“Peter is in terrible trouble. His hand . . .”
“I know.” Bellamy sounded grim. “That’s not the half of it, I’m afraid.”
They reached the end of the lit section of corridor, and the passageway took an abrupt left. The remaining length of corridor, wherever it went, was pitch-black.
“Hold on,” Bellamy said, disappearing into a nearby electrical room from which a tangle of heavy-duty orange extension cords snaked out, running away from them into the darkness of the corridor. Langdon waited while Bellamy rooted around inside. The Architect must have located the switch that sent power to the extension cords, because suddenly the route before them became illuminated.
Langdon could only stare.
Washington, D.C.—like Rome—was a city laced with secret passageways and underground tunnels. The passage before them now reminded Langdon of the
passetto
tunnel connecting the Vatican to Castel Sant’Angelo.
Long. Dark. Narrow.
Unlike the ancient
passetto,
however, this passage was modern and not yet complete. It was a slender construction zone that was so long it seemed to narrow to nothing at its distant end. The only lighting was a string of intermittent construction bulbs that did little more than accentuate the tunnel’s impossible length.
Bellamy was already heading down the passage. “Follow me. Watch your step.”
Langdon felt himself fall into step behind Bellamy, wondering where on earth this tunnel led.
At that moment, Mal’akh stepped out of Pod 3 and strode briskly down the deserted main corridor of the SMSC toward Pod 5. He clutched Trish’s key card in his hand and quietly whispered, “Zero-eight-zero-four.”
Something else was cycling through his mind as well. Mal’akh had just received an urgent message from the Capitol Building.
My contact has run into unforeseen difficulties.
Even so, the news remained encouraging: Robert Langdon now possessed
both
the pyramid and the capstone. Despite the unexpected way in which it had happened, the crucial pieces were falling into place. It was almost as if destiny itself were guiding tonight’s events, ensuring Mal’akh’s victory.
CHAPTER
43
Langdon hurried
to keep pace with Warren Bellamy’s brisk footsteps as they moved without a word down the long tunnel. So far, the Architect of the Capitol appeared far more intent on putting distance between Sato and this stone pyramid than he did on explaining to Langdon what was going on. Langdon had a growing apprehension that there was far more going on than he could imagine.
The CIA? The Architect of the Capitol? Two Thirty-third-degree Masons?
The shrill sound of Langdon’s cell phone cut the air. He pulled his phone from his jacket. Uncertain, he answered. “Hello?” The voice that spoke was an eerie, familiar whisper. “Professor, I hear you had unexpected company.”
Langdon felt an icy chill. “Where the hell is Peter?!” he demanded, his words reverberating in the enclosed tunnel. Beside him, Warren Bellamy glanced over, looking concerned and motioning for Langdon to keep walking.
“Don’t worry,” the voice said. “As I told you, Peter is somewhere safe.”
“You cut off his hand, for God’s sake! He needs a doctor!”
“He needs a priest,” the man replied. “But you can save him. If you do as I command, Peter will live. I give you my word.”
“The word of a madman means nothing to me.”
“Madman? Professor, surely you appreciate the reverence with which I have adhered to the ancient protocols tonight. The Hand of the Mysteries guided you to a portal—the pyramid that promises to unveil ancient wisdom. I know you now possess it.”
“You think
this
is the Masonic Pyramid?” Langdon demanded. “It’s a chunk of rock.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. “Mr. Langdon, you’re too smart to play dumb. You know very well what you’ve uncovered tonight. A stone pyramid . . . hidden at the core of Washington, D.C. . . . by a powerful Mason?”
“You’re chasing a
myth
! Whatever Peter told you, he told you in fear.
The Legend of the Masonic Pyramid is
fiction.
The Masons never built any pyramid to protect secret wisdom. And even if they did,
this
pyramid is far too small to be what you think it is.”
The man chuckled. “I see Peter has told you very little. Nonetheless, Mr. Langdon, whether or not you choose to accept what it is you now possess, you
will
do as I say. I am well aware that the pyramid you are carrying has an encrypted engraving. You
will
decipher that engraving for me. Then, and only then, will I return Peter Solomon to you.”
“Whatever you believe this engraving reveals,” Langdon said, “it won’t be the Ancient Mysteries.”
“Of course not,” he replied. “The mysteries are far too vast to be written on the side of a little stone pyramid.”
The response caught Langdon off guard. “But if this engraving is
not
the Ancient Mysteries, then this pyramid is
not
the Masonic Pyramid. Legend clearly states the Masonic Pyramid was constructed to protect the Ancient Mysteries.”
The man’s tone was condescending now. “Mr. Langdon, the Masonic Pyramid
was
constructed to preserve the Ancient Mysteries, but with a twist you’ve apparently not yet grasped. Did Peter never tell you? The power of the Masonic Pyramid is
not
that it reveals the mysteries themselves . . . but rather that it reveals the secret
location
where the mysteries are buried.”
Langdon did a double take.
“Decipher the engraving,” the voice continued, “and it will tell you the hiding place of mankind’s greatest treasure.” He laughed. “Peter did not entrust you with the
treasure
itself, Professor.”
Langdon came to an abrupt halt in the tunnel. “Hold on. You’re saying this pyramid is . . . a
map
?
” Bellamy jolted to a stop now, too, his expression one of shock and alarm. Clearly, the caller had just hit a raw nerve.
The pyramid is a map.
“This map,” the voice whispered, “or pyramid, or portal, or whatever you choose to call it . . . was created long ago to ensure the hiding place of the Ancient Mysteries would never be forgotten . . . that it would never be lost to history.”
“A grid of sixteen symbols doesn’t look much like a map.”
“Appearances can be deceiving, Professor. But regardless, you alone have the power to read that inscription.”
“You’re wrong,” Langdon fired back, picturing the simplistic cipher. “
Anyone
could decipher this engraving. It’s not very sophisticated.”
“I suspect there is more to the pyramid than meets the eye. Regardless, you alone possess the capstone.”
Langdon pictured the little capstone in his bag.
Order from chaos?
He didn’t know what to believe anymore, but the stone pyramid in his bag seemed to be getting heavier with every passing moment.
Mal’akh pressed the cell phone to his ear, enjoying the sound of Langdon’s anxious breathing on the other end. “Right now, I have business to attend to, Professor, and so do you. Call me as soon as you have deciphered the map. We will go together to the hiding place and make our trade. Peter’s life . . . for all the wisdom of the ages.”
“I will do
nothing
,” Langdon declared. “Especially not without proof Peter is alive.”
“I suggest you not test me. You are a very small cog in a vast machine. If you disobey me, or attempt to find me, Peter
will
die. This I swear.”
“For all I know, Peter is
already
dead.”
“He is very much alive, Professor, but he desperately needs your help.”
“What are you really looking for?” Langdon shouted into the phone.
Mal’akh paused before answering. “Many people have pursued the Ancient Mysteries and debated their power. Tonight, I will prove the mysteries are real.”
Langdon was silent.
“I suggest you get to work on the map immediately,” Mal’akh said. “I need this information
today
.”
“Today?! It’s already after nine o’clock!”
“Exactly.
Tempus fugit.
”
CHAPTER
44
New York
editor Jonas Faukman was just turning off the lights in his Manhattan office when his phone rang. He had no intention of picking up at this hour—that is, until he glimpsed the caller-ID display.
This ought to be good,
he thought, reaching for the receiver.
“Do we still publish you?” Faukman asked, half serious.
“Jonas!” Robert Langdon’s voice sounded anxious. “Thank God you’re there. I need your help.”
Faukman’s spirits lifted. “You’ve got pages for me to edit, Robert?”
Finally?
“No, I need information. Last year, I connected you with a scientist named Katherine Solomon, the sister of Peter Solomon?”
Faukman frowned.
No pages.
“She was looking for a publisher for a book on Noetic Science? Do you remember her?”
Faukman rolled his eyes. “Sure. I remember. And thanks a million for
that
introduction. Not only did she refuse to let me read the results of her research, she didn’t want to publish anything until some magical date in the future.”
“Jonas, listen to me, I don’t have time. I need Katherine’s phone number. Right now. Do you have it?”
“I’ve got to warn you . . . you’re acting a little desperate. She’s great looking, but you’re not going to impress her by—”
“This is no joke, Jonas, I need her number now.”
“All right . . . hold on.” Faukman and Langdon had been close friends for enough years that Faukman knew when Langdon was serious. Jonas typed the name Katherine Solomon into a search window and began scanning the company’s e-mail server.
“I’m looking now,” Faukman said. “And for what it’s worth, when you call her, you may not want to call from the Harvard Pool. It sounds like you’re in an asylum.”
“I’m not at the pool. I’m in a tunnel under the U.S. Capitol.”
Faukman sensed from Langdon’s voice that he was not joking.
What is it with this guy?
“Robert, why can’t you just stay home and
write
?” His computer pinged. “Okay, hold on . . . I got it.” He moused through the old e-mail thread. “It looks like all I have is her cell.”
“I’ll take it.”
Faukman gave him the number.
“Thanks, Jonas,” Langdon said, sounding grateful. “I owe you one.”
“You
owe
me a manuscript, Robert. Do you have any idea how long—”
The line went dead.
Faukman stared at the receiver and shook his head. Book publishing would be so much easier without the authors.
CHAPTER
45
Katherine Solomon
did a double take when she saw the name on her caller ID. She had imagined the incoming call was from Trish, checking in to explain why she and Christopher Abaddon were taking so long. But the caller was not Trish.
Far from it.
Katherine felt a blushing smile cross her lips.
Could tonight get any stranger?
She flipped open her phone.
“Don’t tell me,” she said playfully. “Bookish bachelor seeking single Noetic Scientist?”
“Katherine!” The deep voice belonged to Robert Langdon. “Thank God you’re okay.”
“Of course I’m okay,” she replied, puzzled. “Other than the fact that you never called me after that party at Peter’s house last summer.”
“Something has happened tonight. Please listen.” His normally smooth voice sounded ragged. “I’m so sorry to have to tell you this . . . but Peter is in serious trouble.”
Katherine’s smile disappeared. “What are you talking about?”
“Peter . . .” Langdon hesitated as if searching for words. “I don’t know how to say it, but he’s been . . .
taken
. I’m not sure how or by whom, but—”
“Taken?” Katherine demanded. “Robert, you’re scaring me. Taken . . . where?”
“Taken captive.” Langdon’s voice cracked as if he were overwhelmed. “It must have happened earlier today or maybe yesterday.”
“This isn’t funny,” she said angrily. “My brother is
fine
. I just spoke to him fifteen minutes ago!”
“You did?!” Langdon sounded stunned.
“Yes! He just texted me to say he was coming to the lab.”
“He
texted
you . . .” Langdon thought out loud. “But you didn’t actually hear his
voice
?”
“No, but—”
“Listen to me. The text you received was
not
from your brother.
Someone has Peter’s phone. He’s dangerous. Whoever it is tricked me into coming to Washington tonight.”
“Tricked you? You’re not making any sense!”
“I know, I’m so sorry.” Langdon seemed uncharacteristically disorientated. “Katherine, I think you could be in danger.”
Katherine Solomon was sure that Langdon would never joke about something like this, and yet he sounded like he had lost his mind. “I’m fine,” she said. “I’m locked inside a secure building!”
“Read me the message you got from Peter’s phone.
Please
.”
Bewildered, Katherine pulled up the text message and read it to Langdon, feeling a chill as she came to the final part referencing Dr. Abaddon. “‘If available, have Dr. Abaddon join us inside. I trust him fully . . .’ ”
