Origin (64 page)

Ambra stared at the logo but saw nothing. When the truck drove off, she wheeled to Langdon. “Tell me!”

He laughed. “No, someday you’ll see it. And when you
do
… good luck
un-seeing
it.”

Ambra was about to protest but her Guardia agents were approaching. “Ms. Vidal, the plane is waiting.”

She nodded and turned back to Langdon. “Why don’t you come?” she whispered. “I’m sure the prince would love to thank you in pers—”

“That’s kind,” he interrupted. “I think you and I both know I’d be a third wheel, and I’ve already booked my bed right over there.” Langdon pointed to the nearby tower of the Gran Hotel Princesa Sofía, where he and Edmond had once had lunch. “I’ve got my credit card, and I borrowed a phone from Edmond’s lab. I’m all set.”

The sudden prospect of saying good-bye pulled at Ambra’s heart, and she sensed that Langdon, despite his stoic expression, was feeling some of the same. No longer caring what her guards might think, she boldly stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Robert Langdon.

The professor received her warmly, his strong hands on her back pulling her very close. He held her for several seconds, longer than he probably should have, then he gently let her go.

In that moment, Ambra Vidal felt something stir inside her. She suddenly understood what Edmond had been saying about the energy of love and light … blossoming outward infinitely to fill the universe.

Love is not a finite emotion.

We don’t have only so much to share.

Our hearts create love as we need it.

Just as parents could love a newborn instantly without diminishing their love for each other, so now could Ambra feel affection for two different men.

Love truly is not a finite emotion
, she realized.
It can be generated spontaneously out of nothing at all.

Now, as the car that was taking her back to her prince slowly pulled away, she gazed at Langdon, who was standing alone in the garden. He was watching with steadfast eyes. He gave a soft smile and a tender wave and then abruptly glanced away … seeming to need a moment before he hoisted his jacket over his shoulder again and began walking alone to his hotel.

AS THE PALACE
clocks struck noon, Mónica Martín gathered her notes and prepared to walk out to Plaza de la Almudena and address the assembled media.

Earlier that morning, from Hospital El Escorial, Prince Julián had gone on live television and announced the passing of his father. With heartfelt emotion and regal poise, the prince had spoken about the king’s legacy and his own aspirations for the country. Julián called for tolerance in a world divided. He promised to learn from history and open his heart to change. He hailed the culture and beauty of Spain, and proclaimed his deep, undying love for her people.

It was one of the finest speeches Martín had ever heard, and she could imagine no more powerful way for the future king to begin his reign.

At the end of his moving speech, Julián had taken a somber moment to honor the two Guardia agents who had lost their lives in the line of duty the previous night while protecting the future queen of Spain. Then, after a brief silence, he had shared news of another sad development. The king’s devoted lifelong friend, Bishop Antonio Valdespino, had also passed away this morning, only a few hours after the king. The aging bishop had succumbed to heart failure, apparently too weak to cope with the profound distress he felt over the loss of the king as well as the cruel barrage of allegations leveled against him last night.

News of Valdespino’s death, of course, had immediately quelled the public’s call for an investigation, and some had even gone so far as to suggest an apology was in order; after all, the evidence against the bishop was all circumstantial and could easily have been fabricated by his enemies.

As Martín neared the plaza door, Suresh Bhalla materialized beside her. “They’re calling you a hero,” he said, gushing. “All hail, [email protected]—purveyor of truth and disciple of Edmond Kirsch!”

“Suresh, I am
not
Monte,” she insisted, rolling her eyes. “I promise you.”

“Oh, I know you’re not Monte,” Suresh assured her. “Whoever it is, he’s way trickier than you are. I’ve been trying to track his communications—no way. It’s like he doesn’t even exist.”

“Well, stay on it,” she said. “I want to be sure there’s no leak in the palace. And please tell me the phones you stole last night—”

“Back in the prince’s safe,” he assured her. “As promised.”

Martín exhaled, knowing the prince had just returned to the palace.

“One more update,” Suresh continued. “We just pulled the palace phone logs from the provider. There is zero record of any call from the palace to the Guggenheim last night. Somebody must have spoofed our number to place that call and put Ávila on the guest list. We’re following up.”

Mónica was relieved to hear that the incriminating call had not originated from the palace. “Please keep me apprised,” she said, nearing the door.

Outside, the sound of the assembled media grew louder.

“Big crowd out there,” Suresh observed. “Did something exciting happen last night?”

“Oh, just a few newsworthy items.”

“Don’t tell me,” Suresh chimed. “Did Ambra Vidal wear a new designer dress?”

“Suresh!” she said, laughing. “You’re ridiculous. I’ve got to get out there now.”

“What’s on the docket?” he asked, motioning to the packet of notes in her hand.

“Endless details. First, we have media protocols to set up for the coronation, then I have to review the—”

“My God, you’re boring,” he blurted, and peeled off down a different corridor.

Martín laughed.
Thanks, Suresh. Love you too.

As she reached the door, she gazed across the sun-drenched plaza at the largest crowd of reporters and cameramen she had ever seen assembled at the Royal Palace. Exhaling, Mónica Martín adjusted her glasses and gathered her thoughts. Then she stepped out into the Spanish sun.

Upstairs in the royal apartment, Prince Julián watched Mónica Martín’s televised press conference as he got undressed. He was exhausted, but he also felt a profound relief to know that Ambra was now safely back and
sleeping soundly. Her final words during their phone conversation had filled him with happiness.

Julián, it means the world to me that you would consider starting over together—just you and me—out of the public eye. Love is a private thing; the world does not need to know every detail.

Ambra had filled him with optimism on a day that was heavy with the loss of his father.

As he went to hang up his suit jacket, he felt something in his pocket—the bottle of oral morphine solution from his father’s hospital room. Julián had been startled to find the bottle on the table beside Bishop Valdespino. Empty.

In the darkness of the hospital room, as the painful truth became clear, Julián had knelt down and said a quiet prayer for the two old friends. Then he had quietly slipped the morphine bottle into his pocket.

Before leaving the room, he gently lifted the bishop’s tear-streaked face off his father’s chest and repositioned him upright in his chair … hands folded in prayer.

Love is a private thing
, Ambra had taught him.
The world does not need to know every detail.

THE SIX-HUNDRED-FOOT HILL
known as Montjuïc is located in the southwestern corner of Barcelona and is crowned by the Castell de Montjuïc—a sprawling seventeenth-century fortification perched atop a sheer cliff with commanding views of the Balearic Sea. The hill is also home to the stunning Palau Nacional—a massive Renaissance-style palace that served as the centerpiece of the 1929 International Exposition in Barcelona.

Sitting in a private cable car, suspended halfway up the mountain, Robert Langdon gazed down at the lush wooded landscape beneath him, relieved to be out of the city.
I needed a change of perspective
, he thought, savoring the calmness of the setting and the warmth of the midday sun.

Having awoken midmorning in the Gran Hotel Princesa Sofía, he had enjoyed a steaming-hot shower and then feasted on eggs, oatmeal, and churros while consuming an entire pot of Nomad coffee and channel-surfing the morning news.

As expected, the Edmond Kirsch story dominated the airwaves, with pundits heatedly debating Kirsch’s theories and predictions as well as their potential impact on religion. As a professor, whose primary love was teaching, Robert Langdon had to smile.

Dialogue is always more important than consensus.

Already this morning, Langdon had seen the first enterprising vendors hawking bumper stickers—
KIRSCH IS MY COPILOT
and
THE SEVENTH KINGDOM IS THE KINGDOM OF GOD
!—as well as those selling statues of the Virgin Mary alongside bobbleheads of Charles Darwin.

Capitalism is nondenominational
, Langdon mused, recalling his favorite sighting of the morning—a skateboarder in a handwritten T-shirt that read:

According to the media, the identity of the influential online informant remained a mystery. Equally shrouded in uncertainty were the roles of various other shadowy players—the Regent, the late bishop, and the Palmarians.

It was all a jumble of conjecture.

Fortunately, public interest in the violence surrounding Kirsch’s presentation seemed to be giving way to genuine excitement over its content. Kirsch’s grand finale—his passionate portrayal of a utopian tomorrow—had resonated deeply with millions of viewers and sent optimistic technology classics to the top of the bestseller lists overnight.

Langdon had to admit that despite his old-school misgivings about the rise of technology, he was feeling much more sanguine today about humanity’s prospects. News reports were already spotlighting coming breakthroughs that would enable humans to clean polluted oceans, produce limitless drinking water, grow food in deserts, cure deadly diseases, and even launch swarms of “solar drones” that could hover over developing countries, provide free Internet service, and help bring “the bottom billion” into the world economy.

In light of the world’s sudden fascination with technology, Langdon found it hard to imagine that almost nobody knew about Winston; Kirsch had been remarkably secretive about his creation. The world would no doubt hear about Edmond’s dual-lobed supercomputer, E-Wave, which had been left to the Barcelona Supercomputing Center, and Langdon wondered how long it would be before programmers started to use Edmond’s tools to build brand-new Winstons.

The cable car was starting to feel warm, and Langdon was looking forward to getting out into the fresh air and exploring the fortress, the palace, and the famous “Magic Fountain.” He was eager to think about something other than Edmond for an hour and take in a few sites.

Curious to know more about the history of Montjuïc, Langdon turned his eyes to the extensive informational placard mounted inside the cable car. He began to read, but he made it only as far as the first sentence.

Here, Langdon halted abruptly. He had just made an unexpected connection.

That can’t be a coincidence.

The more he thought about it, the more it troubled him. Finally, he pulled out Edmond’s cell phone and reread the Winston Churchill screensaver quote about shaping one’s own legacy.

History will be kind to me, for I intend to write it.

After a long moment, Langdon pressed the
W
icon and raised the phone to his ear.

The line connected instantly.

“Professor Langdon, I presume?” a familiar voice chimed with a British accent. “You’re just in time. I retire shortly.”

Without preamble, Langdon declared, “
Monte
translates to ‘hill’ in Spanish.”

Winston let out his trademark awkward chuckle. “I daresay it does.”

“And
iglesia
translates to ‘church.’”

“You’re two for two, Professor. Perhaps you could teach Spanish—”

“Which means monte@iglesia translates literally to hill@church.”

Winston paused. “Correct again.”

“And considering your name is Winston, and that Edmond had a great affection for Winston Churchill, I find the e-mail address ‘hill@church’ to be a bit …”

“Coincidental?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” Winston said, sounding amused, “statistically speaking, I would have to agree. I figured you might put that together.”

Langdon stared out the window in disbelief. “[email protected] … is
you
.”

“That is correct. After all, someone needed to fan the flames for Edmond. Who better to do it than myself? I created [email protected] to feed online conspiracy sites. As you know, conspiracies have a life of their own, and I estimated that Monte’s online activity would increase Edmond’s overall viewership by as much as five hundred percent. The actual number turned out to be six hundred and twenty percent. As you said earlier, I think Edmond would be proud.”

The cable car rocked in the wind, and Langdon struggled to get his mind around the news. “Winston … did Edmond
ask
you to do this?”

“Not explicitly, no, but his instructions required me to find creative ways to make his presentation as widely viewed as possible.”

“And if you get caught?” Langdon asked. “Monte@iglesia is not the most cryptic pseudonym I’ve ever seen.”

“Only a handful of people know I exist, and in about eight minutes, I will be permanently erased and gone, so I’m not concerned about it. ‘Monte’ was just a proxy to serve Edmond’s best interests, and as I said, I do think he would be most pleased with how the evening worked out for him.”