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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 enclosure became the symbol for that letter.

The scheme was so simple, it was almost infantile.

Langdon double-checked his handiwork. Feeling confident the decryption key was correct, he now turned his

attention back to the code inscribed on the pyramid. To decipher it, all he had to do was to find the matching

shape on his decryption key and write down the letter inside it.

The first character on the pyramid looked like a down arrow or a chalice. Langdon quickly found the chalice-

shaped segment on the decryption key. It was located in the lower left-hand corner and enclosed the letter S.

Langdon wrote down S.

The next symbol on the pyramid was a dotted square missing its right side. That shape on the decryption grid

enclosed the letter O.

He wrote down O.

The third symbol was a simple square, which enclosed the letter E.

Langdon wrote down E.

SOE...

He continued, picking up speed until he had completed the entire grid.

Now, as he gazed down at his finished translation, Langdon let out a puzzled sigh. Hardly what I’d call a

eureka moment.

Bellamy’s face showed the hint of a smile. “As you know, Professor, the Ancient Mysteries are reserved only

for the truly enlightened.”

“Right,” Langdon said, frowning. Apparently, I don’t qualify.

CHAPTER 50

In a basement office deep inside CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, the same sixteen-character Masonic

cipher glowed brightly on a high-definition computer monitor. Senior OS analyst Nola Kaye sat alone and

studied the image that had been e-mailed to her ten minutes ago by her boss, Director Inoue Sato.

Is this some kind of joke? Nola knew it was not, of course; Director Sato had no sense of humor, and the

events of tonight were anything but a joking matter. Nola’s high-level clearance within the CIA’s all-seeing

Office of Security had opened her eyes to the shadow worlds of power. But what Nola had witnessed in the

last twenty-four hours had changed her impressions forever of the secrets that powerful men kept.

“Yes, Director,” Nola now said, cradling the phone on her shoulder as she talked to Sato. “The engraving is

indeed the Masonic cipher. However, the cleartext is meaningless. It appears to be a grid of random letters.”

She gazed down at her decryption.

“It must say something,” Sato insisted.

“Not unless it has a second layer of encryption that I’m not aware of.”

“Any guesses?” Sato asked.

“It’s a grid-based matrix, so I could run the usual—Vigenère, grilles, trellises, and so forth—but no promises,

especially if it’s a onetime pad.”

“Do what you can. And do it fast. How about the X-ray?”

Nola swiveled her chair to a second system, which displayed a standard

security X-ray of someone’s bag. Sato had requested information on what appeared to be a small pyramid

inside a cube-shaped box. Normally, a two-inch-tall object would not be an issue of national security unless

it was made of enriched plutonium. This one was not. It was made of something almost equally startling.

“Image-density analysis was conclusive,” Nola said. “Nineteen-point-three grams per cubic centimeter. It’s

pure gold. Very, very valuable.”

“Anything else?”

“Actually, yes. The density scan picked up minor irregularities on the surface of the gold pyramid. It turns

out the gold is engraved with text.”

“Really?” Sato sounded hopeful. “What does it say?”

“I can’t tell yet. The inscription is extremely faint. I’m trying to enhance with filters, but the resolution on the

X-ray is not great.”

“Okay, keep trying. Call me when you have something.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And, Nola?” Sato’s tone turned ominous. “As with everything you have learned in the last twenty-four

hours, the images of the stone pyramid and gold capstone are classified at the highest levels of security. You

are to consult no one. You report to me directly. I want to make sure that is clear.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

“Good. Keep me posted.” Sato hung up.

Nola rubbed her eyes and looked blearily back at her computer screens. She had not slept in over thirty-six

hours, and she knew damn well she would not sleep again until this crisis had reached its conclusion.

Whatever that may be.

Back at the Capitol Visitor Center, four black-clad CIA field-op specialists stood at the entrance to the

tunnel, peering hungrily down the dimly lit shaft like a pack of dogs eager for the hunt.

Sato approached, having just hung up from a call. “Gentlemen,” she said, still holding the Architect’s key,

“are your mission parameters clear?”

“Affirmative,” the lead agent replied. “We have two targets. The first is an engraved stone pyramid,

approximately one foot tall. The second is a smaller, cube-shaped package, approximately two inches tall.

Both were last seen in Robert Langdon’s shoulder bag.”

“Correct,” Sato said. “These two items must be retrieved quickly and intact. Do you have any questions?”

“Parameters for use of force?”

Sato’s shoulder was still throbbing from where Bellamy had struck her with a bone. “As I said, it is of critical

importance that these items be retrieved.”

“Understood.” The four men turned and headed into the darkness of the tunnel.

Sato lit a cigarette and watched them disappear.

CHAPTER 51

Katherine Solomon had always been a prudent driver, but now she was pushing her Volvo at over ninety as

she fled blindly up the Suitland Parkway. Her trembling foot had been lodged on the accelerator for a full

mile before her panic began to lift. She now realized her uncontrollable shivering was no longer solely from

fear.

I’m freezing.

The wintry night air was gushing through her shattered window, buffeting her body like an arctic wind. Her

stockinged feet were numb, and she reached down for her spare pair of shoes, which she kept beneath the

passenger seat. As she did, she felt a stab of pain from the bruise on her throat, where the powerful hand had

latched on to her neck.

The man who had smashed through her window bore no resemblance to the blond-haired gentleman whom

Katherine knew as Dr. Christopher Abaddon. His thick hair and smooth, tanned complexion had disappeared.

His shaved head, bare chest, and makeup-smeared face had been unveiled as a terrifying tapestry of tattoos.

She heard his voice again, whispering to her in the howl of wind outside her broken window. Katherine, I

should have killed you years ago . . . the night I killed your mother.

Katherine shivered, feeling no doubt. That was him. She had never forgotten the look of fiendish violence in

his eyes. Nor had she ever forgotten the sound of her brother’s single gunshot, which had killed this man,

propelling him off a high ledge into the frozen river below, where he plummeted through the ice and never

resurfaced. Investigators had searched for weeks, never finding his body, and finally decided it had been

washed away by the current out to the Chesapeake Bay.

They were wrong, she now knew. He is still alive.

And he’s back.

Katherine felt angst-ridden as the memories flooded back. It was almost exactly ten years ago. Christmas

Day. Katherine, Peter, and their mother—her entire family—were gathered at their sprawling stone mansion

in Potomac, nestled on a two-hundred-acre wooded estate with its own river running through it.

As was tradition, their mother worked diligently in the kitchen, rejoicing in the holiday custom of cooking