The Secret of Secrets

Chapter 1

Robert Langdon awoke peacefully, enjoying the gentle strains of classical music from his phone’s alarm on the bedside table. Grieg’s “Morning Mood” was probably an obvious choice, but he had always considered it the perfect four minutes of music to start his day. As the woodwinds swelled, Langdon savored the uncertainty of not being able to recall quite where he was.

Ah yes, he remembered, smiling to himself. The City of a Hundred Spires.

In the dim light, Langdon surveyed the room’s massive arched window, flanked by an antique Edwardian dresser and an alabaster lamp. The plush, hand-knotted carpet was still scattered with rose petals from last night’s turndown service.

Langdon had come to Prague three days earlier and, as he had on previous visits, checked into the Four Seasons Hotel. When the manager insisted on upgrading Langdon’s reservation to the three-bedroom Royal Suite, he wondered if it was due to his own brand loyalty or, more likely, to the prominence of the woman with whom he was traveling.

“Our most celebrated guests deserve our most celebrated accommodation,” the manager had insisted.

The suite included three separate bedrooms with en suite baths, a living room, a dining room, a grand piano, and a central bay window with a lavish arrangement of red, white, and blue tulips—a welcome gift from the U.S. embassy. Langdon’s private dressing room offered a pair of brushed wool slippers monogrammed with the initials RL. Something tells me that’s not Ralph Lauren, he thought, impressed by the personalized touch.

Now, as he luxuriated in bed and listened to the music from his alarm, he felt a tender hand touch his shoulder.

“Robert?” a soft voice whispered.

Langdon rolled over and felt his pulse quicken. She was there, smiling at him, her smoky gray eyes still half-asleep, her long black hair tousled around her shoulders.

“Good morning, beautiful,” he replied.

She reached over and stroked his cheek, the scent of Balade Sauvage still on her wrists.

Langdon admired the elegance of her features. Despite being four years older than Langdon, she was more stunning every time he saw her—the deepening laugh lines, the faint wisps of gray in her dark hair, her playful eyes, and that mesmerizing intellect.

Langdon had known this remarkable woman since his days at Princeton, where she was a young assistant professor while he was an undergrad. His quiet schoolboy crush on her had gone either unnoticed or unrequited, but they’d enjoyed a flirtatious, platonic friendship ever since. Even after her professional career skyrocketed, and Langdon became a high-profile professor known throughout the world, the two of them had kept in casual contact.

Timing is everything, Langdon now realized, still marveling at how quickly they had fallen for each other during this spontaneous business trip.

As “Morning Mood” crescendoed into the full orchestration of the theme, he pulled her close with a strong arm, and she nuzzled into his chest. “Sleep okay?” he whispered. “No more bad dreams?”

She shook her head and sighed. “I’m so embarrassed. That was awful.”

Earlier in the night, she had awoken in terror from an exceptionally vivid nightmare, and Langdon had needed to comfort her for nearly an hour before she could get back to sleep. The dream’s unusual intensity, Langdon assured her, had been the result of her ill-advised nightcap of Bohemian absinthe, which Langdon had always believed should be served with a disclaimer: Popular during the Belle Epoque for its hallucinogenic properties.

“Never again,” she assured him.

Langdon reached over and turned off the music. “Close your eyes. I’ll be back in time for breakfast.”

“Stay with me,” she teased, holding him. “You can skip one day of swimming.”

“Not if you want me to remain a chiseled younger man,” he said, sitting up with a lopsided grin. Each morning, Langdon had jogged the three kilometers to Strahov Swimming Center for his morning laps.

“It’s dark out,” she pressed. “Can’t you just swim here?”

“In the hotel pool?”

“Why not? It’s water.”

“It’s tiny. Two strokes and I’m finished.”

“There’s a joke there, Robert, but I’ll be kind.”

Langdon smiled. “Funny girl. Go back to sleep, and I’ll meet you for breakfast.”

She pouted, threw a pillow at him, and rolled over.

Langdon donned his faculty-issue Harvard sweats and headed for the door, choosing to take the stairs rather than the suite’s cramped private elevator.

Downstairs, he strode through the elegant hallway that connected the hotel’s Baroque riverfront annex with the building’s lobby. Along the way, he passed an elegant display case marked Prague Happenings, featuring a series of framed posters announcing this week’s concerts, tours, and lectures.

The glossy poster at the center made him smile.

Charles University Lecture Series

Welcomes to Prague Castle

Internationally Acclaimed

Noetic Scientist

Dr. Katherine Solomon

Good morning, beautiful, he mused, admiring the headshot of the woman he had just kissed upstairs.

Katherine’s lecture last night had been standing room only, no small feat considering she had spoken in Prague Castle’s legendary Vladislav Hall—a cavernous, vaulted chamber used during the Renaissance to host indoor jousting competitions with knights and horses in full regalia.

The lecture series was one of Europe’s most respected and always drew accomplished speakers and enthusiastic audiences from around the world. Last night had been no exception, and the packed hall erupted with applause when Katherine was introduced.

“Thank you, everyone,” Katherine said, taking the stage with a confident calm. She wore a white cashmere sweater and designer slacks that fit her flawlessly. “I’d like to begin tonight by answering the one question I am asked almost every day.” She grinned and pulled the microphone off its stand. “What the hell is noetic science?!”

A wave of laughter rolled through the hall as the audience settled in.

“Simply stated,” Katherine began, “noetic science is the study of human consciousness. Contrary to what many believe, consciousness research is not a new science—it is, in fact, the oldest science on earth. Since the dawn of history, we have sought answers to the enduring mysteries of the human mind…the nature of consciousness and of the soul. And for centuries, we have explored these questions primarily through…the lens of religion.”

Katherine stepped off the stage, moving toward the front row of attendees. “And speaking of religion, ladies and gentlemen, I couldn’t help but notice that we have in the audience with us tonight a world-renowned scholar of religious symbology, Professor Robert Langdon.”

Langdon heard murmurs of excitement in the crowd. What the hell is she doing?!

“Professor,” she said, arriving before him with a smile, “I wonder if we might avail ourselves of your expertise for a moment? Would you mind standing up?”

Langdon politely stood, quietly shooting her a you’ll-pay-for-this grin.

“I’m curious, Professor…what is the most common religious symbol on earth?”

The answer was simple, and either Katherine had read Langdon’s article on the topic and knew what was coming, or she was about to be very disappointed.

Langdon accepted the microphone and turned to face the sea of eager faces, dimly lit by chandeliers hanging on ancient iron chains. “Good evening, everyone,” he said, his deep baritone booming through the speakers. “And thank you to Dr. Solomon for putting me on the spot with no warning whatsoever.”

The audience clapped.

“All right then,” he said, “the world’s most common religious symbol? Does anyone have a guess?”

A dozen hands went up.

“Excellent,” Langdon said. “Any guesses that are not the crucifix?”

Every single hand went down.

Langdon chuckled. “It’s true that the crucifix is extremely common, but it is also a uniquely Christian symbol. There is, in fact, one universal symbol that appears in the artwork of every religion in history.”

The audience exchanged puzzled looks.

“You’ve all seen it many times,” Langdon coaxed. “Perhaps on the Egyptian Horakhty stela?”

He paused.

“How about the Buddhist Kanishka casket? Or the famed Christ Pantocrator?”

Silence. Dead stares.

Oh boy, Langdon thought. Definitely a science crowd.

“It also appears in hundreds of the most celebrated Renaissance paintings—Leonardo da Vinci’s second Virgin of the Rocks, Fra Angelico’s The Annunciation, Giotto’s Lamentation, Titian’s Temptation of Christ, and countless depictions of Madonna and Child…?”

Still nothing.

“The symbol I’m referring to,” he said, “is the halo.”

Katherine smiled, apparently knowing this would be his answer.

“The halo,” Langdon continued, “is the disk of light that appears over the head of an enlightened being. In Christianity, halos hover over Jesus, Mary, and the saints. Going further back, a sun disk hovered over the ancient Egyptian god Ra, and in Eastern religions a nimbus halo appeared over the Buddha and the Hindu deities.”

“Wonderful, thank you, Professor,” Katherine said, reaching for the microphone, but Langdon ignored her and pivoted away playfully—a touch of payback. Never ask an historian a question you don’t want answered fully.

“I should add,” Langdon said as the crowd laughed appreciatively, “that halos come in all shapes, sizes, and artistic representations. Some are solid gold disks, some are transparent, and some are even square. Ancient Jewish scripture describes Moses’s head as being surrounded by a ‘hila’—the Hebrew word for ‘halo’ or ‘emanation of light.’ Certain specialized forms of halos have rays of light emanating from them…glowing spines that radiate outward in all directions.”

Langdon turned back to Katherine with a devious smile. “Perhaps Dr. Solomon knows what this type of halo is called?” He tipped the mic to her.

“A radiant crown,” she said without missing a beat.

Someone did her reading. Langdon brought the mic back to his lips. “Yes, the radiant crown is a particularly significant symbol. It appears throughout history adorning the heads of Horus, Helios, Ptolemy, Caesar…and even the towering Colossus of Rhodes.”

Langdon gave the crowd a conspiratorial grin. “Few people realize this, but the most photographed object in all of New York City happens to be…a radiant crown.”

Puzzled looks, even from Katherine.

“Any guesses?” he asked. “None of you has ever photographed the radiant crown that hovers three hundred feet above New York Harbor?” Langdon waited as the murmur of revelation grew in the crowd.

“The Statue of Liberty!” someone called out.

“Exactly,” Langdon said. “The Statue of Liberty wears a radiant crown—an ancient halo—that universal icon we have used through history to identify special individuals who we believe possess divine enlightenment…or an advanced state of…consciousness.”

As Langdon handed the mic back to Katherine, she was beaming. Thank you, she mouthed to him as he returned to his seat amid applause.

Katherine walked back onto the stage. “As Professor Langdon has just stated so eloquently, humans have been contemplating consciousness for a long time. But even now, with advanced science, we have trouble defining it. In fact, many scientists are afraid even to discuss consciousness.” Katherine glanced around and whispered, “They call it the c-word.”

Scattered laughter rippled through the room again.

Katherine nodded to a spectacled woman in the front. “Ma’am, how would you define consciousness?”

The woman thought a moment. “I suppose…an awareness of my own existence?”

“Perfect,” Katherine said. “And where does that awareness come from?”

“My brain, I guess,” she said. “My thoughts, ideas, imaginations…the brain activity that makes me who I am.”

“Very well said, thank you.” Katherine lifted her gaze back to the audience. “So can we all start by agreeing on the basics? Consciousness is created by your brain—the three-pound bundle of eighty-six billion neurons inside your skull—and therefore consciousness is located inside our heads.”

Nods all around.

“Wonderful,” Katherine said. “We’ve all just agreed on the currently accepted model of human consciousness.” After a beat, she sighed heavily. “The problem is…the currently accepted model is dead wrong. Your consciousness is not created by your brain. And in fact, your consciousness is not even located inside your head.”

A stunned silence followed.

The spectacled woman in the front row said, “But…if my consciousness is not located inside my head…where is it?”

“I’m so glad you asked,” Katherine said, smiling to the assembled crowd. “Settle in, folks. We’re in for quite a ride tonight.”

Rock star, Langdon thought as he walked toward the hotel lobby, still hearing the echoes of Katherine’s standing ovation. Her presentation had been a dazzling tour de force that left the crowd stunned and clamoring for more. When someone asked about her current work, Katherine revealed she had just put the finishing touches on a book that she hoped would help redefine the current paradigm of consciousness.

Langdon had helped Katherine secure a publishing deal, although he had yet to read her manuscript. She had revealed enough of its contents to leave Langdon enthralled and eager to read, but he sensed she had kept all the most shocking revelations to herself. Katherine Solomon is never short on surprises.

Now, as he neared the hotel lobby, Langdon suddenly recalled that Katherine was slated for an 8 a.m. meeting this morning with Dr. Brigita Gessner—the eminent Czech neuroscientist who had personally invited Katherine to speak at the lecture series. Gessner’s invitation had been generous, and yet after meeting the woman last night following the event and finding her insufferable, Langdon now secretly hoped Katherine would oversleep and opt for breakfast with him instead.

Pushing it from his thoughts, he entered the lobby, enjoying the fragrance of the extravagant bouquets of roses that always graced the main entrance. The scene that greeted him in the lobby, however, was far less welcoming.

Two black-clad police officers were stalking intently through the open space, working a pair of German shepherds. Both dogs wore bulletproof vests marked Policie and were sniffing around as if searching for…something.

That doesn’t look good. Langdon went over to the front desk. “Is everything okay?”

“Oh, heavens yes, Mr. Langdon!” The immaculately dressed manager nearly curtsied as he rushed out to greet Langdon. “All is perfection, Professor. A minor issue last night, but a false alarm,” he assured, shaking his head dismissively. “Just taking precautions. As you know, security is a top priority here at the Four Seasons Prague.”

Langdon eyed the policemen. Minor issue? These guys hardly looked minor.

“Are you off to the swimming club, sir?” the manager asked. “Shall I call you a car?”

“No thanks,” Langdon replied, heading for the door. “I’ll jog over. I like the fresh air.”

“But it’s snowing!”

The native New Englander glanced outside at the faint skittering of snowflakes in the air and gave the manager a smile. “If I’m not back in an hour, send one of those dogs to dig me out.”

Chapter 2

The Golěm hobbled through the snow, the hem of his long black cape dragging through the dirty slush that covered Kaprova Street. Hidden beneath the cloak, his massive platform boots felt so heavy he could barely lift his legs. On his face and skull, a thick layer of clay tightened in the cold air.

I must get home.

The Ether is gathering.

Fearing the Ether might overtake him, The Golěm reached into his pocket and grasped the small metal rod he kept with him at all times. He raised the object to his head and pressed it hard against the top of his skull, rubbing it in small circles on the dried clay.

Not yet, he incanted silently, closing his eyes.

The Ether dispersed, at least for the moment, and he placed the rod back into his pocket and pushed onward.

A few more blocks, and I can Release.

The Old Town Square—known in Prague as Staromák—was deserted this dark morning, save for a pair of tourists clutching burnt-sugar pastries and gazing up at the famous medieval clock. Every hour, the ancient timepiece presented its “Walk of the Apostles,” a juddering procession of saints that mechanically rotated in and out of view through two small windows in the clock face.

Circling aimlessly since the fifteenth century, The Golěm thought, and still it attracts sheep to observe the spectacle.

As The Golěm passed the couple, they glanced over at him and spontaneously gasped, stepping backward. He was well accustomed to this reaction from strangers. It reminded him he had a physical form, even if they could not see what he truly was.

I am The Golěm.

I am not of your realm.

The Golěm felt untethered at times, as if he might float away, and he enjoyed draping his mortal shell in heavy robes. The weight of the cloak and platform boots accentuated the pull of gravity, anchoring him to the earth. His clay-smeared head and hooded cloak made him a frightening oddity, even in Prague, where costumes at night were common.

But what made The Golěm a truly arresting vision were the three ancient letters emblazoned on his forehead…etched into the clay with a palette knife.

אמת

The three Hebrew letters—aleph, mem, tav—from right to left, spelled EMET.

Truth.

Truth is what had brought The Golěm to Prague. And Truth is what Dr. Gessner had revealed to him earlier tonight—a detailed confession of the atrocities that she and her partners had committed deep beneath Prague. Their crimes were abhorrent, and yet they paled in comparison to what was planned for the near future.

I will destroy it all, he told himself. Reduce it to rubble.

The Golěm pictured their dark creation…obliterated…a smoldering hollow in the earth. Although it was a daunting task, he was confident he could accomplish it. Dr. Gessner had revealed all he needed to know.

I need to act quickly. The window of opportunity is slim, he told himself, the plan already crystallizing in his mind.

The Golěm turned southeast now, moving away from the square, finding the narrow alleyway that wound toward his flat. The Old Town neighborhood was a labyrinth of passageways known for its vibrant nightlife and distinctive pubs—Týnská Literary Café for writers and intellectuals, Anonymous Bar for hackers and intrigue seekers, and Hemingway Bar for sophisticates and cocktail connoisseurs. Of course, the Sex Machines Museum was open late and drew crowds of gawkers well into the night.

As The Golěm snaked through the maze of alleys, he found himself thinking not about the terrors he had just inflicted on Dr. Brigita Gessner, nor of the shocking information he had extracted—but rather thinking of her.

He was always thinking of her.

I am her protector.

She and I are two entangled particles, entwined forever.

His sole purpose on this earth was to shelter her, and yet she knew nothing of his existence. Even so, his time of service to her had been an honor. To bear the burdens of another was the noblest of callings; but to do so anonymously, without any recognition at all…that was a truly selfless act of love.

Guardian angels take many forms.

She was a trusting person who unknowingly was caught in a world of dark science. She did not see the sharks circling. The Golěm had killed one of those sharks tonight, but now there was blood in the water. Powerful forces would soon be surfacing from the deep to find out what had transpired…to ensure the secrecy of their creation.

You will be too late, he thought. Their underground house of horrors would soon collapse beneath the weight of its own sin…a victim of its own ingenuity.

As he pressed on through the snowy streets, The Golěm felt the Ether return, thickening around him. Again he rubbed the metal wand to his head.

Soon, he promised.

In London, an American named Mr. Finch polished a pair of Cartier Panthère glasses and paced his luxurious office. His impatience had turned to deep concern.

Where the hell is Gessner? Why can’t I reach her?

He knew the Czech neuroscientist had attended Katherine Solomon’s lecture last night at Prague Castle, and afterward she had sent Finch an alarming message regarding the book Solomon would soon publish. It was not good news. Gessner had promised to call Finch with an update.

So far, Finch had not heard a word, and it was nearly dawn.

He had messaged and called her repeatedly with no response.

It’s been six hours…Gessner is meticulous—this is patently unlike her.

Having ascended to the pinnacle of his profession by following his gut, Mr. Finch had learned to listen to his intuition. Unfortunately, his instincts were now telling him that something in Prague had gone dangerously awry.

Chapter 3

The winter air felt crisp and invigorating as Robert Langdon ran southward along Křižovnická Street, his long strides leaving a lone trail of footprints in the sidewalk’s thin covering of snow.

The city of Prague had always felt enchanted to him. It was a moment frozen in time. Having suffered far less damage than other European cities in World War II, the historical capital of Bohemia enjoyed a dazzling skyline that still sparkled with all its original architecture—a uniquely varied and pristine sampling of Romanesque, Gothic, Baroque, Art Nouveau, and Neoclassical designs.

The city’s nickname—Stověžatá—literally meant “with a hundred spires,” although the actual number of spires and steeples in Prague was closer to seven hundred. In the summer, the city occasionally illuminated them with a sea of green floodlights; the awe-inspiring effect was said to have inspired Hollywood’s depiction in The Wizard of Oz of the Emerald City—a mystical destination that, like Prague, was believed to be a place of magical possibilities.

As Langdon jogged across Platnéřská Street, he felt as if he were running through the pages of a history book. The colossal facade of Prague’s Klementinum loomed on his left, a two-hectare complex that housed the viewing tower used by the astronomers Tycho Brahe and Johannes Kepler, as well as an exquisite Baroque library holding more than twenty thousand volumes of ancient theological literature. This library was Langdon’s favorite room in Prague, and possibly in all of Europe. He and Katherine had just visited its newest exhibit yesterday.

Now, as he turned right at the Church of St. Francis of Assisi, he could see, directly ahead of him, the east entrance to one of the city’s most famous landmarks, illuminated in the amber glow of Prague’s rare gas streetlamps. Hailed by many as the most romantic bridge in the world, Karlův most—Charles Bridge—was constructed of Bohemian sandstone and lined on both sides by thirty statues of Christian saints. Stretching more than half a kilometer across the placid Vltava River, protected on both ends by massive guard towers, the bridge had once served as a critical trade route between Eastern and Western Europe.

Langdon ran through the archway in the east tower, emerging to see an untarnished blanket of snow stretching out before him. The bridge was for pedestrians only, and yet, at this hour, there was not a single footprint.

I’m alone on Charles Bridge, Langdon thought. A life moment. He had once been similarly alone in the Louvre with the Mona Lisa, but those circumstances had been far less pleasant than this.

Langdon’s strides lengthened as he settled into his pace, and by the time he reached the other side of the river, he was running effortlessly. To his right, illuminated high against the dark skyline, shone the city’s most beloved glittering gem.

Prague Castle.

It was the largest castle complex in the world, stretching more than half a kilometer from its western gate to its eastern tip, and had a footprint of nearly five million square feet. The outer walls enclosed six formal gardens, four discrete palaces, and four Christian churches, including the magnificent St. Vitus Cathedral, in which the Crown Jewels of Bohemia were safeguarded, along with the crown of Saint Wenceslas, the beloved ruler commemorated in the popular Christmas carol.