“Yes, Peter, this ancient artifact still exists. I obtained it at great expense . . . and I have been saving it for you. At long last, you and I can end our painful journey together.”
With that, he wrapped the knife carefully in a cloth with all of his other items—incense, vials of liquid, white satin cloths, and other ceremonial objects. He then placed the wrapped items inside Robert Langdon’s leather bag along with the Masonic Pyramid and capstone. Katherine looked on helplessly as the man zipped up Langdon’s daybag and turned to her brother.
“Carry this, Peter, would you?” He set the heavy bag on Peter’s lap.
Next, the man walked over to a drawer and began rooting around. She could hear small metal objects clinking. When he returned, he took her right arm, steadying it. Katherine couldn’t see what he was doing, but Peter apparently could, and he again started bucking wildly.
Katherine felt a sudden, sharp pinch in the crook of her right elbow, and an eerie warmth ran down around it. Peter was making anguished, strangled sounds and trying in vain to get out of the heavy chair. Katherine felt a cold numbness spreading through her forearm and fingertips below the elbow.
When the man stepped aside, Katherine saw why her brother was so horrified. The tattooed man had inserted a medical needle into her vein, as if she were giving blood. The needle, however, was not attached to a tube. Instead, her blood was now flowing freely out of it . . . running down her elbow, forearm, and onto the stone table.
“A human hourglass,” the man said, turning to Peter. “In a short while, when I ask you to play your role, I want you to picture Katherine . . . dying alone here in the dark.”
Peter’s expression was one of total torment.
“She will stay alive,” the man said, “for about an hour or so. If you cooperate with me quickly, I will have enough time to save her. Of course, if you resist me at all . . . your sister will die here alone in the dark.”
Peter bellowed unintelligibly through his gag.
“I know, I know,” the tattooed man said, placing a hand on Peter’s shoulder, “this is hard for you. But it shouldn’t be. After all, this is not the first time you will abandon a family member.” He paused, bending over and whispering in Peter’s ear. “I’m thinking, of course, of your son, Zachary, in Soganlik prison.”
Peter pulled against his restraints and let out another muffled scream through the cloth in his mouth.
“Stop it!” Katherine shouted.
“I remember that night well,” the man taunted as he finished packing. “I heard the whole thing. The warden offered to let your son go, but you chose to teach Zachary a lesson . . . by abandoning him. Your boy learned his lesson, all right, didn’t he?” The man smiled. “His loss . . . was my gain.”
The man now retrieved a linen cloth and stuffed it deep into Katherine’s mouth. “Death,” he whispered to her, “should be a quiet thing.”
Peter struggled violently. Without another word, the tattooed man slowly backed Peter’s wheelchair out of the room, giving Peter a long, last look at his sister.
Katherine and Peter locked eyes one final time.
Then he was gone.
Katherine could hear them going up the ramp and through the metal door. As they exited, she heard the tattooed man lock the metal door behind him and continue on through the painting of the Three Graces. A few minutes later, she heard a car start.
Then the mansion fell silent.
All alone in the dark, Katherine lay bleeding.
CHAPTER
108
Robert Langdon’s
mind hovered in an endless abyss.
No light. No sound. No feeling.
Only an infinite and silent void.
Softness.
Weightlessness.
His body had released him. He was untethered.
The physical world had ceased to exist. Time had ceased to exist.
He was pure consciousness now . . . a fleshless sentience suspended in the emptiness of a vast universe.
CHAPTER
109
The modified
UH-60 skimmed in low over the expansive rooftops of Kalorama Heights, thundering toward the coordinates given to them by the support team. Agent Simkins was the first to spot the black Escalade parked haphazardly on a lawn in front of one of the mansions. The driveway gate was closed, and the house was dark and quiet.
Sato gave the signal to touch down.
The aircraft landed hard on the front lawn amid several other vehicles . . . one of them a security sedan with a bubble light on top.
Simkins and his team jumped out, drew their weapons, and dashed up onto the porch. Finding the front door locked, Simkins cupped his hands and peered through a window. The foyer was dark, but Simkins could make out the faint shadow of a body on the floor.
“Shit,” he whispered. “It’s Hartmann.”
One of his agents grabbed a chair off the porch and heaved it through the bay window. The sound of shattering glass was barely audible over the roar of the helicopter behind them. Seconds later, they were all inside. Simkins rushed to the foyer and knelt over Hartmann to check his pulse. Nothing. There was blood everywhere. Then he saw the screwdriver in Hartmann’s throat.
Jesus
. He stood up and motioned to his men to begin a full search.
The agents fanned out across the first floor, their laser sights probing the darkness of the luxurious house. They found nothing in the living room or study, but in the dining room, to their surprise, they discovered a strangled female security guard. Simkins was fast losing hope that Robert Langdon and Katherine Solomon were alive. This brutal killer clearly had set a trap, and if he had managed to kill a CIA agent and an armed security guard, then it seemed a professor and a scientist had no chance.
Once the first floor was secure, Simkins sent two agents to search upstairs. Meanwhile, he found a set of basement stairs off the kitchen and descended. At the bottom of the stairs, he threw on the lights. The basement was spacious and spotless, as if it were hardly ever used. Boilers, bare
cement walls, a few boxes.
Nothing here at all.
Simkins headed back up to the kitchen just as his men were coming down from the second floor. Everyone shook their heads.
The house was deserted.
No one home. And no more bodies.
Simkins radioed Sato with the all-clear and the grim update.
When he got to the foyer, Sato was already climbing the stairs onto the porch. Warren Bellamy was visible behind her, sitting dazed and alone in the helicopter with Sato’s titanium briefcase at his feet. The OS director’s secure laptop provided her with worldwide access to CIA computer systems via encrypted satellite uplinks. Earlier tonight, she had used this computer to share with Bellamy some kind of information that had stunned the man into cooperating fully. Simkins had no idea what Bellamy had seen, but whatever it was, the Architect had been visibly shell-shocked ever since.
As Sato entered the foyer, she paused a moment, bowing her head over Hartmann’s body. A moment later, she raised her eyes and fixed them on Simkins. “No sign of Langdon or Katherine? Or Peter Solomon?”
Simkins shook his head. “If they’re still alive, he took them with him.”
“Did you see a computer in the house?”
“Yes, ma’am. In the office.”
“Show me.”
Simkins led Sato out of the foyer and into the living room. The plush carpet was covered with broken glass from the shattered bay window. They walked past a fireplace, a large painting, and several bookshelves to an office door. The office was wood paneled, with an antique desk and a large computer monitor. Sato walked around behind the desk and eyed the screen, immediately scowling.
“Damn it,” she said under her breath.
Simkins circled around and looked at the screen. It was blank. “What’s wrong?”
Sato pointed to an empty docking station on the desk. “He uses a laptop. He took it with him.”
Simkins didn’t follow. “Does he have information you want to see?”
“No,” Sato replied, her tone grave. “He has information I want
nobody
to see.”
Downstairs in the hidden basement, Katherine Solomon had heard the sounds of helicopter blades followed by breaking glass and heavy boots on
the floor above her. She tried to cry out for help, but the gag in her mouth made it impossible. She could barely make a sound. The harder she tried, the faster the blood began flowing from her elbow.
She was feeling short of breath and a little dizzy.
Katherine knew she needed to calm down.
Use your mind, Katherine.
With all of her intention, she coaxed herself into a meditative state.
Robert Langdon’s mind floated through the emptiness of space. He peered into the infinite void, searching for any points of reference. He found nothing.
Total darkness. Total silence. Total peace.
There was not even the pull of gravity to tell him which way was up.
His body was gone.
This must be death.
Time seemed to be telescoping, stretching and compressing, as if it had no bearings in this place. He had lost all track of how much time had passed.
Ten seconds? Ten minutes? Ten days?
Suddenly, however, like distant fiery explosions in far-off galaxies, memories began to materialize, billowing toward Langdon like shock waves across a vast nothingness.
All at once, Robert Langdon began to remember. The images tore through him . . . vivid and disturbing. He was staring up at a face that was covered with tattoos. A pair of powerful hands lifted his head and smashed it into the floor.
Pain erupted . . . and then darkness.
Gray light.
Throbbing.
Wisps of memory. Langdon was being dragged, half conscious, down, down, down. His captor was chanting something.
Verbum significatium . . . Verbum omnificum . . . Verbum perdo . . .
CHAPTER
110
Director Sato
stood alone in the study, waiting while the CIA satellite-imaging division processed her request. One of the luxuries of working in the D.C. area was the satellite coverage. With luck, one of them might have been properly positioned to get photos of this home tonight . . . possibly capturing a vehicle leaving the place in the last half hour.
“Sorry, ma’am,” the satellite technician said. “No coverage of those coordinates tonight. Do you want to make a reposition request?”
“No thanks. Too late.” She hung up.
Sato exhaled, now having no idea how they would figure out where their target had gone. She walked out to the foyer, where her men had bagged Agent Hartmann’s body and were carrying it toward the chopper. Sato had ordered Agent Simkins to gather his men and prepare for the return to Langley, but Simkins was in the living room on his hands and knees. He looked like he was ill.
“You okay?”
He glanced up, an odd look on his face. “Did you see this?” He pointed at the living-room floor.
Sato came over and looked down at the plush carpet. She shook her head, seeing nothing.
“Crouch down,” Simkins said. “Look at the nap of the carpet.”
She did. After a moment, she saw it. The fibers of the carpet looked like they had been mashed down . . . depressed along two straight lines as if the wheels of something heavy had been rolled across the room.
“The
strange
thing,” Simkins said, “is where the tracks go.” He pointed.
Sato’s gaze followed the faint parallel lines across the living-room carpet. The tracks seemed to disappear beneath a large floor-to-ceiling painting that hung beside the fireplace.
What in the world?
Simkins walked over to the painting and tried to lift it down from the wall. It didn’t budge. “It’s fixed,” he said, now running his fingers around the edges. “Hold on, there’s something underneath . . .” His finger hit a small lever beneath the bottom edge, and something clicked.
Sato stepped forward as Simkins pushed the frame and the entire painting rotated slowly on its center, like a revolving door.
He raised his flashlight and shined it into the dark space beyond.
Sato’s eyes narrowed.
Here we go.
At the end of a short corridor stood a heavy metal door.
The memories that had billowed through the blackness of Langdon’s mind had come and gone. In their wake, a trail of red-hot sparks was swirling, along with the same eerie, distant whisper.
Verbum significatium . . . Verbum omnificum . . . Verbum perdo.
The chanting continued like the drone of voices in a medieval canticle.
Verbum significatium . . . Verbum omnificum.
The words now tumbled through the empty void, fresh voices echoing all around him.
Apocalypsis . . . Franklin . . . Apocalypsis . . . Verbum . . . Apocalypsis . . .
Without warning, a mournful bell began tolling somewhere in the distance. The bell rang on and on, growing louder. It tolled more urgently now, as if hoping Langdon would understand, as if urging his mind to follow.
CHAPTER
111
The tolling bell
in the clock tower rang for three full minutes, rattling the crystal chandelier that hung above Langdon’s head. Decades ago, he had attended lectures in this well-loved assembly hall at Phillips Exeter Academy. Today, however, he was here to listen to a dear friend address the student body. As the lights dimmed, Langdon took a seat against the back wall, beneath a pantheon of headmaster portraits.
A hush fell across the crowd.
In total darkness, a tall, shadowy figure crossed the stage and took the podium. “Good morning,” the faceless voice whispered into the microphone.
Everyone sat up, straining to see who was addressing them.
A slide projector flashed to life, revealing a faded sepia photograph—a dramatic castle with a red sandstone facade, high square towers, and Gothic embellishments.
The shadow spoke again. “Who can tell me where this is?”
“England!” a girl declared in the darkness. “This facade is a blend of early Gothic and late Romanesque, making this the quintessential
Norman
castle and placing it in England at about the twelfth century.”
“Wow,” the faceless voice replied. “Someone knows her architecture.”
Quiet groans all around.
“Unfortunately,” the shadow added, “you missed by three thousand miles and half a millennium.”
The room perked up.
The projector now flashed a full-color, modern photo of the same castle from a different angle. The castle’s Seneca Creek sandstone towers dominated the foreground, but in the background, startlingly close, stood the majestic, white, columned dome of the U.S. Capitol Building.
“Hold on!” the girl exclaimed. “There’s a Norman castle in D.C.?!”
“Since 1855,” the voice replied. “Which is when this next photo was taken.”
A new slide appeared—a black-and-white interior shot, depicting a
massive vaulted ballroom, furnished with animal skeletons, scientific display cases, glass jars with biological samples, archaeological artifacts, and plaster casts of prehistoric reptiles.
“This wondrous castle,” the voice said, “was America’s first real science museum. It was a gift to America from a wealthy British scientist who, like our forefathers, believed our fledgling country could become the land of enlightenment. He bequeathed to our forefathers a massive fortune and asked them to build at the core of our nation ‘an establishment for the increase and diffusion of knowledge.’ ” He paused a long moment. “Who can tell me the name of this generous scientist?”
A timid voice in front ventured, “James
Smithson
?”
A whisper of recognition rippled through the crowd.
“Smithson indeed,” the man on stage replied. Peter Solomon now stepped into the light, his gray eyes flashing playfully. “Good morning. My name is Peter Solomon, and I am secretary of the
Smithsonian
Institution.”
The students broke into wild applause.
In the shadows, Langdon watched with admiration as Peter captivated the young minds with a photographic tour of the Smithsonian Institution’s early history. The show began with Smithsonian Castle, its basement science labs, corridors lined with exhibits, a salon full of mollusks, scientists who called themselves “the curators of crustaceans,” and even an old photo of the castle’s two most popular residents—a pair of now-deceased owls named Diffusion and Increase. The half-hour slide show ended with an impressive satellite photo of the National Mall, now lined with enormous Smithsonian museums.
“As I said when I began,” Solomon stated in conclusion, “James Smithson and our forefathers envisioned our great country to be a land of enlightenment. I believe today they would be proud. Their great Smithsonian Institution stands as a symbol of science and knowledge at the very core of America. It is a living, breathing, working tribute to our forefathers’ dream for America—a country founded on the principles of knowledge, wisdom, and science.”
Solomon clicked off the slides to an energetic round of applause. The houselights came up, along with dozens of eager hands with questions.
Solomon called on a small red-haired boy in the middle.
“Mr. Solomon?” the boy said, sounding puzzled. “You said our forefathers fled the religious oppression of Europe to establish a country on the principles of scientific advancement.”
“That’s correct.”
“But . . . I was under the impression our forefathers were devoutly religious men who founded America as a
Christian
nation.”
Solomon smiled. “My friends, don’t get me wrong, our forefathers were deeply religious men, but they were Deists—men who believed in God, but in a universal and open-minded way. The only
religious
ideal they put forth was religious
freedom
.” He pulled the microphone from the podium and strode out to the edge of the stage. “America’s forefathers had a vision of a spiritually enlightened utopia, in which freedom of thought, education of the masses, and scientific advancement would replace the darkness of outdated religious superstition.”
A blond girl in back raised her hand.
“Yes?”
“Sir,” the girl said, holding up her cell phone, “I’ve been researching you online, and Wikipedia says you’re a prominent Freemason.”
Solomon held up his Masonic ring. “I could have saved you the data charges.”
The students laughed.
“Yes, well,” the girl continued, hesitating, “you just mentioned ‘outdated religious superstition,’ and it seems to me that if
anyone
is responsible for propagating outdated superstitions . . . it would be the Masons.”
Solomon seemed unfazed. “Oh? How so?”
“Well, I’ve read a lot about Masonry, and I know you’ve got a lot of strange ancient rituals and beliefs. This article online even says that Masons believe in the power of some kind of ancient magical wisdom . . . which can elevate man to the realm of the gods?”
Everyone turned and stared at the girl as if she were nuts.
“Actually,” Solomon said, “she’s right.”
The kids all spun around and faced front, eyes widening.
Solomon suppressed a smile and asked the girl, “Does it offer any other Wiki-wisdom about this magical knowledge?”
The girl looked uneasy now, but she began to read from the Web site. “‘To ensure this powerful wisdom could not be used by the unworthy, the early adepts wrote down their knowledge in
code
. . . cloaking its potent truth in a metaphorical language of symbols, myth, and allegory. To this day, this encrypted wisdom is all around us . . . encoded in our mythology, our art, and the occult texts of the ages. Unfortunately, modern man has lost the ability to decipher this complex network of symbolism . . . and the great truth has been lost.’”
Solomon waited. “That’s all?”
The girl shifted in her seat. “Actually, there
is
a little bit more.”
“I should hope so. Please . . . tell us.”
The girl looked hesitant, but she cleared her throat and continued. “‘According to legend, the sages who encrypted the Ancient Mysteries long ago left behind a
key
of sorts
. . .
a
password
that could be used to unlock the encrypted secrets. This magical password—known as the
verbum significatium
—is said to hold the power to lift the darkness and unlock the Ancient Mysteries, opening them to all human understanding.’ ”
Solomon smiled wistfully. “Ah, yes . . . the
verbum significatium.
” He stared into space for a moment and then lowered his eyes again to the blond girl. “And where is this wonderful
word
now?”
The girl looked apprehensive, clearly wishing she had not challenged their guest speaker. She finished reading. “ ‘Legend holds that the
verbum significatium
is buried deep underground, where it waits patiently for a pivotal moment in history . . . a moment when mankind can no longer survive without the truth, knowledge, and wisdom of the ages. At this dark crossroads, mankind will at last unearth the Word and herald in a wondrous new age of enlightenment.’ ”
The girl turned off her phone and shrank down in her seat.
After a long silence, another student raised his hand. “Mr. Solomon, you don’t actually
believe
that, right?”
Solomon smiled. “Why not? Our mythologies have a long tradition of magic words that provide insight and godlike powers. To this day, children still shout ‘abracadabra’ in hopes of creating something out of nothing. Of course, we’ve all forgotten that this word is not a toy; it has roots in ancient Aramaic mysticism—
Avrah KaDabra
—meaning ‘I create as I speak.’ ”
Silence.
“But, sir,” the student now pressed, “surely you don’t believe that a single
word
. . . this
verbum significatium
. . . whatever it is . . . has the power to unlock ancient wisdom . . . and bring about a worldwide enlightenment?”
Peter Solomon’s face revealed nothing. “My own beliefs should not concern you. What
should
concern you is that this prophecy of a coming enlightenment is echoed in virtually every faith and philosophical tradition on earth. Hindus call it the Krita Age, astrologers call it the Age of Aquarius, the Jews describe the coming of the Messiah, theosophists call it the New Age, cosmologists call it Harmonic Convergence and predict the actual date.”
“December 21, 2012!” someone called.
“Yes, unnervingly
soon . . .
if you’re a believer in Mayan math.”
Langdon chuckled, recalling how Solomon, ten years ago, had correctly predicted the current spate of television specials predicting that the year 2012 would mark the End of the World.
“Timing aside,” Solomon said, “I find it wondrous to note that throughout history, all of mankind’s disparate philosophies have all concurred on
one
thing—that a great enlightenment is coming. In every culture, in every era, in every corner of the world, the human dream has focused on the same exact concept—the coming apotheosis of man . . . the impending transformation of our human minds into their true potentiality.” He smiled. “What could possibly explain such a synchronicity of beliefs?”
“Truth,”
said a quiet voice in the crowd.
Solomon wheeled. “Who said that?”
The hand that went up belonged to a tiny Asian boy whose soft features suggested he might be Nepalese or Tibetan. “Maybe there is a universal truth embedded in everyone’s soul. Maybe we
all
have the same story hiding inside, like a shared constant in our DNA. Maybe this collective
truth
is responsible for the similarity in all of our stories.”
Solomon was beaming as he pressed his hands together and bowed reverently to the boy. “Thank you.”
Everyone was quiet.
“Truth,” Solomon said, addressing the room. “Truth has power. And if we all gravitate toward similar ideas, maybe we do so because those ideas are
true
. . . written deep within us. And when we hear the truth, even if we don’t understand it, we feel that truth resonate within us . . . vibrating with our unconscious wisdom. Perhaps the truth is not
learned
by us, but rather, the truth is re-called . . . re-membered . . . re-cognized . . . as that which is already inside us.”
The silence in the hall was complete.
Solomon let it sit for a long moment, then quietly said, “In closing, I should warn you that unveiling the truth is never easy. Throughout history, every period of enlightenment has been accompanied by darkness, pushing in opposition. Such are the laws of nature and balance. And if we look at the darkness growing in the world today, we have to realize that this means there is equal light growing. We are on the verge of a truly great period of illumination, and all of us—all of
you
—are profoundly blessed to be living through this pivotal moment of history. Of all the people who have ever lived, in all the eras in history . . .
we
are in that narrow window of time during which we will bear witness to our ultimate renaissance. After millennia of darkness, we will see our sciences, our minds, and even our religions unveil the truth.”
Solomon was about to get a hearty round of applause when he held up his hand for silence. “Miss?” He pointed directly to the contentious blond girl in back with the cell phone. “I know you and I didn’t agree on much, but I want to thank you. Your passion is an important catalyst in the coming changes. Darkness feeds on apathy . . . and conviction is our most potent antidote. Keep studying your faith. Study the Bible.” He smiled. “Especially the final pages.”
“The Apocalypse?” she said.
“Absolutely. The Book of Revelation is a vibrant example of our shared
truth
. The last book of the Bible tells the identical story as countless other traditions. They all predict the coming unveiling of great wisdom.”
Someone else said, “But isn’t the Apocalypse about the end of the world? You know, the Antichrist, Armageddon, the final battle between good and evil?”
Solomon chuckled. “Who here studies Greek?”
Several hands went up.
“What does the word
apocalypse
literally mean?”
“It means,” one student began, and then paused as if surprised. “
Apocalypse
means ‘to unveil’ . . . or ‘to reveal.’ ”
Solomon gave the boy a nod of approval. “Exactly. The Apocalypse is literally a
reveal-ation.
The Book of Reveal-ation in the Bible predicts an unveiling of great truth and unimaginable wisdom. The Apocalypse is not the end of the world, but rather it is the end of the world as we
know
it. The prophecy of the Apocalypse is just one of the Bible’s beautiful messages that has been distorted.” Solomon stepped to the front of the stage. “Believe me, the Apocalypse
is
coming . . . and it will be nothing like what we were taught.”
High over his head, the bell began to toll.
The students erupted into bewildered and thunderous applause.