Dedication

FOR BLYTHE

HE OTIS ELEVATOR climbing the south pillar of the Eiffel Tower was over-flowing 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.

THE EIFFEL TOWER ELEVATORS

1.1: Paul Chesley/Photographer’s Choice/Getty Images

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 way. “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 tarmac toward the Signature terminal, which was surrounded by glistening private jets. A taxi stand for the rich and famous.

DULLES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

1.2: Bruce Dale/National Geographic/Getty Images

“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.

  HE 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.

A CARVED MAORI MASK, FEATURING A TRADITIONAL MOKO PATTERN

2.1: Werner Forman/HIP/The Image Works

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.

THE ROUND TOWER, ETCHING BY GIOVANNI BATTISTA PIRANESI

2.2: Brooklyn Museum of Art, New York, USA/Frank L. Babbott Fund and Carll H. de Silver Fund/The Bridgeman Art Library

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.

MASTER AND APPRENTICE PILLARS AT ROSSLYN CHAPEL, SCOTLAND, REPRESENTING BOAZ AND JACHIN

2.3: © John Heseltine

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.

OBERT 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 right, 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.

JEFFERSON MEMORIAL

3.1: VisionsofAmerica/Joe Sohm/Digital Vision/Getty Images

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.

LINCOLN MEMORIAL, WASHINGTON MONUMENT, AND U.S. CAPITOL BUILDING

3.2: James P. Blair/Photodisc/Getty Images

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 ultra-wealthy 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.

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.

HE 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 Nuñez 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 Nuñez guess military. Those who had served in the U.S. armed forces were among the most common visitors to Washington.

“Good evening, sir,” Nuñez said, following the security protocol of verbally engaging any male visitor who entered alone.

THE UNITED STATES CAPITOL BUILDING

4.1: © Photo DC

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

“NFC play-offs,” Nuñez replied. “Everyone’s watching the Redskins tonight.” Nuñez 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, Nuñez watched him carefully. Human instinct made special allowances for the injured and handicapped, but it was an instinct Nuñez had been trained to override.

Nuñez waited while the visitor removed from his pockets the usual assortment of loose change, keys, and a couple of cell phones. “Sprain?” Nuñez 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,” Nuñez said. “I’ll use the wand.”

Nuñez 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. Nuñez 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 Nuñez 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.” Nuñez 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, Nuñez’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,” Nuñez said, completing his sweep and stowing the wand.

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

As he did, Nuñez noticed that the two fingers protruding from his bandage each bore a tattoo; the tip of his index finger bore the image of a star, and the tip of his thumb bore that of a crown. Seems everyone has tattoos these days, Nuñez 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,” Nuñez 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 Nuñez 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.

 HE 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.”

S 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 CAPITOL VISITOR CENTER LOBBY

6.1: Photo by Scott J. Ferrell/Congressional Quarterly/Getty Images

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.

THE U.S. CAPITOL DOME, VISIBLE THROUGH THE VISITOR CENTER SKYLIGHT

6.2: Photo by Alex Wong/Getty Images

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.

THE STATUE OF FREEDOM

6.3: Sandra Baker/Alamy

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.!”

ARCHITECTURAL DRAWING (1859)

6.4: Prints & Photographs Division, Library of Congress, cph 3b32779

U.S. CAPITOL DOME UNDER CONSTRUCTION (1860-1863)

6.5: Prints & Photographs Division, Library of Congress, cph 3a01226

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?”

GEORGE WASHINGTON, IN FULL MASONIC REGALIA, LAYING THE CORNERSTONE OF THE U.S. CAPITOL

6.6: TIM SLOAN/AFP/Getty Images

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.?”

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN IN MASONIC REGALIA

6.7: Photo by Herbert Orth/Time Life Pictures/Getty Images

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 antireligious?”

“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 stonemasons’ 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.

ATHERINE 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:

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.

THE SMITHSONIAN MUSEUM SUPPORT CENTER, SUITLAND, MARYLAND

7.1: © Richard Nowitz

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.

OBERT 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 STATUARY HALL, U.S. CAPITOL BUILDING

8.1: © Photo DC

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.”

NSIDE 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 nutcases, 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?”

A SCENE FROM DANTE’S INFERNO, EARLY 15TH CENTURY, MADE FOR ALPHONSO V, KING OF ARAGON

9.1: British Library, London/HIP/Art Resource, NY

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.

OBERT 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.

“HANDEQUIN” ART MODEL

10.1: © Robert Bull

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.

HY 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.

“THE STREET,” SMITHSONIAN MUSEUM SUPPORT CENTER

11.1: © Richard Nowitz

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.

MARS METEORITE

11.2: AP Photo/Purdue News Service

SITTING BULL’S PICTOGRAPHIC AUTOBIOGRAPHY, 1882

11.3: National Anthropological Archives, Smithsonian Institution

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:

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?

APITOL 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.

OR 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.

THE ROTUNDA, U.S. CAPITOL BUILDING

13.1: KAREN BLEIER/AFP/Getty Images

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 HAND OF THE MYSTERIES

13.2: © Per Haagensen

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.

AL’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.

N 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 electroencephalographs, 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.

INSTITUTE OF NOETIC SCIENCES, PETALUMA, CALIFORNIA

15.1: Scott Hess Photography

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 become 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.”

KRISHNA AND ARJUNA PREPARING FOR BATTLE, FROM THE BHAGAVAD GITA, 18TH CENTURY.

15.2: © The Trustees of the Chester Beatty Library, Dublin/The Bridgeman Art Library

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 Schrödinger 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.

ECURITY 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.

THE ROTUNDA, U.S. CAPITOL BUILDING

16.1: Chris Pinchbeck/Aurora/Getty Images

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.

THE MANZANAR INTERNMENT CAMP, CALIFORNIA, 1942

16.2: Courtesy National Archives, 210-G-C839

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.”

 IRECTOR 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.”

CROWN, STAR, SUN, LANTERN, AND KEY —THE TRADITIONAL SYMBOLS OF THE HAND OF THE MYSTERIES

17.1: T: © iStockphoto.com/RonyGraphics

17.2: TC: © iStockphoto.com/ggodby

17.3: C: © iStockphoto.com/johnwoodcock

17.4: BC: © Robert Bull

17.5: B: © iStockphoto.com/Thirteen-Fifty

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.’ ”

THE HAND OF THE MYSTERIES WITH ALL FIVE FINGER-TIP SYMBOLS, ENGRAVING, 1773

17.6: Library of Congress, Rare Book and Special Collections Division

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.”

ATHERINE 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 keywords. 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.”

ENTANGLEMENT: THE COORDINATED MOVEMENT OF A SCHOOL OF FISH

18.1: Richard Merritt FRPS/Flickr/Getty Images

“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.”

 IRECTOR 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 FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH, ILLUMINATED MANUSCRIPT “DA SPHAERA,” 1470

19.1: Biblioteca Estense Universitaria, Modena, Italy/The Bridgeman Art Library

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.

MOSES DIVIDING THE WATERS OF THE RED SEA, 19TH CENTURY

19.2: Bibliotheque des Arts Decoratifs, Paris, France/The Bridgeman Art Library

“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.

ELEMENTS OF THE ANCIENT MYSTERIES FEATURED ON A TAROT CARD

19.3: Topham/The Image Works

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.

THE ALCHEMIST, WILLIAM FETTES DOUGLAS, 1855

19.4: V&A Images, London/Art Resource, NY

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.

OBERT 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.

THE TIBER RIVER, ROME

20.1: imagebroker/Alamy

THE POTOMAC RIVER, WASHINGTON, D.C.

20.2: Cameron Davidson/Workbook Stock/Getty Images

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.”

THE TEMPLE OF VESTA

20.3: Imagno/Hulton Archive/Getty Images

“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.”

HE 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.

THE APOTHEOSIS OF WASHINGTON, U.S. CAPITOL ROTUNDA CEILING

21.1: © Photo DC

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 regal clothing, attended by thirteen maidens, and ascending on a cloud above mortal man. This is the moment of his apotheosis … his transformation into a god.”

GEORGE WASHINGTON, THE APOTHEOSIS OF WASHINGTON (DETAIL)

21.2: © Rachele Pearce

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.”

MINERVA, THE APOTHEOSIS OF WASHINGTON (DETAIL)

21.3: © Rachele Pearce

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.

THE LAST SUPPER, LEONARDO DA VINCI (DETAIL)

21.4: Santa Maria della Grazie, Milan, Italy/The Bridgeman Art Library

ST. JOHN THE BAPTIST, LEONARDO DA VINCI

21.5: Ashmolean Museum, University of Oxford, UK/The Bridgeman Art Library

“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.”

GEORGE WASHINGTON SCULPTED AS ZEUS, HORATIO GREENOUGH

21.6: Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington, DC/Art Resource, NY

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.

STATUE OF ZEUS BY PHEIDIAS, ENGRAVING, 1866

21.7: Private Collection/ Archives Charmet/The Bridgeman Art Library

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.”

ACING 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.

KALORAMA HEIGHTS, WASHINGTON, D.C.

22.1: © Richard Nowitz

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.

THE THREE GRACES, MICHAEL PARKES

22.2: “The Three Graces” © 2004, a painting by Michael Parkes. All Rights Reserved. Represented exclusively by Swan King Editions, LLC.

“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?”

 NOTHER 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—Hälsinge, Manx, the ‘dotted’ Stungnar—”

A SAMPLE RUNIC ALPHABET

“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.

ANTI-MASONIC ARTWORK: DEVIL WORSHIP FROM “THE FREEMASONS,” EUGEN LENNHOFF, 1932

23.1: Private Collection/Ken Welsh/The Bridgeman Art Library

“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.

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.

HE 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.

Y 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.

“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.

Not surprisingly, Peter’s iPhone now pinged with an incoming reply from Katherine.

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.

ROFESSOR 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.

YSTEMS 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.

HERE 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 …

THE CATAFALQUE, CAPITOL CRYPT, LOWER LEVEL OF THE U.S. CAPITOL BUILDING

28.1: © Dennis Brack/DanitaDelimont.com

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.

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.

 HE 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.

TASER GUN

29.1: JHP Public Safety/Alamy

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.

 B 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.”

ISAAC NEWTON, AFTER A PAINTING BY SIR GODFREY KNELLER (DETAIL)

30.1: Academie des Sciences, Paris, France/Giraudon/The Bridgeman Art Library

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.”

THE DOUBLE-HEADED PHOENIX, 33, AND “ORDO AB CHAO” SLOGAN

“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.

DAVID KILLING GOLIATH, PIETRO DA (BERRETTINI) CORTONA

30.2: Vatican Museums and Galleries, Vatican City, Italy/The Bridgeman Art Library

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.

RISH 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.

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.

LMOST 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 …

A TUNNEL BENEATH THE U.S. CAPITOL BUILDING

32.1: Courtesy of the author

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.

“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.”

THE U.S. CAPITOL BUILDING

YSTEMS SECURITY specialist Mark Zoubianis was sinking deeper into his futon and scowling at the information on his laptop screen.

What 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 Nuñez 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. Nuñez 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.

Nuñez 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. Nuñez’s pulse quickened. Holy shit. Even at a distance, Nuñez 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 Nuñez 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?” Nuñez 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.

Nuñez shrugged. As if I was going to ask?

Bellamy strode directly toward the escalators. “Where are they?”

“They just went to the lower levels.” Nuñez 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, Nuñez caught a glimpse of a large golden ring on Bellamy’s finger.

Nuñez 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.”

Nuñez 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.

Nuñez nodded.

“Then I think he would prefer you obey my wishes.”

RISH 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!”

“WET POD,” SMITHSONIAN MUSEUM SUPPORT CENTER

34.1: © Richard Nowitz

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.

HE 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 Domitilla, 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 epluribus 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 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.

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.

HAT 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.

THE SKULL AND CROSSBONES

36.1: Doug Blane (www.DougBlane.com)/Alamy

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 Nuñez escorted the Architect of the Capitol, Warren Bellamy, down the long hallway that ran the length of the eastern basement. Nuñez 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, Nuñez 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.”

Nuñez shifted uneasily. “You sure?”

Warren Bellamy stopped, placing a firm hand on Nuñez’s shoulder. “Son, I’ve worked here for twenty-five years. I think I can find my way.”

AL’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.”

ARCHITEUTHIS, GIANT SQUID, SMITHSONIAN MUSEUM SUPPORT CENTER

37.1: © Richard Nowitz

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.

HIS 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 caput 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.”

A MASONIC CHAMBER OF REFLECTION

38.1: © Carlos Carrion/Sygma/Corbis

“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 dimly 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.

“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.”

OBERT 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.

THE GREAT SEAL OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

39.1: Steve Allen/Brand X Pictures/Getty Images

“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.”

HAT’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.

OBERT LANGDON studied the stone pyramid. This isn’t possible.

“An ancient encoded language,” Sato said without looking up. “Tell me, does this qualify?”

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.

PHAISTOS DISK

41.1: Archaeological Museum of Heraklion, Crete, Greece/Bernard Cox/The Bridgeman Art Library

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.

PAGES FROM THE VOYNICH MANUSCRIPT

41.2: Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University

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 … containing 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!”

HE 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 Nuñez,” 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.” Nuñez 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 Nuñez?”

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 reapplying 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.

PASSAGEWAY BENEATH THE CAPITOL COMPLEX

42.1: Photo by Scott J. Ferrell/Congressional Quarterly/Getty Images

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.

ANGDON 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.”

EW 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.

ATHERINE 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.

ESPITE 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.

THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, JEFFERSON BUILDING

46.1: © Richard Nowitz

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.

THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, GREAT HALL

46.2: John Grant/The Image Bank/Getty Images

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.

46.3: The Library of Congress, Carol M. Highsmith Archive, LC-DIGhighsm-02096

RENAISSANCE-STYLE WINGED FIGURES WITH THE TORCH OF LEARNING, AND THE MEN WHO CARVED THEM, 1894

46.4: Prints & Photographs Division, Library of Congress, LC-DIGppmsca-22306

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.

THE GUTENBERG BIBLE, LIBRARY OF CONGRESS

46.5: Library of Congress Photo/ Micheala McNichol

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.

THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS READING ROOM

46.6: John Grant/The Image Bank/Getty Images

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.”

HE 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 hyperdilated 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. Four 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.

N THE heat of the moment, Capitol police officer Nuñez had seen no option but to help the Capitol Architect and Robert Langdon escape. Now, however, back in the basement police headquarters, Nuñez 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!”

Nuñez 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.

Nuñez felt like he would throw up. Making up his mind, he motioned discreetly to Chief Anderson. “A word, Chief?”

“What is it?” Anderson followed Nuñez into the hall.

“Chief, I made a bad mistake,” Nuñez said, breaking a sweat. “I’m sorry, and I’m resigning.” You’ll fire me in a few minutes anyway.

“I beg your pardon?”

Nuñez 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, goddamn it!” Anderson’s voice echoed down the corridor. “Bellamy smashed my head into a wall, for Christ’s sake!”

Nuñez 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?”

Nuñez felt himself go pale. Anderson was still holding the key, and Sato clearly had seen it. As the hideous little woman drew near, Nuñez 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?”

Nuñez 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 Nuñez here helped Langdon and Bellamy escape and then relocked that tunnel door behind them. Bellamy gave Nuñez that key.”

Anderson turned to Nuñez with a flare of anger. “Is this true?!”

Nuñez 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.”

OBERT 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.”

THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS READING ROOM CEILING

49.1: The Library of Congress, Carol M. Highsmith Archive, LC-DIGhighsm-02070

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.

HEBREW TORAH VERSUS LATIN BIBLE TRANSLATIONS OF THE DESCRIPTION OF MOSES

“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.

MOSES, CHARLES HENRY NIEHAUS, LIBRARY OF CONGRESS READING ROOM

49.2: The Library of Congress, Carol M. Highsmith Archive, LC-DIGhighsm-02120

“I mention the horned Moses,” Bellamy now said, “to illustrate how a single word, misunderstood, can rewrite history.”

MOSES, MICHELANGELO

49.3: San Pietro in Vincoli, Rome, Italy/Alinari/The Bridgeman Art Library

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.

SOE …

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.

N 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.

C.I.A. HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

50.1: Stock Connection Blue/Alamy

“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—Vigenère, 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.

ATHERINE 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.

AL’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.

THE CRASH OF THE HINDENBURG, 1937

52.1: Private Collection/Courtesy of Swann Auction Galleries/The Bridgeman Art Library

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 gas-station 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.

S 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.

THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, ARCHES

53.1: LHB Photo/Alamy

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.”

RANTICALLY, 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.

ARREN 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 everyone knows everything.”

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.

BRONZE ENTRYWAY DOORS, LIBRARY OF CONGRESS

55.1: The Library of Congress, Carol M. Highsmith Archive, LC-DIGhighsm-02785

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.

HEN 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.

BRONZE DOOR HANDLES, LIBRARY OF CONGRESS

56.1: The Library of Congress, Carol M. Highsmith Archive, LC-DIGhighsm-02782

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.”

AL’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.

SYROS, GREECE

57.1: Ann Rayworth/Alamy

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.

HE 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.

THERMAL SIGNATURE

58.1: Jose CABEZAS/AFP/Getty Images

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

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 onto 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.

SILLY STRING

58.2: SNL/DOE/Photo Researchers, Inc.

“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.”

OBERT 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.

THE STACKS AT THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS

59.1: Library of Congress, LC-DIG-ppmsca-15563

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.

HE 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.