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pain.

“Now, now, Peter,” the man said, again stroking Peter’s scalp. “Don’t let this ruin the moment. Say good-bye

to your little sister. This is your final family reunion.”

Katherine felt her mind welling with desperation. “Why are you doing this?!” she shouted at him. “What

have we ever done to you?! Why do you hate my family so much?!”

The tattooed man came over and placed his mouth right next to her ear. “I have my reasons, Katherine.”

Then he walked to the side table and picked up the strange knife. He brought it over to her and ran the

burnished blade across her cheek. “This is arguably the most famous knife in history.”

Katherine knew of no famous knives, but it looked foreboding and ancient. The blade felt razor sharp.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I have no intention of wasting its power on you.

I’m saving it for a more worthy sacrifice . . . in a more sacred place.” He turned to her brother. “Peter, you

recognize this knife, don’t you?”

Her brother’s eyes were wide with a mixture of fear and disbelief.

“Yes, Peter, this ancient artifact still exists. I obtained it at great expense . . . and I have been saving it for

you. At long last, you and I can end our painful journey together.”

With that, he wrapped the knife carefully in a cloth with all of his other items—incense, vials of liquid, white

satin cloths, and other ceremonial objects. He then placed the wrapped items inside Robert Langdon’s leather

bag along with the Masonic Pyramid and capstone. Katherine looked on helplessly as the man zipped up

Langdon’s daybag and turned to her brother.

“Carry this, Peter, would you?” He set the heavy bag on Peter’s lap.

Next, the man walked over to a drawer and began rooting around. She could hear small metal objects

clinking. When he returned, he took her right arm, steadying it. Katherine couldn’t see what he was doing,

but Peter apparently could, and he again started bucking wildly.

Katherine felt a sudden, sharp pinch in the crook of her right elbow, and an eerie warmth ran down around it.

Peter was making anguished, strangled sounds and trying in vain to get out of the heavy chair. Katherine felt

a cold numbness spreading through her forearm and fingertips below the elbow.

When the man stepped aside, Katherine saw why her brother was so horrified. The tattooed man had inserted

a medical needle into her vein, as if she were giving blood. The needle, however, was not attached to a tube.

Instead, her blood was now flowing freely out of it . . . running down her elbow, forearm, and onto the stone

table.

“A human hourglass,” the man said, turning to Peter. “In a short while, when I ask you to play your role, I

want you to picture Katherine . . . dying alone here in the dark.”

Peter’s expression was one of total torment.

“She will stay alive,” the man said, “for about an hour or so. If you cooperate with me quickly, I will have

enough time to save her. Of course, if you resist me at all . . . your sister will die here alone in the dark.”

Peter bellowed unintelligibly through his gag.

“I know, I know,” the tattooed man said, placing a hand on Peter’s shoulder, “this is hard for you. But it

shouldn’t be. After all, this is not the first time you will abandon a family member.” He paused, bending over

and whispering in Peter’s ear. “I’m thinking, of course, of your son, Zachary, in Soganlik prison.”

Peter pulled against his restraints and let out another muffled scream through the cloth in his mouth.

“Stop it!” Katherine shouted.

“I remember that night well,” the man taunted as he finished packing. “I heard the whole thing. The warden

offered to let your son go, but you chose to teach Zachary a lesson . . . by abandoning him. Your boy learned

his lesson, all right, didn’t he?” The man smiled. “His loss . . . was my gain.”

The man now retrieved a linen cloth and stuffed it deep into Katherine’s mouth. “Death,” he whispered to

her, “should be a quiet thing.”

Peter struggled violently. Without another word, the tattooed man slowly backed Peter’s wheelchair out of

the room, giving Peter a long, last look at his sister.

Katherine and Peter locked eyes one final time.

Then he was gone.

Katherine could hear them going up the ramp and through the metal door. As they exited, she heard the

tattooed man lock the metal door behind him and continue on through the painting of the Three Graces. A

few minutes later, she heard a car start.

Then the mansion fell silent.

All alone in the dark, Katherine lay bleeding.

CHAPTER 108

Robert Langdon’s mind hovered in an endless abyss.

No light. No sound. No feeling.

Only an infinite and silent void.

Softness.

Weightlessness.

His body had released him. He was untethered.

The physical world had ceased to exist. Time had ceased to exist.

He was pure consciousness now . . . a fleshless sentience suspended in the emptiness of a vast universe.

CHAPTER 109

The modified UH-60 skimmed in low over the expansive rooftops of Kalorama Heights, thundering toward

the coordinates given to them by the support team. Agent Simkins was the first to spot the black Escalade

parked haphazardly on a lawn in front of one of the mansions. The driveway gate was closed, and the house

was dark and quiet.

Sato gave the signal to touch down.

The aircraft landed hard on the front lawn amid several other vehicles . . . one of them a security sedan with a

bubble light on top.

Simkins and his team jumped out, drew their weapons, and dashed up onto the porch. Finding the front door

locked, Simkins cupped his hands and peered through a window. The foyer was dark, but Simkins could

make out the faint shadow of a body on the floor.

“Shit,” he whispered. “It’s Hartmann.”

One of his agents grabbed a chair off the porch and heaved it through the bay window. The sound of

shattering glass was barely audible over the roar of the helicopter behind them. Seconds later, they were all

inside. Simkins rushed to the foyer and knelt over Hartmann to check his pulse. Nothing. There was blood

everywhere. Then he saw the screwdriver in Hartmann’s throat.

Jesus. He stood up and motioned to his men to begin a full search.

The agents fanned out across the first floor, their laser sights probing the darkness of the luxurious house.

They found nothing in the living room or study, but in the dining room, to their surprise, they discovered a

strangled female security guard. Simkins was fast losing hope that Robert Langdon and Katherine Solomon

were alive. This brutal killer clearly had set a trap, and if he had managed to kill a CIA agent and an armed

security guard, then it seemed a professor and a scientist had no chance.

Once the first floor was secure, Simkins sent two agents to search upstairs. Meanwhile, he found a set of

basement stairs off the kitchen and descended. At the bottom of the stairs, he threw on the lights. The

basement was spacious and spotless, as if it were hardly ever used. Boilers, bare cement walls, a few boxes.

Nothing here at all. Simkins headed back up to the kitchen just as his men were coming down from the

second floor. Everyone shook their heads.

The house was deserted.

No one home. And no more bodies.

Simkins radioed Sato with the all-clear and the grim update.

When he got to the foyer, Sato was already climbing the stairs onto the porch. Warren Bellamy was visible

behind her, sitting dazed and alone in the helicopter with Sato’s titanium briefcase at his feet. The OS

director’s secure laptop provided her with worldwide access to CIA computer systems via encrypted satellite

uplinks. Earlier tonight, she had used this computer to share with Bellamy some kind of information that had

stunned the man into cooperating fully. Simkins had no idea what Bellamy had seen, but whatever it was, the

Architect had been visibly shell-shocked ever since.

As Sato entered the foyer, she paused a moment, bowing her head over Hartmann’s body. A moment later,

she raised her eyes and fixed them on Simkins. “No sign of Langdon or Katherine? Or Peter Solomon?”

Simkins shook his head. “If they’re still alive, he took them with him.”

“Did you see a computer in the house?”

“Yes, ma’am. In the office.”

“Show me.”

Simkins led Sato out of the foyer and into the living room. The plush carpet was covered with broken glass

from the shattered bay window. They walked past a fireplace, a large painting, and several bookshelves to an

office door. The office was wood paneled, with an antique desk and a large computer monitor. Sato walked

around behind the desk and eyed the screen, immediately scowling.

“Damn it,” she said under her breath.

Simkins circled around and looked at the screen. It was blank. “What’s wrong?”

Sato pointed to an empty docking station on the desk. “He uses a laptop. He took it with him.”

Simkins didn’t follow. “Does he have information you want to see?”

“No,” Sato replied, her tone grave. “He has information I want nobody to see.”

Downstairs in the hidden basement, Katherine Solomon had heard the sounds of helicopter blades followed

by breaking glass and heavy boots on the floor above her. She tried to cry out for help, but the gag in her

mouth made it impossible. She could barely make a sound. The harder she tried, the faster the blood began

flowing from her elbow.

She was feeling short of breath and a little dizzy.

Katherine knew she needed to calm down. Use your mind, Katherine. With all of her intention, she coaxed

herself into a meditative state.

Robert Langdon’s mind floated through the emptiness of space. He peered into the infinite void, searching

for any points of reference. He found nothing.

Total darkness. Total silence. Total peace.

There was not even the pull of gravity to tell him which way was up.

His body was gone.

This must be death.

Time seemed to be telescoping, stretching and compressing, as if it had no bearings in this place. He had lost

all track of how much time had passed.

Ten seconds? Ten minutes? Ten days?

Suddenly, however, like distant fiery explosions in far-off galaxies, memories began to materialize, billowing

toward Langdon like shock waves across a vast nothingness.

All at once, Robert Langdon began to remember. The images tore through him . . . vivid and disturbing. He

was staring up at a face that was covered with tattoos. A pair of powerful hands lifted his head and smashed

it into the floor.

Pain erupted . . . and then darkness.

Gray light.

Throbbing.

Wisps of memory. Langdon was being dragged, half conscious, down, down, down. His captor was chanting

something.

Verbum significatium . . . Verbum omnificum . . . Verbum perdo . . .

CHAPTER 110

Director Sato stood alone in the study, waiting while the CIA satellite-imaging division processed her

request. One of the luxuries of working in the D.C. area was the satellite coverage. With luck, one of them

might have been properly positioned to get photos of this home tonight . . . possibly capturing a vehicle

leaving the place in the last half hour.

“Sorry, ma’am,” the satellite technician said. “No coverage of those coordinates tonight. Do you want to

make a reposition request?”

“No thanks. Too late.” She hung up.

Sato exhaled, now having no idea how they would figure out where their target had gone. She walked out to

the foyer, where her men had bagged Agent Hartmann’s body and were carrying it toward the chopper. Sato

had ordered Agent Simkins to gather his men and prepare for the return to Langley, but Simkins was in the

living room on his hands and knees. He looked like he was ill.

“You okay?”

He glanced up, an odd look on his face. “Did you see this?” He pointed at the living-room floor.

Sato came over and looked down at the plush carpet. She shook her head, seeing nothing.

“Crouch down,” Simkins said. “Look at the nap of the carpet.”

She did. After a moment, she saw it. The fibers of the carpet looked like they had been mashed down . . .

depressed along two straight lines as if the wheels of something heavy had been rolled across the room.

“The strange thing,” Simkins said, “is where the tracks go.” He pointed.

Sato’s gaze followed the faint parallel lines across the living-room carpet. The tracks seemed to disappear

beneath a large floor-to-ceiling painting that hung beside the fireplace. What in the world?

Simkins walked over to the painting and tried to lift it down from the wall. It didn’t budge. “It’s fixed,” he

said, now running his fingers around the edges. “Hold on, there’s something underneath . . .” His finger hit a

small lever beneath the bottom edge, and something clicked.

Sato stepped forward as Simkins pushed the frame and the entire painting rotated slowly on its center, like a

revolving door.

He raised his flashlight and shined it into the dark space beyond.

Sato’s eyes narrowed. Here we go.

At the end of a short corridor stood a heavy metal door.

The memories that had billowed through the blackness of Langdon’s mind had come and gone. In their wake,

a trail of red-hot sparks was swirling, along with the same eerie, distant whisper.

Verbum significatium . . . Verbum omnificum . . . Verbum perdo.

The chanting continued like the drone of voices in a medieval canticle.

Verbum significatium . . . Verbum omnificum. The words now tumbled through the empty void, fresh voices

echoing all around him.

Apocalypsis . . . Franklin . . . Apocalypsis . . . Verbum . . . Apocalypsis . . .

Without warning, a mournful bell began tolling somewhere in the distance. The bell rang on and on, growing

louder. It tolled more urgently now, as if hoping Langdon would understand, as if urging his mind to follow.

CHAPTER 111

The tolling bell in the clock tower rang for three full minutes, rattling the crystal chandelier that hung above

Langdon’s head. Decades ago, he had attended lectures in this well-loved assembly hall at Phillips Exeter

Academy. Today, however, he was here to listen to a dear friend address the student body. As the lights

dimmed, Langdon took a seat against the back wall, beneath a pantheon of headmaster portraits.