The man with the tattoos simply stared at him.
Solomon glared back, eyes defiant. “Either save my sister and learn the truth . . . or kill us both and remain ignorant forever!”
The man quietly lowered the paper and shook his head. “I’m not happy with you, Peter. You failed your test. You still take me for a fool. Do you truly believe I don’t understand what it is I seek? Do you think I have not yet grasped my true potential?”
With that, the man turned his back and slipped off his robe. As the white silk fluttered to the floor, Peter saw for the first time the long tattoo running up the man’s spine.
Dear God . . .
Winding up from the man’s white loincloth, an elegant spiral staircase ascended the middle of his muscular back. Each stair was positioned on a different vertebra. Speechless, Peter let his eyes ascend the staircase, all the way up to the base of the man’s skull.
Peter could only stare.
The tattooed man now tipped his shaved head backward, revealing the circle of bare flesh on the pinnacle of his skull. The virgin skin was bordered by a single snake, looped in a circle, consuming itself.
At-one-ment.
Slowly now, the man lowered his head and turned to face Peter. The massive double-headed phoenix on his chest stared out through dead eyes.
“I am looking for the Lost Word,” the man said. “Are you going to help me . . . or are you and your sister going to die?”
You know how to find it,
Mal’akh thought.
You know something you’re not telling me.
Peter Solomon had revealed things under interrogation that he probably didn’t even recall now. The repeated sessions in and out of the deprivation tank had left him delirious and compliant. Incredibly, when he spilled his guts, everything he told Mal’akh had been consistent with the legend of the Lost Word.
The Lost Word is not a metaphor . . . it is real. The Word is written in an ancient language . . . and has been hidden for ages. The Word is capable of
bringing unfathomable power to anyone who grasps its true meaning. The Word remains hidden to this day . . . and the Masonic Pyramid has the power to unveil it.
“Peter,” Mal’akh now said, staring into his captive’s eyes, “when you looked at that grid of symbols . . . you saw something. You had a revelation. This grid
means
something to you. Tell me.”
“I will tell you nothing until you send help to Katherine!”
Mal’akh smiled at him. “Believe me, the prospect of losing your sister is the least of your worries right now.” Without another word, he turned to Langdon’s daybag and started removing the items he had packed in his basement. Then he began meticulously arranging them on the sacrificial altar.
A folded silk cloth. Pure white.
A silver censer. Egyptian myrrh.
A vial of Peter’s blood. Mixed with ash.
A black crow’s feather. His sacred stylus.
The sacrificial knife. Forged of iron from a meteorite in the desert of Canaan.
“You think I am afraid to die?” Peter shouted, his voice racked with anguish. “If Katherine is gone, I have nothing left! You’ve murdered my entire family! You’ve taken everything from me!”
“Not
everything
,” Mal’akh replied. “Not yet.” He reached into the day-bag and pulled out the laptop from his study. He turned it on and looked over at his captive. “I’m afraid you have not yet grasped the true nature of your predicament.”
CHAPTER
117
Langdon felt
his stomach drop as the CIA helicopter leaped off the lawn, banked hard, and accelerated faster than he ever imagined a helicopter could move. Katherine had stayed behind to recuperate with Bellamy while one of the CIA agents searched the mansion and waited for a backup team.
Before Langdon left, she had kissed him on the cheek and whispered, “Be safe, Robert.”
Now Langdon was holding on for dear life as the military helicopter finally leveled out and raced toward the House of the Temple.
Seated beside him, Sato was yelling up to the pilot. “Head for Dupont Circle!” she shouted over the deafening noise. “We’ll set down there!”
Startled, Langdon turned to her. “Dupont?! That’s
blocks
from the House of the Temple! We can land in the Temple parking lot!”
Sato shook her head. “We need to enter the building
quietly
. If our target hears us coming—”
“We don’t have time!” Langdon argued. “This lunatic is about to murder Peter! Maybe the sound of the helicopter will scare him and make him stop!”
Sato stared at him with ice-cold eyes. “As I have told you, Peter Solomon’s safety is
not
my primary objective. I believe I’ve made that clear.”
Langdon was in no mood for another national-security lecture. “Look,
I’m
the only one on board who knows his way through that building—”
“Careful, Professor,” the director warned. “You are here as a member of my team, and I
will
have your complete cooperation.” She paused a moment and then added, “In fact, it might be wise if I now apprised you fully of the severity of our crisis tonight.”
Sato reached under her seat and pulled out a sleek titanium briefcase, which she opened to reveal an unusually complicated-looking computer. When she turned it on, a CIA logo materialized along with a log-in prompt.
As Sato logged in, she asked, “Professor, do you remember the blond hairpiece we found in the man’s home?”
“Yes.”
“Well, hidden within that wig was a tiny fiber-optic camera . . . concealed in the bangs.”
“A hidden camera? I don’t understand.”
Sato looked grim. “You will.” She launched a file on the laptop.
ONE MOMENT PLEASE
. . .
DECRYPTING FILE
. . .
A video window popped up, filling the entire screen. Sato lifted the briefcase and set it on Langdon’s thighs, giving him a front-row seat.
An unusual image materialized on the screen.
Langdon recoiled in surprise.
What the hell?!
Murky and dark, the video was of a blindfolded man. He was dressed in the garb of a medieval heretic being led to the gallows—noose around his neck, left pant leg rolled up to the knee, right sleeve rolled up to the elbow, and his shirt gaping open to reveal his bare chest.
Langdon stared in disbelief. He had read enough about Masonic rituals to recognize exactly what he was looking at.
A Masonic initiate . . . preparing to enter the first degree.
The man was very muscular and tall, with a familiar blond hairpiece and deeply tanned skin. Langdon recognized his features at once. The man’s tattoos had obviously been concealed beneath bronzing makeup. He was standing before a full-length mirror videotaping his reflection through the camera concealed in his wig.
But . . . why?
The screen faded to black.
New footage appeared. A small, dimly lit, rectangular chamber. A dramatic chessboard floor of black-and-white tile. A low wooden altar, flanked on three sides by pillars, atop which burned flickering candles.
Langdon felt a sudden apprehension.
Oh my God.
Filming in the erratic style of an amateur home video, the camera now panned up to the periphery of the room to reveal a small group of men observing the initiate. The men were dressed in ritual Masonic regalia. In the darkness, Langdon could not make out their faces, but he had no doubt
where
this ritual was taking place.
The traditional layout of this Lodge Room could have been anywhere in the world, but the powder-blue triangular pediment above the master’s
chair revealed it as the oldest Masonic lodge in D.C.—Potomac Lodge No. 5—home of George Washington and the Masonic forefathers who laid the cornerstone for the White House and the Capitol Building.
The lodge was still active today.
Peter Solomon, in addition to overseeing the House of the Temple, was the master of his local lodge. And it was at lodges like this one that a Masonic initiate’s journey always began . . . where he underwent the first three degrees of Freemasonry.
“Brethren,” Peter’s familiar voice declared, “in the name of the Great Architect of the Universe, I open this lodge for the practice of Masonry in the first degree!”
A gavel rapped loudly.
Langdon watched in utter disbelief as the video progressed through a quick series of dissolves featuring Peter Solomon performing some of the ritual’s starker moments.
Pressing a shining dagger to the initiate’s bare chest . . . threatening impalement should the initiate “inappropriately reveal the Mysteries of Masonry” . . . describing the black-and-white floor as representing “the living and the dead” . . . outlining punishments that included “having one’s throat cut across, one’s tongue torn out by its roots, and one’s body buried in the rough sands of the sea . . .”
Langdon stared.
Am I really witnessing this?
Masonic initiation rites had remained shrouded in secrecy for centuries. The only descriptions that had ever been leaked were written by a handful of estranged brothers. Langdon had read those accounts, of course, and yet to
see
an initiation with his own eyes . . . this was a much different story.
Especially edited this way.
Langdon could already tell that the video was an unfair piece of propaganda, omitting all the noblest aspects of the initiation and highlighting only the most disconcerting. If this video were released, Langdon knew it would become an Internet sensation over night.
The anti-Masonic conspiracy theorists would feed on this like sharks.
The Masonic organization, and especially Peter Solomon, would find themselves embroiled in a firestorm of controversy and a desperate effort at damage control . . . even though the ritual was innocuous and purely symbolic.
Eerily, the video included a biblical reference to human sacrifice . . .
“the submission of Abraham to the Supreme Being by proffering Isaac, his firstborn son.”
Langdon thought of Peter and willed the helicopter to fly faster.
The video footage shifted now.
Same room. Different night. A larger group of Masons looking on. Peter Solomon was observing from the master’s chair. This was the second degree. More intense now.
Kneeling at the altar . . . vowing to “forever conceal the enigmas existing within Freemasonry” . . . consenting to the penalty of “having one’s chest cavity ripped open and pulsing heart cast upon the surface of the earth as offal for the ravenous beasts” . . .
Langdon’s own heart was pulsing wildly now as the video shifted yet again. Another night. A much larger crowd. A coffin-shaped “tracing board” on the floor.
The third degree
.
This was the death ritual—the most rigorous of all the degrees—the moment in which the initiate was forced “to face the final challenge of personal extinction.” This grueling interrogation was in fact the source of the common phrase
to give someone the third degree.
And although Langdon was very familiar with academic accounts of it, he was in no way prepared for what he now saw.
The murder.
In violent, rapid intercuts, the video displayed a chilling, victim’s point-of-view account of the initiate’s brutal murder. There were simulated blows to his head, including one with a Mason’s stone maul. All the while, a deacon mournfully told the story of “the widow’s son”—Hiram Abiff—the master Architect of King Solomon’s temple, who chose to die rather than reveal the secret wisdom he possessed.
The attack was mimed, of course, and yet its effect on camera was bloodcurdling. After the deathblow, the initiate—now “dead to his former self”—was lowered into his symbolic coffin, where his eyes were shut and his arms were crossed like those of a corpse. The Masonic brothers rose and mournfully circled his dead body while a pipe organ played a march of the dead.
The macabre scene was deeply disturbing.
And it only got worse.
As the men gathered around their slain brother, the hidden camera clearly displayed their faces. Langdon now realized that Solomon was not the only famous man in the room. One of the men peering down at the initiate in his coffin was on television almost daily.
A prominent U.S. senator.
Oh God . . .
The scene changed yet again.
Outside now . . . nighttime . . . the same jumpy video footage . . . the man was walking down a city street . . . strands of blond hair blowing in front of the camera . . . turning a corner . . .the
camera angle lowering to something in the man’s hand . . . a dollar bill . . . a close-up focusing on the Great Seal . . . the all-seeing eye . . . the unfinished pyramid . . . and then, abruptly, pulling away to reveal a similar shape in the distance . . . a massive pyramidical building . . . with sloping sides rising to a truncated top.
The House of the Temple.
A soul-deep dread swelled within him.
The video kept moving . . .
the man hurrying toward the building now . . . up the multitiered staircase . . . toward the giant bronze doors . . . between the two seventeen-ton sphinx guardians.
A neophyte entering the pyramid of initiation.
Darkness now.
A powerful pipe organ played in the distance . . . and a new image materialized.
The Temple Room.
Langdon swallowed hard.
On-screen, the cavernous space was alive with electricity. Beneath the oculus, the black marble altar shone in the moonlight. Assembled around it, seated on hand-tooled pigskin chairs, awaited a somber council of distinguished thirty-third-degree Masons, present to bear witness. The video now panned across their faces with slow and deliberate intention.
