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Peter’s expression turned to one of disbelief. “What?!”

“The staircase. Masonic legend speaks of stairs that descend hundreds of feet to the secret location where the

Lost Word is buried.”

Peter now looked panicked.

“You know the legend,” Mal’akh baited. “A secret staircase hidden beneath a stone.” He pointed to the

central altar—a huge block of granite with a gilded inscription in Hebrew: GOD SAID, “LET THERE BE

LIGHT” AND THERE WAS LIGHT. “Obviously, this is the right place. The entrance to the staircase

must be hidden on one of the floors beneath us.”

“There is no secret staircase in this building!” Peter shouted.

Mal’akh smiled patiently and motioned upward. “This building is shaped like a pyramid.” He pointed to the

four-sided vaulted ceiling that angled up to the square oculus in the center.

“Yes, the House of the Temple is a pyramid, but what does—”

“Peter, I have all night.” Mal’akh smoothed his white silk robe over his perfect body. “Katherine, however,

does not. If you want her to live, you will tell me how to access the staircase.”

“I already told you,” he declared, “there is no secret staircase in this building!”

“No?” Mal’akh calmly produced the sheet of paper on which he had reorganized the grid of symbols from

the base of the pyramid. “This is the Masonic Pyramid’s final message. Your friend Robert Langdon helped

me decipher it.”

Mal’akh raised the paper and held it in front of Peter’s eyes. The Worshipful Master inhaled sharply when he

saw it. Not only had the sixty-four symbols been organized into clearly meaningful groups . . . but an actual

image had materialized out of the chaos.

An image of a staircase . . . beneath a pyramid.

Peter Solomon stared in disbelief at the grid of symbols before him. The Masonic Pyramid had kept its secret

for generations. Now, suddenly, it was being unveiled, and he felt a cold sense of foreboding in the pit of his

stomach.

The pyramid’s final code.

At a glance, the true meaning of these symbols remained a mystery to Peter, and yet he could immediately

understand why the tattooed man believed what he believed.

He thinks there is a hidden staircase beneath the pyramid called Heredom. He misunderstands these

symbols.

“Where is it?” the tattooed man demanded. “Tell me how to find the staircase, and I will save Katherine.”

I wish I could do that, Peter thought. But the staircase is not real. The myth of the staircase was purely

symbolic . . . part of the great allegories of Masonry. The Winding Staircase, as it was known, appeared on

the second-degree tracing boards. It represented man’s intellectual climb toward the Divine Truth. Like

Jacob’s ladder, the Winding Staircase was a symbol of the pathway to heaven . . . the journey of man toward

God . . . the connection between the earthly and spiritual realms. Its steps represented the many virtues of the

mind.

He should know that, Peter thought. He endured all the initiations.

Every Masonic initiate learned of the symbolic staircase that he could ascend, enabling him “to participate in

the mysteries of human science.” Freemasonry, like Noetic Science and the Ancient Mysteries, revered the

untapped potential of the human mind, and many of Masonry’s symbols related to human physiology.

The mind sits like a golden capstone atop the physical body. The Philosopher’s Stone. Through the staircase

of the spine, energy ascends and descends, circulating, connecting the heavenly mind to the physical body.

Peter knew it was no coincidence that the spine was made up of exactly thirty-three vertebrae. Thirty-three

are the degrees of Masonry. The base of the spine, or sacrum, literally meant “sacred bone.” The body is

indeed a temple. The human science that Masons revered was the ancient understanding of how to use that

temple for its most potent and noble purpose.

Unfortunately, explaining the truth to this man was not going to help Katherine at all. Peter gazed down at

the grid of symbols and gave a defeated sigh. “You’re right,” he lied. “There is indeed a secret staircase

beneath this building. And as soon as you send help to Katherine, I’ll take you to it.”

The man with the tattoos simply stared at him.

Solomon glared back, eyes defiant. “Either save my sister and learn the truth . . . or kill us both and remain

ignorant forever!”

The man quietly lowered the paper and shook his head. “I’m not happy with you, Peter. You failed your test.

You still take me for a fool. Do you truly believe I don’t understand what it is I seek? Do you think I have

not yet grasped my true potential?”

With that, the man turned his back and slipped off his robe. As the white silk fluttered to the floor, Peter saw

for the first time the long tattoo running up the man’s spine.

Dear God . . .

Winding up from the man’s white loincloth, an elegant spiral staircase ascended the middle of his muscular

back. Each stair was positioned on a different vertebra. Speechless, Peter let his eyes ascend the staircase, all

the way up to the base of the man’s skull.

Peter could only stare.

The tattooed man now tipped his shaved head backward, revealing the circle of bare flesh on the pinnacle of

his skull. The virgin skin was bordered by a single snake, looped in a circle, consuming itself.

At-one-ment.

Slowly now, the man lowered his head and turned to face Peter. The massive double-headed phoenix on his

chest stared out through dead eyes.

“I am looking for the Lost Word,” the man said. “Are you going to help me . . . or are you and your sister

going to die?”

You know how to find it, Mal’akh thought. You know something you’re not telling me.

Peter Solomon had revealed things under interrogation that he probably didn’t even recall now. The repeated

sessions in and out of the deprivation tank had left him delirious and compliant. Incredibly, when he spilled

his guts, everything he told Mal’akh had been consistent with the legend of the Lost Word.

The Lost Word is not a metaphor . . . it is real. The Word is written in an ancient language . . . and has been

hidden for ages. The Word is capable of bringing unfathomable power to anyone who grasps its true

meaning. The Word remains hidden to this day . . . and the Masonic Pyramid has the power to unveil it.

“Peter,” Mal’akh now said, staring into his captive’s eyes, “when you looked at that grid of symbols . . . you

saw something. You had a revelation. This grid means something to you. Tell me.”

“I will tell you nothing until you send help to Katherine!”

Mal’akh smiled at him. “Believe me, the prospect of losing your sister is the least of your worries right now.”

Without another word, he turned to Langdon’s daybag and started removing the items he had packed in his

basement. Then he began meticulously arranging them on the sacrificial altar.

A folded silk cloth. Pure white.

A silver censer. Egyptian myrrh.

A vial of Peter’s blood. Mixed with ash.

A black crow’s feather. His sacred stylus.

The sacrificial knife. Forged of iron from a meteorite in the desert of Canaan.

“You think I am afraid to die?” Peter shouted, his voice racked with anguish. “If Katherine is gone, I have

nothing left! You’ve murdered my entire family! You’ve taken everything from me!”

“Not everything,” Mal’akh replied. “Not yet.” He reached into the day-bag and pulled out the laptop from his

study. He turned it on and looked over at his captive. “I’m afraid you have not yet grasped the true nature of

your predicament.”

CHAPTER 117

Langdon felt his stomach drop as the CIA helicopter leaped off the lawn, banked hard, and accelerated faster

than he ever imagined a helicopter could move. Katherine had stayed behind to recuperate with Bellamy

while one of the CIA agents searched the mansion and waited for a backup team.

Before Langdon left, she had kissed him on the cheek and whispered, “Be safe, Robert.”

Now Langdon was holding on for dear life as the military helicopter finally leveled out and raced toward the

House of the Temple.

Seated beside him, Sato was yelling up to the pilot. “Head for Dupont Circle!” she shouted over the

deafening noise. “We’ll set down there!”

Startled, Langdon turned to her. “Dupont?! That’s blocks from the House of the Temple! We can land in the

Temple parking lot!”

Sato shook her head. “We need to enter the building quietly. If our target hears us coming—”

“We don’t have time!” Langdon argued. “This lunatic is about to murder Peter! Maybe the sound of the

helicopter will scare him and make him stop!”

Sato stared at him with ice-cold eyes. “As I have told you, Peter Solomon’s safety is not my primary

objective. I believe I’ve made that clear.”

Langdon was in no mood for another national-security lecture. “Look, I’m the only one on board who knows

his way through that building—”

“Careful, Professor,” the director warned. “You are here as a member of my team, and I will have your

complete cooperation.” She paused a moment and then added, “In fact, it might be wise if I now apprised you

fully of the severity of our crisis tonight.”

Sato reached under her seat and pulled out a sleek titanium briefcase, which she opened to reveal an

unusually complicated-looking computer. When she turned it on, a CIA logo materialized along with a log-in

prompt.

As Sato logged in, she asked, “Professor, do you remember the blond hairpiece we found in the man’s

home?”

“Yes.”

“Well, hidden within that wig was a tiny fiber-optic camera . . . concealed in the bangs.”

“A hidden camera? I don’t understand.”

Sato looked grim. “You will.” She launched a file on the laptop.

ONE MOMENT PLEASE . . .

DECRYPTING FILE . . .

A video window popped up, filling the entire screen. Sato lifted the briefcase and set it on Langdon’s thighs,

giving him a front-row seat.

An unusual image materialized on the screen.

Langdon recoiled in surprise. What the hell?!

Murky and dark, the video was of a blindfolded man. He was dressed in the garb of a medieval heretic being

led to the gallows—noose around his neck, left pant leg rolled up to the knee, right sleeve rolled up to the

elbow, and his shirt gaping open to reveal his bare chest.

Langdon stared in disbelief. He had read enough about Masonic rituals to recognize exactly what he was

looking at.

A Masonic initiate . . . preparing to enter the first degree.

The man was very muscular and tall, with a familiar blond hairpiece and deeply tanned skin. Langdon

recognized his features at once. The man’s tattoos had obviously been concealed beneath bronzing makeup.

He was standing before a full-length mirror videotaping his reflection through the camera concealed in his

wig.

But . . . why?

The screen faded to black.

New footage appeared. A small, dimly lit, rectangular chamber. A dramatic chessboard floor of black-and-

white tile. A low wooden altar, flanked on three sides by pillars, atop which burned flickering candles.

Langdon felt a sudden apprehension.

Oh my God.

Filming in the erratic style of an amateur home video, the camera now panned up to the periphery of the

room to reveal a small group of men observing the initiate. The men were dressed in ritual Masonic regalia.

In the darkness, Langdon could not make out their faces, but he had no doubt where this ritual was taking

place.

The traditional layout of this Lodge Room could have been anywhere in the world, but the powder-blue

triangular pediment above the master’s chair revealed it as the oldest Masonic lodge in D.C.—Potomac

Lodge No. 5—home of George Washington and the Masonic forefathers who laid the cornerstone for the

White House and the Capitol Building.

The lodge was still active today.

Peter Solomon, in addition to overseeing the House of the Temple, was the master of his local lodge. And it

was at lodges like this one that a Masonic initiate’s journey always began . . . where he underwent the first

three degrees of Freemasonry.

“Brethren,” Peter’s familiar voice declared, “in the name of the Great Architect of the Universe, I open this

lodge for the practice of Masonry in the first degree!”

A gavel rapped loudly.

Langdon watched in utter disbelief as the video progressed through a quick series of dissolves featuring Peter

Solomon performing some of the ritual’s starker moments.

Pressing a shining dagger to the initiate’s bare chest . . . threatening impalement should the initiate

“inappropriately reveal the Mysteries of Masonry” . . . describing the black-and-white floor as representing

“the living and the dead” . . . outlining punishments that included “having one’s throat cut across, one’s

tongue torn out by its roots, and one’s body buried in the rough sands of the sea . . .”

Langdon stared. Am I really witnessing this? Masonic initiation rites had remained shrouded in secrecy for

centuries. The only descriptions that had ever been leaked were written by a handful of estranged brothers.

Langdon had read those accounts, of course, and yet to see an initiation with his own eyes . . . this was a

much different story.

Especially edited this way. Langdon could already tell that the video was an unfair piece of propaganda,

omitting all the noblest aspects of the initiation and highlighting only the most disconcerting. If this video

were released, Langdon knew it would become an Internet sensation over night. The anti-Masonic

conspiracy theorists would feed on this like sharks. The Masonic organization, and especially Peter Solomon,

would find themselves embroiled in a firestorm of controversy and a desperate effort at damage control . . .

even though the ritual was innocuous and purely symbolic.

Eerily, the video included a biblical reference to human sacrifice . . . “the submission of Abraham to the

Supreme Being by proffering Isaac, his firstborn son.” Langdon thought of Peter and willed the helicopter to

fly faster.

The video footage shifted now.

Same room. Different night. A larger group of Masons looking on. Peter Solomon was observing from the

master’s chair. This was the second degree. More intense now. Kneeling at the altar . . . vowing to “forever

conceal the enigmas existing within Freemasonry” . . . consenting to the penalty of “having one’s chest

cavity ripped open and pulsing heart cast upon the surface of the earth as offal for the ravenous beasts” . . .