Page 91 of The Secret of Secrets

By the time Lieutenant Pavel made it back up to his sedan at the base of Petřín Tower, his head was throbbing so deeply that his vision was blurring. He slid in behind the wheel, closed his eyes, and pondered his next course of action. He sensed he needed a hospital, but his pursuit of Langdon was urgent, and he was unwilling to give up on it—or on his captain.

Despite the professor’s reputation as a mild-mannered academic, he was turning out to be a dangerous and highly resourceful criminal. Even so, there was a limit to how far he could run. The American was out in the wild, and tips from Pavel’s Blue Alert would keep flowing directly to the captain’s phone in his pocket.

Unfortunately, it would not take long for others—ÚZSI, the U.S. embassy, the local police—to discover Langdon was a wanted man. They would all soon be involved, and those organizations would treat Langdon more gently than he deserved.

Pavel knew his window for retribution was closing quickly…and there was only one way he could fully honor his captain’s memory.

Find Langdon before anyone gets to him first.

The conductor of Prague tram #22 had witnessed many oddities in her career. Normally she would not have glanced twice at a foolhardy tourist wearing only loafers and a sweater in midwinter. This man, however, had just exited the tram and crossed directly in front of her window. She noticed his handsome face, and there was no doubt in her mind. This was the same face that had been broadcast to her phone as a “Blue Alert” less than an hour ago.

Chapter 58

Night watchman Mark S. Dole reveled in his job at Random House Tower. For two years now, he had been securing this building, feeling a sense of pride whenever he donned his blue jacket and security cap and took his place behind the lobby’s imposing security counter. He was twenty-eight and had promised his wife he’d be promoted to the day shift by the time he was thirty.

One of the perks he loved most about working here was the free employee library—a basement storeroom brimming with everything from old classics to modern thrillers. Since taking the job, Dole had read more than three dozen books, and tonight he was working his way through Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath and feeling blessed to support his family with a job that did not rely on the weather.

Dole glanced up from his book when a black SUV skidded jarringly to a halt in front of the main entrance. He had never seen such a thing, particularly at 3:48 a.m. Even more surprising, the man who leaped from the driver’s seat was editor Jonas Faukman. Dole could not remember Faukman ever driving to work, and considering the man’s parking job, that was probably a good thing.

Faukman was now outside the electronic door, frantically searching his pockets. Dole had seen this dance many times before. He forgot his key card. The night watchman pressed a button under his counter, and the door clicked open.

Faukman rushed into the lobby, looking somewhat crazed.

“Is everything okay, sir?” Dole asked.

“Fine, fine,” the editor assured him, although he seemed anything but fine. His wild hair and beleaguered expression looked more like he’d been riding the Coney Island roller coaster all night. “I lost my backpack. My key card was in it.”

“Sorry to hear that. I’ll make you a temporary card.” He pulled out a fresh plastic card and put it into the magnetizing machine.

Faukman waited, leaning heavily on the counter, eyes closed, breathing deeply.

“Mr. Faukman?” Dole said. “You sure you’re okay?”

Faukman opened his eyes. “Yeah, I’m sorry, Mark. Just…a long night.”

“Working on a tough manuscript?” Dole asked, handing him a fresh entry card.

The editor gave a wry nod and headed for the elevators. “This one’s been more complicated than expected.”

Having followed the signal from Faukman’s phone, operatives Auger and Chinburg had caught up with his stolen SUV just before he threw his phone out the window. From there, they had discreetly tailed the SUV to the corner of Fifty-Sixth and Broadway, where it was now parked at a canted angle in front of Random House Tower.

The question was how to proceed.

They pulled over on the far side of Broadway, and Auger placed another secure call to Finch, who answered with a curt “Go.”

“Sir,” Auger said, “we lost audio on the editor, but we intercepted some startling intel. The PRH tech seems to have learned that one of the Americans in Prague is dead.”

Finch was silent for a beat. “Where did he get his information?” he asked, his tone revealing nothing.

Auger shared what they had overheard on the call between the tech and Faukman.

“It’s not your concern,” Finch said, shutting down the inquiry. “Anything else?”

“Yes, sir,” Auger said, having saved the worst for last. “The tech also claims to know who was responsible for the hack on their servers.”

Finch drew a sharp breath. “Give me Chinburg.”

Auger put the phone on speaker and held it up to his partner.