The Lost Symbol

Once the first floor was secure, Simkins sent two agents to search upstairs. Meanwhile, he found a set of basement stairs off the kitchen and descended. At the bottom of the stairs, he threw on the lights. The basement was spacious and spotless, as if it were hardly ever used. Boilers, bare cement walls, a few boxes. Nothing here at all. Simkins headed back up to the kitchen just as his men were coming down from the second floor. Everyone shook their heads.

The house was deserted.

No one home. And no more bodies.

Simkins radioed Sato with the all-clear and the grim update.

When he got to the foyer, Sato was already climbing the stairs onto the porch. Warren Bellamy was visible behind her, sitting dazed and alone in the helicopter with Sato’s titanium briefcase at his feet. The OS director’s secure laptop provided her with worldwide access to CIA computer systems via encrypted satellite uplinks. Earlier tonight, she had used this computer to share with Bellamy some kind of information that had stunned the man into cooperating fully. Simkins had no idea what Bellamy had seen, but whatever it was, the Architect had been visibly shell-shocked ever since.

As Sato entered the foyer, she paused a moment, bowing her head over Hartmann’s body. A moment later, she raised her eyes and fixed them on Simkins. “No sign of Langdon or Katherine? Or Peter Solomon?”

Simkins shook his head. “If they’re still alive, he took them with him.”

“Did you see a computer in the house?”

“Yes, ma’am. In the office.”

“Show me.”

Simkins led Sato out of the foyer and into the living room. The plush carpet was covered with broken glass from the shattered bay window. They walked past a fireplace, a large painting, and several bookshelves to an office door. The office was wood paneled, with an antique desk and a large computer monitor. Sato walked around behind the desk and eyed the screen, immediately scowling.

“Damn it,” she said under her breath.

Simkins circled around and looked at the screen. It was blank. “What’s wrong?”

Sato pointed to an empty docking station on the desk. “He uses a laptop. He took it with him.”

Simkins didn’t follow. “Does he have information you want to see?”

“No,” Sato replied, her tone grave. “He has information I want nobody to see.”

Downstairs in the hidden basement, Katherine Solomon had heard the sounds of helicopter blades followed by breaking glass and heavy boots on the floor above her. She tried to cry out for help, but the gag in her mouth made it impossible. She could barely make a sound. The harder she tried, the faster the blood began flowing from her elbow.

She was feeling short of breath and a little dizzy.

Katherine knew she needed to calm down. Use your mind, Katherine. With all of her intention, she coaxed herself into a meditative state.

Robert Langdon’s mind floated through the emptiness of space. He peered into the infinite void, searching for any points of reference. He found nothing.

Total darkness. Total silence. Total peace.

There was not even the pull of gravity to tell him which way was up.

His body was gone.

This must be death.

Time seemed to be telescoping, stretching and compressing, as if it had no bearings in this place. He had lost all track of how much time had passed.

Ten seconds? Ten minutes? Ten days?

Suddenly, however, like distant fiery explosions in far-off galaxies, memories began to materialize, billowing toward Langdon like shock waves across a vast nothingness.

All at once, Robert Langdon began to remember. The images tore through him. vivid and disturbing. He was staring up at a face that was covered with tattoos. A pair of powerful hands lifted his head and smashed it into the floor.

Pain erupted. and then darkness.

Gray light.

Throbbing.

Wisps of memory. Langdon was being dragged, half conscious, down, down, down. His captor was chanting something.

Verbum significatium. Verbum omnificum. Verbum perdo.

CHAPTER 110

Director Sato stood alone in the study, waiting while the CIA satellite-imaging division processed her request. One of the luxuries of working in the D.C. area was the satellite coverage. With luck, one of them might have been properly positioned to get photos of this home tonight. possibly capturing a vehicle leaving the place in the last half hour.

“Sorry, ma’am,” the satellite technician said. “No coverage of those coordinates tonight. Do you want to make a reposition request?”

“No thanks. Too late.” She hung up.

Sato exhaled, now having no idea how they would figure out where their target had gone. She walked out to the foyer, where her men had bagged Agent Hartmann’s body and were carrying it toward the chopper. Sato had ordered Agent Simkins to gather his men and prepare for the return to Langley, but Simkins was in the living room on his hands and knees. He looked like he was ill.

“You okay?”