Page 105 of The Secret of Secrets

“By the way,” the thug added, “your kids are cute. I see you live in Sunset Park. Brooklyn’s not a bad commute, and your place on Forty-Sixth looks close to the park for the kids. You’ve got a peaceful life.”

Dole understood his meaning.

The man hoisted Dole to his feet, screwed the security cap back onto his head, clipped the zip ties, and left Dole’s wallet and phone on the front desk. “No harm done. Now get back to work.”

Dole watched the two men stride nonchalantly across the lobby toward the four exit doors—two swinging doors and two revolving doors. They were headed for the swinging door through which they’d entered, but before they got there, Dole touched one of two buttons under the counter, silently engaging all the automatic locks.

The muscle-bound man arrived at the swinging door and found it locked. “Hey, ping us out!”

“Can’t do that,” Dole lied.

The man turned, looking incredulous. “You really want to lock us in here with you?”

“No,” Dole said. “I mean I literally can’t. I don’t have control over the doors. They’re automated. Green building and all that. Conserving heat in the lobby. During the winter months, only the revolving doors—”

“We just came through this goddamned door!”

“Inbound with an employee key card. Outbound all employees must use the revolving doors. Even assholes.”

“You’re lucky we’re in a hurry,” the man said, moving with his partner toward one of the revolving doors. Dole quickly pressed the button under the counter again, now silently unlocking all four doors.

The revolving doors at Random House Tower were oversized, which meant that most small groups shared the same compartment. Dole was pleased to see the two thugs were no exception. As they stepped into a single partition and pushed outward, the door began to rotate counterclockwise. Dole calmly watched, his finger hovering over the lock button. When the door had made a perfect quarter turn, Dole pressed the button a third time, reengaging all the locks. The revolving door abruptly stalled, mid-turn, sealing his two attackers in a tiny glass prison.

As Dole dialed 911, a muffled string of profanity echoed across the lobby.

Shout all you like, Dole thought. Nobody threatens my kids.

For two full minutes after the laser-microphone dot had disappeared and the door had clicked shut, Jonas Faukman had continued his theatrical rant against the LibGen book pirates, just to be certain the eavesdropper was really gone. It was clear that book piracy had nothing to do with the PRH hack, but the truth was infinitely more disturbing.

Faukman was still reeling from seeing the acronym that Alex had typed, questioning why this group would mount a coordinated international campaign against Katherine Solomon and her unpublished book. They certainly had the resources and influence to do so.

With a rush of dread, Faukman realized that Alex’s panic about Robert Langdon and Katherine Solomon suddenly seemed much more plausible. It also occurred to him that whoever had broken into Random House Tower would have had to get past the good-natured night watchman, Mark Dole.

Faukman immediately phoned down to the security desk to check on him.

No answer. Dammit.

Fearing the worst, Faukman ran for the elevators. When he reached the ground floor, he dashed around the corner into the lobby, bracing himself for the worst. But the scene before him was perfectly calm, and unexpected. Night watchman Mark Dole was very much alive and well, coolly giving a statement to a pair of metro police officers.

The police are here?

Faukman was relieved to see Dole unharmed, and the editor’s attention shifted immediately to the two handcuffed men on the floor near the revolving door, both looking furious.

My God…is that…?

Faukman could not begin to imagine what had transpired down here, but he made no effort to hide his delight as he walked across the lobby toward the two captives, who were restrained and lying on their sides.

“Hey! Welcome to Random House!” Faukman gushed. “I had no idea you guys were readers.”

“You don’t want to do this,” Buzzcut hissed, glaring up at him. “You don’t know who we work for.”

“For whom you work,” Faukman corrected, frowning. “I thought we went through this.”

“Fuck off!” he snapped, his eyes smoldering with rage.

Faukman crouched down and smiled. “You know, Buzz, if you went to the library as often as the gym, you’d realize that every great story has the same ending.” He winked. “The bad guys always lose.”

Chapter 68