Page 129 of The Secret of Secrets (Robert Langdon #6)

The Dripstone Wall, one of Prague’s more surreal ancient attractions, resembles a towering cliff of melted rock.

Rising over forty feet above Wallenstein Garden, this mysterious seventeenth-century sculpture gives the impression of a river of molten lava, hardened mid-flow into a wall of fluid stalactites, bulbous outcroppings, and amorphous hollows.

Formally known as the Grotto, it remains to this day one of Prague’s eeriest destinations.

The organic undulations in its stone surface have an almost phantasmagorical quality, and visitors enjoy pointing out the various grotesque faces they see peering out at them.

For centuries, church officials have petitioned to tear down the wall, claiming it is haunted and invites the emergence of evil spirits.

Tourists regularly complain of nightmares after visiting the wall, and several prominent dignitaries have found themselves nauseous while standing before it.

Ambassador Nagel was not one of them.

I find it calming, she thought, gazing up at the wall before her. The Grotto looked especially beautiful right now, muted and pale in the fading afternoon light, with wisps of white snow settled in the nooks and crannies of the countless faces.

As Nagel waited in the dimming light, she saw fresh faces materialize in the wall before her.

She had learned that only a fraction of the faces she saw were actually there, intended by the architect.

The others, as it turned out, were faces she was hallucinating —a psychological phenomenon known as pareidolia.

The brain had a natural inclination to conjure meaningful shapes out of nebulous contours, and humans saw faces in everything— from clouds to fabric patterns to bowls of soup to shadows on a lake.

All it took was two dots and a line, and most human brains made the same connection.

From her work at the CIA, Nagel was convinced that conspiracy theorists suffered a kind of cognitive pareidolia, seeing suspicious patterns where no patterns existed…hallucinating order out of chaos.

Everett Finch was the opposite. He spotted real patterns and used them to manufacture chaos…

all in an effort to preserve some kind of order in the world.

News of Finch’s death had granted Nagel a reprieve, and yet it was not something she would ever celebrate.

She had learned one simple truth in her career at CIA: Good and evil do not exist in pure form.

Finch’s ruthlessness, she knew, was fueled by his deep commitment to an agency that was trying to gain a foothold in the brave new world of brain technology.

“The owls are sleeping,” a deep voice spoke behind her, echoing off the Dripstone Wall’s looming surface.

For a moment, Nagel thought she had just overheard some kind of secret spy phrase, but when she turned, she saw two familiar faces.

Robert Langdon and Katherine Solomon were approaching past the garden’s aviary where Wallenstein’s resident owls were perched motionless, with their heads tucked into their shoulder feathers.

Nagel smiled and shook their hands as her ever-present guardian, Scott Kerble, emerged from the shadows and joined the group.

Langdon and Solomon still had no coats, but fortunately, this conversation was not intended to be held outdoors.

“Follow me,” she said, leading them toward the Dripstone Wall. “We’ll talk inside.”

Langdon glanced up at the solid cliff, clearly puzzled. “Inside… where ?”

Without a word, Nagel led the entourage toward the base of the wall and stopped at a tiny wooden door—no more than four feet tall—surrounded by frightening skull-like formations. Langdon’s expression of incredulity was complete when Nagel pulled out a key and unlocked the door.

One of the perks of being U.S. ambassador, she thought. The wealthy Americans who owned what lay beyond this door had loaned Nagel a key, giving her access to this discreet backdoor entrance in hopes she would visit often, which she did.

As they entered, Nagel wondered what Langdon would think if he knew where they were now headed. Behind this wall, in any of six candlelit chambers, the professor might find himself lying naked on a granite slab while robed attendants poured hot wax across his flesh.

She has a key?

If Langdon’s memory served, Prague’s famous Dripstone Wall had been erected against the rear facade of a thirteenth-century Augustine friary—the St. Thomas Monastery—meaning he had just stepped through the wall into ancient, hallowed hallways.

Not so hallowed anymore, he mused.

This grand monastery, like so many in Europe, had been repurposed to serve the needs of an increasingly secular world.

In this case, it had been transformed into a Marriott Hotel—the Augustine Luxury.

The monks’ ancient brewery was now reimagined as the ultrahip Refectory Bar, and the monastery’s original scriptorium had been preserved fully intact, complete with ancient texts, writing implements, and sharpening stones for quills.

“As quietly as possible,” Nagel whispered, guiding them down a narrow passageway to a service door. When she pushed it open, Langdon found himself in an elegant hallway that smelled of tea tree, incense, and eucalyptus.

“You brought us to a spa ?” he asked as they arrived at a golden door, where a placard listed various treatments, including their specialty—the Monastic Ritual . He was no cloistral specialist, but he was fairly certain monastic rituals did not involve lavender body candles and collagen facials.

“We’re safe here,” she whispered. “I know the staff, and the walls are soundproofed.”

With that, Nagel motioned for them to wait as she slipped inside. Within a matter of seconds, she returned with a key fob and ushered them down the hall, where she unlocked one of the spa’s private, post-treatment salóneks.

The windowless lounge had a faux-ecclesiastical feel with flickering electric candles, stained-glass art, and piped-in Gregorian chant.

The soundtrack, Langdon noted, predated the monastery by four centuries.

But anachronisms aside, he could imagine worse places to be.

It’s private and warm. Better yet, Kerble had headed into the hotel to see if he could find them some food.

“First off,” Nagel said, shedding her winter coat and motioning them to sit on the comfortable couches, “I can’t possibly imagine what you’ve both endured today.

I’m relieved that you’re okay, and I realize we have a lot to discuss.

But before we delve too deeply into it, I wanted to share some very good news.

” She gave them both a tired smile. “As it turns out, the incriminating evidence that we were hoping to obtain about Threshold…We now have it.”

How? Langdon wondered, imagining that all physical evidence of Threshold’s existence was pulverized and buried in rubble…along with, tragically, the most potent proof of all. Sasha Vesna herself.

Nagel eyed them both, looking tired but energized. “As it turns out, we have a guardian angel. Stated more accurately, Sasha Vesna has a guardian angel.”

Langdon was startled by the comment. He immediately pictured the cloaked figure who had declared himself Sasha’s protector and guardian. Does Nagel know about her split personality?

“And her guardian angel,” she added, “sent me this. ”

Nagel produced a sheet of paper and laid it in front of them. When Katherine saw it, she let out a little gasp. Langdon felt a similar pall to read the handwritten message scrawled on a piece of cat-themed stationery.

Please help Sasha.

My God, he thought, picturing Sasha’s hands writing these very words…a desperate call for help…an appeal that, strangely, Sasha knew nothing about.

The ambassador quickly explained that the URL included in the message led to a tortured video confession in which Gessner divulged all she knew about Threshold—human testing, brain surgeries, implants, psychopharmaceuticals, near-death experiences, the list of people involved…all of it.

“The video is very difficult to watch,” Nagel said, “but its existence means the CIA can never again come after you.”

She let that sink in.

“I’ve safeguarded a copy, and I intend to make backups. In short, no matter what else happens, this video is the only insurance you’ll ever need.” Her eyes flashed in the candlelight. “It’s your atomic bomb.”

“Yours too, I hope,” Katherine said quietly.

Nagel nodded. “Although I’m not sure how much we’ll need it. The director seemed as appalled as I was to learn some of the things that had gone on at Threshold.”

“He had to know,” Langdon argued. “He’s the director. ”

“Yes, which is why he might not have known,” Nagel countered. “The agency is hypercompartmentalized on process—plausible deniability, autocratic efficiency. He put Finch in charge and therefore would have known only the details Finch chose to share.”

Maybe, Langdon thought, maybe not. He picked up the letter, sensing the ambassador knew nothing of Sasha’s condition. “But why would Sasha’s guardian address this to you ? Why not send the video directly to the press?”

“In the video,” Nagel said, “Dr. Gessner admits that I knew almost nothing about Threshold’s true purpose and would be horrified by its existence.

I suspect that admission is why Sasha’s guardian entrusted the video to me …

imagining I was influential enough to help Sasha…

or to make a difference. It goes without saying that if we ever locate Sasha, I am poised to help her in any way I can.

She is a victim, and I did play a role in making Threshold a reality…

despite being coerced and unaware.” She glanced away suddenly, staring into space.

“But Michael Harris…” she whispered, almost tearfully, “what I forced him to do…spying on Sasha for Finch…It cost Michael his life.” Her eyes returned to them.

“I will carry that guilt and shame forever.”

Langdon wondered how Nagel would feel when she learned the complicated truth about Harris’s killer. The woman you ordered Harris to seduce was, in an odd sense, the one who murdered him.

“Sasha’s protector,” Katherine said. “Her ‘guardian angel,’ as you put it. Did you ever learn his identity?”

“Not conclusively,” Nagel replied. “He appeared only in glimpses in the video and was disguised, but I do have a strong suspicion I know who it was.”

Langdon and Katherine exchanged a surprised glance.

“The man on the video who tortured Gessner spoke with a Russian accent,” Nagel said. “And he told Gessner he was punishing her for betraying Sasha’s trust. But there was something about his rage that felt like personal betrayal…as if he too had been a Threshold test subject.”

He was, Langdon thought. In a sense, he was patient number three.

Langdon didn’t fully understand the complexities of DID, but it seemed that whatever procedures Gessner had carried out on Sasha could have been experienced by her alter, especially if that alter was protective and chose to endure those parts of Sasha’s life that were painful.

According to Katherine, a dominant alter could govern which identity was conscious and in the forefront at any given moment.

“The director informed me,” Nagel continued, “that Threshold’s first test subject was also Russian and was taken from the same institution as Sasha.

His name was Dmitri Sysevich. Finch said he had died in the program, but the director said he had seen no proof of Dmitri’s death.

It’s possible that Finch lied about it for some reason. ”

Finch didn’t lie, Langdon knew. Dmitri is dead. We saw his medical file.

“Considering the video,” Nagel said, her tone regretful, “the director and I concluded that Dmitri Sysevich must have survived the program somehow and returned to take revenge.”

In the uncomfortable silence, Langdon glanced at Katherine, their gazes locking. They both knew what needed to happen. It was time for the ambassador to learn the truth.

“Ma’am,” Langdon said, turning back to her. “The person you saw killing Gessner…it was not Dmitri Sysevich.”