The Lost Symbol

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.