lost symbol

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

Worshipful Master. The man, in his late fifties, was an American icon, well loved, robust, and incalculably

wealthy. His once-dark hair was turning silver, and his famous visage reflected a lifetime of power and a

vigorous intellect.

"Take the oath," the Worshipful Master said, his voice soft like falling snow. "Complete your journey."

The initiate's journey, like all such journeys, had begun at the first degree. On that night, in a ritual similar to

this one, the Worshipful Master had blindfolded him with a velvet hoodwink and pressed a ceremonial

dagger to his bare chest, demanding: "Do you seriously declare on your honor, uninfluenced by mercenary or

any other unworthy motive, that you freely and voluntarily offer yourself as a candidate for the mysteries and

privileges of this brotherhood?"

"I do," the initiate had lied.

"Then let this be a sting to your consciousness," the master had warned him, "as well as instant death should