Page 205 of The Secret of Secrets

“This embassy is considered U.S. soil, and when a non–U.S. citizen requests safe harbor on U.S. soil, we call that ‘a petition for asylum.’ All asylum petitions require an immediate assessment interview by a ranking consular officer. That would be me.”

Sasha nodded her understanding.

“The rules for these interviews,” Nagel continued, “are very strict. Standardized protocol under the Asylum Adjudication Framework necessitates a procedural mandate we term ‘controlled restraint.’ ”

The Marine standing closest to Sasha eyed Nagel askance, which was not surprising considering the ambassador was making this up as she went.

“You are not in trouble, Ms. Vesna, despite it perhaps feeling that way. Controlled restraint is an essential part of our asylum protocol. It is a precautionary measure and ensures a secure environment for both you and the embassy staff mem—”

“I understand,” Sasha said, extending her hands and offering her wrists. “It’s okay if you restrain me.”

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Nagel said, surprised by Sasha’s instant compliance. “My team will now restrain you per our protocols. You will be placed in a safe, locked conference room, where you will be given food, water, access to restroom facilities, and medical attention should you require it.”

The Marine guards hesitated just long enough to see Nagel staring daggers, and the lead corporal sprang into action. Within seconds, he had affixed a set of standard-issue flex cuffs to Sasha’s outstretched wrists and, together with the other guards, guided her through the security divider.

Nagel gave them a wide berth, glancing at her watch. It was 8:30 p.m. “I will join you as soon as I’m able, Ms. Vesna, but it may take some time. In the meanwhile, my staff will ensure you are warm and fed.”

Sasha had tears in her eyes as she passed by. “Thank you for your kindness,” she managed to whisper.

As Nagel gathered herself and headed back upstairs, she realized she had some very big unanticipated decisions to make.

And fast.

Chapter 130

The Manhattan sidewalk glistened beneath Faukman’s feet as he made his way up Broadway. The afternoon rain had finally passed, and it was time to go home.

His call with Prague had been brief, as Langdon was hesitant to say much on the phone. He offered assurances that he and Katherine were safe and also alerted Faukman that they were considering a stop in New York on their way home so they could all debrief face-to-face about everything that had transpired with the manuscript.

Not much to discuss, the editor lamented. Even if Katherine could wrap her head around rewriting her entire book, the CIA would almost certainly have something to say about it. For Faukman, losing this book was a considerable professional blow, and yet he took solace in knowing Robert and Katherine were safe.

As he neared Columbus Circle, Faukman smelled the earthy scent of dark roast coffee, and he slipped into the city’s busiest Starbucks. If ever there were a day that warranted an extra dose of caffeine for the walk home, it was today.

With apologies to Robert, he mused as he placed his order.

The Harvard professor had long boycotted Starbucks for what he proclaimed to be their “egregious misuse of a classical symbol.”

Faukman chuckled as he eyed the familiar logo emblazoned on every coffee cup in the establishment.

“The Starbucks mermaid,” Langdon had railed, “has two tails! That means she’s not a mermaid at all, but rather a siren—an evil seductress who lures sailors to follow her blindly toward shipwreck and ultimately toward death! I can’t trust a corporation that neglected to conduct any iconographic research before adorning Frappuccinos with a deadly sea monster…”

Leave it to a symbologist to ruin a good cup of coffee, Faukman thought, feeling no guilt as he took his first heavenly sip of the creamiest flat white in the city. Then, turning up the collar of his vintage gray peacoat, he stepped back outside and headed home.

Chapter 131

Hovering in darkness, Robert Langdon floated high above Prague. He gazed down at Charles Bridge far below him, the gas lanterns glimmering like strings of pearls that stretched across the black river. Weightless and detached, Langdon drifted downstream, crossing over the waterfall, feeling no emotion except a vague annoyance at a distant pounding noise. As the pounding grew louder, gravity suddenly seized him, and Langdon felt himself being dragged downward in a panicked free fall…accelerating toward the frigid river…until he shattered its mirrored surface.

Jolting awake, Langdon sat up in bed, surprised that he had not realized he was dreaming. It was a baffling paradox to him—the human mind’s ability to find itself in an obviously impossible situation and yet accept the situation as fact, ignore every incongruity, and never suspect it was not really happening.

Alert now from the adrenaline of the dream, Langdon scanned the darkened hotel room. All was silent except for Katherine’s soft breathing beside him. The scent of her exotic perfume hung in the air, and Langdon could still feel the luxuriously smooth texture of whatever she had been wearing when she sat on the edge of the bed and whispered, “So sorry to wake you, Professor…”

Langdon could still feel the afterglow.

Dr. Solomon, please feel free to wake me like that anytime.

He slipped quietly out of bed, put on a bathrobe, and walked into the suite’s living room. To his dismay, the grandfather clock showed just past 9 p.m.

I’ve barely slept at all.