Page 179 of The Lost Symbol

“No,” Solomon said, standing up with a smile. “I’m going to show you.”

Five minutes later, Langdon was buckling himself into the backseat of the Escalade beside Peter Solomon. Simkins climbed in behind the wheel as Sato approached across the parking lot.

“Mr. Solomon?” the director said, lighting a cigarette as she arrived. “I’ve just made the call you requested.”

“And?” Peter asked through his open window.

“I ordered them to give you access. Briefly.”

“Thank you.”

Sato studied him, looking curious. “I must say, it’s a most unusual request.”

Solomon gave an enigmatic shrug.

Sato let it go, circling around to Langdon’s window and rapping with her knuckles.

Langdon lowered the window.

“Professor,” she said, with no hint of warmth. “Your assistance tonight, while reluctant, was critical to our success . . . and for that, I thank you.” She took a long drag on her cigarette and blew it sideways. “However, one final bit of advice. The next time a senior administrator of the CIA tells you she has a national-security crisis . . .” Her eyes flashed black. “Leave the bullshit in Cambridge.”

Langdon opened his mouth to speak, but Director Inoue Sato had already turned and was headed off across the parking lot toward a waiting helicopter.

Simkins glanced over his shoulder, stone-faced. “Are you gentlemen ready?”

“Actually,” Solomon said, “just one moment.” He produced a small, folded piece of dark fabric and handed it to Langdon. “Robert, I’d like you to put this on before we go anywhere.”

Puzzled, Langdon examined the cloth. It was black velvet. As he unfolded it, he realized he was holding a Masonic hoodwink—the traditional blindfold of a first-degree initiate. What the hell?

Peter said, “I’d prefer you not see where we’re going.”

Langdon turned to Peter. “You want to blindfold me for the journey?”

Solomon grinned. “My secret. My rules.”

CHAPTER 127

The breeze felt cold outside CIA headquarters in Langley. Nola Kaye was shivering as she followed sys-sec Rick Parrish across the agency’s moonlit central courtyard.

Where is Rick taking me?

The crisis of the Masonic video had been averted, thank God, but Nola still felt uneasy. The redacted file on the CIA director’s partition remained a mystery, and it was nagging at her. She and Sato would debrief in the morning, and Nola wanted all the facts. Finally, she had called Rick Parrish and demanded his help.

Now, as she followed Rick to some unknown location outside, Nola could not push the bizarre phrases from her memory:

Secret location underground where the . . . somewhere in Washington, D.C., the coordinates . . . uncovered an ancient portal that led . . . warning the pyramid holds dangerous . . . decipher this engraved symbolon to unveil . . .

“You and I agree,” Parrish said as they walked, “that the hacker who spidered those keywords was definitely searching for information about the Masonic Pyramid.”

Obviously, Nola thought.

“It turns out, though, the hacker stumbled onto a facet of the Masonic mystery I don’t think he expected.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nola, you know how the CIA director sponsors an internal discussion forum for Agency employees to share their ideas about all kinds of things?”

“Of course.” The forums provided Agency personnel a safe place to chat online about various topics and gave the director a kind of virtual gateway to his staff.