The Lost Symbol

Katherine Solomon trembled in silence on the floor of Mal’akh’s dining room. The sharp wire around her wrists and ankles had already cut into her, and the slightest movements seemed only to tighten her bonds.

The tattooed man had brutally knocked Langdon unconscious and dragged his limp body across the floor along with his leather bag and the stone pyramid. Where they had gone, Katherine had no idea. The agent who had accompanied them was dead. She had not heard a sound in many minutes, and she wondered if the tattooed man and Langdon were still inside the house. She had been trying to scream for help, but with each attempt, the rag in her mouth crept back dangerously closer to her windpipe.

Now she felt approaching footsteps on the floor, and she turned her head, hoping against hope that someone was coming to help. The massive silhouette of her captor materialized in the hallway. Katherine recoiled as she flashed on the image of him standing in her family home ten years earlier.

He killed my family.

Now he strode toward her. Langdon was nowhere to be seen. The man crouched down and gripped her around the waist, hoisting her roughly onto his shoulder. The wire sliced into her wrists, and the rag muffled her muted cries of pain. He carried her down the hallway toward the living room, where, earlier today, the two of them had calmly sipped tea together.

Where is he taking me?!

He carried Katherine across the living room and stopped directly in front of the large oil painting of the Three Graces that she had admired this afternoon.

“You mentioned you liked this painting,” the man whispered, his lips practically touching her ear. “I’m glad. It may be the last thing of beauty you see.”

With that, he reached out and pressed his palm into the right side of the enormous frame. To Katherine’s shock, the painting rotated into the wall, turning on a central pivot like a revolving door. A hidden doorway.

Katherine tried to wriggle free, but the man held her firmly, carrying her through the opening behind the canvas. As the Three Graces pivoted shut behind them, she could see heavy insulation on the back of the canvas. Whatever sounds were made back here were apparently not meant to be heard by the outside world.

The space behind the painting was cramped, more like a hallway than a room. The man carried her to the far side and opened a heavy door, carrying her through it onto a small landing. Katherine found herself looking down a narrow ramp into a deep basement. She drew a breath to scream, but the rag was choking her.

The incline was steep and narrow. The walls on either side were made of cement, awash in a bluish light that seemed to emanate from below. The air that wafted up was warm and pungent, laden with an eerie blend of smells. the sharp bite of chemicals, the smooth calm of incense, the earthy musk of human sweat, and, pervading it all, a distinct aura of visceral, animal fear.

“Your science impressed me,” the man whispered as they reached the bottom of the ramp. “I hope mine impresses you.”

CHAPTER 99

CIA field agent Turner Simkins crouched in the darkness of Franklin Park and kept his steady gaze on Warren Bellamy. Nobody had taken the bait yet, but it was still early.

Simkins’s transceiver beeped, and he activated it, hoping one of his men had spotted something. But it was Sato. She had new information.

Simkins listened and agreed with her concern. “Hold on,” he said. “I’ll see if I can get a visual.” He crawled through the bushes in which he was hiding and peered back in the direction from which he had entered the square. After some maneuvering, he finally opened a sight line.

Holy shit.

He was staring at a building that looked like an Old World mosque. Nestled between two much larger buildings, the Moorish facade was made of gleaming terra-cotta tile laid in intricate multicolored designs. Above the three massive doors, two tiers of lancet windows looked as if Arabian archers might appear and open fire if anyone approached uninvited.

“I see it,” Simkins said.

“Any activity?”

“Nothing.”

“Good. I need you to reposition and watch it very carefully. It’s called the Almas Shrine Temple, and it’s the headquarters of a mystical order.”

Simkins had worked in the D.C. area for a long time but was not familiar with this temple or any ancient mystical order headquartered on Franklin Square.

“This building,” Sato said, “belongs to a group called the Ancient Arabic Order of Nobles of the Mystic Shrine.”

“Never heard of them.”

“I think you have,” Sato said. “They’re an appendant body of the Masons, more commonly known as the Shriners.”

Simkins shot a dubious glance at the ornate building. The Shriners? The guys who build hospitals for kids? He could imagine no “order” less ominous sounding than a fraternity of philanthropists who wore little red fezzes and marched in parades.