Page 198 of The Secret of Secrets

“Do you believe him?”

“I’d like to,” Nagel said. “He claimed he was concerned Finch might…I don’t know. Anyhow, I’ve had no contact from Finch since our last phone call.”

“Finch is dead,” Langdon said bluntly. “We saw him at Threshold just before the blast. Katherine and I were the last ones out, and Finch—”

“Okay,” she interrupted, sounding shaken. “Not on the phone. We’ll discuss it in person.”

“We have a lot to share,” Langdon said. “Is the embassy a safe place to talk?”

“I’m not confident of that,” Nagel replied. “I’d suggest your hotel, but it’s too obvious, and I really can’t promise we’d be safe. Not yet.” She paused a moment. “Are you familiar with the Dripstone Wall?”

“I am,” Langdon said, puzzled that she would mention such a public place…especially one that was notoriously creepy. “It’s near the embassy, but I’m not sure—”

“Get there as fast as you can.”

At ÚZSI headquarters, Lieutenant Pavel was solemnly gathering the last of his personal belongings from his locker. His lengthy interrogation at the hands of his new superior officer had resulted in his demotion and a three-month probationary leave.

I won’t be coming back, Pavel knew.

Everything was different now. Although his recollection of the day was foggy, Pavel would never forget the image of his uncle lying dead in an icy ravine. The captain’s death had been officially cataloged as an accident, and as much as Pavel wanted to protest, he was in no position. Moreover, any further ÚZSI investigation had been shut down by the U.S. ambassador, who held all the cards after uncovering Janáček’s deceitful methods in detaining two prominent Americans.

Pavel exited the building and trudged toward the bus stop. When he arrived, there was a young woman waiting for the bus. She had a kind face, and Pavel gave her a weary smile.

“To je ale zima,” he said politely. It’s so cold.

The woman immediately turned away and relocated to the far end of the stop.

Pavel felt suddenly very alone in the world.

When the bus arrived, Pavel boarded and moved toward the back. None of the other passengers glanced up, their eyes all focused downward on their devices. Pavel took a seat and pulled out his own phone, reflexively opening Dream Zone, his virtual dating simulator.

Several new requests pinged in, and he expected to feel the glimmer of warmth that always accompanied the hope of fresh possibilities. Tonight, however, the phone felt cold in his hand. He gazed into its glare a long moment and then startled himself by powering it off and sliding it back into his pocket. Then, closing his eyes, he said a prayer for his uncle and listened to the hum of the bus as it carried him home.

Chapter 125

The Dripstone Wall, one of Prague’s more surreal ancient attractions, resembles a towering cliff of melted rock. Rising over forty feet above Wallenstein Garden, this mysterious seventeenth-century sculpture gives the impression of a river of molten lava, hardened mid-flow into a wall of fluid stalactites, bulbous outcroppings, and amorphous hollows.

Formally known as the Grotto, it remains to this day one of Prague’s eeriest destinations. The organic undulations in its stone surface have an almost phantasmagorical quality, and visitors enjoy pointing out the various grotesque faces they see peering out at them. For centuries, church officials have petitioned to tear down the wall, claiming it is haunted and invites the emergence of evil spirits. Tourists regularly complain of nightmares after visiting the wall, and several prominent dignitaries have found themselves nauseous while standing before it.

Ambassador Nagel was not one of them.

I find it calming, she thought, gazing up at the wall before her. The Grotto looked especially beautiful right now, muted and pale in the fading afternoon light, with wisps of white snow settled in the nooks and crannies of the countless faces.

As Nagel waited in the dimming light, she saw fresh faces materialize in the wall before her. She had learned that only a fraction of the faces she saw were actually there, intended by the architect. The others, as it turned out, were faces she was hallucinating—a psychological phenomenon known as pareidolia. The brain had a natural inclination to conjure meaningful shapes out of nebulous contours, and humans saw faces in everything—from clouds to fabric patterns to bowls of soup to shadows on a lake. All it took was two dots and a line, and most human brains made the same connection.

From her work at the CIA, Nagel was convinced that conspiracy theorists suffered a kind of cognitive pareidolia, seeing suspicious patterns where no patterns existed…hallucinating order out of chaos.

Everett Finch was the opposite. He spotted real patterns and used them to manufacture chaos…all in an effort to preserve some kind of order in the world. News of Finch’s death had granted Nagel a reprieve, and yet it was not something she would ever celebrate. She had learned one simple truth in her career at CIA: Good and evil do not exist in pure form. Finch’s ruthlessness, she knew, was fueled by his deep commitment to an agency that was trying to gain a foothold in the brave new world of brain technology.

“The owls are sleeping,” a deep voice spoke behind her, echoing off the Dripstone Wall’s looming surface.

For a moment, Nagel thought she had just overheard some kind of secret spy phrase, but when she turned, she saw two familiar faces. Robert Langdon and Katherine Solomon were approaching past the garden’s aviary where Wallenstein’s resident owls were perched motionless, with their heads tucked into their shoulder feathers.

Nagel smiled and shook their hands as her ever-present guardian, Scott Kerble, emerged from the shadows and joined the group. Langdon and Solomon still had no coats, but fortunately, this conversation was not intended to be held outdoors. “Follow me,” she said, leading them toward the Dripstone Wall. “We’ll talk inside.”

Langdon glanced up at the solid cliff, clearly puzzled. “Inside…where?”

Without a word, Nagel led the entourage toward the base of the wall and stopped at a tiny wooden door—no more than four feet tall—surrounded by frightening skull-like formations. Langdon’s expression of incredulity was complete when Nagel pulled out a key and unlocked the door.