Page 71 of The Secret of Secrets

“No stupid stunts and don’t screw around with me,” the man said. “Remember, I’m the one holding a knife.”

“Got it.”

An instant later, Faukman’s hands were free. He gingerly maneuvered his arms back in front of him and wiggled his fingers to coax the blood to flow again.

The man behind him circled back around and sat on the crate, knife at the ready.

“I’ll give you sixty seconds,” he said.

“Thanks.” Faukman grimaced as excruciating needles of sensation returned to his wrists and fingers.

“Sorry about my partner,” the man said. “Auger can be a bit…intense.”

“The appropriate literary term is ‘douchebag,’ ” Faukman replied.

The man laughed out loud.

The two sat in silence as Faukman continued to massage his hands. His toes felt frozen as well; the running sneakers he had put on when he left his office weren’t exactly insulated.

“Do you want to put your coat back on,” the man asked, “before I put a fresh tie on your wrists?”

Faukman eyed his coat on the floor. Hell yes!

Half-standing and half-crouching, Faukman awkwardly slid his aching arms into his coat and savored the warmth. He tried to fasten the buttons, but his partially thawed fingers refused. “Little help?” he said, looking to his captor, who was sitting on the milk crate with his knife.

The man shook his head. “And set down my weapon? Sorry, buddy. I don’t trust you.”

“I think you greatly overestimate my potential for heroics,” Faukman said, wrapping the coat around him as best as he could, pleased to feel his cell phone in the pocket, right where he had left it.

“Okay,” the man said. “Let’s get you secured again.”

“Can you just give me one more minute? My hands are killing me.”

“Now,” the man commanded. “Turn around.”

Faukman complied, turning 180 degrees and facing backward in the van. As he did, he found himself with a clear view out the window in the van’s rear door. Through it, he could see the Signature Aviation building. He could also see the parking lot, where a single SUV was idling, its exhaust billowing into the cold morning air. The SUV’s driver’s door was open, but the seat was empty, the driver most likely inside the small terminal.

“I’ll leave it loose for now,” the man said, retying Faukman’s wrists. “But we’ll have to tighten it up when my partner gets back.”

“Thanks.”

The man finished tying his hands, and Faukman twisted his wrists slightly, surprised to find the restraints so loose that he could probably slip right out of them.

“Be right back—nature calls,” the man said, exiting the van through the side door and sliding it closed again. Faukman turned around and watched through the windshield as the man passed in front of the van, stepped a few yards into the woods, and unbuckled his belt.

Then he began urinating against a tree.

Having edited all of Langdon’s books on symbols, signs, and hidden meanings, Faukman had no doubt how the professor would categorize this moment.

A heraldic sign.

Faukman would call it something a bit less poetic.

My last fucking chance.

Attempting to escape men with guns was borderline crazy…but not as crazy as letting them abduct him to a foreign country without a fight. Worst-case scenario, they would catch him again and throw him onto the plane.

Through the windshield, Faukman could see the man was still peeing.