Contents
FOR BLYTHE
Acknowledgments
My profound thanks to three dear friends
with whom I have the great luxury of working: my editor, Jason
Kaufman; my agent, Heide Lange; and my counselor, Michael Rudell.
In addition, I would like to express my immense gratitude to
Doubleday, to my publishers around the world, and, of course, to my
readers.
This novel could not have been written
without the generous assistance of countless individuals who shared
their knowledge and expertise. To all of you, I extend my deep
appreciation.
To live in the world without becoming
aware of the meaning of the world is
like wandering about in a great
library
without touching the books.
The Secret Teachings of All Ages
------------------------
FACT:
In 1991, a document was locked in the safe
of the director of the CIA. The document is still there today. Its
cryptic text includes references to an ancient portal and an
unknown location underground. The document also contains the phrase
"It's buried out there somewhere."
All organizations in this novel exist,
including the Freemasons, the Invisible College, the Office of
Security, the SMSC, and the Institute of Noetic Sciences.
All rituals, science, artwork, and monuments
in this novel are real.
------------------------
Prologue
House of the Temple 8:33 P.M.
The secret is how to die. Since the
beginning of time, the secret had always been how to die.
The thirty-four-year-old initiate gazed down
at the human skull cradled in his palms. The skull was hollow, like
a bowl, filled with bloodred wine.
Drink it, he told himself. You have nothing
to fear.
As was tradition, he had begun this journey
adorned in the ritualistic garb of a medieval heretic being led to
the gallows, his loose-fitting shirt gaping open to reveal his pale
chest, his left pant leg rolled up to the knee, and his right
sleeve rolled up to the elbow. Around his neck hung a heavy rope
noose--a "cable-tow" as the brethren called it. Tonight, however,
like the brethren bearing witness, he was dressed as a
master.
The assembly of brothers encircling him all
were adorned in their full regalia of lambskin aprons, sashes, and
white gloves. Around their necks hung ceremonial jewels that
glistened like ghostly eyes in the muted light. Many of these men
held powerful stations in life, and yet the initiate knew their
worldly ranks meant nothing within these walls. Here all men were
equals, sworn brothers sharing a mystical bond.
As he surveyed the daunting assembly, the
initiate wondered who on the outside would ever believe that this
collection of men would assemble in one place . . . much less this
place. The room looked like a holy sanctuary from the ancient
world.
The truth, however, was stranger
still.
I am just blocks away from the White
House.
This colossal edifice, located at 1733
Sixteenth Street NW in Washington, D.C., was a replica of a
pre-Christian temple--the temple of King Mausolus, the original
mausoleum . . . a place to be taken after death. Outside the main
entrance, two seventeen-ton sphinxes guarded the bronze doors. The
interior was an ornate labyrinth of ritualistic chambers, halls,
sealed vaults, libraries, and even a hollow wall that held the
remains of two human bodies. The initiate had been told every room
in this building held a secret, and yet he knew no room held deeper
secrets than the gigantic chamber in which he was currently
kneeling with a skull cradled in his palms.
The Temple Room.
This room was a perfect square. And
cavernous. The ceiling soared an astonishing one hundred feet
overhead, supported by monolithic columns of green granite. A
tiered gallery of dark Russian walnut seats with hand-tooled
pigskin encircled the room. A thirty-three-foot-tall throne
dominated the western wall, with a concealed pipe organ opposite
it. The walls were a kaleidoscope of ancient symbols . . .
Egyptian, Hebraic, astronomical, alchemical, and others yet
unknown.
Tonight, the Temple Room was lit by a series
of precisely arranged candles. Their dim glow was aided only by a
pale shaft of moonlight that filtered down through the expansive
oculus in the ceiling and illuminated the room's most startling
feature--an enormous altar hewn from a solid block of polished
Belgian black marble, situated dead center of the square
chamber.
The secret is how to die, the initiate
reminded himself.
"It is time," a voice whispered.
The initiate let his gaze climb the
distinguished white-robed figure standing before him. The Supreme
Worshipful Master. The man, in his late fifties, was an American
icon, well loved, robust, and incalculably wealthy. His once-dark
hair was turning silver, and his famous visage reflected a lifetime
of power and a vigorous intellect.
"Take the oath," the Worshipful Master said,
his voice soft like falling snow. "Complete your journey."
The initiate's journey, like all such
journeys, had begun at the first degree. On that night, in a ritual
similar to this one, the Worshipful Master had blindfolded him with
a velvet hoodwink and pressed a ceremonial dagger to his bare
chest, demanding: "Do you seriously declare on your honor,
uninfluenced by mercenary or any other unworthy motive, that you
freely and voluntarily offer yourself as a candidate for the
mysteries and privileges of this brotherhood?"
"I do," the initiate had lied.
"Then let this be a sting to your
consciousness," the master had warned him, "as well as instant
death should you ever betray the secrets to be imparted to
you."
At the time, the initiate had felt no fear.
They will never know my true purpose here.
Tonight, however, he sensed a foreboding
solemnity in the Temple Room, and his mind began replaying all the
dire warnings he had been given on his journey, threats of terrible
consequences if he ever shared the ancient secrets he was about to
learn: Throat cut from ear to ear . . . tongue torn out by its
roots . . . bowels taken out and burned . . . scattered to the four
winds of heaven . . . heart plucked out and given to the beasts of
the field--
"Brother," the gray-eyed master said,
placing his left hand on the initiate's shoulder. "Take the final
oath."
Steeling himself for the last step of his
journey, the initiate shifted his muscular frame and turned his
attention back to the skull cradled in his palms. The crimson wine
looked almost black in the dim candlelight. The chamber had fallen
deathly silent, and he could feel all of the witnesses watching
him, waiting for him to take his final oath and join their elite
ranks. Tonight, he thought, something is taking place within these
walls that has never before occurred in the history of this
brotherhood. Not once, in centuries.
He knew it would be the spark . . . and it
would give him unfathomable power. Energized, he drew a breath and
spoke aloud the same words that countless men had spoken before him
in countries all over the world.
"May this wine I now drink become a deadly
poison to me . . . should I ever knowingly or willfully violate my
oath."
His words echoed in the hollow space.
Then all was quiet.
Steadying his hands, the initiate raised the
skull to his mouth and felt his lips touch the dry bone. He closed
his eyes and tipped the skull toward his mouth, drinking the wine
in long, deep swallows. When the last drop was gone, he lowered the
skull.
For an instant, he thought he felt his lungs
growing tight, and his heart began to pound wildly. My God, they
know! Then, as quickly as it came, the feeling passed.
A pleasant warmth began to stream through
his body. The initiate exhaled, smiling inwardly as he gazed up at
the unsuspecting gray-eyed man who had foolishly admitted him into
this brotherhood's most secretive ranks.
Soon you will lose everything you hold most
dear.
CHAPTER 1
The Otis elevator climbing the south pillar
of the Eiffel Tower was overflowing with tourists. Inside the
cramped lift, an austere businessman in a pressed suit gazed down
at the boy beside him. "You look pale, son. You should have stayed
on the ground."
"I'm okay . . ." the boy answered,
struggling to control his anxiety. "I'll get out on the next
level." I can't breathe.
The man leaned closer. "I thought by now you
would have gotten over this." He brushed the child's cheek
affectionately.
The boy felt ashamed to disappoint his
father, but he could barely hear through the ringing in his ears. I
can't breathe. I've got to get out of this box!
The elevator operator was saying something
reassuring about the lift's articulated pistons and puddled-iron
construction. Far beneath them, the streets of Paris stretched out
in all directions.
Almost there, the boy told himself, craning
his neck and looking up at the unloading platform. Just hold
on.
As the lift angled steeply toward the upper
viewing deck, the shaft began to narrow, its massive struts
contracting into a tight, vertical tunnel.
"Dad, I don't think--"
Suddenly a staccato crack echoed overhead.
The carriage jerked, swaying awkwardly to one side. Frayed cables
began whipping around the carriage, thrashing like snakes. The boy
reached out for his father.
"Dad!"
Their eyes locked for one terrifying
second.
Then the bottom dropped out.
Robert Langdon jolted upright in his soft
leather seat, startling out of the semiconscious daydream. He was
sitting all alone in the enormous cabin of a Falcon 2000EX
corporate jet as it bounced its way through turbulence. In the
background, the dual Pratt & Whitney engines hummed
evenly.
"Mr. Langdon?" The intercom crackled
overhead. "We're on final approach."
Langdon sat up straight and slid his lecture
notes back into his leather daybag. He'd been halfway through
reviewing Masonic symbology when his mind had drifted. The daydream
about his late father, Langdon suspected, had been stirred by this
morning's unexpected invitation from Langdon's longtime mentor,
Peter Solomon.
The other man I never want to
disappoint.
The fifty-eight-year-old philanthropist,
historian, and scientist had taken Langdon under his wing nearly
thirty years ago, in many ways filling the void left by Langdon's
father's death. Despite the man's influential family dynasty and
massive wealth, Langdon had found humility and warmth in Solomon's
soft gray eyes.
Outside the window the sun had set, but
Langdon could still make out the slender silhouette of the world's
largest obelisk, rising on the horizon like the spire of an ancient
gnomon. The 555- foot marble-faced obelisk marked this nation's
heart. All around the spire, the meticulous geometry of streets and
monuments radiated outward. Even from the air, Washington, D.C.,
exuded an almost mystical power.
Langdon loved this city, and as the jet
touched down, he felt a rising excitement about what lay ahead. The
jet taxied to a private terminal somewhere in the vast expanse of
Dulles International Airport and came to a stop.
Langdon gathered his things, thanked the
pilots, and stepped out of the jet's luxurious interior onto the
foldout staircase. The cold January air felt liberating.
Breathe, Robert, he thought, appreciating
the wide-open spaces.
A blanket of white fog crept across the
runway, and Langdon had the sensation he was stepping into a marsh
as he descended onto the misty tarmac.
"Hello! Hello!" a singsong British voice
shouted from across the tarmac. "Professor Langdon?"
Langdon looked up to see a middle-aged woman
with a badge and clipboard hurrying toward him, waving happily as
he approached. Curly blond hair protruded from under a stylish knit
wool hat.
"Welcome to Washington, sir!"
Langdon smiled. "Thank you."
"My name is Pam, from passenger services."
The woman spoke with an exuberance that was almost unsettling. "If
you'll come with me, sir, your car is waiting."
Langdon followed her across the runway
toward the Signature terminal, which was surrounded by glistening
private jets. A taxi stand for the rich and famous.
"I hate to embarrass you, Professor," the
woman said, sounding sheepish, "but you are the Robert Langdon who
writes books about symbols and religion, aren't you?"
Langdon hesitated and then nodded.
"I thought so!" she said, beaming. "My book
group read your book about the sacred feminine and the church! What
a delicious scandal that one caused! You do enjoy putting the fox
in the henhouse!"
Langdon smiled. "Scandal wasn't really my
intention."
The woman seemed to sense Langdon was not in
the mood to discuss his work. "I'm sorry. Listen to me rattling on.
I know you probably get tired of being recognized . . . but it's
your own fault." She playfully motioned to his clothing. "Your
uniform gave you away." My uniform? Langdon glanced down at his
attire. He was wearing his usual charcoal turtleneck, Harris Tweed
jacket, khakis, and collegiate cordovan loafers . . . his standard
attire for the classroom, lecture circuit, author photos, and
social events.
The woman laughed. "Those turtlenecks you
wear are so dated. You'd look much sharper in a tie!"
No chance, Langdon thought. Little
nooses.
Neckties had been required six days a week
when Langdon attended Phillips Exeter Academy, and despite the
headmaster's romantic claims that the origin of the cravat went
back to the silk fascalia worn by Roman orators to warm their vocal
cords, Langdon knew that, etymologically, cravat actually derived
from a ruthless band of "Croat" mercenaries who donned knotted
neckerchiefs before they stormed into battle. To this day, this
ancient battle garb was donned by modern office warriors hoping to
intimidate their enemies in daily boardroom battles.
"Thanks for the advice," Langdon said with a
chuckle. "I'll consider a tie in the future."
Mercifully, a professional-looking man in a
dark suit got out of a sleek Lincoln Town Car parked near the
terminal and held up his finger. "Mr. Langdon? I'm Charles with
Beltway Limousine." He opened the passenger door. "Good evening,
sir. Welcome to Washington."
Langdon tipped Pam for her hospitality and
then climbed into the plush interior of the Town Car. The driver
showed him the temperature controls, the bottled water, and the
basket of hot muffins. Seconds later, Langdon was speeding away on
a private access road. So this is how the other half lives.
As the driver gunned the car up Windsock
Drive, he consulted his passenger manifest and placed a quick call.
"This is Beltway Limousine," the driver said with professional
efficiency. "I was asked to confirm once my passenger had landed."
He paused. "Yes, sir. Your guest, Mr. Langdon, has arrived, and I
will deliver him to the Capitol Building by seven P.M. You're
welcome, sir." He hung up.
Langdon had to smile. No stone left
unturned. Peter Solomon's attention to detail was one of his most
potent assets, allowing him to manage his substantial power with
apparent ease. A few billion dollars in the bank doesn't hurt
either.
Langdon settled into the plush leather seat
and closed his eyes as the noise of the airport faded behind him.
The U.S. Capitol was a half hour away, and he appreciated the time
alone to gather his thoughts. Everything had happened so quickly
today that Langdon only now had begun to think in earnest about the
incredible evening that lay ahead.
Arriving under a veil of secrecy, Langdon
thought, amused by the prospect.
Ten miles from the Capitol Building, a lone
figure was eagerly preparing for Robert Langdon's arrival. CHAPTER
2
The one who called himself Mal'akh pressed
the tip of the needle against his shaved head, sighing with
pleasure as the sharp tool plunged in and out of his flesh. The
soft hum of the electric device was addictive . . . as was the bite
of the needle sliding deep into his dermis and depositing its
dye.
I am a masterpiece.
The goal of tattooing was never beauty. The
goal was change. From the scarified Nubian priests of 2000 B.C., to
the tattooed acolytes of the Cybele cult of ancient Rome, to the
moko scars of the modern Maori, humans have tattooed themselves as
a way of offering up their bodies in partial sacrifice, enduring
the physical pain of embellishment and emerging changed
beings.
Despite the ominous admonitions of Leviticus
19:28, which forbade the marking of one's flesh, tattoos had become
a rite of passage shared by millions of people in the modern
age--everyone from clean-cut teenagers to hard-core drug users to
suburban housewives.
The act of tattooing one's skin was a
transformative declaration of power, an announcement to the world:
I am in control of my own flesh. The intoxicating feeling of
control derived from physical transformation had addicted millions
to flesh-altering practices . . . cosmetic surgery, body piercing,
bodybuilding, and steroids . . . even bulimia and transgendering.
The human spirit craves mastery over its carnal shell.
A single bell chimed on Mal'akh's
grandfather clock, and he looked up. Six thirty P.M. Leaving his
tools, he wrapped the Kiryu silk robe around his naked,
six-foot-three body and strode down the hall. The air inside this
sprawling mansion was heavy with the pungent fragrance of his skin
dyes and smoke from the beeswax candles he used to sterilize his
needles. The towering young man moved down the corridor past
priceless Italian antiques--a Piranesi etching, a Savonarola chair,
a silver Bugarini oil lamp.
He glanced through a floor-to-ceiling window
as he passed, admiring the classical skyline in the distance. The
luminous dome of the U.S. Capitol glowed with solemn power against
the dark winter sky.
This is where it is hidden, he thought. It
is buried out there somewhere.
Few men knew it existed . . . and even fewer
knew its awesome power or the ingenious way in which it had been
hidden. To this day, it remained this country's greatest untold
secret. Those few who did know the truth kept it hidden behind a
veil of symbols, legends, and allegory.
Now they have opened their doors to me,
Mal'akh thought.
Three weeks ago, in a dark ritual witnessed
by America's most influential men, Mal'akh had ascended to the
thirty-third degree, the highest echelon of the world's oldest
surviving brotherhood. Despite Mal'akh's new rank, the brethren had
told him nothing. Nor will they, he knew. That was not how it
worked. There were circles within circles . . . brotherhoods within
brotherhoods. Even if Mal'akh waited years, he might never earn
their ultimate trust.
Fortunately, he did not need their trust to
obtain their deepest secret.
My initiation served its purpose.
Now, energized by what lay ahead, he strode
toward his bedroom. Throughout his entire home, audio speakers
broadcast the eerie strains of a rare recording of a castrato
singing the "Lux Aeterna" from the Verdi Requiem--a reminder of a
previous life. Mal'akh touched a remote control to bring on the
thundering "Dies Irae." Then, against a backdrop of crashing
timpani and parallel fifths, he bounded up the marble staircase,
his robe billowing as he ascended on sinewy legs.
As he ran, his empty stomach growled in
protest. For two days now, Mal'akh had fasted, consuming only
water, preparing his body in accordance with the ancient ways. Your
hunger will be satisfied by dawn, he reminded himself. Along with
your pain.
Mal'akh entered his bedroom sanctuary with
reverence, locking the door behind him. As he moved toward his
dressing area, he paused, feeling himself drawn to the enormous
gilded mirror. Unable to resist, he turned and faced his own
reflection. Slowly, as if unwrapping a priceless gift, Mal'akh
opened his robe to unveil his naked form. The vision awed
him.
I am a masterpiece.
His massive body was shaved and smooth. He
lowered his gaze first to his feet, which were tattooed with the
scales and talons of a hawk. Above that, his muscular legs were
tattooed as carved pillars--his left leg spiraled and his right
vertically striated. Boaz and Jachin. His groin and abdomen formed
a decorated archway, above which his powerful chest was emblazoned
with the double-headed phoenix . . . each head in profile with its
visible eye formed by one of Mal'akh's nipples. His shoulders,
neck, face, and shaved head were completely covered with an
intricate tapestry of ancient symbols and sigils.
I am an artifact . . . an evolving
icon.
One mortal man had seen Mal'akh naked,
eighteen hours earlier. The man had shouted in fear. "Good God,
you're a demon!"
"If you perceive me as such," Mal'akh had
replied, understanding as had the ancients that angels and demons
were identical--interchangeable archetypes--all a matter of
polarity: the guardian angel who conquered your enemy in battle was
perceived by your enemy as a demon destroyer.
Mal'akh tipped his face down now and got an
oblique view of the top of his head. There, within the crownlike
halo, shone a small circle of pale, untattooed flesh. This
carefully guarded canvas was Mal'akh's only remaining piece of
virgin skin. The sacred space had waited patiently . . . and
tonight, it would be filled. Although Mal'akh did not yet possess
what he required to complete his masterpiece, he knew the moment
was fast approaching.
Exhilarated by his reflection, he could
already feel his power growing. He closed his robe and walked to
the window, again gazing out at the mystical city before him. It is
buried out there somewhere.
Refocusing on the task at hand, Mal'akh went
to his dressing table and carefully applied a base of concealer
makeup to his face, scalp, and neck until his tattoos had
disappeared. Then he donned the special set of clothing and other
items he had meticulously prepared for this evening. When he
finished, he checked himself in the mirror. Satisfied, he ran a
soft palm across his smooth scalp and smiled.
It is out there, he thought. And tonight,
one man will help me find it.
As Mal'akh exited his home, he prepared
himself for the event that would soon shake the U.S. Capitol
Building. He had gone to enormous lengths to arrange all the pieces
for tonight.
And now, at last, his final pawn had entered
the game.
CHAPTER 3
Robert Langdon was busy reviewing his note
cards when the hum of the Town Car's tires changed pitch on the
road beneath him. Langdon glanced up, surprised to see where they
were.
Memorial Bridge already?
He put down his notes and gazed out at the
calm waters of the Potomac passing beneath him. A heavy mist
hovered on the surface. Aptly named, Foggy Bottom had always seemed
a peculiar site on which to build the nation's capital. Of all the
places in the New World, the forefathers had chosen a soggy
riverside marsh on which to lay the cornerstone of their utopian
society.
Langdon gazed left, across the Tidal Basin,
toward the gracefully rounded silhouette of the Jefferson
Memorial--America's Pantheon, as many called it. Directly in front
of the car, the Lincoln Memorial rose with rigid austerity, its
orthogonal lines reminiscent of Athens's ancient Parthenon. But it
was farther away that Langdon saw the city's centerpiece--the same
spire he had seen from the air. Its architectural inspiration was
far, far older than the Romans or the Greeks.
America's Egyptian obelisk.
The monolithic spire of the Washington
Monument loomed dead ahead, illuminated against the sky like the
majestic mast of a ship. From Langdon's oblique angle, the obelisk
appeared ungrounded tonight . . . swaying against the dreary sky as
if on an unsteady sea. Langdon felt similarly ungrounded. His visit
to Washington had been utterly unexpected. I woke up this morning
anticipating a quiet Sunday at home . . . and now I'm a few minutes
away from the U.S. Capitol.
This morning at four forty-five, Langdon had
plunged into dead-calm water, beginning his day as he always did,
swimming fifty laps in the deserted Harvard Pool. His physique was
not quite what it had been in his college days as a water-polo
all-American, but he was still lean and toned, respectable for a
man in his forties. The only difference now was the amount of
effort it took Langdon to keep it that way.
When Langdon arrived home around six, he
began his morning ritual of hand-grinding Sumatra coffee beans and
savoring the exotic scent that filled his kitchen. This morning,
however, he was surprised to see the blinking red light on his
voice-mail display. Who calls at six A.M. on a Sunday? He pressed
the button and listened to the message.
"Good morning, Professor Langdon, I'm
terribly sorry for this early-morning call." The polite voice was
noticeably hesitant, with a hint of a southern accent. "My name is
Anthony Jelbart, and I'm Peter Solomon's executive assistant. Mr.
Solomon told me you're an early riser . . . he has been trying to
reach you this morning on short notice. As soon as you receive this
message, would you be so kind as to call Peter directly? You
probably have his new private line, but if not, it's
202-329-5746."
Langdon felt a sudden concern for his old
friend. Peter Solomon was impeccably well-bred and courteous, and
certainly not the kind of man to call at daybreak on a Sunday
unless something was very wrong.
Langdon left his coffee half made and
hurried toward his study to return the call.
I hope he's okay.
Peter Solomon had been a friend, mentor,
and, although only twelve years Langdon's senior, a father figure
to him ever since their first meeting at Princeton University. As a
sophomore, Langdon had been required to attend an evening guest
lecture by the well-known young historian and philanthropist.
Solomon had spoken with a contagious passion, presenting a dazzling
vision of semiotics and archetypal history that had sparked in
Langdon what would later become his lifelong passion for symbols.
It was not Peter Solomon's brilliance, however, but the humility in
his gentle gray eyes that had given Langdon the courage to write
him a thank-you letter. The young sophomore had never dreamed that
Peter Solomon, one of America's wealthiest and most intriguing
young intellectuals, would ever write back. But Solomon did. And it
had been the beginning of a truly gratifying friendship.
A prominent academic whose quiet manner
belied his powerful heritage, Peter Solomon came from the
ultrawealthy Solomon family, whose names appeared on buildings and
universities all over the nation. Like the Rothschilds in Europe,
the surname Solomon had always carried the mystique of American
royalty and success. Peter had inherited the mantle at a young age
after the death of his father, and now, at fifty-eight, he had held
numerous positions of power in his life. He currently served as the
head of the Smithsonian Institution. Langdon occasionally ribbed
Peter that the lone tarnish on his sterling pedigree was his
diploma from a second-rate university--Yale.
Now, as Langdon entered his study, he was
surprised to see that he had received a fax from Peter as
well.
Peter Solomon
OFFICE OF THE SECRETARY
THE SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTION
Good morning, Robert,
I need to speak with you at once. Please
call me this morning as soon as you can at 202-329- 5746.
Peter
Langdon immediately dialed the number,
sitting down at his hand-carved oak desk to wait as the call went
through.
"Office of Peter Solomon," the familiar
voice of the assistant answered. "This is Anthony. May I help
you?"
"Hello, this is Robert Langdon. You left me
a message earlier--"
"Yes, Professor Langdon!" The young man
sounded relieved. "Thank you for calling back so quickly. Mr.
Solomon is eager to speak to you. Let me tell him you're on the
line. May I put you on hold?"
"Of course."
As Langdon waited for Solomon to get on the
line, he gazed down at Peter's name atop the Smithsonian letterhead
and had to smile. Not many slackers in the Solomon clan. Peter's
ancestral tree burgeoned with the names of wealthy business
magnates, influential politicians, and a number of distinguished
scientists, some even fellows of London's Royal Society. Solomon's
only living family member, his younger sister, Katherine, had
apparently inherited the science gene, because she was now a
leading figure in a new cutting-edge discipline called Noetic
Science.
All Greek to me, Langdon thought, amused to
recall Katherine's unsuccessful attempt to explain Noetic Science
to him at a party at her brother's home last year. Langdon had
listened carefully and then replied, "Sounds more like magic than
science."
Katherine winked playfully. "They're closer
than you think, Robert."
Now Solomon's assistant returned to the
phone. "I'm sorry, Mr. Solomon is trying to get off a conference
call. Things are a little chaotic here this morning."
"That's not a problem. I can easily call
back."
"Actually, he asked me to fill you in on his
reason for contacting you, if you don't mind?"
"Of course not."
The assistant inhaled deeply. "As you
probably know, Professor, every year here in Washington, the board
of the Smithsonian hosts a private gala to thank our most generous
supporters. Many of the country's cultural elite attend."
Langdon knew his own bank account had too
few zeros to qualify him as culturally elite, but he wondered if
maybe Solomon was going to invite him to attend nonetheless.
"This year, as is customary," the assistant
continued, "the dinner will be preceded by a keynote address. We've
been lucky enough to secure the National Statuary Hall for that
speech."
The best room in all of D.C., Langdon
thought, recalling a political lecture he had once attended in the
dramatic semicircular hall. It was hard to forget five hundred
folding chairs splayed in a perfect arc, surrounded by thirty-eight
life-size statues, in a room that had once served as the nation's
original House of Representatives chamber.
"The problem is this," the man said. "Our
speaker has fallen ill and has just informed us she will be unable
to give the address." He paused awkwardly. "This means we are
desperate for a replacement speaker. And Mr. Solomon is hoping you
would consider filling in."
Langdon did a double take. "Me?" This was
not at all what he had expected. "I'm sure Peter could find a far
better substitute."
"You're Mr. Solomon's first choice,
Professor, and you're being much too modest. The institution's
guests would be thrilled to hear from you, and Mr. Solomon thought
you could give the same lecture you gave on Bookspan TV a few years
back? That way, you wouldn't have to prepare a thing. He said your
talk involved symbolism in the architecture of our nation's
capital--it sounds absolutely perfect for the venue."
Langdon was not so sure. "If I recall, that
lecture had more to do with the Masonic history of the building
than--"
"Exactly! As you know, Mr. Solomon is a
Mason, as are many of his professional friends who will be in
attendance. I'm sure they would love to hear you speak on the
topic."
I admit it would be easy. Langdon had kept
the lecture notes from every talk he'd ever given. "I suppose I
could consider it. What date is the event?"
The assistant cleared his throat, sounding
suddenly uncomfortable. "Well, actually, sir, it's tonight."
Langdon laughed out loud. "Tonight?!"
"That's why it's so hectic here this
morning. The Smithsonian is in a deeply embarrassing predicament .
. ." The assistant spoke more hurriedly now. "Mr. Solomon is ready
to send a private jet to Boston for you. The flight is only an
hour, and you would be back home before midnight. You're familiar
with the private air terminal at Boston's Logan Airport?"
"I am," Langdon admitted reluctantly. No
wonder Peter always gets his way.
"Wonderful! Would you be willing to meet the
jet there at say . . . five o'clock?"
"You haven't left me much choice, have you?"
Langdon chuckled.
"I just want to make Mr. Solomon happy,
sir."
Peter has that effect on people. Langdon
considered it a long moment, seeing no way out. "All right. Tell
him I can do it."
"Outstanding!" the assistant exclaimed,
sounding deeply relieved. He gave Langdon the jet's tail number and
various other information.
When Langdon finally hung up, he wondered if
Peter Solomon had ever been told no.
Returning to his coffee preparation, Langdon
scooped some additional beans into the grinder. A little extra
caffeine this morning, he thought. It's going to be a long
day.
CHAPTER 4 The U.S. Capitol Building stands
regally at the eastern end of the National Mall, on a raised
plateau that city designer Pierre L'Enfant described as "a pedestal
waiting for a monument." The Capitol's massive footprint measures
more than 750 feet in length and 350 feet deep. Housing more than
sixteen acres of floor space, it contains an astonishing 541 rooms.
The neoclassical architecture is meticulously designed to echo the
grandeur of ancient Rome, whose ideals were the inspiration for
America's founders in establishing the laws and culture of the new
republic.
The new security checkpoint for tourists
entering the Capitol Building is located deep within the recently
completed subterranean visitor center, beneath a magnificent glass
skylight that frames the Capitol Dome. Newly hired security guard
Alfonso Nu�ez 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 Nu�ez guess military. Those who had served in
the U.S. armed forces were among the most common visitors to
Washington.
"Good evening, sir," Nu�ez said, following
the security protocol of verbally engaging any male visitor who
entered alone.
"Hello," the visitor said, glancing around
at the nearly deserted entry. "Quiet night."
"NFC play-offs," Nu�ez replied. "Everyone's
watching the Redskins tonight." Nu�ez 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, Nu�ez watched him
carefully. Human instinct made special allowances for the injured
and handicapped, but it was an instinct Nu�ez had been trained to
override.
Nu�ez waited while the visitor removed from
his pockets the usual assortment of loose change, keys, and a
couple of cell phones. "Sprain?" Nu�ez 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," Nu�ez said. "I'll use the
wand." Nu�ez 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. Nu�ez 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 Nu�ez 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." Nu�ez 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, Nu�ez'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," Nu�ez said, completing his
sweep and stowing the wand.
"Thanks." The man started collecting his
belongings from the tray.
As he did, Nu�ez noticed that the two
fingers protruding from his bandage each bore a tattoo; the tip of
his index finger bore the image of a crown, and the tip of his
thumb bore that of a star. Seems everyone has tattoos these days,
Nu�ez 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," Nu�ez 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 Nu�ez and up the
escalator toward the Capitol Building. The entry had been easier
than anticipated. Mal'akh's slouching posture and padded belly had
hidden his true physique, while the makeup on his face and hands
had hidden the tattoos that covered his body. The true genius,
however, was the sling, which disguised the potent object Mal'akh
was transporting into the building.
A gift for the one man on earth who can help
me obtain what I seek.
CHAPTER 5
The world's largest and most technologically
advanced museum is also one of the world's best- kept secrets. It
houses more pieces than the Hermitage, the Vatican Museum, and the
New York Metropolitan . . . combined. Yet despite its magnificent
collection, few members of the public are ever invited inside its
heavily guarded walls.
Located at 4210 Silver Hill Road just
outside of Washington, D.C., the museum is a massive zigzag-shaped
edifice constructed of five interconnected pods--each pod larger
than a football field. The building's bluish metal exterior barely
hints at the strangeness within--a six-hundred-
thousand-square-foot alien world that contains a "dead zone," a
"wet pod," and more than twelve miles of storage cabinets.
Tonight, scientist Katherine Solomon was
feeling unsettled as she drove her white Volvo up to the building's
main security gate.
The guard smiled. "Not a football fan, Ms.
Solomon?" He lowered the volume on the Redskins play-off pregame
show.
Katherine forced a tense smile. "It's Sunday
night."
"Oh, that's right. Your meeting."
"Is he here yet?" she asked anxiously.
He glanced down at his paperwork. "I don't
see him on the log."
"I'm early." Katherine gave a friendly wave
and continued up the winding access road to her usual parking spot
at the bottom of the small, two-tiered lot. She began collecting
her things and gave herself a quick check in the rearview
mirror--more out of force of habit than actual vanity.
Katherine Solomon had been blessed with the
resilient Mediterranean skin of her ancestry, and even at fifty
years old she had a smooth olive complexion. She used almost no
makeup and wore her thick black hair unstyled and down. Like her
older brother, Peter, she had gray eyes and a slender, patrician
elegance.
You two might as well be twins, people often
told them.
Their father had succumbed to cancer when
Katherine was only seven, and she had little memory of him. Her
brother, eight years Katherine's senior and only fifteen when their
father died, had begun his journey toward becoming the Solomon
patriarch much sooner than anyone had ever dreamed. As expected,
though, Peter had grown into the role with the dignity and strength
befitting their family name. To this day, he still watched over
Katherine as though they were just kids.
Despite her brother's occasional prodding,
and no shortage of suitors, Katherine had never married. Science
had become her life partner, and her work had proven more
fulfilling and exciting than any man could ever hope to be.
Katherine had no regrets.
Her field of choice--Noetic Science--had
been virtually unknown when she first heard of it, but in recent
years it had started opening new doors of understanding into the
power of the human mind.
Our untapped potential is truly
shocking.
Katherine's two books on Noetics had
established her as a leader in this obscure field, but her most
recent discoveries, when published, promised to make Noetic Science
a topic of mainstream conversation around the world.
Tonight, however, science was the last thing
on her mind. Earlier in the day, she had received some truly
upsetting information relating to her brother. I still can't
believe it's true. She'd thought of nothing else all
afternoon.
A pattering of light rain drummed on her
windshield, and Katherine quickly gathered her things to get
inside. She was about to step out of her car when her cell phone
rang.
She checked the caller ID and inhaled
deeply.
Then she tucked her hair behind her ears and
settled in to take the call.
Six miles away, Mal'akh was moving through
the corridors of the U.S. Capitol Building with a cell phone
pressed to his ear. He waited patiently as the line rang.
Finally, a woman's voice answered.
"Yes?"
"We need to meet again," Mal'akh said.
There was a long pause. "Is everything all
right?" "I have new information," Mal'akh said.
"Tell me."
Mal'akh took a deep breath. "That which your
brother believes is hidden in D.C. . . . ?"
"Yes?"
"It can be found."
Katherine Solomon sounded stunned. "You're
telling me--it is real?"
Mal'akh smiled to himself. "Sometimes a
legend that endures for centuries . . . endures for a
reason."
CHAPTER 6
Is this as close as you can get?" Robert
Langdon felt a sudden wave of anxiety as his driver parked on First
Street, a good quarter mile from the Capitol Building.
"Afraid so," the driver said. "Homeland
Security. No vehicles near landmark buildings anymore. I'm sorry,
sir."
Langdon checked his watch, startled to see
it was already 6:50. A construction zone around the National Mall
had slowed them down, and his lecture was to begin in ten
minutes.
"Weather's turning," the driver said,
hopping out and opening Langdon's door for him. "You'll want to
hurry." Langdon reached for his wallet to tip the driver, but the
man waved him off. "Your host already added a very generous tip to
the charge."
Typical Peter, Langdon thought, gathering
his things. "Okay, thanks for the ride."
The first few raindrops began to fall as
Langdon reached the top of the gracefully arched concourse that
descended to the new "underground" visitors' entrance.
The Capitol Visitor Center had been a costly
and controversial project. Described as an underground city to
rival parts of Disney World, this subterranean space reportedly
provided over a half-million square feet of space for exhibits,
restaurants, and meeting halls.
Langdon had been looking forward to seeing
it, although he hadn't anticipated quite this long a walk. The
skies were threatening to open at any moment, and he broke into a
jog, his loafers offering almost no traction on the wet cement. I
dressed for a lecture, not a four-hundred-yard downhill dash
through the rain!
When he arrived at the bottom, he was
breathless and panting. Langdon pushed through the revolving door,
taking a moment in the foyer to catch his breath and brush off the
rain. As he did, he raised his eyes to the newly completed space
before him.
Okay, I'm impressed.
The Capitol Visitor Center was not at all
what he had expected. Because the space was underground, Langdon
had been apprehensive about passing through it. A childhood
accident had left him stranded at the bottom of a deep well
overnight, and Langdon now lived with an almost crippling aversion
to enclosed spaces. But this underground space was . . . airy
somehow. Light. Spacious.
The ceiling was a vast expanse of glass with
a series of dramatic light fixtures that threw a muted glow across
the pearl-colored interior finishes.
Normally, Langdon would have taken a full
hour in here to admire the architecture, but with five minutes
until showtime, he put his head down and dashed through the main
hall toward the security checkpoint and escalators. Relax, he told
himself. Peter knows you're on your way. The event won't start
without you.
At the security point, a young Hispanic
guard chatted with him while Langdon emptied his pockets and
removed his vintage watch.
"Mickey Mouse?" the guard said, sounding
mildly amused.
Langdon nodded, accustomed to the comments.
The collector's edition Mickey Mouse watch had been a gift from his
parents on his ninth birthday. "I wear it to remind me to slow down
and take life less seriously."
"I don't think it's working," the guard said
with a smile. "You look like you're in a serious hurry."
Langdon smiled and put his daybag through
the X-ray machine. "Which way to the Statuary Hall?"
The guard motioned toward the escalators.
"You'll see the signs."
"Thanks." Langdon grabbed his bag off the
conveyor and hurried on. As the escalator ascended, Langdon took a
deep breath and tried to gather his thoughts. He gazed up through
the rain-speckled glass ceiling at the mountainous form of the
illuminated Capitol Dome overhead. It was an astonishing building.
High atop her roof, almost three hundred feet in the air, the
Statue of Freedom peered out into the misty darkness like a ghostly
sentinel. Langdon always found it ironic that the workers who
hoisted each piece of the nineteen-and-a-half-foot bronze statue to
her perch were slaves--a Capitol secret that seldom made the
syllabi of high school history classes.
This entire building, in fact, was a
treasure trove of bizarre arcana that included a "killer bathtub"
responsible for the pneumonic murder of Vice President Henry
Wilson, a staircase with a permanent bloodstain over which an
inordinate number of guests seemed to trip, and a sealed basement
chamber in which workers in 1930 discovered General John Alexander
Logan's long- deceased stuffed horse.
No legends were as enduring, however, as the
claims of thirteen different ghosts that haunted this building. The
spirit of city designer Pierre L'Enfant frequently was reported
wandering the halls, seeking payment of his bill, now two hundred
years overdue. The ghost of a worker who fell from the Capitol Dome
during construction was seen wandering the corridors with a tray of
tools. And, of course, the most famous apparition of all, reported
numerous times in the Capitol basement--an ephemeral black cat that
prowled the substructure's eerie maze of narrow passageways and
cubicles.
Langdon stepped off the escalator and again
checked his watch. Three minutes. He hurried down the wide
corridor, following the signs toward the Statuary Hall and
rehearsing his opening remarks in his head. Langdon had to admit
that Peter's assistant had been correct; this lecture topic would
be a perfect match for an event hosted in Washington, D.C., by a
prominent Mason.
It was no secret that D.C. had a rich
Masonic history. The cornerstone of this very building had been
laid in a full Masonic ritual by George Washington himself. This
city had been conceived and designed by Master Masons--George
Washington, Ben Franklin, and Pierre L'Enfant-- powerful minds who
adorned their new capital with Masonic symbolism, architecture, and
art.
Of course, people see in those symbols all
kinds of crazy ideas.
Many conspiracy theorists claimed the
Masonic forefathers had concealed powerful secrets throughout
Washington along with symbolic messages hidden in the city's layout
of streets. Langdon never paid any attention. Misinformation about
the Masons was so commonplace that even educated Harvard students
seemed to have surprisingly warped conceptions about the
brotherhood.
Last year, a freshman had rushed wild-eyed
into Langdon's classroom with a printout from the Web. It was a
street map of D.C. on which certain streets had been highlighted to
form various shapes--satanic pentacles, a Masonic compass and
square, the head of Baphomet--proof apparently that the Masons who
designed Washington, D.C., were involved in some kind of dark,
mystical conspiracy. "Fun," Langdon said, "but hardly convincing.
If you draw enough intersecting lines on a map, you're bound to
find all kinds of shapes."
"But this can't be coincidence!" the kid
exclaimed.
Langdon patiently showed the student that
the same exact shapes could be formed on a street map of
Detroit.
The kid seemed sorely disappointed.
"Don't be disheartened," Langdon said.
"Washington does have some incredible secrets . . . just none on
this street map."
The young man perked up. "Secrets? Like
what?"
"Every spring I teach a course called Occult
Symbols. I talk a lot about D.C. You should take the course."
"Occult symbols!" The freshman looked
excited again. "So there are devil symbols in D.C.!"
Langdon smiled. "Sorry, but the word occult,
despite conjuring images of devil worship, actually means `hidden'
or `obscured.' In times of religious oppression, knowledge that was
counterdoctrinal had to be kept hidden or `occult,' and because the
church felt threatened by this, they redefined anything `occult' as
evil, and the prejudice survived."
"Oh." The kid slumped.
Nonetheless, that spring, Langdon spotted
the freshman seated in the front row as five hundred students
bustled into Harvard's Sanders Theatre, a hollow old lecture hall
with creaking wooden benches.
"Good morning, everybody," Langdon shouted
from the expansive stage. He turned on a slide projector, and an
image materialized behind him. "As you're getting settled, how many
of you recognize the building in this picture?"
"U.S. Capitol!" dozens of voices called out
in unison. "Washington, D.C.!"
"Yes. There are nine million pounds of
ironwork in that dome. An unparalleled feat of architectural
ingenuity for the 1850s."
"Awesome!" somebody shouted.
Langdon rolled his eyes, wishing somebody
would ban that word. "Okay, and how many of you have ever been to
Washington?"
A scattering of hands went up. "So few?"
Langdon feigned surprise. "And how many of you have been to Rome,
Paris, Madrid, or London?"
Almost all the hands in the room went
up.
As usual. One of the rites of passage for
American college kids was a summer with a Eurorail ticket before
the harsh reality of real life set in. "It appears many more of you
have visited Europe than have visited your own capital. Why do you
think that is?"
"No drinking age in Europe!" someone in back
shouted.
Langdon smiled. "As if the drinking age here
stops any of you?"
Everyone laughed.
It was the first day of school, and the
students were taking longer than usual to get settled, shifting and
creaking in their wooden pews. Langdon loved teaching in this hall
because he always knew how engaged the students were simply by
listening to how much they fidgeted in their pews.
"Seriously," Langdon said, "Washington,
D.C., has some of the world's finest architecture, art, and
symbolism. Why would you go overseas before visiting your own
capital?"
"Ancient stuff is cooler," someone
said.
"And by ancient stuff," Langdon clarified,
"I assume you mean castles, crypts, temples, that sort of
thing?"
Their heads nodded in unison.
"Okay. Now, what if I told you that
Washington, D.C., has every one of those things? Castles, crypts,
pyramids, temples . . . it's all there."
The creaking diminished.
"My friends," Langdon said, lowering his
voice and moving to the front of the stage, "in the next hour, you
will discover that our nation is overflowing with secrets and
hidden history. And exactly as in Europe, all of the best secrets
are hidden in plain view."
The wooden pews fell dead silent.
Gotcha.
Langdon dimmed the lights and called up his
second slide. "Who can tell me what George Washington is doing
here?" The slide was a famous mural depicting George Washington
dressed in full Masonic regalia standing before an odd-looking
contraption--a giant wooden tripod that supported a rope-and-
pulley system from which was suspended a massive block of stone. A
group of well-dressed onlookers stood around him.
"Lifting that big block of stone?" someone
ventured.
Langdon said nothing, preferring that a
student make the correction if possible.
"Actually," another student offered, "I
think Washington is lowering the rock. He's wearing a Masonic
costume. I've seen pictures of Masons laying cornerstones before.
The ceremony always uses that tripod thing to lower the first
stone."
"Excellent," Langdon said. "The mural
portrays the Father of Our Country using a tripod and pulley to lay
the cornerstone of our Capitol Building on September 18, 1793,
between the hours of eleven fifteen and twelve thirty." Langdon
paused, scanning the class. "Can anyone tell me the significance of
that date and time?"
Silence.
"What if I told you that precise moment was
chosen by three famous Masons--George Washington, Benjamin
Franklin, and Pierre L'Enfant, the primary architect for
D.C.?"
More silence.
"Quite simply, the cornerstone was set at
that date and time because, among other things, the auspicious
Caput Draconis was in Virgo."
Everyone exchanged odd looks.
"Hold on," someone said. "You mean . . .
like astrology?"
"Exactly. Although a different astrology
than we know today."
A hand went up. "You mean our Founding
Fathers believed in astrology?"
Langdon grinned. "Big-time. What would you
say if I told you the city of Washington, D.C., has more
astrological signs in its architecture than any other city in the
world--zodiacs, star charts, cornerstones laid at precise
astrological dates and times? More than half of the framers of our
Constitution were Masons, men who strongly believed that the stars
and fate were intertwined, men who paid close attention to the
layout of the heavens as they structured their new world."
"But that whole thing about the Capitol
cornerstone being laid while Caput Draconis was in Virgo--who
cares? Can't that just be coincidence?" "An impressive coincidence
considering that the cornerstones of the three structures that make
up Federal Triangle--the Capitol, the White House, the Washington
Monument--were all laid in different years but were carefully timed
to occur under this exact same astrological condition."
Langdon's gaze was met by a room full of
wide eyes. A number of heads dipped down as students began taking
notes.
A hand in back went up. "Why did they do
that?"
Langdon chuckled. "The answer to that is an
entire semester's worth of material. If you're curious, you should
take my mysticism course. Frankly, I don't think you guys are
emotionally prepared to hear the answer."
"What?" the person shouted. "Try us!"
Langdon made a show of considering it and
then shook his head, toying with them. "Sorry, I can't do that.
Some of you are only freshmen. I'm afraid it might blow your
minds."
"Tell us!" everyone shouted.
Langdon shrugged. "Perhaps you should join
the Masons or Eastern Star and learn about it from the
source."
"We can't get in," a young man argued. "The
Masons are like a supersecret society!"
"Supersecret? Really?" Langdon remembered
the large Masonic ring that his friend Peter Solomon wore proudly
on his right hand. "Then why do Masons wear obvious Masonic rings,
tie clips, or pins? Why are Masonic buildings clearly marked? Why
are their meeting times in the newspaper?" Langdon smiled at all
the puzzled faces. "My friends, the Masons are not a secret society
. . . they are a society with secrets."
"Same thing," someone muttered.
"Is it?" Langdon challenged. "Would you
consider Coca-Cola a secret society?"
"Of course not," the student said.
"Well, what if you knocked on the door of
corporate headquarters and asked for the recipe for Classic
Coke?"
"They'd never tell you."
"Exactly. In order to learn Coca-Cola's
deepest secret, you would need to join the company, work for many
years, prove you were trustworthy, and eventually rise to the upper
echelons of the company, where that information might be shared
with you. Then you would be sworn to secrecy." "So you're saying
Freemasonry is like a corporation?" "Only insofar as they have a
strict hierarchy and they take secrecy very seriously."
"My uncle is a Mason," a young woman piped
up. "And my aunt hates it because he won't talk about it with her.
She says Masonry is some kind of strange religion."
"A common misperception."
"It's not a religion?"
"Give it the litmus test," Langdon said.
"Who here has taken Professor Witherspoon's comparative religion
course?"
Several hands went up.
"Good. So tell me, what are the three
prerequisites for an ideology to be considered a religion?"
"ABC," one woman offered. "Assure, Believe,
Convert."
"Correct," Langdon said. "Religions assure
salvation; religions believe in a precise theology; and religions
convert nonbelievers." He paused. "Masonry, however, is batting
zero for three. Masons make no promises of salvation; they have no
specific theology; and they do not seek to convert you. In fact,
within Masonic lodges, discussions of religion are
prohibited."
"So . . . Masonry is anti religious?"
"On the contrary. One of the prerequisites
for becoming a Mason is that you must believe in a higher power.
The difference between Masonic spirituality and organized religion
is that the Masons do not impose a specific definition or name on a
higher power. Rather than definitive theological identities like
God, Allah, Buddha, or Jesus, the Masons use more general terms
like Supreme Being or Great Architect of the Universe. This enables
Masons of different faiths to gather together."
"Sounds a little far-out," someone
said.
"Or, perhaps, refreshingly open-minded?"
Langdon offered. "In this age when different cultures are killing
each other over whose definition of God is better, one could say
the Masonic tradition of tolerance and open-mindedness is
commendable." Langdon paced the stage. "Moreover, Masonry is open
to men of all races, colors, and creeds, and provides a spiritual
fraternity that does not discriminate in any way."
"Doesn't discriminate?" A member of the
university's Women's Center stood up. "How many women are permitted
to be Masons, Professor Langdon?"
Langdon showed his palms in surrender. "A
fair point. Freemasonry had its roots, traditionally, in the stone
masons' guilds of Europe and was therefore a man's organization.
Several hundred years ago, some say as early as 1703, a women's
branch called Eastern Star was founded. They have more than a
million members."
"Nonetheless," the woman said, "Masonry is a
powerful organization from which women are excluded."
Langdon was not sure how powerful the Masons
really were anymore, and he was not going to go down that road;
perceptions of the modern Masons ranged from their being a group of
harmless old men who liked to play dress-up . . . all the way to an
underground cabal of power brokers who ran the world. The truth, no
doubt, was somewhere in the middle.
"Professor Langdon," called a young man with
curly hair in the back row, "if Masonry is not a secret society,
not a corporation, and not a religion, then what is it?"
"Well, if you were to ask a Mason, he would
offer the following definition: Masonry is a system of morality,
veiled in allegory and illustrated by symbols."
"Sounds to me like a euphemism for `freaky
cult.' "
"Freaky, you say?"
"Hell yes!" the kid said, standing up. "I
heard what they do inside those secret buildings! Weird candlelight
rituals with coffins, and nooses, and drinking wine out of skulls.
Now that's freaky!"
Langdon scanned the class. "Does that sound
freaky to anyone else?"
"Yes!" they all chimed in.
Langdon feigned a sad sigh. "Too bad. If
that's too freaky for you, then I know you'll never want to join my
cult."
Silence settled over the room. The student
from the Women's Center looked uneasy. "You're in a cult?"
Langdon nodded and lowered his voice to a
conspiratorial whisper. "Don't tell anyone, but on the pagan day of
the sun god Ra, I kneel at the foot of an ancient instrument of
torture and consume ritualistic symbols of blood and flesh."
The class looked horrified.
Langdon shrugged. "And if any of you care to
join me, come to the Harvard chapel on Sunday, kneel beneath the
crucifix, and take Holy Communion."
The classroom remained silent. Langdon
winked. "Open your minds, my friends. We all fear what we do not
understand."
The tolling of a clock began echoing through
the Capitol corridors.
Seven o'clock.
Robert Langdon was now running. Talk about a
dramatic entrance. Passing through the House Connecting Corridor,
he spotted the entrance to the National Statuary Hall and headed
straight for it.
As he neared the door, he slowed to a
nonchalant stroll and took several deep breaths. Buttoning his
jacket, he lifted his chin ever so slightly and turned the corner
just as the final chime sounded.
Showtime.
As Professor Robert Langdon strode into the
National Statuary Hall, he raised his eyes and smiled warmly. An
instant later, his smile evaporated. He stopped dead in his
tracks.
Something was very, very wrong.
CHAPTER 7
Katherine Solomon hurried across the parking
lot through the cold rain, wishing she had worn more than jeans and
a cashmere sweater. As she neared the building's main entrance, the
roar of the giant air purifiers got louder. She barely heard them,
her ears still ringing from the phone call she'd just
received.
That which your brother believes is hidden
in D.C. . . . it can be found.
Katherine found the notion almost impossible
to believe. She and the caller still had much to discuss and had
agreed to do so later that evening.
Reaching the main doors, she felt the same
sense of excitement she always felt upon entering the gargantuan
building. Nobody knows this place is here.
The sign on the door announced:
SMITHSONIAN MUSEUM SUPPORT CENTER
(SMSC)
The Smithsonian Institution, despite having
more than a dozen massive museums on the National Mall, had a
collection so huge that only 2 percent of it could be on display at
any one time. The other 98 percent of the collection had to be
stored somewhere. And that somewhere . . . was here.
Not surprisingly, this building was home to
an astonishingly diverse array of artifacts--giant Buddhas,
handwritten codices, poisoned darts from New Guinea,
jewel-encrusted knives, a kayak made of baleen. Equally
mind-boggling were the building's natural treasures--plesiosaur
skeletons, a priceless meteorite collection, a giant squid, even a
collection of elephant skulls brought back from an African safari
by Teddy Roosevelt.
But none of this was why the Smithsonian
secretary, Peter Solomon, had introduced his sister to the SMSC
three years ago. He had brought her to this place not to behold
scientific marvels, but rather to create them. And that was exactly
what Katherine had been doing.
Deep within this building, in the darkness
of the most remote recesses, was a small scientific laboratory
unlike any other in the world. The recent breakthroughs Katherine
had made here in the field of Noetic Science had ramifications
across every discipline--from physics, to history, to philosophy,
to religion. Soon everything will change, she thought.
As Katherine entered the lobby, the front
desk guard quickly stashed his radio and yanked the earplugs from
his ears. "Ms. Solomon!" He smiled broadly.
"Redskins?"
He blushed, looking guilty. "Pregame."
She smiled. "I won't tell." She walked to
the metal detector and emptied her pockets. When she slid the gold
Cartier watch from her wrist, she felt the usual pang of sadness.
The timepiece had been a gift from her mother for Katherine's
eighteenth birthday. Almost ten years had now passed since her
mother had died violently . . . passing away in Katherine's
arms.
"So, Ms. Solomon?" the guard whispered
jokingly. "Are you ever gonna tell anybody what you're doing back
there?"
She glanced up. "Someday, Kyle. Not
tonight."
"Come on," he pressed. "A secret lab . . .
in a secret museum? You must be doing something cool."
Miles beyond cool, Katherine thought as she
collected her things. The truth was that Katherine was doing
science so advanced that it no longer even resembled science.
CHAPTER 8
Robert Langdon stood frozen in the doorway
of the National Statuary Hall and studied the startling scene
before him. The room was precisely as he remembered it--a balanced
semicircle built in the style of a Greek amphitheater. The graceful
arched walls of sandstone and Italian plaster were punctuated by
columns of variegated breccia, interspersed with the nation's
statuary collection--life-size statues of thirty-eight great
Americans standing in a semicircle on a stark expanse of
black-and-white marble tile.
It was exactly as Langdon had recalled from
the lecture he had once attended here.
Except for one thing.
Tonight, the room was empty.
No chairs. No audience. No Peter Solomon.
Just a handful of tourists milling around aimlessly, oblivious to
Langdon's grand entrance. Did Peter mean the Rotunda? He peered
down the south corridor toward the Rotunda and could see tourists
milling around in there, too.
The echoes of the clock chime had faded.
Langdon was now officially late.
He hurried back into the hallway and found a
docent. "Excuse me, the lecture for the Smithsonian event tonight?
Where is that being held?"
The docent hesitated. "I'm not sure, sir.
When does it start?"
"Now!"
The man shook his head. "I don't know about
any Smithsonian event this evening--not here, at least."
Bewildered, Langdon hurried back toward the
center of the room, scanning the entire space. Is Solomon playing
some kind of joke? Langdon couldn't imagine it. He pulled out his
cell phone and the fax page from this morning and dialed Peter's
number.
His phone took a moment to locate a signal
inside the enormous building. Finally, it began to ring.
The familiar southern accent answered.
"Peter Solomon's office, this is Anthony. May I help you?"
"Anthony!" Langdon said with relief. "I'm
glad you're still there. This is Robert Langdon. There seems to be
some confusion about the lecture. I'm standing in the Statuary
Hall, but there's nobody here. Has the lecture been moved to a
different room?"
"I don't believe so, sir. Let me check." His
assistant paused a moment. "Did you confirm with Mr. Solomon
directly?"
Langdon was confused. "No, I confirmed with
you, Anthony. This morning!"
"Yes, I recall that." There was a silence on
the line. "That was a bit careless of you, don't you think,
Professor?"
Langdon was now fully alert. "I beg your
pardon?"
"Consider this . . ." the man said. "You
received a fax asking you to call a number, which you did. You
spoke to a total stranger who said he was Peter Solomon's
assistant. Then you willingly boarded a private plane to Washington
and climbed into a waiting car. Is that right?"
Langdon felt a chill race through his body.
"Who the hell is this? Where is Peter?"
"I'm afraid Peter Solomon has no idea you're
in Washington today." The man's southern accent disappeared, and
his voice morphed into a deeper, mellifluous whisper. "You are
here, Mr. Langdon, because I want you here."
CHAPTER 9
Inside the Statuary Hall, Robert Langdon
clutched his cell phone to his ear and paced in a tight circle.
"Who the hell are you?"
The man's reply was a silky calm whisper.
"Do not be alarmed, Professor. You have been summoned here for a
reason."
"Summoned?" Langdon felt like a caged
animal. "Try kidnapped!"
"Hardly." The man's voice was eerily serene.
"If I wanted to harm you, you would be dead in your Town Car right
now." He let the words hang for a moment. "My intentions are purely
noble, I assure you. I would simply like to offer you an
invitation." No thanks. Ever since his experiences in Europe over
the last several years, Langdon's unwanted celebrity had made him a
magnet for nut-cases, and this one had just crossed a very serious
line. "Look, I don't know what the hell is going on here, but I'm
hanging up--"
"Unwise," said the man. "Your window of
opportunity is very small if you want to save Peter Solomon's
soul."
Langdon drew a sharp breath. "What did you
say?"
"I'm sure you heard me."
The way this man had uttered Peter's name
had stopped Langdon cold. "What do you know about Peter?"
"At this point, I know his deepest secrets.
Mr. Solomon is my guest, and I can be a persuasive host."
This can't be happening. "You don't have
Peter."
"I answered his private cell phone. That
should give you pause."
"I'm calling the police."
"No need," the man said. "The authorities
will join you momentarily."
What is this lunatic talking about?
Langdon's tone hardened. "If you have Peter, put him on the phone
right now." "
"That's impossible. Mr. Solomon is trapped
in an unfortunate place." The man paused. "He is in the
Araf."
"Where?" Langdon realized he was clutching
his phone so tightly his fingers were going numb.
"The Araf? Hamistagan? That place to which
Dante devoted the canticle immediately following his legendary
Inferno?"
The man's religious and literary references
solidified Langdon's suspicion that he was dealing with a madman.
The second canticle. Langdon knew it well; nobody escaped Phillips
Exeter Academy without reading Dante. "You're saying you think
Peter Solomon is . . . in purgatory?"
"A crude word you Christians use, but yes,
Mr. Solomon is in the in-between."
The man's words hung in Langdon's ear. "Are
you saying Peter is . . . dead?"
"Not exactly, no." "Not exactly?!" Langdon
yelled, his voice echoing sharply in the hall. A family of tourists
looked over at him. He turned away and lowered his voice. "Death is
usually an all-or-nothing thing!"
"You surprise me, Professor. I expected you
to have a better understanding of the mysteries of life and death.
There is a world in between--a world in which Peter Solomon is
hovering at the moment. He can either return to your world, or he
can move on to the next . . . depending on your actions right
now."
Langdon tried to process this. "What do you
want from me?"
"It's simple. You have been given access to
something quite ancient. And tonight, you will share it with
me."
"I have no idea what you're talking
about."
"No? You pretend not to understand the
ancient secrets that have been entrusted to you?"
Langdon felt a sudden sinking sensation, now
guessing what this was probably about. Ancient secrets. He had not
uttered a word to anyone about his experiences in Paris several
years earlier, but Grail fanatics had followed the media coverage
closely, some connecting the dots and believing Langdon was now
privy to secret information regarding the Holy Grail--perhaps even
its location.
"Look," Langdon said, "if this is about the
Holy Grail, I can assure you I know nothing more than--"
"Don't insult my intelligence, Mr. Langdon,"
the man snapped. "I have no interest in anything so frivolous as
the Holy Grail or mankind's pathetic debate over whose version of
history is correct. Circular arguments over the semantics of faith
hold no interest for me. Those are questions answered only through
death."
The stark words left Langdon confused. "Then
what the hell is this about?"
The man paused for several seconds. "As you
may know, there exists within this city an ancient portal."
An ancient portal?
"And tonight, Professor, you will unlock it
for me. You should be honored I contacted you--this is the
invitation of your lifetime. You alone have been chosen."
And you have lost your mind. "I'm sorry, but
you've chosen poorly," Langdon said. "I don't know anything about
any ancient portal."
"You don't understand, Professor. It was not
I who chose you . . . it was Peter Solomon." "What?" Langdon
replied, his voice barely a whisper.
"Mr. Solomon told me how to find the portal,
and he confessed to me that only one man on earth could unlock it.
And he said that man is you."
"If Peter said that, he was mistaken . . .
or lying."
"I think not. He was in a fragile state when
he confessed that fact, and I am inclined to believe him."
Langdon felt a stab of anger. "I'm warning
you, if you hurt Peter in any--"
"It's far too late for that," the man said
in an amused tone. "I've already taken what I need from Peter
Solomon. But for his sake, I suggest you provide what I need from
you. Time is of the essence . . . for both of you. I suggest you
find the portal and unlock it. Peter will point the way."
Peter? "I thought you said Peter was in
`purgatory.'"
"As above, so below," the man said.
Langdon felt a deepening chill. This strange
response was an ancient Hermetic adage that proclaimed a belief in
the physical connection between heaven and earth. As above, so
below. Langdon eyed the vast room and wondered how everything had
veered so suddenly out of control tonight. "Look, I don't know how
to find any ancient portal. I'm calling the police."
"It really hasn't dawned on you yet, has it?
Why you were chosen?"
"No," Langdon said.
"It will," he replied, chuckling. "Any
moment now."
Then the line went dead.
Langdon stood rigid for several terrifying
moments, trying to process what had just happened.
Suddenly, in the distance, he heard an
unexpected sound.
It was coming from the Rotunda.
Someone was screaming. CHAPTER 10
Robert Langdon had entered the Capitol
Rotunda many times in his life, but never at a full sprint. As he
ran through the north entrance, he spotted a group of tourists
clustered in the center of the room. A small boy was screaming, and
his parents were trying to console him. Others were crowding
around, and several security guards were doing their best to
restore order.
"He pulled it out of his sling," someone
said frantically, "and just left it there!"
As Langdon drew nearer, he got his first
glimpse of what was causing all the commotion. Admittedly, the
object on the Capitol floor was odd, but its presence hardly
warranted screaming.
The device on the floor was one Langdon had
seen many times. The Harvard art department had dozens of
these--life-size plastic models used by sculptors and painters to
help them render the human body's most complex feature, which,
surprisingly, was not the human face but rather the human hand.
Someone left a mannequin hand in the Rotunda?
Mannequin hands, or handequins as some
called them, had articulated fingers enabling an artist to pose the
hand in whatever position he wanted, which for sophomoric college
students was often with the middle finger extended straight up in
the air. This handequin, however, had been positioned with its
index finger and thumb pointing up toward the ceiling.
As Langdon drew nearer, though, he realized
this handequin was unusual. Its plastic surface was not smooth like
most. Instead, the surface was mottled and slightly wrinkled, and
appeared almost . . .
Like real skin.
Langdon stopped abruptly.
Now he saw the blood. My God!
The severed wrist appeared to have been
skewered onto a spiked wooden base so that it would stand up. A
wave of nausea rushed over him. Langdon inched closer, unable to
breathe, seeing now that the tips of the index finger and thumb had
been decorated with tiny tattoos. The tattoos, however, were not
what held Langdon's attention. His gaze moved instantly to the
familiar golden ring on the fourth finger.
No.
Langdon recoiled. His world began to spin as
he realized he was looking at the severed right hand of Peter
Solomon. CHAPTER 11
Why isn't Peter answering? Katherine Solomon
wondered as she hung up her cell phone. Where is he?
For three years, Peter Solomon had always
been the first to arrive for their weekly seven P.M. Sunday-night
meetings. It was their private family ritual, a way to remain
connected before the start of a new week, and for Peter to stay
up-to-date on Katherine's work at the lab.
He's never late, she thought, and he always
answers his phone. To make matters worse, Katherine was still not
sure what she was going to say to him when he did finally arrive.
How do I even begin to ask him about what I found out today?
Her footsteps clicked rhythmically down the
cement corridor that ran like a spine through the SMSC. Known as
"The Street," the corridor connected the building's five massive
storage pods. Forty feet overhead, a circulatory system of orange
ductwork throbbed with the heartbeat of the building--the pulsing
sounds of thousands of cubic feet of filtered air being
circulated.
Normally, during her nearly quarter-mile
walk to her lab, Katherine felt calmed by the breathing sounds of
the building. Tonight, however, the pulsing had her on edge. What
she had learned about her brother today would have troubled anyone,
and yet because Peter was the only family she had in the world,
Katherine felt especially disturbed to think he might be keeping
secrets from her.
As far as she knew, he had kept a secret
from her only once . . . a wonderful secret that was hidden at the
end of this very hallway. Three years ago, her brother had walked
Katherine down this corridor, introducing her to the SMSC by
proudly showing off some of the building's more unusual items--the
Mars meteorite ALH-84001, the handwritten pictographic diary of
Sitting Bull, a collection of wax-sealed Ball jars containing
original specimens collected by Charles Darwin.
At one point, they walked past a heavy door
with a small window. Katherine caught a glimpse of what lay beyond
and gasped. "What in the world is that?!"
Her brother chuckled and kept walking. "Pod
Three. It's called Wet Pod. Pretty unusual sight, isn't it?"
Terrifying is more like it. Katherine
hurried after him. This building was like another planet.
"What I really want to show you is in Pod
Five," her brother said, guiding her down the seemingly endless
corridor. "It's our newest addition. It was built to house
artifacts from the basement of the National Museum of Natural
History. That collection is scheduled for relocation here in about
five years, which means Pod Five is sitting empty at the
moment."
Katherine glanced over. "Empty? So why are
we looking at it?"
Her brother's gray eyes flashed a familiar
mischief. "It occurred to me that because nobody is using the
space, maybe you could use it."
"Me?"
"Sure. I thought maybe you could use a
dedicated lab space--a facility where you can actually perform some
of the theoretical experiments you've been developing for all these
years."
Katherine stared at her brother in shock.
"But, Peter, those experiments are theoretical! To actually perform
them would be almost impossible."
"Nothing is impossible, Katherine, and this
building is perfect for you. The SMSC is not just a warehouse of
treasures; it's one of the world's most advanced scientific
research facilities. We're constantly taking pieces from the
collection and examining them with the best quantitative
technologies money can buy. All the equipment you could possibly
need would be here at your disposal."
"Peter, the technologies required to run
these experiments are--"
"Already in place." He smiled broadly. "The
lab is done."
Katherine stopped short.
Her brother pointed down the long corridor.
"We're going to see it now."
Katherine could barely speak. "You . . . you
built me a lab?"
"It's my job. The Smithsonian was
established to advance scientific knowledge. As secretary, I must
take that charge seriously. I believe the experiments you've
proposed have the potential to push the boundaries of science into
uncharted territory." Peter stopped and looked her squarely in the
eyes. "Whether or not you were my sister, I would feel obliged to
support this research. Your ideas are brilliant. The world deserves
to see where they lead."
"Peter, I can't possibly--"
"Okay, relax . . . it was my own money, and
nobody's using Pod Five right now. When you're done with your
experiments, you'll move out. Besides, Pod Five has some unique
properties that will be perfect for your work."
Katherine could not imagine what a massive,
empty pod might offer that would serve her research, but she sensed
she was about to find out. They had just reached a steel door with
boldly stenciled letters:
POD 5
Her brother inserted his key card into a
slot and an electronic keypad lit up. He raised his finger to type
his access code, but paused, arching his eyebrows in the same
mischievous way he always had as a boy. "You sure you're
ready?"
She nodded. My brother, always the
showman.
"Stand back." Peter hit the keys.
The steel door hissed loudly open.
Beyond the threshold was only inky blackness
. . . a yawning void. A hollow moan seemed to echo out of the
depths. Katherine felt a cold blast of air emanating from within.
It was like staring into the Grand Canyon at night.
"Picture an empty airline hangar waiting for
a fleet of Airbuses," her brother said, "and you get the basic
idea."
Katherine felt herself take a step
backward.
"The pod itself is far too voluminous to be
heated, but your lab is a thermally insulated cinder- block room,
roughly a cube, located in the farthest corner of the pod for
maximum separation."
Katherine tried to picture it. A box inside
a box. She strained to see into the darkness, but it was absolute.
"How far back?"
"Pretty far . . . a football field would fit
easily in here. I should warn you, though, the walk is a little
unnerving. It's exceptionally dark."
Katherine peered tentatively around the
corner. "No light switch?"
"Pod Five is not yet wired for
electricity."
"But . . . then how can a lab
function?"
He winked. "Hydrogen fuel cell."
Katherine's jaw dropped. "You're kidding,
right?"
"Enough clean power to run a small town.
Your lab enjoys full radio-frequency separation from the rest of
the building. What's more, all pod exteriors are sealed with
photo-resistant membranes to protect the artifacts inside from
solar radiation. Essentially, this pod is a sealed, energy-neutral
environment."
Katherine was starting to comprehend the
appeal of Pod 5. Because much of her work centered on quantifying
previously unknown energy fields, her experiments needed to be
performed in a location isolated from any extraneous radiation or
"white noise." This included interference as subtle as "brain
radiation" or "thought emissions" generated by people nearby. For
this reason, a university campus or hospital lab wouldn't work, but
a deserted pod at the SMSC could not have been more perfect.
"Let's go back and have a look." Her brother
was grinning as he stepped into the vast darkness. "Just follow
me."
Katherine stalled at the threshold. Over a
hundred yards in total darkness? She wanted to suggest a
flashlight, but her brother had already disappeared into the
abyss.
"Peter?" she called.
"Leap of faith," he called back, his voice
already fading away. "You'll find your way. Trust me."
He's kidding, right? Katherine's heart was
pounding as she stepped a few feet over the threshold, trying to
peer into the darkness. I can't see a thing! Suddenly the steel
door hissed and slammed shut behind her, plunging her into total
blackness. Not a speck of light anywhere. "Peter?!"
Silence.
You'll find your way. Trust me.
Tentative, she inched forward blindly. Leap
of faith? Katherine could not even see her hand directly in front
of her face. She kept moving forward, but within a matter of
seconds, she was entirely lost. Where am I going?
That was three years ago.
Now, as Katherine arrived at the same heavy
metal door, she realized how far she had come since that first
night. Her lab--nicknamed the Cube--had become her home, a
sanctuary within the depths of Pod 5. Exactly as her brother had
predicted, she had found her way through the darkness that night,
and every day since--thanks to an ingeniously simple guidance
system that her brother had let her discover for herself.
Far more important, her brother's other
prediction had come true as well: Katherine's experiments had
produced astonishing results, particularly in the last six months,
breakthroughs that would alter entire paradigms of thinking.
Katherine and her brother had agreed to keep her results absolutely
secret until the implications were more fully understood. One day
soon, however, Katherine knew she would publish some of the most
transformative scientific revelations in human history.
A secret lab in a secret museum, she
thought, inserting her key card into the Pod 5 door. The keypad lit
up, and Katherine typed her PIN.
The steel door hissed open.
The familiar hollow moan was accompanied by
the same blast of cold air. As always, Katherine felt her pulse
rate start to climb.
Strangest commute on earth.
Steeling herself for the journey, Katherine
Solomon glanced at her watch as she stepped into the void. Tonight,
however, a troubled thought followed her inside. Where is
Peter?
CHAPTER 12
Capitol police chief Trent Anderson had
overseen security in the U.S. Capitol Complex for over a decade. A
burly, square-chested man with a chiseled face and red hair, he
kept his hair cropped in a buzz cut, giving him an air of military
authority. He wore a visible sidearm as a warning to anyone foolish
enough to question the extent of his authority.
Anderson spent the majority of his time
coordinating his small army of police officers from a high-tech
surveillance center in the basement of the Capitol. Here he oversaw
a staff of technicians who watched visual monitors, computer
readouts, and a telephone switchboard that kept him in contact with
the many security personnel he commanded.
This evening had been unusually quiet, and
Anderson was pleased. He had been hoping to catch a bit of the
Redskins game on the flat-panel television in his office. The game
had just kicked off when his intercom buzzed.
"Chief?"
Anderson groaned and kept his eyes on the
television as he pressed the button. "Yeah."
"We've got some kind of disturbance in the
Rotunda. I've got officers arriving now, but I think you'll want to
have a look."
"Right." Anderson walked into the security
nerve center--a compact, neomodern facility packed with computer
monitors. "What have you got?" The technician was cueing a digital
video clip on his monitor. "Rotunda east balcony camera. Twenty
seconds ago." He played the clip.
Anderson watched over the technician's
shoulder.
The Rotunda was almost deserted today,
dotted with just a few tourists. Anderson's trained eye went
immediately to the one person who was alone and moving faster than
all the others. Shaved head. Green army-surplus jacket. Injured arm
in a sling. Slight limp. Slouched posture. Talking on a cell
phone.
The bald man's footfalls echoed crisply on
the audio feed until, suddenly, arriving at the exact center of the
Rotunda, he stopped short, ended his phone call, and then knelt
down as if to tie his shoe. But instead of tying a shoe, he pulled
something out of his sling and set it on the floor. Then he stood
up and limped briskly toward the east exit.
Anderson eyed the oddly shaped object the
man had left behind. What in the world? It was about eight inches
tall and standing vertically. Anderson crouched closer to the
screen and squinted. That can't be what it looks like!
As the bald man hurried off, disappearing
through the east portico, a little boy nearby could be heard
saying, "Mommy, that man dropped something." The boy drifted toward
the object but suddenly stopped short. After a long, motionless
beat, he pointed and let out a deafening scream.
Instantly, the police chief spun and ran for
the door, barking orders as he went. "Radio all points! Find the
bald guy with the sling and detain him! NOW!"
Dashing out of the security center, he
bounded up the treads of the well-worn staircase three at a time.
The security feed had shown the bald man with the sling leave the
Rotunda via the east portico. The shortest route out of the
building would therefore take him through the east-west corridor,
which was just ahead.
I can head him off.
As he reached the top of the stairs and
rounded the corner, Anderson surveyed the quiet hallway before him.
An elderly couple strolled at the far end, hand in hand. Nearby, a
blond tourist wearing a blue blazer was reading a guidebook and
studying the mosaic ceiling outside the House chamber.
"Excuse me, sir!" Anderson barked, running
toward him. "Have you seen a bald man with a sling on his
arm?"
The man looked up from his book with a
confused expression.
"A bald man with a sling!" Anderson repeated
more firmly. "Have you seen him?" The tourist hesitated and glanced
nervously toward the far eastern end of the hallway. "Uh . . .
yes," he said. "I think he just ran past me . . . to that staircase
over there." He pointed down the hall.
Anderson pulled out his radio and yelled
into it. "All points! The suspect is headed for the southeast exit.
Converge!" He stowed the radio and yanked his sidearm from its
holster, running toward the exit.
Thirty seconds later, at a quiet exit on the
east side of the Capitol, the powerfully built blond man in the
blue blazer stepped into the damp night air. He smiled, savoring
the coolness of the evening.
Transformation.
It had been so easy.
Only a minute ago he had limped quickly out
of the Rotunda in an army-surplus coat. Stepping into a darkened
alcove, he shed his coat, revealing the blue blazer he wore
underneath. Before abandoning his surplus jacket, he pulled a blond
wig from the pocket and fit it snugly on his head. Then he stood up
straight, pulled a slim Washington guidebook from his blazer, and
stepped calmly from the niche with an elegant gait.
Transformation. This is my gift.
As Mal'akh's mortal legs carried him toward
his waiting limousine, he arched his back, standing to his full
six-foot-three height and throwing back his shoulders. He inhaled
deeply, letting the air fill his lungs. He could feel the wings of
the tattooed phoenix on his chest opening wide.
If they only knew my power, he thought,
gazing out at the city. Tonight my transformation will be
complete.
Mal'akh had played his cards artfully within
the Capitol Building, showing obeisance to all the ancient
etiquettes. The ancient invitation has been delivered. If Langdon
had not yet grasped his role here tonight, soon he would.
CHAPTER 13
For Robert Langdon, the Capitol
Rotunda--like St. Peter's Basilica--always had a way of taking him
by surprise. Intellectually, he knew the room was so large that the
Statue of Liberty could stand comfortably inside it, but somehow
the Rotunda always felt larger and more hallowed than he
anticipated, as if there were spirits in the air. Tonight, however,
there was only chaos.
Capitol police officers were sealing the
Rotunda while attempting to herd distraught tourists away from the
hand. The little boy was still crying. A bright light flashed--a
tourist taking a photo of the hand--and several guards immediately
detained the man, taking his camera and escorting him off. In the
confusion, Langdon felt himself moving forward in a trance,
slipping through the crowd, inching closer to the hand.
Peter Solomon's severed right hand was
standing upright, the flat plane of the detached wrist skewered
down onto the spike of a small wooden stand. Three of the fingers
were closed in a fist, while the thumb and index finger were fully
extended, pointing up toward the soaring dome.
"Everyone back!" an officer called.
Langdon was close enough now that he could
see dried blood, which had run down from the wrist and coagulated
on the wooden base. Postmortem wounds don't bleed . . . which means
Peter is alive. Langdon didn't know whether to be relieved or
nauseated. Peter's hand was removed while he was alive? Bile rose
in his throat. He thought of all the times his dear friend had
extended this same hand to shake Langdon's or offer a warm
embrace.
For several seconds, Langdon felt his mind
go blank, like an untuned television set broadcasting only static.
The first clear image that broke through was utterly
unexpected.
A crown . . . and a star.
Langdon crouched down, eyeing the tips of
Peter's thumb and index finger. Tattoos? Incredibly, the monster
who had done this appeared to have tattooed tiny symbols on Peter's
fingertips.
On the thumb--a crown. On the index
finger--a star.
This can't be. The two symbols registered
instantly in Langdon's mind, amplifying this already horrific scene
into something almost otherworldly. These symbols had appeared
together many times in history, and always in the same place--on
the fingertips of a hand. It was one of the ancient world's most
coveted and secretive icons.
The Hand of the Mysteries.
The icon was rarely seen anymore, but
throughout history it had symbolized a powerful call to action.
Langdon strained to comprehend the grotesque artifact now before
him. Someone crafted the Hand of the Mysteries out of Peter's hand?
It was unthinkable. Traditionally, the icon was sculpted in stone
or wood or rendered as a drawing. Langdon had never heard of the
Hand of the Mysteries being fashioned from actual flesh. The
concept was abhorrent.
"Sir?" a guard said behind Langdon. "Please
step back." Langdon barely heard him. There are other tattoos.
Although he could not see the fingertips of the three clenched
fingers, Langdon knew these fingertips would bear their own unique
markings. That was the tradition. Five symbols in total. Through
the millennia, the symbols on the fingertips of the Hand of the
Mysteries had never changed . . . nor had the hand's iconic
purpose.
The hand represents . . . an
invitation.
Langdon felt a sudden chill as he recalled
the words of the man who had brought him here. Professor, tonight
you are receiving the invitation of your lifetime. In ancient
times, the Hand of the Mysteries actually served as the most
coveted invitation on earth. To receive this icon was a sacred
summons to join an elite group--those who were said to guard the
secret wisdom of all the ages. The invitation not only was a great
honor, but it signified that a master believed you were worthy to
receive this hidden wisdom. The hand of the master extended to the
initiate.
"Sir," the guard said, putting a firm hand
on Langdon's shoulder. "I need you to back up right now."
"I know what this means," Langdon managed.
"I can help you."
"Now!" the guard said.
"My friend is in trouble. We have
to--"
Langdon felt powerful arms pulling him up
and leading him away from the hand. He simply let it happen . . .
feeling too off balance to protest.
A formal invitation had just been delivered.
Someone was summoning Langdon to unlock a mystical portal that
would unveil a world of ancient mysteries and hidden
knowledge.
But it was all madness.
Delusions of a lunatic.
CHAPTER 14
Mal'akh's stretch limousine eased away from
the U.S. Capitol, moving eastward down Independence Avenue. A young
couple on the sidewalk strained to see through the tinted rear
windows, hoping to glimpse a VIP. I'm in front, Mal'akh thought,
smiling to himself.
Mal'akh loved the feeling of power he got
from driving this massive car all alone. None of his other five
cars offered him what he needed tonight--the guarantee of privacy.
Total privacy. Limousines in this city enjoyed a kind of unspoken
immunity. Embassies on wheels. Police officers who worked near
Capitol Hill were never certain what power broker they might
mistakenly pull over in a limousine, and so most simply chose not
to take the chance.
As Mal'akh crossed the Anacostia River into
Maryland, he could feel himself moving closer to Katherine, pulled
onward by destiny's gravity. I am being called to a second task
tonight . . . one I had not imagined. Last night, when Peter
Solomon told the last of his secrets, Mal'akh had learned of the
existence of a secret lab in which Katherine Solomon had performed
miracles-- staggering breakthroughs that Mal'akh realized would
change the world if they were ever made known.
Her work will unveil the true nature of all
things.
For centuries the "brightest minds" on earth
had ignored the ancient sciences, mocking them as ignorant
superstitions, arming themselves instead with smug skepticism and
dazzling new technologies--tools that led them only further from
the truth. Every generation's breakthroughs are proven false by the
next generation's technology. And so it had gone through the ages.
The more man learned, the more he realized he did not know.
For millennia, mankind had wandered in the
darkness . . . but now, as had been prophesied, there was a change
coming. After hurtling blindly through history, mankind had reached
a crossroads. This moment had been predicted long ago, prophesied
by the ancient texts, by the primeval calendars, and even by the
stars themselves. The date was specific, its arrival imminent. It
would be preceded by a brilliant explosion of knowledge . . . a
flash of clarity to illuminate the darkness and give mankind a
final chance to veer away from the abyss and take the path of
wisdom.
I have come to obscure the light, Mal'akh
thought. This is my role.
Fate had linked him to Peter and Katherine
Solomon. The breakthroughs Katherine Solomon had made within the
SMSC would risk opening floodgates of new thinking, starting a new
Renaissance. Katherine's revelations, if made public, would become
a catalyst that would inspire mankind to rediscover the knowledge
he had lost, empowering him beyond all imagination.
Katherine's destiny is to light this
torch.
Mine is to extinguish it.
CHAPTER 15 In total darkness, Katherine
Solomon groped for the outer door of her lab. Finding it, she
heaved open the lead-lined door and hurried into the small entry
room. The journey across the void had taken only ninety seconds,
and yet her heart was pounding wildly. After three years, you'd
think I'd be used to that. Katherine always felt relieved to escape
the blackness of Pod 5 and step into this clean, well-lit
space.
The "Cube" was a massive windowless box.
Every inch of the interior walls and ceiling was covered with a
stiff mesh of titanium-coated lead fiber, giving the impression of
a giant cage built inside a cement enclosure. Dividers of frosted
Plexiglas separated the space into different compartments--a
laboratory, a control room, a mechanical room, a bathroom, and a
small research library.
Katherine strode briskly into the main lab.
The bright and sterile work space glistened with advanced
quantitative equipment: paired electro encephalographs, a
femtosecond comb, a magneto-optical trap, and quantum-indeterminate
electronic noise REGs, more simply known as Random Event
Generators.
Despite Noetic Science's use of cutting-edge
technologies, the discoveries themselves were far more mystical
than the cold, high-tech machines that were producing them. The
stuff of magic and myth was fast becoming reality as the shocking
new data poured in, all of it supporting the basic ideology of
Noetic Science--the untapped potential of the human mind.
The overall thesis was simple: We have
barely scratched the surface of our mental and spiritual
capabilities.
Experiments at facilities like the Institute
of Noetic Sciences (IONS) in California and the Princeton
Engineering Anomalies Research Lab (PEAR) had categorically proven
that human thought, if properly focused, had the ability to affect
and change physical mass. Their experiments were no "spoon-bending"
parlor tricks, but rather highly controlled inquiries that all
produced the same extraordinary result: our thoughts actually
interacted with the physical world, whether or not we knew it,
effecting change all the way down to the subatomic realm.
Mind over matter.
In 2001, in the hours following the
horrifying events of September 11, the field of Noetic Science made
a quantum leap forward. Four scientists discovered that as the
frightened world came together and focused in shared grief on this
single tragedy, the outputs of thirty-seven different Random Event
Generators around the world suddenly became significantly less
random. Somehow, the oneness of this shared experience, the
coalescing of millions of minds, had affected the randomizing
function of these machines, organizing their outputs and bringing
order from chaos.
The shocking discovery, it seemed,
paralleled the ancient spiritual belief in a "cosmic
consciousness"--a vast coalescing of human intention that was
actually capable of interacting with physical matter. Recently,
studies in mass meditation and prayer had produced similar results
in Random Event Generators, fueling the claim that human
consciousness, as Noetic author Lynne McTaggart described it, was a
substance outside the confines of the body . . . a highly ordered
energy capable of changing the physical world. Katherine had been
fascinated by McTaggart's book The Intention Experiment, and her
global, Web-based study-- theintentionexperiment.com--aimed at
discovering how human intention could affect the world. A handful
of other progressive texts had also piqued Katherine's
interest.
From this foundation, Katherine Solomon's
research had vaulted forward, proving that "focused thought" could
affect literally anything--the growth rate of plants, the direction
that fish swam in a bowl, the manner in which cells divided in a
petri dish, the synchronization of separately automated systems,
and the chemical reactions in one's own body. Even the crystalline
structure of a newly forming solid was rendered mutable by one's
mind; Katherine had created beautifully symmetrical ice crystals by
sending loving thoughts to a glass of water as it froze.
Incredibly, the converse was also true: when she sent negative,
polluting thoughts to the water, the ice crystals froze in chaotic,
fractured forms.
Human thought can literally transform the
physical world.
As Katherine's experiments grew bolder, her
results became more astounding. Her work in this lab had proven
beyond the shadow of a doubt that "mind over matter" was not just
some New Age self-help mantra. The mind had the ability to alter
the state of matter itself, and, more important, the mind had the
power to encourage the physical world to move in a specific
direction.
We are the masters of our own
universe.
At the subatomic level, Katherine had shown
that particles themselves came in and out of existence based solely
on her intention to observe them. In a sense, her desire to see a
particle . . . manifested that particle. Heisenberg had hinted at
this reality decades ago, and now it had be come a fundamental
principle of Noetic Science. In the words of Lynne McTaggart:
"Living consciousness somehow is the influence that turns the
possibility of something into something real. The most essential
ingredient in creating our universe is the consciousness that
observes it."
The most astonishing aspect of Katherine's
work, however, had been the realization that the mind's ability to
affect the physical world could be augmented through practice.
Intention was a learned skill. Like meditation, harnessing the true
power of "thought" required practice. More important . . . some
people were born more skilled at it than others. And throughout
history, there had been those few who had become true
masters.
This is the missing link between modern
science and ancient mysticism.
Katherine had learned this from her brother,
Peter, and now, as her thoughts turned back to him, she felt a
deepening concern. She walked to the lab's research library and
peered in. Empty.
The library was a small reading room--two
Morris chairs, a wooden table, two floor lamps, and a wall of
mahogany bookshelves that held some five hundred books. Katherine
and Peter had pooled their favorite texts here, writings on
everything from particle physics to ancient mysticism. Their
collection had grown into an eclectic fusion of new and old . . .
of cutting-edge and historical. Most of Katherine's books bore
titles like Quantum Consciousness, The New Physics, and Principles
of Neural Science. Her brother's bore older, more esoteric titles
like the Kybalion, the Zohar, The Dancing Wu Li Masters, and a
translation of the Sumerian tablets from the British Museum.
"The key to our scientific future," her
brother often said, "is hidden in our past." A lifelong scholar of
history, science, and mysticism, Peter had been the first to
encourage Katherine to boost her university science education with
an understanding of early Hermetic philosophy. She had been only
nineteen years old when Peter sparked her interest in the link
between modern science and ancient mysticism.
"So tell me, Kate," her brother had asked
while she was home on vacation during her sophomore year at Yale.
"What are Elis reading these days in theoretical physics?"
Katherine had stood in her family's
book-filled library and recited her demanding reading list.
"Impressive," her brother replied.
"Einstein, Bohr, and Hawking are modern geniuses. But are you
reading anything older?"
Katherine scratched her head. "You mean like
. . . Newton?"
He smiled. "Keep going." At twenty-seven,
Peter had already made a name for himself in the academic world,
and he and Katherine had grown to savor this kind of playful
intellectual sparring.
Older than Newton? Katherine's head now
filled with distant names like Ptolemy, Pythagoras, and Hermes
Trismegistus. Nobody reads that stuff anymore.
Her brother ran a finger down the long shelf
of cracked leather bindings and old dusty tomes. "The scientific
wisdom of the ancients was staggering . . . modern physics is only
now beginning to comprehend it all."
"Peter," she said, "you already told me that
the Egyptians understood levers and pulleys long before Newton, and
that the early alchemists did work on a par with modern chemistry,
but so what? Today's physics deals with concepts that would have
been unimaginable to the ancients."
"Like what?"
"Well . . . like entanglement theory, for
one!" Subatomic research had now proven categorically that all
matter was interconnected . . . entangled in a single unified mesh
. . . a kind of universal oneness. "You're telling me the ancients
sat around discussing entanglement theory?"
"Absolutely!" Peter said, pushing his long,
dark bangs out of his eyes. "Entanglement was at the core of
primeval beliefs. Its names are as old as history itself . . .
Dharmakaya, Tao, Brahman. In fact, man's oldest spiritual quest was
to perceive his own entanglement, to sense his own interconnection
with all things. He has always wanted to become `one' with the
universe . . . to achieve the state of `at-one-ment.' " Her brother
raised his eyebrows. "To this day, Jews and Christians still strive
for `atonement' . . . although most of us have forgotten it is
actually `at- one-ment' we're seeking."
Katherine sighed, having forgotten how hard
it was to argue with a man so well versed in history. "Okay, but
you're talking in generalities. I'm talking specific
physics."
"Then be specific." His keen eyes challenged
her now.
"Okay, how about something as simple as
polarity--the positive/negative balance of the subatomic realm.
Obviously, the ancients didn't underst--"
"Hold on!" Her brother pulled down a large
dusty text, which he dropped loudly on the library table. "Modern
polarity is nothing but the `dual world' described by Krishna here
in the Bhagavad Gita over two thousand years ago. A dozen other
books in here, including the Kybalion, talk about binary systems
and the opposing forces in nature."
Katherine was skeptical. "Okay, but if we
talk about modern discoveries in subatomics--the Heisenberg
uncertainty principle, for example--"
"Then we must look here," Peter said,
striding down his long bookshelf and pulling out another text. "The
sacred Hindu Vendantic scriptures known as the Upanishads." He
dropped the tome heavily on the first. "Heisenberg and Schr�dinger
studied this text and credited it with helping them formulate some
of their theories."
The showdown continued for several minutes,
and the stack of dusty books on the desk grew taller and taller.
Finally Katherine threw up her hands in frustration. "Okay! You
made your point, but I want to study cutting-edge theoretical
physics. The future of science! I really doubt Krishna or Vyasa had
much to say about superstring theory and multidimensional
cosmological models."
"You're right. They didn't." Her brother
paused, a smile crossing his lips. "If you're talking superstring
theory . . ." He wandered over to the bookshelf yet again. "Then
you're talking this book here." He heaved out a colossal
leather-bound book and dropped it with a crash onto the desk.
"Thirteenth-century translation of the original medieval
Aramaic."
"Superstring theory in the thirteenth
century?!" Katherine wasn't buying it. "Come on!"
Superstring theory was a brand-new
cosmological model. Based on the most recent scientific
observations, it suggested the multidimensional universe was made
up not of three . . . but rather of ten dimensions, which all
interacted like vibrating strings, similar to resonating violin
strings.
Katherine waited as her brother heaved open
the book, ran through the ornately printed table of contents, and
then flipped to a spot near the beginning of the book. "Read this."
He pointed to a faded page of text and diagrams.
Dutifully, Katherine studied the page. The
translation was old-fashioned and very hard to read, but to her
utter amazement, the text and drawings clearly outlined the exact
same universe heralded by modern superstring theory--a
ten-dimensional universe of resonating strings. As she continued
reading, she suddenly gasped and recoiled. "My God, it even
describes how six of the dimensions are entangled and act as one?!"
She took a frightened step backward. "What is this book?!"
Her brother grinned. "Something I'm hoping
you'll read one day." He flipped back to the title page, where an
ornately printed plate bore three words.
The Complete Zohar.
Although Katherine had never read the Zohar,
she knew it was the fundamental text of early Jewish mysticism,
once believed so potent that it was reserved only for the most
erudite rabbis.
Katherine eyed the book. "You're saying the
early mystics knew their universe had ten dimensions?"
"Absolutely." He motioned to the page's
illustration of ten intertwined circles called Sephiroth.
"Obviously, the nomenclature is esoteric, but the physics is very
advanced."
Katherine didn't know how to respond. "But .
. . then why don't more people study this?"
Her brother smiled. "They will."
"I don't understand."
"Katherine, we have been born into wonderful
times. A change is coming. Human beings are poised on the threshold
of a new age when they will begin turning their eyes back to nature
and to the old ways . . . back to the ideas in books like the Zohar
and other ancient texts from around the world. Powerful truth has
its own gravity and eventually pulls people back to it. There will
come a day when modern science begins in earnest to study the
wisdom of the ancients . . . that will be the day that mankind
begins to find answers to the big questions that still elude
him."
That night, Katherine eagerly began reading
her brother's ancient texts and quickly came to understand that he
was right. The ancients possessed profound scientific wisdom.
Today's science was not so much making "discoveries" as it was
making "rediscoveries." Mankind, it seemed, had once grasped the
true nature of the universe . . . but had let go . . . and
forgotten.
Modern physics can help us remember! This
quest had become Katherine's mission in life--to use advanced
science to rediscover the lost wisdom of the ancients. It was more
than academic thrill that kept her motivated. Beneath it all was
her conviction that the world needed this understanding . . . now
more than ever. At the rear of the lab, Katherine saw her brother's
white lab coat hanging on its hook along with her own. Reflexively,
she pulled out her phone to check for messages. Nothing. A voice
echoed again in her memory. That which your brother believes is
hidden in D.C. . . . it can be found. Sometimes a legend that
endures for centuries . . . endures for a reason.
"No," Katherine said aloud. "It can't
possibly be real."
Sometimes a legend was just that--a
legend.
CHAPTER 16
Security chief Trent Anderson stormed back
toward the Capitol Rotunda, fuming at the failure of his security
team. One of his men had just found a sling and an army-surplus
jacket in an alcove near the east portico.
The goddamn guy walked right out of
here!
Anderson had already assigned teams to start
scanning exterior video, but by the time they found anything, this
guy would be long gone.
Now, as Anderson entered the Rotunda to
survey the damage, he saw that the situation had been contained as
well as could be expected. All four entrances to the Rotunda were
closed with as inconspicuous a method of crowd control as Security
had at its disposal--a velvet swag, an apologetic guard, and a sign
that read THIS ROOM TEMPORARILY CLOSED FOR CLEANING. The dozen or
so witnesses were all being herded into a group on the eastern
perimeter of the room, where the guards were collecting cell phones
and cameras; the last thing Anderson needed was for one of these
people to send a cell-phone snapshot to CNN.
One of the detained witnesses, a tall,
dark-haired man in a tweed sport coat, was trying to break away
from the group to speak to the chief. The man was currently in a
heated discussion with the guards.
"I'll speak to him in a moment," Anderson
called over to the guards. "For now, please hold everyone in the
main lobby until we sort this out."
Anderson turned his eyes now to the hand,
which stood at attention in the middle of the room. For the love of
God. In fifteen years on security detail for the Capitol Building,
he had seen some strange things. But nothing like this. Forensics
had better get here fast and get this thing out of my
building.
Anderson moved closer, seeing that the
bloody wrist had been skewered on a spiked wooden base to make the
hand stand up. Wood and flesh, he thought. Invisible to metal
detectors. The only metal was a large gold ring, which Anderson
assumed had either been wanded or casually pulled off the dead
finger by the suspect as if it were his own.
Anderson crouched down to examine the hand.
It looked as if it had belonged to a man of about sixty. The ring
bore some kind of ornate seal with a two-headed bird and the number
33. Anderson didn't recognize it. What really caught his eye were
the tiny tattoos on the tips of the thumb and index finger.
A goddamn freak show.
"Chief?" One of the guards hurried over,
holding out a phone. "Personal call for you. Security switchboard
just patched it through."
Anderson looked at him like he was insane.
"I'm in the middle of something here," he growled.
The guard's face was pale. He covered the
mouthpiece and whispered. "It's CIA."
Anderson did a double take. CIA heard about
this already?!
"It's their Office of Security."
Anderson stiffened. Holy shit. He glanced
uneasily at the phone in the guard's hand.
In Washington's vast ocean of intelligence
agencies, the CIA's Office of Security was something of a Bermuda
Triangle--a mysterious and treacherous region from which all who
knew of it steered clear whenever possible. With a seemingly
self-destructive mandate, the OS had been created by the CIA for
one strange purpose--to spy on the CIA itself. Like a powerful
internal- affairs office, the OS monitored all CIA employees for
illicit behavior: misappropriation of funds, selling of secrets,
stealing classified technologies, and use of illegal torture
tactics, to name a few.
They spy on America's spies.
With investigative carte blanche in all
matters of national security, the OS had a long and potent reach.
Anderson could not fathom why they would be interested in this
incident at the Capitol, or how they had found out so fast. Then
again, the OS was rumored to have eyes everywhere. For all Anderson
knew, they had a direct feed of U.S. Capitol security cameras. This
incident did not match OS directives in any way, although the
timing of the call seemed too coincidental to Anderson to be about
anything other than this severed hand.
"Chief?"The guard was holding the phone out
to him like a hot potato. "You need to take this call right now.
It's . . ." He paused and silently mouthed two syllables. "SA-TO."
Anderson squinted hard at the man. You've got to be kidding. He
felt his palms begin to sweat. Sato is handling this
personally?
The overlord of the Office of
Security--Director Inoue Sato--was a legend in the intelligence
community. Born inside the fences of a Japanese internment camp in
Manzanar, California, in the aftermath of Pearl Harbor, Sato was a
toughened survivor who had never forgotten the horrors of war, or
the perils of insufficient military intelligence. Now, having risen
to one of the most secretive and potent posts in U.S. intelligence
work, Sato had proven an uncompromising patriot as well as a
terrifying enemy to any who stood in opposition. Seldom seen but
universally feared, the OS director cruised the deep waters of the
CIA like a leviathan who surfaced only to devour its prey.
Anderson had met Sato face-to-face only
once, and the memory of looking into those cold black eyes was
enough to make him count his blessings that he would be having this
conversation by telephone.
Anderson took the phone and brought it to
his lips. "Director Sato," he said in as friendly a voice as
possible. "This is Chief Anderson. How may I--"
"There is a man in your building to whom I
need to speak immediately." The OS director's voice was
unmistakable--like gravel grating on a chalkboard. Throat cancer
surgery had left Sato with a profoundly unnerving intonation and a
repulsive neck scar to match. "I want you to find him for me
immediately."
That's all? You want me to page someone?
Anderson felt suddenly hopeful that maybe the timing of this call
was pure coincidence. "Who are you looking for?"
"His name is Robert Langdon. I believe he is
inside your building right now."
Langdon? The name sounded vaguely familiar,
but Anderson couldn't quite place it. He was now wondering if Sato
knew about the hand. "I'm in the Rotunda at the moment," Anderson
said, "but we've got some tourists here . . . hold on." He lowered
his phone and called out to the group, "Folks, is there anyone here
by the name of Langdon?"
After a short silence, a deep voice replied
from the crowd of tourists. "Yes. I'm Robert Langdon."
Sato knows all. Anderson craned his neck,
trying to see who had spoken up.
The same man who had been trying to get to
him earlier stepped away from the others. He looked distraught . .
. but familiar somehow.
Anderson raised the phone to his lips. "Yes,
Mr. Langdon is here."
"Put him on," Sato said coarsely. Anderson
exhaled. Better him than me. "Hold on." He waved Langdon over. As
Langdon approached, Anderson suddenly realized why the name sounded
familiar. I just read an article about this guy. What the hell is
he doing here?
Despite Langdon's six-foot frame and
athletic build, Anderson saw none of the cold, hardened edge he
expected from a man famous for surviving an explosion at the
Vatican and a manhunt in Paris. This guy eluded the French police .
. . in loafers? He looked more like someone Anderson would expect
to find hearthside in some Ivy League library reading
Dostoyevsky.
"Mr. Langdon?"Anderson said, walking halfway
to meet him. "I'm Chief Anderson. I handle security here. You have
a phone call."
"For me?" Langdon's blue eyes looked anxious
and uncertain.
Anderson held out the phone. "It's the CIA's
Office of Security."
"I've never heard of it."
Anderson smiled ominously. "Well, sir, it's
heard of you."
Langdon put the phone to his ear.
"Yes?"
"Robert Langdon?" Director Sato's harsh
voice blared in the tiny speaker, loud enough that Anderson could
hear.
"Yes?" Langdon replied.
Anderson stepped closer to hear what Sato
was saying.
"This is Director Inoue Sato, Mr. Langdon. I
am handling a crisis at the moment, and I believe you have
information that can help me."
Langdon looked hopeful. "Is this about Peter
Solomon? Do you know where he is?!"
Peter Solomon? Anderson felt entirely out of
the loop.
"Professor," Sato replied. "I am asking the
questions at the moment."
"Peter Solomon is in very serious trouble,"
Langdon exclaimed. "Some madman just--"
"Excuse me," Sato said, cutting him
off.
Anderson cringed. Bad move. Interrupting a
top CIA official's line of questioning was a mistake only a
civilian would make. I thought Langdon was supposed to be smart.
"Listen carefully," Sato said. "As we speak, this nation is facing
a crisis. I have been advised that you have information that can
help me avert it. Now, I am going to ask you again. What
information do you possess?"
Langdon looked lost. "Director, I have no
idea what you're talking about. All I'm concerned with is finding
Peter and--"
"No idea?" Sato challenged.