Page 16 of The Secret of Secrets (Robert Langdon #6)
In Old Town, The Golěm wound his way out of the cramped labyrinth of alleyways surrounding his flat. The obscure warren of passages, some only two meters wide, twisted through the ancient neighborhood like the tendrils of a vine.
As he moved, The Golěm inhaled deeply, forcing the cold air to the bottom of his lungs, trying to retune his mind. Encounters with the Ether always untethered him from physical reality, but they also roused his senses.
You must stay alert. There is work to do.
The Golěm’s plan for retribution required a specific piece of information that he did not yet possess.
He needed to proceed with extreme caution; if he left any trace whatsoever of what he was searching for, he risked giving himself away.
For this reason, he had chosen his next destination carefully—a quiet place where he could obtain answers anonymously.
This morning, he was dressed plainly—pants, shirt, parka, a pleated newsboy hat, and dark sunglasses covering most of his face.
This attire was far more common for him than his costume, although he savored the hours he could walk the streets as The Golěm, his outward appearance reflecting his inner soul—a powerful protector from another realm.
The costume had an earthly benefit too. Prague was a city of surveillance, and cameras with facial recognition software were ubiquitous in public places.
It was often said that Prague’s passion for costumes and masks was simply its citizens attempting to enjoy a fleeting anonymous moment.
So when The Golěm required true anonymity, he found it beneath a thick layer of clay, which afforded him the luxury of moving freely through the physical world.
Last night, he had dressed as The Golěm not to obscure his appearance, but rather to hide his face from Dr. Gessner.
And to terrify her. The shock of his appearance had no doubt helped convince her to reveal her deepest secrets; The Golěm was still processing all the information he had learned from her.
The atrocity they had built underground…
The identities of her partners…
And unwittingly…the ingenious way he could bring it all crashing down around them.
The Golěm merged now into a larger alley known as Melantrichova.
Still too narrow for even a single car, the alley was dotted with a few stores and cafés, just now starting to open.
A smattering of tourists had begun to wander the maze, sipping coffees and taking photos of the uniquely labyrinthine passages.
Turning right, The Golěm passed the Sex Machines Museum with its display of contraptions designed to pleasure the human body. It held no allure for him; the Ether provided a climax far more fulfilling than physical gratification.
Even so, the lurid images in the museum windows conjured in his mind images of her …
lying in the arms of her lover. The thought made him ill.
The Golěm had already decided the kindest thing he could do for her would be to remove this man as quickly as possible.
His death would sadden her, of course, but The Golěm would fully absorb her pain and help her forget.
The role of a golem is to bear the burden of a weaker soul.
When he reached the town square, the fragrance of roasting chestnuts filled the air along with the strains of a bock—a small Bohemian bagpipe that was a favorite of street musicians here.
The slushy expanse of cobblestones was already dotted with larger groups of morning tourists, some of whom had gathered beneath the astronomical clock to watch the 8 a.m. perambulation of saints.
Nearby, several costumed characters posed for photos in exchange for tips. The men wore long dark robes, top hats, and dramatic harlequin makeup—faces painted entirely white except for their blackened eye sockets.
Opportunists, he thought, doubting these men were truly members of Prague’s infamous Církev satanova —Church of Satan.
Ever since the Daily Mail had run an article titled “Inside Prague’s ‘Dark Harlequin’ Satanic Ritual,” complete with undercover photographs, it seemed tourists in Prague would pay handsomely for a photo of a real Satanist.
Religion and the occult were woven into the fabric of this city, and visitors found no shortage of angels, saints, devils, and ancient mythological characters wandering the streets.
An actress dressed as a black angel often stood in the square, spreading her dark wings in front of the Hotel U Prince and ushering guests inside to the hotel’s famous basement grotto—Black Angel’s Bar.
At this hour, the winged angel had gone home to bed, and the elegant entryway of the hotel was deserted, just as he had expected. The Golěm slipped inside and descended the winding staircase toward the bar. He planned to find his answers there.
Black Angel’s was housed in a twelfth-century Gothic stone cavern several stories beneath the hotel.
According to lore, during a restoration, workers stumbled into a secret chamber containing a treasure chest of ancient diaries belonging to a man named Alois Krcha.
The diaries included recipes for exotic cocktails and mystical elixirs from days gone by, some rumored to have magical qualities.
Tourists frequented Black Angel’s Bar in hopes there was some truth in the bar’s famous motto: Here Is Impossible Possible.
May that indeed be so, The Golěm hoped. If all went to plan, the information he required to achieve the impossible would be found in this basement.
Courtesy of the angel of death, he thought.