Dan Brown - The Lost Symbol

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.

“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.