very
dangerous secret.”
Is she talking about the Ancient Mysteries?
“Thankfully, you’ve always done a good job of keeping your secrets hidden. Unfortunately, recently you’ve been careless, and tonight, your most dangerous secret is about to be unveiled to the world. And unless we can stop that from happening, I assure you the results will be catastrophic.”
Bellamy stared in bewilderment.
“If you had not attacked me,” Sato said, “you would have realized that you and I are on the same team.”
The same team.
The words sparked in Bellamy an idea that seemed almost impossible to fathom.
Is Sato a member of Eastern Star?
The Order of the Eastern Star—often considered a sister organization to the Masons—embraced a similar mystical philosophy of benevolence, secret wisdom, and spiritual open-mindedness.
The same team? I’m in handcuffs! She’s tapping Peter’s phone!
“You will help me stop this man,” Sato said. “He has the potential to bring about a cataclysm from which this country might not recover.” Her face was like stone.
“Then why aren’t you
tracking
him?”
Sato looked incredulous. “Do you think I’m not
trying
? My trace on Solomon’s cell phone went dead before we got a location. His other number appears to be a disposable phone—which is almost impossible to track. The private-jet company told us that Langdon’s flight was booked by Solomon’s assistant, on Solomon’s cell phone, with Solomon’s Marquis Jet card. There is no trail. Not that it matters anyway. Even if we find out exactly where he is, I can’t possibly risk moving in and trying to grab him.”
“Why not?!”
“I’d prefer not to share that, as the information is classified,” Sato said, patience clearly waning. “I am asking you to trust me on this.”
“Well, I don’t!”
Sato’s eyes were like ice. She turned suddenly and shouted across the Jungle. “Agent Hartmann! The briefcase, please.”
Bellamy heard the hiss of the electronic door, and an agent strode into the Jungle. He was carrying a sleek titanium briefcase, which he set on the ground beside the OS director.
“Leave us,” Sato said.
As the agent departed, the door hissed again, and then everything fell silent.
Sato picked up the metal case, laid it across her lap, and popped the clasps. Then she raised her eyes slowly to Bellamy. “I did not want to do this, but our time is running out, and you’ve left me no choice.”
Bellamy eyed the strange briefcase and felt a swell of fear.
Is she going to torture me?
He strained at his cuffs again. “What’s in that case?!”
Sato smiled grimly. “Something that will persuade you to see things
my
way. I guarantee it.”
CHAPTER
81
The subterranean
space in which Mal’akh performed the Art was ingeniously hidden. His home’s basement, to those who entered, appeared quite normal—a typical cellar with boiler, fuse box, woodpile, and a hodgepodge of storage. This visible cellar, however, was only a portion of Mal’akh’s underground space. A sizable area had been walled off for his clandestine practices.
Mal’akh’s private work space was a suite of small rooms, each with a specialized purpose. The area’s sole entrance was a steep ramp secretly accessible through his living room, making the area’s discovery virtually impossible.
Tonight, as Mal’akh descended the ramp, the tattooed sigils and signs on his flesh seemed to come alive in the cerulean glow of his basement’s specialized lighting. Moving into the bluish haze, he walked past several closed doors and headed directly for the largest room at the end of the corridor.
The “sanctum sanctorum,” as Mal’akh liked to call it, was a perfect twelve-foot square.
Twelve are the signs of the zodiac. Twelve are the hours of the day. Twelve are the gates of heaven.
In the center of the chamber was a stone table, a seven-by-seven square.
Seven are the seals of Revelation. Seven are the steps of the Temple.
Centered over the table hung a carefully calibrated light source that cycled through a spectrum of preordained colors, completing its cycle every six hours in accordance with the sacred Table of Planetary Hours.
The hour of Yanor is blue. The hour of Nasnia is red. The hour of Salam is white.
Now was the hour of Caerra, meaning the light in the room had modulated to a soft purplish hue. Wearing only a silken loincloth wrapped around his buttocks and neutered sex organ, Mal’akh began his preparations.
He carefully combined the suffumigation chemicals that he would later ignite to sanctify the air. Then he folded the virgin silk robe that he would eventually don in place of his loincloth. And finally, he purified a flask of
water for the anointing of his offering. When he was done, he placed all of these prepared ingredients on a side table.
Next he went to a shelf and retrieved a small ivory box, which he carried to the side table and placed with the other items. Although he was not yet ready to use it, he could not resist opening the lid and admiring this treasure.
The knife.
Inside the ivory box, nestled in a cradle of black velvet, shone the sacrificial knife that Mal’akh had been saving for tonight. He had purchased it for $1.6 million on the Middle Eastern antiquities black market last year.
The most famous knife in history.
Unimaginably old and believed lost, this precious blade was made of iron, attached to a bone handle. Over the ages, it had been in the possession of countless powerful individuals. In recent decades, however, it had disappeared, languishing in a secret private collection. Mal’akh had gone to enormous lengths to obtain it. The knife, he suspected, had not drawn blood for decades . . . possibly centuries. Tonight, this blade would again taste the power of the sacrifice for which it was honed.
Mal’akh gently lifted the knife from its cushioned compartment and reverently polished the blade with a silk cloth soaked in purified water. His skills had progressed greatly since his first rudimentary experiments in New York. The dark Art that Mal’akh practiced had been known by many names in many languages, but by any name, it was a precise science. This primeval technology had once held the key to the portals of power, but it had been banished long ago, relegated to the shadows of occultism and magic. Those few who still practiced this Art were considered madmen, but Mal’akh knew better.
This is not work for those with dull faculties.
The ancient dark Art, like modern science, was a discipline involving precise formulas, specific ingredients, and meticulous timing.
This Art was not the impotent black magic of today, often practiced halfheartedly by curious souls. This Art, like nuclear physics, had the potential to unleash enormous power. The warnings were dire:
The unskilled practitioner runs the risk of being struck by a reflux current and destroyed.
Mal’akh finished admiring the sacred blade and turned his attention to a lone sheet of thick vellum lying on the table before him. He had made this vellum himself from the skin of a baby lamb. As was the protocol, the lamb was pure, having not yet reached sexual maturity. Beside the vellum was a quill pen he had made from the feather of a crow, a silver saucer, and three glimmering candles arranged around a solid-brass bowl. The bowl contained one inch of thick crimson liquid.
The liquid was Peter Solomon’s blood.
Blood is the tincture of eternity.
Mal’akh picked up the quill pen, placed his left hand on the vellum, and dipping the quill tip in the blood, he carefully traced the outline of his open palm. When he was done, he added the five symbols of the Ancient Mysteries, one on each fingertip of the drawing.
The crown . . . to represent the king I shall become.
The star . . . to represent the heavens which have ordained my destiny.
The sun . . . to represent the illumination of my soul.
The lantern . . . to represent the feeble light of human understanding.
And the key . . . to represent the missing piece, that which tonight I shall at last possess.
Mal’akh completed his blood tracing and held up the vellum, admiring his work in the light of the three candles. He waited until the blood was dry and then folded the thick vellum three times. While chanting an ethereal ancient incantation, Mal’akh touched the vellum to the third candle, and it burst into flames. He set the flaming vellum on the silver saucer and let it burn. As it did, the carbon in the animal skin dissolved to a powdery black char. When the flame went out, Mal’akh carefully tapped the ashes into the brass bowl of blood. Then he stirred the mixture with the crow’s feather.
The liquid turned a deeper crimson, nearly black.
Holding the bowl in both palms, Mal’akh raised it over his head and gave thanks, intoning the blood
eukharistos
of the ancients. Then he carefully poured the blackened mixture into a glass vial and corked it. This would be the ink with which Mal’akh would inscribe the untattooed flesh atop his head and complete his masterpiece.
CHAPTER
82
Washington National
Cathedral is the sixth-largest cathedral in the world and soars higher than a thirty-story skyscraper. Embellished with over two hundred stained-glass windows, a fifty-three-bell carillon, and a 10,647-pipe organ, this Gothic masterpiece can accommodate more than three thousand worshippers.
Tonight, however, the great cathedral was deserted.
Reverend Colin Galloway—dean of the cathedral—looked like he had been alive forever. Stooped and withered, he wore a simple black cassock and shuffled blindly ahead without a word. Langdon and Katherine followed in silence through the darkness of the four-hundred-foot-long nave’s central aisle, which was curved ever so slightly to the left to create a softening optical illusion. When they reached the Great Crossing, the dean guided them through the rood screen—the symbolic divider between the public area and the sanctuary beyond.
The scent of frankincense hung in the air of the chancel. This sacred space was dark, illuminated only by indirect reflections in the foliated vaults overhead. Flags of the fifty states hung above the quire, which was ornately appointed with several carved reredos depicting biblical events. Dean Galloway continued on, apparently knowing this walk by heart. For a moment, Langdon thought they were headed straight for the high altar, where the ten stones from Mount Sinai were embedded, but the old dean finally turned left and groped his way through a discreetly hidden door that led into an administrative annex.
They moved down a short hallway to an office door bearing a brass nameplate:
THE REVEREND DR. COLIN GALLOWAY
CATHEDRAL DEAN
Galloway opened the door and turned on the lights, apparently accustomed to remembering this courtesy for his guests. He ushered them in and closed the door.
The dean’s office was small but elegant, with high bookshelves, a desk, a carved armoire, and a private bathroom. On the walls hung sixteenth-century tapestries and several religious paintings. The old dean motioned to the two leather chairs directly opposite his desk. Langdon sat with Katherine and felt grateful finally to set his heavy shoulder bag on the floor at his feet.
Sanctuary and answers,
Langdon thought, settling into the comfortable chair.
The aged man shuffled around behind his desk and eased himself down into his high-backed chair. Then, with a weary sigh, he raised his head, staring blankly out at them through clouded eyes. When he spoke, his voice was unexpectedly clear and strong.
“I realize we have never met,” the old man said, “and yet I feel I know you both.” He took out a handkerchief and dabbed his mouth. “Professor Langdon, I am familiar with your writings, including the clever piece you did on the symbolism of this cathedral. And, Ms. Solomon, your brother, Peter, and I have been Masonic brothers for many years now.”
“Peter is in terrible trouble,” Katherine said.
“So I have been told.” The old man sighed. “And I will do everything in my power to help you.”
Langdon saw no Masonic ring on the dean’s finger, and yet he knew many Masons, especially those within the clergy, chose not to advertise their affiliation.
As they began to talk, it became clear that Dean Galloway already knew some of the night’s events from Warren Bellamy’s phone message. As Langdon and Katherine filled him in on the rest, the dean looked more and more troubled.
“And this man who has taken our beloved Peter,” the dean said, “he is insisting you decipher the pyramid in exchange for Peter’s life?”
“Yes,” Langdon said. “He thinks it’s a map that will lead him to the hiding place of the Ancient Mysteries.”
The dean turned his eerie, opaque eyes toward Langdon. “My ears tell me you do not believe in such things.”
Langdon did not want to waste time going down this road. “It doesn’t matter what I believe. We need to help Peter. Unfortunately, when we deciphered the pyramid, it pointed nowhere.”
The old man sat straighter. “You’ve
deciphered
the pyramid?”
Katherine interceded now, quickly explaining that despite Bellamy’s warnings and her brother’s request that Langdon not unwrap the package, she had done so, feeling her first priority was to help her brother however she could. She told the dean about the golden capstone, Albrecht Dürer’s magic square, and how it decrypted the sixteen-letter Masonic cipher into the phrase