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.”

CHAPTER74

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.”

CHAPTER75

Robert Langdonstared 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!”

CHAPTER76

Freedom Plazais 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.

CHAPTER77

The memoryalways 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 Chichén Itzá, 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.

CHAPTER78

The George WashingtonMasonic 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?!”

CHAPTER79

Eight milesdue 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.”

CHAPTER80

Warren Bellamyfelt 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.”

CHAPTER81

The subterraneanspace 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 curiou

Date: 2015-12-11; view: 729