Origin (48 page)

A second gunshot exploded, followed by a heavy thud—the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor.

Langdon had already grabbed Ambra’s hand and was pulling her toward the deep shadows near the sidewall of the sanctuary. Father Beña arrived a step behind them, all three now cowering in rigid silence against the cold stone.

Langdon’s eyes probed the darkness as he struggled to make sense of what was going on.

Someone just killed Díaz and Fonseca! Who’s in here with us? And what do they want?

Langdon could imagine only one logical answer: the killer lurking in the darkness of Sagrada Família had not come here to murder two random Guardia agents … he had come for Ambra and Langdon.

Someone is still trying to silence Edmond’s discovery.

Suddenly a bright flashlight flared in the middle of the sanctuary floor, the beam swinging back and forth in a wide arc, moving in their direction. Langdon knew they had only seconds before the beam reached them.

“This way,” Beña whispered, pulling Ambra along the wall in the opposite direction. Langdon followed as the light swung closer. Beña and Ambra suddenly cut hard to the right, disappearing into an opening in the stone, and Langdon plunged in after them—immediately stumbling on an unseen set of stairs. Ambra and Beña climbed onward as Langdon regained his footing and continued after them, looking back to see the beam of light appear just beneath him, illuminating the bottom steps.

Langdon froze in the darkness, waiting.

The light remained there a long moment, and then it began growing brighter.

He’s coming this way!

Langdon could hear Ambra and Beña ascending the stairs above him as stealthily as possible. He spun and launched himself after them, but again stumbled, colliding with a wall and realizing that the staircase was not straight, but curved. Pressing a hand against the wall for guidance, Langdon began circling upward in a tight spiral, quickly understanding where he was.

Sagrada Família’s infamously treacherous spiral staircase.

He raised his eyes and saw a very faint glow filtering down from the light wells above, just enough illumination to reveal the narrow shaft that enclosed him. Langdon felt his legs tighten, and he stalled on the stairs, overcome by claustrophobia in the crushingly small passage.

Keep climbing!
His rational mind urged him upward but his muscles cramped in fear.

Somewhere beneath him, Langdon could hear the sound of heavy footsteps approaching from the sanctuary. He forced himself to keep moving, following the spiraling steps upward as fast as he could. Above him, the faint light grew brighter as Langdon passed an opening in the wall—a wide slit through which he briefly glimpsed the city lights. A blast of cool air hit him as he dashed past this light well, and he plunged back into darkness as he circled higher.

Footsteps entered the staircase below, and the flashlight probed erratically up the center shaft. Langdon passed another light well as the pursuing footsteps grew louder, his assailant now charging faster up the stairs behind him.

Langdon caught up with Ambra and Father Beña, who was now gasping for breath. Langdon peered over the inner edge of the stairwell into the plunging center shaft. The drop was dizzying—a narrow, circular hole that plummeted through the eye of what looked like a giant spiraling nautilus. There was virtually no barrier, just an ankle-high inner lip that provided no protection whatsoever. Langdon had to fight off a wave of nausea.

He turned his eyes back to the darkness of the shaft overhead. Langdon had heard that there were more than four hundred stairs in this structure; if so, there was no way they would reach the top before the armed man below caught up with them.

“Both of you … go!” Beña gasped, stepping aside and urging Langdon and Ambra to pass him.

“There’s no chance of that, Father,” Ambra said, reaching down to help the old priest.

Langdon admired her protective instinct, but he also knew that fleeing up these stairs was suicide, most likely ending with bullets in their backs. Of the two animal instincts for survival—fight or flight—flight was no longer an option.

We’ll never make it.

Letting Ambra and Father Beña press on, Langdon turned, planted his feet, and faced down the spiral staircase. Below him, the flashlight beam tracked closer. He backed against the wall and crouched in the shadows, waiting until the light hit the stairs beneath him. The killer suddenly rounded the curve into view—a dark form running with both hands outstretched, one clutching the flashlight and the other a handgun.

Langdon reacted on instinct, exploding from his crouch and launching himself through the air, feetfirst. The man saw him and began to raise his gun just as Langdon’s heels drove into his chest with a powerful thrust, driving the man back into the wall of the stairwell.

The next few seconds were a blur.

Langdon fell, landing hard on his side, pain erupting in his hip, as his attacker crumpled backward, tumbling down several stairs and landing in a groaning heap. The flashlight bounced down the stairs and rolled to a stop, sending an oblique wash of light up the sidewall and illuminating a metal object on the stairs halfway between Langdon and his attacker.

The gun.

Both men lunged for it at the same moment, but Langdon had the high ground and got there first, grasping the handle and pointing the weapon at his attacker, who stopped short just beneath him, staring defiantly into the barrel of the gun.

In the glow of the flashlight, Langdon could see the man’s salt-and-pepper beard and stark white pants … and in an instant, he knew who it was.

The navy officer from the Guggenheim …

Langdon leveled the gun at the man’s head, feeling his index finger on the trigger. “You killed my friend Edmond Kirsch.”

The man was out of breath, but his reply was immediate, his voice like ice. “I settled a score. Your friend Edmond Kirsch killed my family.”

LANGDON BROKE MY
ribs.

Admiral Ávila felt sharp stabs each time he inhaled, wincing in pain as his chest heaved desperately, trying to restore oxygen to his body. Crouched on the stairs above him, Robert Langdon stared down, aiming the pistol awkwardly at Ávila’s midsection.

Ávila’s military training instantly kicked in, and he began assessing his situation. In the negative column, his enemy held both the weapon and the high ground. In the positive column, judging from the professor’s unusual grip on the gun, he had very little experience with firearms.

He has no intention of shooting me
, Ávila decided.
He will hold me and wait for the security guards.
From all the shouting outside, it was clear that Sagrada Família’s security officers had heard the gunshots and were now hurrying into the building.

I must act quickly.

Keeping his hands raised in surrender, Ávila shifted slowly onto his knees, conveying full compliance and submission.

Give Langdon the sense that he is in total control.

Despite his fall down the stairs, Ávila could feel that the object he had lodged in the back of his belt was still there—the ceramic pistol with which he had killed Kirsch inside the Guggenheim. He had chambered the last remaining bullet before entering the church but had not needed to use it, killing one of the guards silently and stealing his far more efficient gun, which, unfortunately, Langdon was now aiming at him. Ávila wished he had left the safety engaged, guessing Langdon probably would have had no idea how to release it.

Ávila considered making a move to grab the ceramic gun from his belt to fire on Langdon first, but even if he were successful, Ávila estimated his chances of survival at about fifty-fifty. One of the perils of inexperienced gun users was their tendency to fire by mistake.

If I move too quickly …

The sounds of the yelling guards were growing closer, and Ávila knew
that if he were taken into custody, the “victor” tattoo on his palm would ensure his release—or at least that’s what the Regent had assured him. At the moment, however, having killed two of the king’s Guardia Real agents, Ávila was not so sure that the Regent’s influence could save him.

I came here to carry out a mission
, Ávila reminded himself.
And I need to complete it. Eliminate Robert Langdon and Ambra Vidal.

The Regent had told Ávila to enter the church via the east service gate, but Ávila had decided to jump a security fence instead.
I spotted police lurking near the east gate … and so I improvised.

Langdon spoke forcefully, glaring down over the gun at Ávila. “You said Edmond Kirsch killed your family. That’s a lie. Edmond was no killer.”

You’re right
, Ávila thought.
He was worse.

The dark truth about Kirsch was a secret Ávila had learned only a week ago during a phone call from the Regent.
Our pope is asking you to target the famous futurist Edmond Kirsch
, the Regent had said.
His Holiness’s motivations are many, but he would like for you to undertake this mission personally.

Why me?
Ávila asked.

Admiral
, the Regent whispered.
I’m sorry to tell you this, but Edmond Kirsch was responsible for the cathedral bombing that killed your family.

Ávila’s first reaction was complete disbelief. He could see no reason whatsoever for a well-known computer scientist to bomb a church.

You are a military man
,
Admiral
, the Regent had explained to him,
and so you know better than anyone: the young soldier who pulls the trigger in battle is not the actual killer. He is a pawn, doing the work of those more powerful—governments, generals, religious leaders—those who have either paid him or convinced him that a cause is worthy at all costs.

Ávila had indeed witnessed this situation.

The same rules apply to terrorism
, the Regent continued.
The most vicious terrorists are not the people who build the bombs, but the influential leaders who fuel hatred among desperate masses, inspiring their foot soldiers to commit acts of violence. It takes only one powerful dark soul to wreak havoc in the world by inspiring spiritual intolerance, nationalism, or loathing in the minds of the vulnerable.

Ávila had to agree.

Terrorist attacks against Christians
, the Regent said,
are on the rise around the world. These new attacks are no longer strategically planned events; they are spontaneous assaults carried out by lone wolves who are answering a call to arms sent out by persuasive enemies of Christ.
The
Regent paused.
And among those persuasive enemies, I count the atheist Edmond Kirsch.

Now Ávila felt the Regent was beginning to stretch the truth. Despite Kirsch’s despicable campaign against Christianity in Spain, the scientist had never issued a statement urging the murder of Christians.

Before you disagree
, the voice on the phone told him,
let me give you one final piece of information.
The Regent sighed heavily.
Nobody knows this, Admiral, but the attack that killed your family … it was intended as an act of war against the Palmarian Church.

The statement gave Ávila pause, and yet it made no sense; Seville Cathedral was not a Palmarian building.

The morning of the bombing
, the voice told him,
four prominent members of the Palmarian Church were in the Seville congregation for recruiting purposes
.
They were targeted specifically. You know one of them—Marco. The other three died in the attack.

Ávila’s thoughts swirled as he pictured his physical therapist, Marco, who had lost his leg in the attack.

Our enemies are powerful and motivated
, the voice went on.
And when the bomber could not gain access to our compound in El Palmar de Troya, he followed our four missionaries to Seville and took his action there. I’m so very sorry, Admiral. This tragedy is one of the reasons the Palmarians reached out to you—we feel responsible that your family became collateral damage in a war directed against us.

A war directed by whom?
Ávila demanded, trying to comprehend the shocking claims.

Check your e-mail
, the Regent replied.

Opening his in-box, Ávila discovered a shocking trove of private documents that outlined a brutal war that had been waged against the Palmarian Church for over a decade now … a war that apparently included lawsuits, threats bordering on blackmail, and huge donations to anti-Palmarian “watchdog” groups like Palmar de Troya Support and Dialogue Ireland.

More surprising still, this bitter war against the Palmarian Church was, it appeared, being waged by a single individual—and that man was futurist Edmond Kirsch.

Ávila was baffled by the news.
Why would Edmond Kirsch specifically want to destroy the Palmarians?

The Regent told him that nobody in the Church—not even the pope himself—had any idea why Kirsch had such a specific abhorrence for the Palmarians. All they knew was that one of the planet’s wealthiest
and most influential people would not rest until the Palmarians were crushed.

The Regent drew Ávila’s attention to one last document—a copy of a typed letter to the Palmarians from a man claiming to be the Seville bomber. In the first line, the bomber called himself a “disciple of Edmond Kirsch.” This was all Ávila had to see; his fists clenched in rage.

The Regent explained why the Palmarians had never shared the letter publicly; with all the bad press the Palmarians had gotten recently—much of it orchestrated or funded by Kirsch—the last thing the Church needed was to be associated with a bombing.

My family died because of Edmond Kirsch.

Now, in the darkened stairwell, Ávila stared up at Robert Langdon, sensing that the man probably knew nothing of Kirsch’s secret crusade against the Palmarian Church, or how Kirsch had inspired the attack that killed Ávila’s family.