by Dan Brown
“Peter,” she said, “you already told me that the Egyptians understood levers and pulleys long before Newton, and that the early alchemists did work on a par with modern chemistry, but so what? Today’s physics deals with concepts that would have been unimaginable to the ancients.”
“Like what?”
“Well… like entanglement theory, for one!” Subatomic research had now proven categorically that all matter was interconnected… entangled in a single unified mesh… a kind of universal oneness. “You’re telling me the ancients sat around discussing entanglement theory?”
“Absolutely!” Peter said, pushing his long, dark bangs out of his eyes. “Entanglement was at the core of primeval beliefs. Its names are as old as history itself… Dharmakaya, Tao, Brahman. In fact, man’s oldest spiritual quest was to perceive his own entanglement, to sense his own interconnection with all things. He has always wanted to become ‘one’ with the universe… to achieve the state of ‘at-one-ment.’ ” Her brother raised his eyebrows. “To this day, Jews and Christians still strive for ‘atonement’… although most of us have forgotten it is actually ‘at-one-ment’ we’re seeking.”
Katherine sighed, having forgotten how hard it was to argue with a man so well versed in history. “Okay, but you’re talking in generalities. I’m talking specific physics.”
“Then be specific.” His keen eyes challenged her now.
“Okay, how about something as simple as polarity — the positive/negative balance of the subatomic realm. Obviously, the ancients didn’t underst —”
“Hold on!” Her brother pulled down a large dusty text, which he dropped loudly on the library table. “Modern polarity is nothing but the ‘dual world’ described by Krishna here in the Bhagavad Gita over two thousand years ago. A dozen other books in here, including the Kybalion, talk about binary systems and the opposing forces in nature.”
Katherine was skeptical. “Okay, but if we talk about modern discoveries in subatomics — the Heisenberg uncertainty principle, for example —”
“Then we must look here,” Peter said, striding down his long bookshelf and pulling out another text. “The sacred Hindu Vendantic scriptures known as the Upanishads.” He dropped the tome heavily on the first. “Heisenberg and Schrödinger studied this text and credited it with helping them formulate some of their theories.”
The showdown continued for several minutes, and the stack of dusty books on the desk grew taller and taller. Finally Katherine threw up her hands in frustration. “Okay! You made your point, but I want to study cutting-edge theoretical physics. The future of science! I really doubt Krishna or Vyasa had much to say about superstring theory and multidimensional cosmological models.”
“You’re right. They didn’t.” Her brother paused, a smile crossing his lips. “If you’re talking superstring theory…” He wandered over to the bookshelf yet again. “Then you’re talking this book here.” He heaved out a colossal leather-bound book and dropped it with a crash onto the desk. “Thirteenth-century translation of the original medieval Aramaic.”
“Superstring theory in the thirteenth century?!” Katherine wasn’t buying it. “Come on!”
Superstring theory was a brand-new cosmological model. Based on the most recent scientific observations, it suggested the multidimensional universe was made up not of three… but rather of ten dimensions, which all interacted like vibrating strings, similar to resonating violin strings.
Katherine waited as her brother heaved open the book, ran through the ornately printed table of contents, and then flipped to a spot near the beginning of the book. “Read this.” He pointed to a faded page of text and diagrams.
Dutifully, Katherine studied the page. The translation was old-fashioned and very hard to read, but to her utter amazement, the text and drawings clearly outlined the exact same universe heralded by modern superstring theory — a ten-dimensional universe of resonating strings. As she continued reading, she suddenly gasped and recoiled. “My God, it even describes how six of the dimensions are entangled and act as one?!” She took a frightened step backward. “What is this book?!”
Her brother grinned. “Something I’m hoping you’ll read one day.” He flipped back to the title page, where an ornately printed plate bore three words.
The Complete Zohar.
Although Katherine had never read the Zohar, she knew it was the fundamental text of early Jewish mysticism, once believed so potent that it was reserved only for the most erudite rabbis.
Katherine eyed the book. “You’re saying the early mystics knew their universe had ten dimensions?”
“Absolutely.” He motioned to the page’s illustration of ten intertwined circles called Sephiroth. “Obviously, the nomenclature is esoteric, but the physics is very advanced.”
Katherine didn’t know how to respond. “But… then why don’t more people study this?”
Her brother smiled. “They will.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Katherine, we have been born into wonderful times. A change is coming. Human beings are poised on the threshold of a new age when they will begin turning their eyes back to nature and to the old ways… back to the ideas in books like the Zohar and other ancient texts from around the world. Powerful truth has its own gravity and eventually pulls people back to it. There will come a day when modern science begins in earnest to study the wisdom of the ancients… that will be the day that mankind begins to find answers to the big questions that still elude him.”
That night, Katherine eagerly began reading her brother’s ancient texts and quickly came to understand that he was right. The ancients possessed profound scientific wisdom. Today’s science was not so much making “discoveries” as it was making “rediscoveries.” Mankind, it seemed, had once grasped the true nature of the universe… but had let go… and forgotten.
Modern physics can help us remember! This quest had become Katherine’s mission in life — to use advanced science to rediscover the lost wisdom of the ancients. It was more than academic thrill that kept her motivated. Beneath it all was her conviction that the world needed this understanding… now more than ever.
At the rear of the lab, Katherine saw her brother’s white lab coat hanging on its hook along with her own. Reflexively, she pulled out her phone to check for messages. Nothing. A voice echoed again in her memory. That which your brother believes is hidden in D.C.… it can be found. Sometimes a legend that endures for centuries… endures for a reason.
“No,” Katherine said aloud. “It can’t possibly be real.”
Sometimes a legend was just that — a legend.
CHAPTER 16
Security chief Trent Anderson stormed back toward the Capitol Rotunda, fuming at the failure of his security team. One of his men had just found a sling and an army-surplus jacket in an alcove near the east portico.
The goddamn guy walked right out of here!
Anderson had already assigned teams to start scanning exterior video, but by the time they found anything, this guy would be long gone.
Now, as Anderson entered the Rotunda to survey the damage, he saw that the situation had been contained as well as could be expected. All four entrances to the Rotunda were closed with as inconspicuous a method of crowd control as Security had at its disposal — a velvet swag, an apologetic guard, and a sign that read THIS ROOM TEMPORARILY CLOSED FOR CLEANING. The dozen or so witnesses were all being herded into a group on the eastern perimeter of the room, where the guards were collecting cell phones and cameras; the last thing Anderson needed was for one of these people to send a cell-phone snapshot to CNN.
One of the detained witnesses, a tall, dark-haired man in a tweed sport coat, was trying to break away from the group to speak to the chief. The man was currently in a heated discussion with the guards.
“I’ll speak to him in a moment,” Anderson called over to the guards. “For now, please hold everyone in the main lobby until we sort this out.”
Anderson turned
his eyes now to the hand, which stood at attention in the middle of the room. For the love of God. In fifteen years on security detail for the Capitol Building, he had seen some strange things. But nothing like this.
Forensics had better get here fast and get this thing out of my building.
Anderson moved closer, seeing that the bloody wrist had been skewered on a spiked wooden base to make the hand stand up. Wood and flesh, he thought. Invisible to metal detectors. The only metal was a large gold ring, which Anderson assumed had either been wanded or casually pulled off the dead finger by the suspect as if it were his own.
Anderson crouched down to examine the hand. It looked as if it had belonged to a man of about sixty. The ring bore some kind of ornate seal with a two-headed bird and the number 33. Anderson didn’t recognize it. What really caught his eye were the tiny tattoos on the tips of the thumb and index finger.
A goddamn freak show.
“Chief?” One of the guards hurried over, holding out a phone. “Personal call for you. Security switchboard just patched it through.”
Anderson looked at him like he was insane. “I’m in the middle of something here,” he growled.
The guard’s face was pale. He covered the mouthpiece and whispered. “It’s CIA.”
Anderson did a double take. CIA heard about this already?!
“It’s their Office of Security.”
Anderson stiffened. Holy shit. He glanced uneasily at the phone in the guard’s hand.
In Washington’s vast ocean of intelligence agencies, the CIA’s Office of Security was something of a Bermuda Triangle — a mysterious and treacherous region from which all who knew of it steered clear whenever possible. With a seemingly self-destructive mandate, the OS had been created by the CIA for one strange purpose — to spy on the CIA itself. Like a powerful internal-affairs office, the OS monitored all CIA employees for illicit behavior: misappropriation of funds, selling of secrets, stealing classified technologies, and use of illegal torture tactics, to name a few.
They spy on America’s spies.
With investigative carte blanche in all matters of national security, the OS had a long and potent reach. Anderson could not fathom why they would be interested in this incident at the Capitol, or how they had found out so fast. Then again, the OS was rumored to have eyes everywhere. For all Anderson knew, they had a direct feed of U.S. Capitol security cameras. This incident did not match OS directives in any way, although the timing of the call seemed too coincidental to Anderson to be about anything other than this severed hand.
“Chief?” The guard was holding the phone out to him like a hot potato. “You need to take this call right now. It’s…” He paused and silently mouthed two syllables. “SA-TO.”
Anderson squinted hard at the man. You’ve got to be kidding. He felt his palms begin to sweat. Sato is handling this personally?
The overlord of the Office of Security — Director Inoue Sato — was a legend in the intelligence community. Born inside the fences of a Japanese internment camp in Manzanar, California, in the aftermath of Pearl Harbor, Sato was a toughened survivor who had never forgotten the horrors of war, or the perils of insufficient military intelligence. Now, having risen to one of the most secretive and potent posts in U.S. intelligence work, Sato had proven an uncompromising patriot as well as a terrifying enemy to any who stood in opposition. Seldom seen but universally feared, the OS director cruised the deep waters of the CIA like a leviathan who surfaced only to devour its prey.
Anderson had met Sato face-to-face only once, and the memory of looking into those cold black eyes was enough to make him count his blessings that he would be having this conversation by telephone.
Anderson took the phone and brought it to his lips. “Director Sato,” he said in as friendly a voice as possible. “This is Chief Anderson. How may I —”
“There is a man in your building to whom I need to speak immediately.” The OS director’s voice was unmistakable — like gravel grating on a chalkboard. Throat cancer surgery had left Sato with a profoundly unnerving intonation and a repulsive neck scar to match. “I want you to find him for me immediately.”
That’s all? You want me to page someone? Anderson felt suddenly hopeful that maybe the timing of this call was pure coincidence. “Who are you looking for?”
“His name is Robert Langdon. I believe he is inside your building right now.”
Langdon? The name sounded vaguely familiar, but Anderson couldn’t quite place it. He was now wondering if Sato knew about the hand. “I’m in the Rotunda at the moment,” Anderson said, “but we’ve got some tourists here… hold on.” He lowered his phone and called out to the group, “Folks, is there anyone here by the name of Langdon?”
After a short silence, a deep voice replied from the crowd of tourists. “Yes. I’m Robert Langdon.”
Sato knows all. Anderson craned his neck, trying to see who had spoken up.
The same man who had been trying to get to him earlier stepped away from the others. He looked distraught… but familiar somehow.
Anderson raised the phone to his lips. “Yes, Mr. Langdon is here.”
“Put him on,” Sato said coarsely.
Anderson exhaled. Better him than me. “Hold on.” He waved Langdon over. As Langdon approached, Anderson suddenly realized why the name sounded familiar. I just read an article about this guy. What the hell is he doing here?
Despite Langdon’s six-foot frame and athletic build, Anderson saw none of the cold, hardened edge he expected from a man famous for surviving an explosion at the Vatican and a manhunt in Paris. This guy eluded the French police… in loafers? He looked more like someone Anderson would expect to find hearthside in some Ivy League library reading Dostoyevsky.
“Mr. Langdon?” Anderson said, walking halfway to meet him. “I’m Chief Anderson. I handle security here. You have a phone call.”
“For me?” Langdon’s blue eyes looked anxious and uncertain.
Anderson held out the phone. “It’s the CIA’s Office of Security.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
Anderson smiled ominously. “Well, sir, it’s heard of you.”
Langdon put the phone to his ear. “Yes?”
“Robert Langdon?” Director Sato’s harsh voice blared in the tiny speaker, loud enough that Anderson could hear.
“Yes?” Langdon replied.
Anderson stepped closer to hear what Sato was saying.
“This is Director Inoue Sato, Mr. Langdon. I am handling a crisis at the moment, and I believe you have information that can help me.”
Langdon looked hopeful. “Is this about Peter Solomon? Do you know where he is?!”
Peter Solomon? Anderson felt entirely out of the loop.
“Professor,” Sato replied. “I am asking the questions at the moment.”
“Peter Solomon is in very serious trouble,” Langdon exclaimed. “Some madman just —”
“Excuse me,” Sato said, cutting him off.
Anderson cringed. Bad move. Interrupting a top CIA official’s line of questioning was a mistake only a civilian would make. I thought Langdon was supposed to be smart.
“Listen carefully,” Sato said. “As we speak, this nation is facing a crisis. I have been advised that you have information that can help me avert it. Now, I am going to ask you again. What information do you possess?”
Langdon looked lost. “Director, I have no idea what you’re talking about. All I’m concerned with is finding Peter and —”
“No idea?” Sato challenged.
Anderson saw Langdon bristle. The professor now took a more aggressive tone. “No, sir. No damned idea at all.” Anderson winced. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Robert Langdon had just made a very costly mistake in dealing with Director Sato.
Incredibly, Anderson now realized it was too late. To his astonishment, Director Sato had just appeared on the far side of the Rotunda, and was approaching fast behind Langdon. Sato is in the building! Anderson held his b
reath and braced for impact. Langdon has no idea.
The director’s dark form drew closer, phone held to ear, black eyes locked like two lasers on Langdon’s back.
Langdon clutched the police chief’s phone and felt a rising frustration as the OS director pressed him. “I’m sorry, sir,” Langdon said tersely, “but I can’t read your mind. What do you want from me?”
“What do I want from you?” The OS director’s grating voice crackled through Langdon’s phone, scraping and hollow, like that of a dying man with strep throat.
As the man spoke, Langdon felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned and his eyes were drawn down… directly into the face of a tiny Japanese woman. She had a fierce expression, a mottled complexion, thinning hair, tobacco-stained teeth, and an unsettling white scar that sliced horizontally across her neck. The woman’s gnarled hand held a cell phone to her ear, and when her lips moved, Langdon heard the familiar raspy voice through his cell phone.
“What do I want from you, Professor?” She calmly closed her phone and glared at him. “For starters, you can stop calling me ‘sir.’ ”
Langdon stared, mortified. “Ma’am, I… apologize. Our connection was poor and —”
“Our connection was fine, Professor,” she said. “And I have an extremely low tolerance for bullshit.”
CHAPTER 17
Director Inoue Sato was a fearsome specimen — a bristly tempest of a woman who stood a mere four feet ten inches. She was bone thin, with jagged features and a dermatological condition known as vitiligo, which gave her complexion the mottled look of coarse granite blotched with lichen. Her rumpled blue pantsuit hung on her emaciated frame like a loose sack, the open-necked blouse doing nothing to hide the scar across her neck. It had been noted by her coworkers that Sato’s only acquiescence to physical vanity appeared to be that of plucking her substantial mustache.
For over a decade, Inoue Sato had overseen the CIA’s Office of Security. She possessed an off-the-chart IQ and chillingly accurate instincts, a combination which girded her with a self-confidence that made her terrifying to anyone who could not perform the impossible. Not even a terminal diagnosis of aggressive throat cancer had knocked her from her perch. The battle had cost her one month of work, half her voice box, and a third of her body weight, but she returned to the office as if nothing had happened. Inoue Sato appeared to be indestructible.
