“I should have killed you ten years ago,” he growled. “The night I killed your mother.”
As his words registered, Katherine was seized by a horrifying memory: that feral look in his eyes—she had seen it before.
It’s him.
She would have screamed had it not been for the viselike grip around her neck.
She smashed her foot onto the accelerator, and the car lurched backward, almost snapping her neck as he was dragged beside her car. The Volvo careened up an inclined median, and Katherine could feel her neck about to give way beneath his weight. Suddenly tree branches were scraping the side of her car, slapping through the side windows, and the weight was gone.
The car burst through the evergreens and out into the upper parking lot, where Katherine slammed on the brakes. Below her, the half-naked man clambered to his feet, staring into her headlights. With a terrifying calm, he raised a menacing scale-covered arm and pointed directly at her.
Katherine’s blood coursed with raw fear and hatred as she spun the wheel and hit the gas. Seconds later, she was fishtailing out onto Silver Hill Road.
CHAPTER
48
In the
heat of the moment, Capitol police officer Nuñez had seen no option but to help the Capitol Architect and Robert Langdon escape. Now, however, back in the basement police headquarters, Nuñez could see the storm clouds gathering fast.
Chief Trent Anderson was holding an ice pack to his head while another officer was tending to Sato’s bruises. Both of them were standing with the video surveillance team, reviewing digital playback files in an attempt to locate Langdon and Bellamy.
“Check the playback on every hallway and exit,” Sato demanded. “I want to know where they went!”
Nuñez felt ill as he looked on. He knew it would be only a matter of minutes before they found the right video clip and learned the truth.
I helped them escape.
Making matters worse was the arrival of a four-man CIA field team that was now staging nearby, prepping to go after Langdon and Bellamy. These guys looked nothing like the Capitol Police. These guys were dead-serious soldiers . . . black camouflage, night vision, futuristic-looking handguns.
Nuñez felt like he would throw up. Making up his mind, he motioned discreetly to Chief Anderson. “A word, Chief?”
“What is it?” Anderson followed Nuñez into the hall.
“Chief, I made a bad mistake,” Nuñez said, breaking a sweat. “I’m sorry, and I’m resigning.”
You’ll fire me in a few minutes anyway.
“I beg your pardon?”
Nuñez swallowed hard. “Earlier, I saw Langdon and Architect Bellamy in the visitor center on their way out of the building.”
“What?!” Anderson bellowed. “Why didn’t you say something?!”
“The Architect told me not to say a word.”
“You work for
me,
goddamm it!” Anderson’s voice echoed down the corridor. “Bellamy smashed my head into a wall, for Christ’s sake!”
Nuñez handed Anderson the key that the Architect had given him.
“What is this?” Anderson demanded.
“A key to the new tunnel under Independence Avenue. Architect Bellamy had it. That’s how they escaped.”
Anderson stared down at the key, speechless.
Sato poked her head out into the hallway, eyes probing. “What’s going on out here?”
Nuñez felt himself go pale. Anderson was still holding the key, and Sato clearly had seen it. As the hideous little woman drew near, Nuñez improvised as best as he could, hoping to protect his chief. “I found a key on the floor in the subbasement. I was just asking Chief Anderson if he knew what it might go to.”
Sato arrived, eyeing the key. “And does the chief know?”
Nuñez glanced up at Anderson, who was clearly weighing all his options before speaking. Finally, the chief shook his head. “Not offhand. I’d have to check the—”
“Don’t bother,” Sato said. “This key unlocks a tunnel off the visitor center.”
“Really?” Anderson said. “How do you know that?”
“We just found the surveillance clip. Officer Nuñez here helped Langdon and Bellamy escape and then relocked that tunnel door behind them. Bellamy gave Nuñez that key.”
Anderson turned to Nuñez with a flare of anger. “Is this true?!”
Nuñez nodded vigorously, doing his best to play along. “I’m sorry, sir. The Architect told me not to tell a soul!”
“I don’t give a damn
what
the Architect told you!” Anderson yelled. “I expect—”
“Shut up, Trent,” Sato snapped. “You’re both lousy liars. Save it for your CIA inquisition.” She snatched the Architect’s tunnel key from Anderson. “You’re done here.”
CHAPTER
49
Robert Langdon
hung up his cell phone, feeling increasingly worried.
Katherine’s not answering her cell?
Katherine had promised to call him as soon as she was safely out of the lab and on her way to meet him here, but she had never done so.
Bellamy sat beside Langdon at the reading-room desk. He, too, had just made a call, his to an individual he claimed could offer them sanctuary—a safe place to hide. Unfortunately, this person was not answering either, and so Bellamy had left an urgent message, telling him to call Langdon’s cell phone right away.
“I’ll keep trying,” he said to Langdon, “but for the moment, we’re on our own. And we need to discuss a plan for this pyramid.”
The pyramid.
For Langdon, the spectacular backdrop of the reading room had all but disappeared, his world constricting now to include only what was directly in front of him—a stone pyramid, a sealed package containing a capstone, and an elegant African American man who had materialized out of the darkness and rescued him from the certainty of a CIA interrogation.
Langdon had expected a modicum of sanity from the Architect of the Capitol, but now it seemed Warren Bellamy was no more rational than the madman claiming Peter was in purgatory. Bellamy was insisting this stone pyramid was, in fact, the Masonic Pyramid of legend.
An ancient map? That guides us to powerful wisdom?
“Mr. Bellamy,” Langdon said politely, “this idea that there exists some kind of ancient knowledge that can imbue men with great power . . . I simply can’t take it seriously.”
Bellamy’s eyes looked both disappointed and earnest, making Langdon’s skepticism all the more awkward. “Yes, Professor, I had imagined you might feel this way, but I suppose I should not be surprised. You are an outsider looking in. There exist certain Masonic realities that you will perceive as myth because you are not properly initiated and prepared to understand them.”
Now Langdon felt patronized.
I wasn’t a member of Odysseus’s crew, but I’m certain the Cyclops is a myth.
“Mr. Bellamy, even if the legend is true . . .
this
pyramid cannot possibly be the Masonic Pyramid.”
“No?” Bellamy ran a finger across the Masonic cipher on the stone. “It looks to me like it fits the description perfectly. A stone pyramid with a shining metal capstone, which, according to Sato’s X-ray, is exactly what Peter entrusted to you.” Bellamy picked up the little cube-shaped package, weighing it in his hand.
“This stone pyramid is less than a foot tall,” Langdon countered. “Every version of the story I’ve ever heard describes the Masonic Pyramid as enormous.”
Bellamy had clearly anticipated this point. “As you know, the legend speaks of a pyramid rising so high that God Himself can reach out and touch it.”
“Exactly.”
“I can see your dilemma, Professor. However, both the Ancient Mysteries and Masonic philosophy celebrate the potentiality of God within each of us. Symbolically speaking, one could claim that anything within reach of an enlightened man . . . is within reach of God.”
Langdon felt unswayed by the wordplay.
“Even the Bible concurs,” Bellamy said. “If we accept, as Genesis tells us, that ‘God created man in his own image,’ then we
also
must accept what this implies—that mankind was not created
inferior
to God. In Luke 17:20 we are told, ‘The kingdom of God is within you.’ ”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know any Christians who consider themselves God’s
equal
.”
“Of course not,” Bellamy said, his tone hardening. “Because most Christians want it both ways. They want to be able to proudly declare they are believers in the Bible and yet simply ignore those parts they find too difficult or too inconvenient to believe.”
Langdon made no response.
“Anyhow,” Bellamy said, “the Masonic Pyramid’s age-old description as being tall enough to be touched by God . . . this has long led to misinterpretations about its size. Conveniently, it keeps academics like yourself insisting the pyramid is a legend, and nobody searches for it.”
Langdon looked down at the stone pyramid. “I apologize that I’m frustrating you,” he said. “I’ve simply always thought of the Masonic Pyramid as a myth.”
“Does it not seem perfectly fitting to you that a map created by
stonemasons would be carved in stone? Throughout history, our most important guideposts have always been carved in stone—including the tablets God gave Moses—Ten Commandments to guide our human conduct.”
“I understand, and yet it is always referred to as the
Legend
of the Masonic Pyramid.
Legend
implies it is mythical.”
“Yes,
legend
.” Bellamy chuckled. “I’m afraid you’re suffering from the same problem Moses had.”
“I’m sorry?”
Bellamy looked almost amused as he turned in his seat, glancing up at the second-tier balcony, where sixteen bronze statues peered down at them. “Do you see Moses?”
Langdon gazed up at the library’s celebrated statue of Moses. “Yes.”
“He has horns.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“But do you know
why
he has horns?”
Like most teachers, Langdon did not enjoy being lectured to. The Moses above them had horns for the same reason
thousands
of Christian images of Moses had horns—a mistranslation of the book of Exodus. The original Hebrew text described Moses as having
“karan ’ohr panav”
—“facial skin that glowed with rays of light”—but when the Roman Catholic Church created the official Latin translation of the Bible, the translator bungled Moses’s description, rendering it as
“cornuta esset facies sua,”
meaning “his face was horned.” From that moment on, artists and sculptors, fearing reprisals if they were not true to the Gospels, began depicting Moses with horns.
“It was a simple mistake,” Langdon replied. “A mistranslation by Saint Jerome around four hundred A.D.” Bellamy looked impressed. “Exactly. A mistranslation. And the result is . . . poor Moses is now misshapen for all history.”
“Misshapen” was a nice way to put it. Langdon, as a child, had been terrified when he saw Michelangelo’s diabolical “horned Moses”—the centerpiece of Rome’s Basilica of St. Peter in Chains.
“I mention the horned Moses,” Bellamy now said, “to illustrate how a single word, misunderstood, can rewrite history.”
You’re preaching to the choir,
Langdon thought, having learned the lesson firsthand in Paris a number of years back.
SanGreal: Holy Grail. SangReal: Royal Blood.
“In the case of the Masonic Pyramid,” Bellamy continued, “people heard
whispers about a ‘legend.’ And the idea stuck. The
Legend
of the Masonic Pyramid sounded like a myth. But the word
legend
was referring to something else. It had been misconstrued. Much like the word
talisman.
” He smiled. “Language can be very adept at hiding the truth.”
“That’s true, but you’re losing me here.”
“Robert, the Masonic Pyramid is a
map
. And like every map, it has a
legend
—a key that tells you how to read it.” Bellamy took the cube-shaped package and held it up. “Don’t you see? This capstone
is
the legend to the pyramid. It is the key that tells you how to read the most powerful artifact on earth . . . a map that unveils the hiding place of mankind’s greatest treasure—the lost wisdom of the ages.”
Langdon fell silent.
“I humbly submit,” Bellamy said, “that your towering Masonic Pyramid is only
this
. . . a modest stone whose golden capstone reaches high enough to be touched by God. High enough that an enlightened man can reach down and touch it.”
Silence hung between the two men for several seconds.
Langdon felt an unexpected pulse of excitement as he looked down at the pyramid, seeing it in a new light. His eyes moved again to the Masonic cipher. “But this code . . . it seems so . . .”
“Simple?”
Langdon nodded. “Almost
anyone
could decipher this.”
Bellamy smiled and retrieved a pencil and paper for Langdon. “Then perhaps you should enlighten us?”
Langdon felt uneasy about reading the code, and yet considering the circumstances, it seemed a minor betrayal of Peter’s trust. Moreover, whatever the engraving said, he could not imagine that it unveiled a secret hiding place of anything at all . . . much less that of one of history’s greatest treasures.
Langdon accepted the pencil from Bellamy and tapped it on his chin as he studied the cipher. The code was so simple that he barely needed pencil and paper. Even so, he wanted to ensure he made no mistakes, and so he dutifully put pencil to paper and wrote down the most common decryption key for a Masonic cipher. The key consisted of four grids—two plain and two dotted—with the alphabet running through them in order. Each letter of the alphabet was now positioned inside a uniquely shaped “enclosure” or “pen.” The shape of each letter’s
