Page 61 of The Secret of Secrets

Chapter 38

Mr. Finch was livid.

His field officer in Prague had just phoned to report that her simple cleanup job at the Four Seasons had gone sideways. Field Officer Housemore was Finch’s eyes, ears, and muscle for all local matters relating to Threshold, and despite her compartmentalized knowledge of the project, she knew secrecy was paramount.

So what the hell just happened?!

For someone with her skills, the errand at the hotel should have been trivial, but somehow it had resulted in an armed confrontation with an embassy employee.

For Christ’s sake…

Fuming, Finch placed a secure call to the U.S. ambassador in Prague.

At the Four Seasons, Susan Housemore took a final look around the Royal Suite, confirming everything was finally in order. She was exhausted from her sleepless night but felt confident her mission here was now complete—despite the unfortunate interruption.

The strangeness had begun around 4 a.m., when she was awakened by a phone call from Mr. Finch—who issued the most unusual directive Housemore had ever received. Knowing better than to ask for any kind of explanation, she had jumped out of bed, recovered the package that had already been left for her, and unpacked the specialized “components” required for this assignment.

Shortly after 6 a.m., Housemore had exited her apartment feeling like she should be going to a movie set rather than executing a mission. She was dressed all in black, carrying an elaborate spiked headpiece and a menacing silver spear. In her pocket, she carried a bottle of foul-smelling liquid that had nearly made her gag when she cracked the lid to sniff it. Whatever the purpose behind this operation, Finch was very specific about how to carry it out.

Field Officer Housemore had followed Finch’s directions precisely, making her trancelike march across the bridge when the order was given. And while the charade meant nothing to her, it clearly scared the hell out of Robert Langdon.

And chaos ensued.

Housemore suspected that chaos had probably been Finch’s goal. He was a seasoned strategist who was known to admire the tactics of figures from Sun Tzu to Napoleon—seizing every opportunity to enhance the effectiveness of field operations by layering in psychological warfare whenever possible. “Psyops” was a bloodless, low-risk, extremely effective way to weaken the opposition. Disrupt. Destabilize. Disorient. An enemy distracted by chaos made poor decisions and was easier to manipulate.

Mission accomplished, Housemore thought. It had been reported back to her that Robert Langdon had pulled the fire alarm and evacuated this hotel.

Now she was tying up the final loose ends. After an exhaustive search of the suite, she had confirmed for Mr. Finch that there were no printed manuscripts hidden anywhere, including in the hotel safe, which was open and unused. She had now cleaned up, leaving the suite as she found it.

Before she exited, however, there was one final order of business.

Field Officer Housemore walked to the bay window and eyed the lavish arrangement of red, white, and blue tulips that had been sent three days earlier to Katherine Solomon from the U.S. embassy. The handwritten note of congratulations from Ambassador Heide Nagel lay on the floor.

Blasted by frigid winter air, the flowers were drooping prematurely, their flaccid stalks leaning outward in all directions, barely concealing the electronic device that had been hidden among them.

Housemore reached in and carefully extracted the Sennheiser parabolic surveillance microphone and FM transmitter. The listening device had been placed there by the U.S. ambassador’s office, at Mr. Finch’s request.

She slid the device into her coat pocket, fluffed up the dying flowers, and took one last look around the suite.

Then, utterly drained, Housemore headed home to get some sleep.

Chapter 39

Through the van’s open window, Jonas Faukman could hear the shrill whine of jet engines. He knew Brooklyn had a little-known U.S. military base that was surprisingly close to Manhattan, but he could not recall if Fort Hamilton had an airfield. Wherever they had brought him, his captors definitely seemed to be involved in something more serious than book piracy.

Someone powerful wants to prevent the publication of Katherine Solomon’s manuscript. But who—a rival scientist perhaps?

Shivering on the frigid metal floor of the van, Faukman plumbed his memory for clues, thinking back to the moment he had first learned of the manuscript’s existence. Robert Langdon had called to ask if Faukman would be willing to have lunch with his brilliant friend Katherine Solomon and listen to her stunning book proposal. Faukman agreed immediately, knowing that “brilliant” and “stunning” were not words the Harvard professor threw around lightly.

They met at Faukman’s favorite table in Manhattan—the back booth at Trattoria Dell’Arte—where authentic Italian cuisine was served in a room decorated like an artist’s studio, adorned, rather distinctively, by paintings and sculptures featuring famous Italian noses. He had read the biographical info Katherine Solomon had sent him, and he was thoroughly impressed by her list of scientific accomplishments, published articles, PhD in cognitive science, and prominence in her field.

When they sat down in person, Faukman saw within minutes that Katherine Solomon was even more impressive in real life than she was on paper. Not unlike Langdon himself, she was affable, humble, and razor-sharp. She was also naturally promotable—possessing a rare combination of charm and striking beauty that would be an ideal fit for the brave new world of twenty-first-century publishing, which relied so heavily on social media. After some small talk and uncorking a bottle of 2016 Solaia—Langdon’s favorite Super Tuscan—conversation naturally flowed toward her book idea.

“In the simplest terms,” Katherine began, “the book will be an exploration of human consciousness. It’s based on my research over the last twenty years…as well as several of my recent scientific breakthroughs.” She paused, sipping her wine, thinking. “As you probably know, human consciousness has long been believed to be the product of chemical processes in the brain. This means that human consciousness cannot exist without the brain.”

Interesting, but rather obvious, Faukman thought. It was his job to remain skeptical until he was bowled over by an idea.

“The problem,” Katherine said, a mysterious smile parting her lips, “is that this standard model of consciousness is incorrect.”