Page 35 of The Secret of Secrets

The alcove behind the sculpture was equally well-appointed and serene, with rich wood paneling and a marble pillar on which a cluster of faux candles flickered. The candlelight illuminated a brushed metal door.

A private elevator.

This seemed a far more fitting entrance to Gessner’s small lab than the service stairwell, and Langdon now saw that the elevator door was secured by an illuminated keypad.

Apparently, Gessner had not been bluffing about securing her lab with an ingenious passcode. Now all Langdon had to do was figure out what it was.

Chapter 23

Jonas Faukman had experienced plenty of terrifying moments before—leaping out of a helicopter with no parachute, nearly drowning at the hand of a cunning psychopath, dodging bullets while clinging to a steep rooftop—but those scenarios had all played out in the pages of the suspense novels he had edited.

Now the terror was real.

The bag on his head was making it increasingly difficult to breathe, and his hands were bound behind his back. He was lying on the hard metal floor of a vehicle that had been moving fast on a highway for at least ten minutes. He heard the phone in his coat pocket buzz several times, but he had no way to reach it.

From all Faukman could discern, he had been abducted by two men, both American by the sound of their voices, and they had rifled through his backpack.

They have the manuscript.

His fear was underscored by bewilderment.

Why?

The van suddenly pulled off the highway, wound along surface streets, and then abruptly stopped. When his captors finally ripped the bag off his head, Faukman found himself face-to-face with a powerfully built, thirtysomething man with a military buzz cut. Dressed all in black, the man had positioned himself alarmingly close, seated on a milk crate directly in front of Faukman, staring at him with ice-cold eyes.

Petrified, Faukman looked past his captor and through the windshield. All he saw were trees and darkness. He could hear heavy machinery thrumming in the distance. Where the hell am I?

Faukman’s second abductor—a slightly smaller man—was in the front passenger seat, typing on a laptop. The guy from the sidewalk with the clipboard.

“Ready,” the guy on the laptop said.

His partner with the buzz cut reached up to a video camera mounted on the van’s ceiling and swiveled it directly into Faukman’s face.

Survival rule number one, Faukman reminded himself. Never show fear.

“That’s a cool camera,” Faukman managed. “Are we making a TikTok?”

The man glanced down, looking surprised by Faukman’s insolence.

Faukman tried to sound calm. “Or are we just doing a ransom video to send to my family?”

“You don’t have a family,” the man said flatly. “You’re not married, you work six days a week, and you haven’t left the country in more than four years.”

Jesus! Who are these guys?

Faukman’s first guess had been U.S. military, but it was hard to know these days. He had published a nonfiction book a few years back about the secret world of modern mercenaries—trained specialty contractors with mysterious names like Blackwater, Triple Canopy, Wackenhut, and International Development Solutions.

The truth was, these two operatives could be working for anyone.

Buzzcut pulled a small tablet from his coat, scrolled through it, and then shoved it in Faukman’s face. “Do you recognize this place?”

Faukman eyed the photo. It took him a moment to understand the visual. What the hell?! It was his own living room. From the looks of it, his airy apartment on the Upper East Side had been ransacked…artwork knocked off walls, bookshelves emptied, couches shredded, tables overturned.

“What were we looking for?” Buzzcut said. “Take a guess.”

Faukman eyed the man’s close-cropped hair. “A better barber?”

Buzzcut lunged forward without warning and drove a mammoth fist into Faukman’s stomach. The editor doubled over, falling on his side, gasping for breath.