Page 171 of The Lost Symbol

His mind could not shake the images of Katherine bleeding to death . . . or of his Masonic brothers.

“There is still time,” the man whispered. “You know it’s the only choice. Release me from my mortal shell.”

“Please,” Solomon said. “Don’t do this . . .”

“You did this!” the man hissed. “You forced your child to make an impossible choice! Do you remember that night? Wealth or wisdom? That was the night you pushed me away forever. But I’ve returned, Father . . . and tonight it is your turn to choose. Zachary or Katherine? Which will it be? Will you kill your son to save your sister? Will you kill your son to save your brotherhood? Your country? Or will you wait until it’s too late? Until Katherine is dead . . . until the video is public . . . until you must live the rest of your life knowing you could have stopped these tragedies. Time is running out. You know what must be done.”

Peter’s heart ached. You are not Zachary, he told himself. Zachary died long, long ago. Whatever you are . . . and wherever you came from . . . you are not of me. And although Peter Solomon did not believe his own words, he knew he had to make a choice.

He was out of time.

Find the Grand Staircase!

Robert Langdon dashed through darkened hallways, winding his way toward the center of the building. Turner Simkins remained close on his heels. As Langdon had hoped, he burst out into the building’s main atrium.

Dominated by eight Doric columns of green granite, the atrium looked like a hybrid sepulcher—Greco-Roman-Egyptian—with black marble statues, chandelier fire bowls, Teutonic crosses, double-headed phoenix medallions, and sconces bearing the head of Hermes.

Langdon turned and ran toward the sweeping marble staircase at the far end of the atrium. “This leads directly to the Temple Room,” he whispered as the two men ascended as quickly and quietly as possible.

On the first landing, Langdon came face-to-face with a bronze bust of Masonic luminary Albert Pike, along with the engraving of his most famous quote: WHAT WE HAVE DONE FOR OURSELVES ALONE DIES WITH US; WHAT WE HAVE DONE FOR OTHERS AND THE WORLD REMAINS AND IS IMMORTAL.

Mal’akh had sensed a palpable shift in the atmosphere of the Temple Room, as if all the frustration and pain Peter Solomon had ever felt was now boiling to the surface . . . focusing itself like a laser on Mal’akh.

Yes . . . it is time.

Peter Solomon had risen from his wheelchair and was standing now, facing the altar, gripping the knife.

“Save Katherine,” Mal’akh coaxed, luring him toward the altar, backing up, and finally laying his own body down on the white shroud he had prepared. “Do what you need to do.”

As if moving through a nightmare, Peter inched forward.

Mal’akh reclined fully now onto his back, gazing up through the oculus at the wintry moon. The secret is how to die. This moment could not be any more perfect. Adorned with the Lost Word of the ages, I offer myself by the left hand of my father.

Mal’akh drew a deep breath.

Receive me, demons, for this is my body, which is offered for you.

Standing over Mal’akh, Peter Solomon was trembling. His tear-soaked eyes shone with desperation, indecision, anguish. He looked one last time toward the modem and laptop across the room.

“Make the choice,” Mal’akh whispered. “Release me from my flesh. God wants this. You want this.” He laid his arms at his side and arched his chest forward, offering up his magnificent double-headed phoenix. Help me shed the body that clothes my soul.

Peter’s tearful eyes seemed to be staring through Mal’akh now, not even seeing him.

“I killed your mother!” Mal’akh whispered. “I killed Robert Langdon! I’m murdering your sister! I’m destroying your brotherhood! Do what you have to do!”

Peter Solomon’s visage now contorted into a mask of absolute grief and regret. He threw his head back and screamed in anguish as he raised the knife.

Robert Langdon and Agent Simkins arrived breathless outside the Temple Room doors as a bloodcurdling scream erupted from within. It was Peter’s voice. Langdon was certain.

Peter’s cry was one of absolute agony.

I’m too late!

Ignoring Simkins, Langdon seized the handles and yanked open the doors. The horrific scene before him confirmed his worst fears. There, in the center of the dimly lit chamber, the silhouette of a man with a shaved head stood at the great altar. He wore a black robe, and his hand was clutching a large blade.

Before Langdon could move, the man was driving the knife down toward the body that lay outstretched on the altar.

Mal’akh had closed his eyes.