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As Katherine stood in silence, her mind raced over what Langdon had said. Your brother . . . he's been taken. She felt a bead of cold sweat materialize on her arm and trickle down, toward the cell phone still clenched in her right hand. It was a danger she had forgotten to consider. If the phone rang, it would give away her position, and she could not turn it off without opening it and illuminating the display.

 

Set down the phone . . . and move away from it.

 

But it was too late. The smell of ethanol approached on her right. And now it grew stronger. Katherine struggled to stay calm, forcing herself to override the instinct to run. Carefully, slowly, she took one step to her left. The faint rustle of her clothing was apparently all her attacker needed. She heard him lunge, and the smell of ethanol washed over her as a powerful hand grabbed at her shoulder. She twisted away, raw terror gripping her. Mathematical probability went out the window, and Katherine broke into a blind sprint. She veered hard to the left, changing course, dashing blindly now into the void.

 

The wall materialized out of nowhere.

 

Katherine hit it hard, knocking the wind from her lungs. Pain blossomed in her arm and shoulder, but she managed to stay on her feet. The oblique angle at which she had collided with the wall had spared her the full force of the blow, but it was little comfort now. The sound had echoed everywhere. He knows where I am. Doubled over in pain, she turned her head and stared out into the blackness of the pod and sensed him staring back at her.

 

Change your location. Now!

 

Still struggling to catch her breath, she began moving down the wall, touching her left hand quietly to each exposed steel stud as she passed. Stay along the wall. Slip past him before he corners you. In her right hand, Katherine still clutched her cell phone, ready to hurl it as a projectile if need be.

 

Katherine was in no way prepared for the sound she heard next--the clear rustle of clothing directly in front of her . . . against the wall. She froze, stock-still, and stopped breathing. How could he be on the wall already? She felt a faint puff of air, laced with the stench of ethanol. He's moving down the wall toward me!

 

Katherine backed up several steps. Then, turning silently 180 degrees, she began moving quickly in the opposite direction down the wall. She moved twenty feet or so when the impossible happened. Once again, directly in front of her, along the wall, she heard the rustling sound of clothing. Then came the same puff of air and the smell of ethanol. Katherine Solomon froze in place.

 

My God, he's everywhere!

 

Bare-chested, Mal'akh stared into the darkness.

 

The smell of ethanol on his sleeves had proven a liability, and so he had transformed it into an asset, stripping off his shirt and jacket and using them to help corner his prey. Throwing his jacket against the wall to the right, he had heard Katherine stop short and change direction. Now, having thrown his shirt ahead to the left, Mal'akh had heard her stop again. He had effectively corralled Katherine against the wall by establishing points beyond which she dared not pass.

 

Now he waited, ears straining in the silence. She has only one direction she can move--directly toward me. Even so, Mal'akh heard nothing. Either Katherine was paralyzed with fear, or she had decided to stand still and wait for help to enter Pod 5. Either way she loses. Nobody would be entering Pod 5 anytime soon; Mal'akh had disabled the outer keypad with a very crude, yet very effective, technique. After using Trish's key card, he had rammed a single dime deep into the key-card slot to prevent any other key-card use without first dismantling the entire mechanism.

 

You and I are alone, Katherine . . . for as long as this takes.

 

Mal'akh inched silently forward, listening for any movement. Katherine Solomon would die tonight in the darkness of her brother's museum. A poetic end. Mal'akh looked forward to sharing the news of Katherine's death with her brother. The old man's anguish would be long- awaited revenge.

 

Suddenly in the darkness, to Mal'akh's great surprise, he saw a tiny glow in the distance and realized Katherine had just made a deadly error in judgment. She's phoning for help?! The electronic display that had just flickered to life was hovering waist high, about twenty yards ahead, like a shining beacon on a vast ocean of black. Mal'akh had been prepared to wait Katherine out, but now he wouldn't have to.

 

Mal'akh sprang into motion, racing toward the hovering light, knowing he had to reach her before she could complete her call for help. He was there in a matter of seconds, and he lunged, arms outstretched on either side of her glowing cell phone, preparing to engulf her.

 

Mal'akh's fingers jammed into a solid wall, bending backward and almost breaking. His head collided next, crashing into a steel beam. He cried out in pain as he crumpled beside the wall. Cursing, he clambered back to his feet, pulling himself up by the waist-high, horizontal strut on which Katherine Solomon had cleverly placed her open cell phone.

 

Katherine was running again, this time with no concern for the noise her hand was making as it bounced rhythmically off the evenly spaced metal studs of Pod 5. Run! If she followed the wall all the way around the pod, she knew that sooner or later she would feel the exit door.

 

Where the hell is the guard?

 

The even spacing of the studs continued as she ran with her left hand on the sidewall and her right out in front of her for protection. When will I reach the corner? The sidewall seemed to go on and on, but suddenly the rhythm of the studs was broken. Her left hand hit empty space for several long strides, and then the studs began again. Katherine slammed on the brakes and backed up, feeling her way across the smooth metal panel. Why are there no studs here?

 

She could hear her attacker lumbering loudly after her now, groping his way down the wall in her direction. Even so, it was a different sound that scared Katherine even more--the distant rhythmic banging of a security guard pounding his flashlight against the Pod 5 door.

 

The guard can't get in?

 

While the thought was terrifying, the location of his banging--diagonally to her right--instantly oriented Katherine. She could now picture where in Pod 5 she was located. The visual flash brought with it an unexpected realization. She now knew what this flat panel on the wall was.

 

Every pod was equipped with a specimen bay--a giant movable wall that could be retracted for transporting oversize specimens in and out of the pods. Like those of an airplane hangar, this door was mammoth, and Katherine in her wildest dreams had never imagined needing to open it. At the moment, though, it seemed like her only hope.

 

Is it even operable?

 

Katherine fumbled blindly in the blackness, searching the bay door until she found the large metal handle. Grasping it, she threw her weight backward, trying to slide open the door. Nothing. She tried again. It didn't budge.

 

She could hear her attacker closing faster now, homing in on the sounds of her efforts. The bay door is locked! Wild with panic, she slid her hands all over the door, feeling the surface for any latch or lever. She suddenly hit what felt like a vertical pole. She followed it down to the floor, crouching, and could feel it was inserted into a hole in the cement. A security rod! She stood up, grabbed the pole, and, lifting with her legs, slid the rod up and out of the hole.

 

He's almost here!

 

Katherine groped now for the handle, found it again, and heaved back on it with all her might. The massive panel seemed barely to move, and yet a sliver of moonlight now sliced into Pod 5. Katherine pulled again. The shaft of light from outside the building grew wider. A little more! She pulled one last time, sensing her attacker was now only a few feet away.

 

Leaping toward the light, Katherine wriggled her slender body sideways into the opening. A hand materialized in the darkness, clawing at her, trying to pull her back inside. She heaved herself through the opening, pursued by a massive bare arm that was covered with tattooed scales. The terrifying arm writhed like an angry snake trying to seize her.

 

Katherine spun and fled down the long, pale outer wall of Pod 5. The bed of loose stones that surrounded the entire perimeter of the SMSC cut into her stockinged feet as she ran, but she pressed on, heading for the main entrance. The night was dark, but with her eyes fully dilated from the utter blackness of Pod 5, she could see perfectly--almost as if it were daylight. Behind her, the heavy bay door ground open, and she heard heavy footsteps accelerating in pursuit down the side of the building. The footsteps seemed impossibly fast.

 

I'll never outrun him to the main entrance. She knew her Volvo was closer, but even that would be too far. I'm not going to make it.

 

Then Katherine realized she had one final card to play.

 

As she neared the corner of Pod 5, she could hear his footsteps quickly overtaking her in the darkness. Now or never. Instead of rounding the corner, Katherine suddenly cut hard to her left, away from the building, out onto the grass. As she did so, she closed her eyes tightly, placed both hands over her face, and began running totally blind across the lawn.

 

The motion-activated security lighting that blazed to life around Pod 5 transformed night into day instantly. Katherine heard a scream of pain behind her as the brilliant floodlights seared into her assailant's hyper dilated pupils with over twenty-five-million candlepower of light. She could hear him stumbling on the loose stones.

 

Katherine kept her eyes tightly closed, trusting herself on the open lawn. When she sensed she was far enough away from the building and the lights, she opened her eyes, corrected her course, and ran like hell through the dark.

 

Her Volvo's keys were exactly where she always left them, in the center console. Breathless, she seized the keys in her trembling hands and found the ignition. The engine roared to life, and her headlights flipped on, illuminating a terrifying sight.

 

A hideous form raced toward her.

 

Katherine froze for an instant.

 

The creature caught in her headlights was a bald and bare-chested animal, its skin covered with tattooed scales, symbols, and text. He bellowed as he ran into the glare, raising his hands before his eyes like a cave-dwelling beast seeing sunlight for the first time. She reached for the gearshift but suddenly he was there, hurling his elbow through her side window, sending a shower of safety glass into her lap.

 

A massive scale-covered arm burst through her window, groping half blind, finding her neck. She threw the car in reverse, but her attacker had latched on to her throat, squeezing with unimaginable force. She turned her head in an attempt to escape his grasp, and suddenly she was staring at his face. Three dark stripes, like fingernail scratches, had torn through his face makeup to reveal the tattoos beneath. His eyes were wild and ruthless.

 

"I should have killed you ten years ago," he growled. "The night I killed your mother."

 

As his words registered, Katherine was seized by a horrifying memory: that feral look in his eyes--she had seen it before. It's him. She would have screamed had it not been for the viselike grip around her neck.

 

She smashed her foot onto the accelerator, and the car lurched backward, almost snapping her neck as he was dragged beside her car. The Volvo careened up an inclined median, and Katherine could feel her neck about to give way beneath his weight. Suddenly tree branches were scraping the side of her car, slapping through the side windows, and the weight was gone.

 

The car burst through the evergreens and out into the upper parking lot, where Katherine slammed on the brakes. Below her, the half-naked man clambered to his feet, staring into her headlights. With a terrifying calm, he raised a menacing scale-covered arm and pointed directly at her. Katherine's blood coursed with raw fear and hatred as she spun the wheel and hit the gas. Seconds later, she was fishtailing out onto Silver Hill Road.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 48

 

In the heat of the moment, Capitol police officer Nu�ez had seen no option but to help the Capitol Architect and Robert Langdon escape. Now, however, back in the basement police headquarters, Nu�ez could see the storm clouds gathering fast.

 

Chief Trent Anderson was holding an ice pack to his head while another officer was tending to Sato's bruises. Both of them were standing with the video surveillance team, reviewing digital playback files in an attempt to locate Langdon and Bellamy.

 

"Check the playback on every hallway and exit," Sato demanded. "I want to know where they went!"

 

Nu�ez felt ill as he looked on. He knew it would be only a matter of minutes before they found the right video clip and learned the truth. I helped them escape. Making matters worse was the arrival of a four-man CIA field team that was now staging nearby, prepping to go after Langdon and Bellamy. These guys looked nothing like the Capitol Police. These guys were dead-serious soldiers . . . black camouflage, night vision, futuristic-looking handguns.

 

Nu�ez felt like he would throw up. Making up his mind, he motioned discreetly to Chief Anderson. "A word, Chief?"

 

"What is it?" Anderson followed Nu�ez into the hall.

 

"Chief, I made a bad mistake," Nu�ez said, breaking a sweat. "I'm sorry, and I'm resigning." You'll fire me in a few minutes anyway.

 

"I beg your pardon?"

 

Nu�ez swallowed hard. "Earlier, I saw Langdon and Architect Bellamy in the visitor center on their way out of the building."

 

"What?!" Anderson bellowed. "Why didn't you say something?!"

 

"The Architect told me not to say a word." "You work for me, goddamm it!" Anderson's voice echoed down the corridor. "Bellamy smashed my head into a wall, for Christ's sake!"

 

Nu�ez handed Anderson the key that the Architect had given him.

 

"What is this?" Anderson demanded.

 

"A key to the new tunnel under Independence Avenue. Architect Bellamy had it. That's how they escaped."

 

Anderson stared down at the key, speechless.

 

Sato poked her head out into the hallway, eyes probing. "What's going on out here?"

 

Nu�ez felt himself go pale. Anderson was still holding the key, and Sato clearly had seen it. As the hideous little woman drew near, Nu�ez improvised as best as he could, hoping to protect his chief. "I found a key on the floor in the subbasement. I was just asking Chief Anderson if he knew what it might go to."

 

Sato arrived, eyeing the key. "And does the chief know?"

 

Nu�ez glanced up at Anderson, who was clearly weighing all his options before speaking. Finally, the chief shook his head. "Not offhand. I'd have to check the--"

 

"Don't bother," Sato said. "This key unlocks a tunnel off the visitor center."

 

"Really?" Anderson said. "How do you know that?"

 

"We just found the surveillance clip. Officer Nu�ez here helped Langdon and Bellamy escape and then relocked that tunnel door behind them. Bellamy gave Nu�ez that key."

 

Anderson turned to Nu�ez with a flare of anger. "Is this true?!"

 

Nu�ez nodded vigorously, doing his best to play along. "I'm sorry, sir. The Architect told me not to tell a soul!"

 

"I don't give a damn what the Architect told you!" Anderson yelled. "I expect--"

 

"Shut up, Trent," Sato snapped. "You're both lousy liars. Save it for your CIA inquisition." She snatched the Architect's tunnel key from Anderson. "You're done here."

 

 

 

CHAPTER 49 Robert Langdon hung up his cell phone, feeling increasingly worried. Katherine's not answering her cell? Katherine had promised to call him as soon as she was safely out of the lab and on her way to meet him here, but she had never done so.

 

Bellamy sat beside Langdon at the reading-room desk. He, too, had just made a call, his to an individual he claimed could offer them sanctuary--a safe place to hide. Unfortunately, this person was not answering either, and so Bellamy had left an urgent message, telling him to call Langdon's cell phone right away.

 

"I'll keep trying," he said to Langdon, "but for the moment, we're on our own. And we need to discuss a plan for this pyramid."

 

The pyramid. For Langdon, the spectacular backdrop of the reading room had all but disappeared, his world constricting now to include only what was directly in front of him--a stone pyramid, a sealed package containing a capstone, and an elegant African American man who had materialized out of the darkness and rescued him from the certainty of a CIA interrogation.

 

Langdon had expected a modicum of sanity from the Architect of the Capitol, but now it seemed Warren Bellamy was no more rational than the madman claiming Peter was in purgatory. Bellamy was insisting this stone pyramid was, in fact, the Masonic Pyramid of legend. An ancient map? That guides us to powerful wisdom?

 

"Mr. Bellamy," Langdon said politely, "this idea that there exists some kind of ancient knowledge that can imbue men with great power . . . I simply can't take it seriously."

 

Bellamy's eyes looked both disappointed and earnest, making Langdon's skepticism all the more awkward. "Yes, Professor, I had imagined you might feel this way, but I suppose I should not be surprised. You are an outsider looking in. There exist certain Masonic realities that you will perceive as myth because you are not properly initiated and prepared to understand them."

 

Now Langdon felt patronized. I wasn't a member of Odysseus's crew, but I'm certain the Cyclops is a myth. "Mr. Bellamy, even if the legend is true . . . this pyramid cannot possibly be the Masonic Pyramid."

 

"No?" Bellamy ran a finger across the Masonic cipher on the stone. "It looks to me like it fits the description perfectly. A stone pyramid with a shining metal capstone, which, according to Sato's X-ray, is exactly what Peter entrusted to you." Bellamy picked up the little cube-shaped package, weighing it in his hand.

 

"This stone pyramid is less than a foot tall," Langdon countered. "Every version of the story I've ever heard describes the Masonic Pyramid as enormous."

 

Bellamy had clearly anticipated this point. "As you know, the legend speaks of a pyramid rising so high that God Himself can reach out and touch it."

 

"Exactly."

 

"I can see your dilemma, Professor. However, both the Ancient Mysteries and Masonic philosophy celebrate the potentiality of God within each of us. Symbolically speaking, one could claim that anything within reach of an enlightened man . . . is within reach of God."

 

Langdon felt unswayed by the wordplay.

 

"Even the Bible concurs," Bellamy said. "If we accept, as Genesis tells us, that `God created man in his own image,' then we also must accept what this implies--that mankind was not created inferior to God. In Luke 17:20 we are told, `The kingdom of God is within you.' "

 

"I'm sorry, but I don't know any Christians who consider themselves God's equal."

 

"Of course not," Bellamy said, his tone hardening. "Because most Christians want it both ways. They want to be able to proudly declare they are believers in the Bible and yet simply ignore those parts they find too difficult or too inconvenient to believe."

 

Langdon made no response.

 

"Anyhow," Bellamy said, "the Masonic Pyramid's age-old description as being tall enough to be touched by God . . . this has long led to misinterpretations about its size. Conveniently, it keeps academics like yourself insisting the pyramid is a legend, and nobody searches for it."

 

Langdon looked down at the stone pyramid. "I apologize that I'm frustrating you," he said. "I've simply always thought of the Masonic Pyramid as a myth."

 

"Does it not seem perfectly fitting to you that a map created by stonemasons would be carved in stone? Throughout history, our most important guideposts have always been carved in stone-- including the tablets God gave Moses--Ten Commandments to guide our human conduct."

 

"I understand, and yet it is always referred to as the Legend of the Masonic Pyramid. Legend implies it is mythical."

 

"Yes, legend." Bellamy chuckled. "I'm afraid you're suffering from the same problem Moses had."

 

"I'm sorry?"

 

Bellamy looked almost amused as he turned in his seat, glancing up at the second-tier balcony, where sixteen bronze statues peered down at them. "Do you see Moses?"

 

Langdon gazed up at the library's celebrated statue of Moses. "Yes." "He has horns."

 

"I'm aware of that."

 

"But do you know why he has horns?"

 

Like most teachers, Langdon did not enjoy being lectured to. The Moses above them had horns for the same reason thousands of Christian images of Moses had horns--a mistranslation of the book of Exodus. The original Hebrew text described Moses as having "karan 'ohr panav"-- "facial skin that glowed with rays of light"--but when the Roman Catholic Church created the official Latin translation of the Bible, the translator bungled Moses's description, rendering it as "cornuta esset facies sua," meaning "his face was horned." From that moment on, artists and sculptors, fearing reprisals if they were not true to the Gospels, began depicting Moses with horns.

 

"It was a simple mistake," Langdon replied. "A mistranslation by Saint Jerome around four hundred A.D." Bellamy looked impressed. "Exactly. A mistranslation. And the result is . . . poor Moses is now misshapen for all history."

 

"Misshapen" was a nice way to put it. Langdon, as a child, had been terrified when he saw Michelangelo's diabolical "horned Moses"--the centerpiece of Rome's Basilica of St. Peter in Chains.

 

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

 

You're preaching to the choir, Langdon thought, having learned the lesson firsthand in Paris a number of years back. SanGreal: Holy Grail. SangReal: Royal Blood.

 

"In the case of the Masonic Pyramid," Bellamy continued, "people heard whispers about a `legend.' And the idea stuck. The Legend of the Masonic Pyramid sounded like a myth. But the word legend was referring to something else. It had been misconstrued. Much like the word talisman." He smiled. "Language can be very adept at hiding the truth."

 

"That's true, but you're losing me here."

 

"Robert, the Masonic Pyramid is a map. And like every map, it has a legend--a key that tells you how to read it." Bellamy took the cube-shaped package and held it up. "Don't you see? This capstone is the legend to the pyramid. It is the key that tells you how to read the most powerful artifact on earth . . . a map that unveils the hiding place of mankind's greatest treasure--the lost wisdom of the ages."

 

Langdon fell silent.

 

"I humbly submit," Bellamy said, "that your towering Masonic Pyramid is only this . . . a modest stone whose golden capstone reaches high enough to be touched by God. High enough that an enlightened man can reach down and touch it."

 

Silence hung between the two men for several seconds.

 

Langdon felt an unexpected pulse of excitement as he looked down at the pyramid, seeing it in a new light. His eyes moved again to the Masonic cipher. "But this code . . . it seems so . . ."

 

"Simple?"

 

Langdon nodded. "Almost anyone could decipher this."

 

Bellamy smiled and retrieved a pencil and paper for Langdon. "Then perhaps you should enlighten us?"

 

Langdon felt uneasy about reading the code, and yet considering the circumstances, it seemed a minor betrayal of Peter's trust. Moreover, whatever the engraving said, he could not imagine that it unveiled a secret hiding place of anything at all . . . much less that of one of history's greatest treasures.

 

Langdon accepted the pencil from Bellamy and tapped it on his chin as he studied the cipher. The code was so simple that he barely needed pencil and paper. Even so, he wanted to ensure he made no mistakes, and so he dutifully put pencil to paper and wrote down the most common decryption key for a Masonic cipher. The key consisted of four grids--two plain and two dotted--with the alphabet running through them in order. Each letter of the alphabet was now positioned inside a uniquely shaped "enclosure" or "pen." The shape of each letter's enclosure became the symbol for that letter.

 

The scheme was so simple, it was almost infantile. Langdon double-checked his handiwork. Feeling confident the decryption key was correct, he now turned his attention back to the code inscribed on the pyramid. To decipher it, all he had to do was to find the matching shape on his decryption key and write down the letter inside it. The first character on the pyramid looked like a down arrow or a chalice. Langdon quickly found the chalice-shaped segment on the decryption key. It was located in the lower left-hand corner and enclosed the letter S.

 

Langdon wrote down S.

 

The next symbol on the pyramid was a dotted square missing its right side. That shape on the decryption grid enclosed the letter O.

 

He wrote down O.

 

The third symbol was a simple square, which enclosed the letter E.

 

Langdon wrote down E.

 

SOE...

 

He continued, picking up speed until he had completed the entire grid.

 

Now, as he gazed down at his finished translation, Langdon let out a puzzled sigh. Hardly what I'd call a eureka moment.

 

Bellamy's face showed the hint of a smile. "As you know, Professor, the Ancient Mysteries are reserved only for the truly enlightened."

 

"Right," Langdon said, frowning. Apparently, I don't qualify.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 50

 

In a basement office deep inside CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, the same sixteen- character Masonic cipher glowed brightly on a high-definition computer monitor. Senior OS analyst Nola Kaye sat alone and studied the image that had been e-mailed to her ten minutes ago by her boss, Director Inoue Sato.

 

Is this some kind of joke? Nola knew it was not, of course; Director Sato had no sense of humor, and the events of tonight were anything but a joking matter. Nola's high-level clearance within the CIA's all-seeing Office of Security had opened her eyes to the shadow worlds of power. But what Nola had witnessed in the last twenty-four hours had changed her impressions forever of the secrets that powerful men kept.

 

"Yes, Director," Nola now said, cradling the phone on her shoulder as she talked to Sato. "The engraving is indeed the Masonic cipher. However, the cleartext is meaningless. It appears to be a grid of random letters." She gazed down at her decryption.

 

 

"It must say something," Sato insisted.

 

"Not unless it has a second layer of encryption that I'm not aware of."

 

"Any guesses?" Sato asked.

 

"It's a grid-based matrix, so I could run the usual--Vigen�re, grilles, trellises, and so forth--but no promises, especially if it's a onetime pad."

 

"Do what you can. And do it fast. How about the X-ray?"

 

Nola swiveled her chair to a second system, which displayed a standard security X-ray of someone's bag. Sato had requested information on what appeared to be a small pyramid inside a cube-shaped box. Normally, a two-inch-tall object would not be an issue of national security unless it was made of enriched plutonium. This one was not. It was made of something almost equally startling.

 

"Image-density analysis was conclusive," Nola said. "Nineteen-point-three grams per cubic centimeter. It's pure gold. Very, very valuable."

 

"Anything else?"

 

"Actually, yes. The density scan picked up minor irregularities on the surface of the gold pyramid. It turns out the gold is engraved with text."

 

"Really?" Sato sounded hopeful. "What does it say?"

 

"I can't tell yet. The inscription is extremely faint. I'm trying to enhance with filters, but the resolution on the X-ray is not great."

 

"Okay, keep trying. Call me when you have something."

 

"Yes, ma'am."

 

"And, Nola?" Sato's tone turned ominous. "As with everything you have learned in the last twenty-four hours, the images of the stone pyramid and gold capstone are classified at the highest levels of security. You are to consult no one. You report to me directly. I want to make sure that is clear."

 

"Of course, ma'am."

 

"Good. Keep me posted." Sato hung up.

 

Nola rubbed her eyes and looked blearily back at her computer screens. She had not slept in over thirty-six hours, and she knew damn well she would not sleep again until this crisis had reached its conclusion.

 

Whatever that may be.

 

Back at the Capitol Visitor Center, four black-clad CIA field-op specialists stood at the entrance to the tunnel, peering hungrily down the dimly lit shaft like a pack of dogs eager for the hunt.

 

Sato approached, having just hung up from a call. "Gentlemen," she said, still holding the Architect's key, "are your mission parameters clear?"

 

"Affirmative," the lead agent replied. "We have two targets. The first is an engraved stone pyramid, approximately one foot tall. The second is a smaller, cube-shaped package, approximately two inches tall. Both were last seen in Robert Langdon's shoulder bag."

 

"Correct," Sato said. "These two items must be retrieved quickly and intact. Do you have any questions?"

 

"Parameters for use of force?"

 

Sato's shoulder was still throbbing from where Bellamy had struck her with a bone. "As I said, it is of critical importance that these items be retrieved."

 

"Understood." The four men turned and headed into the darkness of the tunnel. Sato lit a cigarette and watched them disappear.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 51

 

Katherine Solomon had always been a prudent driver, but now she was pushing her Volvo at over ninety as she fled blindly up the Suitland Parkway. Her trembling foot had been lodged on the accelerator for a full mile before her panic began to lift. She now realized her uncontrollable shivering was no longer solely from fear.

 

I'm freezing.

 

The wintry night air was gushing through her shattered window, buffeting her body like an arctic wind. Her stockinged feet were numb, and she reached down for her spare pair of shoes, which she kept beneath the passenger seat. As she did, she felt a stab of pain from the bruise on her throat, where the powerful hand had latched on to her neck.

 

The man who had smashed through her window bore no resemblance to the blond-haired gentleman whom Katherine knew as Dr. Christopher Abaddon. His thick hair and smooth, tanned complexion had disappeared. His shaved head, bare chest, and makeup-smeared face had been unveiled as a terrifying tapestry of tattoos.

 

She heard his voice again, whispering to her in the howl of wind outside her broken window. Katherine, I should have killed you years ago . . . the night I killed your mother.

 

Katherine shivered, feeling no doubt. That was him. She had never forgotten the look of fiendish violence in his eyes. Nor had she ever forgotten the sound of her brother's single gunshot, which had killed this man, propelling him off a high ledge into the frozen river below, where he plummeted through the ice and never resurfaced. Investigators had searched for weeks, never finding his body, and finally decided it had been washed away by the current out to the Chesapeake Bay.

 

They were wrong, she now knew. He is still alive.

 

And he's back.

 

Katherine felt angst-ridden as the memories flooded back. It was almost exactly ten years ago. Christmas Day. Katherine, Peter, and their mother--her entire family--were gathered at their sprawling stone mansion in Potomac, nestled on a two-hundred-acre wooded estate with its own river running through it. As was tradition, their mother worked diligently in the kitchen, rejoicing in the holiday custom of cooking for her two children. Even at seventy-five years of age, Isabel Solomon was an exuberant cook, and tonight the mouthwatering smells of roast venison, parsnip gravy, and garlic mashed potatoes wafted through the house. While Mother prepared the feast, Katherine and her brother relaxed in the conservatory, discussing Katherine's latest fascination--a new field called Noetic Science. An unlikely fusion of modern particle physics and ancient mysticism, Noetics had absolutely captivated Katherine's imagination.

 

Physics meets philosophy.

 

Katherine told Peter about some of the experiments she was dreaming up, and she could see in his eyes that he was intrigued. Katherine felt particularly pleased to give her brother something positive to think about this Christmas, since the holiday had also become a painful reminder of a terrible tragedy.

 

Peter's son, Zachary.

 

Katherine's nephew's twenty-first birthday had been his last. The family had been through a nightmare, and it seemed that her brother was only now finally learning how to laugh again.

 

Zachary had been a late bloomer, frail and awkward, a rebellious and angry teenager. Despite his deeply loving and privileged upbringing, the boy seemed determined to detach himself from the Solomon "establishment." He was kicked out of prep school, partied hard with the "celebrati," and shunned his parents' exhaustive attempts to provide him firm and loving guidance.

 

He broke Peter's heart.

 

Shortly before Zachary's eighteenth birthday, Katherine had sat down with her mother and brother and listened to them debating whether or not to withhold Zachary's inheritance until he was more mature. The Solomon inheritance--a centuries-old tradition in the family--bequeathed a staggeringly generous piece of the Solomon wealth to every Solomon child on his or her eighteenth birthday. The Solomons believed that an inheritance was more helpful at the beginning of someone's life than at the end. Moreover, placing large pieces of the Solomon fortune in the hands of eager young descendants had been the key to growing the family's dynastic wealth.

 

In this case, however, Katherine's mother argued that it was dangerous to give Peter's troubled son such a large sum of money. Peter disagreed.

 

"The Solomon inheritance," her brother had said, "is a family tradition that should not be broken. This money may well force Zachary to be more responsible."

 

Sadly, her brother had been wrong.

 

The moment Zachary received the money, he broke from the family, disappearing from the house without taking any of his belongings. He surfaced a few months later in the tabloids: TRUST FUND PLAYBOY LIVING EUROPEAN HIGH LIFE.

 

The tabloids took joy in documenting Zachary's spoiled life of debauchery. The photos of wild parties on yachts and drunken disco stupors were hard for the Solomons to take, but the photos of their wayward teen turned from tragic to frightening when the papers reported Zachary had been caught carrying cocaine across a border in Eastern Europe: SOLOMON MILLIONAIRE IN TURKISH PRISON.

 

The prison, they learned, was called Soganlik--a brutal F-class detention center located in the Kartal district outside of Istanbul. Peter Solomon, fearing for his son's safety, flew to Turkey to retrieve him. Katherine's distraught brother returned empty-handed, having been forbidden even to visit with Zachary. The only promising news was that Solomon's influential contacts at the U.S. State Department were working on getting him extradited as quickly as possible.

 

Two days later, however, Peter received a horrifying international phone call. The next morning, headlines blared: SOLOMON HEIR MURDERED IN PRISON.

 

The prison photos were horrific, and the media callously aired them all, even long after the Solomons' private burial ceremony. Peter's wife never forgave him for failing to free Zachary, and their marriage came to an end six months later. Peter had been alone ever since.

 

It was years later that Katherine, Peter, and their mother, Isabel, were gathered quietly for Christmas. The pain was still a presence in their family, but mercifully it was fading with each passing year. The pleasant rattle of pots and pans now echoed from the kitchen as their mother prepared the traditional feast. Out in the conservatory, Peter and Katherine were enjoying a baked Brie and relaxed holiday conversation.

 

Then came an utterly unexpected sound.

 

"Hello, Solomons," an airy voice said behind them.

 

Startled, Katherine and her brother spun to see an enormous muscular figure stepping into the conservatory. He wore a black ski mask that covered all of his face except his eyes, which shone with feral ferocity.

 

Peter was on his feet in an instant. "Who are you?! How did you get in here?!"

 

"I knew your little boy, Zachary, in prison. He told me where this key was hidden." The stranger held up an old key and grinned like a beast. "Right before I bludgeoned him to death."

 

Peter's mouth fell open.

 

A pistol appeared, aimed directly at Peter's chest. "Sit."

 

Peter fell back into his chair. As the man moved into the room, Katherine was frozen in place. Behind his mask, the man's eyes were wild like those of a rabid animal.

 

"Hey!" Peter yelled, as if trying to warn their mother in the kitchen. "Whoever you are, take what you want, and get out!"

 

The man leveled his gun at Peter's chest. "And what is it you think I want?"

 

"Just tell me how much," Solomon said. "We don't have money in the house, but I can--"

 

The monster laughed. "Do not insult me. I have not come for money. I have come tonight for Zachary's other birthright." He grinned. "He told me about the pyramid."

 

Pyramid? Katherine thought in bewildered terror. What pyramid?

 

Her brother was defiant. "I don't know what you're talking about."

 

"Don't play dumb with me! Zachary told me what you keep in your study vault. I want it. Now."

 

"Whatever Zachary told you, he was confused," Peter said. "I don't know what you're talking about!"

 

"No?" The intruder turned and aimed the gun at Katherine's face. "How about now?"

 

Peter's eyes filled with terror. "You must believe me! I don't know what it is you want!"

 

"Lie to me one more time," he said, still aiming at Katherine, "and I swear I will take her from you." He smiled. "And from what Zachary said, your little sister is more precious to you than all your--"

 

"What's going on?!" Katherine's mother shouted, marching into the room with Peter's Browning Citori shotgun--which she aimed directly at the man's chest. The intruder spun toward her, and the feisty seventy-five-year-old woman wasted no time. She fired a deafening blast of pellets. The intruder staggered backward, firing his handgun wildly in all directions, shattering windows as he fell and crashed through the glass doorway, dropping the pistol as he fell.

 

Peter was instantly in motion, diving on the loose handgun. Katherine had fallen, and Mrs. Solomon hurried to her side, kneeling beside her. "My God, are you hurt?!"

 

Katherine shook her head, mute with shock. Outside the shattered glass door, the masked man had clambered to his feet and was running into the woods, clutching his side as he ran. Peter Solomon glanced back to make sure his mother and sister were safe, and seeing they were fine, he held the pistol and raced out the door after the intruder.

 

Katherine's mother held her hand, trembling. "Thank heavens you're okay." Then suddenly her mother pulled away. "Katherine? You're bleeding! There's blood! You're hurt!" Katherine saw the blood. A lot of blood. It was all over her. But she felt no pain.

 

Her mother frantically searched Katherine's body for a wound. "Where does it hurt!"

 

"Mom, I don't know, I don't feel anything!"

 

Then Katherine saw the source of the blood, and she went cold. "Mom, it's not me . . ." She pointed to the side of her mother's white satin blouse, where blood was running freely, and a small tattered hole was visible. Her mother glanced down, looking more confused than anything else. She winced and shrank back, as if the pain had just hit her.

 

"Katherine?" Her voice was calm, but suddenly it carried the weight of her seventy-five years. "I need you to call an ambulance."

 

Katherine ran to the hall phone and called for help. When she got back to the conservatory, she found her mother lying motionless in a pool of blood. She ran to her, crouching down, cradling her mother's body in her arms.

 

Katherine had no idea how much time had passed when she heard the distant gunshot in the woods. Finally, the conservatory door burst open, and her brother, Peter, rushed in, eyes wild, gun still in his hand. When he saw Katherine sobbing, holding their lifeless mother in her arms, his face contorted in anguish. The scream that echoed through the conservatory was a sound Katherine Solomon would never forget.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 52

 

Mal'akh could feel the tattooed muscles on his back rippling as he sprinted back around the building toward the open bay door of Pod 5.

 

I must gain access to her lab.

 

Katherine's escape had been unanticipated . . . and problematic. Not only did she know where Mal'akh lived, she now knew his true identity . . . and that he was the one who had invaded their home a decade earlier.

 

Mal'akh had not forgotten that night either. He had come within inches of possessing the pyramid, but destiny had obstructed him. I was not yet ready. But he was ready now. More powerful. More influential. Having endured unthinkable hardship in preparation for his return, Mal'akh was poised tonight to fulfill his destiny at last. He felt certain that before the night was over, he would indeed be staring into the dying eyes of Katherine Solomon.

 

As Mal'akh reached the bay door, he reassured himself that Katherine had not truly escaped; she had only prolonged the inevitable. He slid through the opening and strode confidently across the darkness until his feet hit the carpet. Then he took a right turn and headed for the Cube. The banging on the door of Pod 5 had stopped, and Mal'akh suspected the guard was now trying to remove the dime Mal'akh had jammed into the key panel to render it useless.

 

When Mal'akh reached the door that led into the Cube, he located the outer keypad and inserted Trish's key card. The panel lit up. He entered Trish's PIN and went inside. The lights were all ablaze, and as he moved into the sterile space, he squinted in amazement at the dazzling array of equipment. Mal'akh was no stranger to the power of technology; he performed his own breed of science in the basement of his home, and last night some of that science had borne fruit.

 

The Truth.

 

Peter Solomon's unique confinement--trapped alone in the in-between--had laid bare all of the man's secrets. I can see his soul. Mal'akh had learned certain secrets he anticipated, and others he had not, including the news about Katherine's lab and her shocking discoveries. Science is getting close, Mal'akh had realized. And I will not allow it to light the way for the unworthy.

 

Katherine's work here had begun using modern science to answer ancient philosophical questions. Does anyone hear our prayers? Is there life after death? Do humans have souls? Incredibly, Katherine had answered all of these questions, and more. Scientifically. Conclusively. The methods she used were irrefutable. Even the most skeptical of people would be persuaded by the results of her experiments. If this information were published and made known, a fundamental shift would begin in the consciousness of man. They will start to find their way. Mal'akh's last task tonight, before his transformation, was to ensure that this did not happen.

 

As he moved through the lab, Mal'akh located the data room that Peter had told him about. He peered through the heavy glass walls at the two holographic data-storage units. Exactly as he said they would be. Mal'akh found it hard to imagine that the contents of these little boxes could change the course of human development, and yet Truth had always been the most potent of all the catalysts.

 

Eyeing the holographic storage units, Mal'akh produced Trish's key card and inserted it in the door's security panel. To his surprise, the panel did not light up. Apparently, access to this room was not a trust extended to Trish Dunne. He now reached for the key card he had found in Katherine's lab-coat pocket. When he inserted this one, the panel lit up.

 

Mal'akh had a problem. I never got Katherine's PIN. He tried Trish's PIN, but it didn't work. Stroking his chin, he stepped back and examined the three-inch-thick Plexiglas door. Even with an ax, he knew he would be unable to break through and obtain the drives he needed to destroy.

 

Mal'akh had planned for this contingency, however. Inside the power-supply room, exactly as Peter had described, Mal'akh located the rack holding several metal cylinders resembling large scuba tanks. The cylinders bore the letters LH, the number 2, and the universal symbol for combustible. One of the canisters was connected to the lab's hydrogen fuel cell.

 

Mal'akh left one canister connected and carefully heaved one of the reserve cylinders down onto a dolly beside the rack. Then he rolled the cylinder out of the power-supply room, across the lab, to the Plexiglas door of the data-storage room. Although this location would certainly be plenty close enough, he had noticed one weakness in the heavy Plexiglas door--the small space between the bottom and the jamb.

 

At the threshold, he carefully laid the canister on its side and slid the flexible rubber tube beneath the door. It took him a moment to remove the safety seals and access the cylinder's valve, but once he did, ever so gently, he uncocked the valve. Through the Plexiglas, he could see the clear, bubbling liquid begin draining out of the tube onto the floor inside the storage room. Mal'akh watched the puddle expand, oozing across the floor, steaming and bubbling as it grew. Hydrogen remained in liquid form only when it was cold, and as it warmed up, it would start to boil off. The resulting gas, conveniently, was even more flammable than the liquid.

 

Remember the Hindenburg.

 

Mal'akh hurried now into the lab and retrieved the Pyrex jug of Bunsen-burner fuel--a viscous, highly flammable, yet noncombustible oil. He carried it to the Plexiglas door, pleased to see the liquid hydrogen canister was still draining, the puddle of boiling liquid inside the data-storage room now covering the entire floor, encircling the pedestals that supported the holographic storage units. A whitish mist now rose from the boiling puddle as the liquid hydrogen began turning to gas . . . filling the small space.

 

Mal'akh raised the jug of Bunsen-burner fuel and squirted a healthy amount on the hydrogen canister, the tubing, and into the small opening beneath the door. Then, very carefully, he began backing out of the lab, leaving an unbroken stream of oil on the floor as he went.

 

The dispatch operator handling 911 calls for Washington, D.C., had been unusually busy tonight. Football, beer, and a full moon, she thought as yet another emergency call appeared on her screen, this one from a gas-station pay phone on the Suitland Parkway in Anacostia. A car accident probably.

 

"Nine-one-one," she answered. "What is your emergency?"

 

"I was just attacked at the Smithsonian Museum Support Center," a panicked woman's voice said. "Please send the police! Forty-two-ten Silver Hill Road!"

 

"Okay, slow down," the operator said. "You need to--"

 

"I need you to send officers also to a mansion in Kalorama Heights where I think my brother may be held captive!"

 

The operator sighed. Full moon.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 53

 

As I tried to tell you," Bellamy was saying to Langdon, "there is more to this pyramid than meets the eye."

 

Apparently so. Langdon had to admit that the stone pyramid sitting in his unzipped daybag looked much more mysterious to him now. His decryption of the Masonic cipher had rendered a seemingly meaningless grid of letters.

 

Chaos.

 

 

For a long while, Langdon examined the grid, searching for any hint of meaning within the letters--hidden words, anagrams, clues of any sort--but he found nothing.

 

"The Masonic Pyramid," Bellamy explained, "is said to guard its secrets behind many veils. Each time you pull back a curtain, you face another. You have unveiled these letters, and yet they tell you nothing until you peel back another layer. Of course, the way to do that is known only to the one who holds the capstone. The capstone, I suspect, has an inscription as well, which tells you how to decipher the pyramid."

 

Langdon glanced at the cube-shaped package on the desk. From what Bellamy had said, Langdon now understood that the capstone and pyramid were a "segmented cipher"--a code broken into pieces. Modern cryptologists used segmented ciphers all the time, although the security scheme had been invented in ancient Greece. The Greeks, when they wanted to store secret information, inscribed it on a clay tablet and then shattered the tablet into pieces, storing each piece in a separate location. Only when all the pieces were gathered together could the secrets be read. This kind of inscribed clay tablet--called a symbolon--was in fact the origin of the modern word symbol.

 

"Robert," Bellamy said, "this pyramid and capstone have been kept apart for generations, ensuring the secret's safety." His tone turned rueful. "Tonight, however, the pieces have come dangerously close. I'm sure I don't have to say this . . . but it is our duty to ensure this pyramid is not assembled."

 

Langdon found Bellamy's sense of drama to be somewhat overwrought. Is he describing the capstone and pyramid . . . or a detonator and nuclear bomb? He still couldn't quite accept Bellamy's claims, but it hardly seemed to matter. "Even if this is the Masonic Pyramid, and even if this inscription does somehow reveal the location of ancient knowledge, how could that knowledge possibly impart the kind of power it is said to impart?"

 

"Peter always told me you were a hard man to convince--an academic who prefers proof to speculation."

 

"You're saying you do believe that?" Langdon demanded, feeling impatient now. "Respectfully . . . you are a modern, educated man. How could you believe such a thing?"

 

Bellamy gave a patient smile. "The craft of Freemasonry has given me a deep respect for that which transcends human understanding. I've learned never to close my mind to an idea simply because it seems miraculous."

 

 

 

CHAPTER 54

 

Frantically, the SMSC perimeter patrolman dashed down the gravel pathway that ran along the outside of the building. He'd just received a call from an officer inside saying that the keypad to Pod 5 had been sabotaged, and that a security light indicated that Pod 5's specimen bay door was now open.

 

What the hell is going on?! As he arrived at the specimen bay, sure enough he found the door open a couple of feet. Bizarre, he thought. This can only be unlocked from the inside. He took the flashlight off his belt and shone it into the inky blackness of the pod. Nothing. Having no desire to step into the unknown, he moved only as far as the threshold and then stuck the flashlight through the opening, swinging it to the left, and then to the--

 

Powerful hands seized his wrist and yanked him into the blackness. The guard felt himself being spun around by an invisible force. He smelled ethanol. The flashlight flew out of his hand, and before he could even process what was happening, a rock-hard fist collided with his sternum. The guard crumpled to the cement floor . . . groaning in pain as a large black form stepped away from him.

 

The guard lay on his side, gasping and wheezing for breath. His flashlight lay nearby, its beam spilling across the floor and illuminating what appeared to be a metal can of some sort. The can's label said it was fuel oil for a Bunsen burner.

 

A cigarette lighter sparked, and the orange flame illuminated a vision that hardly seemed human. Jesus Christ! The guard barely had time to process what he was seeing before the bare-chested creature knelt down and touched the flame to the floor.

 

Instantly, a strip of fire materialized, leaping away from them, racing into the void. Bewildered, the guard looked back, but the creature was already slipping out the open bay door into the night.

 

The guard managed to sit up, wincing in pain as his eyes followed the thin ribbon of fire. What the hell?! The flame looked too small to be truly dangerous, and yet now he saw something utterly terrifying. The fire was no longer illuminating only the darkened void. It had traveled all the way to the back wall, where it was now illuminating a massive cinder-block structure. The guard had never been permitted inside Pod 5, but he knew very well what this structure must be.

 

The Cube.

 

Katherine Solomon's lab.

 

The flame raced in a straight line directly to the lab's outer door. The guard clambered to his feet, knowing full well that the ribbon of oil probably continued beneath the lab door . . . and would soon start a fire inside. But as he turned to run for help, he felt an unexpected puff of air sucking past him.

 

For a brief instant, all of Pod 5 was bathed in light.

 

The guard never saw the hydrogen fireball erupting skyward, ripping the roof off Pod 5 and billowing hundreds of feet into the air. Nor did he see the sky raining fragments of titanium mesh, electronic equipment, and droplets of melted silicon from the lab's holographic storage units. Katherine Solomon was driving north when she saw the sudden flash of light in her rearview mirror. A deep rumble thundered through the night air, startling her.

 

Fireworks? she wondered. Do the Redskins have a halftime show?

 

She refocused on the road, her thoughts still on the 911 call she'd placed from the deserted gas station's pay phone.

 

Katherine had successfully convinced the 911 dispatcher to send the police to the SMSC to investigate a tattooed intruder and, Katherine prayed, to find her assistant, Trish. In addition, she urged the dispatcher to check Dr. Abaddon's address in Kalorama Heights, where she thought Peter was being held hostage.

 

Unfortunately, Katherine had been unable to obtain Robert Langdon's unlisted cell-phone number. So now, seeing no other option, she was speeding toward the Library of Congress, where Langdon had told her he was headed.

 

The terrifying revelation of Dr. Abaddon's true identity had changed everything. Katherine had no idea what to believe anymore. All she knew for certain was that the same man who had killed her mother and nephew all those years ago had now captured her brother and had come to kill her. Who is this madman? What does he want? The only answer she could come up with made no sense. A pyramid? Equally confusing was why this man had come to her lab tonight. If he wanted to hurt her, why hadn't he done so in the privacy of his own home earlier today? Why go to the trouble of sending a text message and risk breaking into her lab?

 

Unexpectedly, the fireworks in her rearview mirror grew brighter, the initial flash followed by an unexpected sight--a blazing orange fireball that Katherine could see rising above the tree line. What in the world?! The fireball was accompanied by dark black smoke . . . and it was nowhere near the Redskins' FedEx Field. Bewildered, she tried to determine what industry might be located on the other side of those trees . . . just southeast of the parkway.

 

Then, like an oncoming truck, it hit her.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 55

 

Warren Bellamy stabbed urgently at the buttons on his cell phone, trying again to make contact with someone who could help them, whoever that might be.

 

Langdon watched Bellamy, but his mind was with Peter, trying to figure out how best to find him. Decipher the engraving, Peter's captor had commanded, and it will tell you the hiding place of mankind's greatest treasure . . . We will go together . . . and make our trade.

 

Bellamy hung up, frowning. Still no answer.

 

"Here's what I don't understand," Langdon said. "Even if I could somehow accept that this hidden wisdom exists . . . and that this pyramid somehow points to its underground location . . . what am I looking for? A vault? A bunker?"

 

Bellamy sat quietly for a long moment. Then he gave a reluctant sigh and spoke guardedly. "Robert, according to what I've heard through the years, the pyramid leads to the entrance of a spiral staircase."

 

"A staircase?"

 

"That's right. A staircase that leads down into the earth . . . many hundreds of feet."

 

Langdon could not believe what he was hearing. He leaned closer.

 

"I've heard it said that the ancient wisdom is buried at the bottom."

 

Robert Langdon stood up and began pacing. A spiral staircase descending hundreds of feet into the earth . . . in Washington, D.C. "And nobody has ever seen this staircase?"

 

"Allegedly the entrance has been covered with an enormous stone."

 

Langdon sighed. The idea of a tomb covered with an enormous stone was right out of the biblical accounts of Jesus' tomb. This archetypal hybrid was the grandfather of them all. "Warren, do you believe this secret mystical staircase into the earth exists?"

 

"I've never seen it personally, but a few of the older Masons swear it exists. I was trying to call one of them just now."

 

Langdon continued pacing, uncertain what to say next.

 

"Robert, you leave me a difficult task with respect to this pyramid." Warren Bellamy's gaze hardened in the soft glow of the reading lamp. "I know of no way to force a man to believe what he does not want to believe. And yet I hope you understand your duty to Peter Solomon."

 

Yes, I have a duty to help him, Langdon thought.

 

"I don't need you to believe in the power this pyramid can unveil. Nor do I need you to believe in the staircase it supposedly leads to. But I do need you to believe that you are morally obliged to protect this secret . . . whatever it may be." Bellamy motioned to the little cube-shaped package. "Peter entrusted the capstone to you because he had faith you would obey his wishes and keep it secret. And now you must do exactly that, even if it means sacrificing Peter's life." Langdon stopped short and wheeled around. "What?!"

 

Bellamy remained seated, his expression pained but resolute. "It's what he would want. You need to forget Peter. He's gone. Peter did his job, doing the best he could to protect the pyramid. Now it is our job to make sure his efforts were not in vain."

 

"I can't believe you're saying this!" Langdon exclaimed, temper flaring. "Even if this pyramid is everything you say it is, Peter is your Masonic brother. You're sworn to protect him above all else, even your country!"

 

"No, Robert. A Mason must protect a fellow Mason above all things . . . except one--the great secret our brotherhood protects for all mankind. Whether or not I believe this lost wisdom has the potential that history suggests, I have taken a vow to keep it out of the hands of the unworthy. And I would not give it over to anyone . . . even in exchange for Peter Solomon's life."

 

"I know plenty of Masons," Langdon said angrily, "including the most advanced, and I'm damned sure these men are not sworn to sacrifice their lives for the sake of a stone pyramid. And I'm also damned sure none of them believes in a secret staircase that descends to a treasure buried deep in the earth."

 

"There are circles within circles, Robert. Not everyone knows everything."

 

Langdon exhaled, trying to control his emotions. He, like everyone, had heard the rumors of elite circles within the Masons. Whether or not it was true seemed irrelevant in the face of this situation. "Warren, if this pyramid and capstone truly reveal the ultimate Masonic secret, then why would Peter involve me? I'm not even a brother . . . much less part of any inner circle."

 

"I know, and I suspect that is precisely why Peter chose you to guard it. This pyramid has been targeted in the past, even by those who infiltrated our brotherhood with unworthy motives. Peter's choice to store it outside the brotherhood was a clever one."

 

"Were you aware I had the capstone?" Langdon asked.

 

"No. And if Peter told anyone at all, it would have been only one man." Bellamy pulled out his cell phone and hit redial. "And so far, I've been unable to reach him." He got a voice-mail greeting and hung up. "Well, Robert, it looks like you and I are on our own for the moment. And we have a decision to make."

 

Langdon looked at his Mickey Mouse watch. 9:42 P.M. "You do realize that Peter's captor is waiting for me to decipher this pyramid tonight and tell him what it says."

 

Bellamy frowned. "Great men throughout history have made deep personal sacrifices to protect the Ancient Mysteries. You and I must do the same." He stood up now. "We should keep moving. Sooner or later Sato will figure out where we are." "What about Katherine?!" Langdon demanded, not wanting to leave. "I can't reach her, and she never called."

 

"Obviously, something happened."

 

"But we can't just abandon her!"

 

"Forget Katherine!" Bellamy said, his voice commanding now. "Forget Peter! Forget everyone! Don't you understand, Robert, that you've been entrusted with a duty that is bigger than all of us--you, Peter, Katherine, myself?" He locked eyes with Langdon. "We need to find a safe place to hide this pyramid and capstone far from--"

 

A loud metallic crash echoed in the direction of the great hall.

 

Bellamy wheeled, eyes filling with fear. "That was fast."

 

Langdon turned toward the door. The sound apparently had come from the metal bucket that Bellamy had placed on the ladder blocking the tunnel doors. They're coming for us.

 

Then, quite unexpectedly, the crash echoed again.

 

And again.

 

And again.

 

The homeless man on the bench in front of the Library of Congress rubbed his eyes and watched the strange scene unfolding before him.

 

A white Volvo had just jumped the curb, lurched across the deserted pedestrian walkway, and screeched to a halt at the foot of the library's main entrance. An attractive, dark-haired woman had leaped out, anxiously surveyed the area, and, spotting the homeless man, had shouted, "Do you have a phone?"

 

Lady, I don't have a left shoe.

 

Apparently realizing as much, the woman dashed up the staircase toward the library's main doors. Arriving at the top of the stairs, she grabbed the handle and tried desperately to open each of the three giant doors.

 

The library's closed, lady.

 

But the woman didn't seem to care. She seized one of the heavy ring-shaped handles, heaved it backward, and let it fall with a loud crash against the door. Then she did it again. And again. And again.

 

Wow, the homeless man thought, she must really need a book. CHAPTER 56

 

When Katherine Solomon finally saw the massive bronze doors of the library swing open before her, she felt as if an emotional floodgate had burst. All the fear and confusion she had bottled up tonight came pouring through.

 

The figure in the library doorway was Warren Bellamy, a friend and confidant of her brother's. But it was the man behind Bellamy in the shadows whom Katherine felt happiest to see. The feeling was apparently mutual. Robert Langdon's eyes filled with relief as she rushed through the doorway . . . directly into his arms.

 

As Katherine lost herself in the comforting embrace of an old friend, Bellamy closed the front door. She heard the heavy lock click into place, and at last she felt safe. Tears came unexpectedly, but she fought them back.

 

Langdon held her. "It's okay," he whispered. "You're okay."

 

Because you saved me, Katherine wanted to tell him. He destroyed my lab . . . all my work. Years of research . . . up in smoke. She wanted to tell him everything, but she could barely breathe.

 

"We'll find Peter." Langdon's deep voice resonated against her chest, comforting her somehow. "I promise."

 

I know who did this! Katherine wanted to yell. The same man who killed my mother and nephew! Before she could explain herself, an unexpected sound broke the silence of the library.

 

The loud crash echoed up from beneath them in a vestibule stairwell--as if a large metal object had fallen on a tile floor. Katherine felt Langdon's muscles stiffen instantly.

 

Bellamy stepped forward, his expression dire. "We're leaving. Now."

 

Bewildered, Katherine followed as the Architect and Langdon hurried across the great hall toward the library's famed reading room, which was ablaze with light. Bellamy quickly locked the two sets of doors behind them, first the outer, then the inner.

 

Katherine followed in a daze as Bellamy hustled them both toward the center of the room. The threesome arrived at a reading desk where a leather bag sat beneath a light. Beside the bag, there was a tiny cube-shaped package, which Bellamy scooped up and placed inside the bag, alongside a-- Katherine stopped short. A pyramid?

 

Although she had never seen this engraved stone pyramid, she felt her entire body recoil in recognition. Somehow her gut knew the truth. Katherine Solomon had just come face-to-face with the object that had so deeply damaged her life. The pyramid.

 

Bellamy zipped up the bag and handed it to Langdon. "Don't let this out of your sight."

 

A sudden explosion rocked the room's outer doors. The tinkling of shattered glass followed.

 

"This way!" Bellamy spun, looking scared now as he rushed them over to the central circulation desk--eight counters around a massive octagonal cabinet. He guided them in behind the counters and then pointed to an opening in the cabinet. "Get in there!"

 

"In there?" Langdon demanded. "They'll find us for sure!"

 

"Trust me," Bellamy said. "It's not what you think."

 

 

 

CHAPTER 57

 

Mal'akh gunned his limousine north toward Kalorama Heights. The explosion in Katherine's lab had been bigger than he had anticipated, and he had been lucky to escape unscathed. Conveniently, the ensuing chaos had enabled him to slip out without opposition, powering his limousine past a distracted gate guard who was busy yelling into a telephone.

 

I've got to get off the road, he thought. If Katherine hadn't yet phoned the police, the explosion would certainly draw their attention. And a shirtless man driving a limousine would be hard to miss.

 

After years of preparation, Mal'akh could scarcely believe the night was now upon him. The journey to this moment had been a long, difficult one. What began years ago in misery . . . will end tonight in glory.

 

On the night it all began, he had not had the name Mal'akh. In fact, on the night it all began, he had not had any name at all. Inmate 37. Like most of the prisoners at the brutal Soganlik Prison outside of Istanbul, Inmate 37 was here because of drugs.

 

He had been lying on his bunk in a cement cell, hungry and cold in the darkness, wondering how long he would be incarcerated. His new cellmate, whom he'd met only twenty-four hours ago, was sleeping in the bunk above him. The prison administrator, an obese alcoholic who hated his job and took it out on the inmates, had just killed all the lights for the night.

 

It was almost ten o'clock when Inmate 37 heard the conversation filtering in through the ventilation shaft. The first voice was unmistakably clear--the piercing, belligerent accent of the prison administrator, who clearly did not appreciate being woken up by a late-night visitor.

 

"Yes, yes, you've come a long way," he was saying, "but there are no visitors for the first month. State regulations. No exceptions."

 

The voice that replied was soft and refined, filled with pain. "Is my son safe?"

 

"He is a drug addict."

 

"Is he being treated well?"

 

"Well enough," the administrator said. "This is not a hotel."

 

There was a pained pause. "You do realize the U.S. State Department will request extradition."

 

"Yes, yes, they always do. It will be granted, although the paperwork might take us a couple of weeks . . . or even a month . . . depending."

 

"Depending on what?"

 

"Well," the administrator said, "we are understaffed." He paused. "Of course, sometimes concerned parties like yourself make donations to the prison staff to help us push things through more quickly."

 

The visitor did not reply.

 

"Mr. Solomon," the administrator continued, lowering his voice, "for a man like yourself, for whom money is no object, there are always options. I know people in government. If you and I work together, we may be able to get your son out of here . . . tomorrow, with all the charges dropped. He would not even have to face prosecution at home."

 

The response was immediate. "Forgetting the legal ramifications of your suggestion, I refuse to teach my son that money solves all problems or that there is no accountability in life, especially in a serious matter like this."

 

"You'd like to leave him here?"

 

"I'd like to speak to him. Right now."

 

"As I said, we have rules. Your son is unavailable to you . . . unless you would like to negotiate his immediate release." A cold silence hung for several moments. "The State Department will be contacting you. Keep Zachary safe. I expect him on a plane home within the week. Good night."

 

The door slammed.

 

Inmate 37 could not believe his ears. What kind of father leaves his son in this hellhole in order to teach him a lesson? Peter Solomon had even rejected an offer to clear Zachary's record.

 

It was later that night, lying awake in his bunk, that Inmate 37 had realized how he would free himself. If money was the only thing separating a prisoner from freedom, then Inmate 37 was as good as free. Peter Solomon might not be willing to part with money, but as anyone who read the tabloids knew, his son, Zachary, had plenty of money, too. The next day, Inmate 37 spoke privately to the administrator and suggested a plan--a bold, ingenious scheme that would give them both exactly what they wanted.

 

"Zachary Solomon would have to die for this to work," explained Inmate 37. "But we could both disappear immediately. You could retire to the Greek Islands. You would never see this place again."

 

After some discussion, the two men shook hands. Soon Zachary Solomon will be dead, Inmate 37 thought, smiling to think how easy it would be.

 

It was two days later that the State Department contacted the Solomon family with the horrific news. The prison snapshots showed their son's brutally bludgeoned body, lying curled and lifeless on the floor of his prison cell. His head had been bashed in by a steel bar, and the rest of him was battered and twisted beyond what was humanly imaginable. He appeared to have been tortured and finally killed. The prime suspect was the prison administrator himself, who had disappeared, probably with all of the murdered boy's money. Zachary had signed papers moving his vast fortune into a private numbered account, which had been emptied immediately following his death. There was no telling where the money was now.

 

Peter Solomon flew to Turkey on a private jet and returned with their son's casket, which they buried in the Solomon family cemetery. The prison administrator was never found. Nor would he be, Inmate 37 knew. The Turk's rotund body was now resting at the bottom of the Sea of Marmara, feeding the blue manna crabs that migrated in through the Bosporus Strait. The vast fortune belonging to Zachary Solomon had all been moved to an untraceable numbered account. Inmate 37 was a free man again--a free man with a massive fortune.

 

The Greek Islands were like heaven. The light. The water. The women.

 

There was nothing money couldn't buy--new identities, new passports, new hope. He chose a Greek name--Andros Dareios--Andros meaning "warrior," and Dareios meaning "wealthy." The dark nights in prison had frightened him, and Andros vowed never to go back. He shaved off his shaggy hair and shunned the drug world entirely. He began life anew--exploring never- before-imagined sensual pleasures. The serenity of sailing alone on the ink-blue Aegean Sea became his new heroin trance; the sensuality of sucking moist arni souvlakia right off the skewer became his new Ecstasy; and the rush of cliff diving into the foam-filled ravines of Mykonos became his new cocaine.

 

I am reborn.

 

Andros bought a sprawling villa on the island of Syros and settled in among the bella gente in the exclusive town of Possidonia. This new world was a community not only of wealth, but of culture and physical perfection. His neighbors took great pride in their bodies and minds, and it was contagious. The newcomer suddenly found himself jogging on the beach, tanning his pale body, and reading books. Andros read Homer's Odyssey, captivated by the images of powerful bronze men doing battle on these islands. The next day, he began lifting weights, and was amazed to see how quickly his chest and arms grew larger. Gradually, he began to feel women's eyes on him, and the admiration was intoxicating. He longed to grow stronger still. And he did. With the help of aggressive cycles of steroids intermixed with black-market growth hormones and endless hours of weight lifting, Andros transformed himself into something he had never imagined he could be--a perfect male specimen. He grew in both height and musculature, developing flawless pectorals and massive, sinewy legs, which he kept perfectly tanned.

 

Everyone was looking now.

 

As Andros had been warned, the heavy steroids and hormones changed not only his body, but also his voice box, giving him an eerie, breathy whisper, which made him feel more mysterious. The soft, enigmatic voice, combined with his new body, his wealth, and his refusal to speak about his mysterious past, served as catnip for the women who met him. They gave themselves willingly, and he satisfied them all--from fashion models visiting his island on photo shoots, to nubile American college girls on vacation, to the lonely wives of his neighbors, to the occasional young man. They could not get enough.

 

I am a masterpiece.

 

As the years passed, however, Andros's sexual adventures began to lose their thrill. As did everything. The island's sumptuous cuisine lost its taste, books no longer held his interest, and even the dazzling sunsets from his villa looked dull. How could this be? He was only in his midtwenties, and yet he felt old. What more is there to life? He had sculpted his body into a masterpiece; he had educated himself and nourished his mind with culture; he had made his home in paradise; and he had the love of anyone he desired.

 

And yet, incredibly, he felt as empty as he had in that Turkish prison.

 

What is it I am missing?

 

The answer had come to him several months later. Andros was sitting alone in his villa, absently surfing channels in the middle of the night, when he stumbled across a program about the secrets of Freemasonry. The show was poorly done, posing more questions than answers, and yet he found himself intrigued by the plethora of conspiracy theories surrounding the brotherhood. The narrator described legend after legend.

 

Freemasons and the New World Order . . .

 

The Great Masonic Seal of the United States . . .

 

The P2 Masonic Lodge . . .

 

The Lost Secret of Freemasonry . . .

 

The Masonic Pyramid . . .

 

Andros sat up, startled. Pyramid. The narrator began recounting the story of a mysterious stone pyramid whose encrypted engraving promised to lead to lost wisdom and unfathomable power. The story, though seemingly implausible, sparked in him a distant memory . . . a faint recollection from a much darker time. Andros remembered what Zachary Solomon had heard from his father about a mysterious pyramid.

 

Could it be? Andros strained to recall the details.

 

When the show ended, he stepped out onto the balcony, letting the cool air clear his mind. He remembered more now, and as it all came back, he began to sense there might be some truth to this legend after all. And if so, then Zachary Solomon--although long dead--still had something to offer.

 

What do I have to lose?

 

Three weeks later, his timing carefully planned, Andros stood in the frigid cold outside the conservatory of the Solomons' Potomac estate. Through the glass, he could see Peter Solomon chatting and laughing with his sister, Katherine. It looks like they've had no trouble forgetting Zachary, he thought.

 

Before he pulled the ski mask over his face, Andros took a hit of cocaine, his first in ages. He felt the familiar rush of fearlessness. He pulled out a handgun, used an old key to unlock the door, and stepped inside. "Hello, Solomons."

 

Unfortunately, the night had not gone as Andros had planned. Rather than obtaining the pyramid for which he had come, he found himself riddled with bird shot and fleeing across the snow- covered lawn toward the dense woods. To his surprise, behind him, Peter Solomon was giving chase, pistol glinting in his hand. Andros dashed into the woods, running down a trail along the edge of a deep ravine. Far below, the sounds of a waterfall echoed up through the crisp winter air. He passed a stand of oak trees and rounded a corner to his left. Seconds later, he was skidding to a stop on the icy path, narrowly escaping death.

 

My God! Only feet in front of him, the path ended, plunging straight down into an icy river far below. The large boulder at the side of the path had been carved by the unskilled hand of a child:

 

 

On the far side of the ravine, the path continued on. So where's the bridge?! The cocaine was no longer working. I'm trapped! Panicking now, Andros turned to flee back up the path, but he found himself facing Peter Solomon, who stood breathless before him, pistol in hand.

 

Andros looked at the gun and took a step backward. The drop behind him was at least fifty feet to an ice-covered river. The mist from the waterfall upstream billowed around them, chilling him to the bone.

 

"Zach's bridge rotted out long ago," Solomon said, panting. "He was the only one who ever came down this far." Solomon held the gun remarkably steady. "Why did you kill my son?"

 

"He was nothing," Andros replied. "A drug addict. I did him a favor."

 

Solomon moved closer, gun aimed directly at Andros's chest. "Perhaps I should do you the same favor." His tone was surprisingly fierce. "You bludgeoned my son to death. How does a man do such a thing?"

 

"Men do the unthinkable when pushed to the brink."

 

"You killed my son!"

 

"No," Andros replied, hotly now. "You killed your son. What kind of man leaves his son in a prison when he has the option to get him out! You killed your son! Not me."

 

"You know nothing!" Solomon yelled, his voice filled with pain.

 

You're wrong, Andros thought. I know everything.

 

Peter Solomon drew closer, only five yards away now, gun leveled. Andros's chest was burning, and he could tell he was bleeding badly. The warmth ran down over his stomach. He looked over his shoulder at the drop. Impossible. He turned back to Solomon. "I know more about you than you think," he whispered. "I know you are not the kind of man who kills in cold blood."

 

Solomon stepped closer, taking dead aim. "I'm warning you," Andros said, "if you pull that trigger, I will haunt you forever."

 

"You already will." And with that, Solomon fired.

 

As he raced his black limousine back toward Kalorama Heights, the one who now called himself Mal'akh reflected on the miraculous events that had delivered him from certain death atop that icy ravine. He had been transformed forever. The gunshot had echoed only for an instant, and yet its effects had reverberated across decades. His body, once tanned and perfect, was now marred by scars from that night . . . scars he kept hidden beneath the tattooed symbols of his new identity.

 

I am Mal'akh.

 

This was my destiny all along.

 

He had walked through fire, been reduced to ashes, and then emerged again . . . transformed once more. Tonight would be the final step of his long and magnificent journey.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 58

 

The coyly nicknamed explosive Key4 had been developed by Special Forces specifically for opening locked doors with minimal collateral damage. Consisting primarily of cyclotrimethylenetrinitramine with a diethylhexyl plasticizer, it was essentially a piece of C-4 rolled into paper-thin sheets for insertion into doorjambs. In the case of the library's reading room, the explosive had worked perfectly.

 

Operation leader Agent Turner Simkins stepped over the wreckage of the doors and scanned the massive octagonal room for any signs of movement. Nothing.

 

"Kill the lights," Simkins said.

 

A second agent found the wall panel, threw the switches, and plunged the room into darkness. In unison, all four men reached up and yanked down their night-vision headgear, adjusting the goggles over their eyes. They stood motionless, surveying the reading room, which now materialized in shades of luminescent green inside their goggles.

 

The scene remained unchanged.

 

Nobody made a dash for it in the dark. The fugitives were probably unarmed, and yet the field team entered the room with weapons raised. In the darkness, their firearms projected four menacing rods of laser light. The men washed the beams in all directions, across the floor, up the far walls, into the balconies, probing the darkness. Oftentimes, a mere glimpse of a laser-sighted weapon in a darkened room was enough to induce instant surrender.

 

Apparently not tonight.

 

Still no movement.

 

Agent Simkins raised his hand, motioning his team into the space. Silently, the men fanned out. Moving cautiously up the center aisle, Simkins reached up and flipped a switch on his goggles, activating the newest addition to the CIA's arsenal. Thermal imaging had been around for years, but recent advances in miniaturization, differential sensitivity, and dual-source integration had facilitated a new generation of vision enhancing equipment that gave field agents eyesight that bordered on superhuman.

 

We see in the dark. We see through walls. And now . . . we see back in time.

 

Thermal-imaging equipment had become so sensitive to heat differentials that it could detect not only a person's location . . . but their previous locations. The ability to see into the past often proved the most valuable asset of all. And tonight, once again, it proved its worth. Agent Simkins now spied a thermal signature at one of the reading desks. The two wooden chairs luminesced in his goggles, registering a reddish-purple color, indicating those chairs were warmer than the other chairs in the room. The desk lamp's bulb glowed orange. Obviously the two men had been sitting at the desk, but the question now was in which direction they had gone.

 

He found his answer on the central counter that surrounded the large wooden console in the middle of the room. A ghostly handprint, glowing crimson.

 

Weapon raised, Simkins moved toward the octagonal cabinet, training his laser sight across the surface. He circled until he saw an opening in the side of the console. Did they really corner themselves in a cabinet? The agent scanned the trim around the opening and saw another glowing handprint on it. Clearly someone had grabbed the doorjamb as he ducked inside the console.

 

The time for silence was over.

 

"Thermal signature!" Simkins shouted, pointing at the opening. "Flanks converge!"

 

His two flanks moved in from opposite sides, effectively surrounding the octagonal console.

 

Simkins moved toward the opening. Still ten feet away, he could see a light source within. "Light inside the console!" he shouted, hoping the sound of his voice might convince Mr. Bellamy and Mr. Langdon to exit the cabinet with their hands up. Nothing happened.

 

Fine, we'll do this the other way.

 

As Simkins drew closer to the opening, he could hear an unexpected hum rumbling from within. It sounded like machinery. He paused, trying to imagine what could be making such a noise in such a small space. He inched closer, now hearing voices over the sound of machinery. Then, just as he arrived at the opening, the lights inside went out.

 

Thank you, he thought, adjusting his night vision. Advantage, us.

 

Standing at the threshold, he peered through the opening. What lay beyond was unexpected. The console was less of a cabinet than a raised ceiling over a steep set of stairs that descended into a room below. The agent aimed his weapon down the stairs and began descending. The hum of machinery grew louder with every step.

 

What the hell is this place?

 

The room beneath the reading room was a small, industrial-looking space. The hum he heard was indeed machinery, although he was not sure whether it was running because Bellamy and Langdon had activated it, or because it ran around the clock. Either way, it clearly made no difference. The fugitives had left their telltale heat signatures on the room's lone exit--a heavy steel door whose keypad showed four clear fingerprints glowing on the numbers. Around the door, slivers of glowing orange shone beneath the doorjamb, indicating that lights were illuminated on the other side.

 

"Blow the door," Simkins said. "This was their escape route."

 

It took eight seconds to insert and detonate a sheet of Key4. When the smoke cleared, the field- team agents found themselves peering into a strange underground world known here as "the stacks."

 

The Library of Congress had miles and miles of bookshelves, most of them underground. The endless rows of shelves looked like some kind of "infinity" optical illusion created with mirrors.

 

A sign announced

 

TEMPERATURE-CONTROLLED ENVIRONMENT

 

Keep this door closed at all times.

 

Simkins pushed through the mangled doors and felt cool air beyond. He couldn't help but smile. Could this get any easier? Heat signatures in controlled environments showed up like solar flares, and already his goggles revealed a glowing red smear on a banister up ahead, which Bellamy or Langdon had grabbed on to while running past. "You can run," he whispered to himself, "but you can't hide."

 

As Simkins and his team advanced into the maze of stacks, he realized the playing field was tipped so heavily in his favor that he would not even need his goggles to track his prey. Under normal circumstances, this maze of stacks would have been a respectable hiding place, but the Library of Congress used motion-activated lights to save energy, and the fugitives' escape route was now lit up like a runway. A narrow strip of illumination stretched into the distance, dodging and weaving as it went.

 

All the men ripped off their goggles. Surging ahead on well-trained legs, the field team followed the trail of lights, zigging and zagging through a seemingly endless labyrinth of books. Soon Simkins began seeing lights flickering on in the darkness up ahead. We're gaining. He pushed harder, faster, until he heard footsteps and labored breathing ahead. Then he saw a target.

 

"I've got visual!" he yelled.

 

The lanky form of Warren Bellamy was apparently bringing up the rear. The primly dressed African American staggered through the stacks, obviously out of breath. It's no use, old man.

 

"Stop right there, Mr. Bellamy!" Simkins yelled.

 

Bellamy kept running, turning sharp corners, weaving through the rows of books. At every turn, the lights kept coming on over his head.

 

As the team drew within twenty yards, they shouted again to stop, but Bellamy ran on.

 

"Take him down!" Simkins commanded.

 

The agent carrying the team's nonlethal rifle raised it and fired. The projectile that launched down the aisle and wrapped itself around Bellamy's legs was nicknamed Silly String, but there was nothing silly about it. A military technology invented at Sandia National Laboratories, this nonlethal "incapacitant" was a thread of gooey polyurethane that turned rock hard on contact, creating a rigid web of plastic across the back of the fugitive's knees. The effect on a running target was that of jamming a stick into the spokes of a moving bike. The man's legs seized midstride, and he pitched forward, crashing to the floor. Bellamy slid another ten feet down a darkened aisle before coming to a stop, the lights above him flickering unceremoniously to life.

 

"I'll deal with Bellamy," Simkins shouted. "You keep going after Langdon! He must be up ahead some--" The team leader stopped, now seeing that the library stacks ahead of Bellamy were all pitch-black. Obviously, there was no one else running in front of Bellamy. He's alone?

 

Bellamy was still on his chest, breathing heavily, his legs and ankles all tangled with hardened plastic. The agent walked over and used his foot to roll the old man over onto his back.

 

"Where is he?!" the agent demanded. Bellamy's lip was bleeding from the fall. "Where is who?"

 

Agent Simkins lifted his foot and placed his boot squarely on Bellamy's pristine silk tie. Then he leaned in, applying some pressure. "Believe me, Mr. Bellamy, you do not want to play this game with me."

 

 

 

CHAPTER 59

 

Robert Langdon felt like a corpse.

 

He lay supine, hands folded on his chest, in total darkness, trapped in the most confined of spaces. Although Katherine lay nearby in a similar position near his head, Langdon could not see her. He had his eyes closed to prevent himself from catching even a fleeting glimpse of his frightening predicament.

 

The space around him was small.

 

Very small.

 

Sixty seconds ago, with the double doors of the reading room crashing down, he and Katherine had followed Bellamy into the octagonal console, down a steep set of stairs, and into the unexpected space below.

 

Langdon had realized at once where they were. The heart of the library's circulation system. Resembling a small airport baggage distribution center, the circulation room had numerous conveyor belts that angled off in different directions. Because the Library of Congress was housed in three separate buildings, books requested in the reading room often had to be transported great distances by a system of conveyors through a web of underground tunnels.

 

Bellamy immediately crossed the room to a steel door, where he inserted his key card, typed a sequence of buttons, and pushed open the door. The space beyond was dark, but as the door opened, a span of motion-sensor lights flickered to life.

 

When Langdon saw what lay beyond, he realized he was looking at something few people ever saw. The Library of Congress stacks. He felt encouraged by Bellamy's plan. What better place to hide than in a giant labyrinth?

 

Bellamy did not guide them into the stacks, however. Instead, he propped the door open with a book and turned back to face them. "I had hoped to be able to explain a lot more to you, but we have no time." He gave Langdon his key card. "You'll need this."

 

"You're not coming with us?" Langdon asked.

 

Bellamy shook his head. "You'll never make it unless we split up. The most important thing is to keep that pyramid and capstone in safe hands."

 

Langdon saw no other way out except the stairs back up to the reading room. "And where are you going?"

 

"I'll coax them into the stacks away from you," Bellamy said. "It's all I can do to help you escape."

 

Before Langdon could ask where he and Katherine were supposed to go, Bellamy was heaving a large crate of books off one of the conveyors. "Lie on the belt," Bellamy said. "Keep your hands in."

 

Langdon stared. You cannot be serious! The conveyor belt extended a short distance then disappeared into a dark hole in the wall. The opening looked large enough to permit passage of a crate of books, but not much more. Langdon glanced back longingly at the stacks.

 

"Forget it," Bellamy said. "The motion-sensor lights will make it impossible to hide."

 

"Thermal signature!" a voice upstairs shouted. "Flanks converge!"

 

Katherine apparently had heard all she needed to hear. She climbed onto the conveyor belt with her head only a few feet from the opening in the wall. She crossed her hands over her chest like a mummy in a sarcophagus.

 

Langdon stood frozen.

 

"Robert," Bellamy urged, "if you won't do this for me, do it for Peter."

 

The voices upstairs sounded closer now.

 

As if in a dream, Langdon moved to the conveyor. He slung his daybag onto the belt and then climbed on, placing his head at Katherine's feet. The hard rubber conveyor felt cold against his back. He stared at the ceiling and felt like a hospital patient preparing for insertion headfirst into an MRI machine.

 

"Keep your phone on," Bellamy said. "Someone will call soon . . . and offer help. Trust him."

 

Someone will call? Langdon knew that Bellamy had been trying to reach someone with no luck and had left a message earlier. And only moments ago, as they hurried down the spiral staircase, Bellamy had tried one last time and gotten through, speaking very briefly in hushed tones and then hanging up. "Follow the conveyor to the end," Bellamy said. "And jump off quickly before you circle back. Use my key card to get out."

 

"Get out of where?!" Langdon demanded.

 

But Bellamy was already pulling levers. All the different conveyors in the room hummed to life. Langdon felt himself jolt into motion, and the ceiling began moving overhead.

 

God save me.

 

As Langdon approached the opening in the wall, he looked back and saw Warren Bellamy race through the doorway into the stacks, closing the door behind him. An instant later, Langdon slid into the darkness, swallowed up by the library . . . just as a glowing red laser dot came dancing down the stairs.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 60

 

The underpaid female security guard from Preferred Security double-checked the Kalorama Heights address on her call sheet. This is it? The gated driveway before her belonged to one of the neighborhood's largest and quietest estates, and so it seemed odd that 911 had just received an urgent call about it.

 

As usual with unconfirmed call-ins, 911 had contacted the local alarm company before bothering the police. The guard often thought the alarm company's motto--"Your first line of defense"-- could just as easily have been "False alarms, pranks, lost pets, and complaints from wacky neighbors."

 

Tonight, as usual, the guard had arrived with no details about the specific concern. Above my pay grade. Her job was simply to show up with her yellow bubble light spinning, assess the property, and report anything unusual. Normally, something innocuous had tripped the house alarm, and she would use her override keys to reset it. This house, however, was silent. No alarm. From the road, everything looked dark and peaceful.

 

The guard buzzed the intercom at the gate, but got no answer. She typed her override code to open the gate and pulled into the driveway. Leaving her engine running and her bubble light spinning, she walked up to the front door and rang the bell. No answer. She saw no lights and no movement.

 

Reluctantly following procedure, she flicked on her flashlight to begin her trek around the house to check the doors and windows for signs of break-in. As she rounded the corner, a black stretch limousine drove past the house, slowing for a moment before continuing on. Rubbernecking neighbors.

 

Bit by bit, she made her way around the house, but saw nothing out of place. The house was bigger than she had imagined, and by the time she reached the backyard, she was shivering from the cold. Obviously there was nobody home.

 

"Dispatch?" she called in on her radio. "I'm on the Kalorama Heights call? Owners aren't home. No signs of trouble. Finished the perimeter check. No indication of an intruder. False alarm."

 

"Roger that," the dispatcher replied. "Have a good night."

 

The guard put her radio back on her belt and began retracing her steps, eager to get back to the warmth of her vehicle. As she did so, however, she spotted something she had missed earlier--a tiny speck of bluish light on the back of the house.

 

Puzzled, she walked over to it, now seeing the source--a low transom window, apparently to the home's basement. The glass of the window had been blacked out, coated on the inside with an opaque paint. Some kind of darkroom maybe? The bluish glow she had seen was emanating through a tiny spot on the window where the black paint had started to peel.

 

She crouched down, trying to peer through, but she couldn't see much through the tiny opening. She tapped on the glass, wondering if maybe someone was working down there.

 

"Hello?" she shouted.

 

There was no answer, but as she knocked on the window, the paint chip suddenly detached and fell off, affording her a more complete view. She leaned in, nearly pressing her face to the window as she scanned the basement. Instantly, she wished she hadn't.

 

What in the name of God?!

 

Transfixed, she remained crouched there for a moment, staring in abject horror at the scene before her. Finally, trembling, the guard groped for the radio on her belt.

 

She never found it.

 

A sizzling pair of Taser prongs slammed into the back of her neck, and a searing pain shot through her body. Her muscles seized, and she pitched forward, unable even to close her eyes before her face hit the cold ground. CHAPTER 61

 

Tonight was not the first time Warren Bellamy had been blindfolded. Like all of his Masonic brothers, he had worn the ritual "hoodwink" during his ascent to the upper echelons of Masonry. That, however, had taken place among trusted friends. Tonight was different. These rough- handed men had bound him, placed a bag on his head, and were now marching him through the library stacks.

 

The agents had physically threatened Bellamy and demanded to know the whereabouts of Robert Langdon. Knowing his aging body couldn't take much punishment, Bellamy had told his lie quickly.

 

"Langdon never came down here with me!" he had said, gasping for air. "I told him to go up to the balcony and hide behind the Moses statue, but I don't know where he is now!" The story apparently had been convincing, because two of the agents had run off in pursuit. Now the remaining two agents were marching him in silence through the stacks.

 

Bellamy's only solace was in knowing Langdon and Katherine were whisking the pyramid off to safety. Soon Langdon would be contacted by a man who could offer sanctuary. Trust him. The man Bellamy had called knew a great deal about the Masonic Pyramid and the secret it held--the location of a hidden spiral staircase that led down into the earth to the hiding place of potent ancient wisdom buried long ago. Bellamy had finally gotten through to the man as they were escaping the reading room, and he felt confident that his short message would be understood perfectly.

 

Now, as he moved in total darkness, Bellamy pictured the stone pyramid and golden capstone in Langdon's bag. It has been many years since those two pieces were in the same room.

 

Bellamy would never forget that painful night. The first of many for Peter. Bellamy had been asked to come to the Solomon estate in Potomac for Zachary Solomon's eighteenth birthday. Zachary, despite being a rebellious child, was a Solomon, which meant tonight, following family tradition, he would receive his inheritance. Bellamy was one of Peter's dearest friends and a trusted Masonic brother, and therefore was asked to attend as a witness. But it was not only the transference of money that Bellamy had been asked to witness. There was far more than money at stake tonight.

 

Bellamy had arrived early and waited, as requested, in Peter's private study. The wonderful old room smelled of leather, wood fires, and loose-leaf tea. Warren was seated when Peter led his son, Zachary, into the room. When the scrawny eighteen-year-old saw Bellamy, he frowned. "What are you doing here?"

 

"Bearing witness," Bellamy offered. "Happy birthday, Zachary."

 

The boy mumbled and looked away. "Sit down, Zach," Peter said.

 

Zachary sat in the solitary chair facing his father's huge wooden desk. Solomon bolted the study door. Bellamy took a seat off to one side.

 

Solomon addressed Zachary in a serious tone. "Do you know why you're here?"

 

"I think so," Zachary said.

 

Solomon sighed deeply. "I know you and I have not seen eye to eye for quite some time, Zach. I've done my best to be a good father and to prepare you for this moment."

 

Zachary said nothing.

 

"As you know, every Solomon child, upon reaching adulthood, is presented with his or her birthright--a share of the Solomon fortune--which is intended to be a seed . . . a seed for you to nurture, make grow, and use to help nourish mankind."

 

Solomon walked to a vault in the wall, unlocked it, and removed a large black folder. "Son, this portfolio contains everything you need to legally transfer your financial inheritance into your own name." He laid it on the desk. "The aim is that you use this money to build a life of productivity, prosperity, and philanthropy."

 

Zachary reached for the folder. "Thanks."

 

"Hold on," his father said, putting his hand on the portfolio. "There's something else I need to explain."

 

Zachary shot his father a contemptuous look and slumped back down.

 

"There are aspects of the Solomon inheritance of which you are not yet aware." His father was staring straight into Zachary's eyes now. "You are my firstborn, Zachary, which means you are entitled to a choice."

 

The teenager sat up, looking intrigued.

 

"It is a choice that may well determine the direction of your future, and so I urge you to ponder it carefully."

 

"What choice?"

 

His father took a deep breath. "It is the choice . . . between wealth or wisdom."

 

Zachary gave him a blank stare. "Wealth or wisdom? I don't get it." Solomon stood, walking again to the vault, where he pulled out a heavy stone pyramid with Masonic symbols carved into it. Peter heaved the stone onto the desk beside the portfolio. "This pyramid was created long ago and has been entrusted to our family for generations."

 

"A pyramid?" Zachary didn't look very excited.

 

"Son, this pyramid is a map . . . a map that reveals the location of one of humankind's greatest lost treasures. This map was created so that the treasure could one day be rediscovered." Peter's voice swelled now with pride. "And tonight, following tradition, I am able to offer it to you . . . under certain conditions."

 

Zachary eyed the pyramid suspiciously. "What's the treasure?"

 

Bellamy could tell that this coarse question was not what Peter had hoped for. Nonetheless, his demeanor remained steady.

 

"Zachary, it's hard to explain without a lot of background. But this treasure . . . in essence . . . is something we call the Ancient Mysteries."

 

Zachary laughed, apparently thinking his father was joking.

 

Bellamy could see the melancholy growing now in Peter's eyes.

 

"This is very difficult for me to describe, Zach. Traditionally, by the time a Solomon is eighteen years of age, he is about to embark on his years of higher education in--"

 

"I told you!" Zachary fired back. "I'm not interested in college!"

 

"I don't mean college," his father said, his voice still calm and quiet. "I'm talking about the brotherhood of Freemasonry. I'm talking about an education in the enduring mysteries of human science. If you had plans to join me within their ranks, you would be on the verge of receiving the education necessary to understand the importance of your decision tonight."

 

Zachary rolled his eyes. "Spare me the Masonic lecture again. I know I'm the first Solomon who doesn't want to join. But so what? Don't you get it? I have no interest in playing dress-up with a bunch of old men!"

 

His father was silent for a long time, and Bellamy noticed the fine age lines that had started to appear around Peter's still-youthful eyes.

 

"Yes, I get it," Peter finally said. "Times are different now. I understand that Masonry probably appears strange to you, or maybe even boring. But I want you to know, that doorway will always be open for you should you change your mind."

 

"Don't hold your breath," Zach grumbled. "That's enough!" Peter snapped, standing up. "I realize life has been a struggle for you, Zachary, but I am not your only guidepost. There are good men waiting for you, men who will welcome you within the Masonic fold and show you your true potential."

 

Zachary chuckled and glanced over at Bellamy. "Is that why you're here, Mr. Bellamy? So you Masons can gang up on me?"

 

Bellamy said nothing, instead directing a respectful gaze back at Peter Solomon--a reminder to Zachary of who held the power in this room.

 

Zachary turned back to his father.

 

"Zach," Peter said, "we're getting nowhere . . . so let me just tell you this. Whether or not you comprehend the responsibility being offered to you tonight, it is my family obligation to present it." He motioned to the pyramid. "It is a rare privilege to guard this pyramid. I urge you to consider this opportunity for a few days before making your decision."

 

"Opportunity?" Zachary said. "Babysitting a rock?"

 

"There are great mysteries in this world, Zach," Peter said with a sigh. "Secrets that transcend your wildest imagination. This pyramid protects those secrets. And even more important, there will come a time, probably within your lifetime, when this pyramid will at last be deciphered and its secrets unearthed. It will be a moment of great human transformation . . . and you have a chance to play a role in that moment. I want you to consider it very carefully. Wealth is commonplace, but wisdom is rare." He motioned to the portfolio and then to the pyramid. "I beg you to remember that wealth without wisdom can often end in disaster."

 

Zachary looked like he thought his father was insane. "Whatever you say, Dad, but there's no way I'm giving up my inheritance for this." He gestured to the pyramid.

 

Peter folded his hands before him. "If you choose to accept the responsibility, I will hold your money and the pyramid for you until you have successfully completed your education within the Masons. This will take years, but you will emerge with the maturity to receive both your money and this pyramid. Wealth and wisdom. A potent combination."

 

Zachary shot up. "Jesus, Dad! You don't give up, do you? Can't you see that I don't give a damn about the Masons or stone pyramids and ancient mysteries?" He reached down and scooped up the black portfolio, waving it in front of his father's face. "This is my birthright! The same birthright of the Solomons who came before me! I can't believe you'd try to trick me out of my inheritance with lame stories about ancient treasure maps!" He tucked the portfolio under his arm and marched past Bellamy to the study's patio door.

 

"Zachary, wait!" His father rushed after him as Zachary stalked out into the night. "Whatever you do, you can never speak of the pyramid you have seen!" Peter Solomon's voice cracked. "Not to anyone! Ever!" But Zachary ignored him, disappearing into the night.

 

Peter Solomon's gray eyes were filled with pain as he returned to his desk and sat heavily in his leather chair. After a long silence, he looked up at Bellamy and forced a sad smile. "That went well."

 

Bellamy sighed, sharing in Solomon's pain. "Peter, I don't mean to sound insensitive . . . but . . . do you trust him?"

 

Solomon stared blankly into space.

 

"I mean . . ." Bellamy pressed, "not to say anything about the pyramid?"

 

Solomon's face was blank. "I really don't know what to say, Warren. I'm not sure I even know him anymore."

 

Bellamy rose and walked slowly back and forth before the large desk. "Peter, you have followed your family duty, but now, considering what just happened, I think we need to take precautions. I should return the capstone to you so you can find a new home for it. Someone else should watch over it."

 

"Why?" Solomon asked.

 

"If Zachary tells anyone about the pyramid . . . and mentions my being present tonight . . ."

 

"He knows nothing of the capstone, and he's too immature to know the pyramid has any significance. We don't need a new home for it. I'll keep the pyramid in my vault. And you will keep the capstone wherever you keep it. As we always have."

 

It was six years later, on Christmas Day, with the family still healing from Zachary's death, that the enormous man claiming to have killed him in prison broke into the Solomon estate. The intruder had come for the pyramid, but he had taken with him only Isabel Solomon's life.

 

Days later, Peter summoned Bellamy to his office. He locked the door and took the pyramid out of his vault, setting it on the desk between them. "I should have listened to you."

 

Bellamy knew Peter was racked with guilt over this. "It wouldn't have mattered."

 

Solomon drew a tired breath. "Did you bring the capstone?"

 

Bellamy pulled a small cube-shaped package from his pocket. The faded brown paper was tied with twine and bore a wax seal of Solomon's ring. Bellamy laid the package on the desk, knowing the two halves of the Masonic Pyramid were closer together tonight than they should be. "Find someone else to watch this. Don't tell me who it is."

 

Solomon nodded. "And I know where you can hide the pyramid," Bellamy said. He told Solomon about the Capitol Building subbasement. "There's no place in Washington more secure."

 

Bellamy recalled Solomon liking the idea right away because it felt symbolically apt to hide the pyramid in the symbolic heart of our nation. Typical Solomon, Bellamy had thought. The idealist even in a crisis.

 

Now, ten years later, as Bellamy was being shoved blindly through the Library of Congress, he knew the crisis tonight was far from over. He also now knew whom Solomon had chosen to guard the capstone . . . and he prayed to God that Robert Langdon was up to the job.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 62

 

I'm under Second Street.

 

Langdon's eyes remained tightly shut as the conveyor rumbled through the darkness toward the Adams Building. He did his best not to picture the tons of earth overhead and the narrow tube through which he was now traveling. He could hear Katherine breathing several yards ahead of him, but so far, she had not uttered a word.

 

She's in shock. Langdon was not looking forward to telling her about her brother's severed hand. You have to, Robert. She needs to know.

 

"Katherine?" Langdon finally said, without opening his eyes. "Are you okay?"

 

A tremulous, disembodied voice replied somewhere up ahead. "Robert, the pyramid you're carrying. It's Peter's, isn't it?"

 

"Yes," Langdon replied.

 

A long silence followed. "I think . . . that pyramid is why my mother was murdered."

 

Langdon was well aware that Isabel Solomon had been murdered ten years ago, but he didn't know the details, and Peter had never mentioned anything about a pyramid. "What are you talking about?"

 

Katherine's voice filled with emotion as she recounted the harrowing events of that night, how the tattooed man had broken into their estate. "It was a long time ago, but I'll never forget that he demanded a pyramid. He said he heard about the pyramid in prison, from my nephew, Zachary . . . right before he killed him."

 

Langdon listened in amazement. The tragedy within the Solomon family was almost beyond belief. Katherine continued, telling Langdon that she had always believed the intruder was killed that night . . . that is, until this same man had resurfaced today, posing as Peter's psychiatrist and luring Katherine to his home. "He knew private things about my brother, my mother's death, and even my work," she said anxiously, "things he could only have learned from my brother. And so I trusted him . . . and that's how he got inside the Smithsonian Museum Support Center." Katherine took a deep breath and told Langdon she was nearly certain the man had destroyed her lab tonight.

 

Langdon listened in utter shock. For several moments, the two of them lay together in silence on the moving conveyor. Langdon knew he had an obligation to share with Katherine the rest of tonight's terrible news. He began slowly, and as gently as he possibly could he told her how her brother had entrusted him with a small package years earlier, how Langdon had been tricked into bringing this package to Washington tonight, and finally, about her brother's hand having been found in the Rotunda of the Capitol Building.

 

Katherine's reaction was deafening silence.

 

Langdon could tell she was reeling, and he wished he could reach out and comfort her, but lying end to end in the narrow blackness made it impossible. "Peter's okay," he whispered. "He's alive, and we'll get him back." Langdon tried to give her hope. "Katherine, his captor promised me your brother would be returned alive . . . as long as I decipher the pyramid for him."

 

Still Katherine said nothing.

 

Langdon kept talking. He told her about the stone pyramid, its Masonic cipher, the sealed capstone, and, of course, about Bellamy's claims that this pyramid was in fact the Masonic Pyramid of legend . . . a map that revealed the hiding place of a long spiral staircase that led deep into the earth . . . down hundreds of feet to a mystical ancient treasure that had been buried in Washington long ago.

 

Katherine finally spoke, but her voice was flat and emotionless. "Robert, open your eyes."

 

Open my eyes? Langdon had no desire to have even the slightest glimpse of how cramped this space really was.

 

"Robert!" Katherine demanded, urgently now. "Open your eyes! We're here!"

 

Langdon's eyes flew open as his body emerged through an opening similar to the one it had entered at the other end. Katherine was already climbing off the conveyor belt. She lifted his daybag off the belt as Langdon swung his legs over the edge and jumped down onto the tile floor just in time, before the conveyor turned the corner and headed back the way it came. The space around them was a circulation room much like the one they had come from in the other building. A small sign read ADAMS BUILDING: CIRCULATION ROOM 3. Langdon felt like he had just emerged from some kind of subterranean birth canal. Born again. He turned immediately to Katherine. "Are you okay?"

 

Her eyes were red, and she had obviously been crying, but she nodded with a resolute stoicism. She picked up Langdon's daybag and carried it across the room without a word, setting it on a cluttered desk. She lit the desk's halogen clamp lamp, unzipped the bag, folded down the sides, and peered inside.

 

The granite pyramid looked almost austere in the clean halogen light. Katherine ran her fingers over the engraved Masonic cipher, and Langdon sensed deep emotion churning within her. Slowly, she reached into the daybag and pulled out the cube-shaped package. She held it under the light, examining it closely.

 

"As you can see," Langdon quietly said, "the wax seal is embossed with Peter's Masonic ring. He said this ring was used to seal the package more than a century ago."

 

Katherine said nothing.

 

"When your brother entrusted the package to me," Langdon told her, "he said it would give me the power to create order out of chaos. I'm not entirely sure what that means, but I've got to assume the capstone reveals something important, because Peter was insistent that it not fall into the wrong hands. Mr. Bellamy just told me the same thing, urging me to hide the pyramid and not let anyone open the package."

 

Katherine turned now, looking angry. "Bellamy told you not to open the package?"

 

"Yes. He was adamant."

 

Katherine looked incredulous. "But you said this capstone is the only way we can decipher the pyramid, right?"

 

"Probably, yes."

 

Katherine's voice was rising now. "And you said deciphering the pyramid is what you were told to do. It's the only way we can get Peter back, right?"

 

Langdon nodded.

 

"Then, Robert, why wouldn't we open the package and decipher this thing right now?!"

 

Langdon didn't know how to respond. "Katherine, I had the same exact reaction, and yet Bellamy told me that keeping this pyramid's secret intact was more important than anything . . . including your brother's life."

 

Katherine's pretty features hardened, and she tucked a wisp of hair behind her ears. When she spoke, her voice was resolved. "This stone pyramid, whatever it is, has cost me my entire family. First my nephew, Zachary, then my mother, and now my brother.And let's face it, Robert, if you hadn't called tonight to warn me . . ."

 

Langdon could feel himself trapped between Katherine's logic and Bellamy's steadfast urging.

 

"I may be a scientist," she said, "but I also come from a family of well-known Masons. Believe me, I've heard all the stories about the Masonic Pyramid and its promise of some great treasure that will enlighten mankind. Honestly, I find it hard to imagine such a thing exists. However, if it does exist . . . perhaps it's time to unveil it." Katherine slid a finger beneath the old twine on the package.

 

Langdon jumped. "Katherine, no! Wait!"

 

She paused, but her finger remained beneath the string. "Robert, I'm not going to let my brother die for this. Whatever this capstone says . . . whatever lost treasures this engraving might reveal . . . those secrets end tonight."

 

With that, Katherine yanked defiantly on the twine, and the brittle wax seal exploded.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 63

 

In a quiet neighborhood just west of Embassy Row in Washington, there exists a medieval-style walled garden whose roses, it is said, spring from twelfth-century plants. The garden's Carderock gazebo--known as Shadow House--sits elegantly amid meandering pathways of stones dug from George Washington's private quarry.

 

Tonight the silence of the gardens was broken by a young man who rushed through the wooden gate, shouting as he came.

 

"Hello?" he called out, straining to see in the moonlight. "Are you in here?"

 

The voice that replied was frail, barely audible. "In the gazebo . . . just taking some air."

 

The young man found his withered superior seated on the stone bench beneath a blanket. The hunched old man was tiny, with elfin features. The years had bent him in two and stolen his eyesight, but his soul remained a force to be reckoned with.

 

Catching his breath, the young man told him, "I just . . . took a call . . . from your friend . . . Warren Bellamy."

 

"Oh?" The old man perked up. "About what?"

 

"He didn't say, but he sounded like he was in a big hurry. He told me he left you a message on your voice mail, which you need to listen to right away."

 

"That's all he said?"

 

"Not quite." The young man paused. "He told me to ask you a question." A very strange question. "He said he needed your response right away."

 

The old man leaned closer. "What question?"

 

As the young man spoke Mr. Bellamy's question, the pall that crossed the old man's face was visible even in the moonlight. Immediately, he threw off his blanket and began struggling to his feet.

 

"Please help me inside. Right away."

 

 

 

CHAPTER 64

 

No more secrets, thought Katherine Solomon.

 

On the table in front of her, the wax seal that had been intact for generations now lay in pieces. She finished removing the faded brown paper from her brother's precious package. Beside her, Langdon looked decidedly uneasy.

 

From within the paper, Katherine extracted a small box made of gray stone. Resembling a polished granite cube, the box had no hinges, no latch, and no apparent way inside. It reminded Katherine of a Chinese puzzle box.

 

"It looks like a solid block," she said, running her fingers over the edges. "Are you sure the X- ray showed it was hollow? With a capstone inside?"

 

"It did," Langdon said, moving next to Katherine and scrutinizing the mysterious box. He and Katherine peered at the box from different angles, attempting to find a way in.

 

"Got it," Katherine said as her fingernail located the hidden slit along one of the box's top edges. She set the box down on the desk and then carefully pried open the lid, which rose smoothly, like the top of a fine jewelry box.

 

When the lid fell back, Langdon and Katherine both drew audible breaths. The interior of the box seemed to be glowing. The inside was shining with an almost supernatural effulgence. Katherine had never seen a piece of gold this large, and it took her an instant to realize that the precious metal was simply reflecting the radiance of the desk lamp.

 

"It's spectacular," she whispered. Despite being sealed in a dark stone cube for over a century, the capstone had not faded or tarnished in any way. Gold resists the entropic laws of decay; that's one of the reasons the ancients considered it magical. Katherine felt her pulse quicken as she leaned forward, peering down over the small golden point. "There's an inscription."

 

Langdon moved closer, their shoulders now touching. His blue eyes flashed with curiosity. He had told Katherine about the ancient Greek practice of creating a symbolon--a code broken into parts--and how this capstone, long separated from the pyramid itself, would hold the key to deciphering the pyramid. Allegedly, this inscription, whatever it said, would bring order from this chaos.

 

Katherine held the little box up to the light and peered straight down over the capstone.

 

Though small, the inscription was perfectly visible--a small bit of elegantly engraved text on the face of one side. Katherine read the six simple words.

 

Then she read them again.

 

"No!" she declared. "That can't be what it says!"

 

Across the street, Director Sato hurried up the long walkway outside the Capitol Building toward her rendezvous point on First Street. The update from her field team had been unacceptable. No Langdon. No pyramid. No capstone. Bellamy was in custody, but he was not telling them the truth. At least not yet.

 

I'll make him talk.

 

She glanced back over her shoulder at one of Washington's newest vistas--the Capitol Dome framed above the new visitor center. The illuminated dome only accentuated the significance of what was truly at stake tonight. Dangerous times.

 

Sato was relieved to hear her cell phone ring and see her analyst's ID on the screen.

 

"Nola," Sato answered. "What have you got?"

 

Nola Kaye gave her the bad news. The X-ray of the capstone's inscription was too faint to read, and the image-enhancing filters had not helped. Shit. Sato chewed at her lip. "How about the sixteen-letter grid?" "I'm still trying," Nola said, "but so far I've found no secondary encryption scheme that's applicable. I've got a computer reshuffling the letters in the grid and looking for anything identifiable, but there are over twenty trillion possibilities."

 

"Stay on it. Let me know." Sato hung up, scowling. Her hopes of deciphering the pyramid using only a photograph and X-ray were fading fast. I need that pyramid and capstone . . . and I'm running out of time.

 

Sato arrived at First Street just as a black Escalade SUV with dark windows roared across the double yellow and skidded to a stop in front of her at their rendezvous point. A lone agent got out.

 

"Any word yet on Langdon?" Sato demanded.

 

"Confidence is high," the man said, emotionless. "Backup just arrived. All library exits are surrounded. We even have air support coming in. We'll flush him with tear gas, and he'll have nowhere to run."

 

"And Bellamy?"

 

"Tied up in the backseat."

 

Good. Her shoulder was still smarting.

 

The agent handed Sato a plastic Ziploc bag containing cell phone, keys, and wallet. "Bellamy's effects."

 

"Nothing else?"

 

"No, ma'am. The pyramid and package must still be with Langdon."

 

"Okay," Sato said. "Bellamy knows plenty he's not telling. I'd like to question him personally."

 

"Yes, ma'am. To Langley, then?"

 

Sato took a deep breath and paced a moment beside the SUV. Strict protocols governed the interrogation of U.S. civilians, and questioning Bellamy was highly illegal unless it was done at Langley on video with witnesses, attorneys, blah, blah, blah . . . "Not Langley," she said, trying to think of somewhere closer. And more private.

 

The agent said nothing, standing at attention beside the idling SUV, waiting for orders.

 

Sato lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and gazed down at the Ziploc bag of Bellamy's items. His key ring, she had noticed, included an electronic fob adorned with four letters--USBG. Sato knew, of course, which government building this fob accessed. The building was very close and, at this hour, very private. She smiled and pocketed the fob. Perfect.

 

When she told the agent where she wanted to take Bellamy, she expected the man to look surprised, but he simply nodded and opened the passenger door for her, his cold stare revealing nothing.

 

Sato loved professionals.

 

Langdon stood in the basement of the Adams Building and stared in disbelief at the elegantly inscribed words on the face of the golden capstone.

 

That's all it says?

 

Beside him, Katherine held the capstone under the light and shook her head. "There's got to be more," she insisted, sounding cheated. "This is what my brother has been protecting all these years?"

 

Langdon had to admit he was mystified. According to Peter and Bellamy, this capstone was supposed to help them decipher the stone pyramid. In light of those claims, Langdon had expected something illuminating and helpful. More like obvious and useless. Once again, he read the six words delicately inscribed on the face of the capstone.

 

The

 

secret hides

 

within The Order

 

 

The secret hides within The Order?

 

At first glance, the inscription appeared to be stating the obvious--that the letters on the pyramid were out of "order" and that their secret lay in finding their proper sequence. This reading, however, in addition to being self-evident, seemed unlikely for another reason. "The words the and order are capitalized," Langdon said.

 

Katherine nodded blankly. "I saw that."

 

The secret hides within The Order. Langdon could think of only one logical implication. " `The Order' must be referencing the Masonic Order."

 

"I agree," Katherine said, "but it's still no help. It tells us nothing."

 

Langdon had to concur. After all, the entire story of the Masonic Pyramid revolved around a secret hidden within the Masonic Order.

 

"Robert, didn't my brother tell you this capstone would give you power to see order where others saw only chaos?"

 

He nodded in frustration. For the second time tonight, Robert Langdon was feeling unworthy.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 65

 

Once Mal'akh had finished dealing with his unexpected visitor--a female security guard from Preferred Security--he fixed the paint on the window through which she had glimpsed his sacred work space.

 

Now, ascending out of the soft blue haze of the basement, he emerged through a hidden doorway into his living room. Inside, he paused, admiring his spectacular painting of the Three Graces and savoring the familiar smells and sounds of his home.

 

Soon I will be leaving forever. Mal'akh knew that after tonight he would be unable to return to this place. After tonight, he thought, smiling, I will have no need for this place.

 

He wondered if Robert Langdon yet understood the true power of the pyramid . . . or the importance of the role for which fate had chosen him. Langdon has yet to call me, Mal'akh thought, after double-checking for messages on his disposable phone. It was now 10:02 P.M. He has less than two hours.

 

Mal'akh went upstairs to his Italian-marble bathroom and turned on the steam shower to let it heat up. Methodically, he stripped off his clothes, eager to begin his cleansing ritual.

 

He drank two glasses of water to calm his starving stomach. Then he walked to the full-length mirror and studied his naked body. His two days of fasting had accentuated his musculature, and he could not help but admire that which he had become. By dawn, I will be so much more.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 66 "We should get out of here," Langdon said to Katherine. "It's only a matter of time before they figure out where we are." He hoped Bellamy had managed to escape.

 

Katherine still seemed fixated on the gold capstone, looking incredulous that the inscription was so unhelpful. She had taken the capstone out of the box, examined every side, and was now carefully putting it back in the box.

 

The secret hides within The Order, Langdon thought. Big help.

 

Langdon found himself wondering now if perhaps Peter had been misinformed about the contents of the box. This pyramid and capstone had been created long before Peter was born, and Peter was simply doing as his forefathers had told him, keeping a secret that was probably as much a mystery to him as it was to Langdon and Katherine.

 

What did I expect? Langdon wondered. The more he learned tonight about the Legend of the Masonic Pyramid, the less plausible it all seemed. I'm searching for a hidden spiral staircase covered by a huge stone? Something told Langdon he was chasing shadows. Nonetheless, deciphering this pyramid seemed his best chance at saving Peter.

 

"Robert, does the year 1514 mean anything to you?"

 

Fifteen-fourteen? The question seemed apropos of nothing. Langdon shrugged. "No. Why?"

 

Katherine handed him the stone box. "Look. The box is dated. Have a look under the light."

 

Langdon took a seat at the desk and studied the cube-shaped box beneath the light. Katherine put a soft hand on his shoulder, leaning in to point out the tiny text she had found carved on the exterior of the box, near the bottom corner of one side.

 

"Fifteen-fourteen A.D.," she said, pointing into the box.

 

Sure enough, the carving depicted the number 1514, followed by an unusual stylization of the letters A and D.

 

 

"This date," Katherine was saying, sounding suddenly hopeful, "maybe it's the link we're missing? This dated cube looks a lot like a Masonic cornerstone, so maybe it's pointing to a real cornerstone? Maybe to a building built in 1514 A.D.?"

 

Langdon barely heard her.

 

Fifteen-fourteen A.D. is not a date.

 

The symbol , as any scholar of medieval art would recognize, was a well-known symbature--a symbol used in place of a signature. Many of the early philosophers, artists, and authors signed their work with their own unique symbol or monogram rather than their name. This practice added a mysterious allure to their work and also protected them from persecution should their writings or artwork be deemed counterestablishment.

 

In the case of this symbature, the letters A.D. did not stand for Anno Domini . . . they were German for something else entirely.

 

Langdon instantly saw all the pieces fall into place. Within seconds, he was certain he knew exactly how to decipher the pyramid. "Katherine, you did it," he said, packing up. "That's all we needed. Let's go. I'll explain on the way."

 

Katherine looked amazed. "The date 1514 A.D. actually means something to you?"

 

Langdon winked at her and headed for the door. "A.D. isn't a date, Katherine. It's a person."

 

 

 

CHAPTER 67

 

West of Embassy Row, all was silent again inside the walled garden with its twelfth-century roses and Shadow House gazebo. On the other side of an entry road, the young man was helping his hunched superior walk across an expansive lawn.

 

He's letting me guide him?

 

Normally, the blind old man refused help, preferring to navigate by memory alone while on the grounds of his sanctuary. Tonight, however, he was apparently in a hurry to get inside and return Warren Bellamy's phone call.

 

"Thank you," the old man said as they entered the building that held his private study. "I can find my way from here."

 

"Sir, I would be happy to stay and help--" "That's all for tonight," he said, letting go of his helper's arm and shuffling hurriedly off into the darkness. "Good night."

 

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