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Andros had learned enough to recognize a sign. I am being urged onward.

Clutching the bird in one hand, he stood at the makeshift altar in his

kitchen and raised a sharp knife, speaking aloud the incantation he had memorized.

“Camiach, Eomiahe, Emial, Macbal, Emoii, Zazean . . . by the most holy names of the angels in the Book of

Assamaian, I conjure thee that thou assist me in this operation by the power of the One True God.”

Andros now lowered the knife and carefully pierced the large vein on the right wing of the panicked bird.

The crow began to bleed. As he watched the stream of red liquid flowing down into the metal cup he had

placed as a receptacle, he felt an unexpected chill in the air. Nonetheless, he continued.

“Almighty Adonai, Arathron, Ashai, Elohim, Elohi, Elion, Asher Eheieh, Shaddai . . . be my aid, so that this

blood may have power and efficacy in all wherein I shall wish, and in all that I shall demand.”

That night, he dreamed of birds . . . of a giant phoenix rising from a billowing fire. The next morning, he

awoke with an energy he had not felt since childhood. He went running in the park, faster and farther than

he’d imagined possible. When he could run no longer, he stopped to do pushups and sit-ups. Countless

repetitions. Still he had energy.

That night, again, he dreamed of the phoenix.

Autumn had fallen again on Central Park, and the wildlife were scurrying about searching for food for

winter. Andros despised the cold, and yet his carefully hidden traps were now overflowing with live rats and

squirrels. He took them home in his backpack, performing rituals of increasing complexity.

Emanual, Massiach, Yod, He, Vaud . . . please find me worthy.

The blood rituals fueled his vitality. Andros felt younger every day. He continued to read day and night—

ancient mystical texts, epic medieval poems, the early philosophers—and the more he learned about the true

nature of things, the more he realized that all hope for mankind was lost. They are blind . . . wandering

aimlessly in a world they will never understand.

Andros was still a man, but he sensed he was evolving into something else. Something greater. Something

sacred. His massive physique had emerged from dormancy, more powerful now than ever before. He finally

understood its true purpose. My body is but a vessel for my most potent treasure . . . my mind.

Andros knew his true potential had not yet been realized, and he delved deeper. What is my destiny? All the

ancient texts spoke of good and

evil . . . and of man’s need to choose between them. I made my choice long ago, he knew, and yet he felt no

remorse. What is evil, if not a natural law? Darkness followed light. Chaos followed order. Entropy was

fundamental. Everything decayed. The perfectly ordered crystal eventually turned into random particles of

dust.

There are those who create . . . and those who destroy.

It was not until Andros read John Milton’s Paradise Lost that he saw his destiny materialize before him. He

read of the great fallen angel . . . the warrior demon who fought against the light . . . the valiant one . . . the

angel called Moloch.

Moloch walked the earth as a god. The angel’s name, Andros later learned, when translated to the ancient

tongue, became Mal’akh.

And so shall I.

Like all great transformations, this one had to begin with a sacrifice . . . but not of rats, nor birds. No, this

transformation required a true sacrifice.

There is but one worthy sacrifice.

Suddenly he had a sense of clarity unlike anything he had ever experienced in his life. His entire destiny had

materialized. For three straight days he sketched on an enormous sheet of paper. When he was done, he had

created a blueprint of what he would become.

He hung the life-size sketch on his wall and gazed into it as if into a mirror.

I am a masterpiece.

The next day, he took his drawing to the tattoo parlor.

He was ready.

CHAPTER 78

The George Washington Masonic Memorial stands atop Shuter’s Hill in Alexandria, Virginia. Built in three

distinct tiers of increasing architectural complexity from bottom to top—Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian—the

structure stands as a physical symbol of man’s intellectual ascent. Inspired by the ancient Pharos lighthouse

of Alexandria, Egypt, this soaring tower is capped by an Egyptian pyramid with a flamelike finial.

Inside the spectacular marble foyer sits a massive bronze of George Washington in full Masonic regalia,

along with the actual trowel he used to lay the cornerstone of the Capitol Building. Above the foyer, nine

different levels bear names like the Grotto, the Crypt Room, and the Knights Templar Chapel. Among the

treasures housed within these spaces are over twenty thousand volumes of Masonic writings, a dazzling

replica of the Ark of the Covenant, and even a scale model of the throne room in King Solomon’s Temple.

CIA agent Simkins checked his watch as the modified UH-60 chopper skimmed in low over the Potomac. Six

minutes until their train arrives. He exhaled and gazed out the window at the shining Masonic Memorial on

the horizon. He had to admit, the brilliantly shining tower was as impressive as any building on the National

Mall. Simkins had never been inside the memorial, and tonight would be no different. If all went according

to plan, Robert Langdon and Katherine Solomon would never make it out of the subway station.

“Over there!” Simkins shouted to the pilot, pointing down at the King Street subway station across from the

memorial. The pilot banked the helicopter and set it down on a grassy area at the foot of Shuter’s Hill.

Pedestrians looked up in surprise as Simkins and his team piled out, dashed across the street, and ran down

into King Street Station. In the stairwell, several departing passengers leaped out of the way, plastering

themselves to the walls as the phalanx of armed men in black thundered past them.

The King Street Station was larger than Simkins had anticipated, apparently serving several different lines—

Blue, Yellow, and Amtrak. He raced over to the Metro map on the wall, found Freedom Plaza and the direct

line to this location.

“Blue Line, southbound platform!” Simkins shouted. “Get down there and clear everyone out!” His team

dashed off.

Simkins rushed over to the ticket booth, flashed his identification, and shouted to the woman inside. “The

next train from Metro Center—what time is it due?!”

The woman inside looked frightened. “I’m not sure. Blue Line arrives every eleven minutes. There’s no set

schedule.”

“How long since the last train?”

“Five . . . six minutes, maybe? No more than that.”

Turner did the math. Perfect. The next train had to be Langdon’s.

Inside a fast-moving subway car, Katherine Solomon shifted uncomfortably on the hard plastic seat. The

bright fluorescent lights overhead hurt her eyes, and she fought the impulse to let her eyelids close, even for a

second. Langdon sat beside her in the empty car, staring blankly down at the leather bag at his feet. His

eyelids looked heavy, too, as if the rhythmic sway of the moving car were lulling him into a trance.

Katherine pictured the strange contents of Langdon’s bag. Why does the CIA want this pyramid? Bellamy

had said that Sato might be pursuing the pyramid because she knew its true potential. But even if this

pyramid somehow did reveal the hiding place of ancient secrets, Katherine found it hard to believe that its

promise of primeval mystical wisdom would interest the CIA.

Then again, she reminded herself, the CIA had been caught several times running parapsychological or psi

programs that bordered on ancient magic and mysticism. In 1995, the “Stargate/Scannate” scandal had

exposed a classified CIA technology called remote viewing—a kind of telepathic mind travel that enabled a

“viewer” to transport his mind’s eye to any location on earth and spy there, without being physically present.

Of course, the technology was nothing new. Mystics called it astral projection, and yogis called it out-of-

body experience. Unfortunately, horrified American taxpayers called it absurd, and the program had been

scuttled. At least publicly.

Ironically, Katherine saw remarkable connections between the CIA’s failed programs and her own

breakthroughs in Noetic Science.

Katherine felt eager to call the police and find out if they had discovered anything in Kalorama Heights, but

she and Langdon were phoneless now, and making contact with the authorities would probably be a mistake

anyway; there was no telling how far Sato’s reach extended.

Patience, Katherine. Within minutes, they would be in a safe hiding place, guests of a man who had assured

them he could provide answers. Katherine hoped his answers, whatever they might be, would help her save

her brother.

“Robert?” she whispered, glancing up at the subway map. “Next stop is ours.”

Langdon emerged slowly from his daydream. “Right, thanks.” As the train rumbled toward the station, he

collected his daybag and gave Katherine an uncertain glance. “Let’s just hope our arrival is uneventful.”

By the time Turner Simkins dashed down to join his men, the subway platform had been entirely cleared, and

his team was fanning out, taking up positions behind the support pillars that ran the length of the platform. A

distant rumble echoed in the tunnel at the other end of the platform, and as it grew louder, Simkins felt the

push of stale warm air billowing around him.

No escape, Mr. Langdon.

Simkins turned to the two agents he had told to join him on the platform. “Identification and weapons out.

These trains are automated, but they all have a conductor who opens the doors. Find him.”

The train’s headlamp now appeared down the tunnel, and the sound of squealing brakes pierced the air. As

the train burst into the station and began slowing down, Simkins and his two agents leaned out over the track,

waving CIA identification badges and straining to make eye contact with the conductor before he could open

the doors.

The train was closing fast. In the third car, Simkins finally saw the startled face of the conductor, who was

apparently trying to figure out why three men in black were all waving identification badges at him. Simkins

jogged toward the train, which was now nearing a full stop.

“CIA!” Simkins shouted, holding up his ID. “Do NOT open the doors!” As the train glided slowly past him,

he went toward the conductor’s car, shouting in at him. “Do not open your doors! Do you understand?! Do

NOT open your doors!”

The train came to a full stop, its wide-eyed conductor nodding repeatedly. “What’s wrong?!” the man

demanded through his side window.

“Don’t let this train move,” Simkins said. “And don’t open the doors.”

“Okay.”

“Can you let us into the first car?”

The conductor nodded. Looking fearful, he stepped out of the train, closing the door behind him. He escorted

Simkins and his men to the first car, where he manually opened the door.

“Lock it behind us,” Simkins said, pulling his weapon. Simkins and his men stepped quickly into the stark

light of the first car. The conductor locked the door behind them.

The first car contained only four passengers—three teenage boys and an old woman—all of whom looked

understandably startled to see three armed men entering. Simkins held up his ID. “Everything’s fine. Just

stay seated.”

Simkins and his men now began their sweep, pushing toward the back of the sealed train one car at a time—

“squeezing toothpaste,” as it was called during his training at the Farm. Very few passengers were on this

train, and halfway to the back, the agents still had seen nobody even remotely resembling the description of

Robert Langdon and Katherine Solomon. Nonetheless, Simkins remained confident. There was absolutely no

place to hide on a subway car. No bathrooms, no storage, and no alternative exits. Even if the targets had

seen them board the train and fled to the back, there was no way out. Prying open a door was almost

impossible, and Simkins had men watching the platform and both sides of the train anyway.

Patience.

By the time Simkins reached the second-to-last car, however, he was feeling edgy. This penultimate car had

only one passenger—a Chinese man. Simkins and his agents moved through, scanning for any place to hide.

There was none.

“Last car,” Simkins said, raising his weapon as the threesome moved toward the threshold of the train’s final

section. As they stepped into the last car, all three of them immediately stopped and stared.

What the . . . ?! Simkins raced to the rear of the deserted cabin, searching behind all the seats. He spun back

to his men, blood boiling. “Where the hell did they go?!”

CHAPTER 79

Eight miles due north of Alexandria, Virginia, Robert Langdon and Katherine Solomon strode calmly across

a wide expanse of frost-covered lawn.

“You should be an actress,” Langdon said, still impressed by Katherine’s quick thinking and improvisational

skills.

“You weren’t half bad yourself.” She gave him a smile.

At first, Langdon had been mystified by Katherine’s abrupt antics in the taxi. Without warning, she had

suddenly demanded they go to Freedom Plaza based on some revelation about a Jewish star and the Great

Seal of the United States. She drew a well-known conspiracy-theory image on a dollar bill and then insisted

Langdon look closely where she was pointing.

Finally, Langdon realized that Katherine was pointing not at the dollar bill but at a tiny indicator bulb on the

back of the driver’s seat. The bulb was so covered with grime that he had not even noticed it. As he leaned

forward, however, he could see that the bulb was illuminated, emitting a dull red glow. He could also see the

two faint words directly beneath the lit bulb.

—INTERCOM ON—

Startled, Langdon glanced back at Katherine, whose frantic eyes were urging him to look into the front seat.

He obeyed, stealing a discreet glance through the divider. The cabby’s cell phone was on the dash, wide

open, illuminated, facing the intercom speaker. An instant later, Langdon understood Katherine’s actions.

They know we’re in this cab . . . they’ve been listening to us.

Langdon had no idea how much time he and Katherine had until their taxi was stopped and surrounded, but