“What are you afraid of?” Marco pressed. “You’re a naval officer. A grown man who commanded a ship! Are you afraid the pope is going to brainwash you in ten minutes and take you hostage?”
I’m not sure what I’m afraid of, Ávila thought, staring down at his injured leg, feeling strangely small and impotent. For most of his life, he had been the one in charge, the one giving orders. He was uncertain about the prospect of taking orders from someone else.
“Never mind,” Marco finally said, refastening his seat belt. “I’m sorry. I can see you’re uncomfortable. I didn’t mean to pressure you.” He reached down to start the car.
Ávila felt like a fool. Marco was practically a child, one-third Ávila’s age, missing a leg, trying to help out a fellow invalid, and Ávila had thanked him by being ungrateful, skeptical, and condescending.
“No,” Ávila said. “Forgive me, Marco. I’d be honored to listen to the man preach.”
CHAPTER 49
THE WINDSHIELD ON Edmond’s Tesla Model X was expansive, morphing seamlessly into the car’s roof somewhere behind Langdon’s head, giving him the disorienting sense he was floating inside a glass bubble.
Guiding the car along the wooded highway north of Barcelona, Langdon was surprised to find himself driving well in excess of the roadway’s generous 120 kph speed limit. The vehicle’s silent electric engine and linear acceleration seemed to make every speed feel nearly identical.
In the seat beside him, Ambra was busy browsing the Internet on the car’s massive dashboard computer display, relaying to Langdon the news that was now breaking worldwide. An ever-deepening web of intrigue was emerging, including rumors that Bishop Valdespino had been wiring funds to the antipope of the Palmarian Church—who allegedly had military ties with conservative Carlists and appeared to be responsible not only for Edmond’s death, but also for the deaths of Syed al-Fadl and Rabbi Yehuda Köves.
As Ambra read aloud, it became clear that media outlets everywhere were now asking the same question: What could Edmond Kirsch possibly have discovered that was so threatening that a prominent bishop and a conservative Catholic sect would murder him in an effort to silence his announcement?
“The viewership numbers are incredible,” Ambra said, glancing up from the screen. “Public interest in this story is unprecedented … it seems like the entire world is transfixed.”
In that instant, Langdon realized that perhaps there was a macabre silver lining to Edmond’s horrific murder. With all the media attention, Kirsch’s global audience had grown far larger than he could ever have imagined. Right now, even in death, Edmond held the world’s ear.
The realization made Langdon even more committed to achieving his goal—to find Edmond’s forty-seven-letter password and launch his presentation to the world.
“There’s no statement yet from Julián,” Ambra said, sounding puzzled. “Not a single word from the Royal Palace. It makes no sense. I’ve had personal experience with their PR coordinator, Mónica Martín, and she’s all about transparency and sharing information before the press can twist it. I’m sure she’s urging Julián to make a statement.”
Langdon suspected she was right. Considering the media was accusing the palace’s primary religious adviser of conspiracy—possibly even murder—it seemed logical that Julián should make a statement of some sort, even if only to say that the palace was investigating the accusations.
“Especially,” Langdon added, “if you consider that the country’s future queen consort was standing right beside Edmond when he was shot. It could have been you, Ambra. The prince should at least say he’s relieved that you’re safe.”
“I’m not sure he is,” she said matter-of-factly, turning off the browser and leaning back in her seat.
Langdon glanced over. “Well, for whatever it’s worth, I’m glad you’re safe. I’m not sure I could have handled tonight all alone.”
“Alone?” an accented voice demanded through the car’s speakers. “How quickly we forget!”
Langdon laughed at Winston’s indignant outburst. “Winston, did Edmond really program you to be defensive and insecure?”
“No,” Winston said. “He programmed me to observe, learn, and mimic human behavior. My tone was more an attempt at humor—which Edmond encouraged me to develop. Humor cannot be programmed … it must be learned.”
“Well, you’re learning well.”
“Am I?” Winston entreated. “Perhaps you could say that again?”
Langdon laughed out loud. “As I said, you’re learning well.”
Ambra had now returned the dashboard display to its default page—a navigation program consisting of a satellite photo on which a tiny “avatar” of their car was visible. Langdon could see that they had wound through the Collserola Mountains and were now merging onto Highway B-20 toward Barcelona. To the south of their location, on the satellite photo, Langdon spotted something unusual that drew his attention—a large forested area in the middle of the urban sprawl. The green expanse was elongated and amorphous, like a giant amoeba.
“Is that Parc Güell?” he asked.
Ambra glanced at the screen and nodded. “Good eye.”
“Edmond stopped there frequently,” Winston added, “on his way home from the airport.”
Langdon was not surprised. Parc Güell was one of the best-known masterpieces of Antoni Gaudí—the same architect and artist whose work Edmond displayed on his phone case. Gaudí was a lot like Edmond, Langdon thought. A groundbreaking visionary for whom the normal rules did not apply.
I’m not sure what I’m afraid of, Ávila thought, staring down at his injured leg, feeling strangely small and impotent. For most of his life, he had been the one in charge, the one giving orders. He was uncertain about the prospect of taking orders from someone else.
“Never mind,” Marco finally said, refastening his seat belt. “I’m sorry. I can see you’re uncomfortable. I didn’t mean to pressure you.” He reached down to start the car.
Ávila felt like a fool. Marco was practically a child, one-third Ávila’s age, missing a leg, trying to help out a fellow invalid, and Ávila had thanked him by being ungrateful, skeptical, and condescending.
“No,” Ávila said. “Forgive me, Marco. I’d be honored to listen to the man preach.”
CHAPTER 49
THE WINDSHIELD ON Edmond’s Tesla Model X was expansive, morphing seamlessly into the car’s roof somewhere behind Langdon’s head, giving him the disorienting sense he was floating inside a glass bubble.
Guiding the car along the wooded highway north of Barcelona, Langdon was surprised to find himself driving well in excess of the roadway’s generous 120 kph speed limit. The vehicle’s silent electric engine and linear acceleration seemed to make every speed feel nearly identical.
In the seat beside him, Ambra was busy browsing the Internet on the car’s massive dashboard computer display, relaying to Langdon the news that was now breaking worldwide. An ever-deepening web of intrigue was emerging, including rumors that Bishop Valdespino had been wiring funds to the antipope of the Palmarian Church—who allegedly had military ties with conservative Carlists and appeared to be responsible not only for Edmond’s death, but also for the deaths of Syed al-Fadl and Rabbi Yehuda Köves.
As Ambra read aloud, it became clear that media outlets everywhere were now asking the same question: What could Edmond Kirsch possibly have discovered that was so threatening that a prominent bishop and a conservative Catholic sect would murder him in an effort to silence his announcement?
“The viewership numbers are incredible,” Ambra said, glancing up from the screen. “Public interest in this story is unprecedented … it seems like the entire world is transfixed.”
In that instant, Langdon realized that perhaps there was a macabre silver lining to Edmond’s horrific murder. With all the media attention, Kirsch’s global audience had grown far larger than he could ever have imagined. Right now, even in death, Edmond held the world’s ear.
The realization made Langdon even more committed to achieving his goal—to find Edmond’s forty-seven-letter password and launch his presentation to the world.
“There’s no statement yet from Julián,” Ambra said, sounding puzzled. “Not a single word from the Royal Palace. It makes no sense. I’ve had personal experience with their PR coordinator, Mónica Martín, and she’s all about transparency and sharing information before the press can twist it. I’m sure she’s urging Julián to make a statement.”
Langdon suspected she was right. Considering the media was accusing the palace’s primary religious adviser of conspiracy—possibly even murder—it seemed logical that Julián should make a statement of some sort, even if only to say that the palace was investigating the accusations.
“Especially,” Langdon added, “if you consider that the country’s future queen consort was standing right beside Edmond when he was shot. It could have been you, Ambra. The prince should at least say he’s relieved that you’re safe.”
“I’m not sure he is,” she said matter-of-factly, turning off the browser and leaning back in her seat.
Langdon glanced over. “Well, for whatever it’s worth, I’m glad you’re safe. I’m not sure I could have handled tonight all alone.”
“Alone?” an accented voice demanded through the car’s speakers. “How quickly we forget!”
Langdon laughed at Winston’s indignant outburst. “Winston, did Edmond really program you to be defensive and insecure?”
“No,” Winston said. “He programmed me to observe, learn, and mimic human behavior. My tone was more an attempt at humor—which Edmond encouraged me to develop. Humor cannot be programmed … it must be learned.”
“Well, you’re learning well.”
“Am I?” Winston entreated. “Perhaps you could say that again?”
Langdon laughed out loud. “As I said, you’re learning well.”
Ambra had now returned the dashboard display to its default page—a navigation program consisting of a satellite photo on which a tiny “avatar” of their car was visible. Langdon could see that they had wound through the Collserola Mountains and were now merging onto Highway B-20 toward Barcelona. To the south of their location, on the satellite photo, Langdon spotted something unusual that drew his attention—a large forested area in the middle of the urban sprawl. The green expanse was elongated and amorphous, like a giant amoeba.
“Is that Parc Güell?” he asked.
Ambra glanced at the screen and nodded. “Good eye.”
“Edmond stopped there frequently,” Winston added, “on his way home from the airport.”
Langdon was not surprised. Parc Güell was one of the best-known masterpieces of Antoni Gaudí—the same architect and artist whose work Edmond displayed on his phone case. Gaudí was a lot like Edmond, Langdon thought. A groundbreaking visionary for whom the normal rules did not apply.
