A loud metallic crash echoed in the direction of the great hall.
Bellamy wheeled, eyes filling with fear. “That was fast.”
Langdon turned toward the door. The sound apparently had come from the metal bucket that Bellamy had placed on the ladder blocking the tunnel doors.
They’re coming for us.
Then, quite unexpectedly, the crash echoed again.
And again.
And again.
The homeless man on the bench in front of the Library of Congress rubbed his eyes and watched the strange scene unfolding before him.
A white Volvo had just jumped the curb, lurched across the deserted pedestrian walkway, and screeched to a halt at the foot of the library’s main entrance. An attractive, dark-haired woman had leaped out,
anxiously surveyed the area, and, spotting the homeless man, had shouted, “Do you have a phone?”
Lady, I don’t have a left shoe.
Apparently realizing as much, the woman dashed up the staircase toward the library’s main doors. Arriving at the top of the stairs, she grabbed the handle and tried desperately to open each of the three giant doors.
The library’s closed, lady.
But the woman didn’t seem to care. She seized one of the heavy ring-shaped handles, heaved it backward, and let it fall with a loud crash against the door. Then she did it again. And again. And again.
Wow,
the homeless man thought,
she must really need a book.
CHAPTER
56
When Katherine Solomon
finally saw the massive bronze doors of the library swing open before her, she felt as if an emotional floodgate had burst. All the fear and confusion she had bottled up tonight came pouring through.
The figure in the library doorway was Warren Bellamy, a friend and confidant of her brother’s. But it was the man behind Bellamy in the shadows whom Katherine felt happiest to see. The feeling was apparently mutual. Robert Langdon’s eyes filled with relief as she rushed through the doorway . . . directly into his arms.
As Katherine lost herself in the comforting embrace of an old friend, Bellamy closed the front door. She heard the heavy lock click into place, and at last she felt safe. Tears came unexpectedly, but she fought them back.
Langdon held her. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “You’re okay.”
Because you saved me,
Katherine wanted to tell him.
He destroyed my lab . . . all my work. Years of research . . . up in smoke.
She wanted to tell him everything, but she could barely breathe.
“We’ll find Peter.” Langdon’s deep voice resonated against her chest, comforting her somehow. “I promise.”
I know who did this!
Katherine wanted to yell.
The same man who killed my mother and nephew!
Before she could explain herself, an unexpected sound broke the silence of the library.
The loud crash echoed up from beneath them in a vestibule stairwell—as if a large metal object had fallen on a tile floor. Katherine felt Langdon’s muscles stiffen instantly.
Bellamy stepped forward, his expression dire. “We’re leaving.
Now
.”
Bewildered, Katherine followed as the Architect and Langdon hurried across the great hall toward the library’s famed reading room, which was ablaze with light. Bellamy quickly locked the two sets of doors behind them, first the outer, then the inner.
Katherine followed in a daze as Bellamy hustled them both toward the
center of the room. The threesome arrived at a reading desk where a leather bag sat beneath a light. Beside the bag, there was a tiny cube-shaped package, which Bellamy scooped up and placed inside the bag, alongside a—
Katherine stopped short.
A pyramid?
Although she had never seen this engraved stone pyramid, she felt her entire body recoil in recognition. Somehow her gut knew the truth. Katherine Solomon had just come face-to-face with the object that had so deeply damaged her life.
The pyramid.
Bellamy zipped up the bag and handed it to Langdon. “Don’t let this out of your sight.”
A sudden explosion rocked the room’s outer doors. The tinkling of shattered glass followed.
“This way!” Bellamy spun, looking scared now as he rushed them over to the central circulation desk—eight counters around a massive octagonal cabinet. He guided them in behind the counters and then pointed to an opening in the cabinet. “Get in there!”
“In
there
?” Langdon demanded. “They’ll find us for sure!”
“Trust me,” Bellamy said. “It’s not what you think.”
CHAPTER
57
Mal’akh gunned
his limousine north toward Kalorama Heights. The explosion in Katherine’s lab had been bigger than he had anticipated, and he had been lucky to escape unscathed. Conveniently, the ensuing chaos had enabled him to slip out without opposition, powering his limousine past a distracted gate guard who was busy yelling into a telephone.
I’ve got to get off the road,
he thought. If Katherine hadn’t yet phoned the police, the explosion would certainly draw their attention.
And a shirtless man driving a limousine would be hard to miss.
After years of preparation, Mal’akh could scarcely believe the night was now upon him. The journey to this moment had been a long, difficult one.
What began years ago in misery . . . will end tonight in glory.
On the night it all began, he had not had the name Mal’akh. In fact, on the night it all began, he had not had any name at all.
Inmate 37
. Like most of the prisoners at the brutal Soganlik Prison outside of Istanbul, Inmate 37 was here because of drugs.
He had been lying on his bunk in a cement cell, hungry and cold in the darkness, wondering how long he would be incarcerated. His new cellmate, whom he’d met only twenty-four hours ago, was sleeping in the bunk above him. The prison administrator, an obese alcoholic who hated his job and took it out on the inmates, had just killed all the lights for the night.
It was almost ten o’clock when Inmate 37 heard the conversation filtering in through the ventilation shaft. The first voice was unmistakably clear—the piercing, belligerent accent of the prison administrator, who clearly did not appreciate being woken up by a late-night visitor.
“Yes, yes, you’ve come a long way,” he was saying, “but there are no visitors for the first month. State regulations. No exceptions.”
The voice that replied was soft and refined, filled with pain. “Is my son safe?”
“He is a drug addict.”
“Is he being treated well?”
“Well enough,” the administrator said. “This is not a hotel.”
There was a pained pause. “You do realize the U.S. State Department will request extradition.”
“Yes, yes, they always do. It will be granted, although the paperwork might take us a couple of weeks . . . or even a month . . . depending.”
“Depending on what?”
“Well,” the administrator said, “we are understaffed.” He paused. “Of course, sometimes concerned parties like yourself make donations to the prison staff to help us push things through more quickly.”
The visitor did not reply.
“Mr. Solomon,” the administrator continued, lowering his voice, “for a man like yourself, for whom money is no object, there are always options. I know people in government. If you and I work together, we may be able to get your son out of here . . .
tomorrow,
with all the charges dropped. He would not even have to face prosecution at home.”
The response was immediate. “Forgetting the legal ramifications of your suggestion, I refuse to teach my son that money solves all problems or that there is no accountability in life, especially in a serious matter like this.”
“You’d like to
leave
him here?”
“I’d like to speak to him. Right now.”
“As I said, we have rules. Your son is unavailable to you . . . unless you would like to negotiate his immediate release.”
A cold silence hung for several moments. “The State Department will be contacting you. Keep Zachary safe. I expect him on a plane home within the week. Good night.”
The door slammed.
Inmate 37 could not believe his ears.
What kind of father leaves his son in this hellhole in order to teach him a lesson?
Peter Solomon had even rejected an offer to clear Zachary’s record.
It was later that night, lying awake in his bunk, that Inmate 37 had realized how he would free himself. If money was the only thing separating a prisoner from freedom, then Inmate 37 was as good as free. Peter Solomon might not be willing to part with money, but as anyone who read the tabloids knew, his son, Zachary, had plenty of money, too. The next day, Inmate 37 spoke privately to the administrator and suggested a plan—a bold, ingenious scheme that would give them both exactly what they wanted.
“Zachary Solomon would have to die for this to work,” explained Inmate 37. “But we could both disappear immediately. You could retire to the Greek Islands. You would never see this place again.”
After some discussion, the two men shook hands.
Soon Zachary Solomon will be dead,
Inmate 37 thought, smiling to think how easy it would be.
It was two days later that the State Department contacted the Solomon family with the horrific news. The prison snapshots showed their son’s brutally bludgeoned body, lying curled and lifeless on the floor of his prison cell. His head had been bashed in by a steel bar, and the rest of him was battered and twisted beyond what was humanly imaginable. He appeared to have been tortured and finally killed. The prime suspect was the prison administrator himself, who had disappeared, probably with all of the murdered boy’s money. Zachary had signed papers moving his vast fortune into a private numbered account, which had been emptied immediately following his death. There was no telling where the money was now.
Peter Solomon flew to Turkey on a private jet and returned with their son’s casket, which they buried in the Solomon family cemetery. The prison administrator was never found. Nor
would
he be, Inmate 37 knew. The Turk’s rotund body was now resting at the bottom of the Sea of Marmara, feeding the blue manna crabs that migrated in through the Bosporus Strait. The vast fortune belonging to Zachary Solomon had all been moved to an untraceable numbered account. Inmate 37 was a free man again—a free man with a massive fortune.
The Greek Islands were like heaven. The light. The water. The women.
There was nothing money couldn’t buy—new identities, new passports, new hope. He chose a Greek name—Andros Dareios—
Andros
meaning “warrior,” and
Dareios
meaning “wealthy.” The dark nights in prison had frightened him, and Andros vowed never to go back. He shaved off his shaggy hair and shunned the drug world entirely. He began life anew—exploring never-before-imagined sensual pleasures. The serenity of sailing alone on the ink-blue Aegean Sea became his new heroin trance; the sensuality of sucking moist
arni souvlakia
right off the skewer became his new Ecstasy; and the rush of cliff diving into the foam-filled ravines of Mykonos became his new cocaine.
I am reborn.
Andros bought a sprawling villa on the island of Syros and settled in among the
bella gente
in the exclusive town of Possidonia. This new world was a community not only of wealth, but of culture and physical perfection. His neighbors took great pride in their bodies and minds, and it was contagious. The newcomer suddenly found himself jogging on the beach, tanning his pale body, and reading books. Andros read Homer’s
Odyssey,
captivated by the images of powerful bronze men doing battle on these islands. The next day, he began lifting weights, and was amazed to see how quickly his chest and arms grew larger. Gradually, he began to feel women’s eyes on him, and the admiration was intoxicating. He longed to grow stronger still. And he did. With the help of aggressive cycles of steroids intermixed with black-market growth hormones and endless hours of weight lifting, Andros transformed himself into something he had never imagined he could be—a perfect male specimen. He grew in both height and musculature, developing flawless pectorals and massive, sinewy legs, which he kept perfectly tanned.
Everyone
was looking now.
As Andros had been warned, the heavy steroids and hormones changed not only his body, but also his voice box, giving him an eerie, breathy whisper, which made him feel more mysterious. The soft, enigmatic voice, combined with his new body, his wealth, and his refusal to speak about his mysterious past, served as catnip for the women who met him. They gave themselves willingly, and he satisfied them all—from fashion models visiting his island on photo shoots, to nubile American college girls on vacation, to the lonely wives of his neighbors, to the occasional young man. They could not get enough.
I am a masterpiece.
As the years passed, however, Andros’s sexual adventures began to lose their thrill. As did everything. The island’s sumptuous cuisine lost its taste, books no longer held his interest, and even the dazzling sunsets from his villa looked dull.
How could this be?
He was only in his midtwenties, and yet he felt old.
What more is there to life?
He had sculpted his body into a masterpiece; he had educated himself and nourished his mind with culture; he had made his home in paradise; and he had the love of anyone he desired.
And yet, incredibly, he felt as empty as he had in that Turkish prison.
