9781787634558

ALSO BY DAN BROWN

Featuring Robert Langdon

Angels & Demons

The Da Vinci Code

The Lost Symbol Inferno Origin

Digital Fortress

Deception Point

DAN BROWN

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First published in Great Britain in 2025 by Bantam an imprint of Transworld Publishers 001

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Prague Castle St. Vitus Cathedral

To Václav Havel Airport TRŽIŠTĚ ST.

Alchymist Hotel

Petřín Tower

U.S. embassy Vladislav Hall

Petřín Funicular

Mirror Maze

Petřín Hill

Strahov Swimming Center

Old-New Synagogue

Mánesův Bridge Kafka statue

Old Jewish Cemetery

Vltava River

Four Seasons Hotel

Astronomical Tower

Old Town Square

Klementinum Library

Charles Bridge Black Angel’s Bar

The Klementinum

Petschek Villa (U.S. ambassador’s residence)

P r A GUE

Vltava River

Dripstone Wall

Wallenstein Garden

LETENSKÁST.

ÚJEZD ST.

Kafka statue

Old Jewish Cemetery

ánesův Bridge

Four Seasons Hotel Charles Bridge

Old Town Square

The Klementinum

Area of detail

Mánesův Museum Kampa Mozart Prague Hotel

Legion Bridge

Vltava River

Dancing House

Crucifix Bastion

To my editor and best friend, Jason Kaufman, without whom writing these novels would be nearly impossible . . . and a lot less fun

The day science begins to study non-physical phenomena, it will make more progress in one decade than in all the previous centuries.

— NIKOLA TESLA

FACT:

All artwork, artifacts, symbols, and documents in this novel are real.

All experiments, technologies, and scientific results are true to life.

All organizations in this novel exist.

Prologue

Imust have died, the woman thought. She was drifting high above the spires of the old city.

Beneath her, the illuminated towers of St. Vitus Cathedral glowed on a sea of twinkling lights. With her eyes, if she still had eyes, she traced the gentle slope of Castle Hill down into the heart of the Bohemian capital, following the labyrinth of winding streets that lay shrouded in a fresh blanket of snow. Prague.

Disoriented, she strained to make sense of her predicament. I am a neuroscientist, she reassured herself. I am of sound mind. That second statement, she decided, was questionable.

The only thing Dr. Brigita Gessner knew for certain at the moment was that she was suspended over her home city of Prague. Her body was not with her. She was without mass and without form. And yet the rest of her, the real her—her essence, her consciousness—seemed to be quite intact and alert, floating slowly through the air in the direction of the Vltava River.

Gessner could recall nothing from her recent past except a faint memory of physical pain, but her body now seemed to consist only of the atmosphere through which she was floating. The sensation was unlike anything she had ever experienced. Against her every intellectual instinct, Gessner could find only one explanation.

I have died. This is the afterlife.

Even as the notion materialized, she rejected it as absurd. The afterlife is a shared delusion . . . created to make our actual life bearable.

As a physician, Gessner was intimately familiar with death, and also with its finality. In medical school, while dissecting human brains, Gessner came to understand that all those personal attributes that made us who we are—our hopes, fears, dreams, memories—were nothing but chemical compounds held in suspension by electrical charges in our brains. When a person died, the brain’s power source was severed, and all of those chemicals simply dissolved into a meaningless puddle of liquid, erasing every last trace of who that person had once been.

When you die, you die.

Full stop.

Now, however, as she drifted over the symmetrical gardens of Wallenstein Palace, she felt very much alive. She watched the snow falling around her—or through her?—and oddly, she sensed no cold at all. It was as if her mind were simply hovering in space, with all reason and logic intact.

I have brain function, she told herself. So I must be alive.

All Gessner could conclude was that she was now in the throes of what medical literature termed an OBE—out-ofbody experience—a hallucination that occurred when critically injured patients were resuscitated after clinically dying.

OBEs almost always presented in the same manner—the perception that one’s mind had been temporarily separated from its physical body, floating upward and hovering without form. Despite feeling like real experiences, OBEs were nothing but imagined journeys, usually triggered by the effects of extreme stress and hypoxia on the brain, sometimes in conjunction with emergency room anesthetics like ketamine.

I am hallucinating these images, Gessner assured herself, gazing down at the dark curve of the Vltava River snaking through the city. But if this is an OBE . . . then I must be in the process of dying.

Surprised by her own calm, Gessner tried to remember what had happened to her.

I am a healthy forty-nine-year-old woman . . . Why would I be dying?

In a blinding flash, a frightening memory materialized in

Gessner’s consciousness. She now realized where her physical body was lying at this very instant . . . and, even more terrifying, what was being done to her.

She was on her back, tightly strapped into a machine she herself had created. A monster stood over her. The creature looked like some kind of primordial man who had crawled out of the earth. His face and hairless skull were coated with a thick layer of filthy clay, cracked and fractured like the surface of the moon. Only his hate-filled eyes were visible behind his earthen mask. Crudely etched across his forehead were three letters in an ancient language.

“Why are you doing this?!” Gessner had screamed in panic. “Who are you?!” What are you?!

“I am her protector,” the monster replied. His voice was hollow, his accent vaguely Slavic. “She trusted you . . . and you betrayed her.”

“Who?!” Gessner demanded.

The monster spoke a woman’s name, and Gessner felt a stab of panic. How can he possibly know what I have done?!

An icy weight materialized in her arms, and Gessner realized the monster had started the process. An instant later, an unbearable pinpoint of pain blossomed in her left arm, spreading along her median cubital vein, clawing its way sharply toward her shoulder. “Please, stop,” she gasped.

“Tell me everything,” he demanded as the excruciating sensation reached her armpit.

“I will!” Gessner frantically agreed, and the monster paused the machine, halting the pain at her shoulder, though the intense burning remained.

Racked with terror, Gessner spoke as quickly as she could through clenched teeth, frantically revealing the secrets she had vowed to keep. She answered his questions, divulging the disturbing truth about what she and her partners had created deep beneath the city of Prague.

The monster stared down at her from behind his thick clay mask, his cold eyes flashing with comprehension . . . and hatred.

“You’ve built an underground house of horrors,” he whispered. “You all deserve to die.” Without hesitation, he turned the machine back on and headed for the door.

“No . . . !” she shrieked as the agony seized her anew, surging through her shoulder and into her chest. “Please don’t leave . . . This will kill me!”

“Yes,” he said over his shoulder. “But death is not the end. I have died many times.”

With that, the monster evaporated, and Gessner was suddenly hovering again. She tried to shout an appeal for mercy, but her voice was muted by a deafening thunderclap as the sky above her seemed to open wide. She felt herself gripped by an unseen force—a kind of reverse gravity—lifting her higher, dragging her upward.

For years, Dr. Brigita Gessner had derided her patients’ claims of returning from the brink of death. Now she found herself praying that she could join the ranks of those rare souls who had danced to the edge of oblivion, peered into the abyss, and somehow stepped back from the precipice.

I can’t die . . . I have to warn the others!

But she knew it was too late.

This life was over.

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-forthis 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 photo-

graphed 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.

תמא

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.

rs

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.

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 twohectare 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 Lang-

don’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.

As Langdon passed beneath the west tower of Charles Bridge, he laughed to himself, thinking of the event at Prague Castle the night before.

Katherine can be persistent.

“Come to my lecture, Robert!” she had said when she had called him two weeks earlier to coax him to Prague. “It’s perfect—you’ll be on winter break. The trip is my treat.”

Langdon considered her playful offer. The two of them had always enjoyed a platonic flirtation and mutual respect, and he was inclined to throw caution to the wind and take her up on the spontaneous proposal.

“I’m tempted, Katherine. Prague is magical, but really—”

“Let me cut to it,” she blurted. “I need a plus-one, okay? There, I said it. I need a date for my own lecture.”

Langdon burst out laughing. “That’s why you called? A worldfamous scientist . . . and you need an escort?”

“Just some arm candy, Robert. There’s a black-tie sponsors dinner, and then I’m speaking in some famous hall—Vlad . . . something.”

“Vladislav Hall?! In Prague Castle?”

“That’s it.”

Langdon was impressed. The quarterly Charles University Lecture Series was one of Europe’s most prestigious gatherings, but it was apparently more highbrow than he imagined.

“Are you sure you want a symbologist on your arm at a blacktie dinner?”

“I asked Clooney, but his tux is at the dry cleaner’s.”

Langdon groaned. “Are all noeticists this tenacious?”

“Only the good ones,” she said. “And I’ll take that as a yes.”

What a di erence two weeks make, Langdon mused, still smiling as he reached the other side of Charles Bridge. Prague certainly had lived up to its reputation as a magical city . . . a catalyst with ancient powers. Something has happened here . . .

Langdon would never forget his first day with Katherine in this mystical place—losing themselves in a labyrinth of cobblestone streets . . . dashing hand in hand through a misty rain . . . taking cover beneath an archway of Kinský Palace in Old Town Square . . . and there, breathless, in the shadows of the Clock Tower . . . their very first kiss, which felt surprisingly effortless after decades of friendship.

Whether because of Prague, perfect timing, or the guidance

of some unseen hand, Langdon had no idea, but it had sparked an unexpected alchemy between them, which was growing stronger with every passing day.

rs

Across town, The Golěm turned a final corner and arrived wearily at his building. He unlocked the outer door and stepped into the meager foyer of his domicile.

The entryway was dark, but he chose not to turn on the light. Instead, he slipped through a narrow passage to a hidden staircase, which he climbed in obscurity, gripping the railing for guidance. His legs ached, protesting as he ascended, and he was grateful when he finally reached his apartment door. After carefully wiping the snow from his boots, The Golěm unlocked the door and stepped inside.

His flat was veiled in complete darkness. Exactly as I created it.

Its interior walls and ceilings were painted solid black, and the windows were shrouded with heavy drapes. The lacquered floors were already dull and murky and reflected no light, and there were almost no furnishings.

The Golěm threw a master switch, and a dozen black lights illuminated throughout the apartment, radiating a soft purplish glow on those objects that were pale in hue. His home was an otherworldly landscape—ephemeral and luminescent—and it instantly relaxed him. Moving through this space gave him the sensation of drifting through a deep void . . . floating from one shimmering object to another.

The absence of broad-spectrum light created a “time-neutral” environment—an atemporal world in which his physical form received no circadian cues. The Golěm’s duties required he keep irregular hours, and the lack of light freed his biorhythms from the influences of conventional time. Predictable schedules were a luxury enjoyed by simpler souls . . . unburdened souls.

My services are required by her at unexpected times—day and night.

He made his way through the ghostly darkness, entering his

dressing room and shedding his cloak and boots. Naked now below the neck, his skin glowed pale in the black light, but he avoided looking at it. His sanctuary intentionally had no mirrors, save the tiny handheld with which he applied the clay to his face.

Seeing his physical shell was always unsettling.

This body is not mine.

I have simply manifested within it.

The Golěm padded barefoot to the bathroom, where he turned on the shower and stepped in. After peeling off his claycaked skullcap, he closed his eyes, raising his face to the warm stream. The water felt purifying as the dried clay dissolved into dark rivulets that ran down his body and spiraled into the drain.

Once The Golěm felt confident that he had shed all traces of his activities last night, he stepped from the shower and dried himself off.

The Ether was pulling harder at him now, but he did not reach for his wand.

It is time.

Still naked, The Golěm made his way through the darkness to his svatyně—the special room he had created to receive this gift.

In total blackness, he walked to the hemp mattress he kept positioned in the middle of the floor. Respectfully, he lay down, positioning himself naked and supine in the exact center of the mat.

Then he secured the perforated chengbaobaby silicone ball in his mouth . . . and Released.

Chapter 4

First one here too, Langdon thought, arriving at Strahov Swimming Center just as the attendant was unlocking the building. Langdon knew of few experiences more luxurious than having an entire twenty-five-meter pool to himself. He found his rented locker, slid into his Speedo, took a quick shower, grabbed his Vanquisher goggles, and made his way to the pool.

The overhead fluorescent lights were just warming up, and the room was still mostly dark. Langdon stood with his toes over the edge of the pool, gazing out at the smooth expanse of water, which looked like a massive black mirror.

The Temple of Athena, he mused, recalling how ancient Greeks had practiced catoptromancy by gazing into dark pools of water to glimpse their future. He pictured Katherine asleep in their hotel room and wondered if perhaps she was his future. The notion was both unnerving and exciting for the consummate bachelor.

Langdon pulled the goggles over his eyes, took a deep breath, and launched himself out over the water, slicing through the surface. Underwater, he held his glide for two seconds and then did ten meters of dolphin kick before emerging into freestyle.

Focusing on the cadence of his breathing, Langdon drifted into the semi-meditative state that swimming always afforded him. His muscular frame relaxed, and his body became streamlined and lithe, powering forward through the darkness at an impressive pace for a man in his fifties.

Normally, swimming emptied Langdon’s mind completely, but this morning, even after four laps, his mind was full . . . replaying moments of Katherine’s compelling lecture last night.

“Your consciousness is not created by your brain. In fact, your consciousness is not even located inside your head.”

Those words had piqued the curiosity of everyone present, and yet Langdon knew her lecture had barely scratched the surface of what would be included in her upcoming book.

She claims to have discovered something incredible.

Katherine’s discovery—whatever it might be—was a secret. She had not shared it yet with anyone, including Langdon, though she had alluded to it several times in recent days, confiding in him that the research for her book had led to a stunning breakthrough. After her lecture last night, Langdon felt a growing sense that Katherine’s book might well have explosive potential.

She doesn’t shy away from controversy, Langdon mused, having enjoyed watching her ruffle the feathers of traditionalists in the audience.

“Science has a long history of flawed models,” she had announced, her voice echoing across Vladislav Hall. “The flatearth theory, the geocentric solar system, the steady-state universe . . . these are all false, though they were once taken quite seriously and believed to be true. Fortunately, our belief systems evolve when faced with enough inexplicable inconsistencies.”

Katherine grabbed a handheld remote, and the screen behind her sprang to life depicting a medieval astronomical model—the solar system portraying the earth at its center. “For centuries, this geocentric model was accepted as absolute fact. But over time, astronomers noticed planetary motion that was inconsistent with that model. The anomalies became so numerous and glaring that we . . .” She clicked again. “Built a different model.” The screen now displayed a modern illustration of the solar system with the sun at the center. “This new model explained all the anomalous phenomena, and heliocentricity is now our accepted reality.”

The audience sat quietly as Katherine walked to the front of the stage.

“Similarly,” she said, “there was a time when the suggestion of a round earth was laughable—scientific heresy, even. After all, if the earth were round, wouldn’t the oceans flow off ?

Wouldn’t many of us be upside down? However, bit by bit, we began seeing phenomena that were inconsistent with the flatearth model—the earth’s curved shadow in a lunar eclipse, ships departing over the horizon disappearing from bottom to top, and then, of course, Magellan circumnavigating the globe.” She smiled. “Oops. Time for a new model.”

Heads nodded in shared amusement.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, her voice somber, “I believe a similar evolution is now occurring in the field of human consciousness. We are about to experience a sea change in our understanding of how the brain works, the nature of consciousness, and, in fact . . . the very nature of reality itself.”

Nothing like aiming high, Langdon thought.

“As with all outdated beliefs,” she said, “today’s accepted model of human consciousness now finds itself challenged by a rising tide of phenomena that it simply cannot explain . . . phenomena that noetic labs around the world have meticulously authenticated, and that humans have witnessed for centuries. Even so, traditionalist science still refuses to deal with the existence of these phenomena or even accept they are real. Instead, they trivialize them as flukes and outliers filed under a dismissive heading—‘Paranormal’—which has become shorthand for ‘not science at all.’ ”

The comment caused several mutters from the back of the auditorium, but Katherine continued, unfazed. “In fact, you’re all quite familiar with these paranormal phenomena,” she declared. “They go by names like ESP . . . precognition . . . telepathy . . . clairvoyance . . . out-of-body experiences. Despite being deemed ‘para’-normal, they are, in fact, entirely normal. They occur every day, both in science labs with carefully controlled experiments . . . and also in the real world.”

The room had now fallen completely silent.

“The question is not if these phenomena are real,” Katherine said. “Science has proven they are. The question is . . . why do so many of us remain blind to them?”

She pressed a button, and an image materialized on the screen behind her.

The Hermann grid. Langdon recognized the well-known visual illusion in which black dots seemed to appear and disappear depending on where in the diagram you focused.

The audience began to experience the effect, and a murmur of surprise spread across the room.

“I show you this for a simple reason—to remind us that human perception is riddled with blind spots,” Katherine concluded. “Sometimes we’re so busy looking the wrong way . . . that we don’t see what’s right before our eyes.”

The morning sky was still pitch-dark when Langdon left the swimming center and headed back down the hill. His thirtyminute aquatic meditation had left him feeling tranquil, and his solitary walk back to the hotel was quickly becoming one of his favorite parts of his day. As he neared the river, the digital clock on the tourist information center glowed 6:52 a.m.

Plenty of time, Langdon told himself, still hoping to climb back into bed with Katherine and persuade her to cancel her 8 a.m. meeting with Brigita Gessner. The neuroscientist had essentially browbeaten Katherine into coming to her lab for a tour this morning, and Katherine had been too polite to decline. When Langdon arrived at Charles Bridge, he saw that the smooth blanket of snow was no longer pristine, now dotted with footprints of other early risers. As he entered the bridge, Judith Tower rose on his right, the lone surviving piece of the original medieval structure. In the distance stood the “new” fourteenth-

century guard tower where decapitated heads had once been displayed on spikes as a reminder to anyone who might question the Habsburgs’ rule.

They say you can still hear their moans of pain as you pass.

The word “Prague” literally meant “threshold,” and Langdon always felt like he crossed one each time he came here. For centuries, this magical city had been steeped in mysticism, ghosts, and spirits. Even today, guidebooks claimed the city had a supernatural aura that was palpable to all those who were open to it.

I’m probably not one of them, Langdon knew, although he had to admit Charles Bridge felt otherworldly this morning, with the falling snow casting spectral halos around the gaslights.

For centuries, this city had been Europe’s nexus for the occult. Prague’s King Rudolf II had secretly practiced the transmutational sciences in his underground Speculum Alchemiae. Clairvoyants John Dee and Edward Kelley had traveled here for scrying sessions to conjure spirits and converse with angels. Mysterious Jewish writer Franz Kafka was born and worked here, penning his darkly surreal The Metamorphosis.

As Langdon continued across the bridge, his eye fell on the Four Seasons Hotel in the distance, perched directly on the river, the deep waters of the Vltava lapping at its foundation. Above the glimmering surface, the second-floor windows of their suite were still dark.

Katherine’s still asleep, he thought, not at all surprised considering the nightmare that had kept her awake much of the night.

About a third of the way across the colossal bridge, Langdon passed the bronze statue of St. John of Nepomuk. Murdered on this very spot, he thought with a chill. Ordered by the king to break his vow of confessional secrecy and reveal the queen’s private confessions, the priest had refused, so the king had ordered him tortured and thrown off the bridge.

Langdon was lost in his own thoughts when his attention was drawn to an unusual sight up ahead. Approximately halfway across the bridge, a woman dressed all in black was approaching. Langdon guessed she was returning from a costume party because she was wearing an outlandish headpiece—a kind of tiara

with a half-dozen slender black spikes emanating directly from her skull, fanning upward and outward, encircling her head, like a black . . .

Langdon felt a chill. A radiant crown?

The bizarre coincidence of seeing a radiant crown this morning was startling and a bit unnerving, but Langdon reminded himself that ghoulish costume play was common in Prague.

As she drew closer, though, the scene became stranger. The woman in the spiked halo seemed to be in a trance, walking as if half-dead, her doe eyes staring blankly ahead. Langdon was about to ask if she was okay when he noticed what she was holding in her hand.

The sight stopped him short.

But that’s . . . impossible!

The woman was clutching a silver spear.

Just like in Katherine’s nightmare . . .

Langdon eyed the pointed weapon, immediately wondering if maybe now he was dreaming. As the woman drew level with him, Langdon realized he had stopped walking, paralyzed by his own confusion. Snapping out of his stupor, he turned and called to the woman, trying to get her attention.

“Excuse me!” he blurted. “Miss?!”

She never broke stride, as if unable to hear him.

“Hello!” Langdon shouted, standing still, but the woman simply drifted past like an apparition . . . a blind spirit drawn across the bridge by some unseen force.

Langdon turned to run after her but advanced only two steps before halting in his tracks, this time arrested by a putrid smell.

Wafting in the apparition’s wake was an unmistakable odor.

The smell of . . . death.

The stench had an instantaneous effect on Langdon. He was flooded with fear.

My God, no . . . Katherine!

Reacting on pure impulse, Langdon spun away, frantically digging his phone from his pocket while breaking into a full sprint along Charles Bridge. As he ran toward the hotel, he held the phone to his mouth and shouted, “Hey, Siri, call one-one-two!”

By the time the call went through, Langdon had already crossed the bridge and reached Křižovnická Street. “One-onetwo,” a voice announced. “What is your emergency?”

“The Four Seasons Prague!” Langdon shouted as he turned left and sprinted along the dark sidewalk toward the hotel. “You need to evacuate! Now!”

“I’m sorry, what is your name please?”

“Robert Langdon, I’m an Am—”

A taxi emerged from a parking garage in front of him, and he collided hard with the side of the car, dropping his phone onto the snowy street. He scooped it up and kept running, but the call had been dropped. It didn’t matter; the entrance of the hotel was right in front of him.

Breathless, he burst into the lobby, spotting the manager and calling to him. “Everyone needs to get out!”

The police officers were gone, but a handful of guests enjoying morning coffee all glanced up in surprise.

“Everyone is in danger!” Langdon shouted again to the manager. “Get out!”

The man rushed over, looking horrified. “Professor, please! What’s wrong?!”

Langdon was already running for the fire alarm on the wall. Without hesitation, he shattered the glass and pulled the lever. Immediately, alarm bells blared.

Langdon dashed out of the lobby and sprinted the long corridor to the annex where their suite was located. Reaching the rear of the hotel, he skipped the elevator and bounded up two flights of stairs to the private foyer, unlocked the Royal Suite, burst inside, and called wildly into the darkness.

“Katherine! Wake up! The dream you had . . . !” He flipped on the master light switch and ran to the bedroom. The bed was empty. Where is she?! He ran to the bathroom. Nothing. Desperate, he searched the rest of the suite. She’s not here?!

In that moment, a nearby church bell began to toll mournfully.

The sound filled Langdon with an overwhelming terror. Something told him he would never make it out of the hotel in time. Fearing for his life and acting on adrenaline, he sprinted

to the bay window and looked down at the deep waters of the Vltava.

The river’s smooth, dark surface lay directly beneath him. The bell tolled louder.

He tried to think, but there was no thought, only an overpowering human instinct—survival.

Without hesitation, Langdon yanked open the window and climbed up onto the sill. The blast of cold air and snow rushing past him did nothing to quell his panic.

It’s your only choice.

He stepped to the edge of the windowsill.

Then, taking a deep breath, Langdon launched himself out into the darkness.

Chapter 5

robert Langdon gasped for breath.

The icy waters of the Vltava River had shocked his system into near paralysis, and as he struggled to stay afloat, he could feel the weight of his wet clothes threatening to drag him under.

Katherine . . .

Langdon looked up at the second-story window from which he’d leaped. The explosion he had feared was coming . . . had not occurred. The Four Seasons Hotel was still standing, still very much intact.

In the stark glare of emergency lighting, hotel guests were now flowing out the side exit onto a wide terrace that overlooked the hotel’s mooring docks, which jutted out into the river.

As he fought to tread water, Langdon suddenly realized the current was pulling him away; the hotel dock would be his only chance of climbing out of the water before being carried downstream.

Doing his best to avoid panic, he attempted to freestyle toward the dock, but he could barely lift his arms. His soaking sweatshirt was like an anchor around him. The cold water was already constricting his circulatory system, and Langdon could feel the first warning signs of hypothermia in the pain shooting through his ankles and wrists.

Swim, Robert . . .

Resorting to an awkward breaststroke, Langdon strained against the current, trying to make his way toward the hotel dock. He glanced beyond it and feared being dragged over the

waterfall that was not far downstream—although he knew he would probably be unconscious and submerged long before he went over the edge.

Push, dammit!

As his arms pulled him through the water, Langdon’s mind burned with the image of the ghostly woman wearing the black radiant halo. The headpiece could have been a startling coincidence . . . but her spear? And the smell of death?

Impossible.

Beyond explanation.

For an instant, Langdon wondered if he was still asleep, trapped in a vivid nightmare like the one Katherine had experienced last night. No. The biting cold and frantic beat of his heart assured him he was awake. As anyone who had plunged through pond ice could attest, the onset of acute hypothermia brought with it a unique succession of mental states—shock, panic, reflection, and finally, acceptance.

Use the panic, he told himself. Swim harder.

Angling across the current, Langdon stroked awkwardly in the direction of the dock, trying to ignore his intensifying pain. With each effort it grew worse, although the blare of the hotel alarm seemed to be growing louder. Closer. His eyes stung in the freezing water, and his vision was beginning to fade.

The dock was close now, a dark mass in the glare of the security lighting, and Langdon urged himself toward it, making a final push. When his hand groped something solid, his numb fingers were barely able to feel the rough wood, much less take hold. He pulled himself hand over hand down the dock to the small metal ladder mounted there. Using every last bit of strength, he pulled himself up, flopping like a deadweight onto the landing, his soaking-wet clothes shedding water all around him.

Langdon lay immobile, shivering and spent, knowing he was still very much in danger.

I’ll freeze quickly out here. I need to get warm. He crawled to his knees and looked up at the hotel. The terrace was already jammed with guests, many wearing bathrobes,

standing in the snow. He turned and looked back toward Charles Bridge, which looked like a postcard, its gas lanterns glowing warmly in the falling snow.

I saw what I saw.

Langdon heard the rapid approach of footfalls on the dock.

“Mr. Langdon!” the hotel manager shouted, arriving wildeyed. He slipped to a stop on the snow-covered surface. “Are you all right, sir?! What happened here?!”

Langdon nodded. “I . . . thought . . . there was . . .”

“A fire?!”

Convulsing with cold, Langdon shook his head. “No . . .”

“Then why did you pull the alarm?!” The man’s normally gracious tone was frayed and angry.

“I thought . . . there was danger.”

“From what?!”

Langdon struggled to prop himself into a sitting position. His head pounded, and he could feel hypothermia setting in.

A hotel security guard sprinted down the dock and joined them. The muscular man reached down and roughly pulled Langdon to his feet, lifting him with a firm grasp beneath his armpits. Langdon was uncertain whether the guard was helping him up or restraining him.

“Why did you pull the alarm, sir?” the manager repeated, staring intently at him.

“I’m sorry . . .” Langdon replied, his teeth starting to chatter. “I was . . . confused.”

“Because of the police in the lobby? I told you that was nothing!” The manager seemed barely able to contain himself. “I need to know—is it safe to go back inside?”

Langdon could see guests still flowing from the rear emergency exit, and he could only imagine the chaos at the hotel’s main entrance. I can’t explain this to them. They’ll think I’m mad.

“Professor Langdon,” the manager said, his frustrated tone now turning angrier, “I need an answer! I have four hundred guests standing outside in the snow. Is the building safe? Yes or no! Can our guests return inside?”

Langdon again saw the image of the woman wearing the

black radiant crown . . . the silver spear . . . and the putrid smell of death. There must be another explanation. The world does not work this way! Get a grip, Robert.

Langdon finally nodded. “Yes . . . I believe it’s safe. I’m terribly sorry. As I said . . . I was confus—”

“Vypněte alarm!” the manager said to the guard, who released Langdon abruptly. As Langdon teetered on trembling legs, the guard pulled out a radio and barked orders while the hotel manager placed a call on his mobile.

Within seconds, the alarms fell silent, replaced by the distant wail of approaching emergency vehicles. The manager closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly through pursed lips. Then he reopened his eyes and calmly brushed the snowflakes from his dark suit.

“Professor Langdon,” he whispered through clenched teeth, “I need to receive the authorities. My security guard will help you to your room. Do not go anywhere. The authorities will need to speak to you.”

Langdon nodded his understanding.

As the manager rushed off, the guard led Langdon through a smaller service entrance to a back staircase. Langdon’s sneakers squished with every step as the two men made their way up to the Royal Suite. The door was open, and the lights were on, exactly as Langdon had left it.

“Zůstaňte tady,” the guard commanded, pointing into the room.

Langdon didn’t speak Czech, but the guard’s body language was crystal clear. Enter and do not come out. Langdon nodded and entered the suite alone, closing the door behind him.

The bay window from which he had jumped was still open wide, the flower arrangement on the sill already wilting from the icy cold. The red, white, and blue tulips had been a gift from the U.S. ambassador to Katherine in honor of her anticipated lecture, the colors being those of both the American and Czech flags.

Langdon closed the window, morbidly recalling that the practice of defenestration—throwing a victim from a high window—

had sparked both the Hussite Wars and the Thirty Years’ War. Fortunately, Langdon’s hotel window was significantly lower than Prague Castle Tower, and despite the trouble he’d caused this morning, Langdon doubted he’d started any wars.

I need to talk to Katherine . . . and tell her what I saw.

The encounter on Charles Bridge had been as disorienting as anything Langdon could ever remember, and despite Katherine’s open-mindedness to all things “paranormal,” Langdon doubted even she would have an explanation.

Hoping she might have texted to say she had safely exited the hotel, Langdon reached into the pockets of his dripping sweatpants to dig out his phone, but it was no longer there—most likely at the bottom of the Vltava River.

A fresh wave of cold shuddered through him as he hurried to the bedroom to use the hotel phone to call her. As he reached for the handset, though, he saw a handwritten note on the bedside table.

In his panic earlier, he had not noticed it.

R—

Decided to walk to my meeting at Dr. Gessner’s lab.

You can’t be the only one to get exercise today!

Back by 10 a.m. Save me a smoothie! ☺

—K

Langdon exhaled.

Katherine is safe. That’s all I need to know.

Relieved, he went straight to a shower, turned it on, and climbed in fully clothed.

The Ether had passed, and The Golěm lay naked on the hemp mat.

His journey had climaxed, as it always did, with waves of euphoria and an overwhelming sense of spiritual connection to all things. To receive the Ether was a nonsexual orgasm—a cresting wave of mystical bliss that unlocked a gateway through which to glimpse Reality as it really was.

Mystical journeys like these were often disparaged as delusional fantasy, but those who saw the Truth had no need for small minds. The Golěm knew from experience that the universe was far more complex and beautiful than most could comprehend. The Moderns still could not accept the Truth that the Ancients understood intuitively . . . The human body was nothing but a temporary vessel in which to experience this earthly realm.

He removed the perforated ball gag from his mouth and stood up, alone in the darkness of his svatyně. In the absence of light, he moved to the far wall and knelt on the cushion before the shrine he had created there.

Groping in blackness, he found the box of matches and struck one, lighting the three votive candles he had arranged on the table in a bed of dried flowers.

As the flickering candlelight grew, the photo on the wall before him came into view.

He smiled lovingly up at her face.

You don’t know me, but I am here to deliver you from evil. The forces of darkness that threatened her were potent and

had exceptional reach. She was more vulnerable now than ever before, especially because she was distracted.

She has found love.

Or so she believes . . .

The Golěm felt sickened to know she was giving her body to someone so unworthy.

He does not understand you as I do.

Nobody does.

Sometimes, when she lay in bed, intertwined with her new lover here in Prague, The Golěm permitted himself to watch . . . a visitor in her mind, looking on in silence, wanting desperately to shout into her ear: “He is not who he seems!”

But The Golěm remained silent . . . a thought in the shadows. She must never know I am here.

The world’s largest book publisher, Penguin Random House, publishes nearly twenty thousand books a year and generates over five billion dollars in annual gross revenues. Its American headquarters is located on Broadway in Midtown Manhattan and occupies twenty-four floors of a glittering gray-glass skyscraper known as Random House Tower. Tonight, the offices were quiet. It was after midnight in the city, and even the cleaning crews had finished their rounds. Nonetheless, on the twenty-third floor, a single light burned in a corner office.

Editor Jonas Faukman was a night owl. At a youthful fiftyfive, he still kept the hours of a teenager, ran daily in Central Park, and wore black jeans and sneakers to work. His wavy black hair fortunately was still thick, but his beard was definitely showing signs of gray—reminiscent of Joseph Conrad, he liked to think.

Faukman loved the undisturbed silence of these late hours, savoring his solitude as he wrestled with complex storylines and knotted prose, writing detailed pages of notes for his authors. Tonight, he had cleared his desk to spend the night doing what he enjoyed most in the world . . . reading a freshly delivered manuscript from a brand-new author.

Potential yet unknown.

Most published books came and went without a trace, but a select few captured the minds of readers and became bestsellers. Faukman had high hopes for the one he was about to read.

He had been anticipating its delivery for months. The book was a bold exploration of the mysteries of human consciousness, penned by prominent noetic scientist Katherine Solomon.

A little over a year ago, Faukman’s close friend Robert Langdon had brought Katherine to New York to pitch her book idea over lunch. The scientist’s presentation had been nothing short of mind-blowing—the most enthralling pitch for a nonfiction book Faukman could remember. Within days, he had taken it off the market by offering Katherine a lucrative publishing contract.

She had toiled for the past year writing in complete secrecy, and just this afternoon, she had called from Prague to report that she had finished polishing the manuscript and was ready for Faukman to read it. He suspected that Langdon might have had a hand in encouraging Katherine to stop tweaking and to seek her editor’s perspective. No matter the catalyst, Faukman knew one thing for certain: if Katherine Solomon’s manuscript turned out to be half as riveting as her pitch had been, this book would be one of the most important projects of his career.

Illuminating . . . startling . . . universally relevant.

The quest to understand human consciousness was quickly becoming the new Holy Grail of science, and Faukman sensed Katherine Solomon was poised to become a trailblazing voice in the field. If her theory proved correct, then the human mind was not at all as had been imagined; the truth would bring about a profound shift in our views of humanity, life, and even death.

Faukman wondered if he was about to edit a work that might one day stand alongside other paradigm-altering publications like On the Origin of Species and A Brief History of Time.

Slow down, Jonas . . . he reminded himself. You haven’t even read it yet.

A sharp knock at Faukman’s door snapped him back in the moment, and he wheeled around, startled to have a visitor in the dead of night.

“Mr. Faukman?” The young man standing in his doorway was a stranger.

“Yes? Who are you?”

“Sorry to frighten you, sir,” the young man said, holding up his laminated company badge. “I’m Alex Conan—in data security. I work mainly at nights while system traffic is low.”

The kid’s mop of blond hair and Pizzeria Papagayo T-shirt made him look more like a surfer than a technician. “How can I help you, Alex?”

“Oh, it’s probably a false alarm,” the tech replied, “but our system just threw a flag on some data that was accessed.”

Data that were accessed, Faukman thought, wondering when the world would finally accept that the word “data” was plural.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” the kid said. “I was worried because ‘unverified user’ is a rare alert for us, but now that I see that you are actually here in the building and logged in, I feel better. It’s probably just a glitch on your account.”

“But I’m not logged in,” Faukman said, motioning to his monitor. “My computer hasn’t been on all night.”

The kid’s eyes widened ever so slightly. “Oh . . .”

Faukman felt a trace of alarm. “Is someone logged into my account?”

“No, no,” the tech said. “Well, not anymore. Whoever it was, they’re gone.”

“Whoever it was? What does that mean?!”

The tech looked concerned now. “It just means that someone penetrated your personal partition, sir, without a password or authorized credentials. Whoever it was must have legit skills, because we’ve got a military-grade firewall protec—”

“Hold on, what exactly was accessed?” Faukman swiveled to his desk and powered up his computer. My entire professional life is on that goddamned server!

“Someone hacked one of your SVWs,” the kid said. Faukman froze. That is not the answer I wanted.

SVWs—secure virtual workspaces—were a fairly new implementation at PRH. Due to a rise in book piracy of stolen manuscripts, some PRH editors had begun encouraging top-selling authors to work exclusively on the Penguin Random House servers for an extra layer of security. Many of PRH’s most valuable manuscripts were written, edited, and saved in a single secure

location—the confines of the company’s encrypted, firewalled system in Random House Tower . . . along with its redundant backup in Maryland.

I asked Katherine Solomon to use an SVW, Faukman thought uneasily.

Having sensed blockbuster potential in her proposal, Faukman had encouraged Katherine to adhere to strict security protocols while writing the manuscript. She had happily agreed, saying she loved the thought of logging in remotely from anywhere in the world to work on her manuscript, knowing all her materials were in one place, secure and automatically backed up.

Most authors felt the same way, albeit with one concern. Privacy. No author wanted an impatient editor monitoring the progress of a manuscript before they were ready to show it. For this reason, every author using an SVW protected his or her virtual workspace with a password—an access code known only to the author—until the manuscript was ready to be delivered.

For Katherine, that day was today, Faukman thought.

When she had called earlier from Prague, she had nervously given Faukman her access code so he could start reading and editing. Faukman immediately cleared his desk of other work so he could dive into her manuscript tonight and read it from start to finish over the weekend. Now, however, his long-awaited night of reading had been interrupted by a T-shirted security tech with unsettling news.

“Which SVW was accessed?” Faukman demanded, his throat feeling dry. “Which book?”

The kid pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and began unfolding it. “I think it’s some kind of mathematical book?” Faukman perked up, feeling a glimmer of hope.

“Here it is,” Alex said, reading the note. “The title is . . . SUM.”

The editor felt an immediate jolt of panic.

Breathe, Jonas. Breathe.

SUM was no math book. It was an acronym. It stood for “Solomon—Untitled Manuscript.”

Savoring the warmth of the hotel shower’s body jets, Robert Langdon closed his eyes and breathed hot steam into his lungs. He had managed to extricate himself from his wet clothing, and yet he still had not managed to shed the shroud of confusion surrounding this morning’s events.

Langdon considered calling Katherine to interrupt her tour of Dr. Gessner’s lab and tell her what had happened, but he thought better of it. This is a bizarre conversation we’ll need to have face-to-face when she returns. Even now, as Langdon’s body gradually warmed and his thinking became clearer, he felt no closer to a logical explanation for the ghostly apparition he had seen on Charles Bridge. Or his reaction.

Normally Langdon reacted calmly under pressure, but this morning he had panicked, overcome by a strange, visceral fear. It had overwhelmed his rational mind . . . the sight of the woman, the smell of death, the spear, the eerie tolling of the bells. The haunting memory replayed endlessly in his head.

How could this happen?

He returned to the events of last night, barely five hours earlier, to Katherine screaming his name and jolting awake from a vivid nightmare. He had consoled her as she frantically conveyed her harrowing vision.

It was terrifying, Robert . . . There was a dark figure standing at the foot of our bed. She was dressed in black . . . she had a spiked halo on her head . . . and she was holding a silver spear. And she smelled putrid, like death. I shouted for you, but you weren’t there! The woman

hissed at me, “Robert cannot save you. You are going to die.” Then there was a deafening noise and a flash, and the hotel exploded in a cloud of fire. I could feel myself burning . . .

At the time, despite the obvious horror of Katherine’s dream, the elements had made logical sense to Langdon. The spiked halo or radiant crown had featured prominently in Katherine’s lecture that night. The silver spear had been a topic of conversation over drinks after the event with Brigita Gessner. The smell of sulfur could have lingered from their trip to the nearby hot springs of Karlovy Vary. And the explosion at the hotel was no doubt the unfortunate result of seeing some grim news footage yesterday of a bombing in Southeast Asia.

Langdon had comforted Katherine, reminding her that absinthe was a potent hallucinogen—and also that she was likely on edge because her editor was about to read her manuscript. I know those nerves well, Langdon thought. No wonder you had a sleepless night.

Now, however, hours later, standing in the shower, Langdon was at a loss to find any logical explanation for what he had just seen . . . at least not in his current understanding of reality.

Einstein had famously declared: Coincidence is God’s way of staying anonymous.

What I saw was not a coincidence, Langdon’s gut insisted. It was a statistical impossibility.

Either Katherine’s nightmare had predicted the future . . . or the future had reacted to her dream. Whichever one was true, Langdon remained baffled.

More eerily still, Katherine’s lecture last night had addressed this exact phenomenon.

Precognition.

The ability to sense or foresee future events before they happen.

From the stage in Vladislav Hall, Katherine had recounted some of history’s most famous instances of precognition, including the clairvoyant dreams of Carl Jung, Mark Twain, and Joan of Arc. She explained that Abraham Lincoln, three days before his assassination, had shared a dream with his bodyguard, Ward

Hill Lamon, in which he saw a covered corpse guarded by a soldier who announced, “The president, he was killed by an assassin.”

Then Katherine went on to describe the strangest case of all—Morgan Robertson—an American author who published the 1898 novel Futility, which he based on a vivid nightmare he had about an unsinkable ocean liner—The Titan—striking an iceberg and sinking on one of its first voyages across the Atlantic Ocean. Incredibly, the book was published fourteen years before the Titanic disaster. It so specifically described the ship’s construction, navigational course, and sinking that the coincidences had never been explained.

“I know that there are skeptics in the audience,” Katherine had said, glancing playfully in Langdon’s direction, “and so I thought I’d share an experiment, which was first conceived and performed years ago by a colleague of mine at the Institute of Noetic Sciences. Since then, it has been replicated and built upon by labs around the world. It goes like this . . .”

Katherine pointed her clicker at the screen behind her, and an image appeared—a test subject wearing a brain monitor and sitting in the dark in front of a small movie screen.

“While monitoring a subject’s brain waves with specialized equipment,” she began, “we show him a random stream of images. These images fall into three distinct categories— horrifying violence, tranquil calm, or explicit sexual content. Because each type of image triggers a different section of the brain, we are able to watch in real time as his conscious mind registers the image.”

She clicked again and displayed a graph of brain waves with intermittent spikes—each color-coded to indicate what type of image had been shown. “As expected, the appropriate sections of the brain light up with the appearance of each specific image. Follow me so far?”

Heads nodded eagerly.

“Great,” she said, now zooming in on the graph’s horizontal axis. “This timeline is an extremely accurate record to indicate

the precise moment at which the computer flashed each image at random and the precise moment the brain spiked.”

Langdon wondered where this was going.

“If we zoom in farther,” she said, clicking to display increasingly shorter time increments, “we get down to the millisecond range . . . and we discover there is a big problem.”

She said nothing further, but within seconds there was a communal murmur of bewilderment around the large hall. Langdon shared in the confusion. According to these graphs, the subject’s brain spiked before the computer had shown the image.

“As you clearly see,” Katherine said, “this man is registering each image far too early. The appropriate part of his brain is lighting up a full four hundred milliseconds before the image is displayed. Somehow, his consciousness already knows what type of image he is about to see.” She smiled. “And that’s not even the most startling part . . .”

The hall fell silent.

“As it turns out,” Katherine said, “the brain reacts not only before the image is displayed . . . but before the computer’s random-number generator has even chosen which image to show! It’s as if the brain is not predicting reality . . . so much as creating it.”

Like everyone around him, Langdon was stunned. He also knew that this very idea—the notion that human thoughts create reality—existed at the core of most major spiritual teachings.

Buddha: With our thoughts, we create the world.

Jesus: Whatever you ask for in prayer, it will be yours.

Hinduism: You have the power of God.

The concept, Langdon knew, was echoed by modern progressive thinkers and artistic geniuses as well. Business guru Robin Sharma declared: Everything is created twice; first in the mind, and then in reality. Pablo Picasso’s most enduring quote proclaimed: Everything you can imagine is real.

A knock startled Langdon, and Vladislav Hall dissolved from his mind. He was back in the shower and heard the bathroom door opening. Through the translucent shower enclosure, Lang-

don saw the hazy outline of a person entering and he breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness she’s back early. No doubt Katherine had heard about the hotel incident and quickly returned.

“Just finished,” Langdon called, turning off the hot water and forgoing his usual ice-cold rinse. I’ve had enough cold water for one morning. He grabbed the towel hanging inside the enclosed shower door, wrapped it around his waist, and stepped out into the bathroom. “Katherine—”

He stopped short.

Katherine was not there.

Langdon was standing face-to-face with an angular man in a leather suitcoat.

“Who the hell are you?!” Langdon demanded. How did you get in here?!

The intruder moved several inches closer, his expression humorless. “Mr. Robert Langdon?” he said with a heavy Czech accent. “Good morning. I am Captain Janáček of the Úřad pro zahraniční styky a informace. I took the liberty of securing your passport from your bedroom. I trust you don’t mind.”

You took my passport? Langdon felt naked standing in only a towel before this strange man. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

The man flashed an identification badge, but in the steamy air Langdon could see very little except the organization’s bold emblem—a lion reared up on his hind legs. The Lion Rampant? The symbol was quite common, and it also happened to be the logo of Langdon’s prep school alma mater, although he was fairly certain this guy was not from Phillips Exeter Academy.

“I’m with ÚZSI,” the man said gruffly. “Czech national intelligence service.”

You don’t look like an intelligence agent, Langdon thought. The man’s eyes were bloodshot and weepy, his thinning hair was uncombed, and his shirt was badly wrinkled beneath his leather jacket.

“I will say this once, Mr. Langdon.” The Czech official stepped toward him as if making a point of crossing some invisible line between them. “You just evacuated a five-star hotel. Either you give me a very good reason why, or I arrest you immediately.”

Langdon was at a loss for words. “I . . . I’m terribly sorry,” he stammered. “It’s difficult to explain, Captain. I made a mistake.”

“I agree,” the man fired back, his expression revealing nothing. “A substantial one. Why did you pull the alarm?”

Langdon saw little choice but to tell the truth. “I thought there was going to be an explosion.”

The officer’s only reaction was a faint twitch of his furry eyebrows. “Interesting. And what might cause this explosion?”

“I don’t know . . . perhaps a bomb.”

“I see. Perhaps a bomb. So, you feared there was a bomb in this hotel . . . and yet you ran back inside the building and upstairs to this suite?”

“To warn my . . . friend.”

The man pulled a notepad from his jacket and read it. “Your friend is Ms. Katherine Solomon?”

Langdon felt a chill to hear Katherine’s name on the lips of a Czech intelligence officer. The situation was feeling more serious by the moment. “That’s correct. But she was already gone.”

“I see, I see. So, knowing your friend was safe, rather than taking the stairs back out, you risked drowning in an icy river by jumping out the window?”

Langdon had to admit that the action surprised even himself. “I panicked. A church bell suddenly began tolling . . . It seemed ominous.”

“Ominous?” He looked offended. “It’s called Angelus, Professor. Church bells ring on the hour here as a call to morning prayer. I would have thought you knew that.”

“Yes, of course, but I wasn’t thinking clearly. The bells made it feel like I was . . . I don’t know . . . out of time. I had seen police in the lobby earlier—”

“Out of time? So . . . your bomb was a time bomb? Set for seven a.m.?”

It wasn’t my bomb! Langdon strained to retain his composure. “No, I was just very confused, and I reacted on instinct. Of course, I will pay for the—”

“No need to pay, sir,” the man said, his tone softening. “People get confused. That’s not a problem. I’m just trying to under-

stand why you thought there would be an explosion. Where did you get your information?”

I can’t possibly tell him, Langdon knew. The truth was implausible—unlikely beyond belief—and an honest confession ran a serious risk of backfiring. He’ll never believe me. Langdon suddenly sensed he might need an attorney.

“Mr. Langdon?” the officer pressed.

Langdon shifted, holding his towel around his waist. “As I said, I was confused. I had bad information.”

The captain’s gaze narrowed as he took a step closer and lowered his voice. “Actually, Professor, that is not the problem. The problem is you had good information. Very good information.”

“I don’t understand.”

The officer glared, eyes probing. “No?”

Langdon shook his head.

“Professor,” the captain said icily. “Early this morning, in this very hotel, my team located and defused . . . a bomb. It was set to detonate at exactly seven a.m.”

Chapter

9

In flickering candlelight, The Golěm glanced once more at her photo on the wall. Then he blew out the candles and exited his sacred space.

I am reborn.

Bathed in the ephemeral glow of his flat, he entered his dressing room. His hooded cloak and platform boots lay crumpled on the floor, hastily jettisoned so he could receive the Ether—a journey he always took unclothed, unadorned, and in total darkness.

The Golěm carefully rehung his costume, brushing off the loose bits of dried clay that clung to the collar. Tourists were often startled by his appearance, but the locals barely even glanced. Prague was a city of drama and fantasy, and revelers regularly walked the streets masquerading as storied characters from her history—famous ghosts, witches, star-crossed lovers, martyred saints . . . and this hulking monster made of clay.

Prague’s oldest legend.

A mystical guardian . . . just like me.

The Golěm knew the clay monster’s tale by heart because it was his own—a protective spirit . . . thrust into physical form . . . tasked with sacrificing his own comfort to carry another’s pain.

According to sixteenth-century legend, a powerful rabbi named Judah Loew dug wet clay from the banks of the Vltava River and used it to build a monster that he hoped would protect his people. Using Kabbalistic magic, the rabbi inscribed the Hebrew word into the forehead of the lifeless guardian, and the

clay monster immediately sprang to life, infused with a soul from another realm.

The word on his forehead was תמא—emet. Truth.

The rabbi called his creation a golem—meaning “raw material” in Hebrew—a reference to the earthen clay from which the monster had been forged. Thereafter, the golem patrolled the streets of the Jewish Ghetto, protecting those in danger, killing evildoers, and ensuring the safety of the community.

But here, the legend took a dark turn.

The monster became lonely and confused by its own violence, eventually turning on its creator. The rabbi barely managed to survive the monster’s attack by desperately reaching up and smearing away one of the Hebrew letters on the creature’s forehead.

By erasing the letter aleph, א, the Hebrew word for truth— emet—was transformed into something far darker—met—the Hebrew word for dead.

תמא became תמ.

Truth became . . . Death.

The monster collapsed in a heap, lifeless.

Standing over his fallen creation, the rabbi took no chances. He quickly dismantled the clay body and hid the pieces in the attic of Prague’s Old-New Synagogue, where the earthen shards were said to remain to this day, overlooking the ancient cemetery where Rabbi Loew was now buried.

That cemetery is where my journey began, The Golěm thought, regarding his own dark costume hanging inanimately. I am The Golěm. Another incarnation . . . in the cycle of souls.

He too had been summoned as a protector—a guardian of the woman whose photo hung on the wall in his svatyně. She could never know he existed or what he had done for her. Nor, especially, what I soon will do.

He had already killed one of her most devious betrayers, Brigita Gessner. He could still hear the echoes of her voice as she desperately divulged everything she and her coconspirators had done.

Some of her fellow betrayers were here in Prague, well within The Golěm’s reach. Others were thousands of miles away— power brokers who moved in the shadows. I will not rest until all are punished.

The Golěm knew of only one way to accomplish that. I will destroy everything they have created.

They defused a bomb?!

Robert Langdon’s thoughts spun wildly as he got dressed in the hotel bedroom. He could not fathom that a bomb attack had actually been thwarted this morning, much less the event with the woman on the bridge.

Minutes ago, Langdon had requested a closer look at the Czech officer’s ID, which the man had begrudgingly granted, confirming that he was Oldřich Janáček, a sixty-one-year-old captain at ÚZSI. The acronym, he informed Langdon, stood for Úřad pro zahraniční styky a informace—the Office for Foreign Relations and Information—and was pronounced “exactly like the submachine gun—Uzi.”

The agency’s logo of the Lion Rampant was accompanied by the motto Sine Ira et Studio, which meant “Without Anger or Bias,” although the captain’s demeanor seemed to suggest the presence of both.

Janáček had been standing in Langdon’s bedroom doorway for the last three minutes, arguing in Czech on his phone while keeping one eye on Langdon. Does he think I’m going to run?

Langdon finished dressing, finally feeling warm in his heavy chinos, turtleneck, and thick Dale sweater. He grabbed his antique Mickey Mouse watch off the dresser and strapped it on, sensing that today he might need a constant reminder to remain light of heart.

“Ne!” Janáček shouted angrily into the phone. “Tady velím já!”

He hung up and turned to Langdon. “That was your chůva. He’s coming up to the room.”

My chůva? Langdon had no idea what the word meant, but clearly Janáček was not happy about his arrival.

Janáček was unusually lanky, with an inclined posture that gave him the appearance he might pitch forward at any moment. Langdon followed him into the living room, where the man made himself at home, igniting the gas fireplace, settling into a leather club chair, and crossing his spidery legs.

As he settled in, the suite’s door chime rang.

Janáček pointed to the foyer. “Let him in.”

My chůva? Langdon wondered again, heading down the hallway and opening the door.

Standing in the foyer was a handsome, perhaps thirty-yearold Black man who was Langdon’s height—slightly over six feet—with a shaved head, a bright smile, and a chiseled face. Immaculately dressed in a blue blazer, pink shirt, and Foulard necktie, the man looked more like a male model than someone with whom Captain Janáček had just been arguing in Czech.

“Michael Harris,” the man said, extending his hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, Professor Langdon.” His accent was American, maybe Main Line.

“Thank you,” Langdon said, shaking the man’s hand. Whoever you are.

“First, I would like to apologize. Captain Janáček should have called my office before questioning you.”

“I see,” Langdon said, not seeing at all. “And your office is . . . ?”

Harris looked surprised. “He didn’t tell you?”

“No, he said you were my chůva.”

Harris frowned, making no move to enter the suite. “Janáček was amusing himself. Chůva means nanny. I’m the U.S. embassy’s legal attaché. I’m here to assist you.”

Langdon was deeply relieved to have some legal support, although he hoped the attaché wouldn’t notice that Langdon had already killed the expensive arrangement of tulips the ambassador had sent over as a welcome gift.

“My job,” the attaché said, speaking quietly, “is to safeguard your rights as an American overseas, which, from all I’ve heard so far, have been trampled this morning.”

Langdon shrugged. “Captain Janáček has been aggressive, but considering the circumstances, I can understand his actions.”

“That’s generous of you,” Harris whispered. “But I warn you to be circumspect with your kindness. Captain Janáček is skilled at exploiting courtesies as weaknesses, and it sounds like this situation is . . . unusual?”

You have no idea, Langdon thought, still bewildered by what he had seen on the bridge.

“A word of advice,” Harris added. “This hotel and Charles Bridge are both heavily monitored by security cameras, which means Janáček already knows every detail of what happened. So you must tell the truth. Do not lie.”

“Harris!” Janáček’s voice boomed from within. “Čekám!”

“Už jdeme!” Harris yelled back in what sounded like perfect Czech and then gave Langdon a reassuring look. “Shall we?”

They found Janáček seated in front of the fire, calmly puffing on a local Petra cigarette, tipping his head back and blowing smoke up into the air.

So much for our nonsmoking suite.

“Everyone sit,” Janáček commanded, tapping his cigarette into a potted plant on the floor. “Professor, before we get started, I would like your phone.” He held out a spindly hand.

“No, Captain,” Harris intervened. “You have no legal—”

“My phone’s gone,” Langdon said. “I lost it in the river.”

“Of course you did,” Janáček grunted, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “How convenient for you. Sit.”

Langdon and Harris took seats facing Janáček.

“Professor,” the captain began, “while you were getting dressed, you questioned my handling of this situation. You told me you were shocked that I did not evacuate the hotel as soon as we found the bomb.”

“I was surprised, but I wasn’t questioning your—”

“Mr. Harris?” Janáček prompted, turning to the attaché