The book included hundreds of medically documented cases of clinically dead people who had reawakened to report very similar out-of-body experiences—a disembodied point of view, hovering, moving upward into a dark tunnel, approaching a bright light, and, most remarkably, feeling a sense of absolute calm and boundless knowledge.

  After Moody’s book, the question was no longer if people were having out-of-body experiences…but rather what was causing them, and what did they mean?

  Langdon was certainly aware that life after death was the cornerstone of literally every enduring spirituality: the Christians had heaven; the Jews had gilgul; the Muslims had Jannah; the Hindus and Buddhists had devaloka; the New Age philosophers had past lives; Plato had metempsychosis. A constant in all spiritual philosophies was that the soul was…eternal.

  Even so, when it came to believing in life after death, Langdon had never been able to pry himself from the materialists’ camp. The notion of the afterlife, he believed, was a comforting story, a coping mechanism, and if he was to answer Gessner’s question honestly…

  Near-death experiences are…hallucinations.

  A scholar of art inspired by religion, Langdon was intimately familiar with masterworks depicting visions of a world beyond this one—divine revelations, spiritual visions, theophanies, religious ecstasies, visitations from angels. The faithful considered these experiences to be actual encounters with other realms, but Langdon quietly believed they were something else—vividly persuasive visions brought on by a profound spiritual longing.

  There is a reason, Langdon often reminded his students, that mirages of oases are seen only by thirsty travelers in the desert—and never by college students walking on the quad. We see what we want to see.

  And with respect to wanting, Langdon imagined that most people in the throes of dying wanted the same basic thing: not to die. And the fear of death, of course, was not reserved for the dying. It was a universal fear…perhaps the universal fear.

  Mortality salience, as it was known—the knowledge that we would die—was frightening not because we feared losing our physical bodies, but rather because we feared losing our memories, our dreams, our emotional connections…in essence, our soul.

  Religions had learned long ago that a human mind facing the terrifying prospect of eternal nothingness would believe almost anything. Timor mortis est pater religionis, Langdon mused, recalling the ancient saying made famous by Upton Sinclair. Fear of death is the father of religion.

  Sure enough, every world religion had produced copious writings suggesting an afterlife—the Egyptian Book of the Dead, the Sutras, the Upanishads, the Vedas, the Holy Bible, the Quran, the Kabbalah. Each religion had its own eschatology, its own architecture of the life beyond this one, and its own meticulously cataloged hierarchy of attending spirits.

  These religious claims were widely ignored by modern thanatologists—those who studied the science of death. And yet, astonishingly, scientists today readily admitted that they had made very little progress in answering the fundamental question of their field:

  What happens when we die?

  The question was, without compare, the greatest mystery of life…the secret we all longed to know. Ironically, the elusive answer was revealed to each of us eventually…but with no way back to share it.

  “Cat got your tongue?” Gessner asked, smirking.

  “Not really,” Langdon replied testily. “I just find it curious that you accept as absolute fact a premise you’re unable to prove. In my world, we call that faith…not science.”

  “Zbabělče,” Gessner huffed. “I know you’re a materialist, Professor, and with a little luck, tomorrow when Katherine comes to the lab, I can persuade her to join us in the rational world.”

  With that, Gessner unlocked her leather briefcase, extracted a business card, and placed it in front of Katherine.

  Langdon eyed the card.

  DR. BRIGITA GESSNER

  GESSNER INSTITUTE

  CRUCIFIX BASTION, 1

  PRAGUE

  “Give this card to your driver tomorrow morning,” Gessner said. “My lab is private, but the location is well-known. The bastion is quite famous actually.”

  Langdon groaned inwardly. Famous in the 1300s perhaps…

  As Gessner moved to close her briefcase, Langdon caught a glimpse of the meticulously organized contents—various documents in folders, a pen in a loop holder, a smartphone secured with a leather strap, and a collection of credit cards, IDs, and key cards all perfectly aligned in individual transparent sleeves. Among the group, a symbol caught his eye.

  “What’s that card?” he asked, pointing to a black card sticking out of a specialized, lead-lined sheath designed to safeguard cards equipped with radio frequency identification. He could see only the top half inch of the card but was intrigued by the six characters printed boldly across it.

  Gessner glanced down at the card, faltering a moment. “Oh, it’s nothing.” She closed her case. “It’s for my health club.”

  “Oh?” Langdon said. “I’m curious. The third character—what was it?”

  She gave him an odd look. “You mean the letter A?”

  “That wasn’t an A,” Langdon said, having seen it clearly. “It was a Vel spear.”

  Both women looked puzzled.

  “I’m sorry?” Gessner said.

  “The crossbar is the difference,” Langdon said. “An A has a single line. That logo had three lines and a dot. Whenever you see an upward-facing blade—that is, the shape of a capital A—with three crossbars and a dot, it’s a specialized icon with a very specific meaning.”

  “Does it mean health?” Katherine ventured, sounding a bit tipsy.

  Not even close, Langdon thought. “The Vel spear is a Hindu symbol of power. The point of the spear represents enlightenment, a sharply tuned mind, the superior insight used to cut through the darkness of ignorance and conquer your enemies. The Hindu god of war, Murugan, carried the spear with him everywhere.”

  Gessner looked genuinely surprised.

  “Killing your foes with insight?” Katherine said. “Strange message for a health club.”

  I agree.

  “Happenstance, obviously,” Gessner scoffed. “I’m sure the club has no idea and simply liked the design.”

  Langdon let it go, but he felt quite certain Gessner was hiding something. A shielded RFID card seemed an unusually high-tech passkey for a health club, and Gessner hardly seemed like someone who would tolerate exercising with the unclean masses. Besides, a local health club would most likely use the Czech spelling, “PRAHA,” rather than English.

  “It is clear,” Gessner said, sounding irked, “that symbologists and noeticists are a perfect match for one another.” She took a sip of her drink. “You both see meaning where there is none.”

  CHAPTER 41

  Sasha Vesna’s first-floor apartment was small but homey—tastefully furnished, well organized, and with plentiful natural light. As Langdon stepped inside, he breathed in the smoky scent of malt that hung in the air.

  “Russian Caravan tea,” Sasha offered, sounding self-conscious about the noticeable smell. “And I have cats…”

  As if on cue, a lithe pair of Siamese cats materialized at the far end of the hallway and padded toward them. Langdon crouched down to pet them, and they hurried over for attention.

  “They love men,” Sasha said, and then awkwardly added, “Not that they have seen many!”

  Langdon smiled politely. “Well, they’re beautiful animals.”

  “That one’s Sally. He’s Harry. I named them after my favorite movie.” Sasha pointed to an old movie poster hanging nearby. “Dr. Gessner got me that.”

  The film title was in Russian, but Langdon recognized Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal standing face-to-face against the New York skyline. He’d never seen the classic When Harry Met Sally, but he’d heard about the famous “sex scene” in a New York deli.

  “I always loved American romantic comedies,” Sasha said. “It’s how I learned English.” She admired the poster a moment, her eyes clouding with sadness. “My cats were a gift from Dr. Gessner too…so I wouldn’t be alone.”

  “Very thoughtful of her,” Langdon said.

  Sasha removed her heavy shoes and left them on a rubber mat just inside the doorway. Langdon followed suit, happy again to be out of his damp loafers.

  “The bathroom is there if you need it,” she said, motioning toward an alcove partway down the hall.

  “Thank you,” Langdon replied. “I’ll take you up on that.”

  “I’ll put on some tea,” she said, leaving him and disappearing down the hallway.

  Langdon stood a moment, eyeing the poster, Katherine again on his mind. The New York skyline and the Columbia Pictures logo—a robed woman holding up a torch—conjured images of the Statue of Liberty…and Katherine’s lecture last night.

  Where are you right now? he wondered as he walked to the bathroom. He was anxious to call the Four Seasons to see if Katherine had returned to the hotel, but as Harris had implied, ÚZSI would be looking for Langdon and Sasha for assaulting an officer and fleeing the scene. He would need to wait for the attaché to arrive.

  The bathroom was cramped but orderly, and Langdon felt self-conscious using Sasha’s personal space. After washing his hands, he dried them on his own pants to spare Sasha’s perfectly arranged hand towels. When he glanced into the mirror, the face staring back at him looked like a stranger’s. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair was disheveled, and deep stress lines furrowed his brow. You look like hell, Robert. Considering the morning he’d had, it was not surprising. Just get to the embassy and find Katherine.

  When Langdon returned to the kitchen, Sasha was pouring dried cat food into two bowls on the counter. Harry and Sally vaulted up effortlessly and began devouring the food.

  Sasha moved to the stove, where a kettle was simmering. “How do you take your tea?”

  With coffee, he wanted to say. “Plain is perfect. Thank you.”

  She set out three teacups, three saucers, and three spoons. “I’m going to use the bathroom,” she said, moving for the door. “Then I’ll pour us some tea. Michael should be here in fifteen minutes or so.”

  Langdon heard her padding up the hallway and closing the bathroom door.

  The apartment fell silent except for the sound of the simmering water. Alone in the kitchen, Langdon eyed Sasha’s cell phone on the counter and was again tempted to call the Four Seasons. Then again, Janáček had probably staked out the hotel by now, so it was anyone’s guess as to where Katherine was at the moment.

  The water had just begun to boil when Langdon heard a sharp knock at the apartment door. Odd, he thought, doubting it would be Harris already. Langdon felt suddenly fearful that Janáček or Pavel might have followed them here…or taken a logical guess to check Sasha’s apartment.

  He hurried around the corner into the hallway just as Sasha was emerging from the bathroom, drying her hands. She looked concerned and silently mouthed to Langdon, “Did someone knock?”

  Langdon nodded.

  From the look on Sasha’s face, a visitor was unexpected. They waited fifteen seconds in total silence, but there was no second knock. Sasha padded to the door and peered through the peephole. After a long moment, she turned back to Langdon and shrugged. Nobody.

  Langdon now saw that a small white slip of paper was lying on the floor, sticking out from beneath the door. “Someone left you something,” he whispered, pointing.

  Sasha glanced down and spotted the paper. Looking puzzled, she crouched down and pulled it from beneath the door. From the little Langdon could see, it appeared to be a handwritten note.

  Sasha stood up and looked at the message, immediately drawing a startled breath. With trembling fingers, she handed the note to Langdon. “It’s for you.”

  Me? Langdon took the slip of paper and read it, his chest tightening instantly.

  Filled with fear, he yanked open the apartment door, burst into the deserted entryway, and ran out of the building into the snow, wearing only his socks. Wheeling in circles in the slush, he shouted into the empty air, “Who are you?! What have you done with her?!”

  Twenty yards from where Langdon was shouting, The Golěm watched from the shadows.

  The note The Golěm had just placed at Sasha Vesna’s door had sparked the desired reaction. If all went to plan, Robert Langdon would soon be rushing off alone to a deserted location.

  Fear is motivational.

  CHAPTER 42

  Michael Harris could still hear Sasha’s desperate phone call as he sped down the road away from Crucifix Bastion.

  I’m with Robert Langdon! We need your help!

  When he reached the main road, Harris turned right, racing north toward Sasha’s apartment. A place I know all too well, he lamented, having visited numerous times, always against his better judgment.

  Harris had first met Sasha two months ago at David Rio Chai Latte, where Sasha stopped every morning on her way to work. Sasha was alone at a standing table, and Harris approached her with a smile.

  “Privet, Sasha,” he said in Russian. Hello, Sasha.

  The tall blonde glanced up, looking alarmed. “How do you know my name?”

  Harris smiled and pointed to her paper cup, on which the barista had written: SAŠA.

  “Oh,” Sasha said, looking sheepish but still uncertain. “But…you spoke Russian.”

  “Lucky guess,” Harris said. “I heard your accent when you ordered.”

  Now Sasha looked embarrassed. “Of course. Sorry to be jumpy. Russians aren’t exactly the most popular people in Prague.”

  “Try being American!” he replied, showing her his MICKALE cup. “The barista misspelled my name on purpose, I’m sure.” He smiled and put on his best Bogart impersonation. “Of all the coffee joints in all the towns in all the world, I walk into this one.”

  “Casablanca!” She brightened. “I love that movie!”

  Over the next half hour, they swapped stories, and Sasha shared a heartbreaking tale of debilitating epilepsy and childhood abandonment in a Russian mental institution…until a neurosurgeon rescued her and brought her to Prague.

  “And this Dr. Gessner cured you?” Harris asked.

  “Perfectly,” Sasha said, gratitude in her eyes. “She invented a brain implant that I can activate by rubbing a magnetic wand over my skull whenever I feel the fog.”

  “The fog?”

  “Yes, sorry, before a seizure, epileptics get a hazy, tingling warning…kind of like that prickly sensation before you sneeze. When it happens, I rub the wand on top of my head, and the magnet triggers the chip inside my skull.” She hesitated, looking suddenly self-conscious. “Sorry, it’s kind of unappealing to talk about.”

  “Not at all—I can’t see a thing,” Harris said honestly. “If there are scars, they’re totally hidden beneath all that beautiful blond hair!”

  The compliment was earnest, but Sasha averted her gaze, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “I can’t believe I told you all this. How embarrassing. I don’t talk to many people, so…anyway, I have to go to work.” She abruptly drained the rest of her chai and quickly started packing up.

  “I have to go too,” Harris said, “but it was fun talking, and if you ever want to have lunch sometime, I’d love to talk more.”

  Sasha looked startled by the request. “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Of course, sorry,” Harris said, fumbling. “I didn’t mean a date date. I just…anyhow, you’re probably seeing someone, so—”

  “Me? No, I’m not seeing anyone,” she blurted clumsily. “It’s just…” Her eyes suddenly welled with tears, as if she were about to break down.

  “Oh no!” Harris said, confused. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “It’s my fault…” she said, her voice fragile. “I’m sorry…I’m just afraid if you get to know me…you’ll be so disappointed.”

  “Why would you ever say that?”

  She wiped her eyes and looked at him. “Michael, I’m not very good at…you know, relations. I spent most of my life alone and on strong medications. I have serious memory problems, a lot of ugly scars from seizu—”

  “Stop right there,” Harris said. “I find you quite charming. And considering what you’ve been through, you’re remarkably easy to talk to.”

  “Really?” She blushed. “Then it must be the company.”

  They talked a bit more, and ultimately Sasha agreed to see him again.

  Two weeks later, after a lunch, a dinner, and an evening walk in Wallenstein Garden, Harris sensed he knew all he would ever know about Sasha Vesna. She was a simple woman with no friends, who spent all her time either working at Gessner’s lab or at home watching old movies with her cats. Sasha is a loner…and lonely.

  Unfortunately, Harris felt increasingly uncomfortable about their deepening relationship. If she ever discovers the real reason I’m seeing her, it will destroy her. Burdened by guilt, Harris chided himself for ever agreeing to do this. It’s time I end this charade.

  Mustering his resolve, Harris had climbed the marble staircase to the ambassador’s office. He knocked on her open door, and she waved him in.

  Ambassador Heide Nagel was a sixty-six-year-old graduate of Columbia Law. The child of German immigrants, she had come to America at the age of four and risen to the top of her field. Her German surname, it had been noted publicly, literally meant “nails”—as in “as tough as.”

  With inscrutable eyes and a politely diplomatic manner, she often lulled adversaries into a false sense of security before she dispatched them. Even Nagel’s quotidian attire seemed calculated to downplay her influence—simple black pantsuits, comfortable shoes, and reading glasses on a chain that looked more befitting a librarian than a diplomat. She wore her black hair with laser-straight blunt bangs and very little makeup.