Langdon quickly relayed what Winston had told him—that the docent program had flagged one of the guest’s headsets as having been abandoned, and when a human docent found the headset in a trash receptacle, they checked which guest had been assigned that headset, alarmed to find that he was a last-minute write-in on the guest list.
“Impossible.” The guard’s eyes narrowed. “The guest list was locked yesterday. Everyone underwent a background check.”
“Not this man,” Winston’s voice announced in Langdon’s headset. “I was concerned and ran the guest’s name, only to find he was a former Spanish navy admiral, discharged for alcoholism and post-traumatic stress suffered in a terrorist attack in Seville five years ago.”
Langdon relayed the information to the guard.
“The bombing of the cathedral?” The guard looked incredulous.
“Furthermore,” Winston told Langdon, “I found the officer had no connection whatsoever to Mr. Kirsch, which concerned me, and so I contacted museum security to set off alarms, but without more conclusive information, they argued we should not ruin Edmond’s event—especially while it was being live-streamed to the world. Knowing how hard Edmond worked on tonight’s program, their logic made sense to me, and so I immediately contacted you, Robert, in hopes you could spot this man so I could discreetly guide a security team to him. I should have taken stronger action. I failed Edmond.”
Langdon found it somewhat unnerving that Edmond’s machine seemed to experience guilt. He glanced back toward Edmond’s covered body and saw Ambra Vidal approaching.
Fonseca ignored her, still focused directly on Langdon. “The computer,” he asked, “did it give you a name for the naval officer in question?”
Langdon nodded. “His name is Admiral Luis Ávila.”
As he spoke the name, Ambra stopped short and stared at Langdon, a look of utter horror on her face.
Fonseca noted her reaction and immediately moved toward her. “Ms. Vidal? You’re familiar with the name?”
Ambra seemed unable to reply. She lowered her gaze and stared at the floor as if she had just seen a ghost.
“Ms. Vidal,” Fonseca repeated. “Admiral Luis Ávila—do you know this name?”
Ambra’s shell-shocked expression left little doubt that she did indeed know the killer. After a stunned moment, she blinked twice and her dark eyes began to clear, as if she were emerging from a trance. “No … I don’t know the name,” she whispered, glancing at Langdon and then back at her security guard. “I was just … shocked to hear that the killer was an officer of the Spanish navy.”
She’s lying, Langdon sensed, puzzled as to why she would attempt to disguise her reaction. I saw it. She recognized that man’s name.
“Who was in charge of the guest list?!” Fonseca demanded, taking another step toward Ambra. “Who added this man’s name?”
Ambra’s lips were trembling now. “I … I have no idea.”
The guard’s questions were interrupted by a sudden cacophony of cell phones ringing and beeping throughout the dome. Winston had apparently found a way to restore cell service, and one of the phones now ringing was in Fonseca’s blazer pocket.
The Guardia agent reached for his phone and, seeing the caller ID, took a deep breath and answered. “Ambra Vidal está a salvo,” he announced.
Ambra Vidal is safe. Langdon moved his gaze to the distraught woman. She was already looking at him. When their eyes met, they held each other’s stare for a long moment.
Then Langdon heard Winston’s voice materialize in his headset.
“Professor,” Winston whispered. “Ambra Vidal knows very well how Luis Ávila got onto the guest list. She added his name herself.”
Langdon needed a moment to make sense of the information.
Ambra Vidal herself placed the killer on the guest list?
And now she’s lying about it?!
Before Langdon could fully process this information, Fonseca was handing his cell phone to Ambra.
The agent said, “Don Julián quiere hablar con usted.”
Ambra seemed almost to recoil from the phone. “Tell him I’m fine,” she replied. “I’ll call him in a little while.”
The guard’s expression was one of utter disbelief. He covered the phone and whispered to Ambra, “Su alteza Don Julián, el príncipe, ha pedido—”
“I don’t care if he’s the prince,” she fired back. “If he’s going to be my husband, he will have to learn to give me space when I need it. I just witnessed a murder, and I need a minute to myself! Tell him I’ll call him shortly.”
Fonseca stared at the woman, his eyes flashing an emotion that bordered on contempt. Then he turned and walked off to continue his call in private.
For Langdon, the bizarre exchange had solved one small mystery. Ambra Vidal is engaged to Prince Julián of Spain? This news explained the celebrity treatment she was receiving and also the presence of the Guardia Real, although it certainly did not explain her refusal to accept her fiancé’s call. The prince must be worried to death if he saw this on television.
Almost instantly, Langdon was struck by a second, far darker revelation.
Oh my God … Ambra Vidal is connected to Madrid’s Royal Palace.
The unexpected coincidence sent a chill through him as he recalled Edmond’s threatening voice mail from Bishop Valdespino.
CHAPTER 24
TWO HUNDRED YARDS from Madrid’s Royal Palace, inside Almudena Cathedral, Bishop Valdespino had momentarily stopped breathing. He still wore his ceremonial robes and was seated at his office laptop, riveted by the images being transmitted from Bilbao.
“Impossible.” The guard’s eyes narrowed. “The guest list was locked yesterday. Everyone underwent a background check.”
“Not this man,” Winston’s voice announced in Langdon’s headset. “I was concerned and ran the guest’s name, only to find he was a former Spanish navy admiral, discharged for alcoholism and post-traumatic stress suffered in a terrorist attack in Seville five years ago.”
Langdon relayed the information to the guard.
“The bombing of the cathedral?” The guard looked incredulous.
“Furthermore,” Winston told Langdon, “I found the officer had no connection whatsoever to Mr. Kirsch, which concerned me, and so I contacted museum security to set off alarms, but without more conclusive information, they argued we should not ruin Edmond’s event—especially while it was being live-streamed to the world. Knowing how hard Edmond worked on tonight’s program, their logic made sense to me, and so I immediately contacted you, Robert, in hopes you could spot this man so I could discreetly guide a security team to him. I should have taken stronger action. I failed Edmond.”
Langdon found it somewhat unnerving that Edmond’s machine seemed to experience guilt. He glanced back toward Edmond’s covered body and saw Ambra Vidal approaching.
Fonseca ignored her, still focused directly on Langdon. “The computer,” he asked, “did it give you a name for the naval officer in question?”
Langdon nodded. “His name is Admiral Luis Ávila.”
As he spoke the name, Ambra stopped short and stared at Langdon, a look of utter horror on her face.
Fonseca noted her reaction and immediately moved toward her. “Ms. Vidal? You’re familiar with the name?”
Ambra seemed unable to reply. She lowered her gaze and stared at the floor as if she had just seen a ghost.
“Ms. Vidal,” Fonseca repeated. “Admiral Luis Ávila—do you know this name?”
Ambra’s shell-shocked expression left little doubt that she did indeed know the killer. After a stunned moment, she blinked twice and her dark eyes began to clear, as if she were emerging from a trance. “No … I don’t know the name,” she whispered, glancing at Langdon and then back at her security guard. “I was just … shocked to hear that the killer was an officer of the Spanish navy.”
She’s lying, Langdon sensed, puzzled as to why she would attempt to disguise her reaction. I saw it. She recognized that man’s name.
“Who was in charge of the guest list?!” Fonseca demanded, taking another step toward Ambra. “Who added this man’s name?”
Ambra’s lips were trembling now. “I … I have no idea.”
The guard’s questions were interrupted by a sudden cacophony of cell phones ringing and beeping throughout the dome. Winston had apparently found a way to restore cell service, and one of the phones now ringing was in Fonseca’s blazer pocket.
The Guardia agent reached for his phone and, seeing the caller ID, took a deep breath and answered. “Ambra Vidal está a salvo,” he announced.
Ambra Vidal is safe. Langdon moved his gaze to the distraught woman. She was already looking at him. When their eyes met, they held each other’s stare for a long moment.
Then Langdon heard Winston’s voice materialize in his headset.
“Professor,” Winston whispered. “Ambra Vidal knows very well how Luis Ávila got onto the guest list. She added his name herself.”
Langdon needed a moment to make sense of the information.
Ambra Vidal herself placed the killer on the guest list?
And now she’s lying about it?!
Before Langdon could fully process this information, Fonseca was handing his cell phone to Ambra.
The agent said, “Don Julián quiere hablar con usted.”
Ambra seemed almost to recoil from the phone. “Tell him I’m fine,” she replied. “I’ll call him in a little while.”
The guard’s expression was one of utter disbelief. He covered the phone and whispered to Ambra, “Su alteza Don Julián, el príncipe, ha pedido—”
“I don’t care if he’s the prince,” she fired back. “If he’s going to be my husband, he will have to learn to give me space when I need it. I just witnessed a murder, and I need a minute to myself! Tell him I’ll call him shortly.”
Fonseca stared at the woman, his eyes flashing an emotion that bordered on contempt. Then he turned and walked off to continue his call in private.
For Langdon, the bizarre exchange had solved one small mystery. Ambra Vidal is engaged to Prince Julián of Spain? This news explained the celebrity treatment she was receiving and also the presence of the Guardia Real, although it certainly did not explain her refusal to accept her fiancé’s call. The prince must be worried to death if he saw this on television.
Almost instantly, Langdon was struck by a second, far darker revelation.
Oh my God … Ambra Vidal is connected to Madrid’s Royal Palace.
The unexpected coincidence sent a chill through him as he recalled Edmond’s threatening voice mail from Bishop Valdespino.
CHAPTER 24
TWO HUNDRED YARDS from Madrid’s Royal Palace, inside Almudena Cathedral, Bishop Valdespino had momentarily stopped breathing. He still wore his ceremonial robes and was seated at his office laptop, riveted by the images being transmitted from Bilbao.
