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The breeze felt cold outside CIA headquarters in Langley. Nola Kaye was shivering as she followed sys-sec

Rick Parrish across the agency’s moonlit central courtyard.

Where is Rick taking me?

The crisis of the Masonic video had been averted, thank God, but Nola still felt uneasy. The redacted file on

the CIA director’s partition remained a mystery, and it was nagging at her. She and Sato would debrief in the

morning, and Nola wanted all the facts. Finally, she had called Rick Parrish and demanded his help.

Now, as she followed Rick to some unknown location outside, Nola could not push the bizarre phrases from

her memory:

Secret location underground where the . . . somewhere in Washington, D.C., the coordinates . . . uncovered

an ancient portal that led . . . warning the pyramid holds dangerous . . . decipher this engraved symbolon to

unveil . . .

“You and I agree,” Parrish said as they walked, “that the hacker who spidered those keywords was definitely

searching for information about the Masonic Pyramid.”

Obviously, Nola thought.

“It turns out, though, the hacker stumbled onto a facet of the Masonic mystery I don’t think he expected.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nola, you know how the CIA director sponsors an internal discussion forum for Agency employees to share

their ideas about all kinds of things?”

“Of course.” The forums provided Agency personnel a safe place to chat online about various topics and

gave the director a kind of virtual gateway to his staff.

“The director’s forums are hosted on his private partition, and yet in order to provide access to employees of

all clearance levels, they’re located outside the director’s classified firewall.”

“What are you getting at?” she demanded as they rounded a corner near the Agency cafeteria.

“In a word . . .” Parrish pointed into the darkness. “That.”

Nola glanced up. Across the plaza in front of them was a massive metal sculpture glimmering in the

moonlight.

In an agency that boasted over five hundred pieces of original art, this sculpture—titled Kryptos—was by far

the most famous. Greek for “hidden,” Kryptos was the work of American artist James Sanborn and had

become something of a legend here at the CIA.

The work consisted of a massive S-shaped panel of copper, set on its edge like a curling metal wall.

Engraved into the expansive surface of the wall were nearly two thousand letters . . . organized into a baffling

code. As if this were not enigmatic enough, positioned carefully in the area around the encrypted S-wall were

numerous other sculptural elements—granite slabs at odd angles, a compass rose, a magnetic lodestone, and

even a message in Morse code that referenced “lucid memory” and “shadow forces.” Most fans believed that

these pieces were clues that would reveal how to decipher the sculpture.

Kryptos was art . . . but it was also an enigma.

Attempting to decipher its encoded secret had become an obsession for cryptologists both inside and outside

the CIA. Finally, a few years back, a portion of the code had been broken, and it became national news.

Although much of Kryptos’s code remained unsolved to this day, the sections that had been deciphered were

so bizarre that they made the sculpture only more mysterious. It referenced secret underground locations,

portals that led into ancient tombs, longitudes and latitudes . . .

Nola could still recall bits and pieces of the deciphered sections: The information was gathered and

transmitted underground to an unknown location . . . It was totally invisible . . . hows that possible . . . they

used the earths magnetic field . . .

Nola had never paid much attention to the sculpture or cared if it was ever fully deciphered. At the moment,

however, she wanted answers. “Why are you showing me Kryptos?”

Parrish gave her a conspiratorial smile and dramatically extracted a folded sheet of paper from his pocket.

“Voilà, the mysterious redacted document you were so concerned about. I accessed the complete text.”

Nola jumped. “You snooped the director’s classified partition?”

“No. That’s what I was getting at earlier. Have a look.” He handed her the file.

Nola seized the page and unfolded it. When she saw the standard Agency headers at the top of the page, she

cocked her head in surprise.

This document was not classified. Not even close.

EMPLOYEE DISCUSSION BOARD: KRYPTOS

COMPRESSED STORAGE: THREAD #2456282.5

Nola found herself looking at a series of postings that had been compressed into a single page for more

efficient storage.

“Your keyword document,” Rick said, “is some cipher-punks rambling about Kryptos.”

Nola scanned down the document until she spotted a sentence containing a familiar set of keywords.

Jim, the sculpture says it was transmitted to a secret location UNDERGROUND where the info was hidden.

“This text is from the director’s online Kryptos forum,” Rick explained. “The forum’s been going for years.

There are literally thousands of postings. I’m not surprised one of them happened to contain all the

keywords.”

Nola kept scanning down until she spotted another posting containing keywords.

Even though Mark said the code’s lat/long headings point somewhere in WASHINGTON, D.C., the

coordinates he used were off by one degree--Kryptos basically points back to itself.

Parrish walked over to the statue and ran his palm across the cryptic sea of letters. “A lot of this code has yet

to be deciphered, and there are plenty of people who think the message might actually relate to ancient

Masonic secrets.”

Nola now recalled murmurs of a Masonic/Kryptos link, but she tended to ignore the lunatic fringe. Then

again, looking around at the various pieces of the sculpture arranged around the plaza, she realized that it was

a code in pieces—a symbolon—just like the Masonic Pyramid.

Odd.

For a moment, Nola could almost see Kryptos as a modern Masonic Pyramid—a code in many pieces, made

of different materials, each playing a role. “Do you think there’s any way Kryptos and the Masonic Pyramid

might be hiding the same secret?”

“Who knows?” Parrish shot Kryptos a frustrated look. “I doubt we’ll ever know the whole message. That is,

unless someone can convince the director to unlock his safe and sneak a peek at the solution.”

Nola nodded. It was all coming back to her now. When Kryptos was installed, it arrived with a sealed

envelope containing a complete decryption of the sculpture’s codes. The sealed solution was entrusted to

then–CIA director William Webster, who locked it in his office safe. The document was allegedly still there,

having been transferred from director to director over the years.

Strangely, Nola’s thoughts of William Webster sparked her memory, bringing back yet another portion of

Kryptos’s deciphered text:

IT’S BURIED OUT THERE SOMEWHERE.

WHO KNOWS THE EXACT LOCATION?

ONLY WW.

Although nobody knew exactly what was buried out there, most people believed the WW was a reference to

William Webster. Nola had heard whispers once that it referred in fact to a man named William Whiston—a

Royal Society theologian—although she had never bothered to give it much thought.

Rick was talking again. “I’ve got to admit, I’m not really into artists, but I think this guy Sanborn’s a serious

genius. I was just looking online at his Cyrillic Projector project? It shines giant Russian letters from a KGB

document on mind control. Freaky.”

Nola was no longer listening. She was examining the paper, where she had found the third key phrase in

another posting.

Right, that whole section is verbatim from some famous archaeologist’s diary, telling about the moment he

dug down and uncovered an ANCIENT PORTAL that led to the tomb of Tutankhamen.

The archaeologist who was quoted on Kryptos, Nola knew, was in fact famed Egyptologist Howard Carter.

The next posting referenced him by name.

I just skimmed the rest of Carter’s field notes online, and it sounds like he found a clay tablet warning the

PYRAMID holds dangerous consequences for anyone who disturbs the peace of the pharaoh. A curse!

Should we be worried? :)

Nola scowled. “Rick, for God’s sake, this idiot’s pyramid reference isn’t even right. Tutankhamen wasn’t

buried in a pyramid. He was buried in the Valley of the Kings. Don’t cryptologists watch the Discovery

Channel?”

Parrish shrugged. “Techies.”

Nola now saw the final key phrase.

Guys, you know I’m not a conspiracy theorist, but Jim and Dave had better decipher this ENGRAVED

SYMBOLON to unveil its final secret before the world ends in 2012 . . . Ciao.

“Anyhow,” Parrish said, “I figured you’d want to know about the Kryptos forum before you accused the CIA

director of harboring classified documentation about an ancient Masonic legend. Somehow, I doubt a man as

powerful as the CIA director has time for that sort of thing.”

Nola pictured the Masonic video and its images of all the influential men participating in an ancient rite. If

Rick had any idea . . .

In the end, she knew, whatever Kryptos ultimately revealed, the message definitely had mystical undertones.

She gazed up at the gleaming piece of art—a three-dimensional code standing silently at the heart of one of

the nation’s premier intelligence agencies—and she wondered if it would ever give up its final secret.

As she and Rick headed back inside, Nola had to smile.

It’s buried out there somewhere.

CHAPTER 128

This is crazy.

Blindfolded, Robert Langdon could see nothing as the Escalade sped southward along the deserted streets.

On the seat beside him, Peter Solomon remained silent.

Where is he taking me?

Langdon’s curiosity was a mix of intrigue and apprehension, his imagination in overdrive as it tried

desperately to put the pieces together. Peter had not wavered from his claim. The Lost Word? Buried at the

bottom of a staircase that’s covered by a massive, engraved stone? It all seemed impossible.

The stone’s alleged engraving was still lodged in Langdon’s memory . . . and yet the seven symbols, as far as

he could tell, made no sense together at all.

The Stonemason’s Square: the symbol of honesty and being “true.”

The letters Au: the scientific abbreviation for the element gold.

The Sigma: the Greek letter S, the mathematical symbol for the sum of all parts.

The Pyramid: the Egyptian symbol of man reaching heavenward.

The Delta: the Greek letter D, the mathematical symbol for change.

Mercury: as depicted by its most ancient alchemical symbol.

The Ouroboros: the symbol of wholeness and at-one-ment.

Solomon still insisted these seven symbols were a “message.” But if this was true, then it was a message

Langdon had no idea how to read.

The Escalade slowed suddenly and turned sharply right, onto a different surface, as if into a driveway or

access road. Langdon perked up, listening intently for clues as to their whereabouts. They’d been driving for

less than ten minutes, and although Langdon had tried to follow in his mind, he had lost his bearings quickly.

For all he knew, they were now pulling back into the House of the Temple.

The Escalade came to a stop, and Langdon heard the window roll down.

“Agent Simkins, CIA,” their driver announced. “I believe you’re expecting us.”

“Yes, sir,” a sharp military voice replied. “Director Sato phoned ahead. One moment while I move the

security barricade.”

Langdon listened with rising confusion, now sensing they were entering a military base. As the car began

moving again, along an unusually smooth stretch of pavement, he turned his head blindly toward Solomon.

“Where are we, Peter?” he demanded.

“Do not remove your blindfold.” Peter’s voice was stern.

The vehicle continued a short distance and again slowed to a stop. Simkins killed the engine. More voices.

Military. Someone asked for Simkins’s identification. The agent got out and spoke to the men in hushed

tones.

Langdon’s door was suddenly being opened, and powerful hands assisted him out of the car. The air felt

cold. It was windy.

Solomon was beside him. “Robert, just let Agent Simkins lead you inside.”

Langdon heard metal keys in a lock . . . and then the creak of a heavy iron door swinging open. It sounded

like an ancient bulkhead. Where the hell are they taking me?!

Simkins’s hands guided Langdon in the direction of the metal door. They stepped over a threshold. “Straight

ahead, Professor.”

It was suddenly quiet. Dead. Deserted. The air inside smelled sterile and processed.

Simkins and Solomon flanked Langdon now, guiding him blindly down a reverberating corridor. The floor

felt like stone beneath his loafers.

Behind them, the metal door slammed loudly, and Langdon jumped. The locks turned. He was sweating now

beneath his blindfold. He wanted only to tear it off.

They stopped walking now.

Simkins let go of Langdon’s arm, and there was a series of electronic beeps followed by an unexpected

rumble in front of them, which Langdon imagined had to be a security door sliding open automatically.

“Mr. Solomon, you and Mr. Langdon continue on alone. I’ll wait for you here,” Simkins said. “Take my

flashlight.”

“Thank you,” Solomon said. “We won’t be long.”

Flashlight?! Langdon’s heart was pounding wildly now.

Peter took Langdon’s arm in his own and inched forward. “Walk with me, Robert.”

They moved slowly together across another threshold, and the security door rumbled shut behind them.

Peter stopped short. “Is something wrong?”

Langdon was suddenly feeling queasy and off balance. “I think I just need to take off this blindfold.”

“Not yet, we’re almost there.”

“Almost where?” Langdon felt a growing heaviness in the pit of his stomach.

“I told you—I’m taking you to see the staircase that descends to the Lost Word.”

“Peter, this isn’t funny!”

“It’s not meant to be. It’s meant to open your mind, Robert. It’s meant to remind you that there are mysteries

in this world that even you have yet to lay eyes upon. And before I take one more step with you, I want you

to do something for me. I want you to believe . . . just for an instant . . . believe in the legend. Believe that

you are about to peer down a winding staircase that plunges hundreds of feet to one of humankind’s greatest