The Lost Symbol rl-3

by Dan Brown

  “A pseudonym!” Langdon declared suddenly, startling even himself. “That’s it! Jeova Sanctus Unus! It’s a pseudonym!”

  “What are you talking about?” Katherine demanded.

  Langdon’s pulse had quickened now. “All night, I’ve been trying to remember what Peter told me about Jeova Sanctus Unus and its relationship to alchemy. Finally I remembered! It’s not about alchemy so much as about an alchemist! A very famous alchemist!”

  Galloway chuckled. “It’s about time, Professor. I mentioned his name twice and also the word pseudonym.”

  Langdon stared at the old dean. “You knew?”

  “Well, I had my suspicions when you told me the engraving said Jeova Sanctus Unus and had been decrypted using Dürer’s alchemical magic square, but when you found the Rose Cross, I was certain. As you probably know, the personal papers of the scientist in question included a very heavily annotated copy of the Rosicrucian manifestos.”

  “Who?” Katherine asked.

  “One of the world’s greatest scientists!” Langdon replied. “He was an alchemist, a member of the Royal Society of London, a Rosicrucian, and he signed some of his most secretive science papers with a pseudonym — ‘Jeova Sanctus Unus’!”

  “One True God?” Katherine said. “Modest guy.”

  “Brilliant guy, actually,” Galloway corrected. “He signed his name that way because, like the ancient Adepts, he understood himself as divine. In addition, because the sixteen letters in Jeova Sanctus Unus could be rearranged to spell his name in Latin, making it a perfect pseudonym.”

  Katherine now looked puzzled. “Jeova Sanctus Unus is an anagram of a famous alchemist’s name in Latin?”

  Langdon grabbed a piece of paper and pencil off the dean’s desk, writing as he talked. “Latin interchanges the letters J for I and the letter V for U, which means Jeova Sanctus Unus can actually be perfectly rearranged to spell this man’s name.”

  Langdon wrote down sixteen letters: Isaacus Neutonuus.

  He handed the slip of paper to Katherine and said, “I think you’ve heard of him.”

  “Isaac Newton?” Katherine demanded, looking at the paper. “That’s what the engraving on the pyramid was trying to tell us!”

  For a moment, Langdon was back in Westminster Abbey, standing at Newton’s pyramidical tomb, where he had experienced a similar epiphany. And tonight, the great scientist surfaces again. It was no coincidence, of course… the pyramids, mysteries, science, hidden knowledge… it was all intertwined. Newton’s name had always been a recurring guidepost for those seeking secret knowledge.

  “Isaac Newton,” Galloway said, “must have something to do with how to decipher the meaning of the pyramid. I can’t imagine what it would be, but —”

  “Genius!” Katherine exclaimed, her eyes going wide. “That’s how we transform the pyramid!”

  “You understand?” Langdon said.

  “Yes!” she said. “I can’t believe we didn’t see it! It has been staring us right in the face. A simple alchemical process. I can transform this pyramid using basic science! Newtonian science!”

  Langdon strained to understand.

  “Dean Galloway,” Katherine said. “If you read the ring, it says —”

  “Stop!” The old dean suddenly raised his finger in the air and motioned for silence. Gently, he cocked his head to the side, as if he were listening to something. After a moment, he stood up abruptly. “My friends, this pyramid obviously has secrets left to reveal. I don’t know what Ms. Solomon is getting at, but if she knows your next step, then I have played my role. Pack up your things and say no more to me. Leave me in darkness for the moment. I would prefer to have no information to share should our visitors try to force me.”

  “Visitors?” Katherine said, listening. “I don’t hear anyone.”

  “You will,” Galloway said, heading for the door. “Hurry.”

  Across town, a cell tower was attempting to contact a phone that lay in pieces on Massachusetts Avenue. Finding no signal, it redirected the call to voice mail.

  “Robert!” Warren Bellamy’s panicked voice shouted. “Where are you?! Call me! Something terrible is happening!”

  CHAPTER 86

  In the cerulean glow of his basement lights, Mal’akh stood at the stone table and continued his preparations. As he worked, his empty stomach growled. He paid no heed. His days of servitude to the whims of his flesh were behind him.

  Transformation requires sacrifice.

  Like many of history’s most spiritually evolved men, Mal’akh had committed to his path by making the noblest of flesh sacrifices. Castration had been less painful than he had imagined. And, he had learned, far more common. Every year, thousands of men underwent surgical gelding — orchiectomy, as the process was known — their motivations ranging from transgender issues, to curbing sexual addictions, to deep-seated spiritual beliefs. For Mal’akh, the reasons were of the highest nature. Like the mythological self-castrated Attis, Mal’akh knew that achieving immortality required a clean break with the material world of male and female.

  The androgyne is one.

  Nowadays, eunuchs were shunned, although the ancients understood the inherent power of this transmutational sacrifice. Even the early Christians had heard Jesus Himself extol its virtues in Matthew 19:12: “There are those who have made themselves eunuchs for the sake of the kingdom of heaven. He who is able to accept this, let him accept it.”

  Peter Solomon had made a flesh sacrifice, although a single hand was a small price in the grand scheme. By night’s end, however, Solomon would be sacrificing much, much more.

  In order to create, I must destroy.

  Such was the nature of polarity.

  Peter Solomon, of course, deserved the fate that awaited him tonight. It would be a fitting end. Long ago, he had played the pivotal role in Mal’akh’s mortal life path. For this reason, Peter had been chosen to play the pivotal role in Mal’akh’s great transformation. This man had earned all the horror and pain he was about to endure. Peter Solomon was not the man the world believed he was.

  He sacrificed his own son.

  Peter Solomon had once presented his son, Zachary, with an impossible choice — wealth or wisdom. Zachary chose poorly. The boy’s decision had begun a chain of events that eventually dragged the young man into the depths of hell. Soganlik Prison. Zachary Solomon had died in that Turkish prison. The whole world knew the story… but what they didn’t know was that Peter Solomon could have saved his son.

  I was there, Mal’akh thought. I heard it all.

  Mal’akh had never forgotten that night. Solomon’s brutal decision had meant the end of his son, Zach, but it had been the birth of Mal’akh.

  Some must die that others may live.

  As the light over Mal’akh’s head began changing color again, he realized the hour was late. He completed his preparations and headed back up the ramp. It was time to attend to matters of the mortal world.

  CHAPTER 87

  All is revealed at the thirty-third degree, Katherine thought as she ran. I know how to transform the pyramid! The answer had been right in front of them all night.

  Katherine and Langdon were alone now, dashing through the cathedral’s annex, following signs for “The Garth.” Now, exactly as the dean had promised, they burst out of the cathedral into a massive, walled-in courtyard.

  The cathedral garth was a cloistered, pentagonal garden with a bronze postmodern fountain. Katherine was amazed how loudly the fountain’s flowing water seemed to be reverberating in the courtyard. Then she realized it was not the fountain she was hearing.

  “Helicopter!” she shouted as a beam of light pierced the night sky above them. “Get under that portico!”

  The dazzling glare of a searchlight flooded the garth just as Langdon and Katherine reached the other side, slipping beneath a Gothic arch into a tunnel that led to the outside lawn. They waited, huddled in the tunnel, as the helicopter passed overhead and began circling the cathedr
al in wide arcs.

  “I guess Galloway was right about hearing visitors,” Katherine said, impressed. Bad eyes make for great ears. Her own ears now pounded rhythmically with her racing pulse.

  “This way,” Langdon said, clutching his daybag and moving through the passage.

  Dean Galloway had given them a single key and a clear set of directions. Unfortunately, when they reached the end of the short tunnel, they found themselves separated from their destination by a wide-open expanse of lawn, currently flooded with light from the helicopter overhead.

  “We can’t get across,” Katherine said.

  “Hold on… look.” Langdon pointed to a black shadow that was materializing on the lawn to their left. The shadow began as an amorphous blob, but it was growing quickly, moving in their direction, becoming more defined, rushing at them faster and faster, stretching, and finally transforming itself into a massive black rectangle crowned by two impossibly tall spires.

  “The cathedral facade is blocking the searchlight,” Langdon said.

  “They’re landing out in front!”

  Langdon grabbed Katherine’s hand. “Run! Now!”

  Inside the cathedral, Dean Galloway felt a lightness in his step that he had not felt in years. He moved through the Great Crossing, down the nave toward the narthex and the front doors.

  He could hear the helicopter hovering in front of the cathedral now, and he imagined its lights coming through the rose window in front of him, throwing spectacular colors all over the sanctuary. He recalled the days when he could see color. Ironically, the lightless void that had become his world had illuminated many things for him. I see more clearly now than ever.

  Galloway had been called to God as a young man and over his lifetime had loved the church as much as any man could. Like many of his colleagues who had given their lives in earnest to God, Galloway was weary. He had spent his life straining to be heard above the din of ignorance.

  What did I expect?

  From the Crusades, to the Inquisition, to American politics — the name Jesus had been hijacked as an ally in all kinds of power struggles. Since the beginning of time, the ignorant had always screamed the loudest, herding the unsuspecting masses and forcing them to do their bidding. They defended their worldly desires by citing Scripture they did not understand. They celebrated their intolerance as proof of their convictions. Now, after all these years, mankind had finally managed to utterly erode everything that had once been so beautiful about Jesus.

  Tonight, encountering the symbol of the Rose Cross had fueled him with great hope, reminding him of the prophecies written in the Rosicrucian manifestos, which Galloway had read countless times in the past and could still recall.

  Chapter One: Jehova will redeem humanity by revealing those secrets which he previously reserved only for the elect.

  Chapter Four: The whole world shall become as one book and all the contradictions of science and theology shall be reconciled.

  Chapter Seven: Before the end of the world, God shall create a great flood of spiritual light to alleviate the suffering of humankind.

  Chapter Eight: Before this revelation is possible, the world must sleep away the intoxication of her poisoned chalice, which was filled with the false life of the theological vine.

  Galloway knew the church had long ago lost her way, and he had dedicated his life to righting her course. Now, he realized, the moment was fast approaching.

  It is always darkest before the dawn.

  CIA field agent Turner Simkins was perched on the strut of the Sikorsky helicopter as it touched down on the frosty grass. He leaped off, joined by his men, and immediately waved the chopper back up into the air to keep an eye on all the exits.

  Nobody leaves this building.

  As the chopper rose back into the night sky, Simkins and his team ran up the stairs to the cathedral’s main entrance. Before he could decide which of the six doors to pound on, one of them swung open.

  “Yes?” a calm voice said from the shadows.

  Simkins could barely make out the hunched figure in priest’s robes. “Are you Dean Colin Galloway?”

  “I am,” the old man replied.

  “I’m looking for Robert Langdon. Have you seen him?”

  The old man stepped forward now, staring past Simkins with eerie blank eyes. “Now, wouldn’t that be a miracle.”

  CHAPTER 88

  Time is running out.

  Security analyst Nola Kaye was already on edge, and the third mug of coffee she was now drinking had begun coursing through her like an electric current.

  No word yet from Sato.

  Finally, her phone rang, and Nola leaped on it. “OS,” she answered. “Nola here.”

  “Nola, it’s Rick Parrish in systems security.”

  Nola slumped. No Sato. “Hi, Rick. What can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to give you a heads-up — our department may have information relevant to what you’re working on tonight.”

  Nola set down her coffee. How the hell do you know what I’m working on tonight? “I beg your pardon?”

  “Sorry, it’s the new CI program we’re beta-testing,” Parrish said. “It keeps flagging your workstation number.”

  Nola now realized what he was talking about. The Agency was currently running a new piece of “collaborative integration” software designed to provide real-time alerts to disparate CIA departments when they happened to be processing related data fields. In an era of time-sensitive terrorist threats, the key to thwarting disaster was often as simple as a heads-up telling you that the guy down the hall was analyzing the very data you needed. As far as Nola was concerned, this CI software had proven more of a distraction than any real help — constant interruption software, she called it.

  “Right, I forgot,” Nola said. “What have you got?” She was positive that nobody else in the building knew about this crisis, much less could be working on it. The only computer work Nola had done tonight was historical research for Sato on esoteric Masonic topics. Nonetheless, she was obliged to play the game.

  “Well, it’s probably nothing,” Parrish said, “but we stopped a hacker tonight, and the CI program keeps suggesting I share the information with you.”

  A hacker? Nola sipped her coffee. “I’m listening.”

  “About an hour ago,” Parrish said, “we snagged a guy named Zoubianis trying to access a file on one of our internal databases. This guy claims it was a job for hire and that he has no idea why he was being paid to access this particular file or even that it was on a CIA server.”

  “Okay.”

  “We finished questioning him, and he’s clean. But here’s the weird thing — the same file he was targeting had been flagged earlier tonight by an internal search engine. It looks like someone piggybacked into our system, ran a specific keyword search, and generated a redaction. The thing is, the keywords they used are really strange. And there’s one in particular that the CI flagged as a high-priority match — one that’s unique to both of our data sets.” He paused. “Do you know the word… symbolon?”

  Nola jolted upright, spilling coffee on her desk.

  “The other keywords are just as unusual,” Parrish continued. “Pyramid, portal —”

  “Get down here,” Nola commanded, mopping up her desk. “And bring everything you’ve got!”

  “These words actually mean something to you?”

  “NOW!”

  CHAPTER 89

  Cathedral College is an elegant, castlelike edifice located adjacent to the National Cathedral. The College of Preachers, as it was originally envisioned by the first Episcopal bishop of Washington, was founded to provide ongoing education for clergy after their ordination. Today, the college offers a wide variety of programs on theology, global justice, healing, and spirituality.

  Langdon and Katherine had made the dash across the lawn and used Galloway’s key to slip inside just as the helicopter rose back over the cathedral, its floodlights turning night back into day.
Now, standing breathless inside the foyer, they surveyed their surroundings. The windows provided sufficient illumination, and Langdon saw no reason to turn the lights on and take a chance of broadcasting their whereabouts to the helicopter overhead. As they moved down the central hallway, they passed a series of conference halls, classrooms, and sitting areas. The interior reminded Langdon of the neo-Gothic buildings of Yale University — breathtaking on the outside, and yet surprisingly utilitarian on the inside, their period elegance having been retrofitted to endure heavy foot traffic.

  “Down here,” Katherine said, motioning toward the far end of the hall.

  Katherine had yet to share with Langdon her new revelation regarding the pyramid, but apparently the reference to Isaacus Neutonuus had sparked it. All she had said as they crossed the lawn was that the pyramid could be transformed using simple science. Everything she needed, she believed, could probably be found in this building. Langdon had no idea what she needed or how Katherine intended to transform a solid piece of granite or gold, but considering he had just witnessed a cube metamorphose into a Rosicrucian cross, he was willing to have faith.

  They reached the end of the hall and Katherine frowned, apparently not seeing what she wanted. “You said this building has dormitory facilities?”

  “Yes, for residential conferences.”

  “So they must have a kitchen in here somewhere, right?”

  “You’re hungry?”

  She frowned back at him. “No, I need a lab.”

  Of course you do. Langdon spotted a descending staircase that bore a promising symbol. America’s favorite pictogram.

  The basement kitchen was industrial looking — lots of stainless steel and big bowls — clearly designed to cook for large groups. The kitchen had no windows. Katherine closed the door and flipped on the lights. The exhaust fans came on automatically.