The Lost Symbol (Robert Langdon) (51 page)

CHAPTER
120

“Right turn!”
Langdon shouted from the backseat of the commandeered Lexus SUV.

Simkins swerved onto S Street and gunned the vehicle through a tree-lined residential neighborhood. As they neared the corner of Sixteenth Street, the House of the Temple rose like a mountain on the right.

Simkins stared up at the massive structure. It looked like someone had built a pyramid on top of Rome’s Pantheon. He prepared to turn right on Sixteenth toward the front of the building.

“Don’t turn!” Langdon ordered. “Go straight! Stay on S!”

Simkins obeyed, driving alongside the east side of the building.

“At Fifteenth,” Langdon said, “turn right!”

Simkins followed his navigator, and moments later, Langdon had pointed out a nearly invisible, unpaved access road that bisected the gardens behind the House of the Temple. Simkins turned in to the drive and gunned the Lexus toward the rear of the building.

“Look!” Langdon said, pointing to the lone vehicle parked near the rear entrance. It was a large van. “They’re here.”

Simkins parked the SUV and killed the engine. Quietly, everyone got out and prepared to move in. Simkins stared up at the monolithic structure. “You say the Temple Room is at the
top
?”

Langdon nodded, pointing all the way to the pinnacle of the building. “That flat area on top of the pyramid is actually a skylight.”

Simkins spun back to Langdon. “The Temple Room has a
skylight
?”

Langdon gave him an odd look. “Of course. An oculus to heaven . . . directly above the altar.”

The UH-60 sat idling at Dupont Circle.

In the passenger seat, Sato gnawed at her fingernails, awaiting news from her team.

Finally, Simkins’s voice crackled over the radio. “Director?”

“Sato here,” she barked.

“We’re entering the building, but I have some additional recon for you.”

“Go ahead.”

“Mr. Langdon just informed me that the room in which the target is most likely located has a very large skylight.”

Sato considered the information for several seconds. “Understood. Thank you.”

Simkins signed off.

Sato spit out a fingernail and turned to the pilot. “Take her up.”

CHAPTER
121

Like any
parent who had lost a child, Peter Solomon had often imagined how old his boy would be now . . . what he would look like . . . and what he would have become.

Peter Solomon now had his answers.

The massive tattooed creature before him had begun life as a tiny, precious infant . . . baby Zach curled up in a wicker bassinette . . . taking his first fumbling steps across Peter’s study . . . learning to speak his first words. The fact that evil could spring from an innocent child in a loving family remained one of the paradoxes of the human soul. Peter had been forced to accept early on that although his own blood flowed in his son’s veins, the heart pumping that blood was his son’s own. Unique and singular . . . as if randomly chosen from the universe.

My son . . . he killed my mother, my friend Robert Langdon, and possibly my sister.

An icy numbness flooded Peter’s heart as he searched his son’s eyes for any connection . . . anything familiar. The man’s eyes, however, although gray like Peter’s, were those of a total stranger, filled with a hatred and a vengefulness that were almost otherworldly.

“Are you strong enough?” his son taunted, glancing at the Akedah knife gripped in Peter’s hand. “Can you finish what you started all those years ago?”

“Son . . .” Solomon barely recognized his own voice. “I . . . I loved . . . you.”

“Twice you tried to kill me. You abandoned me in prison. You shot me on Zach’s bridge. Now
finish
it!”

For an instant, Solomon felt like he was floating outside his own body. He no longer recognized himself. He was missing a hand, was totally bald, dressed in a black robe, sitting in a wheelchair, and clutching an ancient knife.

“Finish it!” the man shouted again, the tattoos on his naked chest
rippling. “Killing me is the only way you can save Katherine . . . the only way to save your brotherhood!”

Solomon felt his gaze move to the laptop and cellular modem on the pigskin chair.

SENDING MESSAGE: 92% COMPLETE

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.

So beautiful. So perfect.

The ancient blade of the Akedah knife had glinted in the moonlight as it arched over him. Scented wisps of smoke had spiraled upward above him, preparing a pathway for his soon-to-be-liberated soul. His killer’s lone scream of torment and desperation still rang through the sacred space as the knife came down.

I am besmeared with the blood of human sacrifice and parents’ tears.

Mal’akh braced for the glorious impact.

His moment of transformation had arrived.

Incredibly, he felt no pain.

A thunderous vibration filled his body, deafening and deep. The room began shaking, and a brilliant white light blinded him from above. The heavens roared.

And Mal’akh knew it had happened.

Exactly as he had planned.

Langdon did not remember sprinting toward the altar as the helicopter appeared overhead. Nor did he remember leaping with his arms out-stretched . . . soaring toward the man in the black robe . . . trying desperately to tackle him before he could plunge the knife down a second time.

Their bodies collided, and Langdon saw a bright light sweep down through the oculus and illuminate the altar. He expected to see the
bloody body of Peter Solomon on the altar, but the naked chest that shone in the light had no blood on it at all . . . only a tapestry of tattoos. The knife lay broken beside him, apparently having been driven into the stone altar rather than into flesh.

As he and the man in the black robe crashed together onto the hard stone floor, Langdon saw the bandaged nub on the end of the man’s right arm, and he realized to his bewilderment that he had just tackled Peter Solomon.

As they slid together across the stone floor, the helicopter’s searchlights blazed down from above. The chopper thundered in low, its skids practically touching the expansive wall of glass.

On the front of the helicopter, a strange-looking gun rotated, aiming downward through the glass. The red beam of its laser scope sliced through the skylight and danced across the floor, directly toward Langdon and Solomon.

No!

But there was no gunfire from above . . . only the sound of the helicopter blades.

Langdon felt nothing but an eerie ripple of energy that shimmered through his cells. Behind his head, on the pigskin chair, the laptop hissed strangely. He spun in time to see its screen suddenly flash to black. Unfortunately, the last visible message had been clear.

SENDING MESSAGE: 100% COMPLETE

Pull up! Damn it! Up!

The UH-60 pilot threw his rotors into overdrive, trying to keep his skids from touching any part of the large glass skylight. He knew the six thousand pounds of lift force that surged downward from his rotors was already straining the glass to its breaking point. Unfortunately, the incline of the pyramid beneath the helicopter was efficiently shedding the thrust sideways, robbing him of lift.

Up! Now!

He tipped the nose, trying to skim away, but the left strut hit the center of the glass. It was only for an instant, but that was all it took.

The Temple Room’s massive oculus exploded in a swirl of glass and wind . . . sending a torrent of jagged shards plummeting into the room below.

Stars falling from heaven.

Mal’akh stared up into the beautiful white light and saw a veil of shimmering jewels fluttering toward him . . . accelerating . . . as if racing to shroud him in their splendor.

Suddenly there was pain.

Everywhere.

Stabbing. Searing. Slashing. Razor-sharp knives piercing soft flesh. Chest, neck, thighs, face. His body tightened all at once, recoiling. His blood-filled mouth cried out as the pain ripped him from his trance. The white light above transformed itself, and suddenly, as if by magic, a dark helicopter was suspended above him, its thundering blades driving an icy wind down into the Temple Room, chilling Mal’akh to the core and dispersing the wisps of incense to the distant corners of the room.

Mal’akh turned his head and saw the Akedah knife lying broken by his side, smashed upon the granite altar, which was covered in a blanket of shattered glass.
Even after everything I did to him . . . Peter Solomon averted the knife. He refused to spill my blood
.

With welling horror, Mal’akh raised his head and peered down along the length of his own body. This living artifact was to have been his great offering. But it lay in tatters. His body was drenched in blood . . . huge shards of glass protruding from his flesh in all directions.

Weakly, Mal’akh lowered his head back to the granite altar and stared up through the open space in the roof. The helicopter was gone now, in its place a silent, wintry moon.

Wide-eyed, Mal’akh lay gasping for breath . . . all alone on the great altar.

CHAPTER
122

The secret
is how to die.

Mal’akh knew it had all gone wrong. There was no brilliant light. No wondrous reception. Only darkness and excruciating pain. Even in his eyes. He could see nothing, and yet he sensed movement all around him. There were voices . . . human voices . . . one of them, strangely, belonging to Robert Langdon.
How can this be?

“She’s okay,” Langdon kept repeating. “Katherine is
fine,
Peter. Your sister is
okay
.”

No,
Mal’akh thought
. Katherine is dead. She must be.

Mal’akh could no longer see, could not tell if his eyes were even open, but he heard the helicopter banking away. An abrupt calm settled through the Temple Room. Mal’akh could feel the smooth rhythms of the earth becoming uneven . . . as if the ocean’s natural tides were being disrupted by a gathering storm.

Chao ab ordo.

Unfamiliar voices were shouting now, talking urgently with Langdon about the laptop and video file.
It’s too late,
Mal’akh knew.
The damage is done.
By now the video was spreading like wildfire into every corner of a shocked world, destroying the future of the brotherhood.
Those most capable of spreading the wisdom must be destroyed.
The ignorance of mankind is what helped the chaos grow. The absence of Light on earth is what nourished the Darkness that awaited Mal’akh.

I have done great deeds, and soon I will be received as a king.

Mal’akh sensed that a lone individual had quietly approached. He knew who it was. He could smell the sacred oils he had rubbed into his father’s shaved body.

“I don’t know if you can hear me,” Peter Solomon whispered in his ear. “But I want you to know something.” He touched a finger to the sacred spot atop Mal’akh’s skull. “What you wrote here . . .” He paused. “This is
not
the Lost Word.”

Of course it is,
Mal’akh thought.
You convinced me of that beyond a doubt.

According to legend, the Lost Word was written in a language so ancient and arcane that mankind had all but forgotten how to read it. This mysterious language, Peter had revealed, was in fact the oldest language on earth.

The language of symbols.

In the idiom of symbology, there was
one
symbol that reigned supreme above all others. The oldest and most universal, this symbol fused all the ancient traditions in a single solitary image that represented the illumination of the Egyptian sun god, the triumph of alchemical gold, the wisdom of the Philosopher’s Stone, the purity of the Rosicrucian Rose, the moment of Creation, the All, the dominance of the astrological sun, and even the omniscient all-seeing eye that hovered atop the unfinished pyramid.

The circumpunct
.
The symbol of the Source. The origin of all things.

This is what Peter had told him moments ago. Mal’akh had been skeptical at first, but then he had looked again at the grid, realizing that the image of the pyramid was pointing
directly
at the lone symbol of the circumpunct—a circle with a dot in its center.
The Masonic Pyramid is a map,
he thought, recalling the legend,
which points to the Lost Word.
It seemed his father was telling the truth after all.

All great truths are simple.

The Lost Word is not a word . . . it is a symbol.

Eagerly, Mal’akh had inscribed the great symbol of the circumpunct on his scalp. As he did so, he felt an upwelling of power and satisfaction.
My masterpiece and offering are complete.
The forces of darkness were waiting for him now. He would be rewarded for his work. This was to be his moment of glory . . .

And yet, at the last instant, everything had gone horribly wrong.

Peter was still behind him now, speaking words that Mal’akh could barely fathom. “I lied to you,” he was saying. “You left me no choice. If I had revealed to you the true Lost Word, you would not have believed me, nor would you have understood.”

The Lost Word is . . . not the circumpunct?

“The truth is,” said Peter, “the Lost Word is known to
all
. . . but recognized by very few.”

The words echoed in Mal’akh’s mind.

“You remain incomplete,” Peter said, gently placing his palm on top of
Mal’akh’s head. “Your work is not yet done. But wherever you are going, please know this . . . you were loved.”

For some reason, the gentle touch of his father’s hand felt like it was burning through him like a potent catalyst that was initiating a chemical reaction inside Mal’akh’s body. Without warning, he felt a rush of blistering energy surging through his physical shell, as if every cell in his body were now dissolving.

In an instant, all of his worldly pain evaporated.

Transformation
.
It’s happening.

I am gazing down upon myself, a wreck of bloody flesh on the sacred slab of granite. My father is kneeling behind me, holding my lifeless head with his one remaining hand.

I feel an upwelling of rage . . . and confusion.

This is not a moment for compassion . . . it is for revenge, for transformation . . . and yet still my father refuses to submit, refuses to fulfill his role, refuses to channel his pain and anger through the knife blade and into my heart.

I am trapped here, hovering . . . tethered to my earthly shell.

My father gently runs a soft palm across my face to close my fading eyes.

I feel the tether release.

A billowing veil materializes around me, thickening and dimming the light, hiding the world from view. Suddenly time accelerates, and I am plunging into an abyss far darker than any I have ever imagined. Here, in the barren void, I hear a whispering . . . I sense a gathering force. It strengthens, mounting at a startling rate, surrounding me. Ominous and powerful. Dark and commanding.

I am not alone here.

This is my triumph, my grand reception. And yet, for some reason, I am filled not with joy, but rather with boundless fear.

It is nothing like I expect.

The force is churning now, swirling around me with commanding strength, threatening to tear me apart. Suddenly, without warning, the blackness gathers itself like a great prehistoric beast and rears up before me.

I am facing all the dark souls who have gone before.

I am screaming in infinite terror . . . as the darkness swallows me whole.