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THE SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTION 6 page

Sato began dialing a number on her BlackBerry, apparently seeing this as an opportune moment to check in with her staff. “What have you got?” She listened patiently. “I see . . .” She glanced directly at Langdon, then at Peter’s hand. “You’re certain?” She listened a moment longer. “Okay, thanks.” She hung up and turned back toward Langdon. “My support staff did some research and confirms the existence of your so-called Hand of the Mysteries, corroborating everything you said: five fingertip markings—the star, the sun, the key, the crown, and the lantern—as well as the fact that this hand served as an ancient invitation to learn secret wisdom.”

“I’m glad,” Langdon said.

“Don’t be,” she replied curtly. “It appears we’re now at a dead end until you share whatever it is you’re still not telling me.”

“Ma’am?”


Sato stepped toward him. “We’ve come full circle, Professor. You’ve told me nothing I could not have learned from my own staff. And so I will ask you once more. Why were you brought here tonight? What makes you so special? What is it that you alone know?”

“We’ve been through this,” Langdon fired back. “I don’t know why this guy thinks I know anything at all!”

Langdon was half tempted to demand how the hell Sato knew that he was in the Capitol tonight, but they’d been through that, too. Sato isn’t talking. “If I knew the next step,” he told her, “I’d tell you. But I don’t. Traditionally, the Hand of the Mysteries is extended by a teacher to a student. And then, shortly afterward, the hand is followed up with a set of instructions . . . directions to a temple, the name of the master who will teach you—something! But all this guy left for us is five tattoos! Hardly—” Langdon stopped short.

Sato eyed him. “What is it?”

Langdon’s eyes shot back to the hand. Five tattoos. He now realized that what he was saying might not be entirely true.

“Professor?” Sato pressed.

Langdon inched toward the gruesome object. Peter will point the way.

“Earlier, it crossed my mind that maybe this guy had left an object clenched in Peter’s palm—a map, or a letter, or a set of directions.”

“He didn’t,” Anderson said. “As you can see, those three fingers are not clenched tightly.”

“You’re right,” Langdon said. “But it occurs to me . . .” He crouched down now, trying to see up under the fingers to the hidden part of Peter’s palm. “Maybe it’s not written on paper.”

“Tattooed?” Anderson said.

Langdon nodded.

“Do you see anything on the palm?” Sato asked.

Langdon crouched lower, trying to peer up under the loosely clenched fingers. “The angle is impossible. I can’t—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Sato said, moving toward him. “Just open the damned thing!”

Anderson stepped in front of her. “Ma’am! We should really wait for forensics before we touch—”


“I want some answers,” Sato said, pushing past him. She crouched down, edging Langdon away from the hand.

Langdon stood up and watched in disbelief as Sato pulled a pen from her pocket, sliding it carefully under the three clenched fingers. Then, one by one, she pried each finger upward until the hand stood fully open, with its palm visible.



She glanced up at Langdon, and a thin smile spread across her face. “Right again, Professor.”

CHAPTER22

Pacing thelibrary, Katherine Solomon pulled back the sleeve of her lab coat and checked her watch. She was not a woman accustomed to waiting, but at the moment, she felt as if her whole world were on hold. She was waiting for Trish’s search-spider results, she was waiting for word from her brother, and also, she was waiting for a callback from the man who was responsible for this entire troubling situation.

I wish he hadn’t told me, she thought. Normally, Katherine was extremely careful about making new acquaintances, and although she had met this man for the first time only this afternoon, he had earned her trust in a matter of minutes. Completely.

His call had come this afternoon while Katherine was at home enjoying her usual Sunday-afternoon pleasure of catching up on the week’s scientific journals.

“Ms. Solomon?” an unusually airy voice had said. “My name is Dr. Christopher Abaddon. I was hoping I might speak to you for a moment about your brother?”

“I’m sorry, who is this?” she had demanded. And how did you get my private cell-phone number?

“Dr. Christopher Abaddon?”

Katherine did not recognize the name.

The man cleared his throat, as if the situation had just become awkward. “I apologize, Ms. Solomon. I was under the impression your brother had told you about me. I’m his doctor. Your cell number was listed as his emergency contact.”

Katherine’s heart skipped. Emergency contact? “Is something wrong?”

“No . . . I don’t think so,” the man said. “Your brother missed an appointment this morning, and


I can’t reach him on any of his numbers. He never misses appointments without calling, and I’m just a little worried. I hesitated to phone you, but—”

“No, no, not at all, I appreciate the concern.” Katherine was still trying to place the doctor’s name. “I haven’t spoken to my brother since yesterday morning, but he probably just forgot to turn on his cell.” Katherine had recently given him a new iPhone, and he still hadn’t taken the time to figure out how to use it.

“You say you’re his doctor?” she asked. Does Peter have an illness he’s keeping from me?

There was a weighty pause on the line. “I’m terribly sorry, but I’ve obviously just made a rather serious professional error by calling you. Your brother told me you were aware of his visits to me, but now I see that’s not the case.”

My brother lied to his doctor? Katherine’s concern was now growing steadily. “Is he sick?”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Solomon, doctor-patient confidentiality precludes me from discussing your brother’s condition, and I’ve already said too much by admitting he is my patient. I’m going to hang up now, but if you hear from him today, please ask him to call me so I know he’s okay.”

“Wait!” Katherine said. “Please tell me what’s wrong with Peter!”

Dr. Abaddon exhaled, sounding displeased with his mistake. “Ms. Solomon, I can hear you’re upset, and I don’t blame you. I’m sure your brother is fine. He was in my office just yesterday.”

“Yesterday? And he’s scheduled again today? This sounds urgent.”

The man heaved a sigh. “I suggest we give him a little more time before we—”

“I’m coming by your office right now,” Katherine said, heading for the door. “Where are you located?”

Silence.

“Dr. Christopher Abaddon?” Katherine said. “I can look up your address myself, or you can simply give it to me. Either way, I’m coming over.”

The doctor paused. “If I meet with you, Ms. Solomon, would you please do me the courtesy of saying nothing to your brother until I’ve had a chance to explain my misstep?”

“That’s fine.”

“Thank you. My office is in Kalorama Heights.” He gave her an address.

Twenty minutes later, Katherine Solomon was navigating the stately streets of Kalorama Heights. She had phoned all of her brother’s numbers with no reply. She did not feel overly


concerned about her brother’s whereabouts, and yet, the news that he was secretly seeing a doctor . . . was troubling.

When Katherine finally located the address, she stared up at the building in confusion. This is a doctor’s office?

The opulent mansion before her had a wrought-iron security fence, electronic cameras, and lush grounds. As she slowed to double-check the address, one of the security cameras rotated toward her, and the gate swung open. Tentatively, Katherine drove up the driveway and parked next to a six-car garage and a stretch limo.

What kind of doctor is this guy?

As she got out of her car, the front door of the mansion opened, and an elegant figure drifted out onto the landing. He was handsome, exceptionally tall, and younger than she had imagined. Even so, he projected the sophistication and polish of an older man. He was impeccably dressed in a dark suit and tie, and his thick blond hair was immaculately coiffed.

“Ms. Solomon, I’m Dr. Christopher Abaddon,” he said, his voice a breathy whisper. When they shook hands, his skin felt smooth and well tended.

“Katherine Solomon,” she said, trying not to stare at his skin, which was unusually smooth and bronzed. Is he wearing makeup?

Katherine felt a growing disquiet as she stepped into the home’s beautifully appointed foyer. Classical music played softly in the background, and it smelled as if someone had burned incense. “This is lovely,” she said, “although I expected more of . . . an office.”

“I’m fortunate to work out of my home.” The man led her into a living room, where there was a crackling fire. “Please make yourself comfortable. I’m just steeping some tea. I’ll bring it out, and we can talk.” He strode toward the kitchen and disappeared.

Katherine Solomon did not sit. Female intuition was a potent instinct that she had learned to trust, and something about this place was making her skin crawl. She saw nothing that looked anything like any doctor’s office she had ever seen. The walls of this antique-adorned living room were covered with classical art, primarily paintings with strange mythical themes. She paused before a large canvas depicting the Three Graces, whose nude bodies were spectacularly rendered in vivid colors.

“That’s the original Michael Parkes oil.” Dr. Abaddon appeared without warning beside her, holding a tray of steaming tea. “I thought we’d sit by the fire?” He led her over to the living room and offered her a seat. “There’s no reason to be nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” Katherine said entirely too quickly.

He gave her a reassuring smile. “Actually, it is my business to know when people are nervous.”


“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m a practicing psychiatrist, Ms. Solomon. That is my profession. I’ve been seeing your brother for almost a year now. I’m his therapist.”

Katherine could only stare. My brother is in therapy?

“Patients often choose to keep their therapy to themselves,” the man said. “I made a mistake by calling you, although in my defense, your brother did mislead me.”

“I . . . I had no idea.”

“I apologize if I made you nervous,” he said, sounding embarrassed. “I noticed you studying my face when we met, and yes, I do wear makeup.” He touched his own cheek, looking self-conscious. “I have a dermatological condition, which I prefer to hide. My wife usually puts the makeup on for me, but when she’s not here, I have to rely on my own heavy touch.”

Katherine nodded, too embarrassed to speak.

“And this lovely hair . . .” He touched his lush blond mane. “A wig. My skin condition affected my scalp follicles as well, and all my hair jumped ship.” He shrugged. “I’m afraid my one sin is vanity.”

“Apparently mine is rudeness,” Katherine said.

“Not at all.” Dr. Abaddon’s smile was disarming. “Shall we start over? Perhaps with some tea?”

They sat in front of the fire and Abaddon poured tea. “Your brother got me in the habit of serving tea during our sessions. He said the Solomons are tea drinkers.”

“Family tradition,” Katherine said. “Black, please.”

They sipped their tea and made small talk for a few minutes, but Katherine was eager for information about her brother. “Why was my brother coming to you?” she asked. And why didn’t he tell me? Admittedly, Peter had endured more than his fair share of tragedy in his life—losing his father at a young age, and then, within a span of five years, burying his only son and then his mother. Even so, Peter had always found a way to cope.

Dr. Abaddon took a sip of tea. “Your brother came to me because he trusts me. We have a bond beyond that of normal patient and doctor.” He motioned to a framed document near the fireplace. It looked like a diploma, until Katherine spied the double-headed phoenix.

“You’re a Mason?” The highest degree, no less.

“Peter and I are brothers of sorts.”


“You must have done something important to be invited into the thirty-third degree.”

“Not really,” he said. “I have family money, and I give a lot of money to Masonic charities.”

Katherine now realized why her brother trusted this young doctor. A Mason with family money, interested in philanthropy and ancient mythology?

Dr. Abaddon had more in common with her brother than she had initially imagined.

“When I asked why my brother came to you,” she said, “I didn’t mean why did he choose you. I meant, why is he seeking the services of a psychiatrist?”

Dr. Abaddon smiled. “Yes, I know. I was trying to sidestep the question politely. It’s really not something I should be discussing.” He paused. “Although I must say I’m puzzled that your brother would keep our discussions from you, considering that they relate so directly to your research.”

“My research?” Katherine said, taken totally off guard. My brother talks about my research?

“Recently, your brother came to me looking for a professional opinion about the psychological impact of the breakthroughs you are making in your lab.”

Katherine almost choked on the tea. “Really? I’m . . . surprised,” she managed. What is Peter thinking? He told his shrink about my work?! Their security protocol involved not discussing with anyone what Katherine was working on. Moreover, the confidentiality had been her brother’s idea.

“Certainly you are aware, Ms. Solomon, that your brother is deeply concerned about what will happen when your research goes public. He sees the potential for a significant philosophical shift in the world . . . and he came here to discuss the possible ramifications . . . from a psychological perspective.”

“I see,” Katherine said, her teacup now shaking slightly.

“The questions we discuss are challenging ones: What happens to the human condition if the great mysteries of life are finally revealed? What happens when those beliefs that we accept on faith . . . are suddenly categorically proven as fact? Or disproved as myth? One could argue that there exist certain questions that are best left unanswered.”

Katherine could not believe what she was hearing, and yet she kept her emotions in check. “I hope you don’t mind, Dr. Abaddon, but I’d prefer not to discuss the details of my work. I have no immediate plans to make anything public. For the time being, my discoveries will remain safely locked in my lab.”

“Interesting.” Abaddon leaned back in his chair, lost in thought for a moment. “In any event, I


asked your brother to come back today because yesterday he suffered a bit of a break. When that happens, I like to have clients—”

“Break?” Katherine’s heart was pounding. As in breakdown?” She couldn’t imagine her brother breaking down over anything.

Abaddon reached out kindly. “Please, I can see I’ve upset you. I’m sorry. Considering these awkward circumstances, I can understand how you might feel entitled to answers.”

“Whether I’m entitled or not,” Katherine said, “my brother is all I have left of my family. Nobody knows him better than I do, so if you tell me what the hell happened, maybe I can help you. We all want the same thing—what’s best for Peter.”

Dr. Abaddon fell silent for several long moments and then began slowly nodding as if Katherine might have a point. Finally, he spoke. “For the record, Ms. Solomon, if I decide to share this information with you, I would do so only because I think your insights might help me assist your brother.”

“Of course.”

Abaddon leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. “Ms. Solomon, as long as I’ve been seeing your brother, I’ve sensed in him a deep struggle with feelings of guilt. I’ve never pressed him on it because that’s not why he comes to me. And yet yesterday, for a number of reasons, I finally asked him about it.” Abaddon locked eyes with her. “Your brother opened up, rather dramatically and unexpectedly. He told me things I had not expected to hear . . . including everything that happened the night your mother died.”

Christmas Eve—almost exactly ten years ago. She died in my arms.

“He told me your mother was murdered during a robbery attempt at your home? A man broke in looking for something he believed your brother was hiding?”

“That’s correct.”

Abaddon’s eyes were appraising her. “Your brother said he shot the man dead?”

“Yes.”

Abaddon stroked his chin. “Do you recall what the intruder was looking for when he broke into your home?”

Katherine had tried in vain for ten years to block out the memory. “Yes, his demand was very specific. Unfortunately, none of us knew what he was talking about. His demand never made sense to any of us.”

“Well, it made sense to your brother.”


“What?” Katherine sat up.

“At least according to the story he told me yesterday, Peter knew exactly what the intruder was looking for. And yet your brother did not want to hand it over, so he pretended not to understand.”

“That’s absurd. Peter couldn’t possibly have known what the man wanted. His demands made no sense!”

“Interesting.” Dr. Abaddon paused and took a few notes. “As I mentioned, however, Peter told me he did know. Your brother believes if he had only cooperated with the intruder, maybe your mother would be alive today. This decision is the source of all his guilt.”

Katherine shook her head. “That’s crazy . . .”

Abaddon slumped, looking troubled. “Ms. Solomon, this has been useful feedback. As I feared, your brother seems to have had a little break with reality. I must admit, I was afraid this might be the case. That’s why I asked him to come back today. These delusional episodes are not uncommon when they relate to traumatic memories.”

Katherine shook her head again. “Peter is far from delusional, Dr. Abaddon.”

“I would agree, except . . .”

“Except what?”

“Except that his recounting of the attack was just the beginning . . . a tiny fraction of the long and far-fetched tale he told me.”

Katherine leaned forward in her seat. “What did Peter tell you?”

Abaddon gave a sad smile. “Ms. Solomon, let me ask you this. Has your brother ever discussed with you what he believes is hidden here in Washington, D.C. . . . or the role he believes he plays in protecting a great treasure . . . of lost ancient wisdom?”

Katherine’s jaw fell open. “What in the world are you talking about?”

Dr. Abaddon heaved a long sigh. “What I am about to tell you will be a bit shocking, Katherine.” He paused and locked eyes with her. “But it will be immeasurably helpful if you can tell me anything you may know about it.” He reached for her cup. “More tea?”


CHAPTER23

Another tattoo.

Langdon crouched anxiously beside Peter’s open palm and examined the seven tiny symbols that had been hidden beneath the lifeless clenched fingers.

X095

“They appear to be numbers,” Langdon said, surprised. “Although I don’t recognize them.”

“The first is a Roman numeral,” Anderson said.

“Actually, I don’t think so,” Langdon corrected. “The Roman numeral I-I-I-X doesn’t exist. It would be written V-I-I.”

“How about the rest of it?” Sato asked.

“I’m not sure. It looks like eight-eight-five in Arabic numbers.”

“Arabic?” Anderson asked. “They look like normal numbers.”

“Our normal numbers are Arabic.” Langdon had become so accustomed to clarifying this point for his students that he’d actually prepared a lecture about the scientific advances made by early Middle Eastern cultures, one of them being our modern numbering system, whose advantages over Roman numerals included ‘positional notation’ and the invention of the number zero. Of course, Langdon always ended this lecture with a reminder that Arab culture had also given mankind the word al-kuhl—the favorite beverage of Harvard freshmen—known as alcohol.

Langdon scrutinized the tattoo, feeling puzzled. “And I’m not even sure about the eight-eight-five. The rectilinear writing looks unusual. Those may not be numbers.”

“Then what are they? Sato asked.

“I’m not sure. The whole tattoo looks almost . . . runic.”

“Meaning?” Sato asked.

“Runic alphabets are composed solely of straight lines. Their letters are called runes and were often used for carving in stone because curves were too difficult to chisel.”


“If these are runes,” Sato said, “what is their meaning?”

Langdon shook his head. His expertise extended only to the most rudimentary runic alphabet— Futhark—a third-century Teutonic system, and this was not Futhark. “To be honest, I’m not even sure these are runes. You’d need to ask a specialist. There are dozens of different forms— Hälsinge, Manx, the ‘dotted’ Stungnar—”

“Peter Solomon is a Mason, is he not?”

Langdon did a double take. “Yes, but what does that have to do with this?” He stood up now, towering over the tiny woman.

You tell me. You just said that runic alphabets are used for stone carvings, and it is my understanding that the original Freemasons were stone craftsmen. I mention this only because when I asked my office to search for a connection between the Hand of the Mysteries and Peter Solomon, their search returned one link in particular.” She paused, as if to emphasize the importance of her finding. “The Masons.”

Langdon exhaled, fighting the impulse to tell Sato the same thing he constantly told his students: “Google” is not a synonym for “research.” In these days of massive, worldwide keyword searches, it seemed everything was linked to everything. The world was becoming one big entangled web of information that was getting denser every day.

Langdon maintained a patient tone. “I’m not surprised the Masons appeared in your staff’s search. Masons are a very obvious link between Peter Solomon and any number of esoteric topics.”

“Yes,” Sato said, “which is another reason I have been surprised this evening that you have not yet mentioned the Masons. After all, you’ve been talking about secret wisdom protected by an enlightened few. That sounds very Masonic, does it not?”

“It does . . . and it also sounds very Rosicrucian, Kabbalistic, Alumbradian, and any number of other esoteric groups.”

“But Peter Solomon is a Mason—a very powerful Mason, at that. It seems the Masons would come to mind if we were talking about secrets. Heaven knows the Masons love their secrets.”

Langdon could hear the distrust in her voice, and he wanted no part of it. “If you want to know anything about the Masons, you would be far better served to ask a Mason.”

“Actually,” Sato said, “I’d prefer to ask someone I can trust.”

Langdon found the comment both ignorant and offensive. “For the

record, ma’am, the entire Masonic philosophy is built on honesty and integrity. Masons are

among the most trustworthy men you could ever hope to meet.”


“I have seen persuasive evidence to the contrary.”

Langdon was liking Director Sato less and less with each passing moment. He had spent years writing about the Masons’ rich tradition of metaphorical iconography and symbols, and knew that Masons had always been one of the most unfairly maligned and misunderstood organizations in the world. Regularly accused of everything from devil worship to plotting a one-world government, the Masons also had a policy of never responding to their critics, which made them an easy target.

“Regardless,” Sato said, her tone biting, “we are again at an impasse, Mr. Langdon. It seems to me there is either something you are missing . . . or something you are not telling me. The man we’re dealing with said that Peter Solomon chose you specifically.” She leveled a cold stare at Langdon. “I think it’s time we move this conversation to CIA headquarters. Maybe we’ll have more luck there.”

Sato’s threat barely registered with Langdon. She had just said something that had lodged in his mind. Peter Solomon chose you. The comment, combined with the mention of Masons, had hit Langdon strangely. He looked down at the Masonic ring on Peter’s finger. The ring was one of Peter’s most prized possessions—a Solomon family heirloom that bore the symbol of the double-headed phoenix—the ultimate mystical icon of Masonic wisdom. The gold glinted in the light, sparking an unexpected memory.

Langdon gasped, recalling the eerie whisper of Peter’s captor: It really hasn’t dawned on you yet, has it? Why you were chosen?

Now, in one terrifying moment, Langdon’s thoughts snapped into focus and the fog lifted.

All at once, Langdon’s purpose here was crystal clear.

Ten miles away, driving south on Suitland Parkway, Mal’akh heard a distinctive vibration on the seat beside him. It was Peter Solomon’s iPhone, which had proven a powerful tool today. The visual caller ID now displayed the image of an attractive middle-aged woman with long black hair.

INCOMING CALL—KATHERINE SOLOMON

Mal’akh smiled, ignoring the call. Destiny pulls me closer.

He had lured Katherine Solomon to his home this afternoon for one reason only—to determine if she had information that could assist him . . . perhaps a family secret that might help Mal’akh locate what he sought. Clearly, however, Katherine’s brother had told her nothing of what he had been guarding all these years.

Even so, Mal’akh had learned something else from Katherine. Something that has earned her a few extra hours of life today. Katherine had confirmed for him that all of her research was in one


location, safely locked inside her lab.

I must destroy it.

Katherine’s research was poised to open a new door of understanding, and once the door was opened even a crack, others would follow. It would just be a matter of time before everything changed. I cannot let that happen. The world must stay as it is . . . adrift in ignorant darkness.

The iPhone beeped, indicating Katherine had left a voice mail. Mal’akh retrieved it.

“Peter, it’s me again.” Katherine’s voice sounded concerned. “Where are you? I’m still thinking about my conversation with Dr. Abaddon . . . and I’m worried. Is everything okay? Please call me. I’m at the lab.”

The voice mail ended.

Mal’akh smiled. Katherine should worry less about her brother, and more about herself. He turned off Suitland Parkway onto Silver Hill Road. Less than a mile later, in the darkness, he spotted the faint outline of the SMSC nestled in the trees off the highway to his right. The entire complex was surrounded by a high razor-wire fence.

A secure building? Mal’akh chuckled to himself. I know someone who will open the door for me.

CHAPTER24

The revelationcrashed over Langdon like a wave.

I know why I am here.

Standing in the center of the Rotunda, Langdon felt a powerful urge to turn and run away . . . from Peter’s hand, from the shining gold ring, from the suspicious eyes of Sato and Anderson. Instead, he stood dead still, clinging more tightly to the leather daybag that hung on his shoulder. I’ve got to get out of here.

His jaw clenched as his memory began replaying the scene from that cold morning, years ago in Cambridge. It was six A.M. and Langdon was entering his classroom as he always did following his ritual morning laps in the Harvard Pool. The familiar smells of chalk dust and steam heat greeted him as he crossed the threshold. He took two steps toward his desk but stopped short.

A figure was waiting there for him—an elegant gentleman with an aquiline face and regal gray


eyes.

“Peter?” Langdon stared in shock.

Peter Solomon’s smile flashed white in the dimly lit room. “Good morning, Robert. Surprised to see me?” His voice was soft, and yet there was power there.

Langdon hurried over and warmly shook his friend’s hand. “What in the world is a Yale blue blood doing on the Crimson campus before dawn?”

“Covert mission behind enemy lines,” Solomon said, laughing. He motioned to Langdon’s trim waistline. “Laps are paying off. You’re in good shape.”

“Just trying to make you feel old,” Langdon said, toying with him. “It’s great to see you, Peter. What’s up?”

“Short business trip,” the man replied, glancing around the deserted classroom. “I’m sorry to drop in on you like this, Robert, but I have only a few minutes. There’s something I needed to ask you . . . in person. A favor.”

That’s a first. Langdon wondered what a simple college professor could possibly do for the man who had everything. “Anything at all,” he replied, pleased for any opportunity to do something for someone who had given him so much, especially when Peter’s life of good fortune had also been marred by so much tragedy.


Date: 2015-12-11; view: 543


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