Dan Brown - The Lost Symbol

“You do realize,” Mal’akh said, sipping his tea, “that you and I met many years ago.”

Solomon looked surprised. “Really? I don’t recall.”

“It was quite a long time ago.” And Christopher Abaddon is not my real name.

“I’m so sorry. My mind must be getting old. Remind me how I know you?”

Mal’akh smiled one last time at the man he hated more than any other man on earth. “It’s unfortunate that you don’t recall.”

In one fluid motion, Mal’akh pulled a small device from his pocket and extended it outward, driving it hard into the man’s chest. There was a flash of blue light, the sharp sizzle of the stun-gun discharge, and a gasp of pain as one million volts of electricity coursed through Peter Solomon’s body. His eyes went wide, and he slumped motionless in his chair. Mal’akh stood up now, towering over the man, salivating like a lion about to consume his injured prey.

Solomon was gasping, straining to breathe.

Mal’akh saw fear in his victim’s eyes and wondered how many people had ever seen the great Peter Solomon cower. Mal’akh savored the scene for several long seconds. He took a sip of tea, waiting for the man to catch his breath.

Solomon was twitching, attempting to speak. “Wh-why?” he finally managed.

“Why do you think?” Mal’akh demanded.

Solomon looked truly bewildered. “You want… money?”

Money? Mal’akh laughed and took another sip of tea. “I gave the Masons millions of dollars; I have no need of wealth.” I come for wisdom, and he offers me wealth.

“Then what… do you want?”

“You possess a secret. You will share it with me tonight.”

Solomon struggled to lift his chin so he could look Mal’akh in the eye. “I don’t… understand.”

“No more lies!” Mal’akh shouted, advancing to within inches of the paralyzed man. “I know what is hidden here in Washington.”

Solomon’s gray eyes were defiant. “I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

Mal’akh took another sip of tea and set the cup on a coaster. “You spoke those same words to me ten years ago, on the night of your mother’s death.”

Solomon’s eyes shot wide open. “You…?”

“She didn’t have to die. If you had given me what I demanded…”

The older man’s face contorted in a mask of horrified recognition… and disbelief.

“I warned you,” Mal’akh said, “if you pulled the trigger, I would haunt you forever.”

“But you’re —”

Mal’akh lunged, driving the Taser hard into Solomon’s chest again. There was another flash of blue light, and Solomon went completely limp.

Mal’akh put the Taser back in his pocket and calmly finished his tea. When he was done, he dabbed his lips with a monogrammed linen napkin and peered down at his victim. “Shall we go?”

Solomon’s body was motionless, but his eyes were wide and engaged.

Mal’akh got down close and whispered in the man’s ear. “I’m taking you to a place where only truth remains.”

Without another word, Mal’akh wadded up the monogrammed napkin and stuffed it into Solomon’s mouth. Then he hoisted the limp man onto his broad shoulders and headed for the private elevator. On his way out, he picked up Solomon’s iPhone and keys from the hall table.

Tonight you will tell me all your secrets, Mal’akh thought. Including why you left me for dead all those years ago.

SB level.

Senate basement.

Robert Langdon’s claustrophobia gripped him more tightly with every hastening step of their descent. As they moved deeper into the building’s original foundation, the air became heavy, and the ventilation seemed nonexistent. The walls down here were an uneven blend of stone and yellow brick.

Director Sato typed on her BlackBerry as they walked. Langdon sensed a suspicion in her guarded manner, but the feeling was quickly becoming reciprocal. Sato still hadn’t told him how she knew Langdon was here tonight. An issue of national security? He had a hard time understanding any relation between ancient mysticism and national security. Then again, he had a hard time understanding much of anything about this situation.

Peter Solomon entrusted me with a talisman… a deluded lunatic tricked me into bringing it to the Capitol and wants me to use it to unlock a mystical portal… possibly in a room called SBB13.

Not exactly a clear picture.

As they pressed on, Langdon tried to shake from his mind the horrible image of Peter’s tattooed hand, transformed into the Hand of the Mysteries. The gruesome picture was accompanied by Peter’s voice: The Ancient Mysteries, Robert, have spawned many myths… but that does not mean they themselves are fiction.

Despite a career studying mystical symbols and history, Langdon had always struggled intellectually with the idea of the Ancient Mysteries and their potent promise of apotheosis.

Admittedly, the historical record contained indisputable evidence that secret wisdom had been passed down through the ages, apparently having come out of the Mystery Schools in early Egypt. This knowledge moved underground, resurfacing in Renaissance Europe, where, according to most accounts, it was entrusted to an elite group of scientists within the walls of Europe’s premier scientific think tank — the Royal Society of London — enigmatically nicknamed the Invisible College.

This concealed “college” quickly became a brain trust of the world’s most enlightened minds — those of Isaac Newton, Francis Bacon, Robert Boyle, and even Benjamin Franklin. Today, the list of modern “fellows” was no less impressive — Einstein, Hawking, Bohr, and Celsius. These great minds had all made quantum leaps in human understanding, advances that, according to some, were the result of their exposure to ancient wisdom hidden within the Invisible College. Langdon doubted this was true, although certainly there had been an unusual amount of “mystical work” taking place within those walls.

The discovery of Isaac Newton’s secret papers in 1936 had stunned the world by revealing Newton’s all-consuming passion for the study of ancient alchemy and mystical wisdom. Newton’s private papers included a handwritten letter to Robert Boyle in which he exhorted Boyle to keep “high silence” regarding the mystical knowledge they had learned. “It cannot be communicated,” Newton wrote, “without immense damage to the world.”

The meaning of this strange warning was still being debated today.

“Professor,” Sato said suddenly, glancing up from her BlackBerry, “despite your insistence that you have no idea why you’re here tonight, perhaps you could shed light on the meaning of Peter Solomon’s ring.”

“I can try,” Langdon said, refocusing.

She produced the specimen bag and handed it to Langdon. “Tell me about the symbols on his ring.”

Langdon examined the familiar ring as they moved through the deserted passageway. Its face bore the image of a double-headed phoenix holding a banner proclaiming ORDO AB CHAO,and its chest was emblazoned with the number 33. “The double-headed phoenix with the number thirty-three is the emblem of the highest Masonic degree.” Technically, this prestigious degree existed solely within the Scottish Rite. Nonetheless, the rites and degrees of Masonry were a complex hierarchy that Langdon had no desire to detail for Sato tonight. “Essentially, the thirty-third degree is an elite honor reserved for a small group of highly accomplished Masons. All the other degrees can be attained by successful completion of the previous degree, but ascension to the thirty-third degree is controlled. It’s by invitation only.”