Mal'akh braced for the glorious impact.
His moment of transformation had arrived.
Incredibly, he felt no pain. A thunderous vibration filled his body, deafening and deep. The room began shaking, and a brilliant white light blinded him from above. The heavens roared.
And Mal'akh knew it had happened.
Exactly as he had planned.
Langdon did not remember sprinting toward the altar as the helicopter appeared overhead. Nor did he remember leaping with his arms out-stretched . . . soaring toward the man in the black robe . . . trying desperately to tackle him before he could plunge the knife down a second time.
Their bodies collided, and Langdon saw a bright light sweep down through the oculus and illuminate the altar. He expected to see the bloody body of Peter Solomon on the altar, but the naked chest that shone in the light had no blood on it at all . . . only a tapestry of tattoos. The knife lay broken beside him, apparently having been driven into the stone altar rather than into flesh.
As he and the man in the black robe crashed together onto the hard stone floor, Langdon saw the bandaged nub on the end of the man's right arm, and he realized to his bewilderment that he had just tackled Peter Solomon.
As they slid together across the stone floor, the helicopter's searchlights blazed down from above. The chopper thundered in low, its skids practically touching the expansive wall of glass.
On the front of the helicopter, a strange-looking gun rotated, aiming downward through the glass. The red beam of its laser scope sliced through the skylight and danced across the floor, directly toward Langdon and Solomon.
No!
But there was no gunfire from above . . . only the sound of the helicopter blades.
Langdon felt nothing but an eerie ripple of energy that shimmered through his cells. Behind his head, on the pigskin chair, the laptop hissed strangely. He spun in time to see its screen suddenly flash to black. Unfortunately, the last visible message had been clear.
SENDING MESSAGE: 100% COMPLETE
Pull up! Damn it! Up!
The UH-60 pilot threw his rotors into overdrive, trying to keep his skids from touching any part of the large glass skylight. He knew the six thousand pounds of lift force that surged downward from his rotors was already straining the glass to its breaking point. Unfortunately, the incline of the pyramid beneath the helicopter was efficiently shedding the thrust sideways, robbing him of lift.
Up! Now!
He tipped the nose, trying to skim away, but the left strut hit the center of the glass. It was only for an instant, but that was all it took.
The Temple Room's massive oculus exploded in a swirl of glass and wind . . . sending a torrent of jagged shards plummeting into the room below.
Stars falling from heaven.
Mal'akh stared up into the beautiful white light and saw a veil of shimmering jewels fluttering toward him . . . accelerating . . . as if racing to shroud him in their splendor.
Suddenly there was pain.
Everywhere.
Stabbing. Searing. Slashing. Razor-sharp knives piercing soft flesh. Chest, neck, thighs, face. His body tightened all at once, recoiling. His blood-filled mouth cried out as the pain ripped him from his trance. The white light above transformed itself, and suddenly, as if by magic, a dark helicopter was suspended above him, its thundering blades driving an icy wind down into the Temple Room, chilling Mal'akh to the core and dispersing the wisps of incense to the distant corners of the room.
Mal'akh turned his head and saw the Akedah knife lying broken by his side, smashed upon the granite altar, which was covered in a blanket of shattered glass. Even after everything I did to him . . . Peter Solomon averted the knife. He refused to spill my blood.
With welling horror, Mal'akh raised his head and peered down along the length of his own body. This living artifact was to have been his great offering. But it lay in tatters. His body was drenched in blood . . . huge shards of glass protruding from his flesh in all directions.
Weakly, Mal'akh lowered his head back to the granite altar and stared up through the open space in the roof. The helicopter was gone now, in its place a silent, wintry moon.
Wide-eyed, Mal'akh lay gasping for breath . . . all alone on the great altar.
CHAPTER 122
The secret is how to die.
Mal'akh knew it had all gone wrong. There was no brilliant light. No wondrous reception. Only darkness and excruciating pain. Even in his eyes. He could see nothing, and yet he sensed movement all around him. There were voices . . . human voices . . . one of them, strangely, belonging to Robert Langdon. How can this be?
"She's okay," Langdon kept repeating. "Katherine is fine, Peter. Your sister is okay."
No, Mal'akh thought. Katherine is dead. She must be.
Mal'akh could no longer see, could not tell if his eyes were even open, but he heard the helicopter banking away. An abrupt calm settled through the Temple Room. Mal'akh could feel the smooth rhythms of the earth becoming uneven . . . as if the ocean's natural tides were being disrupted by a gathering storm.
Chao ab ordo.
Unfamiliar voices were shouting now, talking urgently with Langdon about the laptop and video file. It's too late, Mal'akh knew. The damage is done. By now the video was spreading like wildfire into every corner of a shocked world, destroying the future of the brotherhood. Those most capable of spreading the wisdom must be destroyed. The ignorance of mankind is what helped the chaos grow. The absence of Light on earth is what nourished the Darkness that awaited Mal'akh.
I have done great deeds, and soon I will be received as a king.
Mal'akh sensed that a lone individual had quietly approached. He knew who it was. He could smell the sacred oils he had rubbed into his father's shaved body.
"I don't know if you can hear me," Peter Solomon whispered in his ear. "But I want you to know something." He touched a finger to the sacred spot atop Mal'akh's skull. "What you wrote here . . ." He paused. "This is not the Lost Word."
Of course it is, Mal'akh thought. You convinced me of that beyond a doubt.
According to legend, the Lost Word was written in a language so ancient and arcane that mankind had all but forgotten how to read it. This mysterious language, Peter had revealed, was in fact the oldest language on earth.
The language of symbols.
In the idiom of symbology, there was one symbol that reigned supreme above all others. The oldest and most universal, this symbol fused all the ancient traditions in a single solitary image that represented the illumination of the Egyptian sun god, the triumph of alchemical gold, the wisdom of the Philosopher's Stone, the purity of the Rosicrucian Rose, the moment of Creation, the All, the dominance of the astrological sun, and even the omniscient all-seeing eye that hovered atop the unfinished pyramid.
The circumpunct. The symbol of the Source. The origin of all things.
This is what Peter had told him moments ago. Mal'akh had been skeptical at first, but then he had looked again at the grid, realizing that the image of the pyramid was pointing directly at the lone symbol of the circumpunct--a circle with a dot in its center. The Masonic Pyramid is a map, he thought, recalling the legend, which points to the Lost Word. It seemed his father was telling the truth after all.
All great truths are simple.
The Lost Word is not a word . . . it is a symbol.
Eagerly, Mal'akh had inscribed the great symbol of the circumpunct on his scalp. As he did so, he felt an upwelling of power and satisfaction. My masterpiece and offering are complete. The forces of darkness were waiting for him now. He would be rewarded for his work. This was to be his moment of glory . . .
And yet, at the last instant, everything had gone horribly wrong.