The young man exited the building and walked
back across the great lawn to his modest dwelling on the grounds.
By the time he entered his flat, he could feel his curiosity
gnawing at him. The old man clearly had been upset by the question
posed by Mr. Bellamy . . . and yet the question had seemed strange,
almost meaningless.
Is there no help for the widow's son?
In his wildest imagination, he could not
guess what this could mean. Puzzled, he went to his computer and
typed in a search for this precise phrase.
To his great surprise, page after page of
references appeared, all citing this exact question. He read the
information in wonderment. It seemed Warren Bellamy was not the
first person in history to ask this strange question. These same
words had been uttered centuries ago . . . by King Solomon as he
mourned a murdered friend. The question was allegedly still spoken
today by Masons, who used it as a kind of encoded cry for help.
Warren Bellamy, it seemed, was sending a distress call to a fellow
Mason.
CHAPTER 68
Albrecht D�rer?
Katherine was trying to put the pieces
together as she hurried with Langdon through the basement of the
Adams Building. A.D. stands for Albrecht D�rer? The famous
sixteenth-century German engraver and painter was one of her
brother's favorite artists, and Katherine was vaguely familiar with
his work. Even so, she could not imagine how D�rer would be any
help to them in this case. For one thing, he's been dead more than
four hundred years.
"D�rer is symbolically perfect," Langdon was
saying as they followed the trail of illuminated EXIT signs. "He
was the ultimate Renaissance mind--artist, philosopher, alchemist,
and a lifelong student of the Ancient Mysteries. To this day,
nobody fully understands the messages hidden in D�rer's art."
"That may be true," she said. "But how does
`1514 Albrecht D�rer' explain how to decipher the pyramid?" They
reached a locked door, and Langdon used Bellamy's key card to get
through.
"The number 1514," Langdon said as they
hurried up the stairs, "is pointing us to a very specific piece of
D�rer's work." They came into a huge corridor. Langdon glanced
around and then pointed left. "This way." They moved quickly again.
"Albrecht D�rer actually hid the number 1514 in his most mysterious
piece of art--Melencolia I--which he completed in the year 1514.
It's considered the seminal work of the Northern European
Renaissance."
Peter had once shown Katherine Melencolia I
in an old book on ancient mysticism, but she didn't recall any
hidden number 1514.
"As you may know," Langdon said, sounding
excited, "Melencolia I depicts mankind's struggle to comprehend the
Ancient Mysteries. The symbolism in Melencolia I is so complex it
makes Leonardo da Vinci look overt."
Katherine stopped abruptly and looked at
Langdon. "Robert, Melencolia I is here in Washington. It hangs in
the National Gallery."
"Yes," he said with a smile, "and something
tells me that's not a coincidence. The gallery is closed at this
hour, but I know the curator and--"
"Forget it, Robert, I know what happens when
you go to museums." Katherine headed off into a nearby alcove,
where she saw a desk with a computer.
Langdon followed, looking unhappy.
"Let's do this the easier way." It seemed
Professor Langdon, the art connoisseur, was having an ethical
dilemma about using the Internet when an original was so nearby.
Katherine stepped behind the desk and powered up the computer. When
the machine finally came to life, she realized she had another
problem. "There's no icon for a browser."
"It's an internal library network." Langdon
pointed to an icon on the desktop. "Try that."
Katherine clicked on the icon marked DIGITAL
COLLECTIONS. The computer accessed a new screen, and Langdon
pointed again. Katherine clicked on his choice of icon: FINE PRINTS
COLLECTION. The screen refreshed. FINE PRINTS: SEARCH.
"Type in `Albrecht D�rer.' "
Katherine entered the name and then clicked
the search key. Within seconds, the screen began displaying a
series of thumbnail images. All of the images looked to be similar
in style--intricate black-and-white engravings. D�rer had
apparently done dozens of similar engravings.
Katherine scanned the alphabetical list of
his artwork.
Adam and Eve
Betrayal of Christ Four Horsemen of the
Apocalypse
Great Passion
Last Supper
Seeing all the biblical titles, Katherine
recalled that D�rer practiced something called Mystic
Christianity--a fusion of early Christianity, alchemy, astrology,
and science.
Science . . .
The image of her lab in flames rushed
through her mind. She could barely process the long-term
ramifications, but for the moment, her thoughts turned to her
assistant, Trish. I hope she made it out.
Langdon was saying something about D�rer's
version of the Last Supper, but Katherine was barely listening. She
had just seen the link for Melencolia I.
She clicked the mouse, and the page
refreshed with general information.
Melencolia I, 1514
Albrecht D�rer
(engraving on laid paper)
Rosenwald Collection
National Gallery of Art
Washington, D.C.
When she scrolled down, a high-res digital
image of D�rer's masterpiece appeared in all its glory.
Katherine stared in bewilderment, having
forgotten just how strange it was.
Langdon gave an understanding chuckle. "As I
said, it's cryptic."
Melencolia I consisted of a brooding figure
with giant wings, seated in front of a stone building, surrounded
by the most disparate and bizarre collection of objects
imaginable--measuring scales, an emaciated dog, carpenter's tools,
an hourglass, various geometric solids, a hanging bell, a putto, a
blade, a ladder.
Katherine vaguely recalled her brother
telling her that the winged figure was a representation of "human
genius"--a great thinker with chin in hand, looking depressed,
still unable to achieve enlightenment. The genius is surrounded
with all of the symbols of his human intellect--objects of science,
math, philosophy, nature, geometry, even carpentry--and yet is
still unable to climb the ladder to true enlightenment. Even the
human genius has difficulty comprehending the Ancient
Mysteries.
"Symbolically," Langdon said, "this
represents mankind's failed attempt to transform human intellect
into godlike power. In alchemical terms, it represents our
inability to turn lead into gold."
"Not a particularly encouraging message,"
Katherine agreed. "So how does it help us?" She did not see the
hidden number 1514 that Langdon was talking about.
"Order from chaos," Langdon said, flashing a
lopsided grin. "Just as your brother promised." He reached in his
pocket and pulled out the grid of letters he had written earlier
from the Masonic cipher. "Right now, this grid is meaningless." He
spread the paper out on the desk.
Katherine eyed the grid. Definitely
meaningless.
"But D�rer will transform it."
"And how might he do that?"
"Linguistic alchemy." Langdon motioned to
the computer screen. "Look carefully. Hidden in this masterpiece is
something that will make sense of our sixteen letters." He waited.
"Do you see it yet? Look for the number 1514."
Katherine was in no mood to play classroom.
"Robert, I see nothing--an orb, a ladder, a knife, a polyhedron, a
scale? I give up." "Look! There in the background. Carved into that
building behind the angel? Beneath the bell? D�rer engraved a
square that is full of numbers."
Katherine now saw the square that contained
numbers, among them 1514.
"Katherine, that square is the key to
deciphering the pyramid!"
She shot him a surprised look. "That's not
just any square," Langdon said, grinning.
"That, Ms. Solomon, is a magic
square."
CHAPTER 69
Where the hell are they taking me?
Bellamy was still blindfolded in the back of
an SUV. After a short stop somewhere close to the Library of
Congress, the vehicle had continued on . . . but only for a minute.
Now the SUV had stopped again, having again traveled only about a
block.
Bellamy heard muffled voices talking.
"Sorry . . . impossible . . ." an
authoritative voice was saying. " . . . closed at this hour . .
."
The man driving the SUV replied with equal
authority. "CIA investigation . . . national security . . ."
Apparently the exchange of words and IDs was persuasive, because
the tone shifted immediately.
"Yes, of course . . . service entrance . .
." There was the loud grinding of what sounded like a garage door,
and as it opened, the voice added, "Shall I accompany you? Once
you're inside, you won't be able to get through--"
"No. We have access already."
If the guard was surprised, it was too late.
The SUV was moving again. It advanced about fifty yards and then
came to a stop. The heavy door rumbled closed again behind
them.
Silence.
Bellamy realized he was trembling. With a
bang, the SUV's rear hatch flew open. Bellamy felt a sharp pain in
his shoulders as someone dragged him out by his arms, then lifted
him to his feet. Without a word, a powerful force led him across a
wide expanse of pavement. There was a strange, earthy smell here
that he could not place. There were footsteps of someone else
walking with them, but whoever it was had yet to speak.
They stopped at a door, and Bellamy heard an
electronic ping. The door clicked open. Bellamy was manhandled
through several corridors and could not help but notice that the
air was warmer and more humid. An indoor pool, maybe? No. The smell
in the air was not chlorine . . . it was far more earthy and
primal.
Where the hell are we?! Bellamy knew he
could not be more than a block or two from the Capitol Building.
Again they stopped, and again he heard the electronic beep of a
security door. This one slid open with a hiss. As they pushed him
through, the smell that hit him was unmistakable.
Bellamy now realized where they were. My
God! He came here often, although never through the service
entrance. This magnificent glass building was only three hundred
yards from the Capitol Building and was technically part of the
Capitol Complex. I run this place! Bellamy now realized it was his
own key fob that was giving them access.
Powerful arms pushed him through the
doorway, leading him down a familiar, winding walkway. The heavy,
damp warmth of this place usually felt comforting to him. Tonight,
he was sweating.
What are we doing here?!
Bellamy was halted suddenly and seated on a
bench. The man with the muscles unhooked his handcuffs only long
enough to reaffix them to the bench behind his back.
"What do you want from me?" Bellamy
demanded, heart pounding wildly.
The only response he received was the sound
of boots walking off and the glass door sliding shut.
Then silence.
Dead silence.
They're just going to leave me here? Bellamy
was sweating more heavily now as he struggled to release his hands.
I can't even take off my blindfold?
"Help!" he shouted. "Anybody!"
Even as he called out in panic, Bellamy knew
nobody was going to hear him. This massive glass room--known as the
Jungle--was entirely airtight when the doors were closed. They left
me in the Jungle, he thought. Nobody will find me until
morning.
Then he heard it.
The sound was barely audible, but it
terrified Bellamy like no sound he had ever heard in his life.
Something breathing. Very close.
He was not alone on the bench.
The sudden hiss of a sulfur match sizzled so
close to his face that he could feel the heat. Bellamy recoiled,
instinctively yanking hard at his chains.
Then, without warning, a hand was on his
face, removing his blindfold.
The flame before him reflected in the black
eyes of Inoue Sato as she pressed the match against the cigarette
dangling from her lips, only inches away from Bellamy's face.
She glared at him in the moonlight that
filtered down through the glass ceiling. She looked pleased to see
his fear.
"So, Mr. Bellamy," Sato said, shaking out
the match. "Where shall we begin?"
CHAPTER 70
A magic square. Katherine nodded as she eyed
the numbered square in D�rer's engraving. Most people would have
thought Langdon had lost his mind, but Katherine had quickly
realized he was right.
The term magic square referred not to
something mystical but to something mathematical--it was the name
given to a grid of consecutive numbers arranged in such a way that
all the rows, columns, and diagonals added up to the same thing.
Created some four thousand years ago by mathematicians in Egypt and
India, magic squares were still believed by some to hold magical
powers. Katherine had read that even nowadays devout Indians drew
special three-by-three magic squares called the Kubera Kolam on
their pooja altars. Primarily, though, modern man had relegated
magic squares to the category of "recreational mathematics," some
people still deriving pleasure from the quest to discover new
"magical" configurations. Sudoku for geniuses.
Katherine quickly analyzed D�rer's square,
adding up the numbers in several rows and columns. "Thirty-four,"
she said. "Every direction adds up to thirty-four."
"Exactly," Langdon said. "But did you know
that this magic square is famous because D�rer accomplished the
seemingly impossible?" He quickly showed Katherine that in addition
to making the rows, columns, and diagonals add up to thirty-four,
D�rer had also found a way to make the four quadrants, the four
center squares, and even the four corner squares add up to that
number. "Most amazing, though, was D�rer's ability to position the
numbers 15 and 14 together in the bottom row as an indication of
the year in which he accomplished this incredible feat!"
Katherine scanned the numbers, amazed by all
the combinations.
Langdon's tone grew more excited now.
"Extraordinarily, Melencolia I represents the very first time in
history that a magic square appeared in European art. Some
historians believe this was D�rer's encoded way of indicating that
the Ancient Mysteries had traveled outside the Egyptian Mystery
Schools and were now held by the European secret societies."
Langdon paused. "Which brings us back to . . . this."
He motioned to the slip of paper bearing the
grid of letters from the stone pyramid. "I assume the layout looks
familiar now?" Langdon asked.
"Four-by-four square."
Langdon picked up the pencil and carefully
transcribed D�rer's numbered magic square onto the slip of paper,
directly beside the lettered square. Katherine was now seeing just
how easy this was going to be. He stood poised, pencil in hand, and
yet . . . strangely, after all this enthusiasm, he seemed to
hesitate.
"Robert?"
He turned to her, his expression one of
trepidation. "Are you sure we want to do this? Peter
expressly--"
"Robert, if you don't want to decipher this
engraving, then I will." She held out her hand for the
pencil.
Langdon could tell there would be no
deterring her and so he acquiesced, turning his attention back to
the pyramid. Carefully, he superimposed the magic square over the
pyramid's grid of letters and assigned each letter a number. Then
he created a new grid, placing the Masonic cipher's letters in the
new order as defined by the sequence in D�rer's magic square.
When Langdon was finished, they both
examined the result. Katherine immediately felt confused. "It's
still gibberish."
Langdon remained silent a long moment.
"Actually, Katherine, it's not gibberish." His eyes brightened
again with the thrill of discovery. "It's . . . Latin."
In a long, dark corridor, an old blind man
shuffled as quickly as he could toward his office. When he finally
arrived, he collapsed in his desk chair, his old bones grateful for
the reprieve. His answering machine was beeping. He pressed the
button and listened.
"It's Warren Bellamy," said the hushed
whisper of his friend and Masonic brother. "I'm afraid I have
alarming news . . ."
Katherine Solomon's eyes shot back to the
grid of letters, reexamining the text. Sure enough, a Latin word
now materialized before her eyes. Jeova. Katherine had not studied
Latin, but this word was familiar from her reading of ancient
Hebrew texts. Jeova. Jehovah. As her eyes continued to trace
downward, reading the grid like a book, she was surprised to
realize she could read the entire text of the pyramid.
Jeova Sanctus Unus.
She knew its meaning at once. This phrase
was ubiquitous in modern translations of Hebrew scripture. In the
Torah, the God of the Hebrews was known by many names--Jeova,
Jehovah, Jeshua, Yahweh, the Source, the Elohim--but many Roman
translations had consolidated the confusing nomenclature into a
single Latin phrase: Jeova Sanctus Unus.
"One true God?" she whispered to herself.
The phrase certainly did not seem like something that would help
them find her brother. "That's this pyramid's secret message? One
true God? I thought this was a map."
Langdon looked equally perplexed, the
excitement in his eyes evaporating. "This decryption obviously is
correct, but . . ."
"The man who has my brother wants to know a
location." She tucked her hair behind her ear. "This is not going
to make him very happy."
"Katherine," Langdon said, heaving a sigh.
"I've been afraid of this. All night, I've had a feeling we're
treating as reality a collection of myths and allegories. Maybe
this inscription is pointing to a metaphorical location--telling us
that the true potential of man can be accessed only through the one
true God."
"But that makes no sense!" Katherine
replied, her jaw now clenched in frustration. "My family protected
this pyramid for generations! One true God? That's the secret? And
the CIA considers this an issue of national security? Either
they're lying or we're missing something!"
Langdon shrugged in accord.
Just then, his phone began to ring.
In a cluttered office lined with old books,
the old man hunched over his desk, clutching a phone receiver in
his arthritic hand.
The line rang and rang.
At last, a tentative voice answered.
"Hello?" The voice was deep but uncertain.
The old man whispered, "I was told you
require sanctuary."
The man on the line seemed startled. "Who is
this? Did Warren Bell--" "No names, please," the old man said.
"Tell me, have you successfully protected the map that was
entrusted to you?"
A startled pause. "Yes . . . but I don't
think it matters. It doesn't say much. If it is a map, it seems to
be more metaphorical than--"
"No, the map is quite real, I assure you.
And it points to a very real location. You must keep it safe. I
cannot impress upon you enough how important this is. You are being
pursued, but if you can travel unseen to my location, I will
provide sanctuary . . . and answers."
The man hesitated, apparently
uncertain.
"My friend," the old man began, choosing his
words carefully. "There is a refuge in Rome, north of the Tiber,
which contains ten stones from Mount Sinai, one from heaven itself,
and one with the visage of Luke's dark father. Do you know my
location?"
There was a long pause on the line, and then
the man replied, "Yes, I do."
The old man smiled. I thought you might,
Professor. "Come at once. Make sure you're not followed."
CHAPTER 71
Mal'akh stood naked in the billowing warmth
of his steam shower. He felt pure again, having washed off the last
remaining scent of ethanol. As the eucalyptus-infused vapors
permeated his skin, he could feel his pores opening to the heat.
Then he began his ritual.
First, he rubbed depilatory chemicals across
his tattooed body and scalp, removing any traces of body hair.
Hairless were the gods of the seven islands of Heliades. Then he
massaged Abramelin oil into his softened and receptive flesh.
Abramelin is the sacred oil of the great Magi. Then he turned his
shower lever hard to the left, and the water turned ice cold. He
stood beneath the frigid water for a full minute to close his pores
and trap the heat and energy within his core. The cold served as a
reminder of the icy river in which this transformation had
begun.
When he stepped from the shower, he was
shivering, but within seconds, his core heat emanated up through
his layers of flesh and warmed him. Mal'akh's insides felt like a
furnace. He stood naked before the mirror and admired his form . .
. perhaps the last time he would see himself as a mere mortal. His
feet were the talons of a hawk. His legs--Boaz and Jachin--were the
ancient pillars of wisdom. His hips and abdomen were the archways
of mystical power. Hanging beneath the archway, his massive sex
organ bore the tattooed symbols of his destiny. In another life,
this heavy shaft of flesh had been his source of carnal pleasure.
But no longer.
I have been purified.
Like the mystical eunuch monks of Katharoi,
Mal'akh had removed his testicles. He had sacrificed his physical
potency for a more worthy one. Gods have no gender. Having shed the
human imperfection of gender along with the earthly pull of sexual
temptation, Mal'akh had become like Ouranos, Attis, Sporus, and the
great castrati magicians of Arthurian legend. Every spiritual
metamorphosis is preceded by a physical one. Such was the lesson of
all the great gods . . . from Osiris, to Tammuz, to Jesus, to
Shiva, to the Buddha himself.
I must shed the man who clothes me.
Abruptly, Mal'akh drew his gaze upward, past
the double-headed phoenix on his chest, past the collage of ancient
sigils adorning his face, and directly to the top of his head. He
tipped his head toward the mirror, barely able to see the circle of
bare flesh that waited there. This location on the body was sacred.
Known as the fontanel, it was the one area of the human skull that
remained open at birth. An oculus to the brain. Although this
physiological portal closes within a matter of months, it remains a
symbolic vestige of the lost connection between the outer and inner
worlds.
Mal'akh studied the sacred patch of virginal
skin, which was enclosed by the crownlike circle of an ouroboros--a
mystical snake devouring its own tail. The bare flesh seemed to
stare back at him . . . bright with promise.
Robert Langdon soon would uncover the great
treasure that Mal'akh required. Once Mal'akh possessed it, the void
on top of his head would be filled, and he would at last be
prepared for his final transformation.
Mal'akh padded across his bedroom and took
from his bottom drawer a long strip of white silk. As he had done
many times before, he wrapped it around his groin and buttocks.
Then he went downstairs.
In his office, his computer had received an
e-mail message.
It was from his contact:
WHAT YOU REQUIRE IS NOW WITHIN REACH.
I WILL CONTACT YOU WITHIN THE HOUR.
PATIENCE.
Mal'akh smiled. It was time to make final
preparations. CHAPTER 72
The CIA field agent was in a foul mood as he
descended from the reading-room balcony. Bellamy lied to us. The
agent had seen no heat signatures whatsoever upstairs near the
Moses statue, nor anywhere else upstairs for that matter.
So where the hell did Langdon go?
The agent retraced his steps now to the only
place they'd spotted any heat signatures at all--the library's
distribution hub. He descended the stairs again, moving beneath the
octagonal console. The noise of the rumbling conveyors was grating.
Advancing into the space, he flipped down his thermal goggles and
scanned the room. Nothing. He looked toward the stacks, where the
mangled door still showed hot from the explosion. Other than that,
he saw no--
Holy shit!
The agent jumped back as an unexpected
luminescence drifted into his field of vision. Like a pair of
ghosts, the dimly glowing imprints of two humanoids had just
emerged from the wall on a conveyor belt. Heat signatures.
Stunned, the agent watched as the two
apparitions circled the room on the conveyor loop and then
disappeared headfirst into a narrow hole in the wall. They rode the
conveyor out? That's insanity.
In addition to realizing they had just lost
Robert Langdon through a hole in the wall, the field agent was now
aware that he had another problem. Langdon's not alone?
He was just about to switch on his
transceiver and call the team leader, but the team leader beat him
to it.
"All points, we've got an abandoned Volvo on
the plaza in front of the library. Registered to one Katherine
Solomon. Eyewitness says she entered the library not long ago. We
suspect she's with Robert Langdon. Director Sato has ordered that
we find them both immediately."
"I've got heat signatures for both of them!"
shouted the field agent in the distribution room. He explained the
situation.
"For Christ's sake!" the team leader
replied. "Where the hell does the conveyor go?"
The field agent was already consulting the
employee reference schematic on the bulletin board. "Adams
Building," he replied. "One block from here." "All points. Redirect
to the Adams Building! NOW!"
CHAPTER 73
Sanctuary. Answers.
The words echoed in Langdon's mind as he and
Katherine burst through a side door of the Adams Building and out
into the cold winter night. The mysterious caller had conveyed his
location cryptically, but Langdon had understood. Katherine's
reaction to their destination had been surprisingly sanguine: Where
better to find One True God?
Now the question was how to get there.
Langdon spun in place, trying to get his
bearings. It was dark, but thankfully the weather had cleared. They
were standing in a small courtyard. In the distance, the Capitol
Dome looked startlingly far away, and Langdon realized this was the
first moment he had stepped outside since arriving at the Capitol
several hours ago.
So much for my lecture.
"Robert, look." Katherine pointed toward the
silhouette of the Jefferson Building.
Langdon's first reaction on seeing the
building was astonishment that they had traveled so far underground
on a conveyor belt. His second reaction, however, was alarm. The
Jefferson Building was now abuzz with activity--trucks and cars
pulling in, men shouting. Is that a searchlight?
Langdon grabbed Katherine's hand. "Come
on."
They ran northeast across the courtyard,
quickly disappearing from view behind an elegant U- shaped
building, which Langdon realized was the Folger Shakespeare
Library. This particular building seemed appropriate camouflage for
them tonight, as it housed the original Latin manuscript of Francis
Bacon's New Atlantis, the utopian vision on which the American
forefathers had allegedly modeled a new world based on ancient
knowledge. Even so, Langdon would not be stopping.
We need a cab.
They arrived at the corner of Third Street
and East Capitol. The traffic was sparse, and Langdon felt fading
hope as he scanned for taxis. He and Katherine hurried northward on
Third Street, putting distance between themselves and the Library
of Congress. It was not until they had gone an entire block that
Langdon finally spotted a cab rounding the corner. He flagged it
down, and the cab pulled over.
Middle Eastern music played on his radio,
and the young Arab driver gave them a friendly smile. "Where to?"
the driver asked as they jumped into the car.
"We need to go to--"
"Northwest!" Katherine interjected, pointing
up Third Street away from the Jefferson Building. "Drive toward
Union Station, then left on Massachusetts Avenue. We'll tell you
when to stop."
The driver shrugged, closed the Plexiglas
divider, and turned his music back on.
Katherine shot Langdon an admonishing look
as if to say: "Leave no trail." She pointed out the window,
directing Langdon's attention to a black helicopter that was
skimming in low, approaching the area. Shit. Sato was apparently
dead serious about recovering Solomon's pyramid.
As they watched the helicopter land between
the Jefferson and Adams buildings, Katherine turned to him, looking
increasingly worried. "Can I see your cell phone for a
second?"
Langdon handed her his phone.
"Peter told me you have an eidetic memory?"
she said, rolling down her window. "And that you remember every
phone number you've ever dialed?"
"That's true, but--"
Katherine hurled his phone out into the
night. Langdon spun in his seat and watched as his cell phone
cartwheeled and splintered into pieces on the pavement behind them.
"Why did you do that!"
"Off the grid," Katherine said, her eyes
grave. "This pyramid is our only hope of finding my brother, and I
have no intention of letting the CIA steal it from us."
In the front seat, Omar Amirana bobbed his
head and hummed along with his music. Tonight had been slow, and he
felt blessed to finally have a fare. His cab was just passing
Stanton Park, when the familiar voice of his company dispatcher
crackled over the radio.
"This is Dispatch. All vehicles in the area
of the National Mall. We have just received a bulletin from
government authorities regarding two fugitives in the area of the
Adams Building . . ."
Omar listened in amazement as Dispatch
described the precise couple in his cab. He stole an uneasy glance
in his rearview mirror. Omar had to admit, the tall guy did look
familiar somehow. Did I see him on America's Most Wanted?
Gingerly, Omar reached for his radio
handset. "Dispatch?" he said, speaking quietly into the
transceiver. "This is cab one-three-four. The two people you asked
about--they are in my cab . . . right now."
Dispatch immediately advised Omar what to
do. Omar's hands were trembling as he called the phone number
Dispatch had given him. The voice that answered was tight and
efficient, like that of a soldier.
"This is Agent Turner Simkins, CIA field
ops. Who is this?"
"Um . . . I'm the taxi driver?" Omar said.
"I was told to call about the two--"
"Are the fugitives currently in your
vehicle? Answer only yes or no."
"Yes."
"Can they hear this conversation? Yes or
no?"
"No. The slider is--"
"Where are you taking them?"
"Northwest on Massachusetts."
"Specific destination?"
"They didn't say."
The agent hesitated. "Is the male passenger
carrying a leather bag?"
Omar glanced in the rearview mirror, and his
eyes went wide. "Yes! That bag doesn't have explosives or anything
in--"
"Listen carefully," the agent said. "You are
in no danger so long as you follow my directions exactly. Is that
clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"What is your name?"
"Omar," he said, breaking a sweat.
"Listen, Omar," the man said calmly. "You're
doing great. I want you to drive as slowly as possible while I get
my team out in front of you. Do you understand?" "Yes, sir."
"Also, is your cab equipped with an intercom
system so you can communicate with them in the backseat?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Here's what I want you to do."
CHAPTER 74
The Jungle, as it is known, is the
centerpiece of the U.S. Botanic Garden (USBG)--America's living
museum--located adjacent to the U.S. Capitol Building. Technically
a rain forest, the Jungle is housed in a towering greenhouse,
complete with soaring rubber trees, strangler figs, and a canopy
catwalk for more daring tourists.
Normally, Warren Bellamy felt nurtured by
the Jungle's earthy smells and the sunlight glinting through the
mist that filtered down from the vapor nozzles in the glass
ceiling. Tonight, however, lit only by moonlight, the Jungle
terrified him. He was sweating profusely, writhing against the
cramps that now stabbed at his arms, still pinned painfully behind
him.
Director Sato paced before him, puffing
calmly on her cigarette--the equivalent of ecoterrorism in this
carefully calibrated environment. Her face looked almost demonic in
the smoke-filled moonlight that streamed down through the glass
ceiling overhead.
"So then," Sato continued, "when you arrived
at the Capitol tonight, and you discovered that I was already there
. . . you made a decision. Rather than making your presence known
to me, you descended quietly into the SBB, where, at great risk to
yourself, you attacked Chief Anderson and myself, and you helped
Langdon escape with the pyramid and capstone." She rubbed her
shoulder. "An interesting choice."
A choice I would make again, Bellamy
thought. "Where is Peter?" he demanded angrily.
"How would I know?" Sato said.
"You seem to know everything else!" Bellamy
fired back at her, making no attempt to hide his suspicion that she
was somehow behind all this. "You knew to go to the Capitol
Building. You knew to find Robert Langdon. And you even knew to
X-ray Langdon's bag to find the capstone. Obviously, someone is
giving you a lot of inside information." Sato laughed coldly and
stepped closer to him. "Mr. Bellamy, is that why you attacked me?
Do you think I'm the enemy? Do you think I'm trying to steal your
little pyramid?" Sato took a drag on her cigarette and blew the
smoke out of her nostrils. "Listen carefully. No one understands
better than I do the importance of keeping secrets. I believe, as
you do, that there is certain information to which the masses
should not be privy. Tonight, however, there are forces at work
that I fear you have not yet grasped. The man who kidnapped Peter
Solomon holds enormous power . . . a power that you apparently have
yet to realize. Believe me, he is a walking time bomb . . . capable
of initiating a series of events that will profoundly change the
world as you know it."
"I don't understand." Bellamy shifted on the
bench, his arms aching in his handcuffs.
"You don't need to understand. You need to
obey. Right now, my only hope of averting a major disaster is to
cooperate with this man . . . and to give him exactly what he
wants. Which means, you are going to call Mr. Langdon and tell him
to turn himself in, along with the pyramid and capstone. Once
Langdon is in my custody, he will decrypt the pyramid's
inscription, obtain whatever information this man is demanding, and
provide him with exactly what he wants."
The location of the spiral staircase that
leads to the Ancient Mysteries? "I can't do that. I've taken vows
of secrecy."
Sato erupted. "I don't give a damn what
you've vowed, I will throw you in prison so fast--"
"Threaten me all you like," Bellamy said
defiantly. "I will not help you."
Sato took a deep breath and spoke now in a
fearsome whisper. "Mr. Bellamy, you have no idea what's really
going on tonight, do you?"
The tense silence hung for several seconds,
finally broken by the sound of Sato's phone. She plunged her hand
into her pocket and eagerly snatched it out. "Talk to me," she
answered, listening carefully to the reply. "Where is their taxi
now? How long? Okay, good. Bring them to the U.S. Botanic Garden.
Service entrance. And make sure you get me that god-damn pyramid
and capstone."
Sato hung up and turned back to Bellamy with
a smug smile. "Well then . . . it seems you're fast outliving your
usefulness."
CHAPTER 75 Robert Langdon stared blankly
into space, feeling too tired to urge the slow-moving taxi driver
to pick up the pace. Beside him, Katherine had fallen silent, too,
looking frustrated by their lack of understanding of what made the
pyramid so special. They had again been through everything they
knew about the pyramid, the capstone, and the evening's strange
events; they still had no ideas as to how this pyramid could
possibly be considered a map to anything at all.
Jeova Sanctus Unus? The secret hides within
The Order?
Their mysterious contact had promised them
answers if they could meet him at a specific place. A refuge in
Rome, north of the Tiber. Langdon knew the forefathers' "new Rome"
had been renamed Washington early in her history, and yet vestiges
of their original dream remained: the Tiber's waters still flowed
into the Potomac; senators still convened beneath a replica of St.
Peter's dome; and Vulcan and Minerva still watched over the
Rotunda's long-extinguished flame.
The answers sought by Langdon and Katherine
were apparently waiting for them just a few miles ahead. Northwest
on Massachusetts Avenue. Their destination was indeed a refuge . .
. north of Washington's Tiber Creek. Langdon wished the driver
would speed up.
Abruptly, Katherine jolted upright in her
seat, as if she had made a sudden realization. "Oh my God, Robert!"
She turned to him, her face going white. She hesitated a moment and
then spoke emphatically. "We're going the wrong way!"
"No, this is right," Langdon countered.
"It's northwest on Massachu--"
"No! I mean we're going to the wrong
place!"
Langdon was mystified. He had already told
Katherine how he knew what location was being described by the
mysterious caller. It contains ten stones from Mount Sinai, one
from heaven itself, and one with the visage of Luke's dark father.
Only one building on earth could make those claims. And that was
exactly where this taxi was headed.
"Katherine, I'm certain the location is
correct."
"No!" she shouted. "We don't need to go
there anymore. I figured out the pyramid and capstone! I know what
this is all about!"
Langdon was amazed. "You understand
it?"
"Yes! We have to go to Freedom Plaza
instead!"
Now Langdon was lost. Freedom Plaza,
although nearby, seemed totally irrelevant.
"Jeova Sanctus Unus!" Katherine said. "The
One True God of the Hebrews. The sacred symbol of the Hebrews is
the Jewish star--the Seal of Solomon--an important symbol to the
Masons!" She fished a dollar bill out of her pocket. "Give me your
pen." Bewildered, Langdon pulled a pen from his jacket.
"Look." She spread the bill out on her thigh
and took his pen, pointing to the Great Seal on the back. "If you
superimpose Solomon's seal on the Great Seal of the United States .
. ." She drew the symbol of a Jewish star precisely over the
pyramid. "Look what you get!"
Langdon looked down at the bill and then
back at Katherine as if she were mad.
"Robert, look more closely! Don't you see
what I'm pointing at?"
He glanced back at the drawing.
What in the world is she getting at? Langdon
had seen this image before. It was popular among conspiracy
theorists as "proof" that the Masons held secret influence over our
early nation. When the six-pointed star was laid perfectly over the
Great Seal of the United States, the star's top vertex fit
perfectly over the Masonic all-seeing eye . . . and, quite eerily,
the other five vertices clearly pointed to the letters
M-A-S-O-N.
"Katherine, that's just a coincidence, and I
still don't see how it has anything to do with Freedom
Plaza."
"Look again!" she said, sounding almost
angry now. "You're not looking where I am pointing! Right there.
Don't you see it?"
An instant later, Langdon saw it.
CIA field-operations leader Turner Simkins
stood outside the Adams Building and pressed his cell phone tightly
to his ear, straining to hear the conversation now taking place in
the back of the taxi. Something just happened. His team was about
to board the modified Sikorsky UH-60 helicopter to head northwest
and set up a roadblock, but now it seemed the situation had
suddenly changed.
Seconds ago, Katherine Solomon had begun
insisting they were going to the wrong destination. Her
explanation--something about the dollar bill and Jewish stars--made
no sense to the team leader, nor, apparently, to Robert Langdon. At
least at first. Now, however, Langdon seemed to have grasped her
meaning.
"My God, you're right!" Langdon blurted. "I
didn't see it earlier!"
Suddenly Simkins could hear someone banging
on the driver's divider, and then it slid open. "Change of plans,"
Katherine shouted to the driver. "Take us to Freedom Plaza!"
"Freedom Plaza?" the cabbie said, sounding
nervous. "Not northwest on Massachusetts?"
"Forget that!" Katherine shouted. "Freedom
Plaza! Go left here! Here! HERE!"
Agent Simkins heard the cab screeching
around a corner. Katherine was talking excitedly again to Langdon,
saying something about the famous bronze cast of the Great Seal
embedded in the plaza.
"Ma'am, just to confirm," the cabbie's voice
interjected, sounding tense. "We're going to Freedom Plaza--on the
corner of Pennsylvania and Thirteenth?"
"Yes!" Katherine said. "Hurry!"
"It's very close. Two minutes."
Simkins smiled. Nicely done, Omar. As he
dashed toward the idling helicopter, he shouted to his team. "We've
got them! Freedom Plaza! Move!"
CHAPTER 76 Freedom Plaza is a map.
Located at the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue
and Thirteenth Street, the plaza's vast surface of inlaid stone
depicts the streets of Washington as they were originally
envisioned by Pierre L'Enfant. The plaza is a popular tourist
destination not only because the giant map is fun to walk on, but
also because Martin Luther King Jr., for whom Freedom Plaza is
named, wrote much of his "I Have a Dream" speech in the nearby
Willard Hotel.
D.C. cabdriver Omar Amirana brought tourists
to Freedom Plaza all the time, but tonight, his two passengers were
obviously no ordinary sightseers. The CIA is chasing them? Omar had
barely come to a stop at the curb before the man and woman had
jumped out.
"Stay right here!" the man in the tweed coat
told Omar. "We'll be right back!"
Omar watched the two people dash out onto
the wide-open spaces of the enormous map, pointing and shouting as
they scanned the geometry of intersecting streets. Omar grabbed his
cell phone off the dashboard. "Sir, are you still there?"
"Yes, Omar!" a voice shouted, barely audible
over a thundering noise on his end of the line. "Where are they
now?"
"Out on the map. It seems like they're
looking for something."
"Do not let them out of your sight," the
agent shouted. "I'm almost there!"
Omar watched as the two fugitives quickly
found the plaza's famous Great Seal--one of the largest bronze
medallions ever cast. They stood over it a moment and quickly began
pointing to the southwest. Then the man in tweed came racing back
toward the cab. Omar quickly set his phone down on the dashboard as
the man arrived, breathless.
"Which direction is Alexandria, Virginia?"
he demanded.
"Alexandria?" Omar pointed southwest, the
exact same direction the man and woman had just pointed
toward.
"I knew it!" the man whispered beneath his
breath. He spun and shouted back to the woman. "You're right!
Alexandria!"
The woman now pointed across the plaza to an
illuminated "Metro" sign nearby. "The Blue Line goes directly
there. We want King Street Station!"
Omar felt a surge of panic. Oh no.
The man turned back to Omar and handed him
entirely too many bills for the fare. "Thanks. We're all set." He
hoisted his leather bag and ran off.
"Wait! I can drive you! I go there all the
time!"
But it was too late. The man and woman were
already dashing across the plaza. They disappeared down the stairs
into the Metro Center subway station.
Omar grabbed his cell phone. "Sir! They ran
down into the subway! I couldn't stop them! They're taking the Blue
Line to Alexandria!"
"Stay right there!" the agent shouted. "I'll
be there in fifteen seconds!"
Omar looked down at the wad of bills the man
had given him. The bill on top was apparently the one they had been
writing on. It had a Jewish star on top of the Great Seal of the
United States. Sure enough, the star's points fell on letters that
spelled MASON.
Without warning, Omar felt a deafening
vibration all around him, as if a tractor trailer were about to
collide with his cab. He looked up, but the street was deserted.
The noise increased, and suddenly a sleek black helicopter dropped
down out of the night and landed hard in the middle of the plaza
map.
A group of black-clad men jumped out. Most
ran toward the subway station, but one came dashing toward Omar's
cab. He yanked open the passenger door. "Omar? Is that you?"
Omar nodded, speechless.
"Did they say where they were headed?" the
agent demanded.
"Alexandria! King Street Station," Omar
blurted. "I offered to drive, but--"
"Did they say where in Alexandria they were
going?"
"No! They looked at the medallion of the
Great Seal on the plaza, then they asked about Alexandria, and they
paid me with this." He handed the agent the dollar bill with the
bizarre diagram. As the agent studied the bill, Omar suddenly put
it all together. The Masons! Alexandria! One of the most famous
Masonic buildings in America was in Alexandria. "That's it!" he
blurted. "The George Washington Masonic Memorial! It's directly
across from King Street Station!"
"That it is," the agent said, apparently
having just come to the same realization as the rest of the agents
came sprinting back from the station.
"We missed them!" one of the men yelled.
"Blue Line just left! They're not down there!"
Agent Simkins checked his watch and turned
back to Omar. "How long does the subway take to Alexandria?" "Ten
minutes at least. Probably more."
"Omar, you've done an excellent job. Thank
you."
"Sure. What's this all about?!"
But Agent Simkins was already running back
to the chopper, shouting as he went. "King Street Station! We'll
get there before they do!"
Bewildered, Omar watched the great black
bird lift off. It banked hard to the south across Pennsylvania
Avenue, and then thundered off into the night.
Underneath the cabbie's feet, a subway train
was picking up speed as it headed away from Freedom Plaza. On
board, Robert Langdon and Katherine Solomon sat breathless, neither
one saying a word as the train whisked them toward their
destination.
CHAPTER 77
The memory always began the same way.
He was falling . . . plummeting backward
toward an ice-covered river at the bottom of a deep ravine. Above
him, the merciless gray eyes of Peter Solomon stared down over the
barrel of Andros's handgun. As he fell, the world above him
receded, everything disappearing as he was enveloped by the cloud
of billowing mist from the waterfall upstream.
For an instant, everything was white, like
heaven.
Then he hit the ice.
Cold. Black. Pain.
He was tumbling . . . being dragged by a
powerful force that pounded him relentlessly across rocks in an
impossibly cold void. His lungs ached for air, and yet his chest
muscles had contracted so violently in the cold that he was unable
even to inhale.
I'm under the ice.
The ice near the waterfall was apparently
thin on account of the turbulent water, and Andros had broken
directly through it. Now he was being washed downstream, trapped
beneath a transparent ceiling. He clawed at the underside of the
ice, trying to break out, but he had no leverage. The searing pain
from the bullet hole in his shoulder was evaporating, as was the
sting of the bird shot; both were blotted out now by the crippling
throb of his body going numb.
The current was accelerating, slingshotting
him around a bend in the river. His body screamed for oxygen.
Suddenly he was tangled in branches, lodged against a tree that had
fallen into the water. Think! He groped wildly at the branch,
working his way toward the surface, finding the spot where the
branch pierced up through the ice. His fingertips found the tiny
space of open water surrounding the branch, and he pulled at the
edges, trying to break the hole wider; once, twice, the opening was
growing, now several inches across.
Propping himself against the branch, he
tipped his head back and pressed his mouth against the small
opening. The winter air that poured into his lungs felt warm. The
sudden burst of oxygen fueled his hope. He planted his feet on the
tree trunk and pressed his back and shoulders forcefully upward.
The ice around the fallen tree, perforated by branches and debris,
was weakened already, and as he drove his powerful legs into the
trunk, his head and shoulders broke through the ice, crashing up
into the winter night. Air poured into his lungs. Still mostly
submerged, he wriggled desperately upward, pushing with his legs,
pulling with his arms, until finally he was out of the water, lying
breathless on the bare ice.
Andros tore off his soaked ski mask and
pocketed it, glancing back upstream for Peter Solomon. The bend in
the river obscured his view. His chest was burning again. Quietly,
he dragged a small branch over the hole in the ice in order to hide
it. The hole would be frozen again by morning.
As Andros staggered into the woods, it began
to snow. He had no idea how far he had run when he stumbled out of
the woods onto an embankment beside a small highway. He was
delirious and hypothermic. The snow was falling harder now, and a
single set of headlights approached in the distance. Andros waved
wildly, and the lone pickup truck immediately pulled over. It had
Vermont plates. An old man in a red plaid shirt jumped out.
Andros staggered toward him, holding his
bleeding chest. "A hunter . . . shot me! I need a . . .
hospital!"
Without hesitation, the old man helped
Andros up into the passenger seat of the truck and turned up the
heater. "Where's the nearest hospital?!"
Andros had no idea, but he pointed south.
"Next exit." We're not going to a hospital.
The old man from Vermont was reported
missing the next day, but nobody had any idea where on his journey
from Vermont he might have disappeared in the blinding snowstorm.
Nor did anyone link his disappearance to the other news story that
dominated the headlines the next day--the shocking murder of Isabel
Solomon.
When Andros awoke, he was lying in a
desolate bedroom of a cheap motel that had been boarded up for the
season. He recalled breaking in and binding his wounds with torn
bedsheets, and then burrowing into a flimsy bed beneath a pile of
musty blankets. He was famished.
He limped to the bathroom and saw the pile
of bloody bird-shot pellets in the sink. He vaguely recalled prying
them out of his chest. Raising his eyes to the dirty mirror, he
reluctantly unwrapped his bloody bandages to survey the damage. The
hard muscles of his chest and abdomen had stopped the bird shot
from penetrating too deep, and yet his body, once perfect, was now
ruined with wounds. The single bullet fired by Peter Solomon had
apparently gone cleanly through his shoulder, leaving a bloody
crater.
Making matters worse, Andros had failed to
obtain that for which he had traveled all this distance. The
pyramid. His stomach growled, and he limped outside to the man's
truck, hoping maybe to find food. The pickup was now covered with
heavy snow, and Andros wondered how long he had been sleeping in
this old motel. Thank God I woke up. Andros found no food anywhere
in the front seat, but he did find some arthritis painkillers in
the glove compartment. He took a handful, washing them down with
several mouthfuls of snow.
I need food.
A few hours later, the pickup that pulled
out from behind the old motel looked nothing like the truck that
had pulled in two days earlier. The cab cap was missing, as were
the hubcaps, bumper stickers, and all of the trim. The Vermont
plates were gone, replaced by those from an old maintenance truck
Andros had found parked by the motel Dumpster, into which he had
thrown all the bloody sheets, bird shot, and other evidence that he
had ever been at the motel.
Andros had not given up on the pyramid, but
for the moment it would have to wait. He needed to hide, heal, and
above all, eat. He found a roadside diner where he gorged himself
on eggs, bacon, hash browns, and three glasses of orange juice.
When he was done, he ordered more food to go. Back on the road,
Andros listened to the truck's old radio. He had not seen a
television or newspaper since his ordeal, and when he finally heard
a local news station, the report stunned him.
"FBI investigators," a news announcer said,
"continue their search for the armed intruder who murdered Isabel
Solomon in her Potomac home two days ago. The murderer is believed
to have fallen through the ice and been washed out to sea."
Andros froze. Murdered Isabel Solomon? He
drove on in bewildered silence, listening to the full report.
It was time to get far, far away from this
place.
The Upper West Side apartment offered
breathtaking views of Central Park. Andros had chosen it because
the sea of green outside his window reminded him of his lost view
of the Adriatic. Although he knew he should be happy to be alive,
he was not. The emptiness had never left him, and he found himself
fixated on his failed attempt to steal Peter Solomon's
pyramid.
Andros had spent long hours researching the
Legend of the Masonic Pyramid, and although nobody seemed to agree
on whether or not the pyramid was real, they all concurred on its
famous promise of vast wisdom and power. The Masonic Pyramid is
real, Andros told himself. My inside information is
irrefutable.
Fate had placed the pyramid within Andros's
reach, and he knew that ignoring it was like holding a winning
lottery ticket and never cashing it in. I am the only non-Mason
alive who knows the pyramid is real . . . as well as the identity
of the man who guards it.
Months had passed, and although his body had
healed, Andros was no longer the cocky specimen he had been in
Greece. He had stopped working out, and he had stopped admiring
himself naked in the mirror. He felt as if his body were beginning
to show signs of age. His once-perfect skin was a patchwork of
scars, and this only depressed him further. He still relied on the
painkillers that had nursed him through his recovery, and he felt
himself slipping back to the lifestyle that had put him in Soganlik
Prison. He didn't care. The body craves what the body craves.
One night, he was in Greenwich Village
buying drugs from a man whose forearm had been tattooed with a
long, jagged lightning bolt. Andros asked him about it, and the man
told him the tattoo was covering a long scar he had gotten in a car
accident. "Seeing the scar every day reminded me of the accident,"
the dealer said, "and so I tattooed over it with a symbol of
personal power. I took back control."
That night, high on his new stash of drugs,
Andros staggered into a local tattoo parlor and took off his shirt.
"I want to hide these scars," he announced. I want to take back
control.
"Hide them?" The tattoo artist eyed his
chest. "With what?"
"Tattoos."
"Yes . . . I mean tattoos of what?"
Andros shrugged, wanting nothing more than
to hide the ugly reminders of his past. "I don't know. You
choose."
The artist shook his head and handed Andros
a pamphlet on the ancient and sacred tradition of tattooing. "Come
back when you're ready."
Andros discovered that the New York Public
Library had in its collection fifty-three books on tattooing, and
within a few weeks, he had read them all. Having rediscovered his
passion for reading, he began carrying entire backpacks of books
back and forth between the library and his apartment, where he
voraciously devoured them while overlooking Central Park.
These books on tattoos had opened a door to
a strange world Andros had never known existed--a world of symbols,
mysticism, mythology, and the magical arts. The more he read, the
more he realized how blind he had been. He began keeping notebooks
of his ideas, his sketches, and his strange dreams. When he could
no longer find what he wanted at the library, he paid rare-book
dealers to purchase for him some of the most esoteric texts on
earth.
De Praestigiis Daemonum . . . Lemegeton . .
. Ars Almadel . . . Grimorium Verum . . . Ars Notoria . . . and on
and on. He read them all, becoming more and more certain that the
world still had many treasures yet to offer him. There are secrets
out there that transcend human understanding.
Then he discovered the writings of Aleister
Crowley--a visionary mystic from the early 1900s-- whom the church
had deemed "the most evil man who ever lived." Great minds are
always feared by lesser minds. Andros learned about the power of
ritual and incantation. He learned that sacred words, if properly
spoken, functioned like keys that opened gateways to other worlds.
There is a shadow universe beyond this one . . . a world from which
I can draw power. And although Andros longed to harness that power,
he knew there were rules and tasks to be completed
beforehand.
Become something holy, Crowley wrote. Make
yourself sacred.
The ancient rite of "sacred making" had once
been the law of the land. From the early Hebrews who made burnt
offerings at the Temple, to the Mayans who beheaded humans atop the
pyramids of Chich�n Itz�, to Jesus Christ, who offered his body on
the cross, the ancients understood God's requirement for sacrifice.
Sacrifice was the original ritual by which humans drew favor from
the gods and made themselves holy.
Sacra--sacred.
Face-- make.
Even though the rite of sacrifice had been
abandoned eons ago, its power remained. There had been a handful of
modern mystics, including Aleister Crowley, who practiced the Art,
perfecting it over time, and transforming themselves gradually into
something more. Andros craved to transform himself as they had. And
yet he knew he would have to cross a dangerous bridge to do
so.
Blood is all that separates the light from
the dark.
One night, a crow flew through Andros's open
bathroom window and got trapped in his apartment. Andros watched
the bird flutter around for a while and then finally stop,
apparently accepting its inability to escape. Andros had learned
enough to recognize a sign. I am being urged onward.
Clutching the bird in one hand, he stood at
the makeshift altar in his kitchen and raised a sharp knife,
speaking aloud the incantation he had memorized.
"Camiach, Eomiahe, Emial, Macbal, Emoii,
Zazean . . . by the most holy names of the angels in the Book of
Assamaian, I conjure thee that thou assist me in this operation by
the power of the One True God." Andros now lowered the knife and
carefully pierced the large vein on the right wing of the panicked
bird. The crow began to bleed. As he watched the stream of red
liquid flowing down into the metal cup he had placed as a
receptacle, he felt an unexpected chill in the air. Nonetheless, he
continued.
"Almighty Adonai, Arathron, Ashai, Elohim,
Elohi, Elion, Asher Eheieh, Shaddai . . . be my aid, so that this
blood may have power and efficacy in all wherein I shall wish, and
in all that I shall demand."
That night, he dreamed of birds . . . of a
giant phoenix rising from a billowing fire. The next morning, he
awoke with an energy he had not felt since childhood. He went
running in the park, faster and farther than he'd imagined
possible. When he could run no longer, he stopped to do pushups and
sit-ups. Countless repetitions. Still he had energy.
That night, again, he dreamed of the
phoenix.
Autumn had fallen again on Central Park, and
the wildlife were scurrying about searching for food for winter.
Andros despised the cold, and yet his carefully hidden traps were
now overflowing with live rats and squirrels. He took them home in
his backpack, performing rituals of increasing complexity.
Emanual, Massiach, Yod, He, Vaud . . .
please find me worthy.
The blood rituals fueled his vitality.
Andros felt younger every day. He continued to read day and
night--ancient mystical texts, epic medieval poems, the early
philosophers--and the more he learned about the true nature of
things, the more he realized that all hope for mankind was lost.
They are blind . . . wandering aimlessly in a world they will never
understand.
Andros was still a man, but he sensed he was
evolving into something else. Something greater. Something sacred.
His massive physique had emerged from dormancy, more powerful now
than ever before. He finally understood its true purpose. My body
is but a vessel for my most potent treasure . . . my mind.
Andros knew his true potential had not yet
been realized, and he delved deeper. What is my destiny? All the
ancient texts spoke of good and evil . . . and of man's need to
choose between them. I made my choice long ago, he knew, and yet he
felt no remorse. What is evil, if not a natural law? Darkness
followed light. Chaos followed order. Entropy was fundamental.
Everything decayed. The perfectly ordered crystal eventually turned
into random particles of dust.
There are those who create . . . and those
who destroy.
It was not until Andros read John Milton's
Paradise Lost that he saw his destiny materialize before him. He
read of the great fallen angel . . . the warrior demon who fought
against the light . . . the valiant one . . . the angel called
Moloch. Moloch walked the earth as a god. The angel's name, Andros
later learned, when translated to the ancient tongue, became
Mal'akh.
And so shall I.
Like all great transformations, this one had
to begin with a sacrifice . . . but not of rats, nor birds. No,
this transformation required a true sacrifice.
There is but one worthy sacrifice.
Suddenly he had a sense of clarity unlike
anything he had ever experienced in his life. His entire destiny
had materialized. For three straight days he sketched on an
enormous sheet of paper. When he was done, he had created a
blueprint of what he would become.
He hung the life-size sketch on his wall and
gazed into it as if into a mirror.
I am a masterpiece.
The next day, he took his drawing to the
tattoo parlor.
He was ready.
CHAPTER 78
The George Washington Masonic Memorial
stands atop Shuter's Hill in Alexandria, Virginia. Built in three
distinct tiers of increasing architectural complexity from bottom
to top--Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian--the structure stands as a
physical symbol of man's intellectual ascent. Inspired by the
ancient Pharos lighthouse of Alexandria, Egypt, this soaring tower
is capped by an Egyptian pyramid with a flamelike finial.
Inside the spectacular marble foyer sits a
massive bronze of George Washington in full Masonic regalia, along
with the actual trowel he used to lay the cornerstone of the
Capitol Building. Above the foyer, nine different levels bear names
like the Grotto, the Crypt Room, and the Knights Templar Chapel.
Among the treasures housed within these spaces are over twenty
thousand volumes of Masonic writings, a dazzling replica of the Ark
of the Covenant, and even a scale model of the throne room in King
Solomon's Temple.
CIA agent Simkins checked his watch as the
modified UH-60 chopper skimmed in low over the Potomac. Six minutes
until their train arrives. He exhaled and gazed out the window at
the shining Masonic Memorial on the horizon. He had to admit, the
brilliantly shining tower was as impressive as any building on the
National Mall. Simkins had never been inside the memorial, and
tonight would be no different. If all went according to plan,
Robert Langdon and Katherine Solomon would never make it out of the
subway station.
"Over there!" Simkins shouted to the pilot,
pointing down at the King Street subway station across from the
memorial. The pilot banked the helicopter and set it down on a
grassy area at the foot of Shuter's Hill.
Pedestrians looked up in surprise as Simkins
and his team piled out, dashed across the street, and ran down into
King Street Station. In the stairwell, several departing passengers
leaped out of the way, plastering themselves to the walls as the
phalanx of armed men in black thundered past them.
The King Street Station was larger than
Simkins had anticipated, apparently serving several different
lines--Blue, Yellow, and Amtrak. He raced over to the Metro map on
the wall, found Freedom Plaza and the direct line to this
location.
"Blue Line, southbound platform!" Simkins
shouted. "Get down there and clear everyone out!" His team dashed
off.
Simkins rushed over to the ticket booth,
flashed his identification, and shouted to the woman inside. "The
next train from Metro Center--what time is it due?!"
The woman inside looked frightened. "I'm not
sure. Blue Line arrives every eleven minutes. There's no set
schedule."
"How long since the last train?"
"Five . . . six minutes, maybe? No more than
that."
Turner did the math. Perfect. The next train
had to be Langdon's.
Inside a fast-moving subway car, Katherine
Solomon shifted uncomfortably on the hard plastic seat. The bright
fluorescent lights overhead hurt her eyes, and she fought the
impulse to let her eyelids close, even for a second. Langdon sat
beside her in the empty car, staring blankly down at the leather
bag at his feet. His eyelids looked heavy, too, as if the rhythmic
sway of the moving car were lulling him into a trance.
Katherine pictured the strange contents of
Langdon's bag. Why does the CIA want this pyramid? Bellamy had said
that Sato might be pursuing the pyramid because she knew its true
potential. But even if this pyramid somehow did reveal the hiding
place of ancient secrets, Katherine found it hard to believe that
its promise of primeval mystical wisdom would interest the
CIA.
Then again, she reminded herself, the CIA
had been caught several times running parapsychological or psi
programs that bordered on ancient magic and mysticism. In 1995, the
"Stargate/Scannate" scandal had exposed a classified CIA technology
called remote viewing--a kind of telepathic mind travel that
enabled a "viewer" to transport his mind's eye to any location on
earth and spy there, without being physically present. Of course,
the technology was nothing new. Mystics called it astral
projection, and yogis called it out-of-body experience.
Unfortunately, horrified American taxpayers called it absurd, and
the program had been scuttled. At least publicly.
Ironically, Katherine saw remarkable
connections between the CIA's failed programs and her own
breakthroughs in Noetic Science.
Katherine felt eager to call the police and
find out if they had discovered anything in Kalorama Heights, but
she and Langdon were phoneless now, and making contact with the
authorities would probably be a mistake anyway; there was no
telling how far Sato's reach extended.
Patience, Katherine. Within minutes, they
would be in a safe hiding place, guests of a man who had assured
them he could provide answers. Katherine hoped his answers,
whatever they might be, would help her save her brother.
"Robert?" she whispered, glancing up at the
subway map. "Next stop is ours."
Langdon emerged slowly from his daydream.
"Right, thanks." As the train rumbled toward the station, he
collected his daybag and gave Katherine an uncertain glance. "Let's
just hope our arrival is uneventful."
By the time Turner Simkins dashed down to
join his men, the subway platform had been entirely cleared, and
his team was fanning out, taking up positions behind the support
pillars that ran the length of the platform. A distant rumble
echoed in the tunnel at the other end of the platform, and as it
grew louder, Simkins felt the push of stale warm air billowing
around him.
No escape, Mr. Langdon.
Simkins turned to the two agents he had told
to join him on the platform. "Identification and weapons out. These
trains are automated, but they all have a conductor who opens the
doors. Find him."
The train's headlamp now appeared down the
tunnel, and the sound of squealing brakes pierced the air. As the
train burst into the station and began slowing down, Simkins and
his two agents leaned out over the track, waving CIA identification
badges and straining to make eye contact with the conductor before
he could open the doors.
The train was closing fast. In the third
car, Simkins finally saw the startled face of the conductor, who
was apparently trying to figure out why three men in black were all
waving identification badges at him. Simkins jogged toward the
train, which was now nearing a full stop.
"CIA!" Simkins shouted, holding up his ID.
"Do NOT open the doors!" As the train glided slowly past him, he
went toward the conductor's car, shouting in at him. "Do not open
your doors! Do you understand?! Do NOT open your doors!"
The train came to a full stop, its wide-eyed
conductor nodding repeatedly. "What's wrong?!" the man demanded
through his side window.
"Don't let this train move," Simkins said.
"And don't open the doors."
"Okay."
"Can you let us into the first car?"
The conductor nodded. Looking fearful, he
stepped out of the train, closing the door behind him. He escorted
Simkins and his men to the first car, where he manually opened the
door.
"Lock it behind us," Simkins said, pulling
his weapon. Simkins and his men stepped quickly into the stark
light of the first car. The conductor locked the door behind
them.
The first car contained only four
passengers--three teenage boys and an old woman--all of whom looked
understandably startled to see three armed men entering. Simkins
held up his ID. "Everything's fine. Just stay seated."
Simkins and his men now began their sweep,
pushing toward the back of the sealed train one car at a
time--"squeezing toothpaste," as it was called during his training
at the Farm. Very few passengers were on this train, and halfway to
the back, the agents still had seen nobody even remotely resembling
the description of Robert Langdon and Katherine Solomon.
Nonetheless, Simkins remained confident. There was absolutely no
place to hide on a subway car. No bathrooms, no storage, and no
alternative exits. Even if the targets had seen them board the
train and fled to the back, there was no way out. Prying open a
door was almost impossible, and Simkins had men watching the
platform and both sides of the train anyway.
Patience.
By the time Simkins reached the
second-to-last car, however, he was feeling edgy. This penultimate
car had only one passenger--a Chinese man. Simkins and his agents
moved through, scanning for any place to hide. There was
none.
"Last car," Simkins said, raising his weapon
as the threesome moved toward the threshold of the train's final
section. As they stepped into the last car, all three of them
immediately stopped and stared.
What the . . . ?! Simkins raced to the rear
of the deserted cabin, searching behind all the seats. He spun back
to his men, blood boiling. "Where the hell did they go?!" CHAPTER
79
Eight miles due north of Alexandria,
Virginia, Robert Langdon and Katherine Solomon strode calmly across
a wide expanse of frost-covered lawn.
"You should be an actress," Langdon said,
still impressed by Katherine's quick thinking and improvisational
skills.
"You weren't half bad yourself." She gave
him a smile.
At first, Langdon had been mystified by
Katherine's abrupt antics in the taxi. Without warning, she had
suddenly demanded they go to Freedom Plaza based on some revelation
about a Jewish star and the Great Seal of the United States. She
drew a well-known conspiracy-theory image on a dollar bill and then
insisted Langdon look closely where she was pointing.
Finally, Langdon realized that Katherine was
pointing not at the dollar bill but at a tiny indicator bulb on the
back of the driver's seat. The bulb was so covered with grime that
he had not even noticed it. As he leaned forward, however, he could
see that the bulb was illuminated, emitting a dull red glow. He
could also see the two faint words directly beneath the lit
bulb.
--INTERCOM ON--
Startled, Langdon glanced back at Katherine,
whose frantic eyes were urging him to look into the front seat. He
obeyed, stealing a discreet glance through the divider. The cabby's
cell phone was on the dash, wide open, illuminated, facing the
intercom speaker. An instant later, Langdon understood Katherine's
actions.
They know we're in this cab . . . they've
been listening to us.
Langdon had no idea how much time he and
Katherine had until their taxi was stopped and surrounded, but he
knew they had to act fast. Instantly, he'd begun playing along,
realizing that Katherine's desire to go to Freedom Plaza had
nothing to do with the pyramid but rather with its being a large
subway station--Metro Center--from which they could take the Red,
Blue, or Orange lines in any of six different directions.
They jumped out of the taxi at Freedom
Plaza, and Langdon took over, doing some improvising of his own,
leaving a trail to the Masonic Memorial in Alexandria before he and
Katherine ran down into the subway station, dashing past the Blue
Line platforms and continuing on to the Red Line, where they caught
a train in the opposite direction.
Traveling six stops northbound to
Tenleytown, they emerged all alone into a quiet, upscale
neighborhood. Their destination, the tallest structure for miles,
was immediately visible on the horizon, just off Massachusetts
Avenue on a vast expanse of manicured lawn. Now "off the grid," as
Katherine called it, the two of them walked across the damp grass.
On their right was a medieval-style garden, famous for its ancient
rosebushes and Shadow House gazebo. They moved past the garden,
directly toward the magnificent building to which they had been
summoned. A refuge containing ten stones from Mount Sinai, one from
heaven itself, and one with the visage of Luke's dark father.
"I've never been here at night," Katherine
said, gazing up at the brightly lit towers. "It's
spectacular."
Langdon agreed, having forgotten how
impressive this place truly was. This neo-Gothic masterpiece stood
at the north end of Embassy Row. He hadn't been here for years, not
since writing a piece about it for a kids' magazine in hopes of
generating some excitement among young Americans to come see this
amazing landmark. His article--"Moses, Moon Rocks, and Star
Wars"--had been part of the tourist literature for years.
Washington National Cathedral, Langdon
thought, feeling an unexpected anticipation at being back after all
these years. Where better to ask about One True God?
"This cathedral really has ten stones from
Mount Sinai?" Katherine asked, gazing up at the twin bell
towers.
Langdon nodded. "Near the main altar. They
symbolize the Ten Commandments given to Moses on Mount
Sinai."
"And there's a lunar rock?"
A rock from heaven itself. "Yes. One of the
stained-glass windows is called the Space Window and has a fragment
of moon rock embedded in it."
"Okay, but you can't be serious about the
last thing." Katherine glanced over, her pretty eyes flashing
skepticism. "A statue of . . . Darth Vader?"
Langdon chuckled. "Luke Skywalker's dark
father? Absolutely. Vader is one of the National Cathedral's most
popular grotesques." He pointed high into the west towers. "Tough
to see him at night, but he's there."
"What in the world is Darth Vader doing on
Washington National Cathedral?"
"A contest for kids to carve a gargoyle that
depicted the face of evil. Darth won."
They reached the grand staircase to the main
entrance, which was set back in an eighty-foot archway beneath a
breathtaking rose window. As they began climbing, Langdon's mind
shifted to the mysterious stranger who had called him. No names,
please . . . Tell me, have you successfully protected the map that
was entrusted to you? Langdon's shoulder ached from carrying the
heavy stone pyramid, and he was looking forward to setting it down.
Sanctuary and answers. As they approached the top of the stairs,
they were met with an imposing pair of wooden doors. "Do we just
knock?" Katherine asked.
Langdon had been wondering the same thing,
except that now one of the doors was creaking open.
"Who's there?" a frail voice said. The face
of a withered old man appeared in the doorway. He wore priest's
robes and a blank stare. His eyes were opaque and white, clouded
with cataracts.
"My name is Robert Langdon," he replied.
"Katherine Solomon and I are seeking sanctuary."
The blind man exhaled in relief. "Thank God.
I've been expecting you."
CHAPTER 80
Warren Bellamy felt a sudden ray of
hope.
Inside the Jungle, Director Sato had just
received a phone call from a field agent and had immediately flown
into a tirade. "Well, you damn well better find them!" she shouted
into her phone. "We're running out of time!" She had hung up and
was now stalking back and forth in front of Bellamy as if trying to
decide what to do next.
Finally, she stopped directly in front of
him and turned. "Mr. Bellamy, I'm going to ask you this once, and
only once." She stared deep into his eyes. "Yes or no--do you have
any idea where Robert Langdon might have gone?"
Bellamy had more than a good idea, but he
shook his head. "No."
Sato's piercing gaze had never left his
eyes. "Unfortunately, part of my job is to know when people are
lying."
Bellamy averted his eyes. "Sorry, I can't
help you."
"Architect Bellamy," Sato said, "tonight
just after seven P.M., you were having dinner in a restaurant
outside the city when you received a phone call from a man who told
you he had kidnapped Peter Solomon."
Bellamy felt an instant chill and returned
his eyes to hers. How could you possibly know that?! "The man,"
Sato continued, "told you that he had sent Robert Langdon to the
Capitol Building and given Langdon a task to complete . . . a task
that required your help. He warned that if Langdon failed in this
task, your friend Peter Solomon would die. Panicked, you called all
of Peter's numbers but failed to reach him. Understandably, you
then raced to the Capitol."
Bellamy could not imagine how Sato knew
about this phone call.
"As you fled the Capitol," Sato said behind
the smoldering tip of her cigarette, "you sent a text message to
Solomon's kidnapper, assuring him that you and Langdon had been
successful in obtaining the Masonic Pyramid."
Where is she getting her information?
Bellamy wondered. Not even Langdon knows I sent that text message.
Immediately after entering the tunnel to the Library of Congress,
Bellamy had stepped into the electrical room to plug in the
construction lighting. In the privacy of that moment, he had
decided to send a quick text message to Solomon's captor, telling
him about Sato's involvement, but reassuring him that he--
Bellamy--and Langdon had obtained the Masonic Pyramid and would
indeed cooperate with his demands. It was a lie, of course, but
Bellamy hoped the reassurance might buy time, both for Peter
Solomon and also to hide the pyramid.
"Who told you I sent a text?" Bellamy
demanded.
Sato tossed Bellamy's cell phone on the
bench next to him. "Hardly rocket science."
Bellamy now remembered his phone and keys
had been taken from him by the agents who captured him.
"As for the rest of my inside information,"
Sato said, "the Patriot Act gives me the right to place a wiretap
on the phone of anyone I consider a viable threat to national
security. I consider Peter Solomon to be such a threat, and last
night I took action."
Bellamy could barely get his mind around
what she was telling him. "You're tapping Peter Solomon's
phone?"
"Yes. This is how I knew the kidnapper
called you at the restaurant. You called Peter's cell phone and
left an anxious message explaining what had just happened."
Bellamy realized she was right.
"We had also intercepted a call from Robert
Langdon, who was in the Capitol Building, deeply confused to learn
he had been tricked into coming there. I went to the Capitol at
once, arriving before you because I was closer. As for how I knew
to check the X-ray of Langdon's bag . . . in light of my
realization that Langdon was involved in all of this, I had my
staff reexamine a seemingly innocuous early-morning call between
Langdon and Peter Solomon's cell phone, in which the kidnapper,
posing as Solomon's assistant, persuaded Langdon to come for a
lecture and also to bring a small package that Peter had entrusted
to him. When Langdon was not forthcoming with me about the package
he was carrying, I requested the X-ray of his bag."
Bellamy could barely think. Admittedly,
everything Sato was saying was feasible, and yet something was not
adding up. "But . . . how could you possibly think Peter Solomon is
a threat to national security?"
"Believe me, Peter Solomon is a serious
national-security threat," she snapped. "And frankly, Mr. Bellamy,
so are you."
Bellamy sat bolt upright, the handcuffs
chafing against his wrists. "I beg your pardon?!"
She forced a smile. "You Masons play a risky
game. You keep a very, very dangerous secret."
Is she talking about the Ancient
Mysteries?
"Thankfully, you've always done a good job
of keeping your secrets hidden. Unfortunately, recently you've been
careless, and tonight, your most dangerous secret is about to be
unveiled to the world. And unless we can stop that from happening,
I assure you the results will be catastrophic."
Bellamy stared in bewilderment.
"If you had not attacked me," Sato said,
"you would have realized that you and I are on the same
team."
The same team. The words sparked in Bellamy
an idea that seemed almost impossible to fathom. Is Sato a member
of Eastern Star? The Order of the Eastern Star--often considered a
sister organization to the Masons--embraced a similar mystical
philosophy of benevolence, secret wisdom, and spiritual
open-mindedness. The same team? I'm in handcuffs! She's tapping
Peter's phone!
"You will help me stop this man," Sato said.
"He has the potential to bring about a cataclysm from which this
country might not recover." Her face was like stone.
"Then why aren't you tracking him?"
Sato looked incredulous. "Do you think I'm
not trying? My trace on Solomon's cell phone went dead before we
got a location. His other number appears to be a disposable
phone--which is almost impossible to track. The private-jet company
told us that Langdon's flight was booked by Solomon's assistant, on
Solomon's cell phone, with Solomon's Marquis Jet card. There is no
trail. Not that it matters anyway. Even if we find out exactly
where he is, I can't possibly risk moving in and trying to grab
him."
"Why not?!"
"I'd prefer not to share that, as the
information is classified," Sato said, patience clearly waning. "I
am asking you to trust me on this."
"Well, I don't!"
Sato's eyes were like ice. She turned
suddenly and shouted across the Jungle. "Agent Hartmann! The
briefcase, please."
Bellamy heard the hiss of the electronic
door, and an agent strode into the Jungle. He was carrying a sleek
titanium briefcase, which he set on the ground beside the OS
director.
"Leave us," Sato said.
As the agent departed, the door hissed
again, and then everything fell silent.
Sato picked up the metal case, laid it
across her lap, and popped the clasps. Then she raised her eyes
slowly to Bellamy. "I did not want to do this, but our time is
running out, and you've left me no choice."
Bellamy eyed the strange briefcase and felt
a swell of fear. Is she going to torture me? He strained at his
cuffs again. "What's in that case?!"
Sato smiled grimly. "Something that will
persuade you to see things my way. I guarantee it."
CHAPTER 81
The subterranean space in which Mal'akh
performed the Art was ingeniously hidden. His home's basement, to
those who entered, appeared quite normal--a typical cellar with
boiler, fuse box, woodpile, and a hodgepodge of storage. This
visible cellar, however, was only a portion of Mal'akh's
underground space. A sizable area had been walled off for his
clandestine practices.
Mal'akh's private work space was a suite of
small rooms, each with a specialized purpose. The area's sole
entrance was a steep ramp secretly accessible through his living
room, making the area's discovery virtually impossible.
Tonight, as Mal'akh descended the ramp, the
tattooed sigils and signs on his flesh seemed to come alive in the
cerulean glow of his basement's specialized lighting. Moving into
the bluish haze, he walked past several closed doors and headed
directly for the largest room at the end of the corridor.
The "sanctum sanctorum," as Mal'akh liked to
call it, was a perfect twelve-foot square. Twelve are the signs of
the zodiac. Twelve are the hours of the day. Twelve are the gates
of heaven. In the center of the chamber was a stone table, a
seven-by-seven square. Seven are the seals of Revelation. Seven are
the steps of the Temple. Centered over the table hung a carefully
calibrated light source that cycled through a spectrum of
preordained colors, completing its cycle every six hours in
accordance with the sacred Table of Planetary Hours. The hour of
Yanor is blue. The hour of Nasnia is red. The hour of Salam is
white.
Now was the hour of Caerra, meaning the
light in the room had modulated to a soft purplish hue. Wearing
only a silken loincloth wrapped around his buttocks and neutered
sex organ, Mal'akh began his preparations.
He carefully combined the suffumigation
chemicals that he would later ignite to sanctify the air. Then he
folded the virgin silk robe that he would eventually don in place
of his loincloth. And finally, he purified a flask of water for the
anointing of his offering. When he was done, he placed all of these
prepared ingredients on a side table.
Next he went to a shelf and retrieved a
small ivory box, which he carried to the side table and placed with
the other items. Although he was not yet ready to use it, he could
not resist opening the lid and admiring this treasure.
The knife.
Inside the ivory box, nestled in a cradle of
black velvet, shone the sacrificial knife that Mal'akh had been
saving for tonight. He had purchased it for $1.6 million on the
Middle Eastern antiquities black market last year.
The most famous knife in history.
Unimaginably old and believed lost, this
precious blade was made of iron, attached to a bone handle. Over
the ages, it had been in the possession of countless powerful
individuals. In recent decades, however, it had disappeared,
languishing in a secret private collection. Mal'akh had gone to
enormous lengths to obtain it. The knife, he suspected, had not
drawn blood for decades . . . possibly centuries. Tonight, this
blade would again taste the power of the sacrifice for which it was
honed.
Mal'akh gently lifted the knife from its
cushioned compartment and reverently polished the blade with a silk
cloth soaked in purified water. His skills had progressed greatly
since his first rudimentary experiments in New York. The dark Art
that Mal'akh practiced had been known by many names in many
languages, but by any name, it was a precise science. This primeval
technology had once held the key to the portals of power, but it
had been banished long ago, relegated to the shadows of occultism
and magic. Those few who still practiced this Art were considered
madmen, but Mal'akh knew better. This is not work for those with
dull faculties. The ancient dark Art, like modern science, was a
discipline involving precise formulas, specific ingredients, and
meticulous timing.
This Art was not the impotent black magic of
today, often practiced halfheartedly by curious souls. This Art,
like nuclear physics, had the potential to unleash enormous power.
The warnings were dire: The unskilled practitioner runs the risk of
being struck by a reflux current and destroyed.
Mal'akh finished admiring the sacred blade
and turned his attention to a lone sheet of thick vellum lying on
the table before him. He had made this vellum himself from the skin
of a baby lamb. As was the protocol, the lamb was pure, having not
yet reached sexual maturity. Beside the vellum was a quill pen he
had made from the feather of a crow, a silver saucer, and three
glimmering candles arranged around a solid-brass bowl. The bowl
contained one inch of thick crimson liquid.
The liquid was Peter Solomon's blood.
Blood is the tincture of eternity.
Mal'akh picked up the quill pen, placed his
left hand on the vellum, and dipping the quill tip in the blood, he
carefully traced the outline of his open palm. When he was done, he
added the five symbols of the Ancient Mysteries, one on each
fingertip of the drawing.
The crown . . . to represent the king I
shall become.
The star . . . to represent the heavens
which have ordained my destiny.
The sun . . . to represent the illumination
of my soul.
The lantern . . . to represent the feeble
light of human understanding.
And the key . . . to represent the missing
piece, that which tonight I shall at last possess.
Mal'akh completed his blood tracing and held
up the vellum, admiring his work in the light of the three candles.
He waited until the blood was dry and then folded the thick vellum
three times. While chanting an ethereal ancient incantation,
Mal'akh touched the vellum to the third candle, and it burst into
flames. He set the flaming vellum on the silver saucer and let it
burn. As it did, the carbon in the animal skin dissolved to a
powdery black char. When the flame went out, Mal'akh carefully
tapped the ashes into the brass bowl of blood. Then he stirred the
mixture with the crow's feather.
The liquid turned a deeper crimson, nearly
black.
Holding the bowl in both palms, Mal'akh
raised it over his head and gave thanks, intoning the blood
eukharistos of the ancients. Then he carefully poured the blackened
mixture into a glass vial and corked it. This would be the ink with
which Mal'akh would inscribe the untattooed flesh atop his head and
complete his masterpiece. CHAPTER 82
Washington National Cathedral is the
sixth-largest cathedral in the world and soars higher than a
thirty-story skyscraper. Embellished with over two hundred
stained-glass windows, a fifty- three-bell carillon, and a
10,647-pipe organ, this Gothic masterpiece can accommodate more
than three thousand worshippers.
Tonight, however, the great cathedral was
deserted.
Reverend Colin Galloway--dean of the
cathedral--looked like he had been alive forever. Stooped and
withered, he wore a simple black cassock and shuffled blindly ahead
without a word. Langdon and Katherine followed in silence through
the darkness of the four-hundred-foot- long nave's central aisle,
which was curved ever so slightly to the left to create a softening
optical illusion. When they reached the Great Crossing, the dean
guided them through the rood screen--the symbolic divider between
the public area and the sanctuary beyond.
The scent of frankincense hung in the air of
the chancel. This sacred space was dark, illuminated only by
indirect reflections in the foliated vaults overhead. Flags of the
fifty states hung above the quire, which was ornately appointed
with several carved reredos depicting biblical events. Dean
Galloway continued on, apparently knowing this walk by heart. For a
moment, Langdon thought they were headed straight for the high
altar, where the ten stones from Mount Sinai were embedded, but the
old dean finally turned left and groped his way through a
discreetly hidden door that led into an administrative annex.
They moved down a short hallway to an office
door bearing a brass nameplate:
THE REVEREND DR. COLIN GALLOWAY
CATHEDRAL DEAN
Galloway opened the door and turned on the
lights, apparently accustomed to remembering this courtesy for his
guests. He ushered them in and closed the door.
The dean's office was small but elegant,
with high bookshelves, a desk, a carved armoire, and a private
bathroom. On the walls hung sixteenth-century tapestries and
several religious paintings. The old dean motioned to the two
leather chairs directly opposite his desk. Langdon sat with
Katherine and felt grateful finally to set his heavy shoulder bag
on the floor at his feet.
Sanctuary and answers, Langdon thought,
settling into the comfortable chair.
The aged man shuffled around behind his desk
and eased himself down into his high-backed chair. Then, with a
weary sigh, he raised his head, staring blankly out at them through
clouded eyes. When he spoke, his voice was unexpectedly clear and
strong.
"I realize we have never met," the old man
said, "and yet I feel I know you both." He took out a handkerchief
and dabbed his mouth. "Professor Langdon, I am familiar with your
writings, including the clever piece you did on the symbolism of
this cathedral. And, Ms. Solomon, your brother, Peter, and I have
been Masonic brothers for many years now."
"Peter is in terrible trouble," Katherine
said.
"So I have been told." The old man sighed.
"And I will do everything in my power to help you."
Langdon saw no Masonic ring on the dean's
finger, and yet he knew many Masons, especially those within the
clergy, chose not to advertise their affiliation.
As they began to talk, it became clear that
Dean Galloway already knew some of the night's events from Warren
Bellamy's phone message. As Langdon and Katherine filled him in on
the rest, the dean looked more and more troubled.
"And this man who has taken our beloved
Peter," the dean said, "he is insisting you decipher the pyramid in
exchange for Peter's life?"
"Yes," Langdon said. "He thinks it's a map
that will lead him to the hiding place of the Ancient
Mysteries."
The dean turned his eerie, opaque eyes
toward Langdon. "My ears tell me you do not believe in such
things."
Langdon did not want to waste time going
down this road. "It doesn't matter what I believe. We need to help
Peter. Unfortunately, when we deciphered the pyramid, it pointed
nowhere."
The old man sat straighter. "You've
deciphered the pyramid?"
Katherine interceded now, quickly explaining
that despite Bellamy's warnings and her brother's request that
Langdon not unwrap the package, she had done so, feeling her first
priority was to help her brother however she could. She told the
dean about the golden capstone, Albrecht D�rer's magic square, and
how it decrypted the sixteen-letter Masonic cipher into the phrase
Jeova Sanctus Unus.
"That's all it says?" the dean asked. "One
True God?"
"Yes, sir," Langdon replied. "Apparently the
pyramid is more of a metaphorical map than a geographic one."
The dean held out his hands. "Let me feel
it." Langdon unzipped his bag and pulled out the pyramid, which he
carefully hoisted up on the desk, setting it directly in front of
the reverend.
Langdon and Katherine watched as the old
man's frail hands examined every inch of the stone-- the engraved
side, the smooth base, and the truncated top. When he was finished,
he held out his hands again. "And the capstone?"
Langdon retrieved the small stone box, set
it on the desk, and opened the lid. Then he removed the capstone
and placed it into the old man's waiting hands. The dean performed
a similar examination, feeling every inch, pausing on the
capstone's engraving, apparently having some trouble reading the
small, elegantly inscribed text.
"`The secret hides within The Order,'"
Langdon offered. "And the words the and order are
capitalized."
The old man's face was expressionless as he
positioned the capstone on top of the pyramid and aligned it by
sense of touch. He seemed to pause a moment, as if in prayer, and
reverently ran his palms over the complete pyramid several times.
Then he reached out and located the cube- shaped box, taking it in
his hands, feeling it carefully, his fingers probing inside and
out.
When he was done, he set down the box and
leaned back in his chair. "So tell me," he demanded, his voice
suddenly stern. "Why have you come to me?"
The question took Langdon off guard. "We
came, sir, because you told us to. And Mr. Bellamy said we should
trust you."
"And yet you did not trust him?"
"I'm sorry?"
The dean's white eyes stared directly
through Langdon. "The package containing the capstone was sealed.
Mr. Bellamy told you not to open it, and yet you did. In addition,
Peter Solomon himself told you not to open it. And yet you
did."
"Sir," Katherine intervened, "we were trying
to help my brother. The man who has him demanded we
decipher--"
"I can appreciate that," the dean declared,
"and yet what have you achieved by opening the package? Nothing.
Peter's captor is looking for a location, and he will not be
satisfied with the answer of Jeova Sanctus Unus."
"I agree," Langdon said, "but unfortunately
that's all the pyramid says. As I mentioned, the map seems to be
more figurative than--"
"You're mistaken, Professor," the dean said.
"The Masonic Pyramid is a real map. It points to a real location.
You do not understand that, because you have not yet deciphered the
pyramid fully. Not even close."
Langdon and Katherine exchanged startled
looks.
The dean laid his hands back on the pyramid,
almost caressing it. "This map, like the Ancient Mysteries
themselves, has many layers of meaning. Its true secret remains
veiled from you."
"Dean Galloway," Langdon said, "we've been
over every inch of the pyramid and capstone, and there's nothing
else to see."
"Not in its current state, no. But objects
change."
"Sir?"
"Professor, as you know, the promise of this
pyramid is one of miraculous transformative power. Legend holds
that this pyramid can change its shape . . . alter its physical
form to reveal its secrets. Like the famed stone that released
Excalibur into the hands of King Arthur, the Masonic Pyramid can
transform itself if it so chooses . . . and reveal its secret to
the worthy."
Langdon now sensed that the old man's
advanced years had perhaps robbed him of his faculties. "I'm sorry,
sir. Are you saying this pyramid can undergo a literal physical
transformation?"
"Professor, if I were to reach out with my
hand and transform this pyramid right before your eyes, would you
believe what you had witnessed?"
Langdon had no idea how to respond. "I
suppose I would have no choice."
"Very well, then. In a moment, I shall do
exactly that." He dabbed his mouth again. "Let me remind you that
there was an era when even the brightest minds perceived the earth
as flat. For if the earth were round, then surely the oceans would
spill off. Imagine how they would have mocked you if you
proclaimed, `Not only is the world a sphere, but there is an
invisible, mystical force that holds everything to its
surface'!"
"There's a difference," Langdon said,
"between the existence of gravity . . . and the ability to
transform objects with a touch of your hand."
"Is there? Is it not possible that we are
still living in the Dark Ages, still mocking the suggestion of
`mystical' forces that we cannot see or comprehend. History, if it
has taught us anything at all, has taught us that the strange ideas
we deride today will one day be our celebrated truths. I claim I
can transform this pyramid with a touch of my finger, and you
question my sanity. I would expect more from an historian. History
is replete with great minds who have all proclaimed the same thing
. . . great minds who have all insisted that man possesses mystical
abilities of which he is unaware."
Langdon knew the dean was correct. The
famous Hermetic aphorism--Know ye not that ye are gods?--was one of
the pillars of the Ancient Mysteries. As above, so below . . . Man
created in God's image . . . Apotheosis. This persistent message of
man's own divinity--of his hidden potential--was the recurring
theme in the ancient texts of countless traditions. Even the Holy
Bible cried out in Psalms 82:6: Ye are gods!
"Professor," the old man said, "I realize
that you, like many educated people, live trapped between
worlds--one foot in the spiritual, one foot in the physical. Your
heart yearns to believe . . . but your intellect refuses to permit
it. As an academic, you would be wise to learn from the great minds
of history." He paused and cleared his throat. "If I'm remembering
correctly, one of the greatest minds ever to live proclaimed: `That
which is impenetrable to us really exists. Behind the secrets of
nature remains something subtle, intangible, and inexplicable.
Veneration for this force beyond anything that we can comprehend is
my religion.' "
"Who said that?" Langdon said.
"Gandhi?"
"No," Katherine interjected. "Albert
Einstein."
Katherine Solomon had read every word
Einstein had ever written and was struck by his profound respect
for the mystical, as well as his predictions that the masses would
one day feel the same. The religion of the future, Einstein had
predicted, will be a cosmic religion. It will transcend personal
God and avoid dogma and theology.
Robert Langdon appeared to be struggling
with the idea. Katherine could sense his rising frustration with
the old Episcopal priest, and she understood. After all, they had
traveled here for answers, and they had found instead a blind man
who claimed he could transform objects with a touch of his hands.
Even so, the old man's overt passion for mystical forces reminded
Katherine of her brother.
"Father Galloway," Katherine said, "Peter is
in trouble. The CIA is chasing us. And Warren Bellamy sent us to
you for help. I don't know what this pyramid says or where it
points, but if deciphering it means that we can help Peter, we need
to do that. Mr. Bellamy may have preferred to sacrifice my
brother's life to hide this pyramid, but my family has experienced
nothing but pain because of it. Whatever secret it may hold, it
ends tonight."
"You are correct," the old man replied, his
tone dire. "It will all end tonight. You've guaranteed that." He
sighed. "Ms. Solomon, when you broke the seal on that box, you set
in motion a series of events from which there will be no return.
There are forces at work tonight that you do not yet comprehend.
There is no turning back."
Katherine stared dumbfounded at the
reverend. There was something apocalyptic about his tone, as if he
were referring to the Seven Seals of Revelation or Pandora's
box.
"Respectfully, sir," Langdon interceded, "I
can't imagine how a stone pyramid could set in motion anything at
all."
"Of course you can't, Professor." The old
man stared blindly through him. "You do not yet have eyes to see."
CHAPTER 83
In the moist air of the Jungle, the
Architect of the Capitol could feel the sweat now rolling down his
back. His handcuffed wrists ached, but all of his attention
remained riveted on the ominous titanium briefcase that Sato had
just opened on the bench between them.
The contents of this case, Sato had told
him, will persuade you to see things my way. I guarantee it.
The tiny Asian woman had unclasped the metal
case away from Bellamy's line of sight, and he had yet to see its
contents, but his imagination was running wild. Sato's hands were
doing something inside the case, and Bellamy half expected her to
extract a series of glistening, razor- sharp tools.
Suddenly a light source flickered inside the
case, growing brighter, illuminating Sato's face from beneath. Her
hands kept moving inside, and the light changed hue. After a few
moments, she removed her hands, grasped the entire case, and turned
it toward Bellamy so he could see inside.
Bellamy found himself squinting into the
glow of what appeared to be some kind of futuristic laptop with a
handheld phone receiver, two antennae, and a double keyboard. His
initial surge of relief turned quickly to confusion.
The screen bore the CIA logo and the
text:
SECURE LOG-IN
USER: INOUE SATO
SECURITY CLEARANCE: LEVEL 5
Beneath the laptop's log-in window, a
progress icon was spinning:
ONE MOMENT PLEASE . . .
DECRYPTING FILE . . .
Bellamy's gaze shot back up to Sato, whose
eyes were locked on his. "I had not wanted to show you this," she
said. "But you've left me no choice." The screen flickered again,
and Bellamy glanced back down as the file opened, its contents
filling the entire LCD.
For several moments, Bellamy stared at the
screen, trying to make sense of what he was looking at. Gradually,
as it began to dawn on him, he felt the blood draining from his
face. He stared in horror, unable to look away. "But this is . . .
impossible!" he exclaimed. "How . . . could this be!"
Sato's face was grim. "You tell me, Mr.
Bellamy. You tell me."
As the Architect of the Capitol began to
fully comprehend the ramifications of what he was seeing, he could
feel his entire world teetering precariously on the brink of
disaster.
My God . . . I've made a terrible, terrible
mistake!
CHAPTER 84
Dean Galloway felt alive.
Like all mortals, he knew the time was
coming when he would shed his mortal shell, but tonight was not the
night. His corporeal heart was beating strong and fast . . . and
his mind felt sharp. There is work to be done.
As he ran his arthritic hands across the
pyramid's smooth surfaces, he could scarcely believe what he was
feeling. I never imagined I would live to witness this moment. For
generations, the pieces of the symbolon map had been kept safely
apart from one another. Now they were united at last. Galloway
wondered if this was the foretold time.
Strangely, fate had selected two non-Masons
to assemble the pyramid. Somehow, this seemed fitting. The
Mysteries are moving out of the inner circles . . . out of darkness
. . . into the light.
"Professor," he said, turning his head in
the direction of Langdon's breathing. "Did Peter tell you why he
wanted you to watch over the little package?"
"He said powerful people wanted to steal it
from him," Langdon replied.
The dean nodded. "Yes, Peter told me the
same thing."
"He did?" Katherine said suddenly on his
left. "You and my brother spoke about this pyramid?"
"Of course," Galloway said. "Your brother
and I have spoken on many things. I was once the Worshipful Master
at the House of the Temple, and he comes to me for guidance at
times. It was about a year ago that he came to me, deeply troubled.
He sat exactly where you are now, and he asked me if I believed in
supernatural premonitions."
"Premonitions?" Katherine sounded concerned.
"You mean like . . . visions?"
"Not exactly. It was more visceral. Peter
said he was feeling the growing presence of a dark force in his
life. He sensed something was watching him . . . waiting . . .
intending to do him great harm."
"Obviously he was right," Katherine said,
"considering that the same man who killed our mother and Peter's
son had come to Washington and become one of Peter's own Masonic
brothers."
"True," Langdon said, "but it doesn't
explain the involvement of the CIA."
Galloway was not so sure. "Men in power are
always interested in greater power."
"But . . . the CIA?" Langdon challenged.
"And mystical secrets? Something doesn't add up."
"Sure it does," Katherine said. "The CIA
thrives on technological advancement and has always experimented
with the mystical sciences--ESP, remote viewing, sensory
deprivation, pharmacologically induced highly mentalized states.
It's all the same thing--tapping the unseen potential of the human
mind. If there's one thing I've learned from Peter, it's this:
Science and mysticism are very closely related, distinguishable
only by their approaches. They have identical goals . . . but
different methods."
"Peter tells me," Galloway said, "that your
field of study is a kind of modern mystical science?"
"Noetics," Katherine said, nodding. "And
it's proving man has powers unlike anything we can imagine." She
motioned to a stained-glass window depicting the familiar image of
the "Luminous Jesus," that of Christ with rays of light flowing
from his head and hands. "In fact, I just used a supercooled
charge-coupled device to photograph the hands of a faith healer at
work. The photos looked a lot like the image of Jesus in your
stained-glass window . . . streams of energy pouring through the
healer's fingertips."
The well-trained mind, Galloway thought,
hiding a smile. How do you think Jesus healed the sick?
"I realize," Katherine said, "that modern
medicine ridicules healers and shamans, but I saw this with my own
eyes. My CCD cameras clearly photographed this man transmitting a
massive energy field from his fingertips . . . and literally
changing the cellular makeup of his patient. If that's not godlike
power, then I don't know what is."
Dean Galloway let himself smile. Katherine
had the same fiery passion as her brother. "Peter once compared
Noetic Scientists to the early explorers who were mocked for
embracing the heretical notion of a spherical earth. Almost
overnight, these explorers went from fools to heroes, discovering
uncharted worlds and expanding the horizons of everyone on the
planet. Peter thinks you will do this as well. He has very high
hopes for your work. After all, every great philosophical shift in
history began with a single bold idea."
Galloway knew, of course, that one needn't
go to a lab to witness proof of this bold new idea, this proposal
of man's untapped potential. This very cathedral held healing
prayer circles for the sick, and repeatedly had witnessed truly
miraculous results, medically documented physical transformations.
The question was not whether God had imbued man with great powers .
. . but rather how we liberate those powers.
The old dean placed his hands reverently
around the sides of the Masonic Pyramid and spoke very quietly. "My
friends, I do not know exactly where this pyramid points . . . but
I do know this. There is a great spiritual treasure buried out
there somewhere . . . a treasure that has waited patiently in
darkness for generations. I believe it is a catalyst that has the
power to transform this world." He now touched the golden tip of
the capstone. "And now that this pyramid is assembled . . . the
time is fast approaching. And why shouldn't it? The promise of a
great transformational enlightenment has been prophesied
forever."
"Father," Langdon said, his tone
challenging, "we're all familiar with the Revelation of Saint John
and the literal meaning of the Apocalypse, but biblical prophecy
hardly seems--"
"Oh, heavens, the Book of Revelation is a
mess!" the dean said. "Nobody knows how to read that. I'm talking
about clear minds writing in clear language--the predictions of
Saint Augustine, Sir Francis Bacon, Newton, Einstein, the list goes
on and on, all anticipating a transformative moment of
enlightenment. Even Jesus himself said, `Nothing is hidden that
will not be made known, nor secret that will not come to
light.'"
"It's a safe prediction to make," Langdon
said. "Knowledge grows exponentially. The more we know, the greater
our ability to learn, and the faster we expand our knowledge
base."
"Yes," Katherine added. "We see this in
science all the time. Each new technology we invent becomes a tool
with which to invent new technologies . . . and it snowballs.
That's why science has advanced more in the last five years than in
the previous five thousand. Exponential growth. Mathematically, as
time passes, the exponential curve of progress becomes almost
vertical, and new development occurs incredibly fast."
Silence fell in the dean's office, and
Galloway sensed that his two guests still had no idea how this
pyramid could possibly help them reveal anything further. That is
why fate brought you to me, he thought. I have a role to
play.
For many years, the Reverend Colin Galloway,
along with his Masonic brothers, had played the role of gatekeeper.
Now it was all changing.
I am no longer a gatekeeper . . . I am a
guide.
"Professor Langdon?" Galloway said, reaching
out across his desk. "Take my hand if you will." Robert Langdon
felt uncertain as he stared across at Dean Galloway's outstretched
palm.
Are we going to pray?
Politely, Langdon reached out and placed his
right hand in the dean's withered hand. The old man grasped it
firmly but did not begin to pray. Instead, he found Langdon's index
finger and guided it downward into the stone box that had once
housed the golden capstone.
"Your eyes have blinded you," the dean said.
"If you saw with your fingertips as I do, you would realize this
box has something left to teach you."
Dutifully, Langdon worked his fingertip
around the inside of the box, but he felt nothing. The inside was
perfectly smooth.
"Keep looking," Galloway prompted.
Finally, Langdon's fingertip felt
something--a tiny raised circle--a minuscule dot in the center of
the base of the box. He removed his hand and peered inside. The
little circle was virtually invisible to the naked eye. What is
that?
"Do you recognize that symbol?" Galloway
asked.
"Symbol?" Langdon replied. "I can barely see
anything at all."
"Push down on it."
Langdon did as he asked, pressing his
fingertip down onto the spot. What does he think will happen?
"Hold your finger down," the dean said.
"Apply pressure."
Langdon glanced over at Katherine, who
looked puzzled as she tucked a wisp of hair behind her ears.
A few seconds later, the old dean finally
nodded. "Okay, remove your hand. The alchemy is complete."
Alchemy? Robert Langdon removed his hand
from the stone box and sat in bewildered silence. Nothing had
changed at all. The box just sat there on the desk.
"Nothing," Langdon said.
"Look at your fingertip," the dean replied.
"You should see a transformation."
Langdon looked at his finger, but the only
transformation he could see was that he now had an indentation on
his skin made by the circular nubbin--a tiny circle with a dot in
the middle.
"Now do you recognize this symbol?" the dean
asked.
Although Langdon recognized the symbol, he
was more impressed that the dean had been able to feel the detail
of it. Seeing with one's fingertips was apparently a learned
skill.
"It's alchemical," Katherine said, sliding
her chair closer and examining Langdon's finger. "It's the ancient
symbol for gold."
"Indeed it is." The dean smiled and patted
the box. "Professor, congratulations. You have just achieved what
every alchemist in history has strived for. From a worthless
substance, you've created gold."
Langdon frowned, unimpressed. The little
parlor trick seemed to be no help at all. "An interesting idea,
sir, but I'm afraid this symbol--a circle with a round dot in the
middle--has dozens of meanings. It's called a circumpunct, and it's
one of the most widely used symbols in history."
"What are you talking about?" the dean
asked, sounding skeptical.
Langdon was stunned that a Mason was not
more familiar with the spiritual importance of this symbol. "Sir,
the circumpunct has countless meanings. In ancient Egypt, it was
the symbol for Ra--the sun god--and modern astronomy still uses it
as the solar symbol. In Eastern philosophy, it represents the
spiritual insight of the Third Eye, the divine rose, and the sign
of illumination. The Kabbalists use it to symbolize the Kether--the
highest Sephiroth and `the most hidden of all hidden things.' Early
mystics called it the Eye of God and it's the origin of the
All-Seeing Eye on the Great Seal. The Pythagoreans used the
circumpunct as the symbol of the Monad--the Divine Truth, the
Prisca Sapientia, the at-one-ment of mind and soul, and
the--"
"Enough!" Dean Galloway was chuckling now.
"Professor, thank you. You are correct, of course."
Langdon now realized he had just been
played. He knew all that. "The circumpunct," Galloway said, still
smiling to himself, "is essentially the symbol of the Ancient
Mysteries. For this reason, I would suggest that its presence in
this box is not mere coincidence. Legend holds that the secrets of
this map are hidden in the smallest of details."
"Fine," Katherine said, "but even if this
symbol was inscribed there intentionally, it doesn't bring us any
closer to deciphering the map, does it?"
"You mentioned earlier that the wax seal you
broke was embossed with Peter's ring?"
"That's correct."
"And you said you have that ring with
you?"
"I do." Langdon reached into his pocket,
found the ring, took it out of the plastic bag, and placed it on
the desk in front of the dean.
Galloway picked up the ring and began
feeling its surfaces. "This unique ring was created at the same
time as the Masonic Pyramid, and traditionally, it is worn by the
Mason in charge of protecting the pyramid. Tonight, when I felt the
tiny circumpunct on the bottom of the stone box, I realized that
the ring is, in fact, part of the symbolon."
"It is?"
"I'm certain of it. Peter is my closest
friend, and he wore this ring for many years. I am quite familiar
with it." He handed the ring to Langdon. "See for yourself."
Langdon took the ring and examined it,
running his fingers over the double-headed phoenix, the number 33,
the words ORDO AB CHAO, and also the words All is revealed at the
thirty-third degree. He felt nothing helpful. Then, as his fingers
traced down around the outside of the band, he stopped short.
Startled, he turned the ring over and eyed the very bottom of its
band.
"Did you find it?" Galloway said.
"I think so, yes!" Langdon said.
Katherine slid her chair closer.
"What?"
"The degree sign on the band," Langdon said,
showing her. "It's so small that you don't really notice it with
your eyes, but if you feel it, you can tell it's actually
indented--like a tiny circular incision." The degree sign was
centered on the bottom of the band . . . and admittedly looked to
be the same size as the raised nubbin in the bottom of the
cube.
"Is it the same size?" Katherine moved
closer still, sounding excited now.
"There's one way to find out." He took the
ring and lowered it into the box, aligning the two tiny circles. As
he pushed down, the raised circle on the box slid into the ring's
opening, and there was a faint but decisive click.
They all jumped.
Langdon waited, but nothing happened.
"What was that?!" the priest said.
"Nothing," Katherine replied. "The ring
locked into place . . . but nothing else happened."
"No great transformation?" Galloway looked
puzzled.
We're not done, Langdon realized, gazing
down at the ring's embossed insignia--a double- headed phoenix and
the number 33. All is revealed at the thirty-third degree. His mind
filled with thoughts of Pythagoras, sacred geometry, and angles; he
wondered if perhaps degrees had a mathematical meaning.
Slowly, heart beating faster now, he reached
down and grasped the ring, which was affixed to the base of the
cube. Then, slowly, he began turning the ring to the right. All is
revealed at the thirty- third degree.
He turned the ring ten degrees . . . twenty
degrees . . . thirty degrees--
What happened next, Langdon never saw
coming.
CHAPTER 85
Transformation.
Dean Galloway heard it happen, and so he
didn't need to see it.
Across the desk from him, Langdon and
Katherine were dead silent, no doubt staring in mute astonishment
at the stone cube, which had just transformed itself loudly before
their very eyes.
Galloway couldn't help but smile. He had
anticipated the result, and although he still had no idea how this
development would ultimately help them solve the riddle of the
pyramid, he was enjoying the rare chance to teach a Harvard
symbologist something about symbols.
"Professor," the dean said, "few people
realize that the Masons venerate the shape of the cube-- or ashlar,
as we call it--because it is a three-dimensional representation of
another symbol . . . a much older, two-dimensional symbol."
Galloway didn't need to ask if the professor recognized the ancient
symbol now lying before them on the desk. It was one of the most
famous symbols in the world.
Robert Langdon's thoughts churned as he
stared at the transformed box on the desk in front of him. I had no
idea . . .
Moments ago, he had reached into the stone
box, grasped the Masonic ring, and gently turned it. As he rotated
the ring through thirty-three degrees, the cube had suddenly
changed before his eyes. The square panels that made up the sides
of the box fell away from one another as their hidden hinges
released. The box collapsed all at once, its side panels and lid
falling outward, slapping loudly on the desk.
The cube becomes a cross, Langdon thought.
Symbolic alchemy.
Katherine looked bewildered by the sight of
the collapsed cube. "The Masonic Pyramid relates to . . .
Christianity?"
For a moment, Langdon had wondered the same
thing. After all, the Christian crucifix was a respected symbol
within the Masons, and certainly there were plenty of Christian
Masons. However, Masons were also Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus,
and those who had no name for their God. The presence of an
exclusively Christian symbol seemed restrictive. Then the true
meaning of this symbol had dawned on him.
"It's not a crucifix," Langdon said,
standing up now. "The cross with the circumpunct in the middle is a
binary symbol--two symbols fused to create one."
"What are you saying?" Katherine's eyes
followed him as he paced the room.
"The cross," Langdon said, "was not a
Christian symbol until the fourth century. Long before that, it was
used by the Egyptians to represent the intersection of two
dimensions--the human and the celestial. As above, so below. It was
a visual representation of the juncture where man and God become
one."
"Okay."
"The circumpunct," Langdon said, "we already
know has many meanings--one of its most esoteric being the rose,
the alchemical symbol for perfection. But, when you place a rose on
the center of a cross, you create another symbol entirely--the Rose
Cross."
Galloway reclined in his chair, smiling.
"My, my. Now you're cooking."
Katherine stood now, too. "What am I
missing?"
"The Rose Cross," Langdon explained, "is a
common symbol in Freemasonry. In fact, one of the degrees of the
Scottish Rite is called `Knights of the Rose Cross' and honors the
early Rosicrucians, who contributed to Masonic mystical philosophy.
Peter may have mentioned the Rosicrucians to you. Dozens of great
scientists were members--John Dee, Elias Ashmole, Robert
Fludd--"
"Absolutely," Katherine said. "I've read all
of the Rosicrucian manifestos in my research."
Every scientist should, Langdon thought. The
Order of the Rose Cross--or more formally the Ancient and Mystical
Order Rosae Crucis--had an enigmatic history that had greatly
influenced science and closely paralleled the legend of the Ancient
Mysteries . . . early sages possessing secret wisdom that was
passed down through the ages and studied by only the brightest
minds. Admittedly, history's list of famous Rosicrucians was a
who's who of European Renaissance luminaries: Paracelsus, Bacon,
Fludd, Descartes, Pascal, Spinoza, Newton, Leibniz.
According to Rosicrucian doctrine, the order
was "built on esoteric truths of the ancient past," truths which
had to be "concealed from the average man" and which promised great
insight into "the spiritual realm." The brotherhood's symbol had
blossomed over the years into a flowering rose on an ornate cross,
but it had begun as a more modest dotted circle on an unadorned
cross-- the simplest manifestation of the rose on the simplest
manifestation of the cross.
"Peter and I often discuss Rosicrucian
philosophy," Galloway told Katherine.
As the dean began outlining the
interrelationship between Masonry and Rosicrucianism, Langdon felt
his attention drawn back to the same nagging thought he'd had all
night. Jeova Sanctus Unus. This phrase is linked to alchemy
somehow. He still could not remember exactly what Peter had told
him about the phrase, but for some reason, the mention of
Rosicrucianism seemed to have rekindled the thought. Think,
Robert!
"The Rosicrucian founder," Galloway was
saying, "was allegedly a German mystic who went by the name
Christian Rosenkreuz--a pseudonym obviously, perhaps even for
Francis Bacon, who some historians believe founded the group
himself, although there is no proof of--" "A pseudonym!" Langdon
declared suddenly, startling even himself. "That's it! Jeova
Sanctus Unus! It's a pseudonym!"
"What are you talking about?" Katherine
demanded.
Langdon's pulse had quickened now. "All
night, I've been trying to remember what Peter told me about Jeova
Sanctus Unus and its relationship to alchemy. Finally I remembered!
It's not about alchemy so much as about an alchemist! A very famous
alchemist!"
Galloway chuckled. "It's about time,
Professor. I mentioned his name twice and also the word
pseudonym."
Langdon stared at the old dean. "You
knew?"
"Well, I had my suspicions when you told me
the engraving said Jeova Sanctus Unus and had been decrypted using
D�rer's alchemical magic square, but when you found the Rose Cross,
I was certain. As you probably know, the personal papers of the
scientist in question included a very heavily annotated copy of the
Rosicrucian manifestos."
"Who?" Katherine asked.
"One of the world's greatest scientists!"
Langdon replied. "He was an alchemist, a member of the Royal
Society of London, a Rosicrucian, and he signed some of his most
secretive science papers with a pseudonym--`Jeova Sanctus
Unus'!"
"One True God?" Katherine said. "Modest
guy."
"Brilliant guy, actually," Galloway
corrected. "He signed his name that way because, like the ancient
Adepts, he understood himself as divine. In addition, because the
sixteen letters in Jeova Sanctus Unus could be rearranged to spell
his name in Latin, making it a perfect pseudonym."
Katherine now looked puzzled. "Jeova Sanctus
Unus is an anagram of a famous alchemist's name in Latin?"
Langdon grabbed a piece of paper and pencil
off the dean's desk, writing as he talked. "Latin interchanges the
letters J for I and the letter V for U, which means Jeova Sanctus
Unus can actually be perfectly rearranged to spell this man's
name."
Langdon wrote down sixteen letters: Isaacus
Neutonuus.
He handed the slip of paper to Katherine and
said, "I think you've heard of him."
"Isaac Newton?" Katherine demanded, looking
at the paper. "That's what the engraving on the pyramid was trying
to tell us!"
For a moment, Langdon was back in
Westminster Abbey, standing at Newton's pyramidical tomb, where he
had experienced a similar epiphany. And tonight, the great
scientist surfaces again. It was no coincidence, of course . . .
the pyramids, mysteries, science, hidden knowledge . . . it was all
intertwined. Newton's name had always been a recurring guidepost
for those seeking secret knowledge.
"Isaac Newton," Galloway said, "must have
something to do with how to decipher the meaning of the pyramid. I
can't imagine what it would be, but--"
"Genius!" Katherine exclaimed, her eyes
going wide. "That's how we transform the pyramid!"
"You understand?" Langdon said.
"Yes!" she said. "I can't believe we didn't
see it! It has been staring us right in the face. A simple
alchemical process. I can transform this pyramid using basic
science! Newtonian science!"
Langdon strained to understand.
"Dean Galloway," Katherine said. "If you
read the ring, it says--"
"Stop!" The old dean suddenly raised his
finger in the air and motioned for silence. Gently, he cocked his
head to the side, as if he were listening to something. After a
moment, he stood up abruptly. "My friends, this pyramid obviously
has secrets left to reveal. I don't know what Ms. Solomon is
getting at, but if she knows your next step, then I have played my
role. Pack up your things and say no more to me. Leave me in
darkness for the moment. I would prefer to have no information to
share should our visitors try to force me."
"Visitors?" Katherine said, listening. "I
don't hear anyone."
"You will," Galloway said, heading for the
door. "Hurry."