And finally, if that didn’t work, the photo would be run through the newest and most complete database in the world—the billions of unsuspecting selfies posted on Instagram, Facebook, LinkedIn, Snapchat, and other platforms.

  Social media, Dana thought. The biggest intelligence boon since the Catholic Church invented confession.

  CHAPTER 29

  Langdon felt momentarily paralyzed as he stared into the pod at the human figure inside.

  My God…Katherine.

  He dropped to his knees and pounded on the glass, pressing his face to the surface, trying to see inside.

  I have to get her out of there!

  Beneath the lid, a motionless hand was pressed against the inside of the pod, its slender fingers pale and rigid, laced with frost. It looked as if her wrists were bound in place by heavy straps.

  Langdon groped at the glass pod, trying to find a way to open it. He clutched the smooth surface, which was ice-cold, but he found no seam or handle or release button of any kind. The earsplitting alarm continued to wail.

  Open, goddammit!

  Only inches from Langdon’s face, the body’s hazy outline appeared and disappeared within a cloud of the swirling fog.

  Suddenly, there was a sound behind him—footsteps rapidly approaching on the hard tile floor. Langdon twisted to see a tall woman with shoulder-length blond hair. She was running toward him wielding a stainless-steel fire extinguisher, threatening to crash it down into his face.

  “Co to sakra děláš?!” she screamed over the noise.

  Langdon held his hands up in defense. “Wait!”

  “How did you get in here!” the woman demanded in a thick Russian accent as she raised the heavy metal extinguisher over his head.

  “Please we need to open—”

  “How did you get in here?!”

  “The elevator passcode!” Langdon exclaimed. “Dr. Gessner gave it to me! My friend Katherine Solomon and I—”

  The woman immediately lowered the fire extinguisher, looking genuinely startled. “Professor Langdon? I’m so sorry…I’m Sasha Vesna, Brigita’s lab assistant—”

  “Katherine is inside this!” Langdon interrupted, pointing at the pod. “She needs help!”

  Sasha suddenly seemed to register the beeping sound, and her expression turned from confusion to horror. She dropped the fire extinguisher with a loud clang and ran to the attached machine, where she yanked out a rackmount drawer, flipped open a laptop, and began typing feverishly.

  “Oh no…No!”

  Langdon had no idea what was happening, but the woman’s panic only reinforced his own. “Just open the damn thing!”

  “It’s too dangerous!” Sasha shouted. “You have to reverse the process first.”

  What process? “Please just get her out!”

  The assistant looked lost, glancing fearfully into the pod. “I don’t understand—why would Dr. Solomon ever get in there?”

  Langdon was half tempted to pick up the fire extinguisher and smash the pod open. This can’t be happening…

  Gessner’s assistant tapped again at the keyboard, and the alarm noise finally halted. Moments later, the fans went quiet, and the tubes connecting the pod to the larger device began gurgling. Langdon didn’t know what he expected to see coming through the clear tubes, but it most certainly was not the crimson liquid that began to flow toward the body.

  “Is that…blood?!” Langdon asked, feeling suddenly ill. “What is this thing?”

  “EPR!” Sasha said with panic in her voice, still typing as the liquid flowed back into the pod. “Emergency preservation and resuscitation machine. This is Brigita’s prototype! It’s not ready for use!”

  As the cold mist swirled around the body, Langdon now realized Gessner had actually mentioned her EPR machine last night. This lifesaving technology had been first proposed hypothetically by a surgeon named Samuel Tisherman at University of Maryland School of Medicine, but Brigita Gessner had been the one who seized upon the rudimentary concept, designed a highly modified prototype, and now held the patent—a patent she boasted was worth a fortune.

  “Prolonged hypoxia causes brain damage,” Gessner had informed them, “but my EPR can protect the brain from oxygen deprivation by putting its cellular activity on pause—a kind of suspended animation. My machine is essentially a modified ECMO bypass—an extracorporeal membrane oxygenation unit that swaps blood for supercooled saline at a rate of two liters per minute. It rapidly cools the brain and body down to ten degrees Celsius, giving a surgical team hours to treat a critically injured patient who would normally be brain-dead within minutes.”

  Standing over Gessner’s prototype EPR pod, Langdon was on the verge of being sick.

  Suddenly, a muted pop echoed inside the pod, and blood began spattering all across the interior of the glass. Langdon jumped back. She’s bleeding!

  “Блядь,” Sasha cursed, abandoning whatever she was doing on the laptop and dashing to an emergency panel on the rear wall. She broke a plastic seal and, without hesitation, pressed a bright red button beneath. The pod instantly hissed and released suction on the lid, which began to hinge open, swinging upward like a gull-wing door. As the fog cleared, Langdon leaned over the container.

  My God…

  When he saw her, Langdon knew she was gone. Her eyes were blank and lifeless, and her face was frozen in an expression of pure terror. Langdon had never imagined that seeing a dead body could bring such an overwhelming sense of both despair and relief—but that was exactly what he now felt.

  The corpse lying before them was not Katherine Solomon.

  It was Brigita Gessner.

  CHAPTER 30

  Sasha Vesna let out a wail of anguish and collapsed to her knees beside the corpse in the pod. “Brigita! No!” She covered her face and began to sob uncontrollably.

  All Langdon could do was watch, his heart aching for her. Clearly, this woman’s grief at seeing Dr. Gessner was as overwhelming as Langdon’s relief that it was not Katherine.

  After several seconds of tormented tears, however, Sasha glanced up, and her face took on an expression of alarm. She began patting her pockets as if she’d lost something. As she did, she began hyperventilating. “No…” she whispered, her jaw tightening into a rigid grimace. “Please…not now!”

  Langdon hurried to her. “What’s happening?!”

  Sasha tried to clamber to her feet and make a move toward the door, but as she did, she faltered, dropping back to her knees. She seemed to be about to suffer a seizure of some sort, and Langdon did his best to steady her.

  “What can I do?!” he offered.

  Sasha made a throaty groan and pointed to the handbag she had dropped onto the floor nearby.

  Medication? he guessed, then leaped into action, running over to the purse and rummaging frantically through its contents as he carried it back to her.

  Dr. Gessner had mentioned last night that her lab assistant suffered from TLE—temporal lobe epilepsy—although the statement seemed less one of compassion than a way for Gessner to brag about how many TLE patients she had cured. “Seizures are nothing but electrical storms in the brain,” Gessner had explained. “I invented a way to interrupt those storms. It’s essentially a perfect cure.”

  Perfect? Ms. Vesna did not seem very “cured” at the moment.

  Maddeningly, Langdon found only keys, gloves, glasses, tissues, and assorted other items. No pill bottles, no syringes, no inhalers, nothing at all that looked helpful in this situation. “What do you need?!” he asked, arriving beside her with the purse.

  But he could see it was too late. Sasha was now on her side, shaking violently, her eyes glazed over and her head knocking against the tile floor.

  Too late for medicine, Langdon thought as he hurriedly dropped to the floor, bracing her head in his palms and holding it safely away from the hard tile. As a teacher, Langdon had been trained how to help in the event of a student’s seizure.

  First, do no harm. He knew better than to roll a person onto her stomach, as television paramedics often did to prevent a victim from “swallowing her own tongue”—a bizarre old wives’ tale that was actually a physical impossibility. It was also advised never to shove a belt into the victim’s mouth, as some believed was prudent. That’s how you suffocate someone—or get your finger bitten off. The only FDA-approved mouth protection for seizures was called a PATI mouth guard, and Langdon didn’t see one in Sasha’s purse. Just help her ride it out.

  “It’s okay,” Langdon whispered. “I’ve got you.”

  As Langdon cradled the woman’s head in his palms, he could see that her nose had been previously broken and poorly set and that she had a crimson scar under her chin, almost certainly injuries from previous seizures. He saw the traces of other scars peeking out from beneath her thick blond hair, probably from other similar accidents.

  Langdon felt an upwelling of sympathy for her.

  Epileptic seizures took a brutal toll on one’s physical body. About that there was no debate. Paradoxically, however, the effect on one’s mental state was documented throughout history to be quite different. Precisely the opposite, in fact.

  Katherine had mentioned epilepsy in her talk last night as one of the human mind’s naturally occurring “altered states” of consciousness. Apparently, when viewed in an MRI machine, seizures displayed a stunning electrical signature that was similar to certain hallucinogens, near-death experiences, and even orgasm.

  Remarkably, some of humankind’s most creative minds had been epileptic—Vincent van Gogh, Agatha Christie, Socrates, and Fyodor Dostoyevsky. The Russian novelist had once proclaimed his epileptic seizures to be “a happiness and harmony unthinkable in the normal state.” Others described their seizures as “opening a gateway to the divine”…“blissfully freeing the mind from the confines of its physical shell”…and “providing otherworldly bursts of profound creativity.”

  Epilepsy appeared with notable frequency in Christian artwork, which was not surprising considering so many scriptural accounts of mystical experiences—visions, ecstasies, divine encounters, transcendent revelations—all seemed to describe, with uncanny specificity and accuracy, the experience of an epileptic seizure, including Ezekiel, St. Paul, Joan of Arc, and St. Birgitta. Raphael Sanzio’s famed The Transfiguration depicted an epileptic boy in the throes of a seizure, which he and others commonly used as a visual metaphor for Christ’s ascent to heaven.

  In Langdon’s arms, Sasha finally stopped trembling. Her breathing slowed to a normal cadence. The whole event had lasted about a minute, and she was now completely limp, most likely unconscious. Langdon knew just to be patient…and allow her time to return.

  As he gazed down at the unconscious Russian, he felt disoriented by the disturbing detour his morning had taken. Just hours ago, Langdon had been quietly swimming laps. Now he was sitting on the floor of a private lab with two women he had never met before yesterday—one unconscious in his arms, the other dead in an EPR pod.

  And most troubling of all…there was no sign of Katherine.

  Lieutenant Pavel stood anxiously in the bastion’s shattered entryway, scanning the courtyard for any signs of his ÚZSI captain. He had seen Janáček only minutes ago on the edge of the ridge making a phone call. Now he was gone. Pavel had called him twice. No answer.

  Janáček also disappeared?!

  Fortunately, the mystery of Langdon’s disappearance had now been solved. Moments earlier, Pavel had located a hidden elevator behind a sliding wall in the waiting area. The elevator required an authorization code, but that was easily remedied; someone downstairs must have been watching Langdon on the security cameras and come up in the elevator to retrieve him.

  Langdon’s disappearance confirmed that Solomon and Gessner were indeed downstairs and had disobeyed a direct order from ÚZSI Captain Janáček. Pavel wondered if the Americans had any idea how serious their trouble was about to become.

  Pavel had been examining the hidden alcove when he heard a loud crash in the foyer. Immediately he knew it was the shattered doorframe that the captain had ingeniously leaned against the lab stairwell’s entrance as a rudimentary alarm.

  Solomon, Langdon, and Gessner are escaping the lab!

  Pavel had pulled his weapon and sprinted out of the alcove, rounding the corner into the hallway. “Stůj!” he shouted as he went. “Stop!”

  But there was nobody there.

  The shattered doorway was indeed tipped over onto the floor, indicating the door had been opened, and yet, strangely, the foyer was empty.

  Pavel bolted to the entrance and looked outside. The wide-open area was deserted. Nobody can run that fast. Standing in the snow, Pavel turned and looked back at the lab door, realizing that perhaps the sound he’d heard was not someone exiting the lab…but rather someone entering.

  Whoever it had been, the person clearly had biometric access. A lab employee? Pavel felt a cold sweat on his brow thinking about how Janáček would take this news. Not only had Pavel lost Robert Langdon…he had allowed someone else to enter the lab.

  Dumb move, Pavel. He told me to stay here and guard that lab door.

  Chilled by the wind, Pavel stepped back into the entryway, pacing to stay warm, his military boots crunching on shards of glass. He was about to reach for his phone when he noticed something on the biometric panel next to the lab door.

  That’s odd, he thought, eyeing the tiny green indicator light.

  The light on the panel had been red this morning when they arrived and found the door locked. He was sure of it. Now it was green. And blinking. Puzzled, Pavel walked over to the lab door, grabbed the handle, and pulled.

  To his surprise, the door swung open easily, revealing a stairwell beyond. The door, it seemed, had not locked properly after the last person entered. Glancing downward, Pavel now saw the reason—a chunky shard of safety glass had become caught in the doorjamb.

  I need to alert the captain immediately—we have access!

  But as Pavel gazed down the empty stairwell, he was struck by an alternate idea. It was aggressive and perhaps a bit risky, but the notion excited him, especially knowing he had disappointed his captain recently on numerous occasions.

  Pavel pictured the scene below.

  A few unarmed academics…

  He imagined Janáček’s delight upon returning to discover the fugitives expertly lined up on the couch at gunpoint. Pavel ran a hand across the CZ 75 D handgun in his holster, the feel of its textured handle like the reassuring touch of an old friend.

  I have specialized training for this precise task.

  Robert Langdon had already shown himself to be gun-shy, and no doubt the others would be as well. In Pavel’s experience, civilians facing an armed ÚZSI officer always did the exact same thing…precisely what the officer demanded.

  Somewhere far below the ridgeline, staring at the sky, Captain Janáček was fading in and out of consciousness. He had no idea how much time had passed since his body had become airborne, plummeting downward at a terrifying rate, before smashing against the rocks at the bottom of the ravine with sickening force.

  Suicide would have been poetic considering the news he had just received from the ambassador. But Janáček had not taken his own life.

  I was pushed.

  Lying on the rocks, shattered and bleeding, Janáček could still feel the two spots on his back where powerful palms had shoved him hard and sent him tumbling over the low stone wall. The captain had no idea who had snuck up on him, but quite strangely, that fact seemed wholly irrelevant to him at the moment.

  This is the end…I am dying.

  To his surprise, however, the transition felt quite natural and calm.

  There was very little physical discomfort. All the dire concerns that had consumed him only minutes earlier seemed to be evaporating…including his devastating call with the U.S. ambassador.

  He could still hear the six words she had spoken to him.

  We know there was no bomb.

  Janáček’s claim that ÚZSI had found a small bomb had indeed been a lie…an embellishment to help him take total control of the situation.

  I did what I was ordered to do.

  The peculiar call had come early this morning from London, waking Janáček from a sound sleep. The American man on the line apologized for the hour and told the captain to check his text messages. Janáček did, and he found a set of sobering credentials confirming this man moved in the highest echelons of power.

  “I have a situation,” the man said. “And I’d like your help.”

  Janáček wiped the sleep from his eyes, trying to focus. “Yes?”

  “There are two prominent Americans in Prague right now. I need them arrested.”

  “You know I can’t simply arrest foreigners without—”

  “All the intelligence you require will be provided. Listen carefully.”

  As Janáček listened to what the two Americans were plotting, he felt a familiar outrage. A publicity stunt? A bomb threat at the Four Seasons? Outrageous! He was tired of foreigners treating his country like a lawless playground.

  “I have to warn you,” Janáček said, “the only charge I can use here is ‘disturbing the peace.’ If these Americans are wealthy or well-known, the U.S. embassy will instantly intercede.”

  “Forget the embassy,” the man assured. “I’ll take care of the ambassador. All you need to do is amplify the severity of their offense. I’ll tell you how.”

  The man’s idea had been a clever one—simple, clean—a minor embellishment that would enable Janáček to make an ironclad arrest and finally show the ambassador that “being American” did not elevate anyone above Czech law.

  A white lie that serves justice is an honorable lie, Janáček believed. He had no interest in the handsome reward the man had offered for helping. Outsmarting the embassy will be reward enough, he thought, still bitter from past skirmishes. And so, precisely as the caller had suggested, Janáček had crossed the line and enhanced the truth…ever so slightly.