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base. Galloway had run his hands over the pyramid in the sitting room, apparently feeling the markings

exposed on the bottom.

Now, if only for an instant, Langdon had forgotten all the danger he and Katherine faced. He stared at the

incredible array of symbols on the base of the pyramid. He had no idea what they meant . . . or what they

would ultimately reveal, but one thing was for certain. The Masonic Pyramid has secrets left to tell. Eight

Franklin Square is not the final answer.

Whether it was this adrenaline-filled revelation or simply the extra few seconds lying there, Langdon did not

know, but he suddenly felt control returning to his body.

Painfully, he swept an arm to one side, pushing the leather bag out of the way to clear his sight line into the

dining room.

To his horror, he saw that Katherine had been tied up, and a large rag had been stuffed deep into her mouth.

Langdon flexed his muscles, trying to climb to his knees, but a moment later, he froze in utter disbelief. The

dining-room doorway had just filled with a chilling sight—a human form unlike anything Langdon had ever

seen.

What in the name of God . . . ?!

Langdon rolled, kicking with his legs, trying to back away, but the huge tattooed man grabbed him, flipping

him onto his back and straddling his chest. He placed his knees on Langdon’s biceps, pinning Langdon pain

fully to the floor. The man’s chest bore a rippling double-headed phoenix. His neck, face, and shaved head

were covered with a dazzling array of unusually intricate symbols—sigils, Langdon knew—which were used

in the rituals of dark ceremonial magic.

Before Langdon could process anything more, the huge man clasped Langdon’s ears between his palms,

lifted his head up off the floor, and, with incredible force, smashed it back down onto the hardwood.

Everything went black.

CHAPTER 96

Mal’akh stood in his hallway and surveyed the carnage around him. His home looked like a battlefield.

Robert Langdon lay unconscious at his feet.

Katherine Solomon was bound and gagged on the dining-room floor.

The corpse of a female security guard lay crumpled nearby, having toppled off the chair where she was

propped. This female guard, eager to save her own life, had done exactly as Mal’akh commanded. With a

knife to her throat, she had answered Mal’akh’s cell phone and told the lie that had coaxed Langdon and

Katherine to come racing out here. She had no partner, and Peter Solomon was certainly not okay. As soon

as the woman had given her performance, Mal’akh had quietly strangled her.

To complete the illusion that Mal’akh was not home, he had phoned Bellamy using the hands-free speaker in

one of his cars. I’m on the road, he had told Bellamy and whoever else had been listening. Peter is in my

trunk. In fact, Mal’akh was driving only between his garage and his front yard, where he had left several of

his myriad cars parked askew with the headlights on and the engines running.

The deception had worked perfectly.

Almost.

The only wrinkle was the bloody black-clad heap in the foyer with a screwdriver protruding from his neck.

Mal’akh searched the corpse and had to chuckle when he found a high-tech transceiver and cell phone with a

CIA logo. It seems even they are aware of my power. He removed the batteries and crushed both devices

with a heavy bronze doorstop.

Mal’akh knew he had to move quickly now, especially if the CIA was involved. He strode back over to

Langdon. The professor was out cold and would be for a while. Mal’akh’s eyes moved with trepidation now

to the stone pyramid on the floor beside the professor’s open bag. His breath caught, and his heart pounded.

I have waited for years . . .

His hands trembled slightly as he reached down and picked up the Masonic Pyramid. As he ran his fingers

slowly across the engravings, he felt awed by their promise. Before he became too entranced, he put the

pyramid back in Langdon’s bag with the capstone and zipped it up.

I will assemble the pyramid soon . . . in a much safer location.

He threw Langdon’s bag over his shoulder and then tried to hoist Langdon himself, but the professor’s toned

physique weighed much more than anticipated. Mal’akh settled on grabbing him beneath the armpits and

dragging him across the floor. He’s not going to like where he ends up, Mal’akh thought.

As he dragged Langdon off, the television in the kitchen blared. The sound of voices from the TV had been

part of the deception, and Mal’akh had yet to turn it off. The station was now broadcasting a televangelist

leading his congregation in the Lord’s Prayer. Mal’akh wondered if any of his hypnotized viewers had any

idea where this prayer really came from.

“ . . . On earth as it is in heaven . . .” the group intoned.

Yes, Mal’akh thought. As above, so below.

“ . . . And lead us not into temptation . . .”

Help us master the weakness of our flesh.

“ . . . Deliver us from evil . . .” they all beseeched.

Mal’akh smiled. That could be difficult. The darkness is growing. Even so, he had to give them credit for

trying. Humans who spoke to invisible forces and requested help were a dying breed in this modern world.

Mal’akh was dragging Langdon across the living room when the congregation declared, “Amen!”

Amon, Mal’akh corrected. Egypt is the cradle of your religion. The god Amon was the prototype for Zeus . . .

for Jupiter . . . and for every modern face of God. To this day, every religion on earth shouted out a variation

of his name. Amen! Amin! Aum!

The televangelist began quoting verses from the Bible describing hierarchies of angels, demons, and spirits

that ruled in heaven and hell. “Protect your souls from evil forces!” he warned them. “Lift your hearts in

prayer! God and his angels will hear you!”

He’s right, Mal’akh knew. But so will the demons.

Mal’akh had learned long ago that through proper application of the Art, a practitioner could open a portal to

the spiritual realm. The invisible forces that existed there, much like man himself, came in many forms, both

good and evil. Those of Light healed, protected, and sought to bring order to the universe. Those of Dark

functioned oppositely . . . bringing destruction and chaos.

If properly summoned, the invisible forces could be persuaded to do a practitioner’s bidding on earth . . . thus

instilling him with seemingly supernatural power. In exchange for helping the summoner, these forces

required offerings—prayers and praise for those of Light . . . and the spilling of blood for those of Dark.

The greater the sacrifice, the greater the power that is transferred. Mal’akh had begun his practice with the

blood of inconsequential animals. Over time, however, his choices for sacrifice had become more bold.

Tonight, I take the final step.

“Beware!” the preacher shouted, warning of the coming Apocalypse. “The final battle for the souls of man

will soon be fought!”

Indeed, Mal’akh thought. And I shall become its greatest warrior.

This battle, of course, had begun long, long ago. In ancient Egypt, those who perfected the Art had become

the great Adepts of history, evolving beyond the masses to become true practitioners of Light. They moved

as gods on earth. They built great temples of initiation to which neophytes traveled from around the world to

partake of the wisdom. There arose a race of golden men. For a brief span of time, mankind seemed poised to

elevate himself and transcend his earthly bonds.

The golden age of the Ancient Mysteries.

And yet man, being of the flesh, was susceptible to the sins of hubris, hatred, impatience, and greed. Over

time, there were those who corrupted the Art, perverting it and abusing its power for personal gain. They

began using this perverted version to summon dark forces. A different Art evolved . . . a more potent,

immediate, and intoxicating influence.

Such is my Art.

Such is my Great Work.

The illuminated Adepts and their esoteric fraternities witnessed the rising evil and saw that man was not

using his newfound knowledge for the good of his species. And so they hid their wisdom to keep it from the

eyes of the unworthy. Eventually, it was lost to history.

With this came the Great Fall of Man.

And a lasting darkness.

To this day, the noble descendants of the Adepts soldiered on, grasping blindly for the Light, trying to

recapture the lost power of their past, trying to keep the darkness at bay. They were the priests and

priestesses of the churches, temples, and shrines of all the religions on earth. Time had erased the memories .

. . detached them from their past. They no longer knew the Source from which their potent wisdom had once

flowed. When they were asked about the divine mysteries of their forebears, the new custodians of faith

vociferously disowned them, condemning them as heresy.

Have they truly forgotten? Mal’akh wondered.

Echoes of the ancient Art still resonated in every corner of the globe, from the mystical Kabbalists of

Judaism to the esoteric Sufis of Islam. Vestiges remained in the arcane rituals of Christianity, in its god-

eating rites of Holy Communion, its hierarchies of saints, angels, and demons, its chanting and incantation,

its holy calendar’s astrological underpinnings, its consecrated robes, and in its promise of everlasting life.

Even now, its priests dispelled evil spirits by swinging smoke-filled censers, ringing sacred bells, and

sprinkling holy water. Christians still practiced the supernatural craft of exorcism—an early practice of their

faith that required the ability not only to cast out demons but to summon them.

And yet they cannot see their past?

Nowhere was the church’s mystical past more evident than at her epicenter. In Vatican City, at the heart of

St. Peter’s Square, stood the great Egyptian obelisk. Carved thirteen hundred years before Jesus took his first

breath—this numinous monolith had no relevance there, no link to modern Christianity. And yet there it was.

At the core of Christ’s church. A stone beacon, screaming to be heard. A reminder to those few sages who

remembered where it all began. This church, born of the womb of the Ancient Mysteries, still bore her rites

and symbols.

One symbol above all.

Adorning her altars, vestments, spires, and Scripture was the singular image of Christianity—that of a

precious, sacrificed human being. Christianity, more than any other faith, understood the transformative

power of sacrifice. Even now, to honor the sacrifice made by Jesus, his followers proffered their own feeble

gestures of personal sacrifice . . . fasting, Lenten renunciation, tithing.

All of those offerings are impotent, of course. Without blood . . . there is no true sacrifice.

The powers of darkness had long embraced blood sacrifice, and in doing so, they had grown so strong that

the powers of goodness now struggled to keep them in check. Soon the Light would be entirely consumed,

and the practitioners of darkness would move freely through the minds of men.

CHAPTER 97

“Eight Franklin Square must exist,” Sato insisted. “Look it up again!”

Nola Kaye sat at her desk and adjusted her headset. “Ma’am, I’ve checked everywhere . . . that address

doesn’t exist in D.C.”

“But I’m on the roof of One Franklin Square,” Sato said. “There has to be an Eight!”

Director Sato’s on a roof? “Hold on.” Nola began running a new search. She was considering telling the OS

director about the hacker, but Sato seemed fixated on Eight Franklin Square at the moment. Besides, Nola

still didn’t have all the information. Where’s that damned sys-sec, anyway?

“Okay,” Nola said, eyeing her screen, “I see the problem. One Franklin Square is the name of the building . .

. not the address. The address is actually 1301 K Street.”

The news seemed to confound the director. “Nola, I don’t have time to explain—the pyramid clearly points

to the address Eight Franklin Square.”

Nola sat bolt upright. The pyramid points to a specific location?

“The inscription,” Sato continued, “reads: ‘The secret hides within The Order—Eight Franklin Square.’”

Nola could scarcely imagine. “An order like . . . a Masonic or fraternal order?”

“I assume so,” Sato replied.

Nola thought a moment, and then began typing again. “Ma’am, maybe the street numbers on the square

changed over the years? I mean, if this pyramid is as old as legend claims, maybe the numbers on Franklin

Square were different when the pyramid was built? I’m now running a search without the number eight . . .

for . . . ‘the order’ . . . ‘Franklin Square’ . . . and ‘Washington, D.C.’ . . . and this way, we might get some

idea if there’s—” She stalled midsentence as the search results appeared.

“What have you got?” Sato demanded.

Nola stared at the first result on the list—a spectacular image of the Great Pyramid of Egypt—which served

as the thematic backdrop for the

home page dedicated to a building on Franklin Square. The building was unlike any other building on the

square.

Or in the entire city, for that matter.

What stopped Nola cold was not the building’s bizarre architecture, but rather the description of its purpose.

According to the Web site, this unusual edifice was built as a sacred mystical shrine, designed by . . . and

designed for . . . an ancient secret order.

CHAPTER 98

Robert Langdon regained consciousness with a crippling headache.

Where am I?

Wherever he was, it was dark. Deep-cave dark, and deathly silent.

He was lying on his back with his arms at his side. Confused, he tried moving his fingers and toes, relieved to

find they moved freely with no pain. What happened? With the exception of his headache and the profound

darkness, everything seemed more or less normal.

Almost everything.

Langdon realized he was lying on a hard floor that felt unusually smooth, like a sheet of glass. Stranger still,

he could feel that the slick surface was in direct contact with his bare flesh . . . shoulders, back, buttocks,

thighs, calves. Am I naked? Puzzled, he ran his hands over his body.

Jesus! Where the hell are my clothes?

In the darkness, the cobwebs began to lift, and Langdon saw flashes of memory . . . frightening snapshots . . .