Katherine immediately felt confused. “It’s still gibberish.”
Langdon remained silent a long moment. “Actually, Katherine, it’s not gibberish.” His eyes brightened again with the thrill of discovery. “It’s . . . Latin.”
In a long, dark corridor, an old blind man shuffled as quickly as he could toward his office. When he finally arrived, he collapsed in his desk chair, his old bones grateful for the reprieve. His answering machine was beeping. He pressed the button and listened.
“It’s Warren Bellamy,” said the hushed whisper of his friend and Masonic brother. “I’m afraid I have alarming news . . .”
Katherine Solomon’s eyes shot back to the grid of letters, reexamining the text. Sure enough, a Latin word now materialized before her eyes.
Jeova.
Katherine had not studied Latin, but this word was familiar from her reading of ancient Hebrew texts.
Jeova. Jehovah.
As her eyes continued to trace downward, reading the grid like a book, she was surprised to realize she could read the
entire
text of the pyramid.
Jeova Sanctus Unus.
She knew its meaning at once. This phrase was ubiquitous in modern
translations of Hebrew scripture. In the Torah, the God of the Hebrews was known by many names—
Jeova, Jehovah, Jeshua, Yahweh, the Source, the Elohim—
but many Roman translations had consolidated the confusing nomenclature into a single Latin phrase:
Jeova Sanctus Unus.
“One true God?” she whispered to herself. The phrase certainly did not seem like something that would help them find her brother. “That’s this pyramid’s secret message? One true God? I thought this was a map.”
Langdon looked equally perplexed, the excitement in his eyes evaporating. “This decryption obviously is correct, but . . .”
“The man who has my brother wants to know a
location
.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “This is not going to make him very happy.”
“Katherine,” Langdon said, heaving a sigh. “I’ve been afraid of this. All night, I’ve had a feeling we’re treating as reality a collection of myths and allegories. Maybe this inscription is pointing to a
metaphorical
location—telling us that the true potential of man can be accessed only through the one true God.”
“But that makes no
sense
!” Katherine replied, her jaw now clenched in frustration. “My family protected this pyramid for generations! One true God?
That’s
the secret? And the CIA considers this an issue of national security? Either they’re lying or we’re missing something!”
Langdon shrugged in accord.
Just then, his phone began to ring.
In a cluttered office lined with old books, the old man hunched over his desk, clutching a phone receiver in his arthritic hand.
The line rang and rang.
At last, a tentative voice answered. “Hello?” The voice was deep but uncertain.
The old man whispered, “I was told you require sanctuary.”
The man on the line seemed startled. “Who is this? Did Warren Bell—”
“No names, please,” the old man said. “Tell me, have you successfully protected the map that was entrusted to you?”
A startled pause. “Yes . . . but I don’t think it matters. It doesn’t say much. If it is a map, it seems to be more
metaphorical
than—”
“No, the map is quite real, I assure you. And it points to a very
real
location. You must keep it safe. I cannot impress upon you enough how important this is. You are being pursued, but if you can travel unseen to my location, I will provide sanctuary . . . and answers.”
The man hesitated, apparently uncertain.
“My friend,” the old man began, choosing his words carefully. “There is a refuge in Rome, north of the Tiber, which contains ten stones from Mount Sinai, one from heaven itself, and one with the visage of Luke’s dark father. Do you know my location?”
There was a long pause on the line, and then the man replied, “Yes, I do.”
The old man smiled
. I thought you might, Professor. “
Come at once. Make sure you’re not followed.”
CHAPTER
71
Mal’akh stood
naked in the billowing warmth of his steam shower. He felt pure again, having washed off the last remaining scent of ethanol. As the eucalyptus-infused vapors permeated his skin, he could feel his pores opening to the heat. Then he began his ritual.
First, he rubbed depilatory chemicals across his tattooed body and scalp, removing any traces of body hair.
Hairless were the gods of the seven islands of Heliades.
Then he massaged Abramelin oil into his softened and receptive flesh.
Abramelin is the sacred oil of the great Magi.
Then he turned his shower lever hard to the left, and the water turned ice cold. He stood beneath the frigid water for a full minute to close his pores and trap the heat and energy within his core. The cold served as a reminder of the icy river in which this transformation had begun.
When he stepped from the shower, he was shivering, but within seconds, his core heat emanated up through his layers of flesh and warmed him. Mal’akh’s insides felt like a furnace. He stood naked before the mirror and admired his form . . . perhaps the last time he would see himself as a mere mortal.
His feet were the talons of a hawk. His legs—Boaz and Jachin—were the ancient pillars of wisdom. His hips and abdomen were the archways of mystical power. Hanging beneath the archway, his massive sex organ bore the tattooed symbols of his destiny. In another life, this heavy shaft of flesh had been his source of carnal pleasure. But no longer.
I have been purified.
Like the mystical eunuch monks of Katharoi, Mal’akh had removed his testicles. He had sacrificed his physical potency for a more worthy one.
Gods have no gender.
Having shed the human imperfection of gender along with the earthly pull of sexual temptation, Mal’akh had become like Ouranos, Attis, Sporus, and the great castrati magicians of Arthurian legend.
Every spiritual metamorphosis is preceded by a physical one.
Such was the lesson of all the great gods . . . from Osiris, to Tammuz, to Jesus, to Shiva, to the Buddha himself.
I must shed the man who clothes me.
Abruptly, Mal’akh drew his gaze upward, past the double-headed phoenix on his chest, past the collage of ancient sigils adorning his face, and directly to the top of his head. He tipped his head toward the mirror, barely able to see the circle of bare flesh that waited there. This location on the body was sacred. Known as the fontanel, it was the one area of the human skull that remained open at birth.
An oculus to the brain.
Although this physiological portal closes within a matter of months, it remains a symbolic vestige of the lost connection between the outer and inner worlds.
Mal’akh studied the sacred patch of virginal skin, which was enclosed by the crownlike circle of an
ouroboros
—a mystical snake devouring its own tail. The bare flesh seemed to stare back at him . . . bright with promise.
Robert Langdon soon would uncover the great treasure that Mal’akh required. Once Mal’akh possessed it, the void on top of his head would be filled, and he would at last be prepared for his final transformation.
Mal’akh padded across his bedroom and took from his bottom drawer a long strip of white silk. As he had done many times before, he wrapped it around his groin and buttocks. Then he went downstairs.
In his office, his computer had received an e-mail message.
It was from his contact:
WHAT YOU REQUIRE IS NOW WITHIN REACH.
I WILL CONTACT YOU WITHIN THE HOUR. PATIENCE.
Mal’akh smiled. It was time to make final preparations.
CHAPTER
72
The CIA
field agent was in a foul mood as he descended from the reading-room balcony.
Bellamy lied to us.
The agent had seen no heat signatures whatsoever upstairs near the Moses statue, nor anywhere else upstairs for that matter.
So where the hell did Langdon go?
The agent retraced his steps now to the only place they’d spotted any heat signatures at all—the library’s distribution hub. He descended the stairs again, moving beneath the octagonal console. The noise of the rumbling conveyors was grating. Advancing into the space, he flipped down his thermal goggles and scanned the room. Nothing. He looked toward the stacks, where the mangled door still showed hot from the explosion. Other than that, he saw no—
Holy shit!
The agent jumped back as an unexpected luminescence drifted into his field of vision. Like a pair of ghosts, the dimly glowing imprints of two humanoids had just emerged from the wall on a conveyor belt.
Heat signatures.
Stunned, the agent watched as the two apparitions circled the room on the conveyor loop and then disappeared headfirst into a narrow hole in the wall
. They rode the conveyor out? That’s insanity.
In addition to realizing they had just lost Robert Langdon through a hole in the wall, the field agent was now aware that he had another problem.
Langdon’s not alone?
He was just about to switch on his transceiver and call the team leader, but the team leader beat him to it.
“All points, we’ve got an abandoned Volvo on the plaza in front of the library. Registered to one Katherine Solomon. Eyewitness says she entered the library not long ago. We suspect she’s with Robert Langdon. Director Sato has ordered that we find them both immediately.”
“I’ve got heat signatures for both of them!” shouted the field agent in the distribution room. He explained the situation.
“For Christ’s sake!” the team leader replied. “Where the hell does the conveyor go?”
The field agent was already consulting the employee reference schematic on the bulletin board. “Adams Building,” he replied. “One block from here.”
“All points. Redirect to the Adams Building! NOW!”
CHAPTER
73
Sanctuary. Answers.
The words echoed in Langdon’s mind as he and Katherine burst through a side door of the Adams Building and out into the cold winter night. The mysterious caller had conveyed his location cryptically, but Langdon had understood. Katherine’s reaction to their destination had been surprisingly sanguine:
Where better to find One True God?
Now the question was how to get there.
Langdon spun in place, trying to get his bearings. It was dark, but thankfully the weather had cleared. They were standing in a small courtyard. In the distance, the Capitol Dome looked startlingly far away, and Langdon realized this was the first moment he had stepped outside since arriving at the Capitol several hours ago.
So much for my lecture.
“Robert, look.” Katherine pointed toward the silhouette of the Jefferson Building.
Langdon’s first reaction on seeing the building was astonishment that they had traveled so far underground on a conveyor belt. His second reaction, however, was alarm. The Jefferson Building was now abuzz with activity—trucks and cars pulling in, men shouting.
Is that a searchlight?
Langdon grabbed Katherine’s hand. “Come on.”
They ran northeast across the courtyard, quickly disappearing from view behind an elegant U-shaped building, which Langdon realized was the Folger Shakespeare Library. This particular building seemed appropriate camouflage for them tonight, as it housed the original Latin manuscript of Francis Bacon’s
New Atlantis,
the utopian vision on which the American forefathers had allegedly modeled a new world based on ancient knowledge. Even so, Langdon would not be stopping.
We need a cab.
They arrived at the corner of Third Street and East Capitol. The traffic was sparse, and Langdon felt fading hope as he scanned for taxis. He and Katherine hurried northward on Third Street, putting distance between themselves and the Library of Congress. It was not until they had gone an entire block that Langdon finally spotted a cab rounding the corner. He flagged it down, and the cab pulled over.
Middle Eastern music played on his radio, and the young Arab driver gave them a friendly smile. “Where to?” the driver asked as they jumped into the car.
“We need to go to—”
“Northwest!” Katherine interjected, pointing up Third Street away from the Jefferson Building. “Drive toward Union Station, then left on Massachusetts Avenue. We’ll tell you when to stop.”
