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Get up, Robert! You've got to help her! Langdon's legs were tingling now, a fiery and painful recovery of feeling, but still they refused to cooperate. Move! His arms twitched as sensation started to come back, along with feeling in his face and neck. With great effort, he managed to rotate his head, dragging his cheek roughly across the hardwood floor as he turned his head to look down into the dining room.
Langdon's sight line was impeded--by the stone pyramid, which had toppled out of his bag and was lying sideways on the floor, its base inches from his face.
For an instant, Langdon didn't understand what he was looking at. The square of stone before him was obviously the base of the pyramid, and yet it looked somehow different. Very different. It was still square, and still stone . . . but it was no longer flat and smooth. The base of the pyramid was covered with engraved markings. How is this possible? He stared for several seconds, wondering if he was hallucinating. I looked at the base of this pyramid a dozen times . . . and there were no markings!
Langdon now realized why.
His breathing reflex kick-started, and he drew a sudden gasp of air, realizing that the Masonic Pyramid had secrets yet to share. I have witnessed another transformation.
In a flash, Langdon understood the meaning of Galloway's last request. Tell Peter this: The Masonic Pyramid has always kept her secret . . . sincerely. The words had seemed strange at the time, but now Langdon understood that Dean Galloway was sending Peter a code. Ironically, this same code had been a plot twist in a mediocre thriller Langdon had read years ago.
Sin-cere.
Since the days of Michelangelo, sculptors had been hiding the flaws in their work by smearing hot wax into the cracks and then dabbing the wax with stone dust. The method was considered cheating, and therefore, any sculpture "without wax"--literally sine cera--was considered a "sincere" piece of art. The phrase stuck. To this day we still sign our letters "sincerely" as a promise that we have written "without wax" and that our words are true.
The engravings on the base of this pyramid had been concealed by the same method. When Katherine followed the capstone's directions and boiled the pyramid, the wax melted away, revealing the writing on the base. Galloway had run his hands over the pyramid in the sitting room, apparently feeling the markings exposed on the bottom.
Now, if only for an instant, Langdon had forgotten all the danger he and Katherine faced. He stared at the incredible array of symbols on the base of the pyramid. He had no idea what they meant . . . or what they would ultimately reveal, but one thing was for certain. The Masonic Pyramid has secrets left to tell. Eight Franklin Square is not the final answer.
Whether it was this adrenaline-filled revelation or simply the extra few seconds lying there, Langdon did not know, but he suddenly felt control returning to his body. Painfully, he swept an arm to one side, pushing the leather bag out of the way to clear his sight line into the dining room.
To his horror, he saw that Katherine had been tied up, and a large rag had been stuffed deep into her mouth. Langdon flexed his muscles, trying to climb to his knees, but a moment later, he froze in utter disbelief. The dining-room doorway had just filled with a chilling sight--a human form unlike anything Langdon had ever seen.
What in the name of God . . . ?!
Langdon rolled, kicking with his legs, trying to back away, but the huge tattooed man grabbed him, flipping him onto his back and straddling his chest. He placed his knees on Langdon's biceps, pinning Langdon pain fully to the floor. The man's chest bore a rippling double-headed phoenix. His neck, face, and shaved head were covered with a dazzling array of unusually intricate symbols--sigils, Langdon knew--which were used in the rituals of dark ceremonial magic.
Before Langdon could process anything more, the huge man clasped Langdon's ears between his palms, lifted his head up off the floor, and, with incredible force, smashed it back down onto the hardwood.
Everything went black.
CHAPTER 96
Mal'akh stood in his hallway and surveyed the carnage around him. His home looked like a battlefield.
Robert Langdon lay unconscious at his feet.
Katherine Solomon was bound and gagged on the dining-room floor.
The corpse of a female security guard lay crumpled nearby, having toppled off the chair where she was propped. This female guard, eager to save her own life, had done exactly as Mal'akh commanded. With a knife to her throat, she had answered Mal'akh's cell phone and told the lie that had coaxed Langdon and Katherine to come racing out here. She had no partner, and Peter Solomon was certainly not okay. As soon as the woman had given her performance, Mal'akh had quietly strangled her. To complete the illusion that Mal'akh was not home, he had phoned Bellamy using the hands- free speaker in one of his cars. I'm on the road, he had told Bellamy and whoever else had been listening. Peter is in my trunk. In fact, Mal'akh was driving only between his garage and his front yard, where he had left several of his myriad cars parked askew with the headlights on and the engines running.
The deception had worked perfectly.
Almost.
The only wrinkle was the bloody black-clad heap in the foyer with a screwdriver protruding from his neck. Mal'akh searched the corpse and had to chuckle when he found a high-tech transceiver and cell phone with a CIA logo. It seems even they are aware of my power. He removed the batteries and crushed both devices with a heavy bronze doorstop.
Mal'akh knew he had to move quickly now, especially if the CIA was involved. He strode back over to Langdon. The professor was out cold and would be for a while. Mal'akh's eyes moved with trepidation now to the stone pyramid on the floor beside the professor's open bag. His breath caught, and his heart pounded.
I have waited for years . . .
His hands trembled slightly as he reached down and picked up the Masonic Pyramid. As he ran his fingers slowly across the engravings, he felt awed by their promise. Before he became too entranced, he put the pyramid back in Langdon's bag with the capstone and zipped it up.
I will assemble the pyramid soon . . . in a much safer location.
He threw Langdon's bag over his shoulder and then tried to hoist Langdon himself, but the professor's toned physique weighed much more than anticipated. Mal'akh settled on grabbing him beneath the armpits and dragging him across the floor. He's not going to like where he ends up, Mal'akh thought.
As he dragged Langdon off, the television in the kitchen blared. The sound of voices from the TV had been part of the deception, and Mal'akh had yet to turn it off. The station was now broadcasting a televangelist leading his congregation in the Lord's Prayer. Mal'akh wondered if any of his hypnotized viewers had any idea where this prayer really came from.
" . . . On earth as it is in heaven . . ." the group intoned.
Yes, Mal'akh thought. As above, so below.
" . . . And lead us not into temptation . . ."
Help us master the weakness of our flesh. " . . . Deliver us from evil . . ." they all beseeched.
Mal'akh smiled. That could be difficult. The darkness is growing. Even so, he had to give them credit for trying. Humans who spoke to invisible forces and requested help were a dying breed in this modern world.
Mal'akh was dragging Langdon across the living room when the congregation declared, "Amen!"
Amon, Mal'akh corrected. Egypt is the cradle of your religion. The god Amon was the prototype for Zeus . . . for Jupiter . . . and for every modern face of God. To this day, every religion on earth shouted out a variation of his name. Amen! Amin! Aum!
The televangelist began quoting verses from the Bible describing hierarchies of angels, demons, and spirits that ruled in heaven and hell. "Protect your souls from evil forces!" he warned them. "Lift your hearts in prayer! God and his angels will hear you!"
He's right, Mal'akh knew. But so will the demons.
Mal'akh had learned long ago that through proper application of the Art, a practitioner could open a portal to the spiritual realm. The invisible forces that existed there, much like man himself, came in many forms, both good and evil. Those of Light healed, protected, and sought to bring order to the universe. Those of Dark functioned oppositely . . . bringing destruction and chaos.
If properly summoned, the invisible forces could be persuaded to do a practitioner's bidding on earth . . . thus instilling him with seemingly supernatural power. In exchange for helping the summoner, these forces required offerings--prayers and praise for those of Light . . . and the spilling of blood for those of Dark.
The greater the sacrifice, the greater the power that is transferred. Mal'akh had begun his practice with the blood of inconsequential animals. Over time, however, his choices for sacrifice had become more bold. Tonight, I take the final step.
"Beware!" the preacher shouted, warning of the coming Apocalypse. "The final battle for the souls of man will soon be fought!"
Indeed, Mal'akh thought. And I shall become its greatest warrior.
This battle, of course, had begun long, long ago. In ancient Egypt, those who perfected the Art had become the great Adepts of history, evolving beyond the masses to become true practitioners of Light. They moved as gods on earth. They built great temples of initiation to which neophytes traveled from around the world to partake of the wisdom. There arose a race of golden men. For a brief span of time, mankind seemed poised to elevate himself and transcend his earthly bonds.
The golden age of the Ancient Mysteries. And yet man, being of the flesh, was susceptible to the sins of hubris, hatred, impatience, and greed. Over time, there were those who corrupted the Art, perverting it and abusing its power for personal gain. They began using this perverted version to summon dark forces. A different Art evolved . . . a more potent, immediate, and intoxicating influence.
Such is my Art.
Such is my Great Work.
The illuminated Adepts and their esoteric fraternities witnessed the rising evil and saw that man was not using his newfound knowledge for the good of his species. And so they hid their wisdom to keep it from the eyes of the unworthy. Eventually, it was lost to history.
With this came the Great Fall of Man.
And a lasting darkness.
To this day, the noble descendants of the Adepts soldiered on, grasping blindly for the Light, trying to recapture the lost power of their past, trying to keep the darkness at bay. They were the priests and priestesses of the churches, temples, and shrines of all the religions on earth. Time had erased the memories . . . detached them from their past. They no longer knew the Source from which their potent wisdom had once flowed. When they were asked about the divine mysteries of their forebears, the new custodians of faith vociferously disowned them, condemning them as heresy.
Have they truly forgotten? Mal'akh wondered.
Echoes of the ancient Art still resonated in every corner of the globe, from the mystical Kabbalists of Judaism to the esoteric Sufis of Islam. Vestiges remained in the arcane rituals of Christianity, in its god-eating rites of Holy Communion, its hierarchies of saints, angels, and demons, its chanting and incantation, its holy calendar's astrological underpinnings, its consecrated robes, and in its promise of everlasting life. Even now, its priests dispelled evil spirits by swinging smoke-filled censers, ringing sacred bells, and sprinkling holy water. Christians still practiced the supernatural craft of exorcism--an early practice of their faith that required the ability not only to cast out demons but to summon them.
And yet they cannot see their past?
Nowhere was the church's mystical past more evident than at her epicenter. In Vatican City, at the heart of St. Peter's Square, stood the great Egyptian obelisk. Carved thirteen hundred years before Jesus took his first breath--this numinous monolith had no relevance there, no link to modern Christianity. And yet there it was. At the core of Christ's church. A stone beacon, screaming to be heard. A reminder to those few sages who remembered where it all began. This church, born of the womb of the Ancient Mysteries, still bore her rites and symbols. One symbol above all.
Adorning her altars, vestments, spires, and Scripture was the singular image of Christianity--that of a precious, sacrificed human being. Christianity, more than any other faith, understood the transformative power of sacrifice. Even now, to honor the sacrifice made by Jesus, his followers proffered their own feeble gestures of personal sacrifice . . . fasting, Lenten renunciation, tithing.
All of those offerings are impotent, of course. Without blood . . . there is no true sacrifice.
The powers of darkness had long embraced blood sacrifice, and in doing so, they had grown so strong that the powers of goodness now struggled to keep them in check. Soon the Light would be entirely consumed, and the practitioners of darkness would move freely through the minds of men.
CHAPTER 97
"Eight Franklin Square must exist," Sato insisted. "Look it up again!"
Nola Kaye sat at her desk and adjusted her headset. "Ma'am, I've checked everywhere . . . that address doesn't exist in D.C."
"But I'm on the roof of One Franklin Square," Sato said. "There has to be an Eight!"
Director Sato's on a roof? "Hold on." Nola began running a new search. She was considering telling the OS director about the hacker, but Sato seemed fixated on Eight Franklin Square at the moment. Besides, Nola still didn't have all the information. Where's that damned sys-sec, anyway?
"Okay," Nola said, eyeing her screen, "I see the problem. One Franklin Square is the name of the building . . . not the address. The address is actually 1301 K Street."
The news seemed to confound the director. "Nola, I don't have time to explain--the pyramid clearly points to the address Eight Franklin Square."
Nola sat bolt upright. The pyramid points to a specific location?
"The inscription," Sato continued, "reads: `The secret hides within The Order--Eight Franklin Square.'"
Nola could scarcely imagine. "An order like . . . a Masonic or fraternal order?" "I assume so," Sato replied.
Nola thought a moment, and then began typing again. "Ma'am, maybe the street numbers on the square changed over the years? I mean, if this pyramid is as old as legend claims, maybe the numbers on Franklin Square were different when the pyramid was built? I'm now running a search without the number eight . . . for . . . `the order' . . . `Franklin Square' . . . and `Washington, D.C.' . . . and this way, we might get some idea if there's--" She stalled midsentence as the search results appeared.
"What have you got?" Sato demanded.
Nola stared at the first result on the list--a spectacular image of the Great Pyramid of Egypt-- which served as the thematic backdrop for the home page dedicated to a building on Franklin Square. The building was unlike any other building on the square.
Or in the entire city, for that matter.
What stopped Nola cold was not the building's bizarre architecture, but rather the description of its purpose. According to the Web site, this unusual edifice was built as a sacred mystical shrine, designed by . . . and designed for . . . an ancient secret order.
