My profound thanks to three dear friends with whom I have the great luxury of working: my editor, Jason
Kaufman; my agent, Heide Lange; and my counselor, Michael Rudell. In addition, I would like to express
my immense gratitude to Doubleday, to my publishers around the world, and, of course, to my readers.
This novel could not have been written without the generous assistance of countless individuals who shared
their knowledge and expertise. To all of you, I extend my deep appreciation.
To live in the world without becoming
aware of the meaning of the world is
like wandering about in a great library
without touching the books.
The Secret Teachings
of All Ages
In 1991, a document was locked in the safe of the director of the CIA. The document is still there today. Its
cryptic text includes references to an ancient portal and an unknown location underground. The document
also contains the phrase "It's buried out there somewhere."
All organizations in this novel exist, including the Freemasons, the Invisible College, the Office of Security,
the SMSC, and the Institute of Noetic Sciences.
All rituals, science, artwork, and monuments in this novel are real.
House of the Temple
The secret is how to die.
Since the beginning of time, the secret had always been how to die.
The thirty-four-year-old initiate gazed down at the human skull cradled in his palms. The skull was hollow,
like a bowl, filled with bloodred wine.
Drink it, he told himself. You have nothing to fear.
As was tradition, he had begun this journey adorned in the ritualistic garb of a medieval heretic being led to
the gallows, his loose-fitting shirt gaping open to reveal his pale chest, his left pant leg rolled up to the knee,
and his right sleeve rolled up to the elbow. Around his neck hung a heavy rope noose-a "cable-tow" as the
brethren called it. Tonight, however, like the brethren bearing witness, he was dressed as a master.
The assembly of brothers encircling him all were adorned in their full regalia of lambskin aprons, sashes, and
white gloves. Around their necks hung ceremonial jewels that glistened like ghostly eyes in the muted light.
Many of these men held powerful stations in life, and yet the initiate knew their worldly ranks meant nothing
within these walls. Here all men were equals, sworn brothers sharing a mystical bond.
As he surveyed the daunting assembly, the initiate wondered who on the outside would ever believe that this
collection of men would assemble in one place . . . much less this place. The room looked like a holy
sanctuary from the ancient world.
The truth, however, was stranger still.
I am just blocks away from the White House.
This colossal edifice, located at 1733 Sixteenth Street NW in Washington, D.C., was a replica of a pre-
Christian temple-the temple of King Mausolus, the original mausoleum . . . a place to be taken after death.
Outside the main entrance, two seventeen-ton sphinxes guarded the bronze doors. The interior was an ornate
labyrinth of ritualistic chambers, halls, sealed vaults, libraries, and even a hollow wall that held the remains
of two human bodies. The initiate had been told every room in this building held a secret, and yet he knew no
room held deeper secrets than the gigantic chamber in which he was currently kneeling with a skull cradled
in his palms.
The Temple Room.
This room was a perfect square. And cavernous. The ceiling soared an astonishing one hundred feet
overhead, supported by monolithic columns of green granite. A tiered gallery of dark Russian walnut seats
with hand-tooled pigskin encircled the room. A thirty-three-foot-tall throne dominated the western wall, with
a concealed pipe organ opposite it. The walls were a kaleidoscope of ancient symbols . . . Egyptian, Hebraic,
astronomical, alchemical, and others yet unknown.
Tonight, the Temple Room was lit by a series of precisely arranged candles. Their dim glow was aided only
by a pale shaft of moonlight that filtered down through the expansive oculus in the ceiling and illuminated
the room's most startling feature-an enormous altar hewn from a solid block of polished Belgian black
marble, situated dead center of the square chamber.
The secret is how to die, the initiate reminded himself.
"It is time," a voice whispered.
The initiate let his gaze climb the distinguished white-robed figure standing before him. The Supreme