CHAPTER 38

  Mr. Finch was livid.

  His field officer in Prague had just phoned to report that her simple cleanup job at the Four Seasons had gone sideways. Field Officer Housemore was Finch’s eyes, ears, and muscle for all local matters relating to Threshold, and despite her compartmentalized knowledge of the project, she knew secrecy was paramount.

  So what the hell just happened?!

  For someone with her skills, the errand at the hotel should have been trivial, but somehow it had resulted in an armed confrontation with an embassy employee.

  For Christ’s sake…

  Fuming, Finch placed a secure call to the U.S. ambassador in Prague.

  At the Four Seasons, Susan Housemore took a final look around the Royal Suite, confirming everything was finally in order. She was exhausted from her sleepless night but felt confident her mission here was now complete—despite the unfortunate interruption.

  The strangeness had begun around 4 a.m., when she was awakened by a phone call from Mr. Finch—who issued the most unusual directive Housemore had ever received. Knowing better than to ask for any kind of explanation, she had jumped out of bed, recovered the package that had already been left for her, and unpacked the specialized “components” required for this assignment.

  Shortly after 6 a.m., Housemore had exited her apartment feeling like she should be going to a movie set rather than executing a mission. She was dressed all in black, carrying an elaborate spiked headpiece and a menacing silver spear. In her pocket, she carried a bottle of foul-smelling liquid that had nearly made her gag when she cracked the lid to sniff it. Whatever the purpose behind this operation, Finch was very specific about how to carry it out.

  Field Officer Housemore had followed Finch’s directions precisely, making her trancelike march across the bridge when the order was given. And while the charade meant nothing to her, it clearly scared the hell out of Robert Langdon.

  And chaos ensued.

  Housemore suspected that chaos had probably been Finch’s goal. He was a seasoned strategist who was known to admire the tactics of figures from Sun Tzu to Napoleon—seizing every opportunity to enhance the effectiveness of field operations by layering in psychological warfare whenever possible. “Psyops” was a bloodless, low-risk, extremely effective way to weaken the opposition. Disrupt. Destabilize. Disorient. An enemy distracted by chaos made poor decisions and was easier to manipulate.

  Mission accomplished, Housemore thought. It had been reported back to her that Robert Langdon had pulled the fire alarm and evacuated this hotel.

  Now she was tying up the final loose ends. After an exhaustive search of the suite, she had confirmed for Mr. Finch that there were no printed manuscripts hidden anywhere, including in the hotel safe, which was open and unused. She had now cleaned up, leaving the suite as she found it.

  Before she exited, however, there was one final order of business.

  Field Officer Housemore walked to the bay window and eyed the lavish arrangement of red, white, and blue tulips that had been sent three days earlier to Katherine Solomon from the U.S. embassy. The handwritten note of congratulations from Ambassador Heide Nagel lay on the floor.

  Blasted by frigid winter air, the flowers were drooping prematurely, their flaccid stalks leaning outward in all directions, barely concealing the electronic device that had been hidden among them.

  Housemore reached in and carefully extracted the Sennheiser parabolic surveillance microphone and FM transmitter. The listening device had been placed there by the U.S. ambassador’s office, at Mr. Finch’s request.

  She slid the device into her coat pocket, fluffed up the dying flowers, and took one last look around the suite.

  Then, utterly drained, Housemore headed home to get some sleep.

  CHAPTER 39

  Through the van’s open window, Jonas Faukman could hear the shrill whine of jet engines. He knew Brooklyn had a little-known U.S. military base that was surprisingly close to Manhattan, but he could not recall if Fort Hamilton had an airfield. Wherever they had brought him, his captors definitely seemed to be involved in something more serious than book piracy.

  Someone powerful wants to prevent the publication of Katherine Solomon’s manuscript. But who—a rival scientist perhaps?

  Shivering on the frigid metal floor of the van, Faukman plumbed his memory for clues, thinking back to the moment he had first learned of the manuscript’s existence. Robert Langdon had called to ask if Faukman would be willing to have lunch with his brilliant friend Katherine Solomon and listen to her stunning book proposal. Faukman agreed immediately, knowing that “brilliant” and “stunning” were not words the Harvard professor threw around lightly.

  They met at Faukman’s favorite table in Manhattan—the back booth at Trattoria Dell’Arte—where authentic Italian cuisine was served in a room decorated like an artist’s studio, adorned, rather distinctively, by paintings and sculptures featuring famous Italian noses. He had read the biographical info Katherine Solomon had sent him, and he was thoroughly impressed by her list of scientific accomplishments, published articles, PhD in cognitive science, and prominence in her field.

  When they sat down in person, Faukman saw within minutes that Katherine Solomon was even more impressive in real life than she was on paper. Not unlike Langdon himself, she was affable, humble, and razor-sharp. She was also naturally promotable—possessing a rare combination of charm and striking beauty that would be an ideal fit for the brave new world of twenty-first-century publishing, which relied so heavily on social media. After some small talk and uncorking a bottle of 2016 Solaia—Langdon’s favorite Super Tuscan—conversation naturally flowed toward her book idea.

  “In the simplest terms,” Katherine began, “the book will be an exploration of human consciousness. It’s based on my research over the last twenty years…as well as several of my recent scientific breakthroughs.” She paused, sipping her wine, thinking. “As you probably know, human consciousness has long been believed to be the product of chemical processes in the brain. This means that human consciousness cannot exist without the brain.”

  Interesting, but rather obvious, Faukman thought. It was his job to remain skeptical until he was bowled over by an idea.

  “The problem,” Katherine said, a mysterious smile parting her lips, “is that this standard model of consciousness is incorrect.”

  Both men grew more attentive.

  “I intend to write a book that illuminates a revolutionary new model of consciousness that will have repercussions for everything we know about life…including the very nature of ‘reality’ itself.”

  Faukman arched his eyebrows appreciatively and smiled. “From a publishing perspective, there’s nothing like aiming high.” He studied Katherine. “But I do have one question. Many people propose books with exciting new theories…do you—”

  “Of course,” she said. “My work is backed up with plenty of hard science.”

  “You read my mind,” Faukman said, impressed.

  “I wouldn’t waste your time without evidence,” she countered.

  Langdon looked amused that Katherine was holding her own so effortlessly.

  “Well, you certainly have my attention,” Faukman said. “What is this revolutionary model of human consciousness?”

  “At first it will seem impossible,” Katherine replied. “So to prepare your minds for that and establish a baseline…” She reached into her Cuyana bag and pulled out an iPad. “I will first show you an example of something I think we can all agree is…impossible.”

  Faukman glanced at Langdon, who looked equally mystified.

  Katherine tapped the tablet a few times and then propped it on the table, facing Faukman and Langdon, who found themselves looking at a pair of side-by-side videos—a split screen showing two different fishbowls, each with a lone goldfish swimming in lazy circles.

  Goldfish are impossible?

  “These are two live video feeds,” Katherine said. “The feeds are from two separate, stationary cameras in my lab in California.”

  They watched the two fish, which swam in two similar fishbowls with blue pebbles on the bottom and a submerged statuette. The only difference between the two bowls appeared to be the statuettes inside each bowl. One was the sculpted word Yes and the other the sculpted word No.

  Bizarre. Faukman glanced up at Katherine Solomon, waiting for her to explain, but she just nodded for him to keep watching. Politely, Faukman returned his gaze to the two camera feeds. Two fish swimming in circles…What am I supposed to be seeing here?

  “Incredible…” Langdon whispered beside him.

  In that moment, Faukman saw it too. Strangely, the two goldfish were swimming in perfect unison. When one fish paused, darted, or swam to the surface, the other did precisely the same thing in the other bowl…at the exact same instant! The two fish were perfectly synchronized, down to their slightest twitches.

  Stupefied, Faukman watched the two goldfish swim in flawless unison for at least fifteen seconds before he finally shook his head and glanced up. “Okay, that is…impossible.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way,” Katherine said.

  “How are the fish doing that?!” he demanded.

  “Remarkable, right?” she said. “The answer, in fact, is quite simple.”

  Langdon and Faukman sat riveted, awaiting her explanation.

  “To start,” she said. “How many fish do you see here in total?”

  Faukman met both their eyes. “Two,” he replied.

  “And you, Robert?”

  “Two,” Langdon concurred.

  “Perfect, you both see what most people see, and what is presented before you: two separate fish in two separate bowls.”

  How else could you see it? Faukman thought. One bowl says Yes and one says No, but the two fish are in precise synch.

  “Now, what if I told you,” Katherine said, “that their separateness is an illusion? What if I told you these two fish are, in fact, one entity…a single unified organism connected to the same consciousness, moving in unison.”

  Faukman sensed he was about to hear some New Age mumbo jumbo about how all living things are interconnected. He had no idea how these fish had linked their movements, but he was pretty sure it was not because they were tapped into the same cosmic consciousness. What did you expect, Jonas? She’s a noeticist from California!

  “Perspective is a choice,” Katherine continued, “and perspective is key when it comes to understanding consciousness. You have both chosen to view this as two fish swimming in perfect synch. However, if you can change your perspective and view them as one fish, one mind, one unified organism, simply swimming…then it’s quite normal.”

  Langdon looked suddenly concerned that her pitch was about to go off the rails. “It’s not really a choice, is it, Katherine? Two separate, unconnected goldfish cannot be viewed as a singular organism.”

  “This is true. But they’re not two separate organisms, Professor,” she replied. “They are one. And I’ll bet you your Mickey Mouse watch that I can prove it to you right now. Scientifically. Beyond any shadow of a doubt.”

  Langdon again studied the two live videos: Two distinct bowls. Two distinct fish. “I’ll take the bet,” Langdon finally said. “Convince me it’s one organism.”

  “Very well.” Katherine smiled. “And let me quote my favorite symbologist—sometimes a change in perspective is all it takes to reveal the Truth.”

  She touched the iPad screen. “Here is a third live camera feed from the same lab. And here is your change in perspective, gentlemen.”

  The new camera angle was an aerial view, looking down at a single fishbowl similar to the other bowls—blue pebbles, some kind of statuette, and a lone goldfish swimming in circles. Curiously, this aerial view also showed that two video cameras were set up next to the bowl, pointing at it from different positions.

  “I don’t understand,” Faukman said.

  “You’ve been looking at two videos of the same bowl,” Katherine said. “One bowl. One fish. Viewed from two different perspectives. Their separateness is an illusion. They are a single organism.”

  “But they’re clearly in two different bowls,” Faukman protested. “What about the Yes/No statues? Those are different…how could it be one bowl?!”

  Langdon hung his head. “Markus Raetz,” he whispered. “I should have seen it.”

  Katherine reached into her bag and pulled out a familiar statuette—a copy of the Yes statue from the first bowl. She held it up, letting Faukman read the word. Then she rotated the statue ninety degrees, and Faukman heard himself gasp. From this new angle, the statuette looked totally different. From this direction…it read No.

  “This piece of art,” Katherine said, “is the work of sculptor Markus Raetz, who—much like the universe we live in—is a master of illusion.”

  Langdon was already unbuckling his Mickey Mouse watch.

  “You know I don’t have children, Robert.” She laughed. “Keep your Mickey watch. I did this only to illustrate a point about impossibility. And the point is this: what I am about to tell you about human consciousness will seem impossible at first—as impossible as two synchronized goldfish—but if you permit yourself a change of perspective, everything will suddenly make sense…and those things you once found mysterious will appear as plain as day.”

  From that moment on, Faukman found himself hanging on her every word. Lunch turned into a three-hour, mind-bending journey of discovery…including Katherine coyly promising him that her book would outline a series of cutting-edge experiments that she had performed, and whose results not only supported this new paradigm but also suggested our current human experience was woefully limited compared to what it could actually be.

  By the end of lunch, Faukman was uncertain if his spinning head was on account of Katherine Solomon’s ideas or too much wine, but he knew one thing for certain:

  I am definitely publishing this book.

  He suspected this lunch might end up being the best publishing investment he’d ever made.

  Now, however, a year later, hog-tied on the floor of a freezing-cold van, he was having serious second thoughts about his decision. He hadn’t yet read a word of the manuscript and knew nothing about her mysterious experiments, but still he felt perplexed that anyone would want to destroy it.

  For God’s sake, it’s a book about human consciousness!

  Faukman’s kidnappers were sitting nearby, engrossed in their devices.

  “Hey, guys?” Faukman ventured, teeth chattering. He wanted to keep them talking. “What’s so special about this book? You know it’s about science, right? There are no pictures.”

  No reply.

  “Look, I’m freezing. This is insane. If you can tell me why you’re so interested in this manuscript, maybe I can—”

  “We’re not interested at all,” Buzzcut said. “Our employer is.”

  “Darth Vader can read?”

  Buzzcut actually chuckled. “Yes, and he wants to speak to you. We have a plane fueling. We’ll be leaving shortly for Prague.”

  Faukman felt his body tense. “Wait! No way in hell I’m going to Prague! I don’t have my passport! I need to feed my cat!”

  “I stole your passport from your apartment,” Buzzcut said. “And I shot your cat.”

  Faukman was genuinely afraid now. “That’s not funny…I don’t even have a cat. Can we talk about this?”

  “Sure thing.” Buzzcut gave a cocky smile. “Plenty of time to chat on the plane.”

  CHAPTER 40

  The Havelský Market was crammed with traffic moving at a crawl. A few blocks from their destination, Langdon and Sasha abandoned the cab and walked through the tangle of roads and alleys that form the residential district of Old Town. As he followed Sasha toward her apartment, Langdon was surprised to learn that her home was, in fact, owned by Brigita Gessner, who permitted Sasha to stay there rent-free.

  Another uncharacteristic act of kindness, Langdon thought, curious why Gessner seemed so intent on helping this young woman.

  Brigita Gessner was an enigma. While seemingly generous and compassionate toward Sasha, last night over cocktails she had been unbearable. At one point, while Langdon was absently nursing his repulsive bacon-flavored cocktail, Gessner had turned and abruptly put him on the spot.

  “Professor Langford,” she said, no doubt botching his name on purpose. “Katherine and I disagree on something, and we want you to settle it for us.”

  Katherine winced, obviously not looking to draw Langdon in.

  “You’re an educated man,” Gessner said, “and your perspective on this will be of interest. Katherine and I diverge on an issue that lies at the core of the materialist-noetic debate. That being…life after death.”

  Oh dear…

  “So tell us,” Gessner pressed, “which do you believe? When you die, is that the end? Or is there something…else?”

  Langdon hesitated, trying to figure out how to navigate the moment.

  “As I have stated many times,” Gessner jumped in, “I view life after death as an empty fantasy—an illusion sold by religion to recruit the faint of heart and weak of mind.”

  Oh boy, I’m not touching that one…

  “And as I’m sure you know,” Gessner continued, “Katherine has stated publicly that she believes out-of-body experiences are strong evidence that consciousness resides outside the brain and therefore can survive death. In other words…the afterlife is real.” The neuroscientist casually sipped her cocktail. “So which is it, Professor?”

  “I have no definitive idea,” he replied. “I’ve taught thanatology, but it’s not really my field—”

  “The question is simple,” the woman scoffed, interrupting him. “If you were dying, and you found yourself looking down at your own body on an operating table, would you classify that as evidence of an afterlife? Or as hypoxic hallucination?”

  I’ve never had a near-death experience…I have no idea what I would think.

  Langdon’s only encounter with near-death experiences had been in the pages of Raymond Moody’s 1975 bestseller, Life After Life, the book credited with persuading scientists to look more seriously at the possibility that death was not the end of a journey…but rather just the beginning.