Origin (37 page)

Similarly, across the Western world, antireligious organizations were sprouting up, pushing back against what they considered the dangers of religious dogma—American Atheists, the Freedom from Religion Foundation, Americanhumanist.org, the Atheist Alliance International.

Langdon had never given these groups much thought until Edmond had told him about the Brights—a global organization that, despite its often misunderstood name, endorsed a naturalistic worldview with no supernatural or mystical elements. The Brights’ membership included powerhouse intellectuals like Richard Dawkins, Margaret Downey, and Daniel Dennett. Apparently, the growing army of atheists was now packing some very big guns.

Langdon had spotted books by both Dawkins and Dennett only minutes ago while skimming the section of the library devoted to evolution.

The Dawkins classic
The Blind Watchmaker
forcefully challenged the teleological notion that human beings—much like complex watches—could exist only if they had a “designer.” Similarly, one of Dennett’s books,
Darwin’s Dangerous Idea
, argued that natural selection
alone
was sufficient to explain the evolution of life, and that complex biological designs could exist without help from a divine designer.

God is not needed for life
, Langdon mused, flashing on Edmond’s presentation. The question “Where do we come from?” suddenly rang a bit
more forcefully in Langdon’s mind.
Could that be part of Edmond’s discovery?
he wondered.
The idea that life exists on its own—without a Creator?

This notion, of course, stood in direct opposition to every major Creation story, which made Langdon increasingly curious to know if he might be on the right track. Then again, the idea seemed entirely unprovable.

“Robert?” Ambra called behind him.

Langdon turned to see that Ambra had completed searching her side of the library and was shaking her head. “Nothing over here,” she said. “All nonfiction. I’ll help you look on your side.”

“Same here so far,” Langdon said.

As Ambra crossed to Langdon’s side of the library, Winston’s voice crackled on the speakerphone.

“Ms. Vidal?”

Ambra raised Edmond’s phone. “Yes?”

“Both you and Professor Langdon need to see something right away,” Winston said. “The palace has just made a public statement.”

Langdon moved quickly toward Ambra, standing close by her side, watching as the tiny screen in her hand began streaming a video.

He recognized the plaza in front of Madrid’s Royal Palace, where a uniformed man in handcuffs was being marched roughly into the frame by four Guardia Real agents. The agents turned their prisoner toward the camera, as if to disgrace him before the eyes of the world.

“Garza?!” Ambra exclaimed, sounding stunned. “The head of the Guardia Real is under arrest?!”

The camera turned now to show a woman in thick glasses who pulled a piece of paper out of a pocket of her pantsuit and prepared to read a statement.

“That’s Mónica Martín,” Ambra said. “Public relations coordinator. What is going
on
?”

The woman began reading, enunciating every word clearly and distinctly. “The Royal Palace is hereby arresting Commander Diego Garza for his role in the murder of Edmond Kirsch, as well as his attempts to implicate Bishop Valdespino in that crime.”

Langdon could feel Ambra stagger slightly beside him as Mónica Martín continued reading.

“Regarding our future queen, Ambra Vidal,” the PR coordinator said in an ominous tone, “and the American professor Robert Langdon, I’m afraid I have some deeply disturbing news.”

Langdon and Ambra exchanged a startled glance.

“The palace has just received confirmation from Ms. Vidal’s security
detail,” Martín continued, “that Ms. Vidal was taken from the Guggenheim Museum against her will tonight by Robert Langdon. Our Guardia Real are now on full alert, coordinating with local authorities in Barcelona, where it is believed that Robert Langdon is holding Ms. Vidal hostage.”

Langdon was speechless.

“As this is now formally classified as a hostage situation, the public is urged to assist the authorities by reporting any and all information relating to the whereabouts of Ms. Vidal or Mr. Langdon. The palace has no further comment at this time.”

Reporters started screaming questions at Martín, who abruptly turned and marched off toward the palace.

“This is … madness,” Ambra stammered. “My agents
saw
me leave the museum willingly!”

Langdon stared at the phone, trying to make sense of what he had just witnessed. Despite the torrent of questions now swirling in his mind, he was entirely lucid about one key point.

I am in serious danger.

“
ROBERT, I’M SO
sorry.” Ambra Vidal’s dark eyes were wild with fear and guilt. “I have no idea who is behind this false story, but they’ve just put you at enormous risk.” The future queen of Spain reached for Edmond’s phone. “I’m going to call Mónica Martín right now.”

“Do
not
call Ms. Martín,” Winston’s voice chimed from the phone. “That is precisely what the palace wants. It’s a ploy. They’re trying to flush you out, trick you into making contact and revealing your location. Think logically. Your two Guardia agents
know
you were not kidnapped, and yet they’ve agreed to help spread this lie and fly to Barcelona to hunt you? Clearly, the entire palace is involved in this. And with the commander of the Royal Guard under arrest, these orders must be coming from higher up.”

Ambra drew a short breath. “Meaning … Julián?”

“An inescapable conclusion,” Winston said. “The prince is the only one in the palace who has the authority to arrest Commander Garza.”

Ambra closed her eyes for a long moment, and Langdon sensed a wave of melancholy washing over her, as if this seemingly incontrovertible proof of Julián’s involvement had just erased her last remaining hope that perhaps her fiancé was an innocent bystander in all of this.

“This is about Edmond’s discovery,” Langdon declared. “Someone in the palace knows we are trying to show Edmond’s video to the world, and they’re desperate to stop us.”

“Perhaps they thought their work was finished when they silenced Edmond,” Winston added. “They didn’t realize that there were loose ends.”

An uncomfortable silence hung between them.

“Ambra,” Langdon said quietly, “I obviously don’t know your fiancé, but I strongly suspect Bishop Valdespino has Julián’s ear in this matter. Remember, Edmond and Valdespino were at odds before the museum event even started.”

She nodded, looking uncertain. “Either way, you’re in danger.”

Suddenly they became aware of the faint sound of sirens wailing in the distance.

Langdon felt his pulse quicken. “We need to find this poem
now
,” he declared, resuming his search of the bookshelves. “Launching Edmond’s presentation is the key to our safety. If we go public, then whoever is trying to silence us will realize they’re too late.”

“True,” Winston said, “but the local authorities will still be hunting for you as a kidnapper. You won’t be safe unless you beat the palace at their own game.”

“How?” Ambra demanded.

Winston continued without hesitation. “The palace used the media against you, but that’s a knife that cuts both ways.”

Langdon and Ambra listened as Winston quickly outlined a very simple plan, one that Langdon had to admit would instantly create confusion and chaos among their assailants.

“I’ll do it,” Ambra readily agreed.

“Are you sure?” Langdon asked her warily. “There will be no going back for you.”

“Robert,” she said, “I’m the one who got you into this, and now you’re in danger. The palace had the gall to use the media as a weapon against you, and now I’m going to turn it around on them.”

“Fittingly so,” Winston added. “Those who live by the sword will die by the sword.”

Langdon did a double take.
Did Edmond’s computer really just paraphrase Aeschylus?
He wondered if it might not be more appropriate to quote Nietzsche: “
Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.
”

Before Langdon could protest any further, Ambra was moving down the hall, Edmond’s phone in hand. “Find that password, Robert!” she called over her shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

Langdon watched her disappear into a narrow turret whose staircase spiraled up to Casa Milà’s notoriously precarious rooftop deck.

“Be careful!” he called after her.

Alone now in Edmond’s apartment, Langdon peered down the winding snake-rib hallway and tried to make sense of what he had seen here—cases of unusual artifacts, a framed quote proclaiming that God was dead, and a priceless Gauguin that posed the same questions Edmond had asked of the world earlier tonight.
Where do we come from? Where are we going?

He had found nothing yet that hinted at Edmond’s possible
answers
to
these questions. So far, Langdon’s search of the library had yielded only one volume that seemed potentially relevant—
Unexplained Art
—a book of photographs of mysterious man-made structures, including Stonehenge, the Easter Island heads, and Nazca’s sprawling “desert drawings”—geoglyphs drawn on such a massive scale that they were discernible only from the air.

Not much help
, he decided, and resumed his search of the shelves.

Outside, the sirens grew louder.

“
I AM NOT
a monster,” Ávila declared, exhaling as he relieved himself in a grungy urinal in a deserted rest stop on Highway N-240.

At his side, the Uber driver was trembling, apparently too nervous to urinate. “You threatened … my family.”

“And if you behave,” Ávila replied, “I assure you that no harm will come to them. Just take me to Barcelona, drop me off, and we will part as friends. I will return your wallet, forget your home address, and you need never think of me again.”

The driver stared straight ahead, his lips quivering.

“You are a man of the faith,” Ávila said. “I saw the papal cross on your windshield. And no matter what you think of me, you can find peace in knowing that you are doing the work of God tonight.” Ávila finished at the urinal. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

Ávila stepped back and checked the ceramic pistol tucked into his belt. It was loaded with his lone remaining bullet. He wondered if he’d need to use it tonight.

He walked to the sink and ran water into his palms, seeing the tattoo that the Regent had directed him to place there in case he was caught.
An unnecessary precaution
, Ávila suspected, now feeling like an untraceable spirit moving through the night.

He raised his eyes to the filthy mirror, startled by his appearance. The last time Ávila had seen himself, he was wearing full dress whites with a starched collar and a naval cap. Now, having stripped off the top of his uniform, he looked more like a trucker—wearing only his V-neck T-shirt and a baseball cap borrowed from his driver.

Ironically, the disheveled man in the mirror reminded Ávila of his appearance during his days of drunken self-loathing following the explosion that killed his family.

I was in a bottomless pit.

The turning point, he knew, had been the day when his physical
therapist, Marco, had tricked him into driving out into the countryside to meet the “pope.”

Ávila would never forget approaching the eerie spires of the Palmarian church, passing through their towering security gates, and entering the cathedral partway through the morning mass, where throngs of worshippers were kneeling in prayer.

The sanctuary was lit only by natural light from high stained-glass windows, and the air smelled heavily of incense. When Ávila saw the gilded altars and burnished wood pews, he realized that the rumors of the Palmarians’ massive wealth were true. This church was as beautiful as any cathedral Ávila had ever seen, and yet he knew that
this
Catholic church was unlike any other.

The Palmarians are the sworn enemy of the Vatican.

Standing with Marco at the rear of the cathedral, Ávila gazed out over the congregation and wondered how this sect could have thrived after blatantly flaunting its opposition to Rome. Apparently, the Palmarians’ denunciation of the Vatican’s growing liberalism had struck a chord with believers who craved a more conservative interpretation of the faith.

Hobbling up the aisle on his crutches, Ávila felt like a miserable cripple making a pilgrimage to Lourdes in hopes of a miracle cure. An usher greeted Marco and led the two men to seats that had been cordoned off in the very front row. Nearby parishioners glanced over with curiosity to see who was getting this special treatment. Ávila wished Marco had not convinced him to wear his decorated naval uniform.

I thought I was meeting the pope.

Ávila sat down and raised his eyes to the main altar, where a young parishioner in a suit was doing a reading from a Bible. Ávila recognized the passage—the Gospel of Mark.

“‘If you hold anything against anyone,’” the reader declared, “‘
forgive
them, so that your Father in heaven may forgive you your sins.’”

More forgiveness?
Ávila thought, scowling. He felt like he’d heard this passage a thousand times from the grief counselors and nuns in the months after the terrorist attack.

The reading ended, and the swelling chords of a pipe organ resounded in the sanctuary. The congregants rose in unison, and Ávila reluctantly clambered to his feet, wincing in pain. A hidden door behind the altar opened and a figure appeared, sending a ripple of excitement through the crowd.

The man looked to be in his fifties—upright and regal with a graceful stature and a compelling gaze. He wore a white cassock, a golden tippet, an embroidered sash, and a bejeweled papal
pretiosa
miter. He advanced with his arms outstretched to the congregation, seeming to hover as he moved toward the center of the altar.