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he knew they had to act fast. Instantly, he’d begun playing along, realizing that Katherine’s desire to go to

Freedom Plaza had nothing to do with the pyramid but rather with its being a large subway station—Metro

Center—from which they could take the Red, Blue, or Orange lines in any of six different directions.

They jumped out of the taxi at Freedom Plaza, and Langdon took over, doing some improvising of his own,

leaving a trail to the Masonic Memorial in Alexandria before he and Katherine ran down into the subway

station, dashing past the Blue Line platforms and continuing on to the Red Line, where they caught a train in

the opposite direction.

Traveling six stops northbound to Tenleytown, they emerged all alone into a quiet, upscale neighborhood.

Their destination, the tallest structure for miles, was immediately visible on the horizon, just off

Massachusetts Avenue on a vast expanse of manicured lawn.

Now “off the grid,” as Katherine called it, the two of them walked across the damp grass. On their right was

a medieval-style garden, famous for its ancient rosebushes and Shadow House gazebo. They moved past the

garden, directly toward the magnificent building to which they had been summoned. A refuge containing ten

stones from Mount Sinai, one from heaven itself, and one with the visage of Luke’s dark father.

“I’ve never been here at night,” Katherine said, gazing up at the brightly lit towers. “It’s spectacular.”

Langdon agreed, having forgotten how impressive this place truly was. This neo-Gothic masterpiece stood at

the north end of Embassy Row. He hadn’t been here for years, not since writing a piece about it for a kids’

magazine in hopes of generating some excitement among young Americans to come see this amazing

landmark. His article—“Moses, Moon Rocks, and Star Wars”—had been part of the tourist literature for

years.

Washington National Cathedral, Langdon thought, feeling an unexpected anticipation at being back after all

these years. Where better to ask about One True God?

“This cathedral really has ten stones from Mount Sinai?” Katherine asked, gazing up at the twin bell towers.

Langdon nodded. “Near the main altar. They symbolize the Ten Commandments given to Moses on Mount

Sinai.”

“And there’s a lunar rock?”

A rock from heaven itself. “Yes. One of the stained-glass windows is called the Space Window and has a

fragment of moon rock embedded in it.”

“Okay, but you can’t be serious about the last thing.” Katherine glanced over, her pretty eyes flashing

skepticism. “A statue of . . . Darth Vader?”

Langdon chuckled. “Luke Skywalker’s dark father? Absolutely. Vader is one of the National Cathedral’s

most popular grotesques.” He pointed high into the west towers. “Tough to see him at night, but he’s there.”

“What in the world is Darth Vader doing on Washington National Cathedral?”

“A contest for kids to carve a gargoyle that depicted the face of evil. Darth won.”

They reached the grand staircase to the main entrance, which was set back in an eighty-foot archway beneath

a breathtaking rose window. As they began climbing, Langdon’s mind shifted to the mysterious stranger who

had called him. No names, please . . . Tell me, have you successfully protected the map that was entrusted to

you? Langdon’s shoulder ached from carrying the heavy stone pyramid, and he was looking forward to

setting it down. Sanctuary and answers.

As they approached the top of the stairs, they were met with an imposing pair of wooden doors. “Do we just

knock?” Katherine asked.

Langdon had been wondering the same thing, except that now one of the doors was creaking open.

“Who’s there?” a frail voice said. The face of a withered old man appeared in the doorway. He wore priest’s

robes and a blank stare. His eyes were opaque and white, clouded with cataracts.

“My name is Robert Langdon,” he replied. “Katherine Solomon and I are seeking sanctuary.”

The blind man exhaled in relief. “Thank God. I’ve been expecting you.”

CHAPTER 80

Warren Bellamy felt a sudden ray of hope.

Inside the Jungle, Director Sato had just received a phone call from a field agent and had immediately flown

into a tirade. “Well, you damn well better find them!” she shouted into her phone. “We’re running out of

time!” She had hung up and was now stalking back and forth in front of Bellamy as if trying to decide what

to do next.

Finally, she stopped directly in front of him and turned. “Mr. Bellamy, I’m going to ask you this once, and

only once.” She stared deep into his eyes. “Yes or no—do you have any idea where Robert Langdon might

have gone?”

Bellamy had more than a good idea, but he shook his head. “No.”

Sato’s piercing gaze had never left his eyes. “Unfortunately, part of my job is to know when people are

lying.”

Bellamy averted his eyes. “Sorry, I can’t help you.”

“Architect Bellamy,” Sato said, “tonight just after seven P.M., you were having dinner in a restaurant outside

the city when you received a phone call from a man who told you he had kidnapped Peter Solomon.”

Bellamy felt an instant chill and returned his eyes to hers. How could you possibly know that?!

“The man,” Sato continued, “told you that he had sent Robert Langdon to the Capitol Building and given

Langdon a task to complete . . . a task that required your help. He warned that if Langdon failed in this task,

your friend Peter Solomon would die. Panicked, you called all of Peter’s numbers but failed to reach him.

Understandably, you then raced to the Capitol.”

Bellamy could not imagine how Sato knew about this phone call.

“As you fled the Capitol,” Sato said behind the smoldering tip of her cigarette, “you sent a text message to

Solomon’s kidnapper, assuring him that you and Langdon had been successful in obtaining the Masonic

Pyramid.”

Where is she getting her information? Bellamy wondered. Not even Langdon knows I sent that text message.

Immediately after entering the tunnel

to the Library of Congress, Bellamy had stepped into the electrical room to plug in the construction lighting.

In the privacy of that moment, he had decided to send a quick text message to Solomon’s captor, telling him

about Sato’s involvement, but reassuring him that he—Bellamy—and Langdon had obtained the Masonic

Pyramid and would indeed cooperate with his demands. It was a lie, of course, but Bellamy hoped the

reassurance might buy time, both for Peter Solomon and also to hide the pyramid.

“Who told you I sent a text?” Bellamy demanded.

Sato tossed Bellamy’s cell phone on the bench next to him. “Hardly rocket science.”

Bellamy now remembered his phone and keys had been taken from him by the agents who captured him.

“As for the rest of my inside information,” Sato said, “the Patriot Act gives me the right to place a wiretap on

the phone of anyone I consider a viable threat to national security. I consider Peter Solomon to be such a

threat, and last night I took action.”

Bellamy could barely get his mind around what she was telling him. “You’re tapping Peter Solomon’s

phone?”

“Yes. This is how I knew the kidnapper called you at the restaurant. You called Peter’s cell phone and left an

anxious message explaining what had just happened.”

Bellamy realized she was right.

“We had also intercepted a call from Robert Langdon, who was in the Capitol Building, deeply confused to

learn he had been tricked into coming there. I went to the Capitol at once, arriving before you because I was

closer. As for how I knew to check the X-ray of Langdon’s bag . . . in light of my realization that Langdon

was involved in all of this, I had my staff reexamine a seemingly innocuous early-morning call between

Langdon and Peter Solomon’s cell phone, in which the kidnapper, posing as Solomon’s assistant, persuaded

Langdon to come for a lecture and also to bring a small package that Peter had entrusted to him. When

Langdon was not forthcoming with me about the package he was carrying, I requested the X-ray of his bag.”

Bellamy could barely think. Admittedly, everything Sato was saying was feasible, and yet something was not

adding up. “But . . . how could you possibly think Peter Solomon is a threat to national security?”

“Believe me, Peter Solomon is a serious national-security threat,” she snapped. “And frankly, Mr. Bellamy,

so are you.”

Bellamy sat bolt upright, the handcuffs chafing against his wrists. “I beg your pardon?!”

She forced a smile. “You Masons play a risky game. You keep a very, very dangerous secret.”

Is she talking about the Ancient Mysteries?

“Thankfully, you’ve always done a good job of keeping your secrets hidden. Unfortunately, recently you’ve

been careless, and tonight, your most dangerous secret is about to be unveiled to the world. And unless we

can stop that from happening, I assure you the results will be catastrophic.”

Bellamy stared in bewilderment.

“If you had not attacked me,” Sato said, “you would have realized that you and I are on the same team.”

The same team. The words sparked in Bellamy an idea that seemed almost impossible to fathom. Is Sato a

member of Eastern Star? The Order of the Eastern Star—often considered a sister organization to the

Masons—embraced a similar mystical philosophy of benevolence, secret wisdom, and spiritual open-

mindedness. The same team? I’m in handcuffs! She’s tapping Peter’s phone!

“You will help me stop this man,” Sato said. “He has the potential to bring about a cataclysm from which this

country might not recover.” Her face was like stone.

“Then why aren’t you tracking him?”

Sato looked incredulous. “Do you think I’m not trying? My trace on Solomon’s cell phone went dead before

we got a location. His other number appears to be a disposable phone—which is almost impossible to track.

The private-jet company told us that Langdon’s flight was booked by Solomon’s assistant, on Solomon’s cell

phone, with Solomon’s Marquis Jet card. There is no trail. Not that it matters anyway. Even if we find out

exactly where he is, I can’t possibly risk moving in and trying to grab him.”

“Why not?!”

“I’d prefer not to share that, as the information is classified,” Sato said, patience clearly waning. “I am asking

you to trust me on this.”

“Well, I don’t!”

Sato’s eyes were like ice. She turned suddenly and shouted across the Jungle. “Agent Hartmann! The

briefcase, please.”

Bellamy heard the hiss of the electronic door, and an agent strode into the Jungle. He was carrying a sleek

titanium briefcase, which he set on the ground beside the OS director.

“Leave us,” Sato said.

As the agent departed, the door hissed again, and then everything fell silent.

Sato picked up the metal case, laid it across her lap, and popped the clasps. Then she raised her eyes slowly

to Bellamy. “I did not want to do this, but our time is running out, and you’ve left me no choice.”

Bellamy eyed the strange briefcase and felt a swell of fear. Is she going to torture me? He strained at his

cuffs again. “What’s in that case?!”

Sato smiled grimly. “Something that will persuade you to see things my way. I guarantee it.”

CHAPTER 81

The subterranean space in which Mal’akh performed the Art was ingeniously hidden. His home’s

basement, to those who entered, appeared quite normal—a typical cellar with boiler, fuse box, woodpile, and

a hodgepodge of storage. This visible cellar, however, was only a portion of Mal’akh’s underground space. A

sizable area had been walled off for his clandestine practices.

Mal’akh’s private work space was a suite of small rooms, each with a specialized purpose. The area’s sole

entrance was a steep ramp secretly accessible through his living room, making the area’s discovery virtually

impossible.

Tonight, as Mal’akh descended the ramp, the tattooed sigils and signs on his flesh seemed to come alive in

the cerulean glow of his basement’s specialized lighting. Moving into the bluish haze, he walked past several

closed doors and headed directly for the largest room at the end of the corridor.

The “sanctum sanctorum,” as Mal’akh liked to call it, was a perfect twelve-foot square. Twelve are the signs

of the zodiac. Twelve are the hours of the day. Twelve are the gates of heaven. In the center of the chamber

was a stone table, a seven-by-seven square. Seven are the seals of Revelation. Seven are the steps of the

Temple. Centered over the table hung a carefully calibrated light source that cycled through a spectrum of

preordained colors, completing its cycle every six hours in accordance with the sacred Table of Planetary

Hours. The hour of Yanor is blue. The hour of Nasnia is red. The hour of Salam is white.

Now was the hour of Caerra, meaning the light in the room had modulated to a soft purplish hue. Wearing

only a silken loincloth wrapped around his buttocks and neutered sex organ, Mal’akh began his preparations.

He carefully combined the suffumigation chemicals that he would later ignite to sanctify the air. Then he

folded the virgin silk robe that he would eventually don in place of his loincloth. And finally, he purified a

flask of water for the anointing of his offering. When he was done, he placed all of these prepared ingredients

on a side table.

Next he went to a shelf and retrieved a small ivory box, which he carried to the side table and placed with the

other items. Although he was not yet ready to use it, he could not resist opening the lid and admiring this

treasure.

The knife.

Inside the ivory box, nestled in a cradle of black velvet, shone the sacrificial knife that Mal’akh had been

saving for tonight. He had purchased it for $1.6 million on the Middle Eastern antiquities black market last

year.

The most famous knife in history.

Unimaginably old and believed lost, this precious blade was made of iron, attached to a bone handle. Over

the ages, it had been in the possession of countless powerful individuals. In recent decades, however, it had

disappeared, languishing in a secret private collection. Mal’akh had gone to enormous lengths to obtain it.

The knife, he suspected, had not drawn blood for decades . . . possibly centuries. Tonight, this blade would

again taste the power of the sacrifice for which it was honed.

Mal’akh gently lifted the knife from its cushioned compartment and reverently polished the blade with a silk