“Gross negligence or treason?” the director demanded as she entered his office.

  “It was a careless mistake, sir,” she replied truthfully. “That file must have gotten mixed up with my work papers. I had no idea it was even in my possession.”

  The director studied her a long moment. “I’m inclined to believe you, but obviously you can no longer continue as general counsel until we sort out how this could happen. I’m putting you on indefinite leave and handing this over to the IG for an inquiry.”

  “Sir, I really—”

  “Effective immediately,” he declared, his eyes unyielding. “This is a gift, Ms. Nagel, and I strongly suggest you accept it before I change my mind.”

  A week later, Heide Nagel was still at home, suffocating from boredom and professional limbo. Her children were long grown, and her postdivorce “luxury condo” was empty and depressing, although she’d never noticed until now because she’d spent most of her waking hours at work.

  My life is over, she realized. I’m damaged goods.

  At sixty-three years old, Nagel was too young and ambitious to retire, but too old to hang a shingle and start a law practice. She wondered what she was going to do with herself. Book groups? Online dating? It all sounded like hell.

  Then came a call she never expected.

  The director phoned two weeks later in a rare display of contrition. “I feel bad about how this played out, Heide, and I’m hoping to make it right.”

  That’s impossible, she thought.

  “As you may know,” Judd told her, “the president-elect and I are old prep school chums. He called me this morning for guidance on staffing a few key appointments—including the U.S. ambassadorship to the Czech Republic. I told him that considering the growing unrest in the region, he needed an ambassador with solid knowledge of international law as well as experience in the intelligence community. In a word—you.”

  Nagel was stunned. The old-boy network is now recruiting old girls?

  The decision had been a no-brainer. Four months later, press releases had been sent, and Heide Nagel found herself living in Prague’s spectacular ambassadorial residence, overseeing a talented embassy staff and doing meaningful work. Best of all, every time she caught a glimpse of the castle, she felt like she was living in a fairy tale.

  Then, in a single night, it had all changed.

  A month into her new post, Director Judd had called to check in, and after some small talk, he made an unusual request. “Heide, I’d like you to dine with a colleague of mine who is now stationed in Europe.”

  “Of course, sir,” she said, feeling it was the least she could do for the man who had essentially saved her life. “Who is it?”

  “A new hire for the European office of In-Q-Tel.”

  Q? she thought, feeling a twinge of apprehension.

  She was no stranger to In-Q-Tel—or “Q,” as agency spooks called it—the secretive investment arm of the CIA. Their shadowy team of financiers took huge positions in technologies they deemed relevant to the CIA’s interests and national security—everything from Biomatrica’s anhydrobiosis mechanisms to Nanosys’s microscopic electronics to D-Wave quantum computing.

  More than once as CIA counsel, Nagel had advised the director on legal issues related to In-Q-Tel’s “creative investment techniques” and “asset protection methods,” but it was rare that the group was ever reined in.

  Why is someone from Q coming to Prague? Nagel was puzzled that a high-tech investment firm would be interested in Old World Prague. Their normal hunting ground was Silicon Valley.

  On the night of the meeting, Ambassador Nagel arrived early at her restaurant of choice—CODA—a discreet local establishment with superb Czech cuisine. To her surprise, her contact was already seated. He was a slight, formally dressed man, probably in his mid-seventies, with a thick shock of silver hair. He was polishing his glasses as she approached the table.

  Numbers guy, she decided.

  Nagel could not have been more wrong. This man turned out to be Everett Finch—the legendary longtime director of the CIA’s Directorate of Science & Technology. Finch’s team at DS&T, along with those of the other three directorates—Administration, Operations, and Intelligence—made up the four pillars of the Central Intelligence Agency.

  They moved Finch to In-Q-Tel? In Europe?

  The only logical explanation Nagel could imagine was that Director Judd had wanted Finch’s expertise in Europe for some clandestine reason…and quietly stationed him here under the radar.

  The waiter arrived, presenting them both with an amuse-bouche—two tiny teacups of a delicate Czech mushroom soup called kulajda. Mr. Finch drained his cup, touched a napkin to his lip, and then leaned across the table.

  “Heide…” he said, ignoring her formal title. “I trust you’re enjoying your ambassadorship here?”

  “I am,” she replied, wary.

  “Excellent.” He gave her a tight smile. “I believe it’s time you knew the real reason you were placed in Prague.”

  That night had marked the death of Nagel’s wide-eyed naivete regarding the serendipitous events that brought her to Prague.

  My presence was orchestrated.

  The old-boy network had placed a female pawn in a position of power where they needed her, and Nagel had been trapped ever since. She eventually learned what should have been obvious from the start—that Finch had engineered her dismissal from the CIA, planting the documents in her home.

  When Nagel angrily confronted him on the matter, his response was chilling. With no show of emotion whatsoever, Finch produced photocopies of the classified documents that she’d allegedly possessed in her home, informing her that if these copies ever surfaced in the hands of foreign operatives, her claims of an “innocent mistake” would immediately be considered treason.

  Nagel threatened to call CIA Director Judd, but Mr. Finch only encouraged it, telling her that both Judd and the president were briefed on the plan, and that a call to them would only confirm that she was playing in the big leagues with no allies.

  I’m a puppet.

  Finch might have been bluffing, but Nagel could not possibly risk calling the bluff of men like the U.S. president and the director of the CIA, especially when a treason charge hung in the balance…not to mention a top secret intelligence project.

  That’s how people disappear.

  From that moment on, Nagel had despised Finch…and obeyed him.

  Now, standing alone at her bathroom sink, Ambassador Nagel rinsed her mouth out and stared into her own tired eyes.

  Michael Harris is dead.

  “No more,” she said aloud.

  Finch had pushed too hard…too far.

  For more than two years, Nagel had been looking for any way out of her prison, but Finch had never provided even the slightest opening.

  Until now.

  CHAPTER 79

  The Golěm felt alive with anticipation as he approached Crucifix Bastion. By all appearances, Gessner’s hilltop lab was now deserted, meaning he would finally be able to retrieve what he had failed to secure earlier this morning.

  This time, I will not be denied.

  Gessner’s RFID key card was safely tucked into his pocket, and he estimated he would need less than three minutes to obtain the only remaining element he required. Then he would depart the lab for his final destination.

  Threshold.

  Which I will reduce to dust.

  As he strode toward the bastion’s shattered doorway, he recalled the words of his legendary predecessor—the golem of Prague.

  There are only two paths…Truth or Death.

  The Golěm had chosen both.

  Unveil Truth.

  Accept Death.

  The Golěm had died countless times, but death was never permanent. Unlike the ancient golem whose death had been final, The Golěm moved in and out of this form at will.

  I am my own creator. I will always be my own master.

  Each time he erased the Hebrew letter aleph from his forehead—transforming Truth to Death—The Golěm died…but only from view. He became invisible. His hulking outer shell evaporated, transforming a monster into…one of them. Unremarkable. Inconspicuous. His inner power hidden.

  You cannot see me, but I am still here…watching over her.

  Despite this morning’s unexpected obstacles, The Golěm had improvised well, protecting those who were innocent…and destroying those who were guilty. Now it was time to finish what he had started.

  As he stepped through the entryway to Gessner’s lab, he was pleased to find the elegant hallway deserted. The LAB access stairwell ahead of him was secured with a biometric security panel, but the fingerprint would not be a problem; Sasha had unwittingly provided him access long ago.

  The Golěm moved across the foyer toward the panel, his platform boots crunching loudly on the shattered glass on the floor. The sound crackled through the marble space.

  An instant later, The Golěm heard a second sound, from down the hall. It was the distinctive click of a weapon being cocked.

  Delirious from lack of sleep, Field Officer Housemore had helped herself to a cup of coffee and taken a seat at the bastion window to admire the panoramic views of Prague Castle, which sat serenely in the distance. She had been daydreaming peacefully when an unexpected sound in the hallway jolted her back to attention, causing her to leap up and reflexively prep her weapon.

  Now on high alert, Housemore moved toward the entryway, her gun at the ready. Finch had ordered her to secure this building, and while he had promised support, she knew it was too soon for it to have arrived. Certainly, any trained military support would have announced themselves before entering.

  Someone else is here…

  As Housemore moved stealthily around the corner into the hallway, she saw a hooded figure in a black cloak. He was heaving open the metal door to the lab stairwell.

  “Stůj!” Housemore shouted, running toward him. “Halt!”

  The man ignored her, slipping quickly through the door as Housemore fired. The bullet clanged off the security door, just missing him. She ran forward, but she arrived just as the door resealed, locking her out.

  Housemore put her face to the small reinforced window and peered into the stairwell. Instantly, she froze. The cloaked figure was staring back at her…only inches away from the other side of the glass. His face was earthen, like the surface of the moon, and he had symbols carved into his forehead. His icy eyes studied her a moment, as if memorizing her face, and then he turned and rushed down the stairs, his cloak billowing behind him as he descended from sight.

  Housemore stepped back, gathering herself.

  Who…or what was that?!

  She had no idea how this intruder had unlocked the biometric door, but she needed to alert Finch immediately. Housemore knew this was not the location of the agency’s secret facility, although Gessner’s lab obviously contained something of importance, and Finch had ordered her to protect it under any circumstance. And someone had just slipped right past her.

  The man who had entered, Housemore guessed, was Russian. His steely pale eyes had a Slavic feel, and his thick clay makeup struck Housemore as a perfect example of Russian ingenuity; by embracing Prague’s tradition of “cosplay,” the intruder had effortlessly thwarted the city’s facial recognition security cameras. Moreover, Russians were now masters at defeating biometrics with duplicate fingertips created on UV resin–based 3D printers.

  Housemore kept one eye on the lab door as she holstered her weapon and reluctantly pulled out her phone. Finch was not going to take well to this news. Her hands were trembling slightly, and she decided it would be prudent to take a moment before the confrontation.

  Slow down. Gather your thoughts.

  Without relinquishing her watchful eye on the lab door, Housemore slowly backed out of the entryway, moving in reverse down the hall toward the reception room.

  There, in the relative shelter of the hallway, still facing the stairwell door, she took several deep breaths and composed herself. She began to dial Finch.

  Housemore never got the chance.

  Someone was suddenly behind her.

  A searing blast of electricity tore deep into her back. Every muscle in her body seized, and she went rigid, pitching forward onto the tile floor, her phone skittering away. Her attacker grabbed her and flipped her onto her back, pinning her down. Impossibly, Housemore found herself looking up into the pale eyes of the earthen creature she had just seen enter the stairwell.

  Where did he come from?! How…

  It was as if this monster had materialized out of thin air directly behind her!

  He was on top of her now, on the hard tile floor, with his hands around her neck. As he cut off her air supply, Housemore tried to resist, but her paralyzed muscles refused to respond. Helpless, Housemore could only wait, trying to stay conscious.

  After nearly twenty seconds on her back with her windpipe blocked, she could feel her muscle control slowly starting to return. She needed more time, but unfortunately, her vision was starting to blur. Now or never. In a last-ditch effort, she summoned all the strength she could muster, raised her hands, and drove them firmly into his chest, trying to shove him off her.

  But her attacker barely moved.

  The feeling of this clay man’s flesh was odd—wholly unexpected.

  “I am not as you think I am,” the monster whispered, gazing down into Housemore’s eyes as he tightened his grip. “I am The Golěm.”

  CHAPTER 80

  The eighteen-meter swimming pool beneath Petschek Villa was built in the style of a traditional Roman bath. Encircled by a double ring of forty-eight red marble columns, the azure and white pool was heated by twin coal furnaces and was considered the mansion’s most opulent luxury.

  According to lore, the pool was used for only one season before Otto Petschek’s daughter caught pneumonia in it and nearly died. Petschek immediately emptied the pool and declared it forever off-limits.

  Robert Langdon stood at the foot of the empty and forgotten pool, scanning the subterranean space for any exit other than the narrow stairs that he and Katherine had just descended in a frantic attempt to find a way out of the house.

  “Of course you’d find a pool,” Katherine whispered in the reverberant space. “Too bad it’s empty, or you could take your second swim of the day.”

  Third, Langdon thought. If you count the Vltava.

  Langdon had hoped the stairs might descend to a basement exit so they would be able to flee the ambassador’s residence, but the pool room had no exits. Dead end. Overhead, the frantic footfalls of the ambassador echoed down through the vents as she rushed around the south wing, no doubt looking for her missing guests. Apparently, she knew her house well enough to calculate their limited options for escape, and it took her less than thirty seconds to appear on the staircase, descending toward the pool.

  Langdon half expected Ambassador Nagel to arrive with a U.S. Marine at her side, but when she came down the stairs, she was alone. Without a word, she marched over to where they were standing and held up the two NDAs that Langdon and Katherine had left unsigned on the coffee table. Then she tore the documents into pieces, letting the scraps flutter down onto the empty pool tile.

  Langdon watched in confusion. What is she doing?

  Having fully shredded the papers, the ambassador fixed them both with a serious gaze and raised an index finger to her lips, admonishing them not to say a word. Then she pulled out her cell phone, touched a few buttons, and placed an outbound call…on speakerphone.

  “Finch,” a man’s voice answered, crackling out of the speaker. “Everything under control?” His accent was American with a touch of a Southern drawl.

  “Yes, we’re just waiting,” the ambassador said. “How far out are you?”

  “Just landing. I’ll be there within the hour.”

  “Please tell me you have news on Michael Harris,” Nagel said urgently. “I’m worried about his safety.”

  “If Harris is blown,” the man replied, “there’s nothing we can do about it now. He’s probably irrelevant at this point, anyway. He confirmed for us that Sasha is not talking, and that’s—”

  “Irrelevant?!” Nagel demanded. “Michael is involved in this…at your command.”

  “Forget about Harris. Just stay focused on the task at hand. Where are you, by the way? Your voice is echoing.”

  “In my bathroom. I needed privacy to call.”

  “Where are Langdon and Solomon?”

  “I left them in the library,” she said, “and told them to relax until you arrive.”

  Langdon shot Katherine a startled look.

  “Did you admit the hotel surveillance?” Finch asked.

  “I did,” Nagel replied. “As you suggested.”

  “And it worked?” the man asked.

  “Like a charm.”

  “They both signed the NDAs?”

  “They did,” the ambassador said without hesitation. “Your nondisclosures are signed, sealed, and locked in my personal safe.”

  “Excellent,” Finch said, sounding relieved. “It will be good to have leverage on Langdon as well.”

  Langdon and Katherine were now staring at each other in utter bewilderment.

  “And just to confirm,” the man said, “you have physical proof that the hard-copy manuscript in question was burned?”

  “Yes, my team collected the only remains—there’re a few charred scraps. I’ll send photos.”

  “And you say the author burned it herself?”

  “It is my understanding that both Langdon and Solomon burned the manuscript because they felt they were in danger from a rogue ÚZSI agent…and also, obviously, from you.”

  “It was a gutsy choice,” the man mused. “I’ll believe it when I look them in the eyes. If that manuscript is truly gone…and they both signed NDAs…then we may be very close to ending this.”