“Is that…good or bad?”

  “Robert, I would say it’s wonderful! It means that during the dying process, our brain’s filters open up, and we become a radio that hears the entire spectrum. Our consciousness witnesses all of reality!” Katherine took his hands and held them tightly. “That is precisely why people who have near-death experiences describe a feeling of total connection, of all-knowing bliss. The chemistry proves it! As we die, our bodies shut down…and our brains wake up!”

  Langdon flashed on the opening line to one of his favorite novels. It is said that in death, all things become clear.

  “What’s more,” she continued, “in the sixty seconds before the patient’s heart stopped, his brain flooded with high-frequency oscillations that included gamma waves! These are associated with intense memory retrieval, and his levels were off the chart.”

  “So he was…remembering something?”

  “No, at these levels, he was remembering everything. The gamma numbers definitely suggest there is truth to the enduring legend that your life passes before your eyes before you die.”

  The concept of a “full life recall,” Langdon knew, appeared in many religions; the Angel of Death showed the soul all its life choices as a form of enlightenment and karmic teaching.

  “At some point,” Katherine said, “the brain itself dies, and our receiver is gone. And my belief, based on my experiments, is that the dying process foreshadows what lies ahead—a kind of preview of coming attractions—an ability to perceive so much more than we normally can.”

  “So, when the brain finally dies and can no longer perceive anything at all…is that not the end?”

  Katherine smiled thoughtfully. “We already know from near-death experiences that death involves a breaking free from our physical form…combined with an intense feeling of joy and connection to all things. If we know our individual consciousness comes from outside our brain—as so much noetic research now shows—then to my ear, it sounds like consciousness simply abandons the physical realm at the moment of death…and reintegrates back into the whole. You no longer need your body to receive the signal…you are the signal.”

  Langdon felt a chill. The soul returns home. The concept was an ancient one. The dust returns to the ground it came from…and the spirit returns to God who gave it.—Ecclesiastes 12:7.

  Despite his uncertainty that consciousness continued beyond death, Langdon had no doubt that if Katherine was correct about brain filters limiting our perception of reality, her discovery was life-altering. In essence, she was positing that all humans were equipped with the hardware required to perceive the true nature of the universe…and yet we were chemically protected from using it…until the moment of death.

  “This is all amazing,” he said. “Even if it presents a cruel, cosmic Catch-22.”

  “How so?”

  “We have to die to see the Truth…and when we do, it’s too late to tell anyone what we saw.”

  Katherine smiled. “Robert, death is not the only path to enlightenment. History is filled with great minds that have enjoyed a momentary glimpse of some divine light that nobody else could see. Consider Newton, Einstein, and Galileo, religious prophets…These brilliant minds had scientific epiphanies and spiritual revelations that, as it turns out, can be explained in scientific terms.”

  “You mean their filters got lowered?”

  “Temporarily, yes. And in that moment, they received far more information about the universe than we are able to see.”

  Langdon thought of scientist Nikola Tesla, whose quote Katherine had sent him after their first discussion about nonlocal consciousness: My brain is only a receiver. In the Universe there is a core from which we obtain knowledge.

  “Have you ever done drugs, Robert?”

  The non sequitur took him off guard. “Do you consider gin a drug?”

  She laughed. “No, I’m talking about psychedelics—hallucinogens that cause overwhelming emotions and vivid imagery.”

  Clearly you’ve never had enough gin. “No.”

  “Psychedelics like mescaline, LSD, psilocybin—do you know how those drugs make you experience all that?”

  Langdon had never really thought about it. “I assume they stimulate your imagination?”

  “That’s a reasonable guess,” she said, “and that’s what most people think, but then again nobody had yet thought to use real-time magnetic resonance spectroscopy to observe a mind in the midst of a psychedelic drug trip.”

  “You did that?” He pictured someone tripping on LSD, strapped into an MRI tube, with Katherine looking on.

  “Of course I did…it was the logical next step in my research. Many drug trips include out-of-body experiences, and I wondered what the GABA response looked like when that happened.”

  “And?”

  Katherine was beaming now. “As it turns out…just like our historically misunderstood halo, we’ve been seeing it all backward. Hallucinogens don’t excite your neurons, as you guessed—they do the opposite. Those drugs, through a series of complex interactions in the brain’s default mode network, drastically decrease your GABA levels. In other words, they lower your filters and allow a wider spectrum of reality to flow in. That means you are not hallucinating, you’re actually seeing more of reality. Those sensations of connectedness, love and enlightenment…are real.”

  It was a remarkable assertion and Langdon considered it—that the brain had limitless potential to receive consciousness…except that it was locked inside a protective cage that could be escaped only through death…or, to a lesser degree, an epileptic seizure or certain psychedelic substances.

  The topic of psychedelics seemed to be everywhere these days; health experts all over the media were suddenly extolling the virtues of “microdosing” psychedelic mushrooms, proclaiming that psilocybin was a panacea for anxiety, depression, and distraction.

  One of Langdon’s Harvard colleagues, author Michael Pollan, had made headlines not long ago with his number one bestseller and Netflix documentary about the positive power of psychedelics, How to Change Your Mind.

  Another Boston-based superstar in the field, Rick Doblin, had founded MAPS—the Multidisciplinary Association for Psychedelic Studies—which had raised over $130 million for psychedelic research with astonishing success treating depression and PTSD.

  Brave new world, Langdon thought, recalling that Huxley’s vision of the future had included dosing the entire population with a happy drug called SOMA.

  “The chemistry of consciousness,” Katherine said, “is not just a fascinating exercise in self-exploration…it could be the shift humanity needs to survive. Think of the chaos and discord of our world today. Imagine a future in which humans start to lower our brain filters and begin to exist with a greater understanding of reality…a greater sense of inclusion and togetherness. We might truly start to believe that we’re a unified species!”

  Langdon was transfixed by her out-of-the-box thinking.

  “Think of all the elusive enlightened states we crave,” Katherine said. “Expanded consciousness, universal connection, unbounded love, spiritual awakening, creative genius. They all seem out of reach—the products of very special minds or rare experiences. Not true! We all have that capacity—all the time. We’re just chemically blocked from experiencing it…”

  Langdon felt a surge of love and respect for her. Katherine may have just revolutionized our understanding of human consciousness…and discovered a road map for widening it. “I’m floored, Katherine—your work is going to have profound impact,” he said, letting it all settle and trying not to get dragged back to reality by the obvious question that remained on his mind.

  “I know,” Katherine said with a frown, anticipating his thought. “It still doesn’t explain why all this is happening…why anyone would want to destroy my manuscript.”

  Exactly.

  The answer to that question, Langdon realized, would have to wait.

  The limousine had just banked left and slowed at a stone archway and a heavy cast-iron gate outside the ambassadorial residence. A sign read, ALL VISITORS MUST PRESENT IDENTIFICATION. The security protocol apparently did not extend to those in the ambassadorial limousine, because the gate swung open and the Marine in the stone sentry house ushered them through without hesitation.

  Langdon gazed out at the fortified perimeter walls surrounding the grounds of the residence and wondered what answers might lie inside. As the limo snaked along the tree-lined driveway, he noticed the gate had already closed tightly behind them. An uncomfortable thought gripped him.

  Are we entering a sanctuary…or a lion’s den?

  CHAPTER 75

  The U.S. ambassador’s residence in Prague—known as Petschek Villa—is a palatial Beaux Arts chateau whose French architectural grandeur inspired its local nickname, Le Petit Versailles. Built for Otto Petschek, a wealthy Jewish industrialist whose family was driven out of Prague by the Nazi occupation, Petschek Villa was overrun and inhabited by the armies of both the Nazis and the Russians. A touchstone of history, the villa now stands as an iconic landmark to the region’s dark history of occupation, oppression, and genocide.

  After Hitler declared his intention to turn Prague into a “museum of an extinct race,” Petschek Villa was selected as a “trophy case” for Nazi triumph. He ordered that all of Petschek’s finest artwork and furniture be marked with swastikas, cataloged, and carefully stored in the basement for display once Germany won the war.

  The thought made Langdon ill. He stared out the window as the limo curled up the driveway into a sprawling garden surrounded by a high iron fence with sharpened vertical members and security cameras. This fortress, he noted, would be as difficult to exit as it would be to enter.

  “Oh my,” Katherine whispered as the regal home came into view. “This is the U.S. ambassador’s house?”

  Built on a gently sloping convex line, its luxurious columned facade stretched nearly a hundred yards in length and climbed three stories to a copper mansard roof with hooded dormers—a European palace, quite literally.

  “Now I know why my taxes are so high,” Katherine joked. “We house government employees in private palaces…”

  Not quite that simple, Langdon knew, having read former ambassador Norm Eisen’s book The Last Palace, a detailed historical portrait of this astonishing home. In fact, the U.S. had spent an astronomical sum to purchase and restore the villa to its original glory after the war, having maintained it now for almost a century at great expense. America’s way of helping preserve the heritage of Prague.

  Langdon had met Eisen once and recalled him sharing an inspiring account of his mother, Frieda, an Auschwitz survivor, who often said, “The Nazis took us out of Czechoslovakia in cattle cars, and my son flew back on Air Force One.”

  “All in a single generation,” Eisen had pointed out.

  Now, as the limo glided to a stop beneath the mansion’s columned porte cochere the U.S. Marine in the front seat jumped out, circled the vehicle, and opened their door.

  “Watch your step, please,” he said. “These cobbles get slick in the snow.”

  A cold wind whipped as Langdon and Katherine followed the Marine into a small, elliptical anteroom whose carpet bore the colorful symbols of an American eagle and American flag. Overhead, a cylindrical chandelier cast a sunburst pattern on the molded ceiling and walls, illuminating a stern portrait of U.S. Ambassador Heide Nagel.

  Langdon immediately recognized Nagel from photos. Sixtysomething, she was a serious-looking woman whose pale skin was accentuated by stylish jet-black hair, which she wore in precise box bangs.

  Footsteps approached, and a cheerful older man in a well-worn herringbone sport coat entered and welcomed them. After dismissing the Marine, the man motioned for Langdon and Katherine to follow him into the home.

  As they moved down a wide hallway, Langdon could smell the homey scent of a wood fire, but he also detected a second scent hanging in the air—the unmistakable aroma of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. Subtle, Langdon thought, always amused when luxury hotels did the same. The hospitality tactic had been invented by a 1950s real estate agent and was now widely implemented to impart a sense of comfort and “home.”

  Langdon and Katherine followed the man into a sprawling living room, where he seated them in front of a freshly lit fire. The table before them contained a small buffet—assorted pastries, a fruit basket, a pot of coffee, a large bottle of water, two bottles of Coca-Cola, and a fresh plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies.

  “I apologize it’s a mishmash,” the man said. “Madam Ambassador just now told me she had guests arriving. She’s on a call and will be with you in about ten minutes. Cookies are fresh out of the oven, so be careful—they’re hot.”

  With that, the old man departed, leaving Langdon and Katherine alone in front of the fire with a tableful of food.

  “Well,” Langdon whispered, “we may be dancing with the devil, but at least she’s a terrific host.”

  Upstairs in Petschek Villa, Ambassador Nagel hung up the phone and stared a long moment out the bay window of her home office. The snow-dusted estate looked foreign to her today, lonely somehow. For nearly three years now, this palace had been her home, and when she thought back to her first months as ambassador—her naivete and optimism—she knew both had long since dissolved in the harsh light of reality.

  The debacle with ÚZSI and Langdon was now a closed chapter. The official story was that Captain Janáček had fabricated evidence against two prominent Americans and, upon learning that his crime had been discovered, leaped to his own death at Crucifix Bastion.

  Nagel had threatened a public investigation if ÚZSI did not comply with her demands to stay far away from Crucifix Bastion and recover Janáček’s body only by accessing the bottom of the ravine through Folimanka Park. ÚZSI had no choice but to comply.

  Now, turning from the window, Nagel snapped her attention back to the unresolved matter at hand—Robert Langdon and Katherine Solomon. On her desk, the printer whirred, kicking out two documents that Mr. Finch had just sent to her.

  Let’s hope this works.

  Nagel retrieved the pages, snatched a black lacquer “U.S. Embassy” pen from the desk, and headed down to meet her guests.

  In the living room, having enjoyed two cookies and a strong cup of coffee, Langdon felt somewhat refreshed and resigned to whatever awaited them with the ambassador.

  He had already advised Katherine that they should not discuss their private thoughts any further once they entered the ambassadorial residence. The walls have ears. Regrettably, Langdon feared he might have already said too much in the back of the limo, wondering if the ornate car had an intercom—and if anyone was listening. His carelessness occurred to him only after they arrived, having talked openly about the stunning ideas in Katherine’s book…and, of course, the listening device in the tulips in their suite…and Langdon’s growing distrust of the embassy.

  Nothing we can do about it now. We’ll find out what’s going on when we meet the ambassador.

  As they waited, Langdon spied the formal dining room across the hall. He recalled the documentary he had seen about this mansion and an unusual tale he’d heard about the dining chairs.

  I’m curious, he thought, motioning for Katherine to follow him to the next room to the long satinwood table surrounded by antique hand-tooled leather chairs. He grabbed one of them, flipped it upside down, and instantly realized he was holding a piece of dark history. On the bottom of the seat was affixed a faded yellow sticker bearing a stamped catalog number 206 along with the Nazi symbols of the Reichsadler Imperial Eagle and the swastika.

  Katherine drew a startled breath to see it. “What in the world is that doing here?!”

  Langdon held the chair up, examining the sticker more closely. “Apparently, when the Nazis took over Prague and occupied this villa, they cataloged all the furnishings to claim them for later use as museum pieces. These stickers are the original Nazi catalog numbers. The embassy decided to leave them in place as a reminder of the horrors of the war.”

  A voice spoke behind them. “A professor of furniture, I see.”

  Langdon and Katherine spun to find themselves face-to-face with United States Ambassador Heide Nagel. Her blunt-cut bangs were instantly recognizable from the portrait in the hall. She wore a black power suit and a necklace of colorful beads.

  Ambassador Nagel was definitely not smiling.

  Langdon awkwardly scrambled to flip the antique chair. “Sorry about that,” he said, carefully setting the chair down and sliding it back into place at the table.

  “Professor,” the ambassador said tautly, “if there are apologies to be made, they are mine. As far as I can tell, the U.S. government owes you both one hell of an explanation.”

  CHAPTER 76

  The U.S. government owes us an explanation?

  Langdon felt disoriented as he and Katherine followed the ambassador along an elegant, curved gallery that ran along the southern wing of Petschek Villa. The ambassador’s apologetic introduction had startled Langdon, who had arrived here on high alert and in no mood to trust anyone.

  Now, however, the moment of warmth was gone. Ambassador Nagel strode with an intensity of purpose that felt urgent, official, and strangely out of place for her own private home. She offered no commentary whatsoever as they passed a music room, a gold-themed sitting room, and a conservatory with views of the terrace and winter gardens. When they reached the end of the hall, she pushed through a set of mirrored double doors into a small library.

  “This is the most private space in the home,” she said, speaking for the first time since leaving the dining room. “It is where I make all my private calls. I thought we’d speak here.”

  The cozy, wood-paneled library smelled of leather and cigars. Enclosed by shelves stocked with antique books, the room centered on a pair of blue sofas facing each other beneath a gilded chandelier. In the corner, a well-worn club chair with an octagonal side table was positioned by the window for reading. The library’s marble fireplace was unlit and set with pristine white birch logs.