I’m dreaming,
Langdon knew.
This video will create chaos.
He could imagine what would happen if the prominent leaders of Russia or the Islamic world were seen in a video, pressing knives to bare chests, swearing violent oaths, performing mock murders, lying in symbolic coffins, and drinking wine from a human skull. The global outcry would be instantaneous and overwhelming.
God help us . . .
On-screen now, the initiate was raising the skull to his lips. He tipped it backward . . . draining the blood-red wine . . . sealing his oath. Then he lowered the skull and gazed out at the assembly around him. America’s most powerful and trusted men gave contented nods of acceptance.
“Welcome, brother,”
Peter Solomon said.
As the image faded to black, Langdon realized he had stopped breathing.
Without a word, Sato reached over, closed the briefcase, and lifted it off his lap. Langdon turned to her trying to speak, but he could find no words. It didn’t matter. Understanding was written all over his face. Sato was right. Tonight was a national-security crisis . . . of unimaginable proportions.
CHAPTER
118
Dressed in
his loincloth, Mal’akh padded back and forth in front of Peter Solomon’s wheelchair. “Peter,” he whispered, enjoying every moment of his captive’s horror, “you forgot you have a
second
family . . . your Masonic brothers. And I will destroy them, too . . . unless you help me.”
Solomon looked almost catatonic in the glow of the laptop sitting atop his thighs. “Please,” he finally stammered, glancing up. “If this video gets out . . .”
“If?” Mal’akh laughed. “
If
it gets out?” He motioned to the small cellular modem plugged into the side of his laptop. “I’m connected to the world.”
“You wouldn’t . . .”
I will,
Mal’akh thought, enjoying Solomon’s horror. “You have the power to stop me,” he said. “And to save your sister. But you have to tell me what I want to know. The Lost Word is hidden somewhere, Peter, and I know this grid reveals exactly where to find it.”
Peter glanced at the grid of symbols again, his eyes revealing nothing.
“Perhaps this will help to inspire you.” Mal’akh reached over Peter’s shoulders and hit a few keys on the laptop. An e-mail program launched on the screen, and Peter stiffened visibly. The screen now displayed an e-mail that Mal’akh had cued earlier tonight—a video file addressed to a long list of major media networks.
Mal’akh smiled. “I think it’s time we share, don’t you?”
“Don’t!”
Mal’akh reached down and clicked the send button on the program. Peter jerked against his bonds, trying unsuccessfully to knock the laptop to the floor.
“Relax, Peter,” Mal’akh whispered. “It’s a massive file. It will take a few minutes to go out.” He pointed to the progress bar:
SENDING MESSAGE: 2% COMPLETE
“If you tell me what I want to know, I’ll stop the e-mail, and nobody will ever see this.”
Peter was ashen as the task bar inched forward.
SENDING MESSAGE: 4% COMPLETE
Mal’akh now lifted the computer from Peter’s lap and set it on one of the nearby pigskin chairs, turning the screen so the other man could watch the progress. Then he returned to Peter’s side and laid the page of symbols in his lap. “The legends say the Masonic Pyramid will unveil the Lost Word. This is the pyramid’s final code. I believe you know how to read it.”
Mal’akh glanced over at the laptop.
SENDING MESSAGE: 8% COMPLETE
Mal’akh returned his eyes to Peter. Solomon was staring at him, his gray eyes blazing now with hatred.
Hate me,
Mal’akh thought.
The greater the emotion, the more potent the energy that will be released when the ritual is completed.
At Langley, Nola Kaye pressed the phone to her ear, barely able to hear Sato over the noise of the helicopter.
“They said it’s impossible to stop the file transfer!” Nola shouted. “To shut down local ISPs would take at least an hour, and if he’s got access to a wireless provider, killing the ground-based Internet won’t stop him from sending it anyway.”
Nowadays, stopping the flow of digital information had become nearly impossible. There were too many access routes to the Internet. Between hard lines, Wi-Fi hot spots, cellular modems, SAT phones, superphones, and e-mail-equipped PDAs, the only way to isolate a potential data leak was by destroying the source machine.
“I pulled the spec sheet on the UH-60 you’re flying,” Nola said, “and it looks like you’re equipped with EMP.”
Electromagnetic-pulse or EMP guns were now commonplace among law enforcement agencies, which used them primarily to stop car chases from a safe distance. By firing a highly concentrated pulse of electromagnetic radiation, an EMP gun could effectively fry the electronics of any device it targeted—cars, cell phones, computers. According to Nola’s spec sheet, the UH-60 had a chassis-mounted, laser-sighted, six-gigahertz
magnetron with a fifty-dB-gain horn that yielded a ten-gigawatt pulse. Discharged directly at a laptop, the pulse would fry the computer’s motherboard and instantly erase the hard drive.
“EMP will be useless,” Sato yelled back. “Target is inside a stone building. No sight lines and thick EM shielding. Do you have any indication yet if the video has gone out?”
Nola glanced at a second monitor, which was running a continuous search for breaking news stories about the Masons. “Not yet, ma’am. But if it goes public, we’ll know within seconds.”
“Keep me posted.” Sato signed off.
Langdon held his breath as the helicopter dropped from the sky toward Dupont Circle. A handful of pedestrians scattered as the aircraft descended through an opening in the trees and landed hard on the lawn just south of the famous two-tiered fountain designed by the same two men who created the Lincoln Memorial.
Thirty seconds later, Langdon was riding shotgun in a commandeered Lexus SUV, tearing up New Hampshire Avenue toward the House of the Temple.
Peter Solomon was desperately trying to figure out what to do. All he could see in his mind were the images of Katherine bleeding in the basement . . . and of the video he had just witnessed. He turned his head slowly toward the laptop on the pigskin chair several yards away. The progress bar was almost a third of the way filled.
SENDING MESSAGE: 29% COMPLETE
The tattooed man was now walking slow circles around the square altar, swinging a lit censer and chanting to himself. Thick puffs of white smoke swirled up toward the skylight. The man’s eyes were wide now, and he seemed to be in a demonic trance. Peter turned his gaze to the ancient knife that sat waiting on the white silk cloth spread across the altar.
Peter Solomon had no doubt that he would die in this temple tonight. The question was how to die. Would he find a way to save his sister and his brotherhood . . . or would his death be entirely in vain?
He glanced down at the grid of symbols. When he had first laid eyes on the grid, the shock of the moment had blinded him . . . preventing his
vision from piercing the veil of chaos . . . to glimpse the startling truth. Now, however, the real significance of these symbols had become crystal clear to him. He had seen the grid in an entirely new light.
Peter Solomon knew exactly what he needed to do.
Taking a deep breath, he gazed up at the moon through the oculus above. Then he began to speak.
All great truths are simple.
Mal’akh had learned that long ago.
The solution that Peter Solomon was now explaining was so graceful and pure that Mal’akh was sure that it could only be true. Incredibly, the solution to the pyramid’s final code was far simpler than he had ever imagined.
The Lost Word was right before my eyes.
In an instant, a bright ray of light pierced the murkiness of the history and myth surrounding the Lost Word. As promised, the Lost Word was indeed written in an ancient language and bore mystical power in every philosophy, religion, and science ever known to man.
Alchemy, astrology, Kabbalah, Christianity, Buddhism, Rosicrucianism, Freemasonry, astronomy, physics, Noetics . . .
Standing now in this initiation chamber atop the great pyramid of Heredom, Mal’akh gazed upon the treasure he had sought all these years, and he knew he could not have prepared himself more perfectly.
Soon I am complete.
The Lost Word is found.
In Kalorama Heights, a lone CIA agent stood amid a sea of garbage that he had dumped out of the trash bins that had been found in the garage.
“Ms. Kaye?” he said, speaking to Sato’s analyst on the phone. “Good thinking to search his garbage. I think I just found something.”
Inside the house, Katherine Solomon was feeling stronger with every passing moment. The infusion of lactated Ringer’s solution had successfully raised her blood pressure and quelled her throbbing headache. She was resting now, seated in the dining room, with explicit instructions to remain still. Her nerves felt frayed, and she was increasingly anxious for news about her brother.
Where is everybody?
The CIA’s forensics team had not yet arrived, and the agent who had stayed behind was still off searching the premises. Bellamy had been sitting with her in the dining room, still wrapped in a foil blanket, but he, too, had wandered off to look for any information that might help the CIA save Peter.
Unable to sit idly, Katherine pulled herself to her feet, teetered, and then inched slowly toward the living room. She found Bellamy in the study. The Architect was standing at an open drawer, his back to her, apparently too engrossed in its contents to hear her enter.
She walked up behind him. “Warren?”
The old man lurched and turned, quickly shutting the drawer with his hip. His face was lined with shock and grief, his cheeks streaked with tears.
“What’s wrong?!” She glanced down at the drawer. “What is it?”
Bellamy seemed unable to speak. He had the look of a man who had just seen something he deeply wished he had not.
“What’s in the drawer?” she demanded.
Bellamy’s tear-filled eyes held hers for a long, sorrowful moment. Finally he spoke. “You and I wondered
why
. . . why this man seemed to hate your family.”
Katherine’s brow furrowed. “Yes?”
“Well . . .” Bellamy’s voice caught. “I just found the answer.”
CHAPTER
119
In the
chamber at the top of the House of the Temple, the one who called himself Mal’akh stood before the great altar and gently massaged the virgin skin atop his head.
Verbum significatium,
he chanted in preparation.
Verbum omnificum
. The final ingredient had been found at last.
The most precious treasures are often the simplest.
Above the altar, wisps of fragrant smoke now swirled, billowing up from the censer. The suffumigations ascended through the shaft of moonlight, clearing a channel skyward through which a liberated soul could travel freely.
The time had come.
Mal’akh retrieved the vial of Peter’s darkened blood and uncorked it. With his captive looking on, he dipped the nib of the crow’s feather into the crimson tincture and raised it to the sacred circle of flesh atop his head. He paused a moment . . . thinking of how long he had waited for this night. His great transformation was finally at hand.
When the Lost Word is written on the mind of man, he is then ready to receive unimaginable power.
Such was the ancient promise of apotheosis. So far, mankind had been unable to realize that promise, and Mal’akh had done what he could to keep it that way.
With a steady hand, Mal’akh touched the nib of the feather to his skin. He needed no mirror, no assistance, only his sense of touch, and his mind’s eye. Slowly, meticulously, he began inscribing the Lost Word inside the circular
ouroboros
on his scalp.
Peter Solomon looked on with an expression of horror.
When Mal’akh finished, he closed his eyes, set down the feather, and let the air out of his lungs entirely. For the first time in his life, he felt a sensation he had never known.
I am complete.
I am at one.
Mal’akh had worked for years on the artifact that was his body, and
now, as he neared his moment of final transformation, he could feel every line that had ever been inscribed on his flesh.
I am a true masterpiece. Perfect and complete.
“I gave you what you asked for.” Peter’s voice intruded. “Send help to Katherine. And stop that file.”
Mal’akh opened his eyes and smiled. “You and I are not quite finished.” He turned to the altar and picked up the sacrificial knife, running his finger across the sleek iron blade. “This ancient knife was commissioned by God,” he said, “for use in a human sacrifice. You recognized it earlier, no?”
Solomon’s gray eyes were like stone. “It is unique, and I’ve heard the legend.”
“Legend? The account appears in Holy Scripture. You don’t
believe
it’s true?”
Peter just stared.
Mal’akh had spent a fortune locating and obtaining this artifact. Known as the Akedah knife, it had been crafted over three thousand years ago from an iron meteorite that had fallen to earth.
Iron from heaven, as the early mystics called it.
It was believed to be the exact knife used by Abraham at the Akedah—the near sacrifice of his son Isaac on Mount Moriah—as depicted in Genesis. The knife’s astounding history included possession by popes, Nazi mystics, European alchemists, and private collectors.
They protected and admired it,
Mal’akh thought,
but none dared unleash its true power by using it for its real purpose.
Tonight, the Akedah knife would fulfill its destiny.
The Akedah had always been sacred in Masonic ritual. In the very first degree, Masons celebrated
“the most august gift ever offered to God . . . the submission of Abraham to the volitions of the supreme being by proffering Isaac, his firstborn . . .”
The weight of the blade felt exhilarating in Mal’akh’s hand as he crouched down and used the freshly sharpened knife to sever the ropes binding Peter to his wheelchair. The bonds fell to the floor.
Peter Solomon winced in pain as he attempted to shift his cramped limbs. “Why are you doing this to me? What do you think this will accomplish?”
“
You
of all people should understand,” Mal’akh replied. “You study the ancient ways. You know that the power of the mysteries relies on
sacrifice
. . . on releasing a human soul from its body. It has been this way since the beginning.”
“You know nothing of sacrifice,” Peter said, his voice seething with pain and loathing.
Excellent,
Mal’akh thought.
Feed your hatred. It will only make this easier.
Mal’akh’s empty stomach growled as he paced before his captive. “There is enormous power in the shedding of human blood. Everyone understood that, from the early Egyptians, to the Celtic Druids, to the Chinese, to the Aztecs. There is magic in human sacrifice, but modern man has become weak, too fearful to make true offerings, too frail to give the life that is required for spiritual transformation. The ancient texts are clear, though. Only by offering what is most sacred can man access the ultimate power.”
“You consider
me
a sacred offering?”
Mal’akh now laughed out loud. “You really don’t understand yet, do you?”
Peter gave him an odd look.
“Do you know why I have a deprivation tank in my home?” Mal’akh placed his hands on his hips and flexed his elaborately decorated body, which was still covered only by a loincloth. “I have been practicing . . . preparing . . . anticipating the moment when I am only mind . . . when I am released from this mortal shell . . . when I have offered up this beautiful body to the gods in sacrifice.
I
am the precious one!
I
am the pure white lamb!”
Peter’s mouth fell open but no words came out.
“Yes, Peter, a man must offer to the gods that which he holds most dear. His purest white dove . . . his most precious and worthy offering.
You
are not precious to me.
You
are not a worthy offering.” Mal’akh glared at him. “Don’t you see?
You
are not the sacrifice, Peter . . .
I
am. Mine is the flesh that is the offering.
I
am the gift. Look at me. I have prepared, made myself worthy for my final journey.
I am the gift!
”
Peter remained speechless.
“The secret is
how
to die,” Mal’akh now said. “Masons understand that.” He pointed to the altar. “You revere the ancient truths, and yet you are cowards. You understand the power of sacrifice and yet you keep a safe distance from death, performing your mock murders and bloodless death rituals. Tonight, your symbolic altar will bear witness to its true power . . . and its actual purpose.”
Mal’akh reached down and grasped Peter Solomon’s left hand, pressing the handle of the Akedah knife into his palm.
The left hand serves the darkness.
This, too, had been planned. Peter would have no choice in the matter.
Mal’akh could fathom no sacrifice more potent and symbolic than one performed on this altar, by this man, with this knife, plunged into the heart of an offering whose mortal flesh was wrapped like a gift in a shroud of mystical symbols.
With this offering of
self,
Mal’akh would establish his rank in the hierarchy of demons. Darkness and blood were where the true power lay. The ancients knew this, the Adepts choosing sides consistent with their individual natures. Mal’akh had chosen sides wisely. Chaos was the natural law of the universe. Indifference was the engine of entropy. Man’s apathy was the fertile ground in which the dark spirits tended their seeds.
I have served them, and they will receive me as a god.
Peter did not move. He simply stared down at the ancient knife gripped in his hand.
“I will you,” Mal’akh taunted. “I am a willing sacrifice. Your final role has been written. You will transform me. You will liberate me from my body. You will do this, or you will lose your sister and your brotherhood. You will truly be all alone.” He paused, smiling down at his captive. “Consider this your final punishment.”
Peter’s eyes rose slowly to meet Mal’akh’s. “Killing
you
? A
punishment
? Do you think I will hesitate? You murdered my son. My mother. My entire family.”
“No!” Mal’akh exploded with a force that startled even himself. “You are wrong! I did not murder your family!
You
did! It was
you
who made the choice to leave Zachary in prison! And from there, the wheels were in motion!
You
killed your family, Peter, not me!”
Peter’s knuckles turned white, his fingers clenching the knife in rage. “You know nothing of why I left Zachary in prison.”
“I know everything!” Mal’akh fired back. “I was there. You claimed you were trying to
help
him. Were you trying to
help
him when you offered him the choice between wealth or wisdom? Were you trying to
help
him when you gave him the ultimatum to join the Masons? What kind of father gives a child the choice between ‘wealth or wisdom’ and expects him to know how to handle it! What kind of father leaves his own son in a prison instead of flying him home to safety!” Mal’akh now moved in front of Peter and crouched down, placing his tattooed face only inches from his face. “But most important . . . what kind of father can look his own son in the eyes . . . even after all these years . . . and not even
recognize
him!”
Mal’akh’s words echoed for several seconds in the stone chamber.
Then silence.
In the abrupt stillness, Peter Solomon seemed to have been jolted from his trance. His face clouded now with a visage of total incredulity.
Yes, Father. It’s me.
Mal’akh had waited years for this moment . . . to take revenge on the man who had abandoned him . . . to stare into those gray eyes and speak the truth that had been buried all these years. Now the moment was here, and he spoke slowly, longing to watch the full weight of his words gradually crush Peter Solomon’s soul. “You should be happy, Father. Your prodigal son has returned.”
Peter’s face was now as pale as death.
Mal’akh savored every moment. “My own father made the decision to leave me in prison . . . and in that instant, I vowed that he had rejected me for the last time. I was no longer his son. Zachary Solomon ceased to exist.”
Two glistening teardrops welled suddenly in his father’s eyes, and Mal’akh thought they were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
Peter choked back tears, staring up at Mal’akh’s face as if seeing him for the very first time.
“All the warden wanted was money,” Mal’akh said, “but you refused. It never occurred to you, though, that
my
money was just as green as yours. The warden did not care who paid him, only that he was paid. When I offered to pay him handsomely, he selected a sickly inmate about my size, dressed him in my clothes, and beat him beyond all recognition. The photos you saw . . . and the sealed casket you buried . . . they were not mine. They belonged to a stranger.”
Peter’s tear-streaked face contorted now with anguish and disbelief. “Oh my God . . . Zachary.”
“Not anymore. When Zachary walked out of prison, he was transformed.”
His adolescent physique and childlike face had drastically mutated when he flooded his young body with experimental growth hormones and steroids. Even his vocal cords had been ravaged, transforming his boyish voice into a permanent whisper.
Zachary became Andros.
Andros became Mal’akh.
And tonight . . . Mal’akh will become his greatest incarnation of all.
At that moment in Kalorama Heights, Katherine Solomon stood over the open desk drawer and gazed down at what could be described only as a fetishist’s collection of old newspaper articles and photographs.
“I don’t understand,” she said, turning to Bellamy. “This lunatic was obviously obsessed with my family, but—”
“Keep going . . .” urged Bellamy, taking a seat and still looking deeply shaken.
Katherine dug deeper into the newspaper articles, every one of which related to the Solomon family—Peter’s many successes, Katherine’s research, their mother Isabel’s terrible murder, Zachary Solomon’s widely publicized drug use, incarceration, and brutal murder in a Turkish prison.
The fixation this man had on the Solomon family was beyond fanatical, and yet Katherine saw nothing yet to suggest
why
.
It was then that she saw the photographs. The first showed Zachary standing knee-deep in azure water on a beach dotted with whitewashed houses.
Greece?
The photo, she assumed, could have been taken only during Zach’s freewheeling drug days in Europe. Strangely, though, Zach looked healthier than he did in the paparazzi shots of an emaciated kid partying with the drug crowd. He looked more fit, stronger somehow, more mature. Katherine never recalled him looking so healthy.
Puzzled, she checked the date stamp on the photo.
But that’s . . . impossible.
The date was almost a full year
after
Zachary had died in prison.
Suddenly Katherine was flipping desperately through the stack. All of the photos were of Zachary Solomon . . . gradually getting older. The collection appeared to be some kind of pictorial autobiography, chronicling a slow transformation. As the pictures progressed, Katherine saw a sudden and dramatic change. She looked on in horror as Zachary’s body began mutating, his muscles bulging, and his facial features morphing from the obvious heavy use of steroids. His frame seemed to double in mass, and a haunting fierceness crept into his eyes.
I don’t even recognize this man!
He looked nothing like Katherine’s memories of her young nephew.
When she reached a picture of him with a shaved head, she felt her knees begin to buckle. Then she saw a photo of his bare body . . . adorned with the first traces of tattoos.
Her heart almost stopped. “Oh my God . . .”