Page 96 of The Secret of Secrets

“Katherine?” Langdon called tentatively into the quiet crowd.

Several visitors turned and gave him curious looks. A few of them did double takes, as if they recognized him. Otherwise…no response.

Maybe she’s already come and gone?

He scanned the crowd and then looked up at the deserted upper balcony. “Katherine Solomon?” he called again, louder now.

A docent marched over and hushed Langdon with a finger raised to his lips. This was, after all, a library. Langdon nodded his understanding and quietly continued scanning the ornate room in all directions. After two complete turns, he had seen no sign of Katherine anywhere.

His heart sank as he considered how large the city was and how little direction he had.

If you aren’t here, where are you?

No sirens, Pavel thought as he skidded to a stop outside the Klementinum. His Blue Alert for Langdon had already generated four separate tips.

A tram conductor near National Theater reported Langdon was moving north along the river.

A cabdriver near Virgin Mary Square spotted him entering the Klementinum.

Clever hiding place, Pavel thought, bearing in mind how well the historian probably knew this building complex. It won’t matter. I have eyes everywhere.

Pavel hurried into the museum and showed Langdon’s photo to the woman at the ticket booth, who shared not only that this man had purchased a ticket…but also the exact room in which he was almost certainly now standing.

He’s mine, Pavel thought, discreetly checking that his weapon was loaded and plunging into the museum.

“Barokní knihovna!” he shouted to a docent in the main hallway. “The Baroque Library! Where is it?!”

Chapter 62

Night watchman Mark Dole was familiar with nearly everyone who had been granted key card access to Random House Tower, but the two men who had just used a key card to buzz themselves into the towering lobby were strangers to him.

The pair’s arrival, in the middle of the night and on the heels of Faukman’s dramatic entrance, was odd in itself, but the fact that they were both dressed in black military gear sent a jolt of alarm through Dole.

“Gentlemen!” Dole exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “How may I help you?” And how the hell did you unlock my door?!

“You’ve got an emergency,” the muscle-bound man called in a firm voice, striding urgently toward the security desk. He was carrying a bulky backpack. “Your building’s tuned mass damper triggered an alarm with the city—it’s in danger of a structural failure.”

Dole needed a moment to understand what the man had just said. Indeed, most Manhattan skyscrapers were built with a “tuned mass damper,” a weighted device mounted on a high floor to act as a steadying counterweight that prevented a building from swaying in heavy winds or earthquakes. In the case of Random House Tower, its tuned mass damper was an eight-hundred-ton tank of water suspended on the fiftieth floor.

A structural malfunction? Why is there no alarm at the desk?

“You need to evacuate, and I need to get upstairs,” the man urged, arriving at the counter.

“But I don’t underst—”

There was a flash of movement, and a fist collided with Dole’s sternum, driving the air from his lungs. The night guard landed hard on his back, gasping on the floor, out of sight behind the counter. An instant later, the large man was kneeling over him, gun barrel pressed into his chest.

“Not one goddamned sound,” the man whispered as he fished the master key card from Dole’s uniform pocket and tossed it over the desk to the other man.

Dole lay motionless on his back, staring up at the lobby ceiling. He could hear rapidly departing footsteps and a familiar series of beeps; the other intruder had just used the key card to pass through the security turnstile and access the elevator.

“Just lie there quietly,” the man above him whispered, “and you won’t get hurt.” He zip-tied Dole’s hands, scooped up the guard’s security cap, donned it himself, and calmly assumed the watchman’s seat at the desk, gun in his lap.

Dole’s chest ached as he tried to catch his breath. Whoever the intruders were, they had needed less than ten seconds to take over Dole’s post and steal a key card that provided access to the entire building.

On the fourth floor, Jonas Faukman stepped off the elevator and headed for the steel door marked Data Security Center. It required a special key card, and he pounded on it loudly until it finally opened, and a familiar face appeared.

Alex Conan looked like he’d been through a war of his own. “Thank God,” the tech said. “You made it back.”