Tonight, however, inside his clerical office, Father Beña was not smiling. He had stayed late on church business, but had ended up riveted to his computer, entirely caught up in the disturbing drama unfolding in Bilbao.
Edmond Kirsch was assassinated.
Over the last three months, Beña had forged a delicate and unlikely friendship with Kirsch. The outspoken atheist had stunned Beña by approaching him personally with an offer to make a huge donation to the church. The amount was unprecedented and would have an enormous positive impact.
Kirsch’s offer makes no sense, Beña had thought, suspecting a catch. Is it a publicity stunt? Perhaps he wants influence over the construction?
In return for his donation, the renowned futurist had made only one request.
Beña had listened, uncertain. That’s all he wants?
“This is a personal matter for me,” Kirsch had said. “And I’m hoping you’ll be willing to honor my request.”
Beña was a trusting man, and yet in that moment he sensed he was dancing with the devil. Beña found himself searching Kirsch’s eyes for some ulterior motive. And then he saw it. Behind Kirsch’s carefree charm there burned a weary desperation, his sunken eyes and thin body reminding Beña of his days in seminary working as a hospice counselor.
Edmond Kirsch is ill.
Beña wondered if the man was dying, and if this donation might be a sudden attempt to make amends with the God whom he had always scorned.
The most self-righteous in life become the most fearful in death.
Beña thought about the earliest Christian evangelist—Saint John—who had dedicated his life to encouraging nonbelievers to experience the glory of Jesus Christ. It seemed that if a nonbeliever like Kirsch wanted to participate in the creation of a shrine to Jesus, then denying him that connection would be both unchristian and cruel.
In addition, there was the matter of Beña’s professional obligation to help raise funds for the church, and he could not imagine informing his colleagues that Kirsch’s giant gift had been rejected because of the man’s history of outspoken atheism.
In the end, Beña accepted Kirsch’s terms, and the men had shaken hands warmly.
That was three months ago.
Tonight, Beña had watched Kirsch’s presentation at the Guggenheim, first feeling troubled by its antireligious tone, then intrigued by Kirsch’s references to a mysterious discovery, and ultimately horrified to see Edmond Kirsch gunned down. In the aftermath, Beña had been unable to leave his computer, riveted by what was quickly becoming a dizzying kaleidoscope of competing conspiracy theories.
Feeling overwhelmed, Beña now sat quietly in the cavernous sanctuary, alone in Gaudí’s “forest” of pillars. The mystical woods, however, did little to calm his racing mind.
What did Kirsch discover? Who wanted him dead?
Father Beña closed his eyes and tried to clear his thoughts, but the questions kept recurring.
Where do we come from? Where are we going?
“We come from God!” Beña declared aloud. “And we go to God!”
As he spoke, he felt the words resonate in his chest with such force that the entire sanctuary seemed to vibrate. Suddenly a bright shaft of light pierced the stained-glass window above the Passion facade and streamed down into the basilica.
Awestruck, Father Beña stood up and staggered toward the window, the entire church now thundering as the beam of celestial light descended along the colored glass. When he burst out of the church’s main doors, Beña found himself assaulted by a deafening windstorm. Above him to the left, a massive helicopter was descending out of the sky, its searchlight strafing the front of the church.
Beña watched in disbelief as the aircraft touched down inside the perimeter of the construction fences on the northwestern corner of the compound and powered down.
As the wind and noise subsided, Father Beña stood in the main doorway of Sagrada Família and watched as four figures descended from the craft and hurried toward him. The two in front were instantly recognizable from tonight’s broadcast—one was the future queen of Spain, and the other was Professor Robert Langdon. They were tailed by two strapping men in monogrammed blazers.
From the look of things, Langdon had not kidnapped Ambra Vidal after all. As the American professor approached, Ms. Vidal appeared to be by his side entirely by her own choice.
“Father!” the woman called with a friendly wave. “Please forgive our noisy intrusion into this sacred space. We need to speak to you right away. It’s very important.”
Beña opened his mouth to reply but could only nod mutely as the unlikely group arrived before him.
“Our apologies, Father,” said Robert Langdon with a disarming smile. “I know this must all seem very strange. Do you know who we are?”
“Of course,” he managed, “but I thought …”
“Bad information,” Ambra said. “Everything is fine, I assure you.”
Just then, two security guards stationed outside the perimeter fence raced in through the security turnstiles, understandably alarmed by the helicopter’s arrival. The guards spotted Beña and dashed toward him.
Instantly, the two men in monogrammed blazers spun and faced them, extending their palms in the universal symbol for “halt.”
The guards stopped dead in their tracks, startled, looking to Beña for guidance.
“¡Tot està bé!” Beña shouted in Catalan. “Tornin al seu lloc.” All is well! Return to your post.
Edmond Kirsch was assassinated.
Over the last three months, Beña had forged a delicate and unlikely friendship with Kirsch. The outspoken atheist had stunned Beña by approaching him personally with an offer to make a huge donation to the church. The amount was unprecedented and would have an enormous positive impact.
Kirsch’s offer makes no sense, Beña had thought, suspecting a catch. Is it a publicity stunt? Perhaps he wants influence over the construction?
In return for his donation, the renowned futurist had made only one request.
Beña had listened, uncertain. That’s all he wants?
“This is a personal matter for me,” Kirsch had said. “And I’m hoping you’ll be willing to honor my request.”
Beña was a trusting man, and yet in that moment he sensed he was dancing with the devil. Beña found himself searching Kirsch’s eyes for some ulterior motive. And then he saw it. Behind Kirsch’s carefree charm there burned a weary desperation, his sunken eyes and thin body reminding Beña of his days in seminary working as a hospice counselor.
Edmond Kirsch is ill.
Beña wondered if the man was dying, and if this donation might be a sudden attempt to make amends with the God whom he had always scorned.
The most self-righteous in life become the most fearful in death.
Beña thought about the earliest Christian evangelist—Saint John—who had dedicated his life to encouraging nonbelievers to experience the glory of Jesus Christ. It seemed that if a nonbeliever like Kirsch wanted to participate in the creation of a shrine to Jesus, then denying him that connection would be both unchristian and cruel.
In addition, there was the matter of Beña’s professional obligation to help raise funds for the church, and he could not imagine informing his colleagues that Kirsch’s giant gift had been rejected because of the man’s history of outspoken atheism.
In the end, Beña accepted Kirsch’s terms, and the men had shaken hands warmly.
That was three months ago.
Tonight, Beña had watched Kirsch’s presentation at the Guggenheim, first feeling troubled by its antireligious tone, then intrigued by Kirsch’s references to a mysterious discovery, and ultimately horrified to see Edmond Kirsch gunned down. In the aftermath, Beña had been unable to leave his computer, riveted by what was quickly becoming a dizzying kaleidoscope of competing conspiracy theories.
Feeling overwhelmed, Beña now sat quietly in the cavernous sanctuary, alone in Gaudí’s “forest” of pillars. The mystical woods, however, did little to calm his racing mind.
What did Kirsch discover? Who wanted him dead?
Father Beña closed his eyes and tried to clear his thoughts, but the questions kept recurring.
Where do we come from? Where are we going?
“We come from God!” Beña declared aloud. “And we go to God!”
As he spoke, he felt the words resonate in his chest with such force that the entire sanctuary seemed to vibrate. Suddenly a bright shaft of light pierced the stained-glass window above the Passion facade and streamed down into the basilica.
Awestruck, Father Beña stood up and staggered toward the window, the entire church now thundering as the beam of celestial light descended along the colored glass. When he burst out of the church’s main doors, Beña found himself assaulted by a deafening windstorm. Above him to the left, a massive helicopter was descending out of the sky, its searchlight strafing the front of the church.
Beña watched in disbelief as the aircraft touched down inside the perimeter of the construction fences on the northwestern corner of the compound and powered down.
As the wind and noise subsided, Father Beña stood in the main doorway of Sagrada Família and watched as four figures descended from the craft and hurried toward him. The two in front were instantly recognizable from tonight’s broadcast—one was the future queen of Spain, and the other was Professor Robert Langdon. They were tailed by two strapping men in monogrammed blazers.
From the look of things, Langdon had not kidnapped Ambra Vidal after all. As the American professor approached, Ms. Vidal appeared to be by his side entirely by her own choice.
“Father!” the woman called with a friendly wave. “Please forgive our noisy intrusion into this sacred space. We need to speak to you right away. It’s very important.”
Beña opened his mouth to reply but could only nod mutely as the unlikely group arrived before him.
“Our apologies, Father,” said Robert Langdon with a disarming smile. “I know this must all seem very strange. Do you know who we are?”
“Of course,” he managed, “but I thought …”
“Bad information,” Ambra said. “Everything is fine, I assure you.”
Just then, two security guards stationed outside the perimeter fence raced in through the security turnstiles, understandably alarmed by the helicopter’s arrival. The guards spotted Beña and dashed toward him.
Instantly, the two men in monogrammed blazers spun and faced them, extending their palms in the universal symbol for “halt.”
The guards stopped dead in their tracks, startled, looking to Beña for guidance.
“¡Tot està bé!” Beña shouted in Catalan. “Tornin al seu lloc.” All is well! Return to your post.
