The Secret of Secrets: A Novel (Robert Langdon Book 6) - 3

The Golěm hobbled through the snow, the hem of his long black cape dragging through the dirty slush that covered Kaprova Street. Hidden beneath the cloak, his massive platform boots felt so heavy he could barely lift his legs. On his face and skull, a thick layer of clay tightened in the cold air.

I must get home.

The Ether is gathering.

Fearing the Ether might overtake him, The Golěm reached into his pocket and grasped the small metal rod he kept with him at all times. He raised the object to his head and pressed it hard against the top of his skull, rubbing it in small circles on the dried clay.

Not yet, he incanted silently, closing his eyes.

The Ether dispersed, at least for the moment, and he placed the rod back into his pocket and pushed onward.

A few more blocks, and I can Release.

The Old Town Square—known in Prague as Staromák —was deserted this dark morning, save for a pair of tourists clutching burnt-sugar pastries and gazing up at the famous medieval clock. Every hour, the ancient timepiece presented its “Walk of the Apostles,” a juddering procession of saints that mechanically rotated in and out of view through two small windows in the clock face.

Circling aimlessly since the fifteenth century, The Golěm thought, and still it attracts sheep to observe the spectacle.

As The Golěm passed the couple, they glanced over at him and spontaneously gasped, stepping backward. He was well accustomed to this reaction from strangers. It reminded him he had a physical form, even if they could not see what he truly was.

I am The Golěm.

I am not of your realm.

The Golěm felt untethered at times, as if he might float away, and he enjoyed draping his mortal shell in heavy robes. The weight of the cloak and platform boots accentuated the pull of gravity, anchoring him to the earth. His clay-smeared head and hooded cloak made him a frightening oddity, even in Prague, where costumes at night were common.

But what made The Golěm a truly arresting vision were the three ancient letters emblazoned on his forehead…etched into the clay with a palette knife.

אמת

The three Hebrew letters— aleph, mem, tav —from right to left, spelled EMET .

Truth.

Truth is what had brought The Golěm to Prague. And Truth is what Dr. Gessner had revealed to him earlier tonight—a detailed confession of the atrocities that she and her partners had committed deep beneath Prague. Their crimes were abhorrent, and yet they paled in comparison to what was planned for the near future.

I will destroy it all, he told himself. Reduce it to rubble.

The Golěm pictured their dark creation…obliterated…a smoldering hollow in the earth. Although it was a daunting task, he was confident he could accomplish it. Dr. Gessner had revealed all he needed to know.

I need to act quickly. The window of opportunity is slim, he told himself, the plan already crystallizing in his mind.

The Golěm turned southeast now, moving away from the square, finding the narrow alleyway that wound toward his flat. The Old Town neighborhood was a labyrinth of passageways known for its vibrant nightlife and distinctive pubs—Týnská Literary Café for writers and intellectuals, Anonymous Bar for hackers and intrigue seekers, and Hemingway Bar for sophisticates and cocktail connoisseurs. Of course, the Sex Machines Museum was open late and drew crowds of gawkers well into the night.

As The Golěm snaked through the maze of alleys, he found himself thinking not about the terrors he had just inflicted on Dr. Brigita Gessner, nor of the shocking information he had extracted—but rather thinking of her .

He was always thinking of her.

I am her protector.

She and I are two entangled particles, entwined forever.

His sole purpose on this earth was to shelter her, and yet she knew nothing of his existence. Even so, his time of service to her had been an honor. To bear the burdens of another was the noblest of callings; but to do so anonymously, without any recognition at all… that was a truly selfless act of love.

Guardian angels take many forms.

She was a trusting person who unknowingly was caught in a world of dark science. She did not see the sharks circling. The Golěm had killed one of those sharks tonight, but now there was blood in the water. Powerful forces would soon be surfacing from the deep to find out what had transpired…to ensure the secrecy of their creation.

You will be too late, he thought. Their underground house of horrors would soon collapse beneath the weight of its own sin…a victim of its own ingenuity.

As he pressed on through the snowy streets, The Golěm felt the Ether return, thickening around him. Again he rubbed the metal wand to his head.

Soon, he promised.

In London, an American named Mr. Finch polished a pair of Cartier Panthère glasses and paced his luxurious office. His impatience had turned to deep concern.

Where the hell is Gessner? Why can’t I reach her?

He knew the Czech neuroscientist had attended Katherine Solomon’s lecture last night at Prague Castle, and afterward she had sent Finch an alarming message regarding the book Solomon would soon publish. It was not good news. Gessner had promised to call Finch with an update.

So far, Finch had not heard a word, and it was nearly dawn.

He had messaged and called her repeatedly with no response.

It’s been six hours…Gessner is meticulous—this is patently unlike her.

Having ascended to the pinnacle of his profession by following his gut, Mr. Finch had learned to listen to his intuition. Unfortunately, his instincts were now telling him that something in Prague had gone dangerously awry.