Anderson saw Langdon bristle. The professor
now took a more aggressive tone. "No, sir. No damned idea at all."
Anderson winced. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Robert Langdon had just made
a very costly mistake in dealing with Director Sato.
Incredibly, Anderson now realized it was too
late. To his astonishment, Director Sato had just appeared on the
far side of the Rotunda, and was approaching fast behind Langdon.
Sato is in the building! Anderson held his breath and braced for
impact. Langdon has no idea.
The director's dark form drew closer, phone
held to ear, black eyes locked like two lasers on Langdon's
back.
Langdon clutched the police chief's phone
and felt a rising frustration as the OS director pressed him. "I'm
sorry, sir," Langdon said tersely, "but I can't read your mind.
What do you want from me?"
"What do I want from you?" The OS director's
grating voice crackled through Langdon's phone, scraping and
hollow, like that of a dying man with strep throat.
As the man spoke, Langdon felt a tap on his
shoulder. He turned and his eyes were drawn down . . . directly
into the face of a tiny Japanese woman. She had a fierce
expression, a mottled complexion, thinning hair, tobacco-stained
teeth, and an unsettling white scar that sliced horizontally across
her neck. The woman's gnarled hand held a cell phone to her ear,
and when her lips moved, Langdon heard the familiar raspy voice
through his cell phone.
"What do I want from you, Professor?" She
calmly closed her phone and glared at him. "For starters, you can
stop calling me `sir.' "
Langdon stared, mortified. "Ma'am, I . . .
apologize. Our connection was poor and--"
"Our connection was fine, Professor," she
said. "And I have an extremely low tolerance for bullshit."
CHAPTER 17 Director Inoue Sato was a
fearsome specimen--a bristly tempest of a woman who stood a mere
four feet ten inches. She was bone thin, with jagged features and a
dermatological condition known as vitiligo, which gave her
complexion the mottled look of coarse granite blotched with lichen.
Her rumpled blue pantsuit hung on her emaciated frame like a loose
sack, the open- necked blouse doing nothing to hide the scar across
her neck. It had been noted by her coworkers that Sato's only
acquiescence to physical vanity appeared to be that of plucking her
substantial mustache.
For over a decade, Inoue Sato had overseen
the CIA's Office of Security. She possessed an off- the-chart IQ
and chillingly accurate instincts, a combination which girded her
with a self- confidence that made her terrifying to anyone who
could not perform the impossible. Not even a terminal diagnosis of
aggressive throat cancer had knocked her from her perch. The battle
had cost her one month of work, half her voice box, and a third of
her body weight, but she returned to the office as if nothing had
happened. Inoue Sato appeared to be indestructible.
Robert Langdon suspected he was probably not
the first to mistake Sato for a man on the phone, but the director
was still glaring at him with simmering black eyes.
"Again, my apologies, ma'am," Langdon said.
"I'm still trying to get my bearings here--the person who claims to
have Peter Solomon tricked me into coming to D.C. this evening." He
pulled the fax from his jacket. "This is what he sent me earlier. I
wrote down the tail number of the plane he sent, so maybe if you
call the FAA and track the--"
Sato's tiny hand shot out and snatched the
sheet of paper. She stuck it in her pocket without even opening it.
"Professor, I am running this investigation, and until you start
telling me what I want to know, I suggest you not speak unless
spoken to."
Sato now spun to the police chief.
"Chief Anderson," she said, stepping
entirely too close and staring up at him through tiny black eyes,
"would you care to tell me what the hell is going on here? The
guard at the east gate told me you found a human hand on the floor.
Is that true?"
Anderson stepped to the side and revealed
the object in the center of the floor. "Yes, ma'am, only a few
minutes ago."
She glanced at the hand as if it were
nothing more than a misplaced piece of clothing. "And yet you
didn't mention it to me when I called?"
"I . . . I thought you knew."
"Do not lie to me."
Anderson wilted under her gaze, but his
voice remained confident. "Ma'am, this situation is under
control."
"I really doubt that," Sato said, with equal
confidence.
"A forensics team is on the way. Whoever did
this may have left fingerprints."
Sato looked skeptical. "I think someone
clever enough to walk through your security checkpoint with a human
hand is probably clever enough not to leave fingerprints."
"That may be true, but I have a
responsibility to investigate."
"Actually, I am relieving you of your
responsibility as of this moment. I'm taking over."
Anderson stiffened. "This is not exactly OS
domain, is it?"
"Absolutely. This is an issue of national
security."
Peter's hand? Langdon wondered, watching
their exchange in a daze. National security? Langdon was sensing
that his own urgent goal of finding Peter was not Sato's. The OS
director seemed to be on another page entirely.
Anderson looked puzzled as well. "National
security? With all due respect, ma'am--"
"The last I checked," she interrupted, "I
outrank you. I suggest you do exactly as I say, and that you do it
without question."
Anderson nodded and swallowed hard. "But
shouldn't we at least print the fingers to confirm the hand belongs
to Peter Solomon?"
"I'll confirm it," Langdon said, feeling a
sickening certainty. "I recognize his ring . . . and his hand." He
paused. "The tattoos are new, though. Someone did that to him
recently."
"I'm sorry?" Sato looked unnerved for the
first time since arriving. "The hand is tattooed?"
Langdon nodded. "The thumb has a crown. And
the index finger a star."
Sato pulled out a pair of glasses and walked
toward the hand, circling like a shark.
"Also," Langdon said, "although you can't
see the other three fingers, I'm certain they will have tattoos on
the fingertips as well."
Sato looked intrigued by the comment and
motioned to Anderson. "Chief, can you look at the other fingertips
for us, please?"
Anderson crouched down beside the hand,
being careful not to touch it. He put his cheek near the floor and
looked up under the clenched fingertips. "He's right, ma'am. All of
the fingertips have tattoos, although I can't quite see what the
other--"
"A sun, a lantern, and a key," Langdon said
flatly.
Sato turned fully to Langdon now, her small
eyes appraising him. "And how exactly would you know that?"
Langdon stared back. "The image of a human
hand, marked in this way on the fingertips, is a very old icon.
It's known as `the Hand of the Mysteries.' "
Anderson stood up abruptly. "This thing has
a name?"
Langdon nodded. "It's one of the most
secretive icons of the ancient world."
Sato cocked her head. "Then might I ask what
the hell it's doing in the middle of the U.S. Capitol?"
Langdon wished he would wake up from this
nightmare. "Traditionally, ma'am, it was used as an
invitation."
"An invitation . . . to what?" she
demanded.
Langdon looked down at the symbols on his
friend's severed hand. "For centuries, the Hand of the Mysteries
served as a mystical summons. Basically, it's an invitation to
receive secret knowledge--protected wisdom known only to an elite
few."
Sato folded her thin arms and stared up at
him with jet-black eyes. "Well, Professor, for someone who claims
to have no clue why he's here . . . you're doing quite well so
far."
CHAPTER 18
Katherine Solomon donned her white lab coat
and began her usual arrival routine--her "rounds" as her brother
called them.
Like a nervous parent checking on a sleeping
baby, Katherine poked her head into the mechanical room. The
hydrogen fuel cell was running smoothly, its backup tanks all
safely nestled in their racks.
Katherine continued down the hall to the
data-storage room. As always, the two redundant holographic backup
units hummed safely within their temperature-controlled vault. All
of my research, she thought, gazing in through the three-inch-thick
shatterproof glass. Holographic data-storage devices, unlike their
refrigerator-size ancestors, looked more like sleek stereo
components, each perched atop a columnar pedestal.
Both of her lab's holographic drives were
synchronized and identical--serving as redundant backups to
safeguard identical copies of her work. Most backup protocols
advocated a secondary backup system off-site in case of earthquake,
fire, or theft, but Katherine and her brother agreed that secrecy
was paramount; once this data left the building to an off-site
server, they could no longer be certain it would stay
private.
Content that everything was running smoothly
here, she headed back down the hallway. As she rounded the corner,
however, she spotted something unexpected across the lab. What in
the world? A muted glow was glinting off all the equipment. She
hurried in to have a look, surprised to see light emanating from
behind the Plexiglas wall of the control room.
He's here. Katherine flew across the lab,
arriving at the control-room door and heaving it open. "Peter!" she
said, running in. The plump woman seated at the control room's
terminal jumped up. "Oh my God! Katherine! You scared me!"
Trish Dunne--the only other person on earth
allowed back here--was Katherine's metasystems analyst and seldom
worked weekends. The twenty-six-year-old redhead was a genius data
modeler and had signed a nondisclosure document worthy of the KGB.
Tonight, she was apparently analyzing data on the control room's
plasma wall--a huge flat-screen display that looked like something
out of NASA mission control.
"Sorry," Trish said. "I didn't know you were
here yet. I was trying to finish up before you and your brother
arrived."
"Have you spoken to him? He's late and he's
not answering his phone."
Trish shook her head. "I bet he's still
trying to figure out how to use that new iPhone you gave
him."
Katherine appreciated Trish's good humor,
and Trish's presence here had just given her an idea. "Actually,
I'm glad you're in tonight. You might be able to help me with
something, if you don't mind?"
"Whatever it is, I'm sure it beats
football."
Katherine took a deep breath, calming her
mind. "I'm not sure how to explain this, but earlier today, I heard
an unusual story . . ."
Trish Dunne didn't know what story Katherine
Solomon had heard, but clearly it had her on edge. Her boss's
usually calm gray eyes looked anxious, and she had tucked her hair
behind her ears three times since entering the room--a nervous
"tell," as Trish called it. Brilliant scientist. Lousy poker
player. "To me," Katherine said, "this story sounds like fiction .
. . an old legend. And yet . . ." She paused, tucking a wisp of
hair behind her ears once again.
"And yet?"
Katherine sighed. "And yet I was told today
by a trusted source that the legend is true."
"Okay . . ." Where is she going with
this?
"I'm going to talk to my brother about it,
but it occurs to me that maybe you can help me shed some light on
it before I do. I'd love to know if this legend has ever been
corroborated anywhere else in history."
"In all of history?"
Katherine nodded. "Anywhere in the world, in
any language, at any point in history."
Strange request, Trish thought, but
certainly feasible. Ten years ago, the task would have been
impossible. Today, however, with the Internet, the World Wide Web,
and the ongoing digitization of the great libraries and museums in
the world, Katherine's goal could be achieved by using a relatively
simple search engine equipped with an army of translation modules
and some well-chosen keywords.
"No problem," Trish said. Many of the lab's
research books contained passages in ancient languages, and so
Trish was often asked to write specialized Optical Character
Recognition translation modules to generate English text from
obscure languages. She had to be the only metasystems specialist on
earth who had built OCR translation modules in Old Frisian, Maek,
and Akkadian.
The modules would help, but the trick to
building an effective search spider was all in choosing the right
key words. Unique but not overly restrictive.
Katherine looked to be a step ahead of Trish
and was already jotting down possible keywords on a slip of paper.
Katherine had written down several when she paused, thought a
moment, and then wrote several more. "Okay," she finally said,
handing Trish the slip of paper.
Trish perused the list of search strings,
and her eyes grew wide. What kind of crazy legend is Katherine
investigating? "You want me to search for all of these key
phrases?" One of the words Trish didn't even recognize. Is that
even English? "Do you really think we'll find all of these in one
place? Verbatim?"
"I'd like to try."
Trish would have said impossible, but the
I-word was banned here. Katherine considered it a dangerous
mind-set in a field that often transformed preconceived falsehoods
into confirmed truths. Trish Dunne seriously doubted this
key-phrase search would fall into that category.
"How long for results?" Katherine
asked.
"A few minutes to write the spider and
launch it. After that, maybe fifteen for the spider to exhaust
itself."
"So fast?" Katherine looked
encouraged.
Trish nodded. Traditional search engines
often required a full day to crawl across the entire online
universe, find new documents, digest their content, and add it to
their searchable database. But this was not the kind of search
spider Trish would write.
"I'll write a program called a delegator,"
Trish explained. "It's not entirely kosher, but it's fast.
Essentially, it's a program that orders other people's search
engines to do our work. Most databases have a search function built
in--libraries, museums, universities, governments. So I write a
spider that finds their search engines, inputs your keywords, and
asks them to search. This way, we harness the power of thousands of
engines, working in unison."
Katherine looked impressed. "Parallel
processing."
A kind of metasystem. "I'll call you if I
get anything."
"I appreciate it,Trish." Katherine patted
her on the back and headed for the door. "I'll be in the
library."
Trish settled in to write the program.
Coding a search spider was a menial task far below her skill level,
but Trish Dunne didn't care. She would do anything for Katherine
Solomon. Sometimes Trish still couldn't believe the good fortune
that had brought her here.
You've come a long way, baby.
Just over a year ago, Trish had quit her job
as a metasystems analyst in one of the high-tech industry's many
cubicle farms. In her off-hours, she did some freelance programming
and started an industry blog--"Future Applications in Computational
Metasystem Analysis"--although she doubted anyone read it. Then one
evening her phone rang.
"Trish Dunne?" a woman's voice asked
politely.
"Yes, who's calling, please?"
"My name is Katherine Solomon."
Trish almost fainted on the spot. Katherine
Solomon? "I just read your book--Noetic Science: Modern Gateway to
Ancient Wisdom--and I wrote about it on my blog!" "Yes, I know,"
the woman replied graciously. "That's why I'm calling."
Of course it is, Trish realized, feeling
dumb. Even brilliant scientists Google themselves.
"Your blog intrigues me," Katherine told
her. "I wasn't aware metasystems modeling had come so far."
"Yes, ma'am," Trish managed, starstruck.
"Data models are an exploding technology with far- reaching
applications."
For several minutes, the two women chatted
about Trish's work in metasystems, discussing her experience
analyzing, modeling, and predicting the flow of massive data
fields.
"Obviously, your book is way over my head,"
Trish said, "but I understood enough to see an intersection with my
metasystems work."
"Your blog said you believe metasystems
modeling can transform the study of Noetics?"
"Absolutely. I believe metasystems could
turn Noetics into real science."
"Real science?" Katherine's tone hardened
slightly. "As opposed to . . . ?"
Oh shit, that came out wrong. "Um, what I
meant is that Noetics is more . . . esoteric."
Katherine laughed. "Relax, I'm kidding. I
get that all the time."
I'm not surprised, Trish thought. Even the
Institute of Noetic Sciences in California described the field in
arcane and abstruse language, defining it as the study of mankind's
"direct and immediate access to knowledge beyond what is available
to our normal senses and the power of reason."
The word noetic, Trish had learned, derived
from the ancient Greek nous--translating roughly to "inner
knowledge" or "intuitive consciousness."
"I'm interested in your metasystems work,"
Katherine said, "and how it might relate to a project I'm working
on. Any chance you'd be willing to meet? I'd love to pick your
brain."
Katherine Solomon wants to pick my brain? It
felt like Maria Sharapova had called for tennis tips.
The next day a white Volvo pulled into
Trish's driveway and an attractive, willowy woman in blue jeans got
out. Trish immediately felt two feet tall. Great, she groaned.
Smart, rich, and thin--and I'm supposed to believe God is good? But
Katherine's unassuming air set Trish instantly at ease.
The two of them settled in on Trish's huge
back porch overlooking an impressive piece of property.
"Your house is amazing," Katherine
said.
"Thanks. I got lucky in college and licensed
some software I'd written."
"Metasystems stuff?"
"A precursor to metasystems. Following 9/11,
the government was intercepting and crunching enormous data
fields--civilian e-mail, cell phone, fax, text, Web sites--sniffing
for keywords associated with terrorist communications. So I wrote a
piece of software that let them process their data field in a
second way . . . pulling from it an additional intelligence
product." She smiled. "Essentially, my software let them take
America's temperature."
"I'm sorry?"
Trish laughed. "Yeah, sounds crazy, I know.
What I mean is that it quantified the nation's emotional state. It
offered a kind of cosmic consciousness barometer, if you will."
Trish explained how, using a data field of the nation's
communications, one could assess the nation's mood based on the
"occurrence density" of certain keywords and emotional indicators
in the data field. Happier times had happier language, and
stressful times vice versa. In the event, for example, of a
terrorist attack, the government could use data fields to measure
the shift in America's psyche and better advise the president on
the emotional impact of the event.
"Fascinating," Katherine said, stroking her
chin. "So essentially you're examining a population of individuals
. . . as if it were a single organism."
"Exactly. A metasystem. A single entity
defined by the sum of its parts. The human body, for example,
consists of millions of individual cells, each with different
attributes and different purposes, but it functions as a single
entity."
Katherine nodded enthusiastically. "Like a
flock of birds or a school of fish moving as one. We call it
convergence or entanglement."
Trish sensed her famous guest was starting
to see the potential of metasystem programming in her own field of
Noetics. "My software," Trish explained, "was designed to help
government agencies better evaluate and respond appropriately to
wide-scale crises--pandemic diseases, national tragedies,
terrorism, that sort of thing." She paused. "Of course, there's
always the potential that it could be used in other directions . .
. perhaps to take a snapshot of the national mind-set and predict
the outcome of a national election or the direction the stock
market will move at the opening bell."
"Sounds powerful."
Trish motioned to her big house. "The
government thought so." Katherine's gray eyes focused in on her
now. "Trish, might I ask about the ethical dilemma posed by your
work?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean you created a piece of software that
can easily be abused. Those who possess it have access to powerful
information not available to everyone. You didn't feel any
hesitation creating it?"
Trish didn't blink. "Absolutely not. My
software is no different than say . . . a flight simulator program.
Some users will practice flying first-aid missions into
underdeveloped countries. Some users will practice flying passenger
jets into skyscrapers. Knowledge is a tool, and like all tools, its
impact is in the hands of the user."
Katherine sat back, looking impressed. "So
let me ask you a hypothetical question."
Trish suddenly sensed their conversation had
just turned into a job interview.
Katherine reached down and picked up a tiny
speck of sand off the deck, holding it up for Trish to see. "It
occurs to me," she said, "that your metasystems work essentially
lets you calculate the weight of an entire sandy beach . . . by
weighing one grain at a time."
"Yes, basically that's right."
"As you know, this little grain of sand has
mass. A very small mass, but mass nonetheless."
Trish nodded.
"And because this grain of sand has mass, it
therefore exerts gravity. Again, too small to feel, but
there."
"Right."
"Now," Katherine said, "if we take trillions
of these sand grains and let them attract one another to form . . .
say, the moon, then their combined gravity is enough to move entire
oceans and drag the tides back and forth across our planet."
Trish had no idea where this was headed, but
she liked what she was hearing.
"So let's take a hypothetical," Katherine
said, discarding the sand grain. "What if I told you that a thought
. . . any tiny idea that forms in your mind . . . actually has
mass? What if I told you that a thought is an actual thing, a
measurable entity, with a measurable mass? A minuscule mass, of
course, but mass nonetheless. What are the implications?"
"Hypothetically speaking? Well, the obvious
implications are . . . if a thought has mass, then a thought exerts
gravity and can pull things toward it." Katherine smiled. "You're
good. Now take it a step further. What happens if many people start
focusing on the same thought? All the occurrences of that same
thought begin to merge into one, and the cumulative mass of this
thought begins to grow. And therefore, its gravity grows."
"Okay."
"Meaning . . . if enough people begin
thinking the same thing, then the gravitational force of that
thought becomes tangible . . . and it exerts actual force."
Katherine winked. "And it can have a measurable effect in our
physical world."
CHAPTER 19
Director Inoue Sato stood with her arms
folded, her eyes locked skeptically on Langdon as she processed
what he had just told her. "He said he wants you to unlock an
ancient portal? What am I supposed to do with that,
Professor?"
Langdon shrugged weakly. He was feeling ill
again and tried not to look down at his friend's severed hand.
"That's exactly what he told me. An ancient portal . . . hidden
somewhere in this building. I told him I knew of no portal."
"Then why does he think you can find
it?"
"Obviously, he's insane." He said Peter
would point the way. Langdon looked down at Peter's upstretched
finger, again feeling repulsed by his captor's sadistic play on
words. Peter will point the way. Langdon had already permitted his
eyes to follow the pointing finger up to the dome overhead. A
portal? Up there? Insane.
"This man who called me," Langdon told Sato,
"was the only one who knew I was coming to the Capitol tonight, so
whoever informed you I was here tonight, that's your man. I
recommend--"
"Where I got my information is not your
concern," Sato interrupted, voice sharpening. "My top priority at
the moment is to cooperate with this man, and I have information
suggesting you are the only one who can give him what he
wants."
"And my top priority is to find my friend,"
Langdon replied, frustrated.
Sato inhaled deeply, her patience clearly
being tested. "If we want to find Mr. Solomon, we have one course
of action, Professor--to start cooperating with the one person who
seems to know where he is." Sato checked her watch. "Our time is
limited. I can assure you it is imperative we comply with this
man's demands quickly."
"How?" Langdon asked, incredulous. "By
locating and unlocking an ancient portal? There is no portal,
Director Sato. This guy's a lunatic."
Sato stepped close, less than a foot from
Langdon. "If I may point this out . . . your lunatic deftly
manipulated two fairly smart individuals already this morning." She
stared directly at Langdon and then glanced at Anderson. "In my
business, one learns there is a fine line between insanity and
genius. We would be wise to give this man a little respect."
"He cut off a man's hand!"
"My point exactly. That is hardly the act of
an uncommitted or uncertain individual. More important, Professor,
this man obviously believes you can help him. He brought you all
the way to Washington--and he must have done it for a
reason."
"He said the only reason he thinks I can
unlock this `portal' is that Peter told him I can unlock it,"
Langdon countered.
"And why would Peter Solomon say that if it
weren't true?"
"I'm sure Peter said no such thing. And if
he did, then he did so under duress. He was confused . . . or
frightened."
"Yes. It's called interrogational torture,
and it's quite effective. All the more reason Mr. Solomon would
tell the truth." Sato spoke as if she'd had personal experience
with this technique. "Did he explain why Peter thinks you alone can
unlock the portal?"
Langdon shook his head.
"Professor, if your reputations are correct,
then you and Peter Solomon both share an interest in this sort of
thing--secrets, historical esoterica, mysticism, and so on. In all
of your discussions with Peter, he never once mentioned to you
anything about a secret portal in Washington, D.C.?"
Langdon could scarcely believe he was being
asked this question by a high-ranking officer of the CIA. "I'm
certain of it. Peter and I talk about some pretty arcane things,
but believe me, I'd tell him to get his head examined if he ever
told me there was an ancient portal hidden anywhere at all.
Particularly one that leads to the Ancient Mysteries."
She glanced up. "I'm sorry? The man told you
specifically what this portal leads to?"
"Yes, but he didn't have to." Langdon
motioned to the hand. "The Hand of the Mysteries is a formal
invitation to pass through a mystical gateway and acquire ancient
secret knowledge-- powerful wisdom known as the Ancient Mysteries .
. . or the lost wisdom of all the ages."
"So you've heard of the secret he believes
is hidden here." "A lot of historians have heard of it."
"Then how can you say the portal does not
exist?"
"With respect, ma'am, we've all heard of the
Fountain of Youth and Shangri-la, but that does not mean they
exist."
The loud squawk of Anderson's radio
interrupted them.
"Chief?" the voice on the radio said.
Anderson snatched his radio from his belt.
"Anderson here."
"Sir, we've completed a search of the
grounds. There's no one here that fits the description. Any further
orders, sir?"
Anderson shot a quick glance at Sato,
clearly expecting a reprimand, but Director Sato seemed
uninterested. Anderson moved away from Langdon and Sato, speaking
quietly into his radio.
Sato's unwavering focus remained on Langdon.
"You're saying the secret he believes is hidden in Washington . . .
is a fantasy?"
Langdon nodded. "A very old myth. The secret
of the Ancient Mysteries is pre-Christian, actually. Thousands of
years old."
"And yet it's still around?"
"As are many equally improbable beliefs."
Langdon often reminded his students that most modern religions
included stories that did not hold up to scientific scrutiny:
everything from Moses parting the Red Sea . . . to Joseph Smith
using magic eyeglasses to translate the Book of Mormon from a
series of gold plates he found buried in upstate New York. Wide
acceptance of an idea is not proof of its validity.
"I see. So what exactly are these . . .
Ancient Mysteries?"
Langdon exhaled. Have you got a few weeks?
"In short, the Ancient Mysteries refer to a body of secret
knowledge that was amassed long ago. One intriguing aspect of this
knowledge is that it allegedly enables its practitioners to access
powerful abilities that lie dormant in the human mind. The
enlightened Adepts who possessed this knowledge vowed to keep it
veiled from the masses because it was considered far too potent and
dangerous for the uninitiated."
"Dangerous in what way?"
"The information was kept hidden for the
same reason we keep matches from children. In the correct hands,
fire can provide illumination . . . but in the wrong hands, fire
can be highly destructive."
Sato took off her glasses and studied him.
"Tell me, Professor, do you believe such powerful information could
truly exist?"
Langdon was not sure how to respond. The
Ancient Mysteries had always been the greatest paradox of his
academic career. Virtually every mystical tradition on earth
revolved around the idea that there existed arcane knowledge
capable of imbuing humans with mystical, almost godlike, powers:
tarot and I Ching gave men the ability to see the future; alchemy
gave men immortality through the fabled Philosopher's Stone; Wicca
permitted advanced practitioners to cast powerful spells. The list
went on and on.
As an academic, Langdon could not deny the
historical record of these traditions--troves of documents,
artifacts, and artwork that, indeed, clearly suggested the ancients
had a powerful wisdom that they shared only through allegory,
myths, and symbols, ensuring that only those properly initiated
could access its power. Nonetheless, as a realist and a skeptic,
Langdon remained unconvinced.
"Let's just say I'm a skeptic," he told
Sato. "I have never seen anything in the real world to suggest the
Ancient Mysteries are anything other than legend--a recurring
mythological archetype. It seems to me that if it were possible for
humans to acquire miraculous powers, there would be evidence. And
yet, so far, history has given us no men with superhuman
powers."
Sato arched her eyebrows. "That's not
entirely true."
Langdon hesitated, realizing that for many
religious people, there was indeed a precedent for human gods,
Jesus being the most obvious. "Admittedly," he said, "there are
plenty of educated people who believe this empowering wisdom truly
exists, but I'm not yet convinced."
"Is Peter Solomon one of those people?" Sato
asked, glancing toward the hand on the floor.
Langdon could not bring himself to look at
the hand. "Peter comes from a family lineage that has always had a
passion for all things ancient and mystical."
"Was that a yes?" Sato asked.
"I can assure you that even if Peter
believes the Ancient Mysteries are real, he does not believe they
are accessible through some kind of portal hidden in Washington,
D.C. He understands metaphorical symbolism, which is something his
captor apparently does not."
Sato nodded. "So you believe this portal is
a metaphor."
"Of course," Langdon said. "In theory,
anyway. It's a very common metaphor--a mystical portal through
which one must travel to become enlightened. Portals and doorways
are common symbolic constructs that represent transformative rites
of passage. To look for a literal portal would be like trying to
locate the actual Gates of Heaven." Sato seemed to consider this
momentarily. "But it sounds like Mr. Solomon's captor believes you
can unlock an actual portal."
Langdon exhaled. "He's made the same error
many zealots make--confusing metaphor with a literal reality."
Similarly, early alchemists had toiled in vain to transform lead
into gold, never realizing that lead-to-gold was nothing but a
metaphor for tapping into true human potential-- that of taking a
dull, ignorant mind and transforming it into a bright, enlightened
one.
Sato motioned to the hand. "If this man
wants you to locate some kind of portal for him, why wouldn't he
simply tell you how to find it? Why all the dramatics? Why give you
a tattooed hand?"
Langdon had asked himself the same question
and the answer was unsettling. "Well, it seems the man we are
dealing with, in addition to being mentally unstable, is also
highly educated. This hand is proof that he is well versed in the
Mysteries as well as their codes of secrecy. Not to mention with
the history of this room."
"I don't understand."
"Everything he has done tonight was done in
perfect accordance with ancient protocols. Traditionally, the Hand
of the Mysteries is a sacred invitation, and therefore it must be
presented in a sacred place."
Sato's eyes narrowed. "This is the Rotunda
of the U.S. Capitol Building, Professor, not some sacred shrine to
ancient mystical secrets."
"Actually, ma'am," Langdon said, "I know a
great number of historians who would disagree with you."
At that moment, across town, Trish Dunne was
seated in the glow of the plasma wall inside the Cube. She finished
preparing her search spider and typed in the five key phrases
Katherine had given her.
Here goes nothing.
Feeling little optimism, she launched the
spider, effectively commencing a worldwide game of Go Fish. At
blinding speed, the phrases were now being compared to texts all
over the world . . . looking for a perfect match.
Trish couldn't help but wonder what this was
all about, but she had come to accept that working with the
Solomons meant never quite knowing the entire story. CHAPTER
20
Robert Langdon stole an anxious glance at
his wristwatch: 7:58 P.M. The smiling face of Mickey Mouse did
little to cheer him up. I've got to find Peter. We're wasting
time.
Sato had stepped aside for a moment to take
a phone call, but now she returned to Langdon. "Professor, am I
keeping you from something?"
"No, ma'am," Langdon said, pulling his
sleeve down over his watch. "I'm just extremely concerned about
Peter."
"I can understand, but I assure you the best
thing you can do to help Peter is to help me understand the
mind-set of his captor."
Langdon was not so sure, but he sensed he
was not going anywhere until the OS director got the information
she desired.
"A moment ago," Sato said, "you suggested
this Rotunda is somehow sacred to the idea of these Ancient
Mysteries?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Explain that to me."
Langdon knew he would have to choose his
words sparingly. He had taught for entire semesters on the mystical
symbolism of Washington, D.C., and there was an almost
inexhaustible list of mystical references in this building
alone.
America has a hidden past.
Every time Langdon lectured on the symbology
of America, his students were confounded to learn that the true
intentions of our nation's forefathers had absolutely nothing to do
with what so many politicians now claimed.
America's intended destiny has been lost to
history.
The forefathers who founded this capital
city first named her "Rome." They had named her river the Tiber and
erected a classical capital of pantheons and temples, all adorned
with images of history's great gods and goddesses--Apollo, Minerva,
Venus, Helios, Vulcan, Jupiter. In her center, as in many of the
great classical cities, the founders had erected an enduring
tribute to the ancients--the Egyptian obelisk. This obelisk, larger
even than Cairo's or Alexandria's, rose 555 feet into the sky, more
than thirty stories, proclaiming thanks and honor to the demigod
forefather for whom this capital city took its newer name.
Washington.
Now, centuries later, despite America's
separation of church and state, this state-sponsored Rotunda
glistened with ancient religious symbolism. There were over a dozen
different gods in the Rotunda--more than the original Pantheon in
Rome. Of course, the Roman Pantheon had been converted to
Christianity in 609 . . . but this pantheon was never converted;
vestiges of its true history still remained in plain view.
"As you may know," Langdon said, "this
Rotunda was designed as a tribute to one of Rome's most venerated
mystical shrines. The Temple of Vesta."
"As in the vestal virgins?" Sato looked
doubtful that Rome's virginal guardians of the flame had anything
to do with the U.S. Capitol Building.
"The Temple of Vesta in Rome," Langdon said,
"was circular, with a gaping hole in the floor, through which the
sacred fire of enlightenment could be tended by a sisterhood of
virgins whose job it was to ensure the flame never went out."
Sato shrugged. "This Rotunda is a circle,
but I see no gaping hole in this floor."
"No, not anymore, but for years the center
of this room had a large opening precisely where Peter's hand is
now." Langdon motioned to the floor. "In fact, you can still see
the marks in the floor from the railing that kept people from
falling in."
"What?" Sato demanded, scrutinizing the
floor. "I've never heard that."
"Looks like he's right." Anderson pointed
out the circle of iron nubs where the posts had once been. "I've
seen these before, but I never had any idea why they were
there."
You're not alone, Langdon thought, imagining
the thousands of people every day, including famous lawmakers, who
strode across the center of the Rotunda having no idea there was
once a day when they would have plunged down into the Capitol
Crypt--the level beneath the Rotunda floor.
"The hole in the floor," Langdon told them,
"was eventually covered, but for a good while, those who visited
the Rotunda could see straight down to the fire that burned
below."
Sato turned. "Fire? In the U.S.
Capitol?"
"More of a large torch, actually--an eternal
flame that burned in the crypt directly beneath us. It was supposed
to be visible through the hole in the floor, making this room a
modern Temple of Vesta. This building even had its own vestal
virgin--a federal employee called the Keeper of the Crypt--who
successfully kept the flame burning for fifty years, until
politics, religion, and smoke damage snuffed out the idea."
Both Anderson and Sato looked surprised.
Nowadays, the only reminder that a flame once burned here was the
four-pointed star compass embedded in the crypt floor one story
below them--a symbol of America's eternal flame, which once shed
illumination toward the four corners of the New World.
"So, Professor," Sato said, "your contention
is that the man who left Peter's hand here knew all this?"
"Clearly. And much, much more. There are
symbols all over this room that reflect a belief in the Ancient
Mysteries."
"Secret wisdom," Sato said with more than a
hint of sarcasm in her voice. "Knowledge that lets men acquire
godlike powers?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"That hardly fits with the Christian
underpinnings of this country."
"So it would seem, but it's true. This
transformation of man into God is called apotheosis. Whether or not
you're aware of it, this theme--transforming man into god--is the
core element in this Rotunda's symbolism."
"Apotheosis?" Anderson spun with a startled
look of recognition.
"Yes." Anderson works here. He knows. "The
word apotheosis literally means `divine transformation'--that of
man becoming God. It's from the ancient Greek: apo--`to become,'
theos--`god.' "
Anderson looked amazed. "Apotheosis means
`to become God'? I had no idea."
"What am I missing?" Sato demanded.
"Ma'am," Langdon said, "the largest painting
in this building is called The Apotheosis of Washington. And it
clearly depicts George Washington being transformed into a
god."
Sato looked doubtful. "I've never seen
anything of the sort."
"Actually, I'm sure you have." Langdon
raised his index finger, pointing straight up. "It's directly over
your head."
CHAPTER 21 The Apotheosis of Washington--a
4,664-square-foot fresco that covers the canopy of the Capitol
Rotunda--was completed in 1865 by Constantino Brumidi.
Known as "The Michelangelo of the Capitol,"
Brumidi had laid claim to the Capitol Rotunda in the same way
Michelangelo had laid claim to the Sistine Chapel, by painting a
fresco on the room's most lofty canvas--the ceiling. Like
Michelangelo, Brumidi had done some of his finest work inside the
Vatican. Brumidi, however, immigrated to America in 1852,
abandoning God's largest shrine in favor of a new shrine, the U.S.
Capitol, which now glistened with examples of his mastery--from the
trompe l'oeil of the Brumidi Corridors to the frieze ceiling of the
Vice President's Room. And yet it was the enormous image hovering
above the Capitol Rotunda that most historians considered to be
Brumidi's masterwork.
Robert Langdon gazed up at the massive
fresco that covered the ceiling. He usually enjoyed his students'
startled reactions to this fresco's bizarre imagery, but at the
moment he simply felt trapped in a nightmare he had yet to
understand.
Director Sato was standing next to him with
her hands on her hips, frowning up at the distant ceiling. Langdon
sensed she was having the same reaction many had when they first
stopped to examine the painting at the core of their nation.
Utter confusion.
You're not alone, Langdon thought. For most
people, The Apotheosis of Washington got stranger and stranger the
longer they looked at it. "That's George Washington on the central
panel," Langdon said, pointing 180 feet upward into the middle of
the dome. "As you can see, he's dressed in white robes, attended by
thirteen maidens, and ascending on a cloud above mortal man. This
is the moment of his apotheosis . . . his transformation into a
god."
Sato and Anderson said nothing.
"Nearby," Langdon continued, "you can see a
strange, anachronistic series of figures: ancient gods presenting
our forefathers with advanced knowledge. There's Minerva giving
technological inspiration to our nation's great inventors--Ben
Franklin, Robert Fulton, Samuel Morse." Langdon pointed them out
one by one. "And over there is Vulcan helping us build a steam
engine. Beside them is Neptune demonstrating how to lay the
transatlantic cable. Beside that is Ceres, goddess of grain and
root of our word cereal; she's sitting on the McCormick reaper, the
farming breakthrough that enabled this country to become a world
leader in food production. The painting quite overtly portrays our
forefathers receiving great wisdom from the gods." He lowered his
head, looking at Sato now. "Knowledge is power, and the right
knowledge lets man perform miraculous, almost godlike tasks."
Sato dropped her gaze back down to Langdon
and rubbed her neck. "Laying a phone cable is a far cry from being
a god." "Perhaps to a modern man," Langdon replied. "But if George
Washington knew that we had become a race that possessed the power
to speak to one another across oceans, fly at the speed of sound,
and set foot on our moon, he would assume that we had become gods,
capable of miraculous tasks." He paused. "In the words of futurist
Arthur C. Clarke, `Any sufficiently advanced technology is
indistinguishable from magic.' "
Sato pursed her lips, apparently deep in
thought. She glanced down at the hand, and then followed the
direction of the outstretched index finger up into the dome.
"Professor, you were told, `Peter will point the way.' Is that
correct?"
"Yes, ma'am, but--"
"Chief," Sato said, turning away from
Langdon, "can you get us a closer look at the painting?"
Anderson nodded. "There's a catwalk around
the interior of the dome." Langdon looked way, way up to the tiny
railing visible just beneath the painting and felt his body go
rigid. "There's no need to go up there." He had experienced that
seldom-visited catwalk once before, as the guest of a U.S. senator
and his wife, and he had almost fainted from the dizzying height
and perilous walkway.
"No need?" Sato demanded. "Professor, we
have a man who believes this room contains a portal that has the
potential to make him a god; we have a ceiling fresco that
symbolizes the transformation of a man into a god; and we have a
hand pointing straight at that painting. It seems everything is
urging us upward."
"Actually," Anderson interjected, glancing
up, "not many people know this, but there is one hexagonal coffer
in the dome that actually swings open like a portal, and you can
peer down through it and--"
"Wait a second," Langdon said, "you're
missing the point. The portal this man is looking for is a
figurative portal--a gateway that doesn't exist. When he said,
`Peter will point the way,' he was talking in metaphorical terms.
This pointing-hand gesture--with its index finger and thumb
extended upward--is a well-known symbol of the Ancient Mysteries,
and it appears all over the world in ancient art. This same gesture
appears in three of Leonardo da Vinci's most famous encoded
masterpieces--The Last Supper, Adoration of the Magi, and Saint
John the Baptist. It's a symbol of man's mystical connection to
God." As above, so below. The madman's bizarre choice of words was
starting to feel more relevant now.
"I've never seen it before," Sato
said.
Then watch ESPN, Langdon thought, always
amused to see professional athletes point skyward in gratitude to
God after a touchdown or home run. He wondered how many knew they
were continuing a pre-Christian mystical tradition of acknowledging
the mystical power above, which, for one brief moment, had
transformed them into a god capable of miraculous feats.
"If it's of any help," Langdon said,
"Peter's hand is not the first such hand to make an appearance in
this Rotunda."
Sato eyed him like he was insane. "I beg
your pardon?"
Langdon motioned to her BlackBerry. "Google
`George Washington Zeus.' "
Sato looked uncertain but started typing.
Anderson inched toward her, looking over her shoulder
intently.
Langdon said, "This Rotunda was once
dominated by a massive sculpture of a bare-chested George
Washington . . . depicted as a god. He sat in the same exact pose
as Zeus in the Pantheon, bare chest exposed, left hand holding a
sword, right hand raised with thumb and finger extended."
Sato had apparently found an online image,
because Anderson was staring at her BlackBerry in shock. "Hold on,
that's George Washington?"
"Yes," Langdon said. "Depicted as
Zeus."
"Look at his hand," Anderson said, still
peering over Sato's shoulder. "His right hand is in the same exact
position as Mr. Solomon's."
As I said, Langdon thought, Peter's hand is
not the first to make an appearance in this room. When Horatio
Greenough's statue of a naked George Washington was first unveiled
in the Rotunda, many joked that Washington must be reaching skyward
in a desperate attempt to find some clothes. As American religious
ideals changed, however, the joking criticism turned to
controversy, and the statue was removed, banished to a shed in the
east garden. Currently, it made its home at the Smithsonian's
National Museum of American History, where those who saw it had no
reason to suspect that it was one of the last vestigial links to a
time when the father of the country had watched over the U.S.
Capitol as a god . . . like Zeus watching over the Pantheon.
Sato began dialing a number on her
BlackBerry, apparently seeing this as an opportune moment to check
in with her staff. "What have you got?" She listened patiently. "I
see . . ." She glanced directly at Langdon, then at Peter's hand.
"You're certain?" She listened a moment longer. "Okay, thanks." She
hung up and turned back toward Langdon. "My support staff did some
research and confirms the existence of your so-called Hand of the
Mysteries, corroborating everything you said: five fingertip
markings--the star, the sun, the key, the crown, and the
lantern--as well as the fact that this hand served as an ancient
invitation to learn secret wisdom."
"I'm glad," Langdon said.
"Don't be," she replied curtly. "It appears
we're now at a dead end until you share whatever it is you're still
not telling me."
"Ma'am?" Sato stepped toward him. "We've
come full circle, Professor. You've told me nothing I could not
have learned from my own staff. And so I will ask you once more.
Why were you brought here tonight? What makes you so special? What
is it that you alone know?"
"We've been through this," Langdon fired
back. "I don't know why this guy thinks I know anything at
all!"
Langdon was half tempted to demand how the
hell Sato knew that he was in the Capitol tonight, but they'd been
through that, too. Sato isn't talking. "If I knew the next step,"
he told her, "I'd tell you. But I don't. Traditionally, the Hand of
the Mysteries is extended by a teacher to a student. And then,
shortly afterward, the hand is followed up with a set of
instructions . . . directions to a temple, the name of the master
who will teach you--something! But all this guy left for us is five
tattoos! Hardly--" Langdon stopped short.
Sato eyed him. "What is it?"
Langdon's eyes shot back to the hand. Five
tattoos. He now realized that what he was saying might not be
entirely true.
"Professor?" Sato pressed.
Langdon inched toward the gruesome object.
Peter will point the way.
"Earlier, it crossed my mind that maybe this
guy had left an object clenched in Peter's palm--a map, or a
letter, or a set of directions."
"He didn't," Anderson said. "As you can see,
those three fingers are not clenched tightly."
"You're right," Langdon said. "But it occurs
to me . . ." He crouched down now, trying to see up under the
fingers to the hidden part of Peter's palm. "Maybe it's not written
on paper."
"Tattooed?" Anderson said.
Langdon nodded.
"Do you see anything on the palm?" Sato
asked.
Langdon crouched lower, trying to peer up
under the loosely clenched fingers. "The angle is impossible. I
can't--"
"Oh, for heaven's sake," Sato said, moving
toward him. "Just open the damned thing!"
Anderson stepped in front of her. "Ma'am! We
should really wait for forensics before we touch--" "I want some
answers," Sato said, pushing past him. She crouched down, edging
Langdon away from the hand.
Langdon stood up and watched in disbelief as
Sato pulled a pen from her pocket, sliding it carefully under the
three clenched fingers. Then, one by one, she pried each finger
upward until the hand stood fully open, with its palm
visible.
She glanced up at Langdon, and a thin smile
spread across her face. "Right again, Professor."
CHAPTER 22
Pacing the library, Katherine Solomon pulled
back the sleeve of her lab coat and checked her watch. She was not
a woman accustomed to waiting, but at the moment, she felt as if
her whole world were on hold. She was waiting for Trish's
search-spider results, she was waiting for word from her brother,
and also, she was waiting for a callback from the man who was
responsible for this entire troubling situation.
I wish he hadn't told me, she thought.
Normally, Katherine was extremely careful about making new
acquaintances, and although she had met this man for the first time
only this afternoon, he had earned her trust in a matter of
minutes. Completely.
His call had come this afternoon while
Katherine was at home enjoying her usual Sunday- afternoon pleasure
of catching up on the week's scientific journals.
"Ms. Solomon?" an unusually airy voice had
said. "My name is Dr. Christopher Abaddon. I was hoping I might
speak to you for a moment about your brother?"
"I'm sorry, who is this?" she had demanded.
And how did you get my private cell-phone number?
"Dr. Christopher Abaddon?"
Katherine did not recognize the name.
The man cleared his throat, as if the
situation had just become awkward. "I apologize, Ms. Solomon. I was
under the impression your brother had told you about me. I'm his
doctor. Your cell number was listed as his emergency
contact."
Katherine's heart skipped. Emergency
contact? "Is something wrong?"
"No . . . I don't think so," the man said.
"Your brother missed an appointment this morning, and I can't reach
him on any of his numbers. He never misses appointments without
calling, and I'm just a little worried. I hesitated to phone you,
but--"
"No, no, not at all, I appreciate the
concern." Katherine was still trying to place the doctor's name. "I
haven't spoken to my brother since yesterday morning, but he
probably just forgot to turn on his cell." Katherine had recently
given him a new iPhone, and he still hadn't taken the time to
figure out how to use it.
"You say you're his doctor?" she asked. Does
Peter have an illness he's keeping from me?
There was a weighty pause on the line. "I'm
terribly sorry, but I've obviously just made a rather serious
professional error by calling you. Your brother told me you were
aware of his visits to me, but now I see that's not the
case."
My brother lied to his doctor? Katherine's
concern was now growing steadily. "Is he sick?"
"I'm sorry, Ms. Solomon, doctor-patient
confidentiality precludes me from discussing your brother's
condition, and I've already said too much by admitting he is my
patient. I'm going to hang up now, but if you hear from him today,
please ask him to call me so I know he's okay."
"Wait!" Katherine said. "Please tell me
what's wrong with Peter!"
Dr. Abaddon exhaled, sounding displeased
with his mistake. "Ms. Solomon, I can hear you're upset, and I
don't blame you. I'm sure your brother is fine. He was in my office
just yesterday."
"Yesterday? And he's scheduled again today?
This sounds urgent."
The man heaved a sigh. "I suggest we give
him a little more time before we--"
"I'm coming by your office right now,"
Katherine said, heading for the door. "Where are you
located?"
Silence.
"Dr. Christopher Abaddon?" Katherine said.
"I can look up your address myself, or you can simply give it to
me. Either way, I'm coming over."
The doctor paused. "If I meet with you, Ms.
Solomon, would you please do me the courtesy of saying nothing to
your brother until I've had a chance to explain my misstep?"
"That's fine."
"Thank you. My office is in Kalorama
Heights." He gave her an address.
Twenty minutes later, Katherine Solomon was
navigating the stately streets of Kalorama Heights. She had phoned
all of her brother's numbers with no reply. She did not feel overly
concerned about her brother's whereabouts, and yet, the news that
he was secretly seeing a doctor . . . was troubling.
When Katherine finally located the address,
she stared up at the building in confusion. This is a doctor's
office?
The opulent mansion before her had a
wrought-iron security fence, electronic cameras, and lush grounds.
As she slowed to double-check the address, one of the security
cameras rotated toward her, and the gate swung open. Tentatively,
Katherine drove up the driveway and parked next to a six-car garage
and a stretch limo.
What kind of doctor is this guy?
As she got out of her car, the front door of
the mansion opened, and an elegant figure drifted out onto the
landing. He was handsome, exceptionally tall, and younger than she
had imagined. Even so, he projected the sophistication and polish
of an older man. He was impeccably dressed in a dark suit and tie,
and his thick blond hair was immaculately coiffed.
"Ms. Solomon, I'm Dr. Christopher Abaddon,"
he said, his voice a breathy whisper. When they shook hands, his
skin felt smooth and well tended.
"Katherine Solomon," she said, trying not to
stare at his skin, which was unusually smooth and bronzed. Is he
wearing makeup?
Katherine felt a growing disquiet as she
stepped into the home's beautifully appointed foyer. Classical
music played softly in the background, and it smelled as if someone
had burned incense. "This is lovely," she said, "although I
expected more of . . . an office."
"I'm fortunate to work out of my home." The
man led her into a living room, where there was a crackling fire.
"Please make yourself comfortable. I'm just steeping some tea. I'll
bring it out, and we can talk." He strode toward the kitchen and
disappeared.
Katherine Solomon did not sit. Female
intuition was a potent instinct that she had learned to trust, and
something about this place was making her skin crawl. She saw
nothing that looked anything like any doctor's office she had ever
seen. The walls of this antique-adorned living room were covered
with classical art, primarily paintings with strange mythical
themes. She paused before a large canvas depicting the Three
Graces, whose nude bodies were spectacularly rendered in vivid
colors.
"That's the original Michael Parkes oil."
Dr. Abaddon appeared without warning beside her, holding a tray of
steaming tea. "I thought we'd sit by the fire?" He led her over to
the living room and offered her a seat. "There's no reason to be
nervous."
"I'm not nervous," Katherine said entirely
too quickly.
He gave her a reassuring smile. "Actually,
it is my business to know when people are nervous." "I beg your
pardon?"
"I'm a practicing psychiatrist, Ms. Solomon.
That is my profession. I've been seeing your brother for almost a
year now. I'm his therapist."
Katherine could only stare. My brother is in
therapy?
"Patients often choose to keep their therapy
to themselves," the man said. "I made a mistake by calling you,
although in my defense, your brother did mislead me."
"I . . . I had no idea."
"I apologize if I made you nervous," he
said, sounding embarrassed. "I noticed you studying my face when we
met, and yes, I do wear makeup." He touched his own cheek, looking
self- conscious. "I have a dermatological condition, which I prefer
to hide. My wife usually puts the makeup on for me, but when she's
not here, I have to rely on my own heavy touch."
Katherine nodded, too embarrassed to
speak.
"And this lovely hair . . ." He touched his
lush blond mane. "A wig. My skin condition affected my scalp
follicles as well, and all my hair jumped ship." He shrugged. "I'm
afraid my one sin is vanity."
"Apparently mine is rudeness," Katherine
said.
"Not at all." Dr. Abaddon's smile was
disarming. "Shall we start over? Perhaps with some tea?"
They sat in front of the fire and Abaddon
poured tea. "Your brother got me in the habit of serving tea during
our sessions. He said the Solomons are tea drinkers."
"Family tradition," Katherine said. "Black,
please."
They sipped their tea and made small talk
for a few minutes, but Katherine was eager for information about
her brother. "Why was my brother coming to you?" she asked. And why
didn't he tell me? Admittedly, Peter had endured more than his fair
share of tragedy in his life--losing his father at a young age, and
then, within a span of five years, burying his only son and then
his mother. Even so, Peter had always found a way to cope.
Dr. Abaddon took a sip of tea. "Your brother
came to me because he trusts me. We have a bond beyond that of
normal patient and doctor." He motioned to a framed document near
the fireplace. It looked like a diploma, until Katherine spied the
double-headed phoenix.
"You're a Mason?" The highest degree, no
less.
"Peter and I are brothers of sorts." "You
must have done something important to be invited into the
thirty-third degree."
"Not really," he said. "I have family money,
and I give a lot of money to Masonic charities."
Katherine now realized why her brother
trusted this young doctor. A Mason with family money, interested in
philanthropy and ancient mythology?
Dr. Abaddon had more in common with her
brother than she had initially imagined.
"When I asked why my brother came to you,"
she said, "I didn't mean why did he choose you. I meant, why is he
seeking the services of a psychiatrist?"
Dr. Abaddon smiled. "Yes, I know. I was
trying to sidestep the question politely. It's really not something
I should be discussing." He paused. "Although I must say I'm
puzzled that your brother would keep our discussions from you,
considering that they relate so directly to your research."
"My research?" Katherine said, taken totally
off guard. My brother talks about my research?
"Recently, your brother came to me looking
for a professional opinion about the psychological impact of the
breakthroughs you are making in your lab."
Katherine almost choked on the tea. "Really?
I'm . . . surprised," she managed. What is Peter thinking? He told
his shrink about my work?! Their security protocol involved not
discussing with anyone what Katherine was working on. Moreover, the
confidentiality had been her brother's idea.
"Certainly you are aware, Ms. Solomon, that
your brother is deeply concerned about what will happen when your
research goes public. He sees the potential for a significant
philosophical shift in the world . . . and he came here to discuss
the possible ramifications . . . from a psychological
perspective."
"I see," Katherine said, her teacup now
shaking slightly.
"The questions we discuss are challenging
ones: What happens to the human condition if the great mysteries of
life are finally revealed? What happens when those beliefs that we
accept on faith . . . are suddenly categorically proven as fact? Or
disproved as myth? One could argue that there exist certain
questions that are best left unanswered."
Katherine could not believe what she was
hearing, and yet she kept her emotions in check. "I hope you don't
mind, Dr. Abaddon, but I'd prefer not to discuss the details of my
work. I have no immediate plans to make anything public. For the
time being, my discoveries will remain safely locked in my
lab."
"Interesting." Abaddon leaned back in his
chair, lost in thought for a moment. "In any event, I asked your
brother to come back today because yesterday he suffered a bit of a
break. When that happens, I like to have clients--"
"Break?" Katherine's heart was pounding. "As
in breakdown?" She couldn't imagine her brother breaking down over
anything.
Abaddon reached out kindly. "Please, I can
see I've upset you. I'm sorry. Considering these awkward
circumstances, I can understand how you might feel entitled to
answers."
"Whether I'm entitled or not," Katherine
said, "my brother is all I have left of my family. Nobody knows him
better than I do, so if you tell me what the hell happened, maybe I
can help you. We all want the same thing--what's best for
Peter."
Dr. Abaddon fell silent for several long
moments and then began slowly nodding as if Katherine might have a
point. Finally, he spoke. "For the record, Ms. Solomon, if I decide
to share this information with you, I would do so only because I
think your insights might help me assist your brother."
"Of course."
Abaddon leaned forward, putting his elbows
on his knees. "Ms. Solomon, as long as I've been seeing your
brother, I've sensed in him a deep struggle with feelings of guilt.
I've never pressed him on it because that's not why he comes to me.
And yet yesterday, for a number of reasons, I finally asked him
about it." Abaddon locked eyes with her. "Your brother opened up,
rather dramatically and unexpectedly. He told me things I had not
expected to hear . . . including everything that happened the night
your mother died."
Christmas Eve--almost exactly ten years ago.
She died in my arms.
"He told me your mother was murdered during
a robbery attempt at your home? A man broke in looking for
something he believed your brother was hiding?"
"That's correct."
Abaddon's eyes were appraising her. "Your
brother said he shot the man dead?"
"Yes."
Abaddon stroked his chin. "Do you recall
what the intruder was looking for when he broke into your
home?"
Katherine had tried in vain for ten years to
block out the memory. "Yes, his demand was very specific.
Unfortunately, none of us knew what he was talking about. His
demand never made sense to any of us."
"Well, it made sense to your brother."
"What?" Katherine sat up.
"At least according to the story he told me
yesterday, Peter knew exactly what the intruder was looking for.
And yet your brother did not want to hand it over, so he pretended
not to understand."
"That's absurd. Peter couldn't possibly have
known what the man wanted. His demands made no sense!"
"Interesting." Dr. Abaddon paused and took a
few notes. "As I mentioned, however, Peter told me he did know.
Your brother believes if he had only cooperated with the intruder,
maybe your mother would be alive today. This decision is the source
of all his guilt."
Katherine shook her head. "That's crazy . .
."
Abaddon slumped, looking troubled. "Ms.
Solomon, this has been useful feedback. As I feared, your brother
seems to have had a little break with reality. I must admit, I was
afraid this might be the case. That's why I asked him to come back
today. These delusional episodes are not uncommon when they relate
to traumatic memories."
Katherine shook her head again. "Peter is
far from delusional, Dr. Abaddon."
"I would agree, except . . ."
"Except what?"
"Except that his recounting of the attack
was just the beginning . . . a tiny fraction of the long and
far-fetched tale he told me."
Katherine leaned forward in her seat. "What
did Peter tell you?"
Abaddon gave a sad smile. "Ms. Solomon, let
me ask you this. Has your brother ever discussed with you what he
believes is hidden here in Washington, D.C. . . . or the role he
believes he plays in protecting a great treasure . . . of lost
ancient wisdom?"
Katherine's jaw fell open. "What in the
world are you talking about?"
Dr. Abaddon heaved a long sigh. "What I am
about to tell you will be a bit shocking, Katherine." He paused and
locked eyes with her. "But it will be immeasurably helpful if you
can tell me anything you may know about it." He reached for her
cup. "More tea?" CHAPTER 23
Another tattoo.
Langdon crouched anxiously beside Peter's
open palm and examined the seven tiny symbols that had been hidden
beneath the lifeless clenched fingers.
"They appear to be numbers," Langdon said,
surprised. "Although I don't recognize them."
"The first is a Roman numeral," Anderson
said.
"Actually, I don't think so," Langdon
corrected. "The Roman numeral I-I-I-X doesn't exist. It would be
written V-I-I."
"How about the rest of it?" Sato
asked.
"I'm not sure. It looks like
eight-eight-five in Arabic numbers."
"Arabic?" Anderson asked. "They look like
normal numbers."
"Our normal numbers are Arabic." Langdon had
become so accustomed to clarifying this point for his students that
he'd actually prepared a lecture about the scientific advances made
by early Middle Eastern cultures, one of them being our modern
numbering system, whose advantages over Roman numerals included
`positional notation' and the invention of the number zero. Of
course, Langdon always ended this lecture with a reminder that Arab
culture had also given mankind the word al-kuhl--the favorite
beverage of Harvard freshmen--known as alcohol.
Langdon scrutinized the tattoo, feeling
puzzled. "And I'm not even sure about the eight-eight- five. The
rectilinear writing looks unusual. Those may not be numbers."
"Then what are they? Sato asked.
"I'm not sure. The whole tattoo looks almost
. . . runic."
"Meaning?" Sato asked.
"Runic alphabets are composed solely of
straight lines. Their letters are called runes and were often used
for carving in stone because curves were too difficult to chisel."
"If these are runes," Sato said, "what is their meaning?"
Langdon shook his head. His expertise
extended only to the most rudimentary runic alphabet-- Futhark--a
third-century Teutonic system, and this was not Futhark. "To be
honest, I'm not even sure these are runes. You'd need to ask a
specialist. There are dozens of different forms-- H�lsinge, Manx,
the `dotted' Stungnar--"
"Peter Solomon is a Mason, is he not?"
Langdon did a double take. "Yes, but what
does that have to do with this?" He stood up now, towering over the
tiny woman.
"You tell me. You just said that runic
alphabets are used for stone carvings, and it is my understanding
that the original Freemasons were stone craftsmen. I mention this
only because when I asked my office to search for a connection
between the Hand of the Mysteries and Peter Solomon, their search
returned one link in particular." She paused, as if to emphasize
the importance of her finding. "The Masons."
Langdon exhaled, fighting the impulse to
tell Sato the same thing he constantly told his students: "Google"
is not a synonym for "research." In these days of massive,
worldwide keyword searches, it seemed everything was linked to
everything. The world was becoming one big entangled web of
information that was getting denser every day.
Langdon maintained a patient tone. "I'm not
surprised the Masons appeared in your staff's search. Masons are a
very obvious link between Peter Solomon and any number of esoteric
topics."
"Yes," Sato said, "which is another reason I
have been surprised this evening that you have not yet mentioned
the Masons. After all, you've been talking about secret wisdom
protected by an enlightened few. That sounds very Masonic, does it
not?"
"It does . . . and it also sounds very
Rosicrucian, Kabbalistic, Alumbradian, and any number of other
esoteric groups."
"But Peter Solomon is a Mason--a very
powerful Mason, at that. It seems the Masons would come to mind if
we were talking about secrets. Heaven knows the Masons love their
secrets."
Langdon could hear the distrust in her
voice, and he wanted no part of it. "If you want to know anything
about the Masons, you would be far better served to ask a
Mason."
"Actually," Sato said, "I'd prefer to ask
someone I can trust."
Langdon found the comment both ignorant and
offensive. "For the record, ma'am, the entire Masonic philosophy is
built on honesty and integrity. Masons are among the most
trustworthy men you could ever hope to meet." "I have seen
persuasive evidence to the contrary."
Langdon was liking Director Sato less and
less with each passing moment. He had spent years writing about the
Masons' rich tradition of metaphorical iconography and symbols, and
knew that Masons had always been one of the most unfairly maligned
and misunderstood organizations in the world. Regularly accused of
everything from devil worship to plotting a one- world government,
the Masons also had a policy of never responding to their critics,
which made them an easy target.
"Regardless," Sato said, her tone biting,
"we are again at an impasse, Mr. Langdon. It seems to me there is
either something you are missing . . . or something you are not
telling me. The man we're dealing with said that Peter Solomon
chose you specifically." She leveled a cold stare at Langdon. "I
think it's time we move this conversation to CIA headquarters.
Maybe we'll have more luck there."
Sato's threat barely registered with
Langdon. She had just said something that had lodged in his mind.
Peter Solomon chose you. The comment, combined with the mention of
Masons, had hit Langdon strangely. He looked down at the Masonic
ring on Peter's finger. The ring was one of Peter's most prized
possessions--a Solomon family heirloom that bore the symbol of the
double- headed phoenix--the ultimate mystical icon of Masonic
wisdom. The gold glinted in the light, sparking an unexpected
memory.
Langdon gasped, recalling the eerie whisper
of Peter's captor: It really hasn't dawned on you yet, has it? Why
you were chosen?
Now, in one terrifying moment, Langdon's
thoughts snapped into focus and the fog lifted.
All at once, Langdon's purpose here was
crystal clear.
Ten miles away, driving south on Suitland
Parkway, Mal'akh heard a distinctive vibration on the seat beside
him. It was Peter Solomon's iPhone, which had proven a powerful
tool today. The visual caller ID now displayed the image of an
attractive middle-aged woman with long black hair.
INCOMING CALL--KATHERINE SOLOMON
Mal'akh smiled, ignoring the call. Destiny
pulls me closer.
He had lured Katherine Solomon to his home
this afternoon for one reason only--to determine if she had
information that could assist him . . . perhaps a family secret
that might help Mal'akh locate what he sought. Clearly, however,
Katherine's brother had told her nothing of what he had been
guarding all these years.
Even so, Mal'akh had learned something else
from Katherine. Something that has earned her a few extra hours of
life today. Katherine had confirmed for him that all of her
research was in one location, safely locked inside her lab.
I must destroy it.
Katherine's research was poised to open a
new door of understanding, and once the door was opened even a
crack, others would follow. It would just be a matter of time
before everything changed. I cannot let that happen. The world must
stay as it is . . . adrift in ignorant darkness.
The iPhone beeped, indicating Katherine had
left a voice mail. Mal'akh retrieved it.
"Peter, it's me again." Katherine's voice
sounded concerned. "Where are you? I'm still thinking about my
conversation with Dr. Abaddon . . . and I'm worried. Is everything
okay? Please call me. I'm at the lab."
The voice mail ended.
Mal'akh smiled. Katherine should worry less
about her brother, and more about herself. He turned off Suitland
Parkway onto Silver Hill Road. Less than a mile later, in the
darkness, he spotted the faint outline of the SMSC nestled in the
trees off the highway to his right. The entire complex was
surrounded by a high razor-wire fence.
A secure building? Mal'akh chuckled to
himself. I know someone who will open the door for me.
CHAPTER 24
The revelation crashed over Langdon like a
wave.
I know why I am here.
Standing in the center of the Rotunda,
Langdon felt a powerful urge to turn and run away . . . from
Peter's hand, from the shining gold ring, from the suspicious eyes
of Sato and Anderson. Instead, he stood dead still, clinging more
tightly to the leather daybag that hung on his shoulder. I've got
to get out of here.
His jaw clenched as his memory began
replaying the scene from that cold morning, years ago in Cambridge.
It was six A.M. and Langdon was entering his classroom as he always
did following his ritual morning laps in the Harvard Pool. The
familiar smells of chalk dust and steam heat greeted him as he
crossed the threshold. He took two steps toward his desk but
stopped short.
A figure was waiting there for him--an
elegant gentleman with an aquiline face and regal gray eyes.
"Peter?" Langdon stared in shock.
Peter Solomon's smile flashed white in the
dimly lit room. "Good morning, Robert. Surprised to see me?" His
voice was soft, and yet there was power there.
Langdon hurried over and warmly shook his
friend's hand. "What in the world is a Yale blue blood doing on the
Crimson campus before dawn?"
"Covert mission behind enemy lines," Solomon
said, laughing. He motioned to Langdon's trim waistline. "Laps are
paying off. You're in good shape."
"Just trying to make you feel old," Langdon
said, toying with him. "It's great to see you, Peter. What's
up?"
"Short business trip," the man replied,
glancing around the deserted classroom. "I'm sorry to drop in on
you like this, Robert, but I have only a few minutes. There's
something I needed to ask you . . . in person. A favor."
That's a first. Langdon wondered what a
simple college professor could possibly do for the man who had
everything. "Anything at all," he replied, pleased for any
opportunity to do something for someone who had given him so much,
especially when Peter's life of good fortune had also been marred
by so much tragedy.
Solomon lowered his voice. "I was hoping you
would consider looking after something for me."
Langdon rolled his eyes. "Not Hercules, I
hope." Langdon had once agreed to take care of Solomon's
hundred-fifty-pound mastiff, Hercules, during Solomon's travels.
While at Langdon's home, the dog apparently had become homesick for
his favorite leather chew toy and had located a worthy substitute
in Langdon's study--an original vellum, hand-calligraphed,
illuminated Bible from the 1600s. Somehow "bad dog" didn't quite
seem adequate.
"You know, I'm still searching for a
replacement," Solomon said, smiling sheepishly.
"Forget it. I'm glad Hercules got a taste of
religion."
Solomon chuckled but seemed distracted.
"Robert, the reason I came to see you is I'd like you to keep an
eye on something that is quite valuable to me. I inherited it a
while back, but I'm no longer comfortable leaving it in my home or
in my office."
Langdon immediately felt uncomfortable.
Anything "quite valuable" in Peter Solomon's world had to be worth
an absolute fortune. "How about a safe-deposit box?" Doesn't your
family have stock in half the banks in America?
"That would involve paperwork and bank
employees; I'd prefer a trusted friend. And I know you can keep
secrets." Solomon reached in his pocket and pulled out a small
package, handing it to Langdon.
Considering the dramatic preamble, Langdon
had expected something more impressive. The package was a small
cube-shaped box, about three inches square, wrapped in faded brown
packing paper and tied with twine. From the package's heavy weight
and size, it felt like its contents must be rock or metal. This is
it? Langdon turned the box in his hands, now noticing the twine had
been carefully secured on one side with an embossed wax seal, like
an ancient edict. The seal bore a double-headed phoenix with the
number 33 emblazoned on its chest--the traditional symbol of the
highest degree of Freemasonry.
"Really, Peter," Langdon said, a lopsided
grin creeping across his face. "You're the Worshipful Master of a
Masonic lodge, not the pope. Sealing packages with your
ring?"
Solomon glanced down at his gold ring and
gave a chuckle. "I didn't seal this package, Robert. My
great-grandfather did. Almost a century ago."
Langdon's head snapped up. "What?!"
Solomon held up his ring finger. "This
Masonic ring was his. After that, it was my grandfather's, then my
father's . . . and eventually mine."
Langdon held up the package. "Your
great-grandfather wrapped this a century ago and nobody has opened
it?"
"That's right."
"But . . . why not?"
Solomon smiled. "Because it's not
time."
Langdon stared. "Time for what?"
"Robert, I know this will sound odd, but the
less you know, the better. Just put this package somewhere safe,
and please tell no one I gave it to you."
Langdon searched his mentor's eyes for a
glint of playfulness. Solomon had a propensity for dramatics, and
Langdon wondered if he wasn't being played a bit here. "Peter, are
you sure this isn't just a clever ploy to make me think I've been
entrusted with some kind of ancient Masonic secret so I'll be
curious and decide to join?"
"The Masons do not recruit, Robert, you know
that. Besides, you've already told me you'd prefer not to
join."
This was true. Langdon had great respect for
Masonic philosophy and symbolism, and yet he had decided never to
be initiated; the order's vows of secrecy would prevent him from
discussing Freemasonry with his students. It had been for this same
reason that Socrates had refused to formally participate in the
Eleusinian Mysteries.
As Langdon now regarded the mysterious
little box and its Masonic seal, he could not help but ask the
obvious question. "Why not entrust this to one of your Masonic
brothers?"
"Let's just say I have an instinct it would
be safer stored outside the brotherhood. And please don't let the
size of this package fool you. If what my father told me is
correct, then it contains something of substantial power." He
paused. "A talisman, of sorts."
Did he say a talisman? By definition, a
talisman was an object with magical powers. Traditionally,
talismans were used for bringing luck, warding off evil spirits, or
aiding in ancient rituals. "Peter, you do realize that talismans
went out of vogue in the Middle Ages, right?"
Peter laid a patient hand on Langdon's
shoulder. "I know how this sounds, Robert. I've known you a long
time, and your skepticism is one of your greatest strengths as an
academic. It is also your greatest weakness. I know you well enough
to know you're not a man I can ask to believe . . . only to trust.
So now I am asking you to trust me when I tell you this talisman is
powerful. I was told it can imbue its possessor with the ability to
bring order from chaos."
Langdon could only stare. The idea of "order
from chaos" was one of the great Masonic axioms. Ordo ab chao. Even
so, the claim that a talisman could impart any power at all was
absurd, much less the power to bring order from chaos.
"This talisman," Solomon continued, "would
be dangerous in the wrong hands, and unfortunately, I have reason
to believe powerful people want to steal it from me." His eyes were
as serious as Langdon could ever recall. "I would like you to keep
it safe for me for a while. Can you do that?"
That night, Langdon sat alone at his kitchen
table with the package and tried to imagine what could possibly be
inside. In the end, he simply chalked it up to Peter's eccentricity
and locked the package in his library's wall safe, eventually
forgetting all about it.
That was . . . until this morning.
The phone call from the man with the
southern accent.
"Oh, Professor, I almost forgot!" the
assistant had said after giving Langdon the specifics of his travel
arrangements to D.C. "There is one more thing Mr. Solomon
requested."
"Yes?" Langdon replied, his mind already
moving to the lecture he had just agreed to give.
"Mr. Solomon left a note here for you." The
man began reading awkwardly, as if trying to decipher Peter's
penmanship. "`Please ask Robert . . . to bring . . . the small,
sealed package I gave him many years ago.' " The man paused. "Does
this make any sense to you?" Langdon felt surprised as he recalled
the small box that had been sitting in his wall safe all this time.
"Actually, yes. I know what Peter means."
"And you can bring it?"
"Of course. Tell Peter I'll bring it."
"Wonderful." The assistant sounded relieved.
"Enjoy your speech tonight. Safe travels."
Before leaving home, Langdon had dutifully
retrieved the wrapped package from the back of his safe and placed
it in his shoulder bag.
Now he was standing in the U.S. Capitol,
feeling certain of only one thing. Peter Solomon would be horrified
to know how badly Langdon had failed him.
CHAPTER 25
My God, Katherine was right. As usual.
Trish Dunne stared in amazement at the
search-spider results that were materializing on the plasma wall
before her. She had doubted the search would turn up any results at
all, but in fact, she now had over a dozen hits. And they were
still coming in.
One entry in particular looked quite
promising.
Trish turned and shouted in the direction of
the library. "Katherine? I think you'll want to see this!"
It had been a couple of years since Trish
had run a search spider like this, and tonight's results astounded
her. A few years ago, this search would have been a dead end. Now,
however, it seemed that the quantity of searchable digital material
in the world had exploded to the point where someone could find
literally anything. Incredibly, one of the keywords was a word
Trish had never even heard before . . . and the search even found
that.
Katherine rushed through the control-room
door. "What have you got?"
"A bunch of candidates." Trish motioned to
the plasma wall. "Every one of these documents contains all of your
key phrases verbatim."
Katherine tucked her hair behind her ear and
scanned the list. "Before you get too excited," Trish added, "I can
assure you that most of these documents are not what you're looking
for. They're what we call black holes. Look at the file sizes.
Absolutely enormous. They're things like compressed archives of
millions of e-mails, giant unabridged encyclopedia sets, global
message boards that have been running for years, and so forth. By
virtue of their size and diverse content, these files contain so
many potential keywords that they suck in any search engine that
comes anywhere near them."
Katherine pointed to one of the entries near
the top of the list. "How about that one?"
Trish smiled. Katherine was a step ahead,
having found the sole file on the list that had a small file size.
"Good eyes. Yeah, that's really our only candidate so far. In fact,
that file's so small it can't be more than a page or so."
"Open it." Katherine's tone was
intense.
Trish could not imagine a one-page document
containing all the strange search strings Katherine had provided.
Nonetheless, when she clicked and opened the document, the key
phrases were there . . . crystal clear and easy to spot in the
text.
Katherine strode over, eyes riveted to the
plasma wall. "This document is . . . redacted?"
Trish nodded. "Welcome to the world of
digitized text."
Automatic redaction had become standard
practice when offering digitized documents. Redaction was a process
wherein a server allowed a user to search the entire text, but then
revealed only a small portion of it--a teaser of sorts--only that
text immediately flanking the requested keywords. By omitting the
vast majority of the text, the server avoided copyright
infringement and also sent the user an intriguing message: I have
the information you're searching for, but if you want the rest of
it, you'll have to buy it from me.
"As you can see," Trish said, scrolling
through the heavily abridged page, "the document contains all of
your key phrases."
Katherine stared up at the redaction in
silence.
Trish gave her a minute and then scrolled
back to the top of the page. Each of Katherine's key phrases was
underlined in capital letters and accompanied by a small sample of
teaser text--the two words that appeared on either side of the
requested phrase. Trish could not imagine what this document was
referring to. And what the heck is a "symbolon"?
Katherine stepped eagerly toward the screen.
"Where did this document come from? Who wrote it?"
Trish was already working on it. "Give me a
second. I'm trying to chase down the source."
"I need to know who wrote this," Katherine
repeated, her voice intense. "I need to see the rest of it."
"I'm trying," Trish said, startled by the
edge in Katherine's tone.
Strangely, the file's location was not
displaying as a traditional Web address but rather as a numeric
Internet Protocol address. "I can't unmask the IP," Trish said.
"The domain name's not coming up. Hold on." She pulled up her
terminal window. "I'll run a traceroute."
Trish typed the sequence of commands to ping
all the "hops" between her control room's machine and whatever
machine was storing this document.
"Tracing now," she said, executing the
command.
Traceroutes were extremely fast, and a long
list of network devices appeared almost instantly on the plasma
wall. Trish scanned down . . . down . . . through the path of
routers and switches that connected her machine to . . .
What the hell? Her trace had stopped before
reaching the document's server. Her ping, for some reason, had hit
a network device that swallowed it rather than bouncing it back.
"It looks like my traceroute got blocked," Trish said. Is that even
possible?
"Run it again."
Trish launched another traceroute and got
the same result. "Nope. Dead end. It's like this document is on a
server that is untraceable." She looked at the last few hops before
the dead end. "I can tell you, though, it's located somewhere in
the D.C. area."
"You're kidding."
"Not surprising," Trish said. "These spider
programs spiral out geographically, meaning the first results are
always local. Besides, one of your search strings was `Washington,
D.C.' "
"How about a `who is' search?" Katherine
prompted. "Wouldn't that tell you who owns the domain?" A bit
lowbrow, but not a bad idea. Trish navigated to the "who is"
database and ran a search for the IP, hoping to match the cryptic
numbers to an actual domain name. Her frustration was now tempered
by rising curiosity. Who has this document? The "who is" results
appeared quickly, showing no match, and Trish held up her hands in
defeat. "It's like this IP address doesn't exist. I can't get any
information about it at all."
"Obviously the IP exists. We've just
searched a document that's stored there!"
True. And yet whoever had this document
apparently preferred not to share his or her identity. "I'm not
sure what to tell you. Systems traces aren't really my thing, and
unless you want to call in someone with hacking skills, I'm at a
loss."
"Do you know someone?"
Trish turned and stared at her boss.
"Katherine, I was kidding. It's not exactly a great idea."
"But it is done?" She checked her
watch.
"Um, yeah . . . all the time. Technically
it's pretty easy."
"Who do you know?"
"Hackers?" Trish laughed nervously. "Like
half the guys at my old job."
"Anyone you trust?"
Is she serious? Trish could see Katherine
was dead serious. "Well, yeah," she said hurriedly. "I know this
one guy we could call. He was our systems security
specialist--serious computer geek. He wanted to date me, which kind
of sucked, but he's a good guy, and I'd trust him. Also, he does
freelance."
"Can he be discreet?"
"He's a hacker. Of course he can be
discreet. That's what he does. But I'm sure he'd want at least a
thousand bucks to even look--"
"Call him. Offer him double for fast
results."
Trish was not sure what made her more
uncomfortable--helping Katherine Solomon hire a hacker . . . or
calling a guy who probably still found it impossible to believe a
pudgy, redheaded metasystems analyst would rebuff his romantic
advances. "You're sure about this?"
"Use the phone in the library," Katherine
said. "It's got a blocked number. And obviously don't use my
name."
"Right." Trish headed for the door but
paused when she heard Katherine's iPhone chirp. With luck, the
incoming text message might be information that would grant Trish a
reprieve from this distasteful task. She waited as Katherine fished
the iPhone from her lab coat's pocket and eyed the screen.
Katherine Solomon felt a wave of relief to
see the name on her iPhone.
At last.
PETER SOLOMON
"It's a text message from my brother," she
said, glancing over at Trish.
Trish looked hopeful. "So maybe we should
ask him about all this . . . before we call a hacker?"
Katherine eyed the redacted document on the
plasma wall and heard Dr. Abaddon's voice. That which your brother
believes is hidden in D.C. . . . it can be found. Katherine had no
idea what to believe anymore, and this document represented
information about the far-fetched ideas with which Peter had
apparently become obsessed.
Katherine shook her head. "I want to know
who wrote this and where it's located. Make the call."
Trish frowned and headed for the door.
Whether or not this document would be able
to explain the mystery of what her brother had told Dr. Abaddon,
there was at least one mystery that had been solved today. Her
brother had finally learned how to use the text-messaging feature
on the iPhone Katherine had given him.
"And alert the media," Katherine called
after Trish. "The great Peter Solomon just sent his first text
message."
In a strip-mall parking lot across the
street from the SMSC, Mal'akh stood beside his limo, stretching his
legs and waiting for the phone call he knew would be coming. The
rain had stopped, and a winter moon had started to break through
the clouds. It was the same moon that had shone down on Mal'akh
through the oculus of the House of the Temple three months ago
during his initiation.
The world looks different tonight.
As he waited, his stomach growled again. His
two-day fast, although uncomfortable, was critical to his
preparation. Such were the ancient ways. Soon all physical
discomforts would be inconsequential.
As Mal'akh stood in the cold night air, he
chuckled to see that fate had deposited him, rather ironically,
directly in front of a tiny church. Here, nestled between Sterling
Dental and a minimart, was a tiny sanctuary.
LORD'S HOUSE OF GLORY.
Mal'akh gazed at the window, which displayed
part of the church's doctrinal statement: WE BELIEVE THAT JESUS
CHRIST WAS BEGOTTEN BY THE HOLY SPIRIT, AND BORN OF THE VIRGIN
MARY, AND IS BOTH TRUE MAN AND GOD.
Mal'akh smiled. Yes, Jesus is indeed
both--man and God--but a virgin birth is not the prerequisite for
divinity. That is not how it happens.
The ring of a cell phone cut the night air,
quickening his pulse. The phone that was now ringing was Mal'akh's
own--a cheap disposable phone he had purchased yesterday. The
caller ID indicated it was the call he had been anticipating.
A local call, Mal'akh mused, gazing out
across Silver Hill Road toward the faint moonlit outline of a
zigzag roofline over the treetops. Mal'akh flipped open his
phone.
"This is Dr. Abaddon," he said, tuning his
voice deeper.
"It's Katherine," the woman's voice said. "I
finally heard from my brother."
"Oh, I'm relieved. How is he?"
"He's on his way to my lab right now,"
Katherine said. "In fact, he suggested you join us."
"I'm sorry?" Mal'akh feigned hesitation. "In
your . . . lab?"
"He must trust you deeply. He never invites
anyone back there."
"I suppose maybe he thinks a visit might
help our discussions, but I feel like it's an intrusion."
"If my brother says you're welcome, then
you're welcome. Besides, he said he has a lot to tell us both, and
I'd love to get to the bottom of what's going on."
"Very well, then. Where exactly is your
lab?"
"At the Smithsonian Museum Support Center.
Do you know where that is?"
"No," Mal'akh said, staring across the
parking lot at the complex. "I'm actually in my car right now, and
I have a guidance system. What's the address?"
"Forty-two-ten Silver Hill Road."
"Okay, hold on. I'll type it in." Mal'akh
waited for ten seconds and then said, "Ah, good news, it looks like
I'm closer than I thought. The GPS says I'm only about ten minutes
away." "Great. I'll phone the security gate and tell them you're
coming through."
"Thank you."
"I'll see you shortly."
Mal'akh pocketed the disposable phone and
looked out toward the SMSC. Was I rude to invite myself? Smiling,
he now pulled out Peter Solomon's iPhone and admired the text
message he had sent Katherine several minutes earlier.
Got your messages. All's fine. Busy day.
Forgot appointment with Dr. Abaddon. Sorry not to mention him
sooner. Long story. Am headed to lab now. If available, have Dr.
Abaddon join us inside. I trust him fully, and I have much to tell
you both. --Peter
Not surprisingly, Peter's iPhone now pinged
with an incoming reply from Katherine.
peter, congrats on learning to text!
relieved you're okay. spoke to dr. A., and he is coming to lab. see
you shortly! --k
Clutching Solomon's iPhone, Mal'akh crouched
down under his limousine and wedged the phone between the front
tire and the pavement. This phone had served Mal'akh well . . . but
now it was time it became untraceable. He climbed behind the wheel,
put the car in gear, and crept forward until he heard the sharp
crack of the iPhone imploding.
Mal'akh put the car back in park and stared
out at the distant silhouette of the SMSC. Ten minutes. Peter
Solomon's sprawling warehouse housed over thirty million treasures,
but Mal'akh had come here tonight to obliterate only the two most
valuable.
All of Katherine Solomon's research.
And Katherine Solomon herself.
CHAPTER 26
Professor Langdon?" Sato said. "You look
like you've seen a ghost. Are you okay?"
Langdon hoisted his daybag higher onto his
shoulder and laid his hand on top of it, as if somehow this might
better hide the cube-shaped package he was carrying. He could feel
his face had gone ashen. "I'm . . . just worried about Peter." Sato
cocked her head, eyeing him askew.
Langdon felt a sudden wariness that Sato's
involvement tonight might relate to this small package that Solomon
had entrusted to him. Peter had warned Langdon: Powerful people
want to steal this. It would be dangerous in the wrong hands.
Langdon couldn't imagine why the CIA would want a little box
containing a talisman . . . or even what the talisman could be.
Ordo ab chao?
Sato stepped closer, her black eyes probing.
"I sense you've had a revelation?"
Langdon felt himself sweating now. "No, not
exactly."
"What's on your mind?"
"I just . . ." Langdon hesitated, having no
idea what to say. He had no intention of revealing the existence of
the package in his bag, and yet if Sato took him to the CIA, his
bag most certainly would be searched on the way in. "Actually . .
." he fibbed, "I have another idea about the numbers on Peter's
hand."
Sato's expression revealed nothing. "Yes?"
She glanced over at Anderson now, who was just arriving from
greeting the forensics team that had finally arrived.
Langdon swallowed hard and crouched down
beside the hand, wondering what he could possibly come up with to
tell them. You're a teacher, Robert--improvise! He took one last
look at the seven tiny symbols, hoping for some sort of
inspiration.
Nothing. Blank.
As Langdon's eidetic memory skimmed through
his mental encyclopedia of symbols, he could find only one possible
point to make. It was something that had occurred to him initially,
but had seemed unlikely. At the moment, however, he had to buy time
to think.
"Well," he began, "a symbologist's first
clue that he's on the wrong track when deciphering symbols and
codes is when he starts interpreting symbols using multiple
symbolic languages. For example, when I told you this text was
Roman and Arabic, that was a poor analysis because I used multiple
symbolic systems. The same is true for Roman and runic."
Sato crossed her arms and arched her
eyebrows as if to say, "Go on." "In general, communications are
made in one language, not multiple languages, and so a
symbologist's first job with any text is to find a single
consistent symbolic system that applies to the entire text."
"And you see a single system now?"
"Well, yes . . . and no." Langdon's
experience with the rotational symmetry of ambigrams had taught him
that symbols sometimes had meanings from multiple angles. In this
case, he realized there was indeed a way to view all seven symbols
in a single language. "If we manipulated the hand slightly, the
language will become consistent." Eerily, the manipulation Langdon
was about to perform was one that seemed to have been suggested by
Peter's captor already when he spoke the ancient Hermetic adage. As
above, so below.
Langdon felt a chill as he reached out and
grasped the wooden base on which Peter's hand was secured. Gently,
he turned the base upside down so that Peter's extended fingers
were now pointing straight down. The symbols on the palm instantly
transformed themselves.
"From this angle," Langdon said, "X-I-I-I
becomes a valid Roman numeral--thirteen. Moreover, the rest of the
characters can be interpreted using the Roman alphabet--SBB."
Langdon assumed the analysis would elicit blank shrugs, but
Anderson's expression immediately changed.
"SBB?" the chief demanded.
Sato turned to Anderson. "If I'm not
mistaken, that sounds like a familiar numbering system here in the
Capitol Building."
Anderson looked pale. "It is."
Sato gave a grim smile and nodded to
Anderson. "Chief, follow me, please. I'd like a word in
private."
As Director Sato led Chief Anderson out of
earshot, Langdon stood alone in bewilderment. What the hell is
going on here? And what is SBB XIII?
Chief Anderson wondered how this night could
possibly get any stranger. The hand says SBB13? He was amazed any
outsider had even heard of SBB . . . much less SBB13. Peter
Solomon's index finger, it seemed, was not directing them upward as
it had appeared . . . but rather was pointing in quite the opposite
direction. Director Sato led Anderson over to a quiet area near the
bronze statue of Thomas Jefferson. "Chief," she said, "I trust you
know exactly where SBB Thirteen is located?"
"Of course."
"Do you know what's inside?"
"No, not without looking. I don't think it's
been used in decades."
"Well, you're going to open it up."
Anderson did not appreciate being told what
he would do in his own building. "Ma'am, that may be problematic.
I'll have to check the assignment roster first. As you know, most
of the lower levels are private offices or storage, and security
protocol regarding private--"
"You will unlock SBB Thirteen for me," Sato
said, "or I will call OS and send in a team with a battering
ram."
Anderson stared at her a long moment and
then pulled out his radio, raising it to his lips. "This is
Anderson. I need someone to unlock the SBB. Have someone meet me
there in five minutes."
The voice that replied sounded confused.
"Chief, confirming you said SBB?"
"Correct. SBB. Send someone immediately. And
I'll need a flashlight." He stowed his radio. Anderson's heart was
pounding as Sato stepped closer, lowering her voice even
further.
"Chief, time is short," she whispered, "and
I want you to get us down to SBB Thirteen as quickly as
possible."
"Yes, ma'am."
"I also need something else from you."
In addition to breaking and entering?
Anderson was in no position to protest, and yet it had not gone
unnoticed by him that Sato had arrived within minutes of Peter's
hand appearing in the Rotunda, and that she now was using the
situation to demand access to private sections of the U.S. Capitol.
She seemed so far ahead of the curve tonight that she was
practically defining it.
Sato motioned across the room toward the
professor. "The duffel bag on Langdon's shoulder."
Anderson glanced over. "What about
it?"
"I assume your staff X-rayed that bag when
Langdon entered the building?"
"Of course. All bags are scanned." "I want
to see that X-ray. I want to know what's in his bag."
Anderson looked over at the bag Langdon had
been carrying all evening. "But . . . wouldn't it be easier just to
ask him?"
"What part of my request was unclear?"
Anderson pulled out his radio again and
called in her request. Sato gave Anderson her BlackBerry address
and requested that his team e-mail her a digital copy of the X-ray
as soon as they had located it. Reluctantly Anderson
complied.
Forensics was now collecting the severed
hand for the Capitol Police, but Sato ordered them to deliver it
directly to her team at Langley. Anderson was too tired to protest.
He had just been run over by a tiny Japanese steamroller.
"And I want that ring," Sato called over to
Forensics.
The chief technician seemed ready to
question her but thought better of it. He removed the gold ring
from Peter's hand, placed it in a clear specimen bag, and gave it
to Sato. She slipped it into her jacket pocket, and then turned to
Langdon.
"We're leaving, Professor. Bring your
things."
"Where are we going?" Langdon replied.
"Just follow Mr. Anderson."
Yes, Anderson thought, and follow me
closely. The SBB was a section of the Capitol that few ever
visited. To reach it, they would pass through a sprawling labyrinth
of tiny chambers and tight passages buried beneath the crypt.
Abraham Lincoln's youngest son, Tad, had once gotten lost down
there and almost perished. Anderson was starting to suspect that if
Sato had her way, Robert Langdon might suffer a similar fate.
CHAPTER 27
Systems security specialist Mark Zoubianis
had always prided himself on his ability to multitask. At the
moment, he was seated on his futon along with a TV remote, a
cordless phone, a laptop, a PDA, and a large bowl of Pirate's
Booty. With one eye on the muted Redskins game and one eye on his
laptop, Zoubianis was speaking on his Bluetooth headset with a
woman he had not heard from in over a year.
Leave it to Trish Dunne to call on the night
of a play-off game.
Confirming her social ineptitude yet again,
his former colleague had chosen the Redskins game as a perfect
moment to chat him up and request a favor. After some brief small
talk about the old days and how she missed his great jokes, Trish
had gotten to her point: she was trying to unmask a hidden IP
address, probably that of a secure server in the D.C. area. The
server contained a small text document, and she wanted access to it
. . . or at the very least, some information about whose document
it was.
Right guy, wrong timing, he had told her.
Trish then showered him with her finest geek flattery, most of
which was true, and before Zoubianis knew it, he was typing a
strange-looking IP address into his laptop.
Zoubianis took one look at the number and
immediately felt uneasy. "Trish, this IP has a funky format. It's
written in a protocol that isn't even publicly available yet. It's
probably gov intel or military."
"Military?" Trish laughed. "Believe me, I
just pulled a redacted document off this server, and it was not
military." Zoubianis pulled up his terminal window and tried a
traceroute. "You said your traceroute died?"
"Yeah. Twice. Same hop."
"Mine, too." He pulled up a diagnostic probe
and launched it. "And what's so interesting about this IP?"
"I ran a delegator that tapped a search
engine at this IP and pulled a redacted document. I need to see the
rest of the document. I'm happy to pay them for it, but I can't
figure out who owns the IP or how to access it."
Zoubianis frowned at his screen. "Are you
sure about this? I'm running a diagnostic, and this firewall coding
looks . . . pretty serious."
"That's why you get the big bucks."
Zoubianis considered it. They'd offered him
a fortune for a job this easy. "One question, Trish. Why are you so
hot on this?"
Trish paused. "I'm doing a favor for a
friend."
"Must be a special friend."
"She is." Zoubianis chuckled and held his
tongue. I knew it.
"Look," Trish said, sounding impatient. "Are
you good enough to unmask this IP? Yes or no?"
"Yes, I'm good enough. And yes, I know
you're playing me like a fiddle."
"How long will it take you?"
"Not long," he said, typing as he spoke. "I
should be able to get into a machine on their network within ten
minutes or so. Once I'm in and know what I'm looking at, I'll call
you back."
"I appreciate it. So, are you doing
well?"
Now she asks? "Trish, for God's sake, you
called me on the night of a play-off game and now you want to chat?
Do you want me to hack this IP or not?"
"Thanks, Mark. I appreciate it. I'll be
waiting for your call."
"Fifteen minutes." Zoubianis hung up,
grabbed his bowl of Pirate's Booty, and unmuted the game.
Women.
CHAPTER 28
Where are they taking me?
As Langdon hurried with Anderson and Sato
into the depths of the Capitol, he felt his heart rate increasing
with each downward step. They had begun their journey through the
west portico of the Rotunda, descending a marble staircase and then
doubling back through a wide doorway into the famous chamber
directly beneath the Rotunda floor.
The Capitol Crypt.
The air was heavier here, and Langdon was
already feeling claustrophobic. The crypt's low ceiling and soft
uplighting accentuated the robust girth of the forty Doric columns
required to support the vast stone floor directly overhead. Relax,
Robert.
"This way," Anderson said, moving quickly as
he angled to the left across the wide circular space. Thankfully,
this particular crypt contained no bodies. Instead it contained
several statues, a model of the Capitol, and a low storage area for
the wooden catafalque on which coffins were laid for state
funerals. The entourage hurried through, without even a glance at
the four-pointed marble compass in the center of the floor where
the Eternal Flame had once burned.
Anderson seemed to be in a hurry, and Sato
once again had her head buried in her BlackBerry. Cellular service,
Langdon had heard, was boosted and broadcast to all corners of the
Capitol Building to support the hundreds of government phone calls
that took place here every day.
After diagonally crossing the crypt, the
group entered a dimly lit foyer and began winding through a
convoluted series of hallways and dead ends. The warren of passages
contained numbered doorways, each of which bore an identification
number. Langdon read the doors as they snaked their way
around.
S154 . . . S153 . . . S152 . . .
He had no idea what lay behind these doors,
but at least one thing now seemed clear--the meaning of the tattoo
on Peter Solomon's palm.
SBB13 appeared to be a numbered doorway
somewhere in the bowels of the U.S. Capitol Building.
"What are all these doorways?" Langdon
asked, clutching his daybag tightly to his ribs and wondering what
Solomon's tiny package could possibly have to do with a door marked
SBB13.
"Offices and storage," Anderson said.
"Private offices and storage," he added, glancing back at
Sato.
Sato did not even glance up from her
BlackBerry.
"They look tiny," Langdon said.
"Glorified closets, most of them, but
they're still some of the most sought-after real estate in D.C.
This is the heart of the original Capitol, and the old Senate
chamber is two stories above us."
"And SBB Thirteen?" Langdon asked. "Whose
office is that?"
"Nobody's. The SBB is a private storage
area, and I must say, I'm puzzled how--"
"Chief Anderson," Sato interrupted without
looking up from her BlackBerry. "Just take us there, please."
Anderson clenched his jaw and guided them on
in silence through what was now feeling like a hybrid self-storage
facility and epic labyrinth. On almost every wall, directional
signs pointed back and forth, apparently attempting to locate
specific office blocks in this network of hallways.
S142 to S152 . . .
ST1 to ST70 . . .
H1 to H166 & HT1 to HT67 . . .
Langdon doubted he could ever find his way
out of here alone. This place is a maze. From all he could gather,
office numbers began with either an S or an H depending on whether
they were on the Senate side of the building or the House side.
Areas designated ST and HT were apparently on a level that Anderson
called Terrace Level.
Still no signs for SBB.
Finally they arrived at a heavy steel
security door with a key-card entry box.
SB Level
Langdon sensed they were getting
closer.
Anderson reached for his key card but
hesitated, looking uncomfortable with Sato's demands.
"Chief," Sato prompted. "We don't have all
night."
Anderson reluctantly inserted his key card.
The steel door released. He pushed it open, and they stepped
through into the foyer beyond. The heavy door clicked shut behind
them.
Langdon wasn't sure what he had hoped to see
in this foyer, but the sight in front of him was definitely not it.
He was staring at a descending stairway. "Down again?" he said,
stopping short. "There's a level under the crypt?"
"Yes," Anderson said. "SB stands for `Senate
Basement.' "
Langdon groaned. Terrific.
CHAPTER 29
The headlights winding up the SMSC's wooded
access road were the first the guard had seen in the last hour.
Dutifully, he turned down the volume on his portable TV set and
stashed his snacks beneath the counter. Lousy timing. The Redskins
were completing their opening drive, and he didn't want to miss
it.
As the car drew closer, the guard checked
the name on the notepad in front of him.
Dr. Christopher Abaddon.
Katherine Solomon had just called to alert
Security of this guest's imminent arrival. The guard had no idea
who this doctor might be, but he was apparently very good at
doctoring; he was arriving in a black stretch limousine. The long,
sleek vehicle rolled to a stop beside the guardhouse, and the
driver's tinted window lowered silently.
"Good evening," the chauffeur said, doffing
his cap. He was a powerfully built man with a shaved head. He was
listening to the football game on his radio. "I have Dr.
Christopher Abaddon for Ms. Katherine Solomon?"
The guard nodded. "Identification,
please."
The chauffeur looked surprised. "I'm sorry,
didn't Ms. Solomon call ahead?"
The guard nodded, stealing a glance at the
television. "I'm still required to scan and log visitor
identification. Sorry, regulations. I'll need to see the doctor's
ID."
"Not a problem." The chauffeur turned
backward in his seat and spoke in hushed tones through the privacy
screen. As he did, the guard stole another peek at the game. The
Redskins were breaking from the huddle now, and he hoped to get
this limo through before the next play.
The chauffeur turned forward again and held
out the ID that he'd apparently just received through the privacy
screen.
The guard took the card and quickly scanned
it into his system. The D.C. driver's license showed one
Christopher Abaddon from Kalorama Heights. The photo depicted a
handsome blond gentleman wearing a blue blazer, a necktie, and a
satin pocket square. Who the hell wears a pocket square to the
DMV?
A muffled cheer went up from the television
set, and the guard wheeled just in time to see a Redskins player
dancing in the end zone, his finger pointed skyward. "I missed it,"
the guard grumbled, returning to the window.
"Okay," he said, returning the license to
the chauffeur. "You're all set."
As the limo pulled through, the guard
returned to his TV, hoping for a replay.
As Mal'akh drove his limo up the winding
access road, he couldn't help but smile. Peter Solomon's secret
museum had been simple to breach. Sweeter still, tonight was the
second time in twenty-four hours that Mal'akh had broken into one
of Solomon's private spaces. Last night, a similar visit had been
made to Solomon's home.
Although Peter Solomon had a magnificent
country estate in Potomac, he spent much of his time in the city at
his penthouse apartment at the exclusive Dorchester Arms. His
building, like most that catered to the super-rich, was a veritable
fortress. High walls. Guard gates. Guest lists. Secured underground
parking.
Mal'akh had driven this very limousine up to
the building's guardhouse, doffed his chauffeur's cap from his
shaved head, and proclaimed, "I have Dr. Christopher Abaddon. He is
an invited guest of Mr. Peter Solomon." Mal'akh spoke the words as
if he were announcing the Duke of York.
The guard checked a log and then Abaddon's
ID. "Yes, I see Mr. Solomon is expecting Dr. Abaddon." He pressed a
button and the gate opened. "Mr. Solomon is in the penthouse
apartment. Have your guest use the last elevator on the right. It
goes all the way up."
"Thank you." Mal'akh tipped his hat and
drove through.
As he wound deep into the garage, he scanned
for security cameras. Nothing. Apparently, those who lived here
were neither the kind of people who broke into cars nor the kind of
people who appreciated being watched.