He glanced up at her, still thinking. “Sorry, I don’t think it will work.”

  “Those are the only three options,” Nagel said.

  “Actually, there’s a fourth option,” Langdon declared, having made an unexpected connection. “It’s dangerous…but I believe it may be our best play.”

  CHAPTER 82

  On final descent into Václav Havel Airport, Mr. Finch’s Citation Latitude streaked toward the mountain of Bílá Hora. The jet’s interactive map noted that the hilltop was the battlefield on which the Catholics had quelled the 1620 Bohemian uprising.

  Fitting, Mr. Finch thought, having just quelled his own little uprising with Ambassador Nagel. For obvious reasons, the ambassador had always despised Finch, but that was of no concern to him. She’s a smart woman…smart enough to know her place in this operation.

  As the plane descended, Finch buckled his seat belt, feeling far more relaxed on approach than he had on departure. Only an hour earlier, this entire operation had been in chaos. Now, almost miraculously, all the disarray seemed to have vanished. A notorious book-pirating ring was shouldering the blame for the hack at PRH; Robert Langdon and Katherine Solomon had been located and secured in Prague; NDAs had been signed; all copies of the manuscript were now contained; and the two operatives in New York had received the order to pull out and maintain radio silence with no further contact.

  Mission complete, he thought, staring out the private jet’s oval window. As he looked at the peaceful Czech landscape, Finch reminded himself that this entire complicated operation boiled down to one simple fact that had myriad ramifications and justified his actions.

  The human mind is the world’s next battlefield.

  The wars of tomorrow would be fought differently, and Finch had been tapped to lead the charge. The nerve center of that directive was Threshold…and Finch’s superiors had empowered him to do anything necessary to protect the technology being developed there.

  Threshold would always be at risk. But one of its first true threats had materialized from an unlikely source, even before the facility was fully operational.

  Katherine Solomon.

  For years, the talented noetic scientist had been on the CIA’s watch list. Among other things, the nature of her work overlapped with projects being explored by the agency. Several years earlier, the team surveilling her had flagged a transcript of a podcast in which she was asked how she felt about noeticists who left academia to work with the U.S. military on brain-related research. Her reply had been unequivocable. “Working with the military is anathema to everything I believe. Under no circumstances would I consider it. Noetic research is for everyone…It should never be weaponized.”

  A shame, Finch recalled thinking. DARPA could have used her on the N3 or subnets projects. With a single quote, Katherine Solomon had marked herself as someone the CIA could never approach, even discreetly, without risking blowback.

  When the agency learned that Solomon was writing a book on human consciousness and had landed a major publishing deal, Finch directed his team to monitor the project closely and secure a draft of her unpublished manuscript as a precautionary measure.

  Surprisingly, Finch’s operatives reported that Solomon’s manuscript was being composed in an unconventional way—entirely on the publisher’s private server, protected by a high level of security. This fact, combined with other concerning elements in Solomon’s past, raised alarm bells for Finch, and he devised a plan B.

  He instructed Brigita Gessner to coax the noeticist to Prague with a prestigious lecture invitation. Gessner was to assess the lecture, then sit down face-to-face over a few drinks and see what she could get Solomon to divulge about her manuscript. She would also make a rare offer to the first-time author—a “celebrity blurb” for which she would need an advance reading copy of Solomon’s book. And finally, Gessner would offer Solomon a lab tour that required signing a short NDA…with a few discreet lines that would allow Finch to take full control of the situation if necessary.

  Unfortunately…plan B exploded in my face.

  After drinks at the Four Seasons, Gessner had sent a decidedly alarming message to Finch:

  SOLOMON REFUSED OFFER. NO ADVANCE COPY. ALSO REFUSED NDA. BIGGER PROBLEM—SHE LIED TO ME. WILL CALL IN 30 MINUTES.

  Solomon lied? Gessner’s text implied Solomon was considerably savvier than Finch had believed and might well be hiding something monumental about her manuscript.

  Finch waited anxiously that night for Gessner’s call.

  It never came.

  Thirty minutes came and went, and then an hour passed.

  Finch called her but got no answer.

  Two hours later, when his phone finally did ring, it wasn’t Gessner but rather his electronic surveillance team with an urgent update: Katherine Solomon has just screamed for help in her hotel room.

  Finch immediately jumped onto the audio feed from the microphone he had placed in her suite, which, thus far, had produced no valuable intelligence whatsoever. What he heard was Langdon consoling Solomon after some kind of nightmare, discussing the details of the dream that had just awoken her. Then Finch heard something unexpected and profoundly alarming—Langdon pointing out that the strange elements in her dream made perfect logical sense…including the appearance of a “spear.”

  “Remember the symbol of the Vel spear on Brigita’s access card?” Langdon asked. “We were just discussing it with her a few hours ago.”

  Finch could not believe his ears. The card Langdon was referring to was a highly secure, all-access key card to Threshold. For the moment, only two such cards existed—Gessner’s and his own—and there was no way in hell Gessner would ever have revealed it to them.

  She keeps it in a protective sleeve…in a locked briefcase.

  Dumbfounded, Finch pulled out his own identical card and studied it. This is the most secure RFID access technology on earth. Ingeniously, the entire surface of the card was a biometric reader—capable of reading any of the user’s fingerprints, in any orientation—meaning the card was impossible to use without being held by the authorized user. If stolen, the card would be useless. And if lost, the card’s lone marking offered no clue as to its affiliation.

  The word itself was perfectly generic. But in truth, it was an encrypted code name.

  Prague, literally, meant “threshold”—and these high-tech cards were the first level of security to gain access to Threshold’s subterranean facility. The subtle incorporation of the historic Vel spear symbol in the A was Finch’s touch—an iconographic nod to the weapon of valor, strength, and enlightenment being created beneath the earth.

  Why would Gessner show this card to an outsider—especially Katherine Solomon?!

  The only explanation Finch could conjure was deeply unnerving. Perhaps he had misjudged Gessner’s ability to be discreet. She was transparently driven by money, for sure, which made her easy for Finch to control, but she also had a monumental ego. He wondered if maybe the two Americans had cleverly turned the tables on her, taking advantage of the neuroscientist’s need to brag, and had persuaded Gessner to talk instead of Katherine. Maybe they’d gotten her drunk or even taken her hostage, which might explain why Gessner wasn’t answering her phone.

  Finch felt his temples throbbing with increasing concern as he analyzed the facts:

  Solomon refuses to share the manuscript…

  Her publisher is exercising extreme security…

  She is aware of Gessner’s RFID key card…

  As Finch sat alone in London in the dead of night, he hoped he was being paranoid. But an unsettling possibility now struck him: Maybe Solomon knows about Threshold…and is writing an explosive exposé to reveal the CIA’s work in human consciousness.

  A moment later, as Finch continued to monitor the audio feed, Solomon confessed something that proved to be the tipping point. “I’m particularly anxious right now, Robert,” she said, still tearful. “I finally gave Jonas the green light to start editing today. He was planning to print the manuscript and start reading tonight, so I’m nervous.”

  The news caught Finch off guard. Katherine has submitted her book to her editor? As soon as her manuscript entered the “editing” phase, copies would be distributed all around the publishing house—proofreaders, fact-checkers, book designers, even early publicity and marketing staff. Containment, if necessary, will become impossible.

  Finch realized he was out of time and options. He had not wanted to create unnecessary waves by hacking the publisher, but now he needed to find out what was in this book…immediately. Without hesitation, he ordered his tech team to penetrate Penguin Random House’s secure server and steal a copy of Solomon’s manuscript. Once he had seen what was in it, he would either exhale…or order a complete purge of every last shred of her work.

  Finch also realized that another liability had materialized—Katherine Solomon’s partner—Robert Langdon. The Harvard professor had a reputation for uncovering secrets nobody wanted uncovered.

  I’ll need leverage over Langdon, too, he decided. Finch quickly formulated a plan, using the scant intelligence he had just surveilled from the Royal Suite. Long ago he had learned that even the most innocuous information, presented properly, could be molded into a potent weapon of confusion. Ancient Chinese strategist Sun Tzu had devised entire military campaigns around his famous mantra: Confusion creates chaos…and chaos creates opportunity.

  Time was short, but he had built a career on being prepared for all contingencies and acting decisively. He picked up the phone and made several calls, including one to Field Officer Housemore, with clear logistical instructions and orders to remain on standby.

  Just before 6 a.m., Prague local time, Finch’s hackers finally transmitted an encrypted version of Solomon’s complete manuscript to him. He had no intention of reading the entire document and began by just scrolling through the table of contents. He was relieved to find that the manuscript, at first glance, appeared to be precisely what the prepublication chatter suggested—an exploration of a new theory of consciousness.

  To be certain, Finch searched electronically for the keywords “CIA” and “Threshold,” relieved to see that neither turned up any matches.

  So far so good…

  Lastly, he entered a very specific search string—looking for one single piece of information.

  It will either be here…or it won’t.

  Finch held his breath and touched the return key to initiate the search. A full two seconds passed with no results, and Finch began to relax.

  And then his computer pinged.

  Shit…

  The search had located a match near the very end of the manuscript. As the page popped up, Finch leaned in, his eyes racing across the text. Within moments, he realized this was a disastrous scenario. Whether wittingly or not, Katherine Solomon had stepped squarely into a hornet’s nest. Her book posed a severe problem.

  As Finch weighed his limited options for managing the crisis, his phone pinged with more bad news—a notification that Solomon had just accessed the PRH server from the Four Seasons Business Center, where she currently was printing her manuscript.

  She’s making hard copies at 6:45 a.m…. on a hotel printer?!

  The action seemed anathema to the publisher’s security protocols, and Finch suddenly feared that Solomon had learned her manuscript had been hacked…and she was already taking actions to protect it.

  Distressed, Finch made a final attempt to reach Brigita Gessner, though his call went straight to voicemail. Gessner had been missing all night…ever since she had met with Solomon and Langdon.

  One thing he knew for sure. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

  Finch had prepared bold countermeasures in both Prague and New York, which could be deployed with the issuance of a single-word command.

  Assessing the entire situation, he concluded it was time.

  He sent simultaneous Signal messages to his operatives on the ground in both cities:

  EXECUTE.

  CHAPTER 83

  The Golěm knelt on the pink marble floor, deeply depleted after his struggle. Gathering his strength to move and hide the body, he was pleased to find his victim’s corpse far lighter than Harris’s had been. He dragged the woman with little effort, dumping her out of sight behind a couch that sat near the side wall. He considered stealing the woman’s handgun, but he had never had the opportunity to learn how to fire one, and he much preferred the simplicity and silence of the stun gun.

  The Golěm now moved to the wall sculpture and slid the heavy piece of art aside, revealing the elevator he had ascended minutes ago to catch the woman by surprise. The elevator’s security keypad glowed before him, and he carefully typed in Gessner’s seven-character passcode, recalling her terror last night.

  She told me everything…as anyone in her position would.

  As the elevator descended one floor, The Golěm closed his eyes, recalling with satisfaction his interrogation method, which utilized a machine his victim herself had invented.

  Gessner’s EPR pod was designed for fully anesthetized, unconscious patients in conjunction with intravenous fentanyl—the most powerful painkiller on earth—which would block the excruciating sensation of having your circulatory system flushed with ice-cold saline. The Golěm, however, had simply buckled her in, skipping anesthesia and securing her wrists and ankles with the pod’s heavy Velcro straps. The machine’s IVs were designed for femoral arteries and veins, but he inserted the catheters into her arms instead, which he imagined would provide just enough flow to keep her conscious to experience the agony.

  The elevator opened automatically to Gessner’s lab, and The Golěm made his way through the dim light, his cloak billowing behind him, casting ghostly shadows on the stone walls. This time, he was alone in the bastion, and he would not be interrupted.

  I will need only a minute to retrieve what I came for.

  Then he would head for the secret facility known as Threshold.

  The trauma of being abducted had not faded for Jonas Faukman, and having now learned that Robert and Katherine had been lured into the residence of a former CIA attorney, he could only hope they had taken his advice and gotten the hell out of there.

  Call me, Robert. Let me know you’re okay…

  Alex Conan had been pecking away at his laptop, performing a deep dive on In-Q-Tel. Faukman was fiercely interested in knowing why the investment firm would be so opposed to whatever was in Katherine’s manuscript.

  “Have a look at this,” Alex finally said. “It’s a partial list of Q’s private investment holdings.”

  Faukman darted over and looked at the screen over the tech’s shoulder, eyeing the firm’s catalog in disbelief. There were more than three hundred entries, mostly in language that was indecipherable to him.

  MemSQL—synchronous analytics Boundless Spatial

  Xanadu—photonic quantum solutions

  Keyhole—geospatial visualization

  zSpace—3D holographic sculpting

  The list went on and on.

  “This looks like what I’d expect,” Alex said, quickly scanning the list. “What I recognize is mostly cybersecurity, data analytics, imaging, computing…”

  “How about neuroscience or consciousness—that sort of thing?”

  “Maybe, I don’t know. We need to throw this list into a da—” Alex’s phone buzzed, and he glanced at the caller ID, drawing a fortifying breath before answering. “Allison, good morning. I was just—”

  Faukman could hear the data security director yelling on the other end of the line.

  “I understand,” Alex said calmly. “I’ll be right there.” He ended the call and stood up. “Sorry, interrogation time.”

  Faukman felt for the kid. Considering PRH had been hacked by a global intelligence agency, this was not exactly a fair fight, and Alex had handled the crisis admirably.

  “I’ll be back when I can,” the tech said, before appearing to have another thought and typing quickly on his laptop. “I just copied and sent you that list; throw it into a DAP and look for any crossover.”

  “Wait! What? What’s DAP! I don’t have one!”

  “Yes, you do,” Alex said patiently, heading for the door. “There’s an entire suite of data analytics platforms on the PRH server for your use.”

  Faukman had no idea even where to look.

  “Never mind,” Alex said, “just use an online engine—ChatGPT or Bard or something. Tell it to analyze Q’s investments and cross-reference them with whatever topics you think are relevant to Dr. Solomon’s book. I’ll be back when I can.”

  With that, Alex rushed off.

  Faukman stood alone in his office, casting a wary eye at his computer. He’d seen artificial intelligence apps, of course, but he’d sworn publicly never to use them. An existential threat to the noble craft of writing! PRH was already receiving submissions that clearly had been written by robots, but they were getting alarmingly harder and harder to spot. Faukman had taken a defiant stand—urging his fellow editors to boycott all AI products in the face of the coming literary apocalypse.

  Now, however, Faukman found himself at a crossroads. As he opened the email Alex had sent him and eyed the list of Q’s investments, he pictured the egregious abuses the shadowy organization had imposed on Katherine…on Robert…and on Faukman himself.

  Screw ethical fortitude, he decided, sitting down at his machine. This is war.

  CHAPTER 84

  The “personal use” SUV provided with the ambassador’s residence was a nondescript, cream-colored Hyundai Tucson with Czech plates, which Heide Nagel occasionally used for private weekends to escape the city. Her most recent outing had been to Tisá Rocks Labyrinth in Bohemian Switzerland, a maze of hiking trails through breathtaking sandstone formations that were so otherworldly as to have made an appearance in the fantasy film The Chronicles of Narnia.