom had once

flowed. When they were asked about the divine mysteries of their forebears, the new custodians of faith

vociferously disowned them, condemning them as heresy.

Have they truly forgotten? Mal’akh wondered.

Echoes of the ancient Art still resonated in every corner of the globe, from the mystical Kabbalists of

Judaism to the esoteric Sufis of Islam. Vestiges remained in the arcane rituals of Christianity, in its god-

eating rites of Holy Communion, its hierarchies of saints, angels, and demons, its chanting and incantation,

its holy calendar’s astrological underpinnings, its consecrated robes, and in its promise of everlasting life.

Even now, its priests dispelled evil spirits by swinging smoke-filled censers, ringing sacred bells, and

sprinkling holy water. Christians still practiced the supernatural craft of exorcism—an early practice of their

faith that required the ability not only to cast out demons but to summon them.

And yet they cannot see their past?

Nowhere was the church’s mystical past more evident than at her epicenter. In Vatican City, at the heart of

St. Peter’s Square, stood the great Egyptian obelisk. Carved thirteen hundred years before Jesus took his first

breath—this numinous monolith had no relevance there, no link to modern Christianity. And yet there it was.

At the core of Christ’s church. A stone beacon, screaming to be heard. A reminder to those few sages who

remembered where it all began. This church, born of the womb of the Ancient Mysteries, still bore her rites

and symbols.

One symbol above all.

Adorning her altars, vestments, spires, and Scripture was the singular image of Christianity—that of a

precious, sacrificed human being. Christianity, more than any other faith, understood the transformative

power of sacrifice. Even now, to honor the sacrifice made by Jesus, his followers proffered their own feeble

gestures of personal sacrifice . . . fasting, Lenten renunciation, tithing.

All of those offerings are impotent, of course. Without blood . . . there is no true sacrifice.

The powers of darkness had long embraced blood sacrifice, and in doing so, they had grown so strong that

the powers of goodness now struggled to keep them in check. Soon the Light would be entirely consumed,

and the practitioners of darkness would move freely through the minds of men.

CHAPTER 97

“Eight Franklin Square must exist,” Sato insisted. “Look it up again!”

Nola Kaye sat at her desk and adjusted her headset. “Ma’am, I’ve checked everywhere . . . that address

doesn’t exist in D.C.”

“But I’m on the roof of One Franklin Square,” Sato said. “There has to be an Eight!”

Director Sato’s on a roof? “Hold on.” Nola began running a new search. She was considering telling the OS

director about the hacker, but Sato seemed fixated on Eight Franklin Square at the moment. Besides, Nola

still didn’t have all the information. Where’s that damned sys-sec, anyway?

“Okay,” Nola said, eyeing her screen, “I see the problem. One Franklin Square is the name of the building . .

. not the address. The address is actually 1301 K Street.”

The news seemed to confound the director. “Nola, I don’t have time to explain—the pyramid clearly points

to the address Eight Franklin Square.”

Nola sat bolt upright. The pyramid points to a specific location?

“The inscription,” Sato continued, “reads: ‘The secret hides within The Order—Eight Franklin Square.’”

Nola could scarcely imagine. “An order like . . . a Masonic or fraternal order?”

“I assume so,” Sato replied.

Nola thought a moment, and then began typing again. “Ma’am, maybe the street numbers on the square

changed over the years? I mean, if this pyramid is as old as legend claims, maybe the numbers on Franklin

Square were different when the pyramid was built? I’m now running a search without the number eight . . .

for . . . ‘the order’ . . . ‘Franklin Square’ . . . and ‘Washington, D.C.’ . . . and this way, we might get some

idea if there’s—” She stalled midsentence as the search results appeared.

“What have you got?” Sato demanded.

Nola stared at the first result on the list—a spectacular image of the Great Pyramid of Egypt—which served

as the thematic backdrop for the

home page dedicated to a building on Franklin Square. The building was unlike any other building on the

square.

Or in the entire city, for that matter.

What stopped Nola cold was not the building’s bizarre architecture, but rather the description of its purpose.

According to the Web site, this unusual edifice was built as a sacred mystical shrine, designed by . . . and

designed for . . . an ancient secret order.

CHAPTER 98

Robert Langdon regained consciousness with a crippling headache.

Where am I?

Wherever he was, it was dark. Deep-cave dark, and deathly silent.

He was lying on his back with his arms at his side. Confused, he tried moving his fingers and toes, relieved to

find they moved freely with no pain. What happened? With the exception of his headache and the profound

darkness, everything seemed more or less normal.

Almost everything.

Langdon realized he was lying on a hard floor that felt unusually smooth, like a sheet of glass. Stranger still,

he could feel that the slick surface was in direct contact with his bare flesh . . . shoulders, back, buttocks,

thighs, calves. Am I naked? Puzzled, he ran his hands over his body.

Jesus! Where the hell are my clothes?

In the darkness, the cobwebs began to lift, and Langdon saw flashes of memory . . . frightening snapshots . . .

a dead CIA agent . . . the face of a tattooed beast . . . Langdon’s head smashing into the floor. The images

came faster . . . and now he recalled the sickening image of Katherine Solomon bound and gagged on the

dining-room floor.

My God!

Langdon sat bolt upright, and as he did, his forehead smashed into something suspended only inches above

him. Pain exploded through his skull and he fell back, teetering near unconsciousness. Groggy, he reached up

with his hands, groping in the darkness to find the obstacle. What he found made no sense to him. It seemed

this room’s ceiling was less than a foot above him. What in the world? As he spread his arms to his sides in an attempt to roll over, both of his hands hit sidewalls.

The truth now dawned on him. Robert Langdon was not in a room at all.

I’m in a box!

In the darkness of his small, coffinlike container, Langdon began pounding wildly with his fist. He shouted

over and over for help. The terror that gripped him deepened with each passing instant until it was

intolerable.

I have been buried alive.

The lid of Langdon’s strange coffin refused to budge, even with the full force of his arms and legs pushing

upward in wild panic. The box, from all he could tell, was made of heavy fiberglass. Airtight. Soundproof.

Lightproof. Escape-proof.

I am going to suffocate alone in this box.

He thought of the deep well into which he had fallen as a young boy, and of the terrifying night he spent

treading water alone in the darkness of a bottomless pit. That trauma had scarred Langdon’s psyche,

burdening him with an overwhelming phobia of enclosed spaces.

Tonight, buried alive, Robert Langdon was living his ultimate nightmare.

Katherine Solomon trembled in silence on the floor of Mal’akh’s dining room. The sharp wire around her

wrists and ankles had already cut into her, and the slightest movements seemed only to tighten her bonds.

The tattooed man had brutally knocked Langdon unconscious and dragged his limp body across the floor

along with his leather bag and the stone pyramid. Where they had gone, Katherine had no idea. The agent

who had accompanied them was dead. She had not heard a sound in many minutes, and she wondered if the

tattooed man and Langdon were still inside the house. She had been trying to scream for help, but with each

attempt, the rag in her mouth crept back dangerously closer to her windpipe.

Now she felt approaching footsteps on the floor, and she turned her head, hoping against hope that someone

was coming to help. The massive silhouette of her captor materialized in the hallway. Katherine recoiled as

she flashed on the image of him standing in her family home ten years earlier.

He killed my family.

Now he strode toward her. Langdon was nowhere to be seen. The man crouched down and gripped her

around the waist, hoisting her roughly onto his shoulder. The wire sliced into her wrists, and the rag muffled

her muted cries of pain. He carried her down the hallway toward the living room, where, earlier today, the

two of them had calmly sipped tea together.

Where is he taking me?!

He carried Katherine across the living room and stopped directly in front of the large oil painting of the

Three Graces that she had admired this afternoon.

“You mentioned you liked this painting,” the man whispered, his lips practically touching her ear. “I’m glad.

It may be the last thing of beauty you see.”

With that, he reached out and pressed his palm into the right side of the enormous frame. To Katherine’s

shock, the painting rotated into the wall, turning on a central pivot like a revolving door. A hidden doorway.

Katherine tried to wriggle free, but the man held her firmly, carrying her through the opening behind the

canvas. As the Three Graces pivoted shut behind them, she could see heavy insulation on the back of the

canvas. Whatever sounds were made back here were apparently not meant to be heard by the outside world.

The space behind the painting was cramped, more like a hallway than a room. The man carried her to the far

side and opened a heavy door, carrying her through it onto a small landing. Katherine found herself looking

down a narrow ramp into a deep basement. She drew a breath to scream, but the rag was choking her.

The incline was steep and narrow. The walls on either side were made of cement, awash in a bluish light that

seemed to emanate from below. The air that wafted up was warm and pungent, laden with an eerie blend of

smells . . . the sharp bite of chemicals, the smooth calm of incense, the earthy musk of human sweat, and,

pervading it all, a distinct aura of visceral, animal fear.

“Your science impressed me,” the man whispered as they reached the bottom of the ramp. “I hope mine

impresses you.”

CHAPTER 99

CIA field agent Turner Simkins crouched in the darkness of Franklin Park and kept his steady gaze on

Warren Bellamy . Nobody had taken the bait yet, but it was still early.

Simkins’s transceiver beeped, and he activated it, hoping one of his men had spotted something. But it was

Sato. She had new information.

Simkins listened and agreed with her concern. “Hold on,” he said. “I’ll see if I can get a visual.” He crawled

through the bushes in which he was hiding and peered back in the direction from which he had entered the

square. After some maneuvering, he finally opened a sight line.

Holy shit.

He was staring at a building that looked like an Old World mosque. Nestled between two much larger

buildings, the Moorish facade was made of gleaming terra-cotta tile laid in intricate multicolored designs.

Above the three massive doors, two tiers of lancet windows looked as if Arabian archers might appear and

open fire if anyone approached uninvited.

“I see it,” Simkins said.

“Any activity?”

“Nothing.”

“Good. I need you to reposition and watch it very carefully. It’s called the Almas Shrine Temple, and it’s the

headquarters of a mystical order.”

Simkins had worked in the D.C. area for a long time but was not familiar with this temple or any ancient

mystical order headquartered on Franklin Square.

“This building,” Sato said, “belongs to a group called the Ancient Arabic Order of Nobles of the Mystic

Shrine.”

“Never heard of them.”

“I think you have, ” Sato said. “They’re an appendant body of the Masons, more commonly known as the

Shriners.”

Simkins shot a dubious glance at the ornate building. The Shriners? The guys who build hospitals for kids?

He could imagine no “order” less ominous sounding than a fraternity of philanthropists who wore little red

fezzes and marched in parades.

Even so, Sato’s concerns were valid. “Ma’am, if our target realizes that this building is in fact ‘The Order’ on

Franklin Square, he won’t need the address. He’ll simply bypass the rendezvous and go directly to the correct

location.”

“My thoughts exactly. Keep an eye on the entrance.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Any word from Agent Hartmann in Kalorama Heights?”

“No, ma’am. You asked him to phone you directly.”

“Well, he hasn’t.”

Odd, Simkins thought, checking his watch. He’s overdue.

CHAPTER 100

Robert Langdon lay shivering, naked and alone in total blackness. Paralyzed by fear, he was no longer

pounding or shouting. Instead, he had closed his eyes and was doing his best to control his hammering heart

and his panicked breathing.

You are lying beneath a vast, nighttime sky, he tried to convince himself. There is nothing above you but miles of wide-open space.

This calming visualization had been the only way he had managed to survive a recent stint in an enclosed

MRI machine . . . that and a triple dose of Valium. Tonight, however, the visualization was having no effect

whatsoever.

The rag in Katherine Solomon’s mouth had shifted backward and was all but choking her. Her captor had

carried her down a narrow ramp and into a dark basement corridor. At the far end of the hall, she had

glimpsed a room lit with an eerie reddish-purple light, but they’d never made it that far. The man had stopped

instead at a small side room, carried her inside, and placed her on a wooden chair. He had set her down with

her bound wrists behind the chair back so she could not move.

Now Katherine could feel the wire on her wrists slicing deeper into her flesh. The pain barely registered next

to the rising panic she was feeling over being unable to breathe. The cloth in her mouth was slipping deeper

into her throat, and she felt herself gagging reflexively. Her vision started to tunnel.

Behind her, the tattooed man closed the room’s lone door and flipped on the light. Katherine’s eyes were

watering profusely now, and she could no longer differentiate objects in her immediate surroundings.

Everything had become a blur.

A distorted vision of colorful flesh appeared before her, and Katherine felt her eyes starting to flutter as she

teetered on the brink of unconsciousness. A scale-covered arm reached out and yanked the rag from her

mouth.

Katherine gasped, inhaling deep breaths, coughing and choking as her lungs flooded with precious air.

Slowly, her vision began to clear, and she found herself looking into the demon’s face. The visage was barely

human. Blanketing his neck, face, and shaved head was an astounding pattern of bizarre tattooed symbols.

With the exception of a small circle on top of his head, every inch of his body appeared to be decorated. A

massive double-headed phoenix on his chest glared at her through nipple eyes like some kind of ravenous

vulture, patiently waiting for her death.

“Open your mouth,” the man whispered.

Katherine stared at the monster with total revulsion. What?

“Open your mouth,” the man repeated. “Or the cloth goes back in.”

Trembling, Katherine opened her mouth. The man extended his thick, tattooed index finger, inserting it

between her lips. When he touched her tongue, Katherine thought she would vomit. He extracted his wet

finger and raised it to the top of his shaved head. Closing his eyes, he massaged her saliva into his small

circular patch of untattooed flesh.

Repulsed, Katherine looked away.

The room in which she was sitting appeared to be a boiler room of some sort—pipes on the walls, gurgling

sounds, fluorescent lights. Before she could take in her surroundings, though, her gaze stopped dead on

something beside her on the floor. A pile of clothing—turtleneck, tweed sport coat, loafers, Mickey Mouse

watch.

“My God!” She wheeled back to the tattooed animal before her. “What have you done with Robert?!”

“Shh,” the man whispered. “Or he’ll hear you.” He stepped to one side and motioned behind him.

Langdon was not there. All Katherine saw was a huge black fiberglass box. Its shape bore an unsettling

resemblance to the heavy crates in which corpses were shipped back from war. Two massive clasps firmly

locked the box shut.

“He’s inside?!” Katherine blurted. “But . . . he’ll suffocate!”

“No, he won’t,” the man said, pointing to a series of transparent pipes that ran along the wall into the bottom

of the crate. “He’ll only wish he could.”

In total darkness, Langdon listened intently to the muffled vibrations he now heard from the outside world.

Voices? He began pounding on the box and shouting at the top of his lungs. “Help! Can anyone hear me?!”

Far off, a muted voice called out. “Robert! My God, no! NO!”

He knew the voice. It was Katherine, and she sounded terrified. Even so, it was a welcome sound. Langdon

drew a breath to call out to her, but he stopped short, feeling an unexpected sensation at the back of his neck.

A faint breeze seemed to be emanating from the bottom of the box. How is that possible? He lay very still,

taking stock. Yes, definitely. He could feel the tiny hairs on the back of his neck being tickled by air

movement.

Instinctively, Langdon began feeling along the floor of the box, searching for the source of the air. It took

only a moment to locate. There’s a tiny vent! The small perforated opening felt similar to a drain plate on a sink or tub, except that a soft, steady breeze was now coming up through it.

He’s pumping air in for me. He doesn’t want me to suffocate.

Langdon’s relief was short-lived. A terrifying sound was now emanating up through the holes in the vent. It

was the unmistakable gurgle of flowing liquid . . . coming his way.

Katherine stared in disbelief at the clear shaft of liquid that was progressing down one of the pipes toward

Langdon’s crate. The scene looked like some kind of twisted stage magician’s act.

He’s pumping water into the crate?!

Katherine strained at her bonds, ignoring the deep bite of the wires around her wrists. All she could do was

look on in panic. She could hear Langdon pounding in desperation, but as the water reached the underside of

the container, the pounding stopped. There was a moment of terrified silence. Then the pounding started

again with renewed desperation.

“Let him out!” Katherine begged. “Please! You can’t do this!”

“Drowning is a terrible death, you know.” The man spoke calmly as he paced around her in circles. “Your

assistant, Trish, could tell you that.”

Katherine heard his words, but she could barely process them.

“You may remember that I almost drowned once,” the man whispered. “It was on your family’s estate in

Potomac. Your brother shot me, and I fell through the ice, out at Zach’s bridge.”

Katherine glared at him, filled with loathing. The night you killed my mother.

“The gods protected me that night,” he said. “And they showed me the way . . . to become one of them.”

The water gurgling into the box behind Langdon’s head felt warm . . . body temperature. The fluid was

already several inches deep and had

completely swallowed the back of his naked body. As it began creeping up his rib cage, Langdon felt a stark

reality closing in fast.

I’m going to die.

With renewed panic, he raised his arms and began pounding wildly again.

CHAPTER 101

“You’ve got to let him out!” Katherine begged, crying now. “We’ll do whatever you want!” She could hear

Langdon pounding more frantically as the water flowed into his container.

The tattooed man just smiled. “You’re easier than your brother. The things I had to do to get Peter to tell me

his secrets . . .”

“Where is he?!” she demanded. “Where is Peter?! Tell me! We did exactly what you wanted! We solved the

pyramid and—”

“No, you did not solve the pyramid. You played a game. You withheld information and brought a

government agent to my home. Hardly behavior I intend to reward.”

“We didn’t have a choice,” she replied, choking back the tears. “The CIA is looking for you. They made us

travel with an agent. I’ll tell you everything. Just let Robert out!” Katherine could hear Langdon shouting and

pounding in the crate, and she could see the water flowing through the pipe. She knew he didn’t have a lot of

time.

In front of her, the tattooed man spoke calmly, stroking his chin. “I assume there are agents waiting for me at

Franklin Square?”

Katherine said nothing, and the man placed his massive palms on her shoulders, slowly pulling her forward.

With her arms still wire-bound be hind the chair back, her shoulders strained, burning with pain, threatening

to dislocate.

“Yes!” Katherine said. “There are agents at Franklin Square!”

He pulled harder. “What is the address on the capstone?”

The pain in her wrists and shoulders grew unbearable, but Katherine said nothing.

“You can tell me now, Katherine, or I’ll break your arms and ask you again.”

“Eight!” she gasped in pain. “The missing number is eight! The capstone says: ‘The secret hides within The

Order—Eight Franklin Square!’ I swear it. I don’t know what else to tell you! It’s Eight Franklin Square!”

The man still did not release her shoulders.

“That’s all I know!” Katherine said. “That’s the address! Let go of me! Let Robert out of that tank!”

“I would . . . ” the man said, “but there’s one problem. I can’t go to Eight Franklin Square without being

caught. Tell me, what’s at that address?”

“I don’t know!”

“And the symbols on the base of the pyramid? On the underside? Do you know their meaning?”

“What symbols on the base?” Katherine had no idea what he was talking about. “The bottom has no symbols.

It’s smooth, blank stone!”

Apparently immune to the muffled cries for help emanating from the coffinlike crate, the tattooed man

calmly padded over to Langdon’s day-bag and retrieved the stone pyramid. Then he returned to Katherine

and held it up before her eyes so she could see the base.

When Katherine saw the engraved symbols, she gasped in bewilderment.

But . . . that’s impossible!

The bottom of the pyramid was entirely covered with intricate carvings. There was nothing there before! I’m

sure of it! She had no idea what these symbols could possibly mean. They seemed to span every mystical

tradition, including many she could not even place.

Total chaos.

“I . . . have no idea what this means,” she said.

“Nor do I,” her captor said. “Fortunately, we have a specialist at our disposal.” He glanced at the crate. “Let’s

ask him, shall we?” He carried the pyramid toward the crate.

For a brief instant of hope, Katherine thought he was going to unclasp the lid. Instead, he sat calmly on top of

the box, reached down, and slid a small panel to one side, revealing a Plexiglas window in the top of the

tank.

Light!

Langdon covered his eyes, squinting into the ray of light that now streamed in from above. As his eyes

adjusted, hope turned to confusion. He was looking up through what appeared to be a window in the top of

his crate. Through the window, he saw a white ceiling and a fluorescent light.

Without warning, the tattooed face appeared above him, peering down.

“Where is Katherine?!” Langdon shouted. “Let me out!”

The man smiled. “Your friend Katherine is here with me,” the man said. “I have the power to spare her life.

Your life as well. But your time is short, so I suggest you listen carefully.”

Langdon could barely hear him through the glass, and the water had risen higher, creeping across his chest.

“Are you aware,” the man asked, “that there are symbols on the base of the pyramid?”

“Yes!” Langdon shouted, having seen the extensive array of symbols when the pyramid had lain on the floor

upstairs. “But I have no idea what they mean! You need to go to Eight Franklin Square! The answer is there!

That’s what the capstone—”

“Professor, you and I both know the CIA is waiting for me there. I have no intention of walking into a trap.

Besides, I didn’t need the street number. There is only one building on that square that could possibly be

relevant—the Almas Shrine Temple.” He paused, staring down at Langdon. “The Ancient Arabic Order of

Nobles of the Mystic Shrine.”

Langdon was confused. He was familiar with the Almas Temple, but he had forgotten it was on Franklin

Square. The Shriners are . . . “The Order”? Their temple sits atop a secret staircase? It made no historical sense whatsoever, but Langdon was in no position at the moment to debate history. “Yes!” he shouted. “That

must be it! The secret hides within The Order!”

“You’re familiar with the building?”

“Absolutely!” Langdon raised his throbbing head to keep his ears above the quickly rising liquid. “I can help

you! Let me out!”

“So you believe you can tell me what this temple has to do with the symbols on the base of the pyramid?”

“Yes! Let me just look at the symbols!”

“Very well, then. Let’s see what you come up with.”

Hurry! With the warm liquid rising around him, Langdon pushed up on the lid, willing the man to unclasp it.

Please! Hurry! But the lid never opened. Instead, the base of the pyramid suddenly appeared, hovering above

the Plexiglas window.

Langdon stared up in panic.

“I trust this view is close enough for you?”The man held the pyramid in his tattooed hands. “Think fast,

Professor. I’m guessing you have less than sixty seconds.”

CHAPTER 102

Robert Langdon had often heard it said that an animal, when cornered, was capable of miraculous feats of

strength. Nonetheless, when he threw his full force into the underside of his crate, nothing budged at all.

Around him, the liquid continued rising steadily. With no more than six inches of breathing room left,

Langdon had lifted his head into the pocket of air that remained. He was now face-to-face with the Plexiglas

window, his eyes only inches away from the underside of the stone pyramid whose baffling engraving

hovered above him.

I have no idea what this means.

Concealed for over a century beneath a hardened mixture of wax and stone dust, the Masonic Pyramid’s final

inscription was now laid bare. The engraving was a perfectly square grid of symbols from every tradition

imaginable—alchemical, astrological, heraldic, angelic, magical, numeric, sigilic, Greek, Latin. As a totality,

this was symbolic anarchy—a bowl of alphabet soup whose letters came from dozens of different languages,

cultures, and time periods.

Total chaos.

Symbologist Robert Langdon, in his wildest academic interpretations, could not fathom how this grid of

symbols could be deciphered to mean anything at all. Order from this chaos? Impossible.

The liquid was now creeping over his Adam’s apple, and Langdon could feel his level of terror rising along

with it. He continued banging on the tank. The pyramid stared back at him tauntingly.

In frantic desperation, Langdon focused every bit of his mental energy on the chessboard of symbols. What

could they possibly mean? Unfortunately, the assortment seemed so disparate that he could not even imagine

where to begin. They’re not even from the same eras in history!

Outside the tank, her voice muffled but audible, Katherine could be heard tearfully begging for Langdon’s

release. Despite his failure to see a solution, the prospect of death seemed to motivate every cell in his body

to find one. He felt a strange clarity of mind, unlike anything he had ever experienced. Think! He scanned the grid intensely, searching for some clue—a pattern, a hidden word, a special icon, anything at all—but he saw

only a grid of unrelated symbols. Chaos.

With each passing second, Langdon had begun to feel an eerie numbness overtaking his body. It was as if his

very flesh were preparing to shield his mind from the pain of death. The water was now threatening to pour

into his ears, and he lifted his head as far as he could, pushing it against the top of the crate. Frightening

images began flashing before his eyes. A boy in New England treading water at the bottom of a dark well. A

man in Rome trapped beneath a skeleton in an overturned coffin.

Katherine’s shouts were growing more frantic. From all Langdon could hear, she was trying to reason with a

madman—insisting that Langdon could not be expected to decipher the pyramid without going to visit the

Almas Temple. “That building obviously holds the missing piece to this puzzle! How can Robert decipher

the pyramid without all the information?!”

Langdon appreciated her efforts, and yet he felt certain that “Eight Franklin Square” was not pointing to the Almas Temple. The time line is all wrong! According to legend, the Masonic Pyramid was created in the

mid-1800s, decades before the Shriners even existed. In fact, Langdon realized, it was probably before the

square was even called Franklin Square. The capstone could not possibly have been pointing to an unbuilt

building at a nonexistent address. Whatever “Eight Franklin Square” was pointing to . . . it had to exist in

1850.

Unfortunately, Langdon was drawing a total blank.

He probed his memory banks for anything that could possibly fit the

time line. Eight Franklin Square? Something that was in existence in 1850? Langdon came up with nothing.

The liquid was trickling into his ears now. Fighting his terror, he stared up at the grid of symbols on the

glass. I don’t understand the connection! In a petrified frenzy, his mind began spewing all the far-flung

parallels it could generate.

Eight Franklin Square . . . squares . . . this grid of symbols is a square . . . the square and the compass are

Masonic symbols . . . Masonic altars are square . . . squares have ninety-degree angles. The water kept

rising, but Langdon blocked it out. Eight Franklin . . . eight . . . this grid is eight-by-eight . . . Franklin has eight letters . . . “The Order” has eight letters . . . 8 is the rotated symbol for infinity . . . eight is the number of destruction in numerology . . .

Langdon had no idea.

Outside the tank, Katherine was still pleading, but Langdon’s hearing was now intermittent as the water was

sloshing around his head.

“ . . . impossible without knowing . . . capstone’s message clearly . . . the secret hides within—”

Then she was gone.

Water poured into Langdon’s ears, blotting out the last of Katherine’s voice. A sudden womblike silence

engulfed him, and Langdon realized he truly was going to die.

The secret hides within—

Katherine’s final words echoed through the hush of his tomb.

The secret hides within . . .

Strangely, Langdon realized he had heard these exact words many times before.

The secret hides . . . within.

Even now, it seemed, the Ancient Mysteries were taunting him. “The secret hides within” was the core tenet

of the mysteries, urging man kind to seek God not in the heavens above . . . but rather within himself. The secret hides within. It was the message of all the great mystical teachers.

The kingdom of God is within you, said Jesus Christ.

Know thyself, said Pythagoras.

Know ye not that ye are gods, said Hermes Trismegistus.

The list went on and on . . .

All the mystical teachings of the ages had attempted to convey this one idea. The secret hides within. Even

so, mankind continued looking to the heavens for the face of God.

This realization, for Langdon, now became an ultimate irony. Right

now, with his eyes facing the heavens like all the blind men who preceded him, Robert Langdon suddenly

saw the light.

It hit him like a bolt from above.

The

secret hides

within The Order

Eight Franklin Square

In a flash he understood.

The message on the capstone was suddenly crystal clear. Its meaning had been staring him in the face all

night. The text on the capstone, like the Masonic Pyramid itself, was a symbolon—a code in pieces—a

message written in parts. The capstone’s meaning was camouflaged in so simple a manner that Langdon

could scarcely believe he and Katherine had not spotted it.

More astonishing still, Langdon now realized that the message on the capstone did indeed reveal exactly how

to decipher the grid of symbols on the base of the pyramid. It was so very simple. Exactly as Peter Solomon

had promised, the golden capstone was a potent talisman with the power to bring order from chaos.

Langdon began pounding on the lid and shouting, “I know! I know!”

Above him, the stone pyramid lifted off and hovered away. In its place, the tattooed face reappeared, its

chilling visage staring down through the small window.

“I solved it!” Langdon shouted. “Let me out!”

When the tattooed man spoke, Langdon’s submerged ears heard nothing. His eyes, however, saw the lips

speak two words. “Tell me.”

“I will!” Langdon screamed, the water almost to his eyes. “Let me out! I’ll explain everything!” It’s so

simple.

The man’s lips moved again. “Tell me now . . . or die.”

With the water rising through the final inch of air space, Langdon tipped his head back to keep his mouth

above the waterline. As he did so, warm liquid poured into his eyes, blurring his vision. Arching his back, he

pressed his mouth against the Plexiglas window.

Then, with his last few seconds of air, Robert Langdon shared the secret of how to decipher the Masonic

Pyramid.

As he finished speaking, the liquid rose around his lips. Instinctively, Langdon drew a final breath and

clamped his mouth shut. A moment later, the fluid covered him entirely, reaching the top of his tomb and

spreading out across the Plexiglas.

He did it, Mal’akh realized. Langdon figured out how to solve the pyramid.

The answer was so simple. So obvious.

Beneath the window, the submerged face of Robert Langdon stared up at him with desperate and beseeching

eyes.

Mal’akh shook his head at him and slowly mouthed the words: “Thank you, Professor. Enjoy the afterlife.”

CHAPTER 103

As a serious swimmer, Robert Langdon had often wondered what it would feel like to drown. He now knew

he was going to learn firsthand. Although he could hold his breath longer than most people, he could already

feel his body reacting to the absence of air. Carbon dioxide was accumulating in his blood, bringing with it

the instinctual urge to inhale. Do not breathe! The reflex to inhale was increasing in intensity with each

passing moment. Langdon knew very soon he would reach what was called the breath-hold breakpoint—that

critical moment at which a person could no longer voluntarily hold his breath.

Open the lid! Langdon’s instinct was to pound and struggle, but he knew better than to waste valuable

oxygen. All he could do was stare up through the blur of water above him and hope. The world outside was

now only a hazy patch of light above the Plexiglas window. His core muscles had begun burning, and he

knew hypoxia was setting in.

Suddenly a beautiful and ghostly face appeared, gazing down at him. It was Katherine, her soft features

looking almost ethereal through the veil of liquid. Their eyes met through the Plexiglas window, and for an

instant, Langdon thought he was saved. Katherine! Then he heard her muted cries of horror and realized she

was being held there by their captor. The tattooed monster was forcing her to bear witness to what was about

to happen.

Katherine, I’m sorry . . .

In this strange, dark place, trapped underwater, Langdon strained to comprehend that these would be his final moments of life. Soon he would cease to exist . . . everything he was . . . or had ever been . . . or would ever

be . . . was ending. When his brain died, all of the memories held in his gray matter, along with all of the

knowledge he had acquired, would simply evaporate in a flood of chemical reactions.

In this moment, Robert Langdon realized his true insignificance in the universe. It was as lonely and

humbling a feeling as he had ever

experienced. Almost thankfully, he could feel the breath-hold breakpoint arriving.

The moment was upon him.

Langdon’s lungs forced out their spent contents, collapsing in eager preparation to inhale. Still he held out an

instant longer. His final second. Then, like a man no longer able to hold his hand to a burning stove, he gave

himself over to fate.

Reflex overruled reason.

His lips parted.

His lungs expanded.

And the liquid came pouring in.

The pain that filled his chest was greater than Langdon had ever imagined. The liquid burned as it poured

into his lungs. Instantly, the pain shot upward into his skull, and he felt like his head was being crushed in a

vise. There was great thundering in his ears, and through it all, Katherine Solomon was screaming.

There was a blinding flash of light.

And then blackness.

Robert Langdon was gone.

CHAPTER 104

It’s over.

Katherine Solomon had stopped screaming. The drowning she had just witnessed had left her catatonic,

virtually paralyzed with shock and despair.

Beneath the Plexiglas window, Langdon’s dead eyes stared past her into empty space. His frozen expression

was one of pain and regret. The last tiny air bubbles trickled out of his lifeless mouth, and then, as if

consenting to give up his ghost, the Harvard professor slowly began sinking to the bottom of the tank . . .

where he disappeared into the shadows.

He’s gone. Katherine felt numb.

The tattooed man reached down, and with pitiless finality, he slid the small viewing window closed, sealing

Langdon’s corpse inside.

Then he smiled at her. “Shall we?”

Before Katherine could respond, he hoisted her grief-stricken body onto his shoulder, turned out the light,

and carried her out of the room. With a few powerful strides, he transported her to the end of the hall, into a

large space that seemed to be bathed in a reddish-purple light. The room smelled like incense. He carried her

to a square table in the center of the room and dropped her hard on her back, knocking the wind out of her.

The surface felt rough and cold. Is this stone?

Katherine had hardly gotten her bearings before the man had removed the wire from her wrists and ankles.

Instinctively, she attempted to fight him off, but her cramped arms and legs barely responded. He now began

strapping her to the table with heavy leather bands, cinching one strap across her knees and then buckling a

second across her hips, pinning her arms at her sides. Then he placed a final strap across her sternum, just

above her breasts.

It had all taken only moments, and Katherine was again immobilized. Her wrists and ankles throbbed now as

the circulation returned to her limbs.

“Open your mouth,” the man whispered, licking his own tattooed lips.

Katherine clenched her teeth in revulsion.

The man again reached out with his index finger and ran it slowly around her lips, making her skin crawl.

She clenched her teeth tighter. The tattooed man chuckled and, using his other hand, found a pressure point

on her neck and squeezed. Katherine’s jaw instantly dropped open. She could feel his finger entering her

mouth and running along her tongue. She gagged and tried to bite it, but the finger was already gone. Still

grinning, he raised his moist fingertip before her eyes. Then he closed his eyes and, once again, rubbed her

saliva into the bare circle of flesh on his head.

The man sighed and slowly opened his eyes. Then, with an eerie calm, he turned and left the room.

In the sudden silence, Katherine could feel her heart pounding. Directly over her, an unusual series of lights

seemed to be modulating from purple red to a deep crimson, illuminating the room’s low ceiling. When she

saw the ceiling, all she could do was stare. Every inch was covered with drawings. The mind-boggling

collage above her appeared to depict the celestial sky. Stars, planets, and constellations mingled with

astrological symbols, charts, and formulas. There were arrows predicting elliptical orbits, geometric symbols

indicating angles of ascension, and zodiacal creatures peering down at her. It looked like a mad scientist had

gotten loose in the Sistine Chapel.

Turning her head, Katherine looked away, but the wall to her left was no better. A series of candles on

medieval floor stands shed a flickering glow on a wall that was completely hidden beneath pages of text,

photos, and drawings. Some of the pages looked like papyrus or vellum torn from ancient books; others were

obviously from newer texts; mixed in were photographs, drawings, maps, and schematics; all of them

appeared to have been glued to the wall with meticulous care. A spiderweb of strings had been thumbtacked

across them, interconnecting them in limitless chaotic possibilities.

Katherine again looked away, turning her head in the other direction.

Unfortunately, this provided the most terrifying view of all.

Adjacent to the stone slab on which she was strapped, there stood a small side counter that instantly

reminded her of an instrument table from a hospital operating room. On the counter was arranged a series of

objects—among them a syringe, a vial of dark liquid . . . and a large knife with a bone handle and a blade

hewn of iron burnished to an unusually high shine.

My God . . . what is he planning to do to me?

CHAPTER 105

When CIA systems security specialist Rick Parrish finally loped into Nola Kaye’s office, he was carrying a

single sheet of paper.

“What took you so long?!” Nola demanded. I told you to come down immediately!

“Sorry,” he said, pushing up his bottle-bottom glasses on his long nose. “I was trying to gather more

information for you, but—”

“Just show me what you’ve got.”

Parrish handed her the printout. “It’s a redaction, but you get the gist.”

Nola scanned the page in amazement.

“I’m still trying to figure out how a hacker got access,” Parrish said, “but it looks like a delegator spider

hijacked one of our search—”

“Forget that!” Nola blurted, glancing up from the page. “What the hell is the CIA doing with a classified file about pyramids, ancient portals, and engraved symbolons?”

“That’s what took me so long. I was trying to see what document was being targeted, so I traced the file

path.” Parrish paused, clearing his throat. “This document turns out to be on a partition personally assigned

to . . . the CIA director himself.”

Nola wheeled, staring in disbelief. Sato’s boss has a file about the Masonic Pyramid? She knew that the

current director, along with many other top CIA executives, was a high-ranking Mason, but Nola could not

imagine any of them keeping Masonic secrets on a CIA computer.

Then again, considering what she had witnessed in the last twenty-four hours, anything was possible.

Agent Simkins was lying on his stomach, ensconced in the bushes of Franklin Square. His eyes were trained

on the columned entry of the Almas Temple. Nothing. No lights had come on inside, and no one had

approached the door. He turned his head and checked on Bellamy. The man was pacing alone in the middle

of the park, looking cold. Really cold. Simkins could see him shaking and shivering.

His phone vibrated. It was Sato.

“How overdue is our target?” she demanded.

Simkins checked his chronograph. “Target said twenty minutes. It’s been almost forty. Something’s wrong.”

“He’s not coming,” Sato said. “It’s over.”

Simkins knew she was right. “Any word from Hartmann?”

“No, he never checked in from Kalorama Heights. I can’t reach him.”

Simkins stiffened. If this was true, then something was definitely wrong.

“I just called field support,” Sato said, “and they can’t find him either.”

Holy shit. “Do they have a GPS location on the Escalade?”

“Yeah. A residential address in Kalorama Heights,” Sato said. “Gather your men. We’re pulling out.”

Sato clicked off her phone and gazed out at the majestic skyline of her nation’s capital. An icy wind whipped

through her light jacket, and she wrapped her arms around herself to stay warm. Director Inoue Sato was not

a woman who often felt cold . . . or fear. At the moment, however, she was feeling both.

CHAPTER 106

Mal’akh wore only his silk loincloth as he dashed up the ramp, through the steel door, and out through the

painting into his living room. I need to prepare quickly. He glanced over at the dead CIA agent in the foyer.

This home is no longer safe.

Carrying the stone pyramid in one hand, Mal’akh strode directly to his first-floor study and sat down at his

laptop computer. As he logged in, he pictured Langdon downstairs and wondered how many days or even

weeks would pass before the submerged corpse was discovered in the secret basement. It made no difference.

Mal’akh would be long gone by then.

Langdon has served his role . . . brilliantly.

Not only had Langdon reunited the pieces of the Masonic Pyramid, he had figured out how to solve the

arcane grid of symbols on the base. At first glance, the symbols seemed indecipherable . . . and yet the

answer was simple . . . staring them in the face.

Mal’akh’s laptop sprang to life, the screen displaying the same e-mail he had received earlier—a photograph

of a glowing capstone, partially blocked by Warren Bellamy’s finger.

The

secret hides

within The Order.

Franklin Square.

Eight . . . Franklin Square, Katherine had told Mal’akh. She had also admitted that CIA agents were staking

out Franklin Square, hoping to capture Mal’akh and also figure out what order was being referenced by the

capstone. The Masons? The Shriners? The Rosicrucians?

None of these, Mal’akh now knew. Langdon saw the truth.

Ten minutes earlier, with liquid rising around his face, the Harvard professor had figured out the key to

solving the pyramid. “The Order Eight Franklin Square!” he had shouted, terror in his eyes. “The secret hides

within The Order Eight Franklin Square!”

At first, Mal’akh failed to understand his meaning.

“It’s not an address!” Langdon yelled, his mouth pressed to the Plexiglas window. “The Order Eight Franklin

Square! It’s a magic square!” Then he said something about Albrecht Dьrer . . . and how the pyramid’s first

code was a clue to breaking this final one.

Mal’akh was familiar with magic squares— kameas, as the early mystics called them. The ancient text De

Occulta Philosophia described in detail the mystical power of magic squares and the methods for designing

powerful sigils based on magical grids of numbers. Now Langdon was telling him that a magic square held

the key to deciphering the base of the pyramid?

“You need an eight-by-eight magic square!” the professor had been yelling, his lips the only part of his body

above the liquid. “Magic squares are categorized in orders! A three-by-three square is an ‘order three’! A

four-by-four square is an ‘order four’! You need an ‘order eight’!”

The liquid had been about to engulf Langdon entirely, and the professor drew one last desperate breath and

shouted out something about a famous Mason . . . an American forefather . . . a scientist, mystic,

mathematician, inventor . . . as well as the creator of the mystical kamea that bore his name to this day.

Franklin.

In a flash, Mal’akh knew Langdon was right.

Now, breathless with anticipation, Mal’akh sat upstairs at his laptop. He ran a quick Web search, received

dozens of hits, chose one, and began reading.

THE ORDER EIGHT FRANKLIN SQUARE

One of history’s best-known magic squares is the order-eight square published in 1769 by American scientist

Benjamin Franklin, and which became famous for its inclusion of never-before-seen “bent diagonal

summations.” Franklin’s obsession with this mystical art form most likely stemmed from his personal

associations with the prominent alchemists and mystics of his day, as well as his own belief in astrology,

which were the underpinnings for the predictions made in his Poor Richard’s Almanack.

Mal’akh studied Franklin’s famous creation—a unique arrangement of the numbers 1 through 64—in which

every row, column, and diagonal added up to the same magical constant. The secret hides within The Order

Eight Franklin Square.

Mal’akh smiled. Trembling with excitement, he grabbed the stone pyramid and flipped it over, examining the

base.

These sixty-four symbols needed to be reorganized and arranged in a different order, their sequence defined

by the numbers in Franklin’s magic square. Although Mal’akh could not imagine how this chaotic grid of

symbols would suddenly make sense in a different order, he had faith in the ancient promise.

Ordo ab chao.

Heart racing, he took out a sheet of paper and quickly drew an empty eight-by-eight grid. Then he began

inserting the symbols, one by one, in their newly defined positions. Almost immediately, to his astonishment,

the grid began making sense.

Order from chaos!

He completed the entire decryption and stared in disbelief at the solution before him. A stark image had

taken shape. The jumbled grid had been transformed . . . reorganized . . . and although Mal’akh could not

grasp the meaning of the entire message, he understood enough . . . enough to know exactly where he was

now headed.

The pyramid points the way.

The grid pointed to one of the world’s great mystical locations. Incredibly, it was the same location at which

Mal’akh had always fantasized he would complete his journey.

Destiny.

CHAPTER 107

The stone table felt cold beneath Katherine Solomon’s back.

Horrifying images of Robert’s death continued to swirl through her mind, along with thoughts of her brother.

Is Peter dead, too? The strange knife on the nearby table kept bringing flashes of what might lie in store for her as well .

Is this really the end?

Oddly, her thoughts turned abruptly to her research . . . to Noetic Science . . . and to her recent

breakthroughs. All of it lost . . . up in smoke. She would never be able to share with the world everything she had learned. Her most shocking discovery had taken place only a few months ago, and the results had the

potential to redefine the way humans thought about death. Strangely, thinking now of that experiment . . .

was bringing her an unexpected solace.

As a young girl, Katherine Solomon had often wondered if there was life after death. Does heaven exist?

What happens when we die? As she grew older, her studies in science quickly erased any fanciful notions of

heaven, hell, or the afterlife. The concept of “life after death,” she came to accept, was a human construct . . .

a fairy tale designed to soften the horrifying truth that was our mortality.

Or so I believed . . .

A year ago, Katherine and her brother had been discussing one of philosophy’s most enduring questions—the

existence of the human soul—specifically the issue of whether or not humans possessed some kind of

consciousness capable of survival outside of the body.

They both sensed that such a human soul probably did exist. Most ancient philosophies concurred. Buddhist

and Brahminical wisdom endorsed metempsychosis—the transmigration of the soul into a new body after

death; Platonists defined the body as a “prison” from which the soul escaped; and the Stoics called the soul

apospasma tou theu—“a particle of God”—and believed it was recalled by God upon death.

The existence of the human soul, Katherine noted with some

frustration, was probably a concept that would never be scientifically proven. Confirming that a

consciousness survived outside the human body after death was akin to exhaling a puff of smoke and hoping

to find it years later.

After their discussion, Katherine had a strange notion. Her brother had mentioned the Book of Genesis and

its description of the soul as Neshemah—a kind of spiritual “intelligence” that was separate from the body. It occurred to Katherine that the word intelligence suggested the presence of thought. Noetic Science clearly suggested that thoughts had mass, and so it stood to reason, then, that the human soul might therefore also

have mass.

Can I weigh a human soul?

The notion was impossible, of course . . . foolish even to ponder.

It was three days later that Katherine suddenly woke up from a dead sleep and sat bolt upright in bed. She

jumped up, drove to her lab, and immediately began work designing an experiment that was both startlingly

simple . . . and frighteningly bold.

She had no idea if it would work, and she decided not to tell Peter about her idea until her work was

complete. It took four months, but finally Katherine brought her brother into the lab. She wheeled out a large

piece of gear that she had been keeping hidden in the back storage room.

“I designed and built it myself,” she said, showing Peter her invention. “Any guesses?”

Her brother stared at the strange machine. “An incubator?”

Katherine laughed and shook her head, although it was a reasonable guess. The machine did look a bit like

the transparent incubators for premature babies one saw in hospitals. This machine, however, was adult

size—a long, airtight, clear plastic capsule, like some kind of futuristic sleeping pod. It sat atop a large piece

of electronic gear.

“See if this helps you guess,” Katherine said, plugging the contraption into a power source. A digital display lit up on the machine, its numbers jumping around as she carefully calibrated some dials.

When she was done, the display read:

0.0000000000 kg

“A scale?” Peter asked, looking puzzled.

“Not just any scale.” Katherine took a tiny scrap of paper off a nearby counter and laid it gently on top of the

capsule. The numbers on the display jumped around again and then settled on a new reading.

.0008194325 kg

“High-precision microbalance,” she said. “Resolution down to a few micrograms.”

Peter still looked puzzled. “You built a precise scale for . . . a person?”

“Exactly.” She lifted the transparent lid on the machine. “If I place a person inside this capsule and close the

lid, the individual is in an entirely sealed system. Nothing gets in or out. No gas, no liquid, no dust particles.

Nothing can escape—not the person’s breath exhalations, evaporating sweat, body fluids, nothing.”

Peter ran a hand through his thick head of silver hair, a nervous mannerism shared by Katherine. “Hmm . . .

obviously a person would die in there pretty quickly.”

She nodded. “Six minutes or so, depending on their breathing rate.”

He turned to her. “I don’t get it.”

She smiled. “You will.”

Leaving the machine behind, Katherine led Peter into the Cube’s control room and sat him down in front of

the plasma wall. She began typing and accessed a series of video files stored on the holographic drives.

When the plasma wall flickered to life, the image before them looked like home-video footage.

The camera panned across a modest bedroom with an unmade bed, medication bottles, a respirator, and a

heart monitor. Peter looked baffled as the camera kept panning and finally revealed, near the center of the

bedroom, Katherine’s scale contraption.

Peter’s eyes widened. “What the . . . ?”

The capsule’s transparent lid was open, and a very old man in an oxygen mask lay inside. His elderly wife

and a hospice worker stood beside the pod. The man’s breathing was labored, and his eyes were closed.

“The man in the capsule was a science teacher of mine at Yale,” Katherine said. “He and I have kept in touch

over the years. He’s been very ill. He always said he wanted to donate his body to science, so when I

explained my idea for this experiment, he immediately wanted to be a part of it.”

Peter was apparently mute with shock as he stared at the scene unfolding before them.

The hospice worker now turned to the man’s wife. “It’s time. He’s ready.”

The old woman dabbed her tearful eyes and nodded with a resolute calm. “Okay.”

Very gently, the hospice worker reached into the pod and removed the

man’s oxygen mask. The man stirred slightly, but his eyes remained closed. Now the worker wheeled the

respirator and other equipment off to the side, leaving the old man in the capsule totally isolated in the center

of the room.

The dying man’s wife now approached the pod, leaned down, and gently kissed her husband’s forehead. The

old man did not open his eyes, but his lips moved, ever so slightly, into a faint, loving smile.

Without his oxygen mask, the man’s breathing was quickly becoming more labored. The end was obviously

near. With an admirable strength and calm, the man’s wife slowly lowered the transparent lid of the capsule

and sealed it shut, exactly as Katherine had taught her.

Peter recoiled in alarm. “Katherine, what in the name of God?!”

“It’s okay,” Katherine whispered. “There’s plenty of air in the capsule.” She had seen this video dozens of

times now, but it still made her pulse race. She pointed to the scale beneath the dying man’s sealed pod. The

digital numbers read:

51.4534644 kg

“That’s his body weight,” Katherine said.

The old man’s breathing became more shallow, and Peter inched forward, transfixed.

“This is what he wanted,” Katherine whispered. “Watch what happens.”

The man’s wife had stepped back and was now seated on the bed, silently looking on with the hospice

worker.

Over the course of the next sixty seconds, the man’s shallow breathing grew faster, until all at once, as if the

man himself had chosen the moment, he simply took his last breath. Everything stopped.

It was over.

The wife and hospice worker quietly comforted each other.

Nothing else happened.

After a few seconds, Peter glanced over at Katherine in apparent confusion.

Wait for it, she thought, redirecting Peter’s gaze to the capsule’s digital display, which still quietly glowed, showing the dead man’s weight.

Then it happened.

When Peter saw it, he jolted backward, almost falling out of his chair. “But . . . that’s . . .” He covered his

mouth in shock. “I can’t . . .”

It was seldom that the great Peter Solomon was speechless. Katherine’s reaction had been similar the first

few times she saw what had happened.

Moments after the man’s death, the numbers on the scale had decreased suddenly. The man had become

lighter immediately after his death. The weight change was minuscule, but it was measurable . . . and the

implications were utterly mind-boggling.

Katherine recalled writing in her lab notes with a trembling hand: “There seems to exist an invisible

‘material’ that exits the human body at the moment of death. It has quantifiable mass which is unimpeded by

physical barriers. I must assume it moves in a dimension I cannot yet perceive.”

From the expression of shock on her brother’s face, Katherine knew he understood the implications.

“Katherine . . .” he stammered, blinking his gray eyes as if to make sure he was not dreaming. “I think you

just weighed the human soul.”

There was a long silence between them.

Katherine sensed that her brother was attempting to process all the stark and wondrous ramifications. It will

take time. If what they had just witnessed was indeed what it seemed to be—that is, evidence that a soul or

consciousness or life force could move outside the realm of the body—then a startling new light had just

been shed on countless mystical questions: transmigration, cosmic consciousness, near-death experiences,

astral projection, remote viewing, lucid dreaming, and on and on. Medical journals were filled with stories of

patients who had died on the operating table, viewed their bodies from above, and then been brought back to

life.

Peter was silent, and Katherine now saw he had tears in his eyes. She understood. She had cried, too. Peter

and Katherine had lost loved ones, and for anyone in that position, the faintest hint of the human spirit

continuing after death brought a glimmer of hope.

He’s thinking of Zachary, Katherine thought, recognizing the deep melancholy in her brother’s eyes. For

years Peter had carried the burden of responsibility for his son’s death. He had told Katherine many times

that leaving Zachary in prison had been the worst mistake of his life, and that he would never find a way to

forgive himself.

A slamming door drew Katherine’s attention, and suddenly she was back in the basement, lying on a cold

stone table. The metal door at the top of the ramp had closed loudly, and the tattooed man was coming back

down. She could hear him entering one of the rooms down the hall, doing something inside, and then

continuing along the hall toward the room she was in. As he entered, she could see that he was pushing

something in front of him. Something heavy . . . on wheels. As he stepped into the light, she stared in

disbelief. The tattooed man was pushing a person in a wheelchair.

Intellectually, Katherine’s brain recognized the man in the chair. Emotionally, her mind could barely accept

what she was looking at.

Peter?

She didn’t know whether to be overjoyed that her brother was alive . . . or utterly horrified. Peter’s body had

been shaved smooth. His mane of thick silver hair was all gone, as were his eyebrows, and his smooth skin

glistened as if it had been oiled. He wore a black silk gown. Where his right hand should have been, he had

only a stump, wrapped in a clean, fresh bandage. Her brother’s pain-laden eyes reached out to hers, filled

with regret and sorrow.

“Peter!” Her voice cracked.

Her brother tried to speak but made only muffled, guttural noises. Katherine now realized he was bound to

the wheelchair and had been gagged.

The tattooed man reached down and gently stroked Peter’s shaved scalp. “I’ve prepared your brother for a

great honor. He has a role to play tonight.”

Katherine’s entire body went rigid. No . . .

“Peter and I will be leaving in a moment, but I thought you’d want to say good-bye.”

“Where are you taking him?” she said weakly.

He smiled. “Peter and I must journey to the sacred mountain. That is where the treasure lies. The Masonic

Pyramid has revealed the location. Your friend Robert Langdon was most helpful.”

Katherine looked into her brother’s eyes. “He killed . . . Robert.”

Her brother’s expression contorted in agony, and he shook his head violently, as if unable to bear any more

pain.

“Now, now, Peter,” the man said, again stroking Peter’s scalp. “Don’t let this ruin the moment. Say good-bye

to your little sister. This is your final family reunion.”

Katherine felt her mind welling with desperation. “Why are you doing this?!” she shouted at him. “What

have we ever done to you?! Why do you hate my family so much?!”

The tattooed man came over and placed his mouth right next to her ear. “I have my reasons, Katherine.”

Then he walked to the side table and picked up the strange knife. He brought it over to her and ran the

burnished blade across her cheek. “This is arguably the most famous knife in history.”

Katherine knew of no famous knives, but it looked foreboding and ancient. The blade felt razor sharp.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I have no intention of wasting its power on you.

I’m saving it for a more worthy sacrifice . . . in a more sacred place.” He turned to her brother. “Peter, you

recognize this knife, don’t you?”

Her brother’s eyes were wide with a mixture of fear and disbelief.

“Yes, Peter, this ancient artifact still exists. I obtained it at great expense . . . and I have been saving it for

you. At long last, you and I can end our painful journey together.”

With that, he wrapped the knife carefully in a cloth with all of his other items—incense, vials of liquid, white

satin cloths, and other ceremonial objects. He then placed the wrapped items inside Robert Langdon’s leather

bag along with the Masonic Pyramid and capstone. Katherine looked on helplessly as the man zipped up

Langdon’s daybag and turned to her brother.

“Carry this, Peter, would you?” He set the heavy bag on Peter’s lap.

Next, the man walked over to a drawer and began rooting around. She could hear small metal objects

clinking. When he returned, he took her right arm, steadying it. Katherine couldn’t see what he was doing,

but Peter apparently could, and he again started bucking wildly.

Katherine felt a sudden, sharp pinch in the crook of her right elbow, and an eerie warmth ran down around it.

Peter was making anguished, strangled sounds and trying in vain to get out of the heavy chair. Katherine felt

a cold numbness spreading through her forearm and fingertips below the elbow.

When the man stepped aside, Katherine saw why her brother was so horrified. The tattooed man had inserted

a medical needle into her vein, as if she were giving blood. The needle, however, was not attached to a tube.

Instead, her blood was now flowing freely out of it . . . running down her elbow, forearm, and onto the stone

table.

“A human hourglass,” the man said, turning to Peter. “In a short while, when I ask you to play your role, I

want you to picture Katherine . . . dying alone here in the dark.”

Peter’s expression was one of total torment.

“She will stay alive,” the man said, “for about an hour or so. If you cooperate with me quickly, I will have

enough time to save her. Of course, if you resist me at all . . . your sister will die here alone in the dark.”

Peter bellowed unintelligibly through his gag.

“I know, I know,” the tattooed man said, placing a hand on Peter’s shoulder, “this is hard for you. But it

shouldn’t be. After all, this is not the first time you will abandon a family member.” He paused, bending over

and whispering in Peter’s ear. “I’m thinking, of course, of your son, Zachary, in Soganlik prison.”

Peter pulled against his restraints and let out another muffled scream through the cloth in his mouth.

“Stop it!” Katherine shouted.

“I remember that night well,” the man taunted as he finished packing. “I heard the whole thing. The warden

offered to let your son go, but you chose to teach Zachary a lesson . . . by abandoning him. Your boy learned

his lesson, all right, didn’t he?” The man smiled. “His loss . . . was my gain.”

The man now retrieved a linen cloth and stuffed it deep into Katherine’s mouth. “Death,” he whispered to

her, “should be a quiet thing.”

Peter struggled violently. Without another word, the tattooed man slowly backed Peter’s wheelchair out of

the room, giving Peter a long, last look at his sister.

Katherine and Peter locked eyes one final time.

Then he was gone.

Katherine could hear them going up the ramp and through the metal door. As they exited, she heard the

tattooed man lock the metal door behind him and continue on through the painting of the Three Graces. A

few minutes later, she heard a car start.

Then the mansion fell silent.

All alone in the dark, Katherine lay bleeding.

CHAPTER 108

Robert Langdon’s mind hovered in an endless abyss.

No light. No sound. No feeling.

Only an infinite and silent void.

Softness.

Weightlessness.

His body had released him. He was untethered.

The physical world had ceased to exist. Time had ceased to exist.

He was pure consciousness now . . . a fleshless sentience suspended in the emptiness of a vast universe.

CHAPTER 109

The modified UH-60 skimmed in low over the expansive rooftops of Kalorama Heights, thundering toward

the coordinates given to them by the support team. Agent Simkins was the first to spot the black Escalade

parked haphazardly on a lawn in front of one of the mansions. The driveway gate was closed, and the house

was dark and quiet.

Sato gave the signal to touch down.

The aircraft landed hard on the front lawn amid several other vehicles . . . one of them a security sedan with a

bubble light on top.

Simkins and his team jumped out, drew their weapons, and dashed up onto the porch. Finding the front door

locked, Simkins cupped his hands and peered through a window. The foyer was dark, but Simkins could

make out the faint shadow of a body on the floor.

“Shit,” he whispered. “It’s Hartmann.”

One of his agents grabbed a chair off the porch and heaved it through the bay window. The sound of

shattering glass was barely audible over the roar of the helicopter behind them. Seconds later, they were all

inside. Simkins rushed to the foyer and knelt over Hartmann to check his pulse. Nothing. There was blood

everywhere. Then he saw the screwdriver in Hartmann’s throat.

Jesus. He stood up and motioned to his men to begin a full search.

The agents fanned out across the first floor, their laser sights probing the darkness of the luxurious house.

They found nothing in the living room or study, but in the dining room, to their surprise, they discovered a

strangled female security guard. Simkins was fast losing hope that Robert Langdon and Katherine Solomon

were alive. This brutal killer clearly had set a trap, and if he had managed to kill a CIA agent and an armed

security guard, then it seemed a professor and a scientist had no chance.

Once the first floor was secure, Simkins sent two agents to search upstairs. Meanwhile, he found a set of

basement stairs off the kitchen and descended. At the bottom of the stairs, he threw on the lights. The

basement was spacious and spotless, as if it were hardly ever used. Boilers, bare cement walls, a few boxes.

Nothing here at all. Simkins headed back up to the kitchen just as his men were coming down from the

second floor. Everyone shook their heads.

The house was deserted.

No one home. And no more bodies.

Simkins radioed Sato with the all-clear and the grim update.

When he got to the foyer, Sato was already climbing the stairs onto the porch. Warren Bellamy was visible

behind her, sitting dazed and alone in the helicopter with Sato’s titanium briefcase at his feet. The OS

director’s secure laptop provided her with worldwide access to CIA computer systems via encrypted satellite

uplinks. Earlier tonight, she had used this computer to share with Bellamy some kind of information that had

stunned the man into cooperating fully. Simkins had no idea what Bellamy had seen, but whatever it was, the

Architect had been visibly shell-shocked ever since.

As Sato entered the foyer, she paused a moment, bowing her head over Hartmann’s body. A moment later,

she raised her eyes and fixed them on Simkins. “No sign of Langdon or Katherine? Or Peter Solomon?”

Simkins shook his head. “If they’re still alive, he took them with him.”

“Did you see a computer in the house?”

“Yes, ma’am. In the office.”

“Show me.”

Simkins led Sato out of the foyer and into the living room. The plush carpet was covered with broken glass

from the shattered bay window. They walked past a fireplace, a large painting, and several bookshelves to an

office door. The office was wood paneled, with an antique desk and a large computer monitor. Sato walked

around behind the desk and eyed the screen, immediately scowling.

“Damn it,” she said under her breath.

Simkins circled around and looked at the screen. It was blank. “What’s wrong?”

Sato pointed to an empty docking station on the desk. “He uses a laptop. He took it with him.”

Simkins didn’t follow. “Does he have information you want to see?”

“No,” Sato replied, her tone grave. “He has information I want nobody to see.”

Downstairs in the hidden basement, Katherine Solomon had heard the sounds of helicopter blades followed

by breaking glass and heavy boots on the floor above her. She tried to cry out for help, but the gag in her

mouth made it impossible. She could barely make a sound. The harder she tried, the faster the blood began

flowing from her elbow.

She was feeling short of breath and a little dizzy.

Katherine knew she needed to calm down. Use your mind, Katherine. With all of her intention, she coaxed

herself into a meditative state.

Robert Langdon’s mind floated through the emptiness of space. He peered into the infinite void, searching

for any points of reference. He found nothing.

Total darkness. Total silence. Total peace.

There was not even the pull of gravity to tell him which way was up.

His body was gone.

This must be death.

Time seemed to be telescoping, stretching and compressing, as if it had no bearings in this place. He had lost

all track of how much time had passed.

Ten seconds? Ten minutes? Ten days?

Suddenly, however, like distant fiery explosions in far-off galaxies, memories began to materialize, billowing

toward Langdon like shock waves across a vast nothingness.

All at once, Robert Langdon began to remember. The images tore through him . . . vivid and disturbing. He

was staring up at a face that was covered with tattoos. A pair of powerful hands lifted his head and smashed

it into the floor.

Pain erupted . . . and then darkness.

Gray light.

Throbbing.

Wisps of memory. Langdon was being dragged, half conscious, down, down, down. His captor was chanting

something.

Verbum significatium . . . Verbum omnificum . . . Verbum perdo . . .

CHAPTER 110

Director Sato stood alone in the study, waiting while the CIA satellite-imaging division processed her

request. One of the luxuries of working in the D.C. area was the satellite coverage. With luck, one of them

might have been properly positioned to get photos of this home tonight . . . possibly capturing a vehicle

leaving the place in the last half hour.

“Sorry, ma’am,” the satellite technician said. “No coverage of those coordinates tonight. Do you want to

make a reposition request?”

“No thanks. Too late.” She hung up.

Sato exhaled, now having no idea how they would figure out where their target had gone. She walked out to

the foyer, where her men had bagged Agent Hartmann’s body and were carrying it toward the chopper. Sato

had ordered Agent Simkins to gather his men and prepare for the return to Langley, but Simkins was in the

living room on his hands and knees. He looked like he was ill.

“You okay?”

He glanced up, an odd look on his face. “Did you see this?” He pointed at the living-room floor.

Sato came over and looked down at the plush carpet. She shook her head, seeing nothing.

“Crouch down,” Simkins said. “Look at the nap of the carpet.”

She did. After a moment, she saw it. The fibers of the carpet looked like they had been mashed down . . .

depressed along two straight lines as if the wheels of something heavy had been rolled across the room.

“The strange thing,” Simkins said, “is where the tracks go.” He pointed.

Sato’s gaze followed the faint parallel lines across the living-room carpet. The tracks seemed to disappear

beneath a large floor-to-ceiling painting that hung beside the fireplace. What in the world?

Simkins walked over to the painting and tried to lift it down from the wall. It didn’t budge. “It’s fixed,” he

said, now running his fingers around the edges. “Hold on, there’s something underneath . . .” His finger hit a

small lever beneath the bottom edge, and something clicked.

Sato stepped forward as Simkins pushed the frame and the entire painting rotated slowly on its center, like a

revolving door.

He raised his flashlight and shined it into the dark space beyond.

Sato’s eyes narrowed. Here we go.

At the end of a short corridor stood a heavy metal door.

The memories that had billowed through the blackness of Langdon’s mind had come and gone. In their wake,

a trail of red-hot sparks was swirling, along with the same eerie, distant whisper.

Verbum significatium . . . Verbum omnificum . . . Verbum perdo.

The chanting continued like the drone of voices in a medieval canticle.

Verbum significatium . . . Verbum omnificum. The words now tumbled through the empty void, fresh voices

echoing all around him.

Apocalypsis . . . Franklin . . . Apocalypsis . . . Verbum . . . Apocalypsis . . .

Without warning, a mournful bell began tolling somewhere in the distance. The bell rang on and on, growing

louder. It tolled more urgently now, as if hoping Langdon would understand, as if urging his mind to follow.

CHAPTER 111

The tolling bell in the clock tower rang for three full minutes, rattling the crystal chandelier that hung above Langdon’s head. Decades ago, he had attended lectures in this well-loved assembly hall at Phillips Exeter

Academy. Today, however, he was here to listen to a dear friend address the student body. As the lights

dimmed, Langdon took a seat against the back wall, beneath a pantheon of headmaster portraits.

A hush fell across the crowd.

In total darkness, a tall, shadowy figure crossed the stage and took the podium. “Good morning,” the faceless

voice whispered into the microphone.

Everyone sat up, straining to see who was addressing them.

A slide projector flashed to life, revealing a faded sepia photograph—a dramatic castle with a red sandstone

facade, high square towers, and Gothic embellishments.

The shadow spoke again. “Who can tell me where this is?”

“England!” a girl declared in the darkness. “This facade is a blend of early Gothic and late Romanesque,

making this the quintessential Norman castle and placing it in England at about the twelfth century.”

“Wow,” the faceless voice replied. “Someone knows her architecture.”

Quiet groans all around.

“Unfortunately,” the shadow added, “you missed by three thousand miles and half a millennium.”

The room perked up.

The projector now flashed a full-color, modern photo of the same castle from a different angle. The castle’s

Seneca Creek sandstone towers dominated the foreground, but in the background, startlingly close, stood the

majestic, white, columned dome of the U.S. Capitol Building.

“Hold on!” the girl exclaimed. “There’s a Norman castle in D.C.?!”

“Since 1855,” the voice replied. “Which is when this next photo was taken.”

A new slide appeared—a black-and-white interior shot, depicting a massive vaulted ballroom, furnished with

animal skeletons, scientific display cases, glass jars with biological samples, archaeological artifacts, and

plaster casts of prehistoric reptiles.

“This wondrous castle,” the voice said, “was America’s first real science museum. It was a gift to America

from a wealthy British scientist who, like our forefathers, believed our fledgling country could become the

land of enlightenment. He bequeathed to our forefathers a massive fortune and asked them to build at the

core of our nation ‘an establishment for the increase and diffusion of knowledge.’ ” He paused a long

moment. “Who can tell me the name of this generous scientist?”

A timid voice in front ventured, “James Smithson?”

A whisper of recognition rippled through the crowd.

“Smithson indeed,” the man on stage replied. Peter Solomon now stepped into the light, his gray eyes

flashing playfully. “Good morning. My name is Peter Solomon, and I am secretary of the Smithsonian

Institution.”

The students broke into wild applause.

In the shadows, Langdon watched with admiration as Peter captivated the young minds with a photographic

tour of the Smithsonian Institution’s early history. The show began with Smithsonian Castle, its basement

science labs, corridors lined with exhibits, a salon full of mollusks, scientists who called themselves “the

curators of crustaceans,” and even an old photo of the castle’s two most popular residents—a pair of now-

deceased owls named Diffusion and Increase. The half-hour slide show ended with an impressive satellite

photo of the National Mall, now lined with enormous Smithsonian museums.

“As I said when I began,” Solomon stated in conclusion, “James Smithson and our forefathers envisioned our

great country to be a land of enlightenment. I believe today they would be proud. Their great Smithsonian

Institution stands as a symbol of science and knowledge at the very core of America. It is a living, breathing,

working tribute to our forefathers’ dream for America—a country founded on the principles of knowledge,

wisdom, and science.”

Solomon clicked off the slides to an energetic round of applause. The houselights came up, along with

dozens of eager hands with questions.

Solomon called on a small red-haired boy in the middle.

“Mr. Solomon?” the boy said, sounding puzzled. “You said our forefathers fled the religious oppression of

Europe to establish a country on the principles of scientific advancement.”

“That’s correct.”

“But . . . I was under the impression our forefathers were devoutly religious men who founded America as a

Christian nation.”

Solomon smiled. “My friends, don’t get me wrong, our forefathers were deeply religious men, but they were

Deists—men who believed in God, but in a universal and open-minded way. The only religious ideal they

put forth was religious freedom.” He pulled the microphone from the podium and strode out to the edge of

the stage. “America’s forefathers had a vision of a spiritually enlightened utopia, in which freedom of

thought, education of the masses, and scientific advancement would replace the darkness of outdated

religious superstition.”

A blond girl in back raised her hand.

“Yes?”

“Sir,” the girl said, holding up her cell phone, “I’ve been researching you online, and Wikipedia says you’re

a prominent Freemason.”

Solomon held up his Masonic ring. “I could have saved you the data charges.”

The students laughed.

“Yes, well,” the girl continued, hesitating, “you just mentioned ‘outdated religious superstition,’ and it seems

to me that if anyone is responsible for propagating outdated superstitions . . . it would be the Masons.”

Solomon seemed unfazed. “Oh? How so?”

“Well, I’ve read a lot about Masonry, and I know you’ve got a lot of strange ancient rituals and beliefs. This

article online even says that Masons believe in the power of some kind of ancient magical wisdom . . . which

can elevate man to the realm of the gods?”

Everyone turned and stared at the girl as if she were nuts.

“Actually,” Solomon said, “she’s right.”

The kids all spun around and faced front, eyes widening.

Solomon suppressed a smile and asked the girl, “Does it offer any other Wiki-wisdom about this magical

knowledge?”

The girl looked uneasy now, but she began to read from the Web site. “‘To ensure this powerful wisdom

could not be used by the unworthy, the early adepts wrote down their knowledge in code . . . cloaking its

potent truth in a metaphorical language of symbols, myth, and allegory. To this day, this encrypted wisdom is

all around us . . . encoded in our mythology, our art, and the occult texts of the ages. Unfortunately, modern

man has lost the ability to decipher this complex network of symbolism . . . and the great truth has been

lost.’”

Solomon waited. “That’s all?”

The girl shifted in her seat. “Actually, there is a little bit more.”

“I should hope so. Please . . . tell us.”

The girl looked hesitant, but she cleared her throat and continued. “‘According to legend, the sages who

encrypted the Ancient Mysteries long ago left behind a key of sorts . . . a password that could be used to unlock the encrypted secrets. This magical password—known as the verbum significatium—is said to hold

the power to lift the darkness and unlock the Ancient Mysteries, opening them to all human understanding.’ ”

Solomon smiled wistfully. “Ah, yes . . . the verbum significatium. ” He stared into space for a moment and

then lowered his eyes again to the blond girl. “And where is this wonderful word now?”

The girl looked apprehensive, clearly wishing she had not challenged their guest speaker. She finished

reading. “ ‘Legend holds that the verbum significatium is buried deep underground, where it waits patiently

for a pivotal moment in history . . . a moment when mankind can no longer survive without the truth,

knowledge, and wisdom of the ages. At this dark crossroads, mankind will at last unearth the Word and

herald in a wondrous new age of enlightenment.’ ”

The girl turned off her phone and shrank down in her seat.

After a long silence, another student raised his hand. “Mr. Solomon, you don’t actually believe that, right?”

Solomon smiled. “Why not? Our mythologies have a long tradition of magic words that provide insight and

godlike powers. To this day, children still shout ‘abracadabra’ in hopes of creating something out of nothing.

Of course, we’ve all forgotten that this word is not a toy; it has roots in ancient Aramaic mysticism— Avrah

KaDabra—meaning ‘I create as I speak.’ ”

Silence.

“But, sir,” the student now pressed, “surely you don’t believe that a single word . . . this verbum

significatium . . . whatever it is . . . has the power to unlock ancient wisdom . . . and bring about a worldwide enlightenment?”

Peter Solomon’s face revealed nothing. “My own beliefs should not concern you. What should concern you

is that this prophecy of a coming enlightenment is echoed in virtually every faith and philosophical tradition

on earth. Hindus call it the Krita Age, astrologers call it the Age of Aquarius, the Jews describe the coming

of the Messiah, theosophists call it the New Age, cosmologists call it Harmonic Convergence and predict the

actual date.”

“December 21, 2012!” someone called.

“Yes, unnervingly soon . . . if you’re a believer in Mayan math.”

Langdon chuckled, recalling how Solomon, ten years ago, had correctly predicted the current spate of

television specials predicting that the year 2012 would mark the End of the World.

“Timing aside,” Solomon said, “I find it wondrous to note that throughout history, all of mankind’s disparate

philosophies have all concurred on one thing—that a great enlightenment is coming. In every culture, in

every era, in every corner of the world, the human dream has focused on the same exact concept—the

coming apotheosis of man . . . the impending transformation of our human minds into their true potentiality.”

He smiled. “What could possibly explain such a synchronicity of beliefs?”

“Truth,” said a quiet voice in the crowd.

Solomon wheeled. “Who said that?”

The hand that went up belonged to a tiny Asian boy whose soft features suggested he might be Nepalese or

Tibetan. “Maybe there is a universal truth embedded in everyone’s soul. Maybe we all have the same story

hiding inside, like a shared constant in our DNA. Maybe this collective truth is responsible for the similarity in all of our stories.”

Solomon was beaming as he pressed his hands together and bowed reverently to the boy. “Thank you.”

Everyone was quiet.

“Truth,” Solomon said, addressing the room. “Truth has power. And if we all gravitate toward similar ideas,

maybe we do so because those ideas are true . . . written deep within us. And when we hear the truth, even if we don’t understand it, we feel that truth resonate within us . . . vibrating with our unconscious wisdom.

Perhaps the truth is not learned by us, but rather, the truth is re-called . . . re-membered . . . re-cognized . . .

as that which is already inside us.”

The silence in the hall was complete.

Solomon let it sit for a long moment, then quietly said, “In closing, I should warn you that unveiling the truth

is never easy. Throughout history, every period of enlightenment has been accompanied by darkness,

pushing in opposition. Such are the laws of nature and balance. And if we look at the darkness growing in the

world today, we have to realize that this means there is equal light growing. We are on the verge of a truly

great period of illumination, and all of us—all of you—are profoundly blessed to be living through this

pivotal moment of history. Of all the people who have ever lived, in all the eras in history . . . we are in that narrow window of time during which we will bear witness to our ultimate renaissance. After millennia of

darkness, we will see our sciences, our minds, and even our religions unveil the truth.”

Solomon was about to get a hearty round of applause when he held up his hand for silence. “Miss?” He

pointed directly to the contentious blond girl in back with the cell phone. “I know you and I didn’t agree on

much, but I want to thank you. Your passion is an important catalyst in the coming changes. Darkness feeds

on apathy . . . and conviction is our most potent antidote. Keep studying your faith. Study the Bible.” He

smiled. “Especially the final pages.”

“The Apocalypse?” she said.

“Absolutely. The Book of Revelation is a vibrant example of our shared truth. The last book of the Bible tells the identical story as countless other traditions. They all predict the coming unveiling of great wisdom.”

Someone else said, “But isn’t the Apocalypse about the end of the world? You know, the Antichrist,

Armageddon, the final battle between good and evil?”

Solomon chuckled. “Who here studies Greek?”

Several hands went up.

“What does the word apocalypse literally mean?”

“It means,” one student began, and then paused as if surprised. “Apocalypse means ‘to unveil’ . . . or ‘to

reveal.’ ”

Solomon gave the boy a nod of approval. “Exactly. The Apocalypse is literally a reveal-ation. The Book of

Reveal-ation in the Bible predicts an unveiling of great truth and unimaginable wisdom. The Apocalypse is

not the end of the world, but rather it is the end of the world as we know it. The prophecy of the Apocalypse is just one of the Bible’s beautiful messages that has been distorted.” Solomon stepped to the front of the

stage. “Believe me, the Apocalypse is coming . . . and it will be nothing like what we were taught.”

High over his head, the bell began to toll.

The students erupted into bewildered and thunderous applause.

CHAPTER 112

Katherine Solomon was teetering on the edge of consciousness when she was jolted by the shock wave of a

deafening explosion.

Moments later, she smelled smoke.

Her ears were ringing.

There were muffled voices. Distant. Shouting. Footsteps. Suddenly she was breathing more clearly. The cloth

had been pulled from her mouth.

“You’re safe,” a man’s voice whispered. “Just hold on.”

She expected the man to pull the needle out of her arm but instead he was yelling orders. “Bring the medical

kit . . . attach an IV to the needle . . . infuse lactated Ringer’s solution . . . get me a blood pressure.” As the

man began checking her vital signs, he said, “Ms. Solomon, the person who did this to you . . . where did he

go?”

Katherine tried to speak, but she could not.

“Ms. Solomon?” the voice repeated. “Where did he go?”

Katherine tried to pry her eyes open, but she felt herself fading.

“We need to know where he went,” the man urged.

Katherine whispered three words in response, although she knew they made no sense. “The . . . sacred . . .

mountain.”

Director Sato stepped over the mangled steel door and descended a wooden ramp into the hidden basement.

One of her agents met her at the bottom.

“Director, I think you’ll want to see this.”

Sato followed the agent into a small room off the narrow hallway. The room was brightly lit and barren,

except for a pile of clothing on the floor. She recognized Robert Langdon’s tweed coat and loafers.

Her agent pointed toward the far wall at a large, casketlike container.

What in the world?

Sato moved toward the container, seeing now that it was fed by a clear plastic pipe that ran through the wall.

Warily, she approached the tank.

Now she could see that it had a small slider on top. She reached down and slid the covering to one side,

revealing a small portal-like window.

Sato recoiled.

Beneath the Plexiglas . . . floated the submerged, vacant face of Professor Robert Langdon.

Light!

The endless void in which Langdon hovered was suddenly filled by a blinding sun. Rays of white-hot light

streamed across the blackness of space, burning into his mind.

The light was everywhere.

Suddenly, within the radiant cloud before him, a beautiful silhouette appeared. It was a face . . . blurry and

indistinct . . . two eyes staring at him across the void. Streams of light surrounded the face, and Langdon

wondered if he was looking into the face of God.

Sato stared down into the tank, wondering if Professor Langdon had any idea what had happened. She

doubted it. After all, disorientation was the entire purpose of this technology.

Sensory-deprivation tanks had been around since the fifties and were still a popular getaway for wealthy New

Age experimenters. “Floating,” as it was called, offered a transcendental back-to-the-womb experience . . . a

kind of meditative aid that quieted brain activity by removing all sensory input—light, sound, touch, and

even the pull of gravity. In traditional tanks, the person would float on his back in a hyperbuoyant saline

solution that kept his face above the water so he could breathe.

In recent years, however, these tanks had taken a quantum leap.

Oxygenated perfluorocarbons.

This new technology—known as Total Liquid Ventilation (TLV)—was so counterintuitive that few believed

it existed.

Breathable liquid.

Liquid breathing had been a reality since 1966, when Leland C. Clark successfully kept alive a mouse that

had been submerged for several hours in an oxygenated perfluorocarbon. In 1989, TLV technology made a

dramatic appearance in the movie The Abyss, although few viewers realized that they were watching real

science.

Total Liquid Ventilation had been born of modern medicine’s attempts to help premature babies breathe by

returning them to the liquid-filled state of the womb. Human lungs, having spent nine months in utero, were

no strangers to a liquid-filled state. Perfluorocarbons had once been too viscous to be fully breathable, but

modern breakthroughs had made breathable liquids almost the consistency of water.

The CIA’s Directorate of Science and Technology—“the Wizards of Langley,” as they were known within

the intelligence community—had worked extensively with oxygenated perfluorocarbons to develop

technologies for the U.S. military. The navy’s elite deep-ocean diving teams found that breathing oxygenated

liquid, rather than the usual heliox or trimix, gave them the ability to dive to much greater depths without risk

of pressure sickness. Similarly, NASA and the air force had learned that pilots equipped with a liquid

breathing apparatus rather than a traditional oxygen tank could withstand far higher g-forces than usual

because liquid spread the g-force more evenly throughout the internal organs than gas did.

Sato had heard that there were now “extreme experience labs” where one could try these Total Liquid

Ventilation tanks—“Meditation Machines,” as they were called. This particular tank had probably been

installed for its owner’s private experimentation, although the addition of heavy, lockable latches left little

doubt in Sato’s mind that this tank had also been used for darker applications . . . an interrogation technique with which the CIA was familiar.

The infamous interrogation technique of water boarding was highly effective because the victim truly

believed he was drowning. Sato knew of several classified operations in which sensory-deprivation tanks like

these had been used to enhance that illusion to terrifying new levels. A victim submerged in breathable liquid

could literally be “drowned.” The panic associated with the drowning experience usually made the victim

unaware that the liquid he was breathing was slightly more viscous than water. When the liquid poured into

his lungs, he would often black out from fear, and then awaken in the ultimate “solitary confinement.”

Topical numbing agents, paralysis drugs, and hallucinogens were mixed with the warm oxygenated liquid to

give the prisoner the sense he was entirely separated from his body. When his mind sent commands to move

his limbs, nothing happened. The state of being “dead” was terrifying on its own, but the true disorientation

came from the “rebirthing” process, which, with the aid of bright lights, cold air, and deafening noise, could

be extremely traumatic and painful. After a handful of rebirths and subsequent drownings, the prisoner

became so disorientated that he had no idea if he was alive or dead . . . and he would tell the interrogator

absolutely anything.

Sato wondered if she should wait for a medical team to extract Langdon, but she knew she didn’t have time. I

need to know what he knows.

“Turn out the lights,” she said. “And find me some blankets.”

The blinding sun had vanished.

The face had also disappeared.

The blackness had returned, but Langdon could now hear distant whispers echoing across the light-years of

emptiness. Muffled voices . . . unintelligible words. There were vibrations now . . . as if the world were about

to shake apart.

Then it happened.

Without warning, the universe was ripped in two. An enormous chasm opened in the void . . . as if space

itself had ruptured at the seams. A grayish mist poured through the opening, and Langdon saw a terrifying

sight. Disembodied hands were suddenly reaching for him, grabbing his body, trying to yank him out of his

world.

No! He tried to fight them off, but he had no arms . . . no fists. Or did he? Suddenly he felt his body materializing around his mind. His flesh had returned and it was being seized by powerful hands that were

dragging him upward. No! Please!

But it was too late.

Pain racked his chest as the hands heaved him through the opening. His lungs felt like they were filled with

sand. I can’t breathe! He was suddenly on his back on the coldest, hardest surface he could imagine.

Something was pressing on his chest, over and over, hard and painful. He was spewing out the warmth.

I want to go back.

He felt like he was a child being born from a womb.

He was convulsing, coughing up liquid. He felt pain in his chest and neck. Excruciating pain. His throat was

on fire. People were talking, trying to whisper, but it was deafening. His vision was blurred, and all he could

see was muted shapes. His skin felt numb, like dead leather.

His chest felt heavier now . . . pressure. I can’t breathe!

He was coughing up more liquid. An overwhelming gag reflex seized him, and he gasped inward. Cold air

poured into his lungs, and he felt like a newborn taking his first breath on earth. This world was excruciating.

All Langdon wanted was to return to the womb.

Robert Langdon had no idea how much time had passed. He could feel now that he was lying on his side,

wrapped in towels and blankets on a hard floor. A familiar face was gazing down at him . . . but the streams

of glorious light were gone. The echoes of distant chanting still hung in his mind.

Verbum significatium . . . Verbum omnificum . . .

“Professor Langdon,” someone whispered. “Do you know where you are?”

Langdon nodded weakly, still coughing.

More important, he had begun to realize what was going on tonight.

CHAPTER 113

Wrapped in wool blankets, Langdon stood on wobbly legs and stared down at the open tank of liquid. His

body had returned to him, although he wished it had not. His throat and lungs burned. This world felt hard

and cruel.

Sato had just explained the sensory-deprivation tank . . . adding that if she had not pulled him out, he would

have died of starvation, or worse. Langdon had little doubt that Peter had endured a similar experience. Peter

is in the in-between, the tattooed man had told him earlier tonight. He is in purgatory . . . Hamistagan. If Peter had endured more than one of those birthing processes, Langdon would not have been surprised if Peter

had told his captor anything he had wanted to know.

Sato motioned for Langdon to follow her, and he did, trudging slowly down a narrow hall, deeper into this

bizarre lair that he was now seeing for the first time. They entered a square room with a stone table and eerie-

colored lighting. Katherine was here, and Langdon heaved a sigh of relief. Even so, the scene was

worrisome.

Katherine was lying on her back on a stone table. Blood-soaked towels lay on the floor. A CIA agent was

holding an IV bag above her, the tube connected to her arm.

She was sobbing quietly.

“Katherine?” Langdon croaked, barely able to speak.

She turned her head, looking disorientated and confused. “Robert?!” Her eyes widened with disbelief and

then joy. “But I . . . saw you drown!”

He moved toward the stone table.

Katherine pulled herself to a seated position, ignoring her IV tube and the medical objections of the agent.

Langdon reached the table, and Katherine reached out, wrapping her arms around his blanket-clad body,

holding him close. “Thank God,” she whispered, kissing his cheek. Then she kissed him again, squeezing

him as though she didn’t believe he was real. “I don’t understand . . . how . . .”

Sato began saying something about sensory-deprivation tanks and oxygenated perfluorocarbons, but

Katherine clearly wasn’t listening. She just held Langdon close.

“Robert,” she said, “Peter’s alive.” Her voice wavered as she recounted her horrifying reunion with Peter.

She described his physical condition—the wheelchair, the strange knife, the allusions to some kind of

“sacrifice,” and how she had been left bleeding as a human hourglass to persuade Peter to cooperate quickly.

Langdon could barely speak. “Do you . . . have any idea where . . . they went?!”

“He said he was taking Peter to the sacred mountain.”

Langdon pulled away and stared at her.

Katherine had tears in her eyes. “He said he had deciphered the grid on the bottom of the pyramid, and that

the pyramid told him to go to the sacred mountain.”

“Professor,” Sato pressed, “does that mean anything to you?”

Langdon shook his head. “Not at all.” Still, he felt a surge of hope. “But if he got the information off the

bottom of the pyramid, we can get it, too.” I told him how to solve it.

Sato shook her head. “The pyramid’s gone. We’ve looked. He took it with him.”

Langdon remained silent a moment, closing his eyes and trying to recall what he had seen on the base of the

pyramid. The grid of symbols had been one of the last images he had seen before drowning, and trauma had a

way of burning memories deeper into the mind. He could recall some of the grid, definitely not all of it, but

maybe enough?

He turned to Sato and said hurriedly, “I may be able to remember enough, but I need you to look up

something on the Internet.”

She pulled out her BlackBerry.

“Run a search for ‘The Order Eight Franklin Square.’ ”

Sato gave him a startled look but began typing without questions.

Langdon’s vision was still blurry, and he was only now starting to process his strange surroundings. He

realized that the stone table on which they were leaning was covered with old bloodstains, and the wall to his

right was entirely plastered with pages of text, photos, drawings, maps, and a giant web of strings

interconnecting them.

My God.

Langdon moved toward the strange collage, still clutching the blankets around his body. Tacked on the wall

was an utterly bizarre collection of information—pages from ancient texts ranging from black magic to

Christian Scripture, drawings of symbols and sigils, pages of conspiracy-theory Web sites, and satellite

photos of Washington, D.C., scrawled with notes and question marks. One of the sheets was a long list of

words in many languages. He recognized some of them as sacred Masonic words, others as ancient magic

words, and others from ceremonial incantations.

Is that what he’s looking for?

A word?

Is it that simple?

Langdon’s long-standing skepticism about the Masonic Pyramid was based largely on what it allegedly

revealed—the location of the Ancient Mysteries. This discovery would have to involve an enormous vault

filled with thousands upon thousands of volumes that had somehow survived the long-lost ancient libraries in

which they had once been stored. It all seemed impossible. A vault that big? Beneath D.C.? Now, however,

his recollection of Peter’s lecture at Phillips Exeter, combined with these lists of magic words, had opened

another startling possibility .

Langdon most definitely did not believe in the power of magic words . . . and yet it seemed pretty clear that the tattooed man did. His pulse quickened as he again scanned the scrawled notes, the maps, the texts, the

printouts, and all the interconnected strings and sticky notes.

Sure enough, there was one recurring theme.

My God, he’s looking for the verbum significatium . . . the Lost Word. Langdon let the thought take shape,

recalling fragments of Peter’s lecture. The Lost Word is what he’s looking for! That’s what he believes is

buried here in Washington.

Sato arrived beside him. “Is this what you asked for?” She handed him her BlackBerry.

Langdon looked at the eight-by-eight grid of numbers on the screen. “Exactly.” He grabbed a piece of scrap

paper. “I’ll need a pen.”

Sato handed him one from her pocket. “Please hurry.”

Inside the basement office of the Directorate of Science and Technology, Nola Kaye was once again studying

the redacted document brought to her by sys-sec Rick Parrish. What the hell is the CIA director doing with a

file about ancient pyramids and secret underground locations?

She grabbed the phone and dialed.

Sato answered instantly, sounding tense. “Nola, I was just about to call you.”

“I have new information,” Nola said. “I’m not sure how this fits, but I’ve discovered there’s a redacted—”

“Forget it, whatever it is,” Sato interrupted. “We’re out of time. We failed to apprehend the target, and I have

every reason to believe he’s about to carry out his threat.”

Nola felt a chill.

“The good news is we know exactly where he’s going.” Sato took a deep breath. “The bad news is that he’s

carrying a laptop with him.”

CHAPTER 114

Less than ten miles away, Mal’akh tucked the blanket around Peter Solomon and wheeled him across a

moonlit parking lot into the shadow of an enormous building. The structure had exactly thirty-three outer

columns . . . each precisely thirty-three feet tall. The mountainous structure was deserted at this hour, and

nobody would ever see them back here. Not that it mattered. From a distance, no one would think twice

about a tall, kindly-looking man in a long black coat taking a bald invalid for an evening stroll.

When they reached the rear entrance, Mal’akh wheeled Peter up close to the security keypad. Peter stared at

it defiantly, clearly having no intention of entering the code.

Mal’akh laughed. “You think you’re here to let me in? Have you forgotten so soon that I am one of your

brethren?” He reached out and typed the access code that he had been given after his initiation to the thirty-

third degree.

The heavy door clicked open.

Peter groaned and began struggling in the wheelchair.

“Peter, Peter,” Mal’akh cooed. “Picture Katherine. Be cooperative, and she will live. You can save her. I give

you my word.”

Mal’akh wheeled his captive inside and relocked the door behind them, his heart racing now with

anticipation. He pushed Peter through some hallways to an elevator and pressed the call button. The doors

opened, and Mal’akh backed in, pulling the wheelchair along with him. Then, making sure Peter could see

what he was doing, he reached out and pressed the uppermost button.

A look of deepening dread crossed Peter’s tortured face.

“Shh . . .” Mal’akh whispered, gently stroking Peter’s shaved head as the elevator doors closed. “As you well

know . . . the secret is how to die.”

I can’t remember all the symbols!

Langdon closed his eyes, doing his best to recall the precise locations of the symbols on the bottom of the

stone pyramid, but even his eidetic memory did not have that degree of recall. He wrote down the few

symbols he could remember, placing each one in the location indicated by Franklin’s magic square.

So far, however, he saw nothing that made any sense.

“Look!” Katherine urged. “You must be on the right track. The first row is all Greek letters—the same kinds

of symbols are being arranged together!”

Langdon had noticed this, too, but he could not think of any Greek word that fit that configuration of letters

and spaces. I need the first letter. He glanced again at the magic square, trying to recall the letter that had been in the number one spot near the lower left corner. Think! He closed his eyes, trying to picture the base of the pyramid. The bottom row . . . next to the left-hand corner . . . what letter was there?

For an instant, Langdon was back in the tank, racked with terror, staring up through the Plexiglas at the

bottom of the pyramid.

Now, suddenly, he saw it. He opened his eyes, breathing heavily. “The first letter is H!”

Langdon turned back to the grid and wrote in the first letter. The word was still incomplete, but he had seen

enough. Suddenly he realized what the word might be.

µ !

Pulse pounding, Langdon typed a new search into the BlackBerry. He entered the English equivalent of this

well-known Greek word. The first hit that appeared was an encyclopedia entry. He read it and knew it had to

be right.

HEREDOM n. a significant word in “high degree” Freemasonry, from French Rose Croix rituals, where it

refers to a mythical mountain in Scotland, the legendary site of the first such Chapter. From the Greek µ

originating from Hieros-domos, Greek for Holy House.

“That’s it!” Langdon exclaimed, incredulous. “That’s where they went!”

Sato had been reading over his shoulder and looked lost. “To a mythical mountain in Scotland?!”

Langdon shook his head. “No, to a building in Washington whose code name is Heredom.”

CHAPTER 115

The House of the Temple—known among its brethren as Heredom—had always been the crown jewel of the

Masonic Scottish Rite in America. With its steeply sloped, pyramidical roof, the building was named for an

imaginary Scottish mountain. Mal’akh knew, however, there was nothing imaginary about the treasure

hidden here.

This is the place, he knew. The Masonic Pyramid has shown the way.

As the old elevator slowly made its way to the third floor, Mal’akh took out the piece of paper on which he

had reorganized the grid of symbols using the Franklin Square. All the Greek letters had now shifted to the

first row . . . along with one simple symbol.

The message could not have been more clear.

Beneath the House of the Temple.

Heredom

The Lost Word is here . . . somewhere.

Although Mal’akh did not know precisely how to locate it, he was confident that the answer lay in the

remaining symbols on the grid. Conveniently, when it came to unlocking the secrets of the Masonic Pyramid

and of this building, no one was more qualified to help than Peter Solomon. The Worshipful Master himself.

Peter continued to struggle in the wheelchair, making muffled sounds through his gag.

“I know you’re worried about Katherine,” Mal’akh said. “But it’s almost over.”

For Mal’akh, the end felt like it had arrived very suddenly. After all the years of pain and planning, waiting

and searching . . . the moment had now arrived.

The elevator began to slow, and he felt a rush of excitement.

The carriage jolted to a stop.

The bronze doors slid open, and Mal’akh gazed out at the glorious chamber before them. The massive square

room was adorned with symbols and bathed in moonlight, which shone down through the oculus at the

pinnacle of the ceiling high above.

I have come full circle, Mal’akh thought.

The Temple Room was the same place in which Peter Solomon and his brethren had so foolishly initiated

Mal’akh as one of their own. Now the Masons’ most sublime secret—something that most of the brethren did

not even believe existed—was about to be unearthed.

“He won’t find anything,” Langdon said, still feeling groggy and disorientated as he followed Sato and the

others up the wooden ramp out of the basement. “There is no actual Word. It’s all a metaphor—a symbol of the Ancient Mysteries.”

Katherine followed, with two agents assisting her weakened body up the ramp.

As the group moved gingerly through the wreckage of the steel door, through the rotating painting, and into

the living room, Langdon explained to Sato that the Lost Word was one of Freemasonry’s most enduring

symbols—a single word, written in an arcane language that man could no longer decipher. The Word, like

the Mysteries themselves, promised to unveil its hidden power only to those enlightened enough to decrypt it.

“It is said,” Langdon concluded, “that if you can possess and understand the Lost Word . . . then the Ancient Mysteries will become clear to you.”

Sato glanced over. “So you believe this man is looking for a word?”

Langdon had to admit it sounded absurd at face value, and yet it answered a lot of questions. “Look, I’m no

specialist in ceremonial magic,” he said, “but from the documents on his basement walls . . . and from

Katherine’s description of the untattooed flesh on his head . . . I’d say he’s hoping to find the Lost Word and

inscribe it on his body.”

Sato moved the group toward the dining room. Outside, the helicopter was warming up, its blades thundering

louder and louder.

Langdon kept talking, thinking aloud. “If this guy truly believes he is about to unlock the power of the

Ancient Mysteries, no symbol would be more potent in his mind than the Lost Word. If he could find it and

inscribe it on the top of his head—a sacred location in itself—then he would no doubt consider himself

perfectly adorned and ritualistically prepared to . . .” He paused, seeing Katherine blanch at the thought of

Peter’s impending fate.

“But, Robert,” she said weakly, her voice barely audible over the helicopter blades. “This is good news,

right? If he wants to inscribe the Lost Word on the top of his head before he sacrifices Peter, then we have

time. He won’t kill Peter until he finds the Word. And, if there is no Word . . .”

Langdon tried to look hopeful as the agents helped Katherine into a chair. “Unfortunately, Peter still thinks

you’re bleeding to death. He thinks the only way to save you is to cooperate with this lunatic . . .probably to

help him find the Lost Word.”

“So what?” she insisted. “If the Word doesn’t exist—”

“Katherine,” Langdon said, staring deeply into her eyes. “If I believed you were dying, and if someone

promised me I could save you by finding the Lost Word, then I would find this man a word— any word—and

then I’d pray to God he kept his promise.”

“Director Sato!” an agent shouted from the next room. “You’d better see this!”

Sato hurried out of the dining room and saw one of her agents coming down the stairs from the bedroom. He

was carrying a blond wig. What the hell?

“Man’s hairpiece,” he said, handing it to her. “Found it in the dressing room. Have a close look.”

The blond wig was much heavier than Sato expected. The skullcap seemed to be molded of a thick gel.

Strangely, the underside of the wig had a wire protruding from it.

“Gel-pack battery that molds to your scalp,” the agent said. “Powers a fiber-optic pinpoint camera hidden in

the hair.”

“What?” Sato felt around with her fingers until she found the tiny camera lens nestled invisibly within the

blond bangs. “This thing’s a hidden camera?”

“Video camera,” the agent said. “Stores footage on this tiny solid-state card.” He pointed to a stamp-size

square of silicon embedded in the skullcap. “Probably motion activated.”

Jesus, she thought. So that’s how he did it.

This sleek version of the “flower in the lapel” secret camera had played a key role in the crisis the OS

director was facing tonight. She glared at it a moment longer and then handed it back to the agent.

“Keep searching the house,” she said. “I want every bit of information you can find on this guy. We know his

laptop is missing, and I want to know exactly how he plans to connect it to the outside world while he’s on

the move. Search his study for manuals, cables, anything at all that might give us a clue about his hardware.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The agent hurried off.

Time to move out. Sato could hear the whine of the helicopter blades at full pitch. She hurried back to the

dining room, where Simkins had now ushered Warren Bellamy in from the helicopter and was gathering intel

from him about the building to which they believed their target had gone.

House of the Temple.

“The front doors are sealed from within,” Bellamy was saying, still wrapped in a foil blanket and shivering

visibly from his time outside in Franklin Square. “The building’s rear entrance is your only way in. It’s got a

keypad with an access PIN known only to the brothers.”

“What’s the PIN?” Simkins demanded, taking notes.

Bellamy sat down, looking too feeble to stand. Through chattering teeth, he recited his access code and then

added, “The address is 1733 Sixteenth, but you’ll want the access drive and parking area, behind the

building. Kind of tricky to find, but—”

“I know exactly where it is,” Langdon said. “I’ll show you when we get there.”

Simkins shook his head. “You’re not coming, Professor. This is a military—”

“The hell I’m not!” Langdon fired back. “Peter’s in there! And that building’s a labyrinth! Without someone

to lead you in, you’ll take ten minutes to find your way up to the Temple Room!”

“He’s right,” Bellamy said. “It’s a maze. There is an elevator, but it’s old and loud and opens in full view of the Temple Room. If you hope to move in quietly, you’ll need to ascend on foot.”

“You’ll never find your way,” Langdon warned. “From that rear entrance, you’re navigating through the Hall

of Regalia, the Hall of Honor, the middle landing, the Atrium, the Grand Stair—”

“Enough,” Sato said. “Langdon’s coming.”

CHAPTER 116

The energy was growing.

Mal’akh could feel it pulsing within him, moving up and down his body as he wheeled Peter Solomon

toward the altar. I will exit this building infinitely more powerful than when I entered. All that remained now was to locate the final ingredient.

“Verbum significatium,” he whispered to himself. “Verbum omnificum.”

Mal’akh parked Peter’s wheelchair beside the altar and then circled around and unzipped the heavy daybag

that sat on Peter’s lap. Reaching inside, he lifted out the stone pyramid and held it up in the moonlight,

directly in front of Peter’s eyes, showing him the grid of symbols engraved on the bottom. “All these years,”

he taunted, “and you never knew how the pyramid kept her secrets.” Mal’akh set the pyramid carefully on

the corner of the altar and returned to the bag. “And this talisman,” he continued, extracting the golden

capstone, “did indeed bring order from chaos, exactly as promised.” He placed the metal capstone carefully

atop the stone pyramid, and then stepped back to give Peter a clear view. “Behold, your symbolon is

complete.”

Peter’s face contorted, and he tried in vain to speak.

“Good. I can see you have something you’d like to tell me.” Mal’akh roughly yanked out the gag.

Peter Solomon coughed and gasped for several seconds before he finally managed to speak. “Katherine . . .”

“Katherine’s time is short. If you want to save her, I suggest you do exactly as I say.” Mal’akh suspected she

was probably already dead, or if not, very close. It made no difference. She was lucky to have lived long

enough to say good-bye to her brother.

“Please,” Peter begged, his voice ragged. “Send an ambulance for her . . .”

“I will do exactly that. But first you must tell me how to access the secret staircase.”

Peter’s expression turned to one of disbelief. “What?!”

“The staircase. Masonic legend speaks of stairs that descend hundreds of feet to the secret location where the

Lost Word is buried.”

Peter now looked panicked.

“You know the legend,” Mal’akh baited. “A secret staircase hidden beneath a stone.” He pointed to the

central altar—a huge block of granite with a gilded inscription in Hebrew: GOD SAID, “LET THERE BE

LIGHT” AND THERE WAS LIGHT. “Obviously, this is the right place. The entrance to the staircase

must be hidden on one of the floors beneath us.”

“There is no secret staircase in this building!” Peter shouted.

Mal’akh smiled patiently and motioned upward. “This building is shaped like a pyramid.” He pointed to the

four-sided vaulted ceiling that angled up to the square oculus in the center.

“Yes, the House of the Temple is a pyramid, but what does—”

“Peter, I have all night.” Mal’akh smoothed his white silk robe over his perfect body. “Katherine, however,

does not. If you want her to live, you will tell me how to access the staircase.”

“I already told you,” he declared, “there is no secret staircase in this building!”

“No?” Mal’akh calmly produced the sheet of paper on which he had reorganized the grid of symbols from

the base of the pyramid. “This is the Masonic Pyramid’s final message. Your friend Robert Langdon helped

me decipher it.”

Mal’akh raised the paper and held it in front of Peter’s eyes. The Worshipful Master inhaled sharply when he

saw it. Not only had the sixty-four symbols been organized into clearly meaningful groups . . . but an actual

image had materialized out of the chaos.

An image of a staircase . . . beneath a pyramid.

Peter Solomon stared in disbelief at the grid of symbols before him. The Masonic Pyramid had kept its secret

for generations. Now, suddenly, it was being unveiled, and he felt a cold sense of foreboding in the pit of his

stomach.

The pyramid’s final code.

At a glance, the true meaning of these symbols remained a mystery to Peter, and yet he could immediately

understand why the tattooed man believed what he believed.

He thinks there is a hidden staircase beneath the pyramid called Heredom. He misunderstands these

symbols.

“Where is it?” the tattooed man demanded. “Tell me how to find the staircase, and I will save Katherine.”

I wish I could do that, Peter thought. But the staircase is not real. The myth of the staircase was purely symbolic . . . part of the great allegories of Masonry. The Winding Staircase, as it was known, appeared on

the second-degree tracing boards. It represented man’s intellectual climb toward the Divine Truth. Like

Jacob’s ladder, the Winding Staircase was a symbol of the pathway to heaven . . . the journey of man toward

God . . . the connection between the earthly and spiritual realms. Its steps represented the many virtues of the

mind.

He should know that, Peter thought. He endured all the initiations.

Every Masonic initiate learned of the symbolic staircase that he could ascend, enabling him “to participate in

the mysteries of human science.” Freemasonry, like Noetic Science and the Ancient Mysteries, revered the

untapped potential of the human mind, and many of Masonry’s symbols related to human physiology.

The mind sits like a golden capstone atop the physical body. The Philosopher’s Stone. Through the staircase

of the spine, energy ascends and descends, circulating, connecting the heavenly mind to the physical body.

Peter knew it was no coincidence that the spine was made up of exactly thirty-three vertebrae. Thirty-three are the degrees of Masonry. The base of the spine, or sacrum, literally meant “sacred bone.” The body is indeed a temple. The human science that Masons revered was the ancient understanding of how to use that

temple for its most potent and noble purpose.

Unfortunately, explaining the truth to this man was not going to help Katherine at all. Peter gazed down at

the grid of symbols and gave a defeated sigh. “You’re right,” he lied. “There is indeed a secret staircase

beneath this building. And as soon as you send help to Katherine, I’ll take you to it.”

The man with the tattoos simply stared at him.

Solomon glared back, eyes defiant. “Either save my sister and learn the truth . . . or kill us both and remain

ignorant forever!”

The man quietly lowered the paper and shook his head. “I’m not happy with you, Peter. You failed your test.

You still take me for a fool. Do you truly believe I don’t understand what it is I seek? Do you think I have

not yet grasped my true potential?”

With that, the man turned his back and slipped off his robe. As the white silk fluttered to the floor, Peter saw

for the first time the long tattoo running up the man’s spine.

Dear God . . .

Winding up from the man’s white loincloth, an elegant spiral staircase ascended the middle of his muscular

back. Each stair was positioned on a different vertebra. Speechless, Peter let his eyes ascend the staircase, all

the way up to the base of the man’s skull.

Peter could only stare.

The tattooed man now tipped his shaved head backward, revealing the circle of bare flesh on the pinnacle of

his skull. The virgin skin was bordered by a single snake, looped in a circle, consuming itself.

At-one-ment.

Slowly now, the man lowered his head and turned to face Peter. The massive double-headed phoenix on his

chest stared out through dead eyes.

“I am looking for the Lost Word,” the man said. “Are you going to help me . . . or are you and your sister

going to die?”

You know how to find it, Mal’akh thought. You know something you’re not telling me.

Peter Solomon had revealed things under interrogation that he probably didn’t even recall now. The repeated

sessions in and out of the deprivation tank had left him delirious and compliant. Incredibly, when he spilled

his guts, everything he told Mal’akh had been consistent with the legend of the Lost Word.

The Lost Word is not a metaphor . . . it is real. The Word is written in an ancient language . . . and has been

hidden for ages. The Word is capable of bringing unfathomable power to anyone who grasps its true

meaning. The Word remains hidden to this day . . . and the Masonic Pyramid has the power to unveil it.

“Peter,” Mal’akh now said, staring into his captive’s eyes, “when you looked at that grid of symbols . . . you

saw something. You had a revelation. This grid means something to you. Tell me.”

“I will tell you nothing until you send help to Katherine!”

Mal’akh smiled at him. “Believe me, the prospect of losing your sister is the least of your worries right now.”

Without another word, he turned to Langdon’s daybag and started removing the items he had packed in his

basement. Then he began meticulously arranging them on the sacrificial altar.

A folded silk cloth. Pure white.

A silver censer. Egyptian myrrh.

A vial of Peter’s blood. Mixed with ash.

A black crow’s feather. His sacred stylus.

The sacrificial knife. Forged of iron from a meteorite in the desert of Canaan.

“You think I am afraid to die?” Peter shouted, his voice racked with anguish. “If Katherine is gone, I have

nothing left! You’ve murdered my entire family! You’ve taken everything from me!”

“Not everything,” Mal’akh replied. “Not yet.” He reached into the day-bag and pulled out the laptop from his

study. He turned it on and looked over at his captive. “I’m afraid you have not yet grasped the true nature of

your predicament.”

CHAPTER 117

Langdon felt his stomach drop as the CIA helicopter leaped off the lawn, banked hard, and accelerated faster

than he ever imagined a helicopter could move. Katherine had stayed behind to recuperate with Bellamy

while one of the CIA agents searched the mansion and waited for a backup team.

Before Langdon left, she had kissed him on the cheek and whispered, “Be safe, Robert.”

Now Langdon was holding on for dear life as the military helicopter finally leveled out and raced toward the

House of the Temple.

Seated beside him, Sato was yelling up to the pilot. “Head for Dupont Circle!” she shouted over the

deafening noise. “We’ll set down there!”

Startled, Langdon turned to her. “Dupont?! That’s blocks from the House of the Temple! We can land in the

Temple parking lot!”

Sato shook her head. “We need to enter the building quietly. If our target hears us coming—”

“We don’t have time!” Langdon argued. “This lunatic is about to murder Peter! Maybe the sound of the

helicopter will scare him and make him stop!”

Sato stared at him with ice-cold eyes. “As I have told you, Peter Solomon’s safety is not my primary

objective. I believe I’ve made that clear.”

Langdon was in no mood for another national-security lecture. “Look, I’m the only one on board who knows

his way through that building—”

“Careful, Professor,” the director warned. “You are here as a member of my team, and I will have your

complete cooperation.” She paused a moment and then added, “In fact, it might be wise if I now apprised you

fully of the severity of our crisis tonight.”

Sato reached under her seat and pulled out a sleek titanium briefcase, which she opened to reveal an

unusually complicated-looking computer. When she turned it on, a CIA logo materialized along with a log-in

prompt.

As Sato logged in, she asked, “Professor, do you remember the blond hairpiece we found in the man’s

home?”

“Yes.”

“Well, hidden within that wig was a tiny fiber-optic camera . . . concealed in the bangs.”

“A hidden camera? I don’t understand.”

Sato looked grim. “You will.” She launched a file on the laptop.

ONE MOMENT PLEASE . . .

DECRYPTING FILE . . .

A video window popped up, filling the entire screen. Sato lifted the briefcase and set it on Langdon’s thighs,

giving him a front-row seat.

An unusual image materialized on the screen.

Langdon recoiled in surprise. What the hell?!

Murky and dark, the video was of a blindfolded man. He was dressed in the garb of a medieval heretic being

led to the gallows—noose around his neck, left pant leg rolled up to the knee, right sleeve rolled up to the

elbow, and his shirt gaping open to reveal his bare chest.

Langdon stared in disbelief. He had read enough about Masonic rituals to recognize exactly what he was

looking at.

A Masonic initiate . . . preparing to enter the first degree.

The man was very muscular and tall, with a familiar blond hairpiece and deeply tanned skin. Langdon

recognized his features at once. The man’s tattoos had obviously been concealed beneath bronzing makeup.

He was standing before a full-length mirror videotaping his reflection through the camera concealed in his

wig.

But . . . why?

The screen faded to black.

New footage appeared. A small, dimly lit, rectangular chamber. A dramatic chessboard floor of black-and-

white tile. A low wooden altar, flanked on three sides by pillars, atop which burned flickering candles.

Langdon felt a sudden apprehension.

Oh my God.

Filming in the erratic style of an amateur home video, the camera now panned up to the periphery of the

room to reveal a small group of men observing the initiate. The men were dressed in ritual Masonic regalia.

In the darkness, Langdon could not make out their faces, but he had no doubt where this ritual was taking

place.

The traditional layout of this Lodge Room could have been anywhere in the world, but the powder-blue

triangular pediment above the master’s chair revealed it as the oldest Masonic lodge in D.C.—Potomac

Lodge No. 5—home of George Washington and the Masonic forefathers who laid the cornerstone for the

White House and the Capitol Building.

The lodge was still active today.

Peter Solomon, in addition to overseeing the House of the Temple, was the master of his local lodge. And it

was at lodges like this one that a Masonic initiate’s journey always began . . . where he underwent the first

three degrees of Freemasonry.

“Brethren,” Peter’s familiar voice declared, “in the name of the Great Architect of the Universe, I open this

lodge for the practice of Masonry in the first degree!”

A gavel rapped loudly.

Langdon watched in utter disbelief as the video progressed through a quick series of dissolves featuring Peter

Solomon performing some of the ritual’s starker moments.

Pressing a shining dagger to the initiate’s bare chest . . . threatening impalement should the initiate

“inappropriately reveal the Mysteries of Masonry” . . . describing the black-and-white floor as representing

“the living and the dead” . . . outlining punishments that included “having one’s throat cut across, one’s

tongue torn out by its roots, and one’s body buried in the rough sands of the sea . . .”

Langdon stared. Am I really witnessing this? Masonic initiation rites had remained shrouded in secrecy for

centuries. The only descriptions that had ever been leaked were written by a handful of estranged brothers.

Langdon had read those accounts, of course, and yet to see an initiation with his own eyes . . . this was a

much different story.

Especially edited this way. Langdon could already tell that the video was an unfair piece of propaganda,

omitting all the noblest aspects of the initiation and highlighting only the most disconcerting. If this video

were released, Langdon knew it would become an Internet sensation over night. The anti-Masonic

conspiracy theorists would feed on this like sharks. The Masonic organization, and especially Peter Solomon, would find themselves embroiled in a firestorm of controversy and a desperate effort at damage control . . .

even though the ritual was innocuous and purely symbolic.

Eerily, the video included a biblical reference to human sacrifice . . . “the submission of Abraham to the

Supreme Being by proffering Isaac, his firstborn son.” Langdon thought of Peter and willed the helicopter to fly faster.

The video footage shifted now.

Same room. Different night. A larger group of Masons looking on. Peter Solomon was observing from the

master’s chair. This was the second degree. More intense now. Kneeling at the altar . . . vowing to “forever

conceal the enigmas existing within Freemasonry” . . . consenting to the penalty of “having one’s chest

cavity ripped open and pulsing heart cast upon the surface of the earth as offal for the ravenous beasts” . . .

Langdon’s own heart was pulsing wildly now as the video shifted yet again. Another night. A much larger

crowd. A coffin-shaped “tracing board” on the floor.

The third degree.

This was the death ritual—the most rigorous of all the degrees—the moment in which the initiate was forced

“to face the final challenge of personal extinction.” This grueling interrogation was in fact the source of the

common phrase to give someone the third degree. And although Langdon was very familiar with academic

accounts of it, he was in no way prepared for what he now saw.

The murder.

In violent, rapid intercuts, the video displayed a chilling, victim’s point-of-view account of the initiate’s

brutal murder. There were simulated blows to his head, including one with a Mason’s stone maul. All the

while, a deacon mournfully told the story of “the widow’s son”—Hiram Abiff—the master Architect of King

Solomon’s temple, who chose to die rather than reveal the secret wisdom he possessed.

The attack was mimed, of course, and yet its effect on camera was bloodcurdling. After the deathblow, the

initiate—now “dead to his former self”—was lowered into his symbolic coffin, where his eyes were shut and

his arms were crossed like those of a corpse. The Masonic brothers rose and mournfully circled his dead

body while a pipe organ played a march of the dead.

The macabre scene was deeply disturbing.

And it only got worse.

As the men gathered around their slain brother, the hidden camera clearly displayed their faces. Langdon

now realized that Solomon was not the only famous man in the room. One of the men peering down at the

initiate in his coffin was on television almost daily.

A prominent U.S. senator.

Oh God . . .

The scene changed yet again. Outside now . . . nighttime . . . the same jumpy video footage . . . the man was

walking down a city street . . . strands of blond hair blowing in front of the camera . . . turning a corner . .

.the camera angle lowering to something in the man’s hand . . . a dollar bill . . . a close-up focusing on the

Great Seal . . . the all-seeing eye . . . the unfinished pyramid . . . and then, abruptly, pulling away to reveal a similar shape in the distance . . . a massive pyramidical building . . . with sloping sides rising to a truncated top.

The House of the Temple.

A soul-deep dread swelled within him.

The video kept moving . . . the man hurrying toward the building now . . . up the multitiered staircase . . .

toward the giant bronze doors . . . between the two seventeen-ton sphinx guardians.

A neophyte entering the pyramid of initiation.

Darkness now.

A powerful pipe organ played in the distance . . . and a new image materialized.

The Temple Room.

Langdon swallowed hard.

On-screen, the cavernous space was alive with electricity. Beneath the oculus, the black marble altar shone in

the moonlight. Assembled around it, seated on hand-tooled pigskin chairs, awaited a somber council of

distinguished thirty-third-degree Masons, present to bear witness. The video now panned across their faces

with slow and deliberate intention.

Langdon stared in horror.

Although he had not seen this coming, what he was looking at made perfect sense. A gathering of the most

decorated and accomplished Masons in the most powerful city on earth would logically include many

influential and well-known individuals. Sure enough, seated around the altar, adorned in their long silk

gloves, Masonic aprons, and glistening jewels, were some of the country’s most powerful men.

Two Supreme Court justices . . .

The secretary of defense . . .

The speaker of the House . . .

Langdon felt ill as the video continued panning across the faces of those in attendance.

Three prominent senators . . . including the majority leader . . .

The secretary of homeland security . . .

And . . .

The director of the CIA . . .

Langdon wanted only to look away, but he could not. The scene was utterly mesmerizing, alarming even to

him. In an instant, he had come to understand the source of Sato’s anxiety and concern.

Now, on-screen, the shot dissolved into a single shocking image.

A human skull . . . filled with dark crimson liquid. The famed caput mortuum was being offered forth to the

initiate by the slender hands of Peter Solomon, whose gold Masonic ring glinted in the candlelight. The red

liquid was wine . . . and yet it shimmered like blood. The visual effect was frightful.

The Fifth Libation, Langdon realized, having read firsthand accounts of this sacrament in John Quincy

Adams’s Letters on the Masonic Institution. Even so, to see it happen . . . to see it calmly witnessed by America’s most powerful men . . . this was as arresting an image as any Langdon had ever seen.

The initiate took the skull in his hands . . . his face reflected in the calm surface of the wine. “May this wine I now drink become a deadly poison to me,” he declared, “should I ever knowingly or willfully violate my

oath.”

Obviously, this initiate had intended to violate his oath beyond all imagination.

Langdon could barely get his mind around what would happen if this video were made public. No one would

understand. The government would be thrown into upheaval. The airwaves would be filled with the voices of

anti-Masonic groups, fundamentalists, and conspiracy theorists spewing hatred and fear, launching a Puritan

witch hunt all over again.

The truth will be twisted, Langdon knew. As it always is with the Masons.

The truth was that the brotherhood’s focus on death was in fact a bold celebration of life. Masonic ritual was designed to awaken the slumbering man inside, lifting him from his dark coffin of ignorance, raising him into

the light, and giving him eyes to see. Only through the death experience could man fully understand his life experience. Only through the realization that his days on earth were finite could he grasp the importance of

living those days with honor, integrity, and service to his fellow man.

Masonic initiations were startling because they were meant to be transformative. Masonic vows were

unforgiving because they were meant to be reminders that man’s honor and his “word” were all he could take

from this world. Masonic teachings were arcane because they were meant to be universal . . . taught through

a common language of symbols and metaphors that transcended religions, cultures, and races . . . creating a

unified “worldwide consciousness” of brotherly love.

For a brief instant, Langdon felt a glimmer of hope. He tried to assure himself that if this video were to leak

out, the public would be open-minded and tolerant, realizing that all spiritual rituals included aspects that would seem frightening if taken out of context—crucifixion reenactments, Jewish circumcision rites,

Mormon baptisms of the dead, Catholic exorcisms, Islamic niqab, shamanic trance healing, the Jewish

Kaparot ceremony, even the eating of the figurative body and blood of Christ.

I’m dreaming, Langdon knew. This video will create chaos. He could imagine what would happen if the prominent leaders of Russia or the Islamic world were seen in a video, pressing knives to bare chests,

swearing violent oaths, performing mock murders, lying in symbolic coffins, and drinking wine from a

human skull. The global outcry would be instantaneous and overwhelming.

God help us . . .

On-screen now, the initiate was raising the skull to his lips. He tipped it backward . . . draining the blood-red

wine . . . sealing his oath. Then he lowered the skull and gazed out at the assembly around him. America’s

most powerful and trusted men gave contented nods of acceptance.

“Welcome, brother,” Peter Solomon said.

As the image faded to black, Langdon realized he had stopped breathing.

Without a word, Sato reached over, closed the briefcase, and lifted it off his lap. Langdon turned to her trying

to speak, but he could find no words. It didn’t matter. Understanding was written all over his face. Sato was

right. Tonight was a national-security crisis . . . of unimaginable proportions.

CHAPTER 118

Dressed in his loincloth, Mal’akh padded back and forth in front of Peter Solomon’s wheelchair. “Peter,” he

whispered, enjoying every moment of his captive’s horror, “you forgot you have a second family . . . your

Masonic brothers. And I will destroy them, too . . . unless you help me.”

Solomon looked almost catatonic in the glow of the laptop sitting atop his thighs. “Please,” he finally

stammered, glancing up. “If this video gets out . . .”

“If?” Mal’akh laughed. “If it gets out?” He motioned to the small cellular modem plugged into the side of his

laptop. “I’m connected to the world.”

“You wouldn’t . . .”

I will, Mal’akh thought, enjoying Solomon’s horror. “You have the power to stop me,” he said. “And to save

your sister. But you have to tell me what I want to know. The Lost Word is hidden somewhere, Peter, and I

know this grid reveals exactly where to find it.”

Peter glanced at the grid of symbols again, his eyes revealing nothing.

“Perhaps this will help to inspire you.” Mal’akh reached over Peter’s shoulders and hit a few keys on the

laptop. An e-mail program launched on the screen, and Peter stiffened visibly. The screen now displayed an

e-mail that Mal’akh had cued earlier tonight—a video file addressed to a long list of major media networks.

Mal’akh smiled. “I think it’s time we share, don’t you?”

“Don’t!”

Mal’akh reached down and clicked the send button on the program. Peter jerked against his bonds, trying

unsuccessfully to knock the laptop to the floor.

“Relax, Peter,” Mal’akh whispered. “It’s a massive file. It will take a few minutes to go out.” He pointed to

the progress bar:

SENDING MESSAGE: 2% COMPLETE

“If you tell me what I want to know, I’ll stop the e-mail, and nobody will ever see this.”

Peter was ashen as the task bar inched forward.

SENDING MESSAGE: 4% COMPLETE

Mal’akh now lifted the computer from Peter’s lap and set it on one of the nearby pigskin chairs, turning the

screen so the other man could watch the progress. Then he returned to Peter’s side and laid the page of

symbols in his lap. “The legends say the Masonic Pyramid will unveil the Lost Word. This is the pyramid’s

final code. I believe you know how to read it.”

Mal’akh glanced over at the laptop.

SENDING MESSAGE: 8% COMPLETE

Mal’akh returned his eyes to Peter. Solomon was staring at him, his gray eyes blazing now with hatred.

Hate me, Mal’akh thought. The greater the emotion, the more potent the energy that will be released when the ritual is completed.

At Langley, Nola Kaye pressed the phone to her ear, barely able to hear Sato over the noise of the helicopter.

“They said it’s impossible to stop the file transfer!” Nola shouted. “To shut down local ISPs would take at

least an hour, and if he’s got access to a wireless provider, killing the ground-based Internet won’t stop him

from sending it anyway.”

Nowadays, stopping the flow of digital information had become nearly impossible. There were too many

access routes to the Internet. Between hard lines, Wi-Fi hot spots, cellular modems, SAT phones,

superphones, and e-mail-equipped PDAs, the only way to isolate a potential data leak was by destroying the

source machine.

“I pulled the spec sheet on the UH-60 you’re flying,” Nola said, “and it looks like you’re equipped with

EMP.”

Electromagnetic-pulse or EMP guns were now commonplace among law enforcement agencies, which used

them primarily to stop car chases from a safe distance. By firing a highly concentrated pulse of

electromagnetic radiation, an EMP gun could effectively fry the electronics of any device it targeted—cars,

cell phones, computers. According to Nola’s spec sheet, the UH-60 had a chassis-mounted, laser-sighted, six-

gigahertz magnetron with a fifty-dB-gain horn that yielded a ten-gigawatt pulse. Discharged directly at a

laptop, the pulse would fry the computer’s motherboard and instantly erase the hard drive.

“EMP will be useless,” Sato yelled back. “Target is inside a stone building. No sight lines and thick EM

shielding. Do you have any indication yet if the video has gone out?”

Nola glanced at a second monitor, which was running a continuous search for breaking news stories about

the Masons. “Not yet, ma’am. But if it goes public, we’ll know within seconds.”

“Keep me posted.” Sato signed off.

Langdon held his breath as the helicopter dropped from the sky toward Dupont Circle. A handful of

pedestrians scattered as the aircraft descended through an opening in the trees and landed hard on the lawn

just south of the famous two-tiered fountain designed by the same two men who created the Lincoln

Memorial.

Thirty seconds later, Langdon was riding shotgun in a commandeered Lexus SUV, tearing up New

Hampshire Avenue toward the House of the Temple.

Peter Solomon was desperately trying to figure out what to do. All he could see in his mind were the images

of Katherine bleeding in the basement . . . and of the video he had just witnessed. He turned his head slowly

toward the laptop on the pigskin chair several yards away. The progress bar was almost a third of the way

filled.

SENDING MESSAGE: 29% COMPLETE

The tattooed man was now walking slow circles around the square altar, swinging a lit censer and chanting to

himself. Thick puffs of white smoke swirled up toward the skylight. The man’s eyes were wide now, and he

seemed to be in a demonic trance. Peter turned his gaze to the ancient knife that sat waiting on the white silk

cloth spread across the altar.

Peter Solomon had no doubt that he would die in this temple tonight. The question was how to die. Would he

find a way to save his sister and his brotherhood . . . or would his death be entirely in vain?

He glanced down at the grid of symbols. When he had first laid eyes on the grid, the shock of the moment

had blinded him . . . preventing his vision from piercing the veil of chaos . . . to glimpse the startling truth.

Now, however, the real significance of these symbols had become crystal clear to him. He had seen the grid

in an entirely new light.

Peter Solomon knew exactly what he needed to do.

Taking a deep breath, he gazed up at the moon through the oculus above. Then he began to speak.

All great truths are simple.

Mal’akh had learned that long ago.

The solution that Peter Solomon was now explaining was so graceful and pure that Mal’akh was sure that it

could only be true. Incredibly, the solution to the pyramid’s final code was far simpler than he had ever

imagined.

The Lost Word was right before my eyes.

In an instant, a bright ray of light pierced the murkiness of the history and myth surrounding the Lost Word.

As promised, the Lost Word was indeed written in an ancient language and bore mystical power in every

philosophy, religion, and science ever known to man. Alchemy, astrology, Kabbalah, Christianity, Buddhism,

Rosicrucianism, Freemasonry, astronomy, physics, Noetics . . .

Standing now in this initiation chamber atop the great pyramid of Heredom, Mal’akh gazed upon the treasure

he had sought all these years, and he knew he could not have prepared himself more perfectly.

Soon I am complete.

The Lost Word is found.

In Kalorama Heights, a lone CIA agent stood amid a sea of garbage that he had dumped out of the trash bins

that had been found in the garage.

“Ms. Kaye?” he said, speaking to Sato’s analyst on the phone. “Good thinking to search his garbage. I think I

just found something.”

Inside the house, Katherine Solomon was feeling stronger with every passing moment. The infusion of

lactated Ringer’s solution had successfully raised her blood pressure and quelled her throbbing headache.

She was resting now, seated in the dining room, with explicit instructions to remain still. Her nerves felt

frayed, and she was increasingly anxious for news about her brother.

Where is everybody? The CIA’s forensics team had not yet arrived, and the agent who had stayed behind was

still off searching the premises. Bellamy had been sitting with her in the dining room, still wrapped in a foil

blanket, but he, too, had wandered off to look for any information that might help the CIA save Peter.

Unable to sit idly, Katherine pulled herself to her feet, teetered, and then inched slowly toward the living

room. She found Bellamy in the study. The Architect was standing at an open drawer, his back to her,

apparently too engrossed in its contents to hear her enter.

She walked up behind him. “Warren?”

The old man lurched and turned, quickly shutting the drawer with his hip. His face was lined with shock and

grief, his cheeks streaked with tears.

“What’s wrong?!” She glanced down at the drawer. “What is it?”

Bellamy seemed unable to speak. He had the look of a man who had just seen something he deeply wished

he had not.

“What’s in the drawer?” she demanded.

Bellamy’s tear-filled eyes held hers for a long, sorrowful moment. Finally he spoke. “You and I wondered

why . . . why this man seemed to hate your family.”

Katherine’s brow furrowed. “Yes?”

“Well . . .” Bellamy’s voice caught. “I just found the answer.”

CHAPTER 119

In the chamber at the top of the House of the Temple, the one who called himself Mal’akh stood before the

great altar and gently massaged the virgin skin atop his head. Verbum significatium, he chanted in

preparation. Verbum omnificum. The final ingredient had been found at last.

The most precious treasures are often the simplest.

Above the altar, wisps of fragrant smoke now swirled, billowing up from the censer. The suffumigations

ascended through the shaft of moonlight, clearing a channel skyward through which a liberated soul could

travel freely.

The time had come.

Mal’akh retrieved the vial of Peter’s darkened blood and uncorked it. With his captive looking on, he dipped

the nib of the crow’s feather into the crimson tincture and raised it to the sacred circle of flesh atop his head.

He paused a moment . . . thinking of how long he had waited for this night. His great transformation was

finally at hand. When the Lost Word is written on the mind of man, he is then ready to receive unimaginable

power. Such was the ancient promise of apotheosis. So far, mankind had been unable to realize that promise,

and Mal’akh had done what he could to keep it that way.

With a steady hand, Mal’akh touched the nib of the feather to his skin. He needed no mirror, no assistance,

only his sense of touch, and his mind’s eye. Slowly, meticulously, he began inscribing the Lost Word inside

the circular ouroboros on his scalp.

Peter Solomon looked on with an expression of horror.

When Mal’akh finished, he closed his eyes, set down the feather, and let the air out of his lungs entirely. For

the first time in his life, he felt a sensation he had never known.

I am complete.

I am at one.

Mal’akh had worked for years on the artifact that was his body, and now, as he neared his moment of final

transformation, he could feel every line that had ever been inscribed on his flesh. I am a true masterpiece.

Perfect and complete.

“I gave you what you asked for.” Peter’s voice intruded. “Send help to Katherine. And stop that file.”

Mal’akh opened his eyes and smiled. “You and I are not quite finished.” He turned to the altar and picked up

the sacrificial knife, running his finger across the sleek iron blade. “This ancient knife was commissioned by

God,” he said, “for use in a human sacrifice. You recognized it earlier, no?”

Solomon’s gray eyes were like stone. “It is unique, and I’ve heard the legend.”

“Legend? The account appears in Holy Scripture. You don’t believe it’s true?”

Peter just stared.

Mal’akh had spent a fortune locating and obtaining this artifact. Known as the Akedah knife, it had been

crafted over three thousand years ago from an iron meteorite that had fallen to earth. Iron from heaven, as the

early mystics called it. It was believed to be the exact knife used by Abraham at the Akedah—the near

sacrifice of his son Isaac on Mount Moriah—as depicted in Genesis. The knife’s astounding history included

possession by popes, Nazi mystics, European alchemists, and private collectors.

They protected and admired it, Mal’akh thought, but none dared unleash its true power by using it for its real purpose. Tonight, the Akedah knife would fulfill its destiny.

The Akedah had always been sacred in Masonic ritual. In the very first degree, Masons celebrated “the most

august gift ever offered to God . . . the submission of Abraham to the volitions of the supreme being by

proffering Isaac, his firstborn . . .”

The weight of the blade felt exhilarating in Mal’akh’s hand as he crouched down and used the freshly

sharpened knife to sever the ropes binding Peter to his wheelchair. The bonds fell to the floor.

Peter Solomon winced in pain as he attempted to shift his cramped limbs. “Why are you doing this to me?

What do you think this will accomplish?”

“You of all people should understand,” Mal’akh replied. “You study the ancient ways. You know that the

power of the mysteries relies on sacrifice . . . on releasing a human soul from its body. It has been this way since the beginning.”

“You know nothing of sacrifice,” Peter said, his voice seething with pain and loathing.

Excellent, Mal’akh thought. Feed your hatred. It will only make this easier.

Mal’akh’s empty stomach growled as he paced before his captive. “There is enormous power in the shedding

of human blood. Everyone understood that, from the early Egyptians, to the Celtic Druids, to the Chinese, to

the Aztecs. There is magic in human sacrifice, but modern man has become weak, too fearful to make true

offerings, too frail to give the life that is required for spiritual transformation. The ancient texts are clear,

though. Only by offering what is most sacred can man access the ultimate power.”

“You consider me a sacred offering?”

Mal’akh now laughed out loud. “You really don’t understand yet, do you?”

Peter gave him an odd look.

“Do you know why I have a deprivation tank in my home?” Mal’akh placed his hands on his hips and flexed

his elaborately decorated body, which was still covered only by a loincloth. “I have been practicing . . .

preparing . . . anticipating the moment when I am only mind . . . when I am released from this mortal shell . .

. when I have offered up this beautiful body to the gods in sacrifice. I am the precious one! I am the pure white lamb!”

Peter’s mouth fell open but no words came out.

“Yes, Peter, a man must offer to the gods that which he holds most dear. His purest white dove . . . his most

precious and worthy offering. You are not precious to me. You are not a worthy offering.” Mal’akh glared at him. “Don’t you see? You are not the sacrifice, Peter . . . I am. Mine is the flesh that is the offering. I am the gift. Look at me. I have prepared, made myself worthy for my final journey. I am the gift! ”

Peter remained speechless.

“The secret is how to die,” Mal’akh now said. “Masons understand that.” He pointed to the altar. “You revere

the ancient truths, and yet you are cowards. You understand the power of sacrifice and yet you keep a safe

distance from death, performing your mock murders and bloodless death rituals. Tonight, your symbolic altar

will bear witness to its true power . . . and its actual purpose.”

Mal’akh reached down and grasped Peter Solomon’s left hand, pressing the handle of the Akedah knife into

his palm. The left hand serves the darkness. This, too, had been planned. Peter would have no choice in the

matter. Mal’akh could fathom no sacrifice more potent and symbolic than one performed on this altar, by this

man, with this knife, plunged into the heart of an offering whose mortal flesh was wrapped like a gift in a

shroud of mystical symbols.

With this offering of self, Mal’akh would establish his rank in the hierarchy of demons. Darkness and blood

were where the true power lay. The ancients knew this, the Adepts choosing sides consistent with their

individual natures. Mal’akh had chosen sides wisely. Chaos was the natural law of the universe. Indifference

was the engine of entropy. Man’s apathy was the fertile ground in which the dark spirits tended their seeds.

I have served them, and they will receive me as a god.

Peter did not move. He simply stared down at the ancient knife gripped in his hand.

“I will you,” Mal’akh taunted. “I am a willing sacrifice. Your final role has been written. You will transform

me. You will liberate me from my body. You will do this, or you will lose your sister and your brotherhood.

You will truly be all alone.” He paused, smiling down at his captive. “Consider this your final punishment.”

Peter’s eyes rose slowly to meet Mal’akh’s. “Killing you? A punishment? Do you think I will hesitate? You murdered my son. My mother. My entire family.”

“No!” Mal’akh exploded with a force that startled even himself. “You are wrong! I did not murder your

family! You did! It was you who made the choice to leave Zachary in prison! And from there, the wheels were in motion! You killed your family, Peter, not me!”

Peter’s knuckles turned white, his fingers clenching the knife in rage. “You know nothing of why I left

Zachary in prison.”

“I know everything!” Mal’akh fired back. “I was there. You claimed you were trying to help him. Were you

trying to help him when you offered him the choice between wealth or wisdom? Were you trying to help him when you gave him the ultimatum to join the Masons? What kind of father gives a child the choice between

‘wealth or wisdom’ and expects him to know how to handle it! What kind of father leaves his own son in a

prison instead of flying him home to safety!” Mal’akh now moved in front of Peter and crouched down,

placing his tattooed face only inches from his face. “But most important . . . what kind of father can look his

own son in the eyes . . . even after all these years . . . and not even recognize him!”

Mal’akh’s words echoed for several seconds in the stone chamber.

Then silence.

In the abrupt stillness, Peter Solomon seemed to have been jolted from his trance. His face clouded now with

a visage of total incredulity.

Yes, Father. It’s me. Mal’akh had waited years for this moment . . . to take revenge on the man who had

abandoned him . . . to stare into those gray eyes and speak the truth that had been buried all these years. Now

the moment was here, and he spoke slowly, longing to watch the full weight of his words gradually crush

Peter Solomon’s soul. “You should be happy, Father. Your prodigal son has returned.”

Peter’s face was now as pale as death.

Mal’akh savored every moment. “My own father made the decision to leave me in prison . . . and in that

instant, I vowed that he had rejected me for the last time. I was no longer his son. Zachary Solomon ceased to

exist.”

Two glistening teardrops welled suddenly in his father’s eyes, and Mal’akh thought they were the most

beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Peter choked back tears, staring up at Mal’akh’s face as if seeing him for the very first time.

“All the warden wanted was money,” Mal’akh said, “but you refused. It never occurred to you, though, that

my money was just as green as yours. The warden did not care who paid him, only that he was paid. When I

offered to pay him handsomely, he selected a sickly inmate about my size, dressed him in my clothes, and

beat him beyond all recognition. The photos you saw . . . and the sealed casket you buried . . . they were not

mine. They belonged to a stranger.”

Peter’s tear-streaked face contorted now with anguish and disbelief. “Oh my God . . . Zachary.”

“Not anymore. When Zachary walked out of prison, he was transformed.”

His adolescent physique and childlike face had drastically mutated when he flooded his young body with

experimental growth hormones and steroids. Even his vocal cords had been ravaged, transforming his boyish

voice into a permanent whisper.

Zachary became Andros.

Andros became Mal’akh.

And tonight . . . Mal’akh will become his greatest incarnation of all.

At that moment in Kalorama Heights, Katherine Solomon stood over the open desk drawer and gazed down

at what could be described only as a fetishist’s collection of old newspaper articles and photographs.

“I don’t understand,” she said, turning to Bellamy. “This lunatic was obviously obsessed with my family,

but—”

“Keep going . . .” urged Bellamy, taking a seat and still looking deeply shaken.

Katherine dug deeper into the newspaper articles, every one of which related to the Solomon family—Peter’s

many successes, Katherine’s research, their mother Isabel’s terrible murder, Zachary Solomon’s widely

publicized drug use, incarceration, and brutal murder in a Turkish prison.

The fixation this man had on the Solomon family was beyond fanatical, and yet Katherine saw nothing yet to

suggest why.

It was then that she saw the photographs. The first showed Zachary standing knee-deep in azure water on a

beach dotted with whitewashed houses. Greece? The photo, she assumed, could have been taken only during

Zach’s freewheeling drug days in Europe. Strangely, though, Zach looked healthier than he did in the

paparazzi shots of an emaciated kid partying with the drug crowd. He looked more fit, stronger somehow,

more mature. Katherine never recalled him looking so healthy.

Puzzled, she checked the date stamp on the photo.

But that’s . . . impossible.

The date was almost a full year after Zachary had died in prison.

Suddenly Katherine was flipping desperately through the stack. All of the photos were of Zachary Solomon .

. . gradually getting older. The collection appeared to be some kind of pictorial autobiography, chronicling a

slow transformation. As the pictures progressed, Katherine saw a sudden and dramatic change. She looked on

in horror as Zachary’s body began mutating, his muscles bulging, and his facial features morphing from the

obvious heavy use of steroids. His frame seemed to double in mass, and a haunting fierceness crept into his

eyes.

I don’t even recognize this man!

He looked nothing like Katherine’s memories of her young nephew.

When she reached a picture of him with a shaved head, she felt her knees begin to buckle. Then she saw a

photo of his bare body . . . adorned with the first traces of tattoos.

Her heart almost stopped. “Oh my God . . .”

CHAPTER 120

“Right turn!” Langdon shouted from the backseat of the commandeered Lexus SUV.

Simkins swerved onto S Street and gunned the vehicle through a tree-lined residential neighborhood. As they

neared the corner of Sixteenth Street, the House of the Temple rose like a mountain on the right.

Simkins stared up at the massive structure. It looked like someone had built a pyramid on top of Rome’s

Pantheon. He prepared to turn right on Sixteenth toward the front of the building.

“Don’t turn!” Langdon ordered. “Go straight! Stay on S!”

Simkins obeyed, driving alongside the east side of the building.

“At Fifteenth,” Langdon said, “turn right!”

Simkins followed his navigator, and moments later, Langdon had pointed out a nearly invisible, unpaved

access road that bisected the gardens behind the House of the Temple. Simkins turned in to the drive and

gunned the Lexus toward the rear of the building.

“Look!” Langdon said, pointing to the lone vehicle parked near the rear entrance. It was a large van.

“They’re here.”

Simkins parked the SUV and killed the engine. Quietly, everyone got out and prepared to move in. Simkins

stared up at the monolithic structure. “You say the Temple Room is at the top?”

Langdon nodded, pointing all the way to the pinnacle of the building. “That flat area on top of the pyramid is

actually a skylight.”

Simkins spun back to Langdon. “The Temple Room has a skylight?”

Langdon gave him an odd look. “Of course. An oculus to heaven . . . directly above the altar.”

The UH-60 sat idling at Dupont Circle.

In the passenger seat, Sato gnawed at her fingernails, awaiting news from her team.

Finally, Simkins’s voice crackled over the radio. “Director?”

“Sato here,” she barked.

“We’re entering the building, but I have some additional recon for you.”

“Go ahead.”

“Mr. Langdon just informed me that the room in which the target is most likely located has a very large

skylight.”

Sato considered the information for several seconds. “Understood. Thank you.”

Simkins signed off.

Sato spit out a fingernail and turned to the pilot. “Take her up.”

CHAPTER 121

Like any parent who had lost a child, Peter Solomon had often imagined how old his boy would be now . . .

what he would look like . . . and what he would have become.

Peter Solomon now had his answers.

The massive tattooed creature before him had begun life as a tiny, precious infant . . . baby Zach curled up in

a wicker bassinette . . . taking his first fumbling steps across Peter’s study . . . learning to speak his first

words. The fact that evil could spring from an innocent child in a loving family remained one of the

paradoxes of the human soul. Peter had been forced to accept early on that although his own blood flowed in

his son’s veins, the heart pumping that blood was his son’s own. Unique and singular . . . as if randomly

chosen from the universe.

My son . . . he killed my mother, my friend Robert Langdon, and possibly my sister.

An icy numbness flooded Peter’s heart as he searched his son’s eyes for any connection . . . anything

familiar. The man’s eyes, however, although gray like Peter’s, were those of a total stranger, filled with a

hatred and a vengefulness that were almost otherworldly.

“Are you strong enough?” his son taunted, glancing at the Akedah knife gripped in Peter’s hand. “Can you

finish what you started all those years ago?”

“Son . . .” Solomon barely recognized his own voice. “I . . . I loved . . . you.”

“Twice you tried to kill me. You abandoned me in prison. You shot me on Zach’s bridge. Now finish it!”

For an instant, Solomon felt like he was floating outside his own body. He no longer recognized himself. He

was missing a hand, was totally bald, dressed in a black robe, sitting in a wheelchair, and clutching an

ancient knife.

“Finish it!” the man shouted again, the tattoos on his naked chest rippling. “Killing me is the only way you

can save Katherine . . . the only way to save your brotherhood!”

Solomon felt his gaze move to the laptop and cellular modem on the pigskin chair.

SENDING MESSAGE: 92% COMPLETE

His mind could not shake the images of Katherine bleeding to death . . . or of his Masonic brothers.

“There is still time,” the man whispered. “You know it’s the only choice. Release me from my mortal shell.”

“Please,” Solomon said. “Don’t do this . . .”

“You did this!” the man hissed. “You forced your child to make an impossible choice! Do you remember that

night? Wealth or wisdom? That was the night you pushed me away forever. But I’ve returned, Father . . . and

tonight it is your turn to choose. Zachary or Katherine? Which will it be? Will you kill your son to save your sister? Will you kill your son to save your brotherhood? Your country? Or will you wait until it’s too late?

Until Katherine is dead . . . until the video is public . . . until you must live the rest of your life knowing you

could have stopped these tragedies. Time is running out. You know what must be done.”

Peter’s heart ached. You are not Zachary, he told himself. Zachary died long, long ago. Whatever you are . . .

and wherever you came from . . . you are not of me. And although Peter Solomon did not believe his own

words, he knew he had to make a choice.

He was out of time.

Find the Grand Staircase!

Robert Langdon dashed through darkened hallways, winding his way toward the center of the building.

Turner Simkins remained close on his heels. As Langdon had hoped, he burst out into the building’s main

atrium.

Dominated by eight Doric columns of green granite, the atrium looked like a hybrid sepulcher—Greco-

Roman-Egyptian—with black marble statues, chandelier fire bowls, Teutonic crosses, double-headed

phoenix medallions, and sconces bearing the head of Hermes.

Langdon turned and ran toward the sweeping marble staircase at the far end of the atrium. “This leads

directly to the Temple Room,” he whispered as the two men ascended as quickly and quietly as possible.

On the first landing, Langdon came face-to-face with a bronze bust of Masonic luminary Albert Pike, along

with the engraving of his most famous quote: WHAT WE HAVE DONE FOR OURSELVES ALONE

DIES WITH US; WHAT WE HAVE DONE FOR OTHERS AND THE WORLD REMAINS AND IS

IMMORTAL.

Mal’akh had sensed a palpable shift in the atmosphere of the Temple Room, as if all the frustration and pain

Peter Solomon had ever felt was now boiling to the surface . . . focusing itself like a laser on Mal’akh.

Yes . . . it is time.

Peter Solomon had risen from his wheelchair and was standing now, facing the altar, gripping the knife.

“Save Katherine,” Mal’akh coaxed, luring him toward the altar, backing up, and finally laying his own body

down on the white shroud he had prepared. “Do what you need to do.”

As if moving through a nightmare, Peter inched forward.

Mal’akh reclined fully now onto his back, gazing up through the oculus at the wintry moon. The secret is

how to die. This moment could not be any more perfect. Adorned with the Lost Word of the ages, I offer

myself by the left hand of my father.

Mal’akh drew a deep breath.

Receive me, demons, for this is my body, which is offered for you.

Standing over Mal’akh, Peter Solomon was trembling. His tear-soaked eyes shone with desperation,

indecision, anguish. He looked one last time toward the modem and laptop across the room.

“Make the choice,” Mal’akh whispered. “Release me from my flesh. God wants this . You want this.” He laid

his arms at his side and arched his chest forward, offering up his magnificent double-headed phoenix. Help

me shed the body that clothes my soul.

Peter’s tearful eyes seemed to be staring through Mal’akh now, not even seeing him.

“I killed your mother!” Mal’akh whispered. “I killed Robert Langdon! I’m murdering your sister! I’m

destroying your brotherhood! Do what you have to do!”

Peter Solomon’s visage now contorted into a mask of absolute grief and regret. He threw his head back and

screamed in anguish as he raised the knife.

Robert Langdon and Agent Simkins arrived breathless outside the Temple Room doors as a bloodcurdling

scream erupted from within. It was Peter’s voice. Langdon was certain.

Peter’s cry was one of absolute agony.

I’m too late!

Ignoring Simkins, Langdon seized the handles and yanked open the doors. The horrific scene before him

confirmed his worst fears. There, in the center of the dimly lit chamber, the silhouette of a man with a shaved

head stood at the great altar. He wore a black robe, and his hand was clutching a large blade.

Before Langdon could move, the man was driving the knife down toward the body that lay outstretched on

the altar.

Mal’akh had closed his eyes.

So beautiful. So perfect.

The ancient blade of the Akedah knife had glinted in the moonlight as it arched over him. Scented wisps of

smoke had spiraled upward above him, preparing a pathway for his soon-to-be-liberated soul. His killer’s

lone scream of torment and desperation still rang through the sacred space as the knife came down.

I am besmeared with the blood of human sacrifice and parents’ tears.

Mal’akh braced for the glorious impact.

His moment of transformation had arrived.

Incredibly, he felt no pain.

A thunderous vibration filled his body, deafening and deep. The room began shaking, and a brilliant white

light blinded him from above. The heavens roared.

And Mal’akh knew it had happened.

Exactly as he had planned.

Langdon did not remember sprinting toward the altar as the helicopter appeared overhead. Nor did he

remember leaping with his arms out-stretched . . . soaring toward the man in the black robe . . . trying

desperately to tackle him before he could plunge the knife down a second time.

Their bodies collided, and Langdon saw a bright light sweep down through the oculus and illuminate the

altar. He expected to see the bloody body of Peter Solomon on the altar, but the naked chest that shone in the

light had no blood on it at all . . . only a tapestry of tattoos. The knife lay broken beside him, apparently

having been driven into the stone altar rather than into flesh.

As he and the man in the black robe crashed together onto the hard stone floor, Langdon saw the bandaged

nub on the end of the man’s right arm, and he realized to his bewilderment that he had just tackled Peter

Solomon.

As they slid together across the stone floor, the helicopter’s searchlights blazed down from above. The

chopper thundered in low, its skids practically touching the expansive wall of glass.

On the front of the helicopter, a strange-looking gun rotated, aiming downward through the glass. The red

beam of its laser scope sliced through the skylight and danced across the floor, directly toward Langdon and

Solomon.

No!

But there was no gunfire from above . . . only the sound of the helicopter blades.

Langdon felt nothing but an eerie ripple of energy that shimmered through his cells. Behind his head, on the

pigskin chair, the laptop hissed strangely. He spun in time to see its screen suddenly flash to black.

Unfortunately, the last visible message had been clear.

SENDING MESSAGE: 100% COMPLETE

Pull up! Damn it! Up!

The UH-60 pilot threw his rotors into overdrive, trying to keep his skids from touching any part of the large

glass skylight. He knew the six thousand pounds of lift force that surged downward from his rotors was

already straining the glass to its breaking point. Unfortunately, the incline of the pyramid beneath the

helicopter was efficiently shedding the thrust sideways, robbing him of lift.

Up! Now!

He tipped the nose, trying to skim away, but the left strut hit the center of the glass. It was only for an instant,

but that was all it took.

The Temple Room’s massive oculus exploded in a swirl of glass and wind . . . sending a torrent of jagged

shards plummeting into the room below.

Stars falling from heaven.

Mal’akh stared up into the beautiful white light and saw a veil of shimmering jewels fluttering toward him . .

. accelerating . . . as if racing to shroud him in their splendor.

Suddenly there was pain.

Everywhere.

Stabbing. Searing. Slashing. Razor-sharp knives piercing soft flesh. Chest, neck, thighs, face. His body

tightened all at once, recoiling. His blood-filled mouth cried out as the pain ripped him from his trance. The

white light above transformed itself, and suddenly, as if by magic, a dark helicopter was suspended above

him, its thundering blades driving an icy wind down into the Temple Room, chilling Mal’akh to the core and

dispersing the wisps of incense to the distant corners of the room.

Mal’akh turned his head and saw the Akedah knife lying broken by his side, smashed upon the granite altar,

which was covered in a blanket of shattered glass. Even after everything I did to him . . . Peter Solomon

averted the knife. He refused to spill my blood.

With welling horror, Mal’akh raised his head and peered down along the length of his own body. This living

artifact was to have been his great offering. But it lay in tatters. His body was drenched in blood . . . huge

shards of glass protruding from his flesh in all directions.

Weakly, Mal’akh lowered his head back to the granite altar and stared up through the open space in the roof.

The helicopter was gone now, in its place a silent, wintry moon.

Wide-eyed, Mal’akh lay gasping for breath . . . all alone on the great altar.

CHAPTER 122

The secret is how to die.

Mal’akh knew it had all gone wrong. There was no brilliant light. No wondrous reception. Only darkness and

excruciating pain. Even in his eyes. He could see nothing, and yet he sensed movement all around him. There

were voices . . . human voices . . . one of them, strangely, belonging to Robert Langdon. How can this be?

“She’s okay,” Langdon kept repeating. “Katherine is fine, Peter. Your sister is okay.”

No, Mal’akh thought . Katherine is dead. She must be.

Mal’akh could no longer see, could not tell if his eyes were even open, but he heard the helicopter banking

away. An abrupt calm settled through the Temple Room. Mal’akh could feel the smooth rhythms of the earth

becoming uneven . . . as if the ocean’s natural tides were being disrupted by a gathering storm.

Chao ab ordo.

Unfamiliar voices were shouting now, talking urgently with Langdon about the laptop and video file. It’s too

late, Mal’akh knew. The damage is done. By now the video was spreading like wildfire into every corner of a shocked world, destroying the future of the brotherhood. Those most capable of spreading the wisdom must

be destroyed. The ignorance of mankind is what helped the chaos grow. The absence of Light on earth is

what nourished the Darkness that awaited Mal’akh.

I have done great deeds, and soon I will be received as a king.

Mal’akh sensed that a lone individual had quietly approached. He knew who it was. He could smell the

sacred oils he had rubbed into his father’s shaved body.

“I don’t know if you can hear me,” Peter Solomon whispered in his ear. “But I want you to know

something.” He touched a finger to the sacred spot atop Mal’akh’s skull. “What you wrote here . . .” He

paused. “This is not the Lost Word.”

Of course it is, Mal’akh thought. You convinced me of that beyond a doubt.

According to legend, the Lost Word was written in a language so ancient and arcane that mankind had all but

forgotten how to read it. This mysterious language, Peter had revealed, was in fact the oldest language on

earth.

The language of symbols.

In the idiom of symbology, there was one symbol that reigned supreme above all others. The oldest and most

universal, this symbol fused all the ancient traditions in a single solitary image that represented the

illumination of the Egyptian sun god, the triumph of alchemical gold, the wisdom of the Philosopher’s Stone,

the purity of the Rosicrucian Rose, the moment of Creation, the All, the dominance of the astrological sun,

and even the omniscient all-seeing eye that hovered atop the unfinished pyramid.

The circumpunct. The symbol of the Source. The origin of all things.

This is what Peter had told him moments ago. Mal’akh had been skeptical at first, but then he had looked

again at the grid, realizing that the image of the pyramid was pointing directly at the lone symbol of the

circumpunct—a circle with a dot in its center. The Masonic Pyramid is a map, he thought, recalling the

legend, which points to the Lost Word. It seemed his father was telling the truth after all.

All great truths are simple.

The Lost Word is not a word . . . it is a symbol.

Eagerly, Mal’akh had inscribed the great symbol of the circumpunct on his scalp. As he did so, he felt an

upwelling of power and satisfaction. My masterpiece and offering are complete. The forces of darkness were

waiting for him now. He would be rewarded for his work. This was to be his moment of glory . . .

And yet, at the last instant, everything had gone horribly wrong.

Peter was still behind him now, speaking words that Mal’akh could barely fathom. “I lied to you,” he was

saying. “You left me no choice. If I had revealed to you the true Lost Word, you would not have believed

me, nor would you have understood.”

The Lost Word is . . . not the circumpunct?

“The truth is,” said Peter, “the Lost Word is known to all . . . but recognized by very few.”

The words echoed in Mal’akh’s mind.

“You remain incomplete,” Peter said, gently placing his palm on top of Mal’akh’s head. “Your work is not

yet done. But wherever you are going, please know this . . . you were loved.”

For some reason, the gentle touch of his father’s hand felt like it was burning through him like a potent

catalyst that was initiating a chemical reaction inside Mal’akh’s body. Without warning, he felt a rush of

blistering energy surging through his physical shell, as if every cell in his body were now dissolving.

In an instant, all of his worldly pain evaporated.

Transformation. It’s happening.

I am gazing down upon myself, a wreck of bloody flesh on the sacred slab of granite. My father is kneeling

behind me, holding my lifeless head with his one remaining hand.

I feel an upwelling of rage . . . and confusion.

This is not a moment for compassion . . . it is for revenge, for transformation . . . and yet still my father

refuses to submit, refuses to fulfill his role, refuses to channel his pain and anger through the knife blade and into my heart.

I am trapped here, hovering . . . tethered to my earthly shell.

My father gently runs a soft palm across my face to close my fading eyes.

I feel the tether release.

A billowing veil materializes around me, thickening and dimming the light, hiding the world from view.

Suddenly time accelerates, and I am plunging into an abyss far darker than any I have ever imagined. Here,

in the barren void, I hear a whispering . . . I sense a gathering force. It strengthens, mounting at a startling

rate, surrounding me. Ominous and powerful. Dark and commanding.

I am not alone here.

This is my triumph, my grand reception. And yet, for some reason, I am filled not with joy, but rather with

boundless fear.

It is nothing like I expect.

The force is churning now, swirling around me with commanding strength, threatening to tear me apart.

Suddenly, without warning, the blackness gathers itself like a great prehistoric beast and rears up before me.

I am facing all the dark souls who have gone before.

I am screaming in infinite terror . . . as the darkness swallows me whole.

CHAPTER 123

Inside the National Cathedral, Dean Galloway sensed a strange change in the air. He was not sure why, but

he felt as if a ghostly shadow had evaporated . . . as if a weight had been lifted . . . far away and yet right

here.

Alone at his desk, he was deep in thought. He was not sure how many minutes had passed when his phone

rang. It was Warren Bellamy.

“Peter’s alive,” his Masonic brother said. “I just heard the news. I knew you’d want to know immediately.

He’s going to be okay.”

“Thank God.” Galloway exhaled. “Where is he?”

Galloway listened as Bellamy recounted the extraordinary tale of what had transpired after they had left

Cathedral College.

“But all of you are okay?”

“Recuperating, yes,” Bellamy said. “There is one thing, though.” He paused.

“Yes?”

“The Masonic Pyramid . . . I think Langdon may have solved it.”

Galloway had to smile. Somehow he was not surprised. “And tell me, did Langdon discover whether or not

the pyramid kept its promise? Whether or not it revealed what legend always claimed it would reveal?”

“I don’t know yet.”

It will, Galloway thought. “You need to rest.”

“As do you.”

No, I need to pray.

CHAPTER 124

When the elevator door opened, the lights in the Temple Room were all ablaze.

Katherine Solomon’s legs still felt rubbery as she hurried in to find her brother. The air in this enormous

chamber was cold and smelled of incense. The scene that greeted her stopped her in her tracks.

In the center of this magnificent room, on a low stone altar, lay a bloody, tattooed corpse, a body perforated

by spears of broken glass. High above, a gaping hole in the ceiling opened to the heavens.

My God. Katherine immediately looked away, her eyes scanning for Peter. She found her brother sitting on

the other side of the room, being tended to by a medic while talking with Langdon and Director Sato.

“Peter!” Katherine called, running over. “Peter!”

Her brother glanced up, his expression filling with relief. He was on his feet at once, moving toward her. He

was wearing a simple white shirt and dark slacks, which someone had probably gotten for him from his

office downstairs. His right arm was in a sling, and their gentle embrace was awkward, but Katherine barely

noticed. A familiar comfort surrounded her like a cocoon, as it always had, even in childhood, when her

protective older brother embraced her.

They held each other in silence.

Finally Katherine whispered, “Are you okay? I mean . . . really?” She released him, looking down at the sling

and bandage where his right hand used to be. Tears welled again in her eyes. “I’m so . . . so sorry.”

Peter shrugged as if it were nothing of consequence. “Mortal flesh. Bodies don’t last forever. The important

thing is that you’re okay.”

Peter’s lighthearted response tore at her emotions, reminding her of all the reasons she loved him. She

stroked his head, feeling the unbreakable bonds of family . . . the shared blood that flowed in their veins.

Tragically, she knew there was a third Solomon in the room tonight. The corpse on the altar drew her gaze,

and Katherine shuddered deeply, trying to block out the photos she had seen.

She looked away, her eyes now finding Robert Langdon’s. There was compassion there, deep and perceptive,

as if Langdon somehow knew exactly what she was thinking. Peter knows. Raw emotion gripped

Katherine—relief, sympathy, despair. She felt her brother’s body begin trembling like a child’s. It was

something she had never witnessed in her entire life.

“Just let it go,” she whispered. “It’s okay. Just let it go.”

Peter’s trembling grew deeper.

She held him again, stroking the back of his head. “Peter, you’ve always been the strong one . . . you’ve

always been there for me. But I’m here for you now. It’s okay. I’m right here.”

Katherine eased his head gently onto her shoulder . . . and the great Peter Solomon collapsed sobbing in her

arms.

Director Sato stepped away to take an incoming call.

It was Nola Kaye. Her news, for a change, was good.

“Still no signs of distribution, ma’am.” She sounded hopeful. “I’m confident we would have seen something

by now. It looks like you contained it.”

Thanks to you, Nola, Sato thought, glancing down at the laptop, which Langdon had seen complete its

transmission. A very close call.

At Nola’s suggestion, the agent searching the mansion had checked the garbage cans, discovering packaging

for a newly purchased cellular modem. With the exact model number, Nola had been able to cross-reference

compatible carriers, bandwidths, and service grids, isolating the laptop’s most likely access node—a small

transmitter on the corner of Sixteenth and Corcoran—three blocks from the Temple.

Nola quickly relayed the information to Sato in the helicopter. On approach toward the House of the Temple,

the pilot had performed a low-altitude flyover and pulsed the relay node with a blast of electromagnetic

radiation, knocking it off-line only seconds before the laptop completed its transfer.

“Great work tonight,” Sato said. “Now get some sleep. You’ve earned it.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Nola hesitated.

“Was there something else?”

Nola was silent a long moment, apparently considering whether or not to speak. “Nothing that can’t wait till

morning, ma’am. Have a good night.”

CHAPTER 125

In the silence of an elegant bathroom on the ground floor of the House of the Temple, Robert Langdon ran

warm water into a tile sink and eyed himself in the mirror. Even in the muted light, he looked like he felt . . .

utterly spent.

His daybag was on his shoulder again, much lighter now . . . empty except for his personal items and some

crumpled lecture notes. He had to chuckle. His visit to D.C. tonight to give a lecture had turned out a bit

more grueling than he’d anticipated.

Even so, Langdon had a lot to be grateful for.

Peter is alive.

And the video was contained.

As Langdon scooped handfuls of warm water onto his face, he gradually felt himself coming back to life.

Everything was still a blur, but the adrenaline in his body was finally dissipating . . . and he was feeling like

himself again. After drying his hands, he checked his Mickey Mouse watch.

My God, it’s late.

Langdon exited the bathroom and wound his way along the curved wall of the Hall of Honor—a gracefully

arched passageway, lined with portraits of accomplished Masons . . . U.S. presidents, philanthropists,

luminaries, and other influential Americans. He paused at an oil painting of Harry S. Truman and tried to

imagine the man undergoing the rites, rituals, and studies required to become a Mason.

There is a hidden world behind the one we all see. For all of us.

“You slipped away,” a voice said down the hall.

Langdon turned.

It was Katherine. She’d been through hell tonight, and yet she looked suddenly radiant . . . rejuvenated

somehow.

Langdon gave a tired smile. “How’s he doing?”

Katherine walked up and embraced him warmly. “How can I ever thank you?”

He laughed. “You know I didn’t do anything, right?”

Katherine held him for a long time. “Peter’s going to be fine . . .” She let go and looked deep into Langdon’s

eyes. “And he just told me something incredible . . . something w onderful.” Her voice trembled with

anticipation. “I need to go see it for myself. I’ll be back in a bit.”

“What? Where are you going?”

“I won’t be long. Right now, Peter wants to speak with you . . . alone. He’s waiting in the library.”

“Did he say why?”

Katherine chuckled and shook her head. “You know Peter and his secrets.”

“But—”

“I’ll see you in a bit.”

Then she was gone.

Langdon sighed heavily. He felt like he’d had enough secrets for one night. There were unanswered

questions, of course—the Masonic Pyramid and the Lost Word among them—but he sensed that the answers,

if they even existed, were not for him. Not as a non-Mason.

Mustering the last of his energy, Langdon made his way to the Masonic library. When he arrived, Peter was

sitting all alone at a table with the stone pyramid before him.

“Robert?” Peter smiled and waved him in. “I’d like a word.”

Langdon managed a grin. “Yes, I hear you lost one.”

CHAPTER 126

The library in the House of the Temple was D.C.’s oldest public reading room. Its elegant stacks burgeoned

with over a quarter of a million volumes, including a rare copy of the Ahiman Rezon, The Secrets of a

Prepared Brother. In addition, the library displayed precious Masonic jewels, ritual artifacts, and even a rare volume that had been hand-printed by Benjamin Franklin.

Langdon’s favorite library treasure, however, was one few ever noticed.

The illusion.

Solomon had shown him long ago that from the proper vantage point, the library’s reading desk and golden

table lamp created an unmistakable optical illusion . . . that of a pyramid and shining golden capstone.

Solomon said he always considered the illusion a silent reminder that the mysteries of Freemasonry were

perfectly visible to anyone and everyone if they were seen from the proper perspective.

Tonight, however, the mysteries of Freemasonry had materialized front and center. Langdon now sat

opposite the Worshipful Master Peter Solomon and the Masonic Pyramid.

Peter was smiling. “The ‘word’ you refer to, Robert, is not a legend. It is a reality.”

Langdon stared across the table and finally spoke. “But . . . I don’t understand. How is that possible?”

“What is so difficult to accept?”

All of it! Langdon wanted to say, searching his old friend’s eyes for any hint of common sense. “You’re

saying you believe the Lost Word is real . . . and that it has actual power?”

“Enormous power,” Peter said. “It has the power to transform human kind by unlocking the Ancient

Mysteries.”

“A word?” Langdon challenged. “Peter, I can’t possibly believe a word—”

“You will believe,” Peter stated calmly.

Langdon stared in silence.

“As you know,” Solomon continued, standing now and pacing around the table, “it has long been prophesied

that there will come a day when the Lost Word will be rediscovered . . . a day when it will be unearthed . . .

and mankind will once again have access to its forgotten power.”

Langdon flashed on Peter’s lecture about the Apocalypse. Although many people erroneously interpreted

apocalypse as a cataclysmic end of the world, the word literally signified an “unveiling,” predicted by the

ancients to be that of great wisdom. The coming age of enlightenment. Even so, Langdon could not imagine

such a vast change being ushered in by . . . a word.

Peter motioned to the stone pyramid, which sat on the table beside its golden capstone. “The Masonic

Pyramid,” he said. “The legendary symbolon. Tonight it stands unified . . . and complete.” Reverently, he

lifted the golden capstone and set it atop the pyramid. The heavy gold piece clicked softly into place.

“Tonight, my friend, you have done what has never been done before. You have assembled the Masonic

Pyramid, deciphered all of its codes, and in the end, unveiled . . . this.”

Solomon produced a sheet of paper and laid it on the table. Langdon recognized the grid of symbols that had

been reorganized using the Order Eight Franklin Square. He had studied it briefly in the Temple Room.

Peter said, “I am curious to know if you can read this array of symbols. After all, you are the specialist.”

Langdon eyed the grid.

Heredom, circumpunct, pyramid, staircase . . .

Langdon sighed. “Well, Peter, as you can probably see, this is an allegorical pictogram. Clearly its language

is metaphorical and symbolic rather than literal.”

Solomon chuckled. “Ask a symbologist a simple question . . . Okay, tell me what you see.”

Peter really wants to hear this? Langdon pulled the page toward him. “Well, I looked at it earlier, and, in

simple terms, I see that this grid is a picture . . . depicting heaven and earth.”

Peter arched his eyebrows, looking surprised. “Oh?”

“Sure. At the top of the image, we have the word Heredom—the ‘Holy House’—which I interpret as the

House of God . . . or heaven.”

“Okay.”

“The downward-facing arrow after Heredom signifies that the rest of the pictogram clearly lies in the realm beneath heaven . . . that being . . . earth.” Langdon’s eyes glided now to the bottom of the grid. “The lowest two rows, those beneath the pyramid, represent the earth itself—terra firma—the lowest of all the realms.

Fittingly, these lower realms contain the twelve ancient astrological signs, which represent the primordial

religion of those first human souls who looked to the heavens and saw the hand of God in the movement of

the stars and planets.”

Solomon slid his chair closer and studied the grid. “Okay, what else?”

“On a foundation of astrology,” Langdon continued, “the great pyramid rises from the earth . . . stretching

toward heaven . . . the enduring symbol of lost wisdom. It is filled with history’s great philosophies and

religions . . . Egyptian, Pythagorean, Buddhist, Hindu, Islamic, Judeo-Christian, and on and on . . . all

flowing upward, merging together, funneling themselves up through the transformative gateway of the

pyramid . . . where they finally fuse into a single, unified human philosophy.” He paused. “A single universal

consciousness . . . a shared global vision of God . . . represented by the ancient symbol that hovers over the

capstone.”

“The circumpunct,” Peter said. “A universal symbol for God.”

“Right. Throughout history, the circumpunct has been all things to all people—it is the sun god Ra,

alchemical gold, the all-seeing eye, the singularity point before the Big Bang, the—”

“The Great Architect of the Universe.”

Langdon nodded, sensing this was probably the same argument Peter had used in the Temple Room to sell

the idea of the circumpunct as the Lost Word.

“And finally?” Peter asked. “What about the staircase?”

Langdon glanced down at the image of the stairs beneath the pyramid. “Peter, I’m sure you know as well as

anyone, this symbolizes the Winding Staircase of Freemasonry . . . leading upward out of the earthly

darkness into the light . . . like Jacob’s ladder climbing to heaven . . . or the tiered human spine that connects

man’s mortal body to his eternal mind.” He paused. “As for the rest of the symbols, they appear to be a blend of celestial, Masonic, and scientific, all lending support to the Ancient Mysteries.”

Solomon stroked his chin. “An elegant interpretation, Professor. I agree, of course, that this grid can be read

as allegory, and yet . . .” His eyes flashed with deepening mystery. “This collection of symbols tells another

story as well. A story that is far more revealing.”

“Oh?”

Solomon began pacing again, circling the table. “Earlier tonight, inside the Temple Room, when I believed I

was going to die, I looked at this grid, and somehow I saw past the metaphor, past the allegory, into the very heart of what these symbols are telling us.” He paused, turning abruptly to Langdon. “This grid reveals the

exact location where the Lost Word is buried.”

“Come again?” Langdon shifted uneasily in his chair, suddenly fearing that the trauma of the evening had left

Peter disorientated and confused.

“Robert, legend has always described the Masonic Pyramid as a map—a very specific map—a map that

could guide the worthy to the secret location of the Lost Word.” Solomon tapped the grid of symbols in front

of Langdon. “I guarantee you, these symbols are exactly what legend says they are . . . a map. A specific

diagram that reveals exactly where we will find the staircase that leads down to the Lost Word.”

Langdon gave an uneasy laugh, treading carefully now. “Even if I believed the Legend of the Masonic

Pyramid, this grid of symbols can’t possibly be a map. Look at it. It looks nothing like a map.”

Solomon smiled. “Sometimes all it takes is a tiny shift of perspective to see something familiar in a totally

new light.”

Langdon looked again but saw nothing new.

“Let me ask you a question,” Peter said. “When Masons lay cornerstones, do you know why we lay them in

the northeast corner of a building?”

“Sure, because the northeast corner receives the first rays of morning light. It is symbolic of the power of

architecture to climb out of the earth into the light.”

“Right,” Peter said. “So perhaps you should look there for the first rays of light.” He motioned to the grid.

“In the northeast corner.”

Langdon returned his eyes to the page, moving his gaze to the upper right or northeast corner. The symbol in

that corner was .

“A downward-pointing arrow,” Langdon said, trying to grasp Solomon’s point. “Which means . . . beneath

Heredom.”

“No, Robert, not beneath, ” Solomon replied. “Think. This grid is not a metaphorical maze. It’s a map. And on a map, a directional arrow that points down means—”

“South,” Langdon exclaimed, startled.

“Exactly!” Solomon replied, grinning now with excitement. “Due south! On a map, down is south. Moreover,

on a map, the word Heredom would not be a metaphor for heaven, it would be the name of a geographic

location.”

“The House of the Temple? You’re saying this map is pointing . . . due south of this building?”

“Praise God!” Solomon said, laughing. “Light dawns at last.”

Langdon studied the grid. “But, Peter . . . even if you’re right, due south of this building could be anywhere

on a longitude that’s over twenty-four thousand miles long.”

“No, Robert. You are ignoring the legend, which claims the Lost Word is buried in D.C. That shortens the

line substantially. In addition, legend also claims that a large stone sits atop the opening of the staircase . . .

and that this stone is engraved with a message in an ancient language . . . as a kind of marker so the worthy can find it.”

Langdon was having trouble taking any of this seriously, and while he didn’t know D.C. well enough to

picture what was due south of their current location, he was pretty certain there was no huge engraved stone

atop a buried staircase.

“The message inscribed on the stone,” Peter said, “is right here before our eyes.” He tapped the third row of

the grid before Langdon. “This is the inscription, Robert! You’ve solved the puzzle!”

Dumbfounded, Langdon studied the seven symbols.

Solved? Langdon had no idea whatsoever what these seven disparate symbols could possibly mean, and he

was damned sure they were not engraved anywhere in the nation’s capital . . . particularly on a giant stone

over a staircase.

“Peter,” he said, “I don’t see how this sheds any light at all. I know of no stone in D.C. engraved with this . . .

message.”

Solomon patted him on the shoulder. “You have walked past it and never seen it. We all have. It is sitting in plain view, like the mysteries themselves. And tonight, when I saw these seven symbols, I realized in an

instant that the legend was true. The Lost Word is buried in D.C. . . . and it does rest at the bottom of a long staircase beneath an enormous engraved stone.”

Mystified, Langdon remained silent.

“Robert, tonight I believe you have earned the right to know the truth.”

Langdon stared at Peter, trying to process what he had just heard. “You’re going to tell me where the Lost

Word is buried?”

“No,” Solomon said, standing up with a smile. “I’m going to show you.”

Five minutes later, Langdon was buckling himself into the backseat of the Escalade beside Peter Solomon.

Simkins climbed in behind the wheel as Sato approached across the parking lot.

“Mr. Solomon?” the director said, lighting a cigarette as she arrived. “I’ve just made the call you requested.”

“And?” Peter asked through his open window.

“I ordered them to give you access. Briefly.”

“Thank you.”

Sato studied him, looking curious. “I must say, it’s a most unusual request.”

Solomon gave an enigmatic shrug.

Sato let it go, circling around to Langdon’s window and rapping with her knuckles.

Langdon lowered the window.

“Professor,” she said, with no hint of warmth. “Your assistance tonight, while reluctant, was critical to our

success . . . and for that, I thank you.” She took a long drag on her cigarette and blew it sideways. “However,

one final bit of advice. The next time a senior administrator of the CIA tells you she has a national-security

crisis . . .” Her eyes flashed black. “Leave the bullshit in Cambridge.”

Langdon opened his mouth to speak, but Director Inoue Sato had already turned and was headed off across

the parking lot toward a waiting helicopter.

Simkins glanced over his shoulder, stone-faced. “Are you gentlemen ready?”

“Actually,” Solomon said, “just one moment.” He produced a small, folded piece of dark fabric and handed it

to Langdon. “Robert, I’d like you to put this on before we go anywhere.”

Puzzled, Langdon examined the cloth. It was black velvet. As he unfolded it, he realized he was holding a

Masonic hoodwink—the traditional blindfold of a first-degree initiate. What the hell?

Peter said, “I’d prefer you not see where we’re going.”

Langdon turned to Peter. “You want to blindfold me for the journey?”

Solomon grinned. “My secret. My rules.”

CHAPTER 127

The breeze felt cold outside CIA headquarters in Langley. Nola Kaye was shivering as she followed sys-sec

Rick Parrish across the agency’s moonlit central courtyard.

Where is Rick taking me?

The crisis of the Masonic video had been averted, thank God, but Nola still felt uneasy. The redacted file on

the CIA director’s partition remained a mystery, and it was nagging at her. She and Sato would debrief in the

morning, and Nola wanted all the facts. Finally, she had called Rick Parrish and demanded his help.

Now, as she followed Rick to some unknown location outside, Nola could not push the bizarre phrases from

her memory:

Secret location underground where the . . . somewhere in Washington, D.C., the coordinates . . . uncovered an ancient portal that led . . . warning the pyramid holds dangerous . . . decipher this engraved symbolon to unveil . . .

“You and I agree,” Parrish said as they walked, “that the hacker who spidered those keywords was definitely

searching for information about the Masonic Pyramid.”

Obviously, Nola thought.

“It turns out, though, the hacker stumbled onto a facet of the Masonic mystery I don’t think he expected.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nola, you know how the CIA director sponsors an internal discussion forum for Agency employees to share

their ideas about all kinds of things?”

“Of course.” The forums provided Agency personnel a safe place to chat online about various topics and

gave the director a kind of virtual gateway to his staff.

“The director’s forums are hosted on his private partition, and yet in order to provide access to employees of

all clearance levels, they’re located outside the director’s classified firewall.”

“What are you getting at?” she demanded as they rounded a corner near the Agency cafeteria.

“In a word . . .” Parrish pointed into the darkness. “That.”

Nola glanced up. Across the plaza in front of them was a massive metal sculpture glimmering in the

moonlight.

In an agency that boasted over five hundred pieces of original art, this sculpture—titled Kryptos—was by far

the most famous. Greek for “hidden,” Kryptos was the work of American artist James Sanborn and had

become something of a legend here at the CIA.

The work consisted of a massive S-shaped panel of copper, set on its edge like a curling metal wall.

Engraved into the expansive surface of the wall were nearly two thousand letters . . . organized into a baffling

code. As if this were not enigmatic enough, positioned carefully in the area around the encrypted S-wall were

numerous other sculptural elements—granite slabs at odd angles, a compass rose, a magnetic lodestone, and

even a message in Morse code that referenced “lucid memory” and “shadow forces.” Most fans believed that

these pieces were clues that would reveal how to decipher the sculpture.

Kryptos was art . . . but it was also an enigma.

Attempting to decipher its encoded secret had become an obsession for cryptologists both inside and outside

the CIA. Finally, a few years back, a portion of the code had been broken, and it became national news.

Although much of Kryptos’s code remained unsolved to this day, the sections that had been deciphered were so bizarre that they made the sculpture only more mysterious. It referenced secret underground locations,

portals that led into ancient tombs, longitudes and latitudes . . .

Nola could still recall bits and pieces of the deciphered sections: The information was gathered and

transmitted underground to an unknown location . . . It was totally invisible . . . hows that possible . . . they used the earths magnetic field . . .

Nola had never paid much attention to the sculpture or cared if it was ever fully deciphered. At the moment,

however, she wanted answers. “Why are you showing me Kryptos?”

Parrish gave her a conspiratorial smile and dramatically extracted a folded sheet of paper from his pocket.

“Voilа, the mysterious redacted document you were so concerned about. I accessed the complete text.”

Nola jumped. “You snooped the director’s classified partition?”

“No. That’s what I was getting at earlier. Have a look.” He handed her the file.

Nola seized the page and unfolded it. When she saw the standard Agency headers at the top of the page, she

cocked her head in surprise.

This document was not classified. Not even close.

EMPLOYEE DISCUSSION BOARD: KRYPTOS

COMPRESSED STORAGE: THREAD #2456282.5

Nola found herself looking at a series of postings that had been compressed into a single page for more

efficient storage.

“Your keyword document,” Rick said, “is some cipher-punks rambling about Kryptos.”

Nola scanned down the document until she spotted a sentence containing a familiar set of keywords.

Jim, the sculpture says it was transmitted to a secret location UNDERGROUND where the info was hidden.

“This text is from the director’s online Kryptos forum,” Rick explained. “The forum’s been going for years.

There are literally thousands of postings. I’m not surprised one of them happened to contain all the

keywords.”

Nola kept scanning down until she spotted another posting containing keywords.

Even though Mark said the code’s lat/long headings point somewhere in WASHINGTON, D.C., the

coordinates he used were off by one degree--Kryptos basically points back to itself.

Parrish walked over to the statue and ran his palm across the cryptic sea of letters. “A lot of this code has yet

to be deciphered, and there are plenty of people who think the message might actually relate to ancient

Masonic secrets.”

Nola now recalled murmurs of a Masonic/ Kryptos link, but she tended to ignore the lunatic fringe. Then

again, looking around at the various pieces of the sculpture arranged around the plaza, she realized that it was

a code in pieces—a symbolon—just like the Masonic Pyramid.

Odd.

For a moment, Nola could almost see Kryptos as a modern Masonic Pyramid—a code in many pieces, made

of different materials, each playing a role. “Do you think there’s any way Kryptos and the Masonic Pyramid

might be hiding the same secret?”

“Who knows?” Parrish shot Kryptos a frustrated look. “I doubt we’ll ever know the whole message. That is, unless someone can convince the director to unlock his safe and sneak a peek at the solution.”

Nola nodded. It was all coming back to her now. When Kryptos was installed, it arrived with a sealed

envelope containing a complete decryption of the sculpture’s codes. The sealed solution was entrusted to

then–CIA director William Webster, who locked it in his office safe. The document was allegedly still there,

having been transferred from director to director over the years.

Strangely, Nola’s thoughts of William Webster sparked her memory, bringing back yet another portion of

Kryptos’s deciphered text:

IT’S BURIED OUT THERE SOMEWHERE.

WHO KNOWS THE EXACT LOCATION?

ONLY WW.

Although nobody knew exactly what was buried out there, most people believed the WW was a reference to William Webster. Nola had heard whispers once that it referred in fact to a man named William Whiston—a

Royal Society theologian—although she had never bothered to give it much thought.

Rick was talking again. “I’ve got to admit, I’m not really into artists, but I think this guy Sanborn’s a serious

genius. I was just looking online at his Cyrillic Projector project? It shines giant Russian letters from a KGB

document on mind control. Freaky.”

Nola was no longer listening. She was examining the paper, where she had found the third key phrase in

another posting.

Right, that whole section is verbatim from some famous archaeologist’s diary, telling about the moment he

dug down and uncovered an ANCIENT PORTAL that led to the tomb of Tutankhamen.

The archaeologist who was quoted on Kryptos, Nola knew, was in fact famed Egyptologist Howard Carter.

The next posting referenced him by name.

I just skimmed the rest of Carter’s field notes online, and it sounds like he found a clay tablet warning the

PYRAMID holds dangerous consequences for anyone who disturbs the peace of the pharaoh. A curse!

Should we be worried? :)

Nola scowled. “Rick, for God’s sake, this idiot’s pyramid reference isn’t even right. Tutankhamen wasn’t

buried in a pyramid. He was buried in the Valley of the Kings. Don’t cryptologists watch the Discovery

Channel?”

Parrish shrugged. “Techies.”

Nola now saw the final key phrase.

Guys, you know I’m not a conspiracy theorist, but Jim and Dave had better decipher this ENGRAVED

SYMBOLON to unveil its final secret before the world ends in 2012 . . . Ciao.

“Anyhow,” Parrish said, “I figured you’d want to know about the Kryptos forum before you accused the CIA

director of harboring classified documentation about an ancient Masonic legend. Somehow, I doubt a man as

powerful as the CIA director has time for that sort of thing.”

Nola pictured the Masonic video and its images of all the influential men participating in an ancient rite. If

Rick had any idea . . .

In the end, she knew, whatever Kryptos ultimately revealed, the message definitely had mystical undertones.

She gazed up at the gleaming piece of art—a three-dimensional code standing silently at the heart of one of

the nation’s premier intelligence agencies—and she wondered if it would ever give up its final secret.

As she and Rick headed back inside, Nola had to smile.

It’s buried out there somewhere.

CHAPTER 128

This is crazy.

Blindfolded, Robert Langdon could see nothing as the Escalade sped southward along the deserted streets.

On the seat beside him, Peter Solomon remained silent.

Where is he taking me?

Langdon’s curiosity was a mix of intrigue and apprehension, his imagination in overdrive as it tried

desperately to put the pieces together. Peter had not wavered from his claim. The Lost Word? Buried at the

bottom of a staircase that’s covered by a massive, engraved stone? It all seemed impossible.

The stone’s alleged engraving was still lodged in Langdon’s memory . . . and yet the seven symbols, as far as

he could tell, made no sense together at all.

The Stonemason’s Square: the symbol of honesty and being “true.”

The letters Au: the scientific abbreviation for the element gold.

The Sigma: the Greek letter S, the mathematical symbol for the sum of all parts.

The Pyramid: the Egyptian symbol of man reaching heavenward.

The Delta: the Greek letter D, the mathematical symbol for change.

Mercury: as depicted by its most ancient alchemical symbol.

The Ouroboros: the symbol of wholeness and at-one-ment.

Solomon still insisted these seven symbols were a “message.” But if this was true, then it was a message

Langdon had no idea how to read.

The Escalade slowed suddenly and turned sharply right, onto a different surface, as if into a driveway or

access road. Langdon perked up, listening intently for clues as to their whereabouts. They’d been driving for

less than ten minutes, and although Langdon had tried to follow in his mind, he had lost his bearings quickly.

For all he knew, they were now pulling back into the House of the Temple.

The Escalade came to a stop, and Langdon heard the window roll down.

“Agent Simkins, CIA,” their driver announced. “I believe you’re expecting us.”

“Yes, sir,” a sharp military voice replied. “Director Sato phoned ahead. One moment while I move the

security barricade.”

Langdon listened with rising confusion, now sensing they were entering a military base. As the car began

moving again, along an unusually smooth stretch of pavement, he turned his head blindly toward Solomon.

“Where are we, Peter?” he demanded.

“Do not remove your blindfold.” Peter’s voice was stern.

The vehicle continued a short distance and again slowed to a stop. Simkins killed the engine. More voices.

Military. Someone asked for Simkins’s identification. The agent got out and spoke to the men in hushed

tones.

Langdon’s door was suddenly being opened, and powerful hands assisted him out of the car. The air felt

cold. It was windy.

Solomon was beside him. “Robert, just let Agent Simkins lead you inside.”

Langdon heard metal keys in a lock . . . and then the creak of a heavy iron door swinging open. It sounded

like an ancient bulkhead. Where the hell are they taking me?!

Simkins’s hands guided Langdon in the direction of the metal door. They stepped over a threshold. “Straight

ahead, Professor.”

It was suddenly quiet. Dead. Deserted. The air inside smelled sterile and processed.

Simkins and Solomon flanked Langdon now, guiding him blindly down a reverberating corridor. The floor

felt like stone beneath his loafers.

Behind them, the metal door slammed loudly, and Langdon jumped. The locks turned. He was sweating now

beneath his blindfold. He wanted only to tear it off.

They stopped walking now.

Simkins let go of Langdon’s arm, and there was a series of electronic beeps followed by an unexpected

rumble in front of them, which Langdon imagined had to be a security door sliding open automatically.

“Mr. Solomon, you and Mr. Langdon continue on alone. I’ll wait for you here,” Simkins said. “Take my

flashlight.”

“Thank you,” Solomon said. “We won’t be long.”

Flashlight?! Langdon’s heart was pounding wildly now.

Peter took Langdon’s arm in his own and inched forward. “Walk with me, Robert.”

They moved slowly together across another threshold, and the security door rumbled shut behind them.

Peter stopped short. “Is something wrong?”

Langdon was suddenly feeling queasy and off balance. “I think I just need to take off this blindfold.”

“Not yet, we’re almost there.”

“Almost where?” Langdon felt a growing heaviness in the pit of his stomach.

“I told you—I’m taking you to see the staircase that descends to the Lost Word.”

“Peter, this isn’t funny!”

“It’s not meant to be. It’s meant to open your mind, Robert. It’s meant to remind you that there are mysteries in this world that even you have yet to lay eyes upon. And before I take one more step with you, I want you

to do something for me. I want you to believe . . . just for an instant . . . believe in the legend. Believe that you are about to peer down a winding staircase that plunges hundreds of feet to one of humankind’s greatest

lost treasures.”

Langdon felt dizzy. As much as he wanted to believe his dear friend, he could not. “Is it much farther?” His

velvet hoodwink was drenched in sweat.

“No. Only a few more steps, actually. Through one last door. I’ll open it now.”

Solomon let go of him for a moment, and as he did so, Langdon swayed, feeling light-headed. Unsteady, he

reached out for stability, and Peter was quickly back at his side. The sound of a heavy automatic door

rumbled in front of them. Peter took Langdon’s arm and they moved forward again.

“This way.”

They inched across another threshold, and the door slid closed behind them.

Silence. Cold.

Langdon immediately sensed that this place, whatever it was, had nothing to do with the world on the other

side of the security doors. The air was dank and chilly, like a tomb. The acoustics felt dull and cramped. He

felt an irrational bout of claustrophobia settling in.

“A few more steps.” Solomon guided him blindly around a corner and positioned him precisely. Finally, he

said, “Take off your blindfold.”

Langdon seized the velvet hoodwink and tore it from his face. He looked all around to find out where he was,

but he was still blind. He rubbed his eyes. Nothing. “Peter, it’s pitch-black!”

“Yes, I know. Reach in front of you. There’s a railing. Grasp it.”

Langdon groped in the darkness and found an iron railing.

“Now watch.” He could hear Peter fumbling with something, and suddenly a blazing flashlight beam pierced

the darkness. It was pointed at the floor, and before Langdon could take in his surroundings, Solomon

directed the flashlight out over the railing and pointed the beam straight down.

Langdon was suddenly staring into a bottomless shaft . . . an endless winding staircase that plunged deep into

the earth. My God! His knees nearly buckled, and he gripped the railing for support. The staircase was a

traditional square spiral, and he could see at least thirty landings descending into the earth before the

flashlight faded to nothing. I can’t even see the bottom!

“Peter . . .” he stammered. “What is this place!”

“I’ll take you to the bottom of the staircase in a moment, but before I do, you need to see something else.”

Too overwhelmed to protest, Langdon let Peter guide him away from the stairwell and across the strange

little chamber. Peter kept the flashlight trained on the worn stone floor beneath their feet, and Langdon could

get no real sense of the space around them . . . except that it was small.

A tiny stone chamber.

They arrived quickly at the room’s opposite wall, in which was embedded a rectangle of glass. Langdon

thought it might be a window into a room beyond, and yet from where he stood, he saw only darkness on the

other side.

“Go ahead,” Peter said. “Have a look.”

“What’s in there?” Langdon flashed for an instant on the Chamber of Reflection beneath the Capitol

Building, and how he had believed, for a moment, that it might contain a portal to some giant underground

cavern.

“Just look, Robert.” Solomon inched him forward. “And brace yourself, because the sight will shock you.”

Having no idea what to expect, Langdon moved toward the glass. As he neared the portal, Peter turned out

the flashlight, plunging the tiny chamber into total darkness.

As his eyes adjusted, Langdon groped in front of him, his hands finding the wall, finding the glass, his face

moving closer to the transparent portal.

Still only darkness beyond.

He leaned closer . . . pressing his face to the glass.

Then he saw it.

The wave of shock and disorientation that tore through Langdon’s body reached down inside and spun his

internal compass upside down. He nearly fell backward as his mind strained to accept the utterly

unanticipated sight that was before him. In his wildest dreams, Robert Langdon would never have guessed

what lay on the other side of this glass.

The vision was a glorious sight.

There in the darkness, a brilliant white light shone like a gleaming jewel.

Langdon now understood it all—the barricade on the access road . . . the guards at the main entrance . . . the

heavy metal door outside . . . the automatic doors that rumbled open and closed . . . the heaviness in his

stomach . . . the lightness in his head . . . and now this tiny stone chamber.

“Robert,” Peter whispered behind him, “sometimes a change of perspective is all it takes to see the light.”

Speechless, Langdon stared out through the window. His gaze traveled into the darkness of the night,

traversing more than a mile of empty space, dropping lower . . . lower . . . through the darkness . . . until it

came to rest atop the brilliantly illuminated, stark white dome of the U.S. Capitol Building.

Langdon had never seen the Capitol from this perspective—hovering 555 feet in the air atop America’s great

Egyptian obelisk. Tonight, for the first time in his life, he had ridden the elevator up to the tiny viewing

chamber . . . at the pinnacle of the Washington Monument.

CHAPTER 129

Robert Langdon stood mesmerized at the glass portal, absorbing the power of the landscape below him.

Having ascended unknowingly hundreds of feet into the air, he was now admiring one of the most

spectacular vistas he had ever seen.

The shining dome of the U.S. Capitol rose like a mountain at the east end of the National Mall. On either side

of the building, two parallel lines of light stretched toward him . . . the illuminated facades of the

Smithsonian museums . . . beacons of art, history, science, culture.

Langdon now realized to his astonishment that much of what Peter had declared to be true . . . was in fact

true. There is indeed a winding staircase . . . descending hundreds of feet beneath a massive stone. The huge capstone of this obelisk sat directly over his head, and Langdon now recalled a forgotten bit of trivia that

seemed to have eerie relevance: the capstone of the Washington Monument weighed precisely thirty-three

hundred pounds.

Again, the number 33.

More startling, however, was the knowledge that this capstone’s ultimate peak, the zenith of this obelisk, was

crowned by a tiny, polished tip of aluminum—a metal as precious as gold in its day. The shining apex of the

Washington Monument was only about a foot tall, the same size as the Masonic Pyramid. Incredibly, this

small metal pyramid bore a famous engraving— Laus Deo— and Langdon suddenly understood. This is the true message of the base of the stone pyramid.

The seven symbols are a transliteration!

The simplest of ciphers.

The symbols are letters.

The stonemason’s square—L

The element gold—AU

The Greek Sigma—S

The Greek Delta—D

Alchemical mercury—E

The Ouroboros—O

“Laus Deo,” Langdon whispered. The well-known Latin phrase—meaning “praise God”—was inscribed on

the tip of the Washington Monument in script letters only one inch tall. On full display . . . and yet invisible

to all.

Laus Deo.

“Praise God,” Peter said behind him, flipping on the soft lighting in the chamber. “The Masonic Pyramid’s

final code.”

Langdon turned. His friend was grinning broadly, and Langdon recalled that Peter had actually spoken the

words “praise God” earlier inside the Masonic library. And I still missed it.

Langdon felt a chill to realize how apt it was that the legendary Masonic Pyramid had guided him here . . . to America’s great obelisk—the symbol of ancient mystical wisdom—rising toward the heavens at the heart of

a nation.

In a state of wonder, Langdon began moving counterclockwise around the perimeter of the tiny square room,

arriving now at another viewing window.

North.

Through this northward-facing window, Langdon gazed down at the familiar silhouette of the White House

directly in front of him. He raised his eyes to the horizon, where the straight line of Sixteenth Street ran due

north toward the House of the Temple.

I am due south of Heredom.

He continued around the perimeter to the next window. Looking west, Langdon’s eyes traced the long

rectangle of the reflecting pool to the Lincoln Memorial, its classical Greek architecture inspired by the

Parthenon in Athens, Temple to Athena—goddess of heroic undertakings.

Annuit coeptis, Langdon thought. God favors our undertaking.

Continuing to the final window, Langdon gazed southward across the dark waters of the Tidal Basin, where

the Jefferson Memorial shone brightly in the night. The gently sloping cupola, Langdon knew, was modeled

after the Pantheon, the original home to the great Roman gods of mythology.

Having looked in all four directions, Langdon now thought about the aerial photos he had seen of the

National Mall—her four arms outstretched from the Washington Monument toward the cardinal points of the

compass. I am standing at the crossroads of America.

Langdon continued back around to where Peter was standing. His mentor was beaming. “Well, Robert, this is

it. The Lost Word. This is where it’s buried. The Masonic Pyramid led us here.”

Langdon did a double take. He had all but forgotten about the Lost Word.

“Robert, I know of nobody more trustworthy than you. And after a night like tonight, I believe you deserve to

know what this is all about. As promised in legend, the Lost Word is indeed buried at the bottom of a

winding staircase.” He motioned to the mouth of the monument’s long stairwell.

Langdon had finally started to get his feet back under him, but now he was puzzled.

Peter quickly reached into his pocket and pulled out a small object. “Do you remember this?”

Langdon took the cube-shaped box that Peter had entrusted to him long ago. “Yes . . . but I’m afraid I didn’t

do a very good job of protecting it.”

Solomon chuckled. “Perhaps the time had come for it to see the light of day.”

Langdon eyed the stone cube, wondering why Peter had just handed it to him.

“What does this look like to you?” Peter asked.

Langdon eyed the 1514

and recalled his first impression when Katherine had unwrapped the package.

“A cornerstone.”

“Exactly,” Peter replied. “Now, there are a few things you might not know about cornerstones. First, the

concept of laying a cornerstone comes from the Old Testament.”

Langdon nodded. “The Book of Psalms.”

“Correct. And a true cornerstone is always buried beneath the ground—symbolizing the building’s initial

step upward out of the earth toward the heavenly light.”

Langdon glanced out at the Capitol, recalling that its cornerstone was buried so deep in the foundation that,

to this day, excavations had been unable to find it.

“And finally,” Solomon said, “like the stone box in your hand, many cornerstones are little vaults . . . and

have hollow cavities so that they can hold buried treasures . . . talismans, if you will—symbols of hope for

the future of the building about to be erected.”

Langdon was well aware of this tradition, too. Even today, Masons laid cornerstones in which they sealed

meaningful objects—time capsules, photos, proclamations, even the ashes of important people.

“My purpose in telling you this,” Solomon said, glancing over at the stairwell, “should be clear.”

“You think the Lost Word is buried in the cornerstone of the Washington Monument?”

“I don’t think, Robert. I know. The Lost Word was buried in the cornerstone of this monument on July 4, 1848, in a full Masonic ritual.”

Langdon stared at him. “Our Masonic forefathers buried a word?!”

Peter nodded. “They did indeed. They understood the true power of what they were burying.”

All night, Langdon had been trying to wrap his mind around sprawling, ethereal concepts . . . the Ancient

Mysteries, the Lost Word, the Secrets of the Ages. He wanted something solid, and despite Peter’s claims

that the key to it all was buried in a cornerstone 555 feet beneath him, Langdon was having a hard time

accepting it. People study the mysteries for entire lifetimes and are still unable to access the power allegedly

hidden there. Langdon flashed on Dьrer’s Melencolia I—the image of the dejected Adept, surrounded by the tools of his failed efforts to unveil the mystical secrets of alchemy. If the secrets can actually be unlocked,

they will not be found in one place!

Any answer, Langdon had always believed, was spread across the world in thousands of volumes . . .

encoded into writings of Pythagoras, Hermes, Heraclitus, Paracelsus, and hundreds of others. The answer

was found in dusty, forgotten tomes on alchemy, mysticism, magic, and philosophy. The answer was hidden

in the ancient library of Alexandria, the clay tablets of Sumer, and the hieroglyphs of Egypt.

“Peter, I’m sorry,” Langdon said quietly, shaking his head. “To understand the Ancient Mysteries is a

lifelong process. I can’t imagine how the key could possibly rest within a single word.”

Peter placed a hand on Langdon’s shoulder. “Robert, the Lost Word is not a ‘word.’” He gave a sage smile.

“We only call it the ‘Word’ because that’s what the ancients called it . . . in the beginning.”

CHAPTER 130

In the beginning was the Word.

Dean Galloway knelt at the Great Crossing of the National Cathedral and prayed for America. He prayed that

his beloved country would soon come to grasp the true power of the Word—the recorded collection of the

written wisdom of all the ancient masters—the spiritual truths taught by the great sages.

History had blessed mankind with the wisest of teachers, profoundly enlightened souls whose understanding

of the spiritual and mental mysteries exceeded all understanding. The precious words of these Adepts—

Buddha, Jesus, Muhammad, Zoroaster, and countless others—had been transmitted through history in the

oldest and most precious of vessels.

Books.

Every culture on earth had its own sacred book—its own Word—each one different and yet each one the

same. For Christians, the Word was the Bible, for Muslims the Koran, for Jews the Torah, for Hindus the

Vedas, and on and on it went.

The Word shall light the way.

For America’s Masonic forefathers, the Word had been the Bible. And yet few people in history have

understood its true message.

Tonight, as Galloway knelt alone within the great cathedral, he placed his hands upon the Word—a well-

worn copy of his own Masonic Bible. This treasured book, like all Masonic Bibles, contained the Old

Testament, the New Testament, and a treasure trove of Masonic philosophical writings.

Although Galloway’s eyes could no longer read the text, he knew the preface by heart. Its glorious message

had been read by millions of his brethren in countless languages around the world.

The text read:

TIME IS A RIVER . . . AND BOOKS ARE BOATS. MANY VOLUMES START DOWN THAT

STREAM, ONLY TO BE WRECKED AND LOST BEYOND RECALL IN ITS SANDS. ONLY A FEW, A

VERY FEW, ENDURE THE TESTINGS OF TIME AND LIVE TO BLESS THE AGES FOLLOWING.

There is a reason these volumes survived, while others vanished. As a scholar of faith, Dean Galloway had

always found it astonishing that the ancient spiritual texts—the most studied books on earth—were, in fact,

the least understood.

Concealed within those pages, there hides a wondrous secret.

One day soon the light would dawn, and mankind would finally begin to grasp the simple, transformative

truth of the ancient teachings . . . and take a quantum leap forward in understanding his own magnificent

nature.

CHAPTER 131

The winding staircase that descends the spine of the Washington Monument consists of 896 stone steps that

spiral around an open elevator shaft. Langdon and Solomon were making their way down, Langdon still

grappling with the startling fact that Peter had shared with him only moments ago: Robert, buried within the

hollow cornerstone of this monument, our forefathers placed a single copy of the Word—the Bible—which

waits in darkness at the foot of this staircase.

As they descended, Peter suddenly stopped on a landing and swung his flashlight beam to illuminate a large

stone medallion embedded in the wall.

What in the world?! Langdon jumped when he saw the carving.

The medallion depicted a frightening cloaked figure holding a scythe and kneeling beside an hourglass. The

figure’s arm was raised, and his index finger was extended, pointing directly at a large open Bible, as if to

say: “The answer is in there!”

Langdon stared at the carving and then turned to Peter.

His mentor’s eyes shone with mystery. “I’d like you to consider something, Robert.” His voice echoed down

the empty stairwell. “Why do you think the Bible has survived thousands of years of tumultuous history?

Why is it still here? Is it because its stories are such compelling reading? Of course not . . . but there is a reason. There is a reason Christian monks spend lifetimes attempting to decipher the Bible. There is a reason that Jewish mystics and Kabbalists pore over the Old Testament. And that reason, Robert, is that there exist

powerful secrets hidden in the pages of this ancient book . . . a vast collection of untapped wisdom waiting to

be unveiled.”

Langdon was no stranger to the theory that the Scriptures contained a hidden layer of meaning, a concealed

message that was veiled in allegory, symbolism, and parable.

“The prophets warn us,” Peter continued, “that the language used to share their secret mysteries is a cryptic

one. The Gospel of Mark tells us, ‘Unto you is given to know the mystery . . . but it will be told in parable.’

Proverbs cautions that the sayings of the wise are ‘riddles,’ while Corinthians talks of ‘hidden wisdom.’ The

Gospel of John forewarns: ‘I will speak to you in parable . . . and use dark sayings.’ ”

Dark sayings, Langdon mused, knowing this strange phrase made numerous odd appearances in Proverbs as

well as in Psalm 78. I will open my mouth in a parable and utter dark sayings of old. The concept of a “dark saying,” Langdon had learned, did not mean that the saying was “evil” but rather that its true meaning was

shadowed or obscured from the light.

“And if you have any doubts,” Peter added, “Corinthians overtly tells us that the parables have two layers of

meaning: ‘milk for babes and meat for men’—where the milk is a watered-down reading for infantile minds,

and the meat is the true message, accessible only to mature minds.”

Peter raised the flashlight, again illuminating the carving of the cloaked figure pointing intently at the Bible.

“I know you are a skeptic, Robert, but consider this. If the Bible does not contain hidden meaning, then why

have so many of history’s finest minds—including brilliant scientists at the Royal Society—become so

obsessed with studying it? Sir Isaac Newton wrote more than a million words attempting to decipher the true

meaning of the Scripture, including a 1704 manuscript that claimed he had extracted hidden scientific

information from the Bible!”

Langdon knew this was true.

“And Sir Francis Bacon,” Peter continued, “the luminary hired by King James to literally create the

authorized King James Bible, became so utterly convinced that the Bible contained cryptic meaning that he

wrote in his own codes, which are still studied today! Of course, as you know, Bacon was a Rosicrucian and

penned The Wisdom of the Ancients.” Peter smiled. “Even the iconoclastic poet William Blake hinted that we

should read between the lines.”

Langdon was familiar with the verse:

BOTH READ THE BIBLE DAY AND NIGHT,

BUT THOU READ BLACK WHERE I READ WHITE.

“And it wasn’t just the European luminaries,” Peter continued, descending faster now. “It was here, Robert,

at the very core of this young American nation, that our brightest forefathers—John Adams, Ben Franklin,

Thomas Paine—all warned of the profound dangers of interpreting the Bible literally. In fact, Thomas

Jefferson was so convinced the Bible’s true message was hidden that he literally cut up the pages and reedited the book, attempting, in his words, ‘to do away with the artificial scaffolding and restore the genuine

doctrines.’ ”

Langdon was well aware of this strange fact. The Jeffersonian Bible was still in print today and included

many of his controversial revisions, among them the removal of the virgin birth and the resurrection.

Incredibly, the Jeffersonian Bible had been presented to every incoming member of Congress during the first

half of the nineteenth century.

“Peter, you know I find this topic fascinating, and I can understand that it might be tempting for bright minds to imagine the Scriptures contain hidden meaning, but it makes no logical sense to me. Any skilled professor

will tell you that teaching is never done in code.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Teachers teach, Peter. We speak openly. Why would the prophets—the greatest teachers in history—

obscure their language? If they hoped to change the world, why would they speak in code? Why not speak

plainly so the world could understand?”

Peter glanced back over his shoulder as he descended, looking surprised by the question. “Robert, the Bible

does not talk openly for the same reason the Ancient Mystery Schools were kept hidden . . . for the same

reason the neophytes had to be initiated before learning the secret teachings of the ages . . . for the same

reason the scientists in the Invisible College refused to share their knowledge with others. This information is

powerful, Robert. The Ancient Mysteries cannot be shouted from the rooftops. The mysteries are a flaming

torch, which, in the hands of a master, can light the way, but which, in the hands of a madman, can scorch the

earth.”

Langdon stopped short. What is he saying? “Peter, I’m talking about the Bible. Why are you talking about the Ancient Mysteries?”

Peter turned. “Robert, don’t you see? The Ancient Mysteries and the Bible are the same thing.”

Langdon stared in bewilderment.

Peter was silent for several seconds, waiting for the concept to soak in. “The Bible is one of the books

through which the mysteries have been passed down through history. Its pages are desperately trying to tell

us the secret. Don’t you understand? The ‘dark sayings’ in the Bible are the whispers of the ancients, quietly

sharing with us all of their secret wisdom.”

Langdon said nothing. The Ancient Mysteries, as he understood them, were a kind of instruction manual for

harnessing the latent power of the human mind . . . a recipe for personal apotheosis. He had never been able

to accept the power of the mysteries, and certainly the notion that the Bible was somehow hiding a key to

these mysteries was an impossible stretch.

“Peter, the Bible and the Ancient Mysteries are total opposites. The mysteries are all about the god within you . . . man as god. The Bible is all about the God above you . . . and man as a powerless sinner.”

“Yes! Exactly! You’ve put your finger on the precise problem! The moment mankind separated himself

from God, the true meaning of the Word was lost. The voices of the ancient masters have now been drowned

out, lost in the chaotic din of self-proclaimed practitioners shouting that they alone understand the Word . . .

that the Word is written in their language and none other.”

Peter continued down the stairs.

“Robert, you and I both know that the ancients would be horrified if they saw how their teachings have been

perverted . . . how religion has established itself as a tollbooth to heaven . . . how warriors march into battle

believing God favors their cause. We’ve lost the Word, and yet its true meaning is still within reach, right

before our eyes. It exists in all the enduring texts, from the Bible to the Bhagavad Gita to the Koran and

beyond. All of these texts are revered upon the altars of Freemasonry because Masons understand what the

world seems to have forgotten . . . that each of these texts, in its own way, is quietly whispering the exact

same message.” Peter’s voice welled with emotion. “ ‘Know ye not that ye are gods?’”

Langdon was struck by the way this famous ancient saying kept surfacing tonight. He had reflected on it

while talking to Galloway and also at the Capitol Building while trying to explain The Apotheosis of

Washington.

Peter lowered his voice to a whisper. “The Buddha said, ‘You are God yourself.’ Jesus taught that ‘the

kingdom of God is within you’ and even promised us, ‘The works I do, you can do . . . and greater.’ Even the

first antipope—Hippolytus of Rome—quoted the same message, first uttered by the gnostic teacher

Monoimus: ‘Abandon the search for God . . . instead, take yourself as the starting place.’ ”

Langdon flashed on the House of the Temple, where the Masonic Tyler’s chair bore two words of guidance

carved across its back: KNOW THYSELF.

“A wise man once told me,” Peter said, his voice faint now, “the only difference between you and God is that

you have forgotten you are divine.”

“Peter, I hear you—I do. And I’d love to believe we are gods, but I see no gods walking our earth. I see no

superhumans.You can point to the alleged miracles of the Bible, or any other religious text, but they are

nothing but old stories fabricated by man and then exaggerated over time.”

“Perhaps,” Peter said. “Or perhaps we simply need our science to catch up with the wisdom of the ancients.”

He paused. “Funny thing is . . . I believe Katherine’s research may be poised to do just that.”

Langdon suddenly remembered that Katherine had dashed off from the House of the Temple earlier. “Hey,

where did she go, anyway?”

“She’ll be here shortly,” Peter said, grinning. “She went to confirm a wonderful bit of good fortune.”

Outside, at the base of the monument, Peter Solomon felt invigorated as he inhaled the cold night air. He

watched in amusement as Langdon stared intently at the ground, scratching his head and looking around at

the foot of the obelisk.

“Professor,” Peter joked, “the cornerstone that contains the Bible is underground. You can’t actually access

the book, but I assure you it’s there.”

“I believe you,” Langdon said, appearing lost in thought. “It’s just . . . I noticed something.”

Langdon stepped back now and surveyed the giant plaza on which the Washington Monument stood. The

circular concourse was made entirely of white stone . . . except for two decorative courses of dark stone,

which formed two concentric circles around the monument.

“A circle within a circle,” Langdon said. “I never realized the Washington Monument stands at the center of

a circle within a circle.”

Peter had to laugh. He misses nothing. “Yes, the great circumpunct . . . the universal symbol for God . . . at the crossroads of America.” He gave a coy shrug. “I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.”

Langdon seemed far off, gazing skyward now, his eyes ascending the illuminated spire, which shone stark

white against the black winter sky.

Peter sensed Langdon was beginning to see this creation for what it truly was . . . a silent reminder of ancient

wisdom . . . an icon of enlightened man at the heart of a great nation. Even though Peter could not see the

tiny aluminum tip at the top, he knew it was there, man’s enlightened mind straining toward heaven.

Laus Deo.

“Peter?” Langdon approached, looking like a man who’d endured some kind of mystical initiation. “I almost

forgot,” he said, reaching into his pocket and producing Peter’s gold Masonic ring. “I’ve been wanting to

return this to you all night.”

“Thank you, Robert.” Peter held out his left hand and took the ring, admiring it. “You know, all the secrecy

and mystery surrounding this ring and the Masonic Pyramid . . . it had an enormous effect on my life. When I

was a young man, the pyramid was given to me with the promise that it hid mystical secrets. Its mere

existence made me believe there were great mysteries in the world. It piqued my curiosity, fueled my sense

of wonder, and inspired me to open my mind to the Ancient Mysteries.” He smiled quietly and slipped the

ring into his pocket. “I now realize that the Masonic Pyramid’s true purpose was not to reveal the answers,

but rather to inspire a fascination with them.”

The two men stood in silence for a long while at the foot of the monument.

When Langdon finally spoke, his tone was serious. “I need to ask you a favor, Peter . . . as a friend.”

“Of course. Anything.”

Langdon made his request . . . firmly.

Solomon nodded, knowing he was right. “I will.”

“Right away,” Langdon added, motioning to the waiting Escalade.

“Okay . . . but one caveat.”

Langdon rolled his eyes, chuckling. “Somehow you always get the last word.”

“Yes, and there is one final thing I want you and Katherine to see.”

“At this hour?” Langdon checked his watch.

Solomon smiled warmly at his old friend. “It is Washington’s most spectacular treasure . . . and something

very, very few people have ever seen.”

CHAPTER 132

Katherine Solomon’s heart felt light as she hurried up the hill toward the base of the Washington

Monument. She had endured great shock and tragedy tonight, and yet her thoughts were refocused now, if

only temporarily, on the wonderful news Peter had shared with her earlier . . . news she had just confirmed

with her very own eyes.

My research is safe. All of it.

Her lab’s holographic data drives had been destroyed tonight, but earlier, at the House of the Temple, Peter

had informed her that he had been secretly keeping backups of all her Noetic research in the SMSC executive

offices. You know I’m utterly fascinated with your work, he had explained, and I wanted to follow your

progress without disturbing you.

“Katherine?” a deep voice called out.

She looked up.

A lone figure stood in silhouette at the base of the illuminated monument.

“Robert!” She hurried over and hugged him.

“I heard the good news,” Langdon whispered. “You must be relieved.”

Her voice cracked with emotion. “Incredibly.” The research Peter had saved was a scientific tour de force—a

massive collection of experiments that proved human thought was a real and measurable force in the world.

Katherine’s experiments demonstrated the effect of human thought on everything from ice crystals to

random-event generators to the movement of subatomic particles. The results were conclusive and

irrefutable, with the potential to transform skeptics into believers and affect global consciousness on a

massive scale. “Everything is going to change, Robert. Everything.”

“Peter certainly thinks so.”

Katherine glanced around for her brother.

“Hospital,” Langdon said. “I insisted he go as a favor to me.”

Katherine exhaled, relieved. “Thank you.”

“He told me to wait for you here.”

Katherine nodded, her gaze climbing the glowing white obelisk. “He said he was bringing you here.

Something about ‘Laus Deo’? He didn’t elaborate.”

Langdon gave a tired chuckle. “I’m not sure I entirely understand it myself.” He glanced up at the top of the

monument. “Your brother said quite a few things tonight that I couldn’t get my mind around.”

“Let me guess,” Katherine said. “Ancient Mysteries, science, and the Holy Scriptures?”

“Bingo.”

“Welcome to my world.” She winked. “Peter initiated me into this long ago. It fueled a lot of my research.”

“Intuitively, some of what he said made sense.” Langdon shook his head. “But intellectually . . .”

Katherine smiled and put her arm around him. “You know, Robert, I may be able to help you with that.”

Deep inside the Capitol Building, Architect Warren Bellamy was walking down a deserted hallway.

Only one thing left to do tonight, he thought.

When he arrived at his office, he retrieved a very old key from his desk drawer. The key was black iron, long

and slender, with faded markings. He slid it into his pocket and then prepared himself to welcome his guests.

Robert Langdon and Katherine Solomon were on their way to the Capitol. At Peter’s request, Bellamy was to

provide them with a very rare opportunity—the chance to lay eyes upon this building’s most magnificent

secret . . . something that could be revealed only by the Architect.

CHAPTER 133

High above the floor of the Capitol Rotunda, Robert Langdon inched nervously around the circular catwalk

that extended just beneath the ceiling of the dome. He peered tentatively over the railing, dizzied by the

height, still unable to believe it had been less than ten hours since Peter’s hand had appeared in the middle of

the floor below.

On that same floor, the Architect of the Capitol was now a tiny speck some hundred and eighty feet below,

moving steadily across the Rotunda and then disappearing. Bellamy had escorted Langdon and Katherine up

to this balcony, leaving them here with very specific instructions.

Peter’s instructions.

Langdon eyed the old iron key that Bellamy had handed to him. Then he glanced over at a cramped stairwell

that ascended from this level . . . climbing higher still. God help me. These narrow stairs, according to the Architect, led up to a small metal door that could be unlocked with the iron key in Langdon’s hand.

Beyond the door lay something that Peter insisted Langdon and Katherine see. Peter had not elaborated, but

rather had left strict instructions regarding the precise hour at which the door was to be opened. We have to wait to open the door? Why?

Langdon checked his watch again and groaned.

Slipping the key into his pocket, he gazed across the gaping void before him at the far side of the balcony.

Katherine had walked fearlessly ahead, apparently unfazed by the height. She was now halfway around the

circumference, admiring every inch of Brumidi’s The Apotheosis of Washington, which loomed directly over

their heads. From this rare vantage point, the fifteen-foot-tall figures that adorned the nearly five thousand

square feet of the Capitol Dome were visible in astonishing detail.

Langdon turned his back to Katherine, faced the outer wall, and whispered very quietly, “Katherine, this is

your conscience speaking. Why did you abandon Robert?”

Katherine was apparently familiar with the dome’s startling acoustical properties . . . because the wall

whispered back. “Because Robert is being a chicken. He should come over here with me. We have plenty of

time before we’re allowed to open that door.”

Langdon knew she was right and reluctantly made his way around the balcony, hugging the wall as he went.

“This ceiling is absolutely amazing,” Katherine marveled, her neck craned to take in the enormous splendor

of the Apotheosis overhead. “Mythical gods all mixed in with scientific inventors and their creations? And to think this is the image at the center of our Capitol.”

Langdon turned his eyes upward to the sprawling forms of Franklin, Fulton, and Morse with their

technological inventions. A shining rainbow arched away from these figures, guiding his eye to George

Washington ascending to heaven on a cloud. The great promise of man becoming God.

Katherine said, “It’s as if the entire essence of the Ancient Mysteries is hovering over the Rotunda.”

Langdon had to admit, not many frescoes in the world fused scientific inventions with mythical gods and

human apotheosis. This ceiling’s spectacular collection of images was indeed a message of the Ancient

Mysteries, and it was here for a reason. The founding fathers had envisioned America as a blank canvas, a

fertile field on which the seeds of the mysteries could be sown. Today, this soaring icon—the father of our

country ascending to heaven—hung silently above our lawmakers, leaders, and presidents . . . a bold

reminder, a map to the future, a promise of a time when man would evolve to complete spiritual maturity.

“Robert,” Katherine whispered, her gaze still fixated on the massive figures of America’s great inventors

accompanied by Minerva. “It’s prophetic, really. Today, man’s most advanced inventions are being used to

study man’s most ancient ideas. The science of Noetics may be new, but it’s actually the oldest science on

earth—the study of human thought.” She turned to him now, her eyes filled with wonder. “And we’re

learning that the ancients actually understood thought more profoundly than we do today.”

“Makes sense,” Langdon replied. “The human mind was the only technology the ancients had at their

disposal. The early philosophers studied it relentlessly.”

“Yes! The ancient texts are obsessed with the power of the human mind. The Vedas describe the flow of

mind energy. The Pistis Sophia describes universal consciousness. The Zohar explores the nature of mind spirit. The Shamanic texts predict Einstein’s ‘remote influence’ in terms of healing at a distance. It’s all

there! And don’t even get me started about the Bible.”

“You, too?” Langdon said, chuckling. “Your brother tried to convince me that the Bible is encoded with

scientific information.”

“It certainly is,” she said. “And if you don’t believe Peter, read some of Newton’s esoteric texts on the Bible.

When you start to understand the cryptic parables in the Bible, Robert, you realize it’s a study of the human

mind.”

Langdon shrugged. “I guess I’d better go back and read it again.”

“Let me ask you something,” she said, clearly not appreciating his skepticism. “When the Bible tells us to

‘go build our temple’ . . . a temple that we must ‘build with no tools and making no noise,’ what temple do

you think it’s talking about?”

“Well, the text does say your body is a temple.”

“Yes, Corinthians 3:16. You are the temple of God.” She smiled at him. “And the Gospel of John says the

exact same thing. Robert, the Scriptures are well aware of the power latent within us, and they are urging us

to harness that power . . . urging us to build the temples of our minds.”

“Unfortunately, I think much of the religious world is waiting for a real temple to be rebuilt. It’s part of the Messianic Prophecy.”

“Yes, but that overlooks an important point. The Second Coming is the coming of man—the moment when

mankind finally builds the temple of his mind.”

“I don’t know,” Langdon said, rubbing his chin. “I’m no Bible scholar, but I’m pretty sure the Scriptures

describe in detail a physical temple that needs to be built. The structure is described as being in two parts—

an outer temple called the Holy Place and an inner sanctuary called the Holy of Holies. The two parts are

separated from each other by a thin veil.”

Katherine grinned. “Pretty good recall for a Bible skeptic. By the way, have you ever seen an actual human

brain? It’s built in two parts—an outer part called the dura mater and an inner part called the pia mater. These

two parts are separated by the arachnoid—a veil of weblike tissue.”

Langdon cocked his head in surprise.

Gently, she reached up and touched Langdon’s temple. “There’s a reason they call this your temple, Robert.”

As Langdon tried to process what Katherine had said, he flashed unexpectedly on the gnostic Gospel of

Mary: Where the mind is, there is the treasure.

“Perhaps you’ve heard,” Katherine said, softly now, “about the brain scans taken of yogis while they

meditate? The human brain, in advanced states of focus, will physically create a waxlike substance from the

pineal gland. This brain secretion is unlike anything else in the body. It has an incredible healing effect, can

literally regenerate cells, and may be one of the reasons yogis live so long. This is real science, Robert. This substance has inconceivable properties and can be created only by a mind that is highly tuned to a deeply

focused state.”

“I remember reading about that a few years back.”

“Yes, and on that topic, you’re familiar with the Bible’s account of ‘manna from heaven’?”

Langdon saw no connection. “You mean the magical substance that fell from heaven to nourish the hungry?”

“Exactly. The substance was said to heal the sick, provide everlasting life, and, strangely, cause no waste in

those who consumed it.” Katherine paused, as if waiting for him to understand. “Robert?” she prodded. “A

kind of nourishment that fell from heaven? ” She tapped her temple. “Magically heals the body? Creates no

waste? Don’t you see? These are code words, Robert! Temple is code for ‘body.’ Heaven is code for ‘mind.’

Jacob’s ladder is your spine. And manna is this rare brain secretion. When you see these code words in Scripture, pay attention. They are often markers for a more profound meaning concealed beneath the

surface.”

Katherine’s words were coming out in rapid-fire succession now, explaining how this same magical

substance appeared throughout the Ancient Mysteries: Nectar of the Gods, Elixir of Life, Fountain of Youth,

Philosopher’s Stone, ambrosia, dew, ojas, soma. Then she launched into an explanation about the brain’s

pineal gland representing the all-seeing eye of God. “According to Matthew 6:22,” she said excitedly, “

‘when your eye is single, your body fills with light.’ This concept is also represented by the Ajna chakra and the dot on a Hindu’s forehead, which—”

Katherine stopped short, looking sheepish. “Sorry . . . I know I’m rambling. I just find this all so exhilarating.

For years I’ve studied the ancients’ claims of man’s awesome mental power, and now science is showing us

that accessing that power is an actual physical process. Our brains, if used correctly, can call forth powers that are quite literally superhuman. The Bible, like many ancient texts, is a detailed exposition of the most

sophisticated machine ever created . . . the human mind.” She sighed. “Incredibly, science has yet to scratch the surface of the mind’s full promise.”

“It sounds like your work in Noetics will be a quantum leap forward.”

“Or backward, ” she said. “The ancients already knew many of the scientific truths we’re now rediscovering.

Within a matter of years, modern man will be forced to accept what is now unthinkable: our minds can

generate energy capable of transforming physical matter.” She paused. “Particles react to our thoughts . . .

which means our thoughts have the power to change the world.”

Langdon smiled softly.

“What my research has brought me to believe is this,” Katherine said. “God is very real—a mental energy

that pervades everything. And we, as human beings, have been created in that image—”

“I’m sorry?” Langdon interrupted. “Created in the image of . . . mental energy?”

“Exactly. Our physical bodies have evolved over the ages, but it was our minds that were created in the

image of God. We’ve been reading the Bible too literally. We learn that God created us in his image, but it’s

not our physical bodies that resemble God, it’s our minds.”

Langdon was silent now, fully engrossed.

“This is the great gift, Robert, and God is waiting for us to understand it. All around the world, we are gazing

skyward, waiting for God . . . never realizing that God is waiting for us.” Katherine paused, letting her words soak in. “We are creators, and yet we naively play the role of ‘the created.’ We see ourselves as helpless sheep buffeted around by the God who made us. We kneel like frightened children, begging for help, for

forgiveness, for good luck. But once we realize that we are truly created in the Creator’s image, we will start

to understand that we, too, must be Creators. When we understand this fact, the doors will burst wide open

for human potential.”

Langdon recalled a passage that had always stuck with him from the work of the philosopher Manly P. Hall:

If the infinite had not desired man to be wise, he would not have bestowed upon him the faculty of knowing.

Langdon gazed up again at the image of The Apotheosis of Washington—the symbolic ascent of man to

deity. The created . . . becoming the Creator.

“The most amazing part,” Katherine said, “is that as soon as we humans begin to harness our true power, we

will have enormous control over our world. We will be able to design reality rather than merely react to it.”

Langdon lowered his gaze. “That sounds . . . dangerous.”

Katherine looked startled . . . and impressed. “Yes, exactly! If thoughts affect the world, then we must be

very careful how we think. Destructive thoughts have influence, too, and we all know it’s far easier to

destroy than it is to create.”

Langdon thought of all the lore about needing to protect the ancient wisdom from the unworthy and share it

only with the enlightened. He thought of the Invisible College, and the great scientist Isaac Newton’s request

to Robert Boyle to keep “high silence” about their secret research. It cannot be communicated, Newton wrote

in 1676, without immense damage to the world.

“There’s an interesting twist here,” Katherine said. “The great irony is that all the religions of the world, for

centuries, have been urging their followers to embrace the concepts of faith and belief. Now science, which for centuries has derided religion as superstition, must admit that its next big frontier is quite literally the

science of faith and belief . . . the power of focused conviction and intention. The same science that eroded our faith in the miraculous is now building a bridge back across the chasm it created.”

Langdon considered her words for a long time. Slowly he raised his eyes again to the Apotheosis. “I have a

question,” he said, looking back at Katherine. “Even if I could accept, just for an instant, that I have the

power to change physical matter with my mind, and literally manifest all that I desire . . . I’m afraid I see

nothing in my life to make me believe I have such power.”

She shrugged. “Then you’re not looking hard enough.”

“Come on, I want a real answer. That’s the answer of a priest. I want the answer of a scientist.”

“You want a real answer? Here it is. If I hand you a violin and say you have the capability to use it to make

incredible music, I am not lying. You do have the capability, but you’ll need enormous amounts of practice

to manifest it. This is no different from learning to use your mind, Robert. Well-directed thought is a learned

skill. To manifest an intention requires laserlike focus, full sensory visualization, and a profound belief. We

have proven this in a lab. And just like playing a violin, there are people who exhibit greater natural ability

than others. Look to history. Look to the stories of those enlightened minds who performed miraculous

feats.”

“Katherine, please don’t tell me you actually believe in the miracles. I mean, seriously . . . turning water into wine, healing the sick with the touch of a hand?”

Katherine took a long breath and blew it out slowly. “I have witnessed people transform cancer cells into

healthy cells simply by thinking about them. I have witnessed human minds affecting the physical world in

myriad ways. And once you see that happen, Robert, once this becomes part of your reality, then some of the

miracles you read about become simply a matter of degree.”

Langdon was pensive. “It’s an inspiring way to see the world, Katherine, but for me, it just feels like an

impossible leap of faith. And as you know, faith has never come easily for me.”

“Then don’t think of it as faith. Think of it simply as changing your perspective, accepting that the world is not precisely as you imagine. Historically, every major scientific breakthrough began with a simple idea that

threatened to overturn all of our beliefs. The simple statement ‘the earth is round’ was mocked as utterly

impossible because most people believed the oceans would flow off the planet. Heliocentricity was called

heresy. Small minds have always lashed out at what they don’t understand. There are those who create . . .

and those who tear down. That dynamic has existed for all time. But eventually the creators find believers,

and the number of believers reaches a critical mass, and suddenly the world becomes round, or the solar

system becomes heliocentric. Perception is transformed, and a new reality is born.”

Langdon nodded, his thoughts drifting now.

“You have a funny look on your face,” she said.

“Oh, I don’t know. For some reason I was just remembering how I used to canoe out into the middle of the

lake late at night, lie down under the stars, and think about stuff like this.”

She nodded knowingly. “I think we all have a similar memory. Something about lying on our backs staring

up at the heavens . . . opens the mind.” She glanced up at the ceiling and then said, “Give me your jacket.”

“What?” He took it off and gave it to her.

She folded it twice and laid it down on the catwalk like a long pillow. “Lie down.”

Langdon lay on his back, and Katherine positioned his head on half of the folded jacket. Then she lay down

beside him—two kids, shoulder to shoulder on the narrow catwalk, staring up at Brumidi’s enormous fresco.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Put yourself in that same mind-set . . . a kid lying out in a canoe . . . looking up at

the stars . . . his mind open and full of wonder.”

Langdon tried to obey, although at the moment, prone and comfortable, he was feeling a sudden wave of

exhaustion. As his vision blurred, he perceived a muted shape overhead that immediately woke him. Is that

possible? He could not believe he hadn’t noticed it before, but the figures in The Apotheosis of Washington were clearly arranged in two concentric rings—a circle within a circle. The Apotheosis is also a

circumpunct? Langdon wondered what else he had missed tonight.

“There’s something important I want to tell you, Robert. There’s another piece to all this . . . a piece that I

believe is the single most astonishing aspect of my research.”

There’s more?

Katherine propped herself on her elbow. “And I promise . . . if we as humans can honestly grasp this one

simple truth . . . the world will change overnight.”

She now had his full attention.

“I should preface this,” she said, “by reminding you of the Masonic mantras to ‘gather what is scattered’ . . .

to bring ‘order from chaos’ . . . to find ‘at-one-ment.’ ”

“Go on.” Langdon was intrigued.

Katherine smiled down at him. “We have scientifically proven that the power of human thought grows

exponentially with the number of minds that share that thought.”

Langdon remained silent, wondering where she was going with this idea.

“What I’m saying is this . . . two heads are better than one . . . and yet two heads are not twice better, they are many, many times better. Multiple minds working in unison magnify a thought’s effect . . . exponentially.

This is the inherent power of prayer groups, healing circles, singing in unison, and worshipping en masse.

The idea of universal consciousness is no ethereal New Age concept. It’s a hard-core scientific reality . . .

and harnessing it has the potential to transform our world. This is the underlying discovery of Noetic

Science. What’s more, it’s happening right now. You can feel it all around you. Technology is linking us in

ways we never imagined possible: Twitter, Google, Wikipedia, and others—all blend to create a web of

interconnected minds.” She laughed. “And I guarantee you, as soon as I publish my work, the Twitterati will

all be sending tweets that say, ‘ learning about Noetics, ’ and interest in this science will explode

exponentially.”

Langdon’s eyelids felt impossibly heavy. “You know, I still haven’t learned how to send a twitter.”

“A tweet,” she corrected, laughing.

“I’m sorry?”

“Never mind. Close your eyes. I’ll wake you when it’s time.”

Langdon realized he had all but forgotten the old key the Architect had given them . . . and why they had

come up here. As a new wave of exhaustion engulfed him, Langdon shut his eyes. In the darkness of his

mind, he found himself thinking about universal consciousness . . . about Plato’s writings on “the mind of the world” and “gathering God” . . . Jung’s “collective unconscious.” The notion was as simple as it was

startling.

God is found in the collection of Many . . . rather than in the One.

“Elohim,” Langdon said suddenly, his eyes flying open again as he made an unexpected connection.

“I’m sorry?” Katherine was still gazing down at him.

“Elohim,” he repeated. “The Hebrew word for God in the Old Testament! I’ve always wondered about it.”

Katherine gave a knowing smile. “Yes. The word is plural.”

Exactly! Langdon had never understood why the very first passages of the Bible referred to God as a plural being. Elohim. The Almighty God in Genesis was described not as One . . . but as Many.

“God is plural,” Katherine whispered, “because the minds of man are plural.”

Langdon’s thoughts were spiraling now . . . dreams, memories, hopes, fears, revelations . . . all swirling

above him in the Rotunda dome. As his eyes began to close again, he found himself staring at three words in

Latin, painted within the Apotheosis.

E PLURIBUS UNUM.

“Out of many, one,” he thought, slipping off into sleep.

Epilogue

Robert Langdon awoke slowly.

Faces gazed down at him. Where am I?

A moment later, he recalled where he was. He sat up slowly beneath the Apotheosis. His back felt stiff from

lying on the hard catwalk.

Where’s Katherine?

Langdon checked his Mickey Mouse watch. It’s almost time. He pulled himself to his feet, peering cautiously

over the banister into the gaping space below.

“Katherine?” he called out.

The word echoed back in the silence of the deserted Rotunda.

Retrieving his tweed jacket from the floor, he brushed it off and put it back on. He checked his pockets. The

iron key the Architect had given him was gone.

Making his way back around the walkway, Langdon headed for the opening the Architect had shown them . .

. steep metal stairs ascending into cramped darkness. He began to climb. Higher and higher he ascended.

Gradually the stairway became more narrow and more inclined. Still Langdon pushed on.

Just a little farther.

The steps had become almost ladderlike now, the passage frighteningly constricted. Finally, the stairs ended,

and Langdon stepped up onto a small landing. Before him was a heavy metal door. The iron key was in the

lock, and the door hung slightly ajar. He pushed, and the door creaked open. The air beyond felt cold. As

Langdon stepped across the threshold into murky darkness, he realized he was now outside.

“I was just coming to get you,” Katherine said, smiling at him. “It’s almost time.”

When Langdon recognized his surroundings, he drew a startled breath. He was standing on a tiny skywalk

that encircled the pinnacle of the U.S. Capitol Dome. Directly above him, the bronze Statue of Freedom

gazed out over the sleeping capital city. She faced the east, where the first crimson splashes of dawn had

begun to paint the horizon.

Katherine guided Langdon around the balcony until they were facing west, perfectly aligned with the

National Mall. In the distance, the silhouette of the Washington Monument stood in the early-morning light.

From this vantage point, the towering obelisk looked even more impressive than it had before.

“When it was built,” Katherine whispered, “it was the tallest structure on the entire planet.”

Langdon pictured the old sepia photographs of stonemasons on scaffolding, more than five hundred feet in

the air, laying each block by hand, one by one.

We are builders, he thought. We are creators.

Since the beginning of time, man had sensed there was something special about himself . . . something more.

He had longed for powers he did not possess. He had dreamed of flying, of healing, and of transforming his

world in every way imaginable.

And he had done just that.

Today, the shrines to man’s accomplishments adorned the National Mall. The Smithsonian museums

burgeoned with our inventions, our art, our science, and the ideas of our great thinkers. They told the history

of man as creator—from the stone tools in the Native American History Museum to the jets and rockets in

the National Air and Space Museum.

If our ancestors could see us today, surely they would think us gods.

As Langdon peered through the predawn mist at the sprawling geometry of museums and monuments before

him, his eyes returned to the Washington Monument . He pictured the lone Bible in the buried cornerstone

and thought of how the Word of God was really the word of man.

He thought about the great circumpunct, and how it had been embedded in the circular plaza beneath the

monument at the crossroads of America. Langdon thought suddenly of the little stone box Peter had entrusted

to him. The cube, he now realized, had unhinged and opened to form the same exact geometrical form—a

cross with a circumpunct at its center. Langdon had to laugh. Even that little box was hinting at this

crossroads.

“Robert, look!” Katherine pointed to the top of the monument.

Langdon lifted his gaze but saw nothing.

Then, staring more intently, he glimpsed it.

Across the Mall, a tiny speck of golden sunlight was glinting off the highest tip of the towering obelisk. The

shining pinpoint grew quickly brighter, more radiant, gleaming on the capstone’s aluminum peak. Langdon

watched in wonder as the light transformed into a beacon that hovered above the shadowed city. He pictured

the tiny engraving on the east-facing side of the aluminum tip and realized to his amazement that the first ray

of sunlight to hit the nation’s capital, every single day, did so by illuminating two words:

Laus Deo.

“Robert,” Katherine whispered. “Nobody ever gets to come up here at sunrise. This is what Peter wanted us

to witness.”

Langdon could feel his pulse quickening as the glow atop the monument intensified.

“He said he believes this is why the forefathers built the monument so tall. I don’t know if that’s true, but I

do know this—there’s a very old law decreeing that nothing taller can be built in our capital city. Ever.”

The light inched farther down the capstone as the sun crept over the horizon behind them. As Langdon

watched, he could almost sense, all around him, the celestial spheres tracing their eternal orbits through the

void of space. He thought of the Great Architect of the Universe and how Peter had said specifically that the

treasure he wanted to show Langdon could be unveiled only by the Architect. Langdon had assumed this

meant Warren Bellamy. Wrong Architect.

As the rays of sunlight strengthened, the golden glow engulfed the entirety of the thirty-three-hundred-pound

capstone. The mind of man . . . receiving enlightenment. The light then began inching down the monument,

commencing the same descent it performed every morning. Heaven moving toward earth . . . God connecting

to man. This process, Langdon realized, would reverse come evening. The sun would dip in the west, and the

light would climb again from earth back to heaven . . . preparing for a new day.

Beside him, Katherine shivered and inched closer. Langdon put his arm around her. As the two of them stood

side by side in silence, Langdon thought about all he had learned tonight. He thought of Katherine’s belief

that everything was about to change. He thought of Peter’s faith that an age of enlightenment was imminent.

And he thought of the words of a great prophet who had boldly declared: Nothing is hidden that will not be

made known; nothing is secret that will not come to light.

As the sun rose over Washington, Langdon looked to the heavens, where the last of the nighttime stars were

fading out. He thought about science, about faith, about man. He thought about how every culture, in every

country, in every time, had always shared one thing. We all had the Creator. We used different names,

different faces, and different prayers, but God was the universal constant for man. God was the symbol we all

shared . . . the symbol of all the mysteries of life that we could not understand. The ancients had praised God

as a symbol of our limitless human potential, but that ancient symbol had been lost over time. Until now.

In that moment, standing atop the Capitol, with the warmth of the sun streaming down all around him, Robert

Langdon felt a powerful upwelling deep within himself. It was an emotion he had never felt this profoundly

in his entire life.

Hope.

ALSO BY DAN BROWN

Featuring Robert Langdon

THE DA VINCI CODE

ANGELS & DEMONS

DECEPTION POINT

DIGITAL FORTRESS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Dan Brown is the author of The Da Vinci Code, one of the most widely read novels of all time, as well as the international bestsellers Angels & Demons, Deception Point, and Digital Fortress. He lives in New England with his wife.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents

either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons,

living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2009 by Dan Brown

- THE END -

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Table of Contents

Epilogue