Dan Brown - The Lost Symbol

“Right,” Peter said. “So perhaps you should look there for the first rays of light.” He motioned to the grid. “In the northeast corner.”

Langdon returned his eyes to the page, moving his gaze to the upper right or northeast corner. The symbol in that corner was ↓.

“A downward-pointing arrow,” Langdon said, trying to grasp Solomon’s point. “Which means… beneath Heredom.”

“No, Robert, not beneath, ” Solomon replied. “Think. This grid is not a metaphorical maze. It’s a map . And on a map, a directional arrow that points down means —”

“South,” Langdon exclaimed, startled.

“Exactly!” Solomon replied, grinning now with excitement. “Due south! On a map, down is south. Moreover, on a map, the word Heredom would not be a metaphor for heaven, it would be the name of a geographic location.”

“The House of the Temple? You’re saying this map is pointing… due south of this building?”

“Praise God!” Solomon said, laughing. “Light dawns at last.”

Langdon studied the grid. “But, Peter… even if you’re right, due south of this building could be anywhere on a longitude that’s over twenty-four thousand miles long.”

“No, Robert. You are ignoring the legend, which claims the Lost Word is buried in D.C. That shortens the line substantially. In addition, legend also claims that a large stone sits atop the opening of the staircase… and that this stone is engraved with a message in an ancient language… as a kind of marker so the worthy can find it.”

Langdon was having trouble taking any of this seriously, and while he didn’t know D.C. well enough to picture what was due south of their current location, he was pretty certain there was no huge engraved stone atop a buried staircase.

“The message inscribed on the stone,” Peter said, “is right here before our eyes.” He tapped the third row of the grid before Langdon. “ This is the inscription, Robert! You’ve solved the puzzle!”

Dumbfounded, Langdon studied the seven symbols.

Solved? Langdon had no idea whatsoever what these seven disparate symbols could possibly mean, and he was damned sure they were not engraved anywhere in the nation’s capital… particularly on a giant stone over a staircase.

“Peter,” he said, “I don’t see how this sheds any light at all. I know of no stone in D.C. engraved with this… message.”

Solomon patted him on the shoulder. “You have walked past it and never seen it. We all have. It is sitting in plain view, like the mysteries themselves. And tonight, when I saw these seven symbols, I realized in an instant that the legend was true. The Lost Word is buried in D.C.… and it does rest at the bottom of a long staircase beneath an enormous engraved stone.”

Mystified, Langdon remained silent.

“Robert, tonight I believe you have earned the right to know the truth.”

Langdon stared at Peter, trying to process what he had just heard. “You’re going to tell me where the Lost Word is buried?”

“No,” Solomon said, standing up with a smile. “I’m going to show you.”

Five minutes later, Langdon was buckling himself into the backseat of the Escalade beside Peter Solomon. Simkins climbed in behind the wheel as Sato approached across the parking lot.

“Mr. Solomon?” the director said, lighting a cigarette as she arrived. “I’ve just made the call you requested.”

“And?” Peter asked through his open window.

“I ordered them to give you access. Briefly.”

“Thank you.”

Sato studied him, looking curious. “I must say, it’s a most unusual request.”

Solomon gave an enigmatic shrug.

Sato let it go, circling around to Langdon’s window and rapping with her knuckles.

Langdon lowered the window.

“Professor,” she said, with no hint of warmth. “Your assistance tonight, while reluctant, was critical to our success… and for that, I thank you.” She took a long drag on her cigarette and blew it sideways. “ However, one final bit of advice. The next time a senior administrator of the CIA tells you she has a national-security crisis…” Her eyes flashed black. “Leave the bullshit in Cambridge.”

Langdon opened his mouth to speak, but Director Inoue Sato had already turned and was headed off across the parking lot toward a waiting helicopter.

Simkins glanced over his shoulder, stone-faced. “Are you gentlemen ready?”

“Actually,” Solomon said, “just one moment.” He produced a small, folded piece of dark fabric and handed it to Langdon. “Robert, I’d like you to put this on before we go anywhere.”

Puzzled, Langdon examined the cloth. It was black velvet. As he unfolded it, he realized he was holding a Masonic hoodwink — the traditional blindfold of a first-degree initiate. What the hell?

Peter said, “I’d prefer you not see where we’re going.”

Langdon turned to Peter. “You want to blindfold me for the journey?”

Solomon grinned. “My secret. My rules.”

The breezefelt cold outside CIA headquarters in Langley. Nola Kaye was shivering as she followed sys-sec Rick Parrish across the agency’s moonlit central courtyard.

Where is Rick taking me?

The crisis of the Masonic video had been averted, thank God, but Nola still felt uneasy. The redacted file on the CIA director’s partition remained a mystery, and it was nagging at her. She and Sato would debrief in the morning, and Nola wanted all the facts. Finally, she had called Rick Parrish and demanded his help.

Now, as she followed Rick to some unknown location outside, Nola could not push the bizarre phrases from her memory:

Secret location underground where the… somewhere in Washington, D.C., the coordinates… uncovered an ancient portal that led… warning the pyramid holds dangerous… decipher this engraved symbolon to unveil…

“You and I agree,” Parrish said as they walked, “that the hacker who spidered those keywords was definitely searching for information about the Masonic Pyramid.”

Obviously, Nola thought.

“It turns out, though, the hacker stumbled onto a facet of the Masonic mystery I don’t think he expected.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nola, you know how the CIA director sponsors an internal discussion forum for Agency employees to share their ideas about all kinds of things?”

“Of course.” The forums provided Agency personnel a safe place to chat online about various topics and gave the director a kind of virtual gateway to his staff.

“The director’s forums are hosted on his private partition, and yet in order to provide access to employees of all clearance levels, they’re located outside the director’s classified firewall.”

“What are you getting at?” she demanded as they rounded a corner near the Agency cafeteria.

“In a word…” Parrish pointed into the darkness. “That.”

Nola glanced up. Across the plaza in front of them was a massive metal sculpture glimmering in the moonlight.

In an agency that boasted over five hundred pieces of original art, this sculpture — titled Kryptos — was by far the most famous. Greek for “hidden,” Kryptos was the work of American artist James Sanborn and had become something of a legend here at the CIA.