by Dan Brown
“And if your faith is misplaced?” Köves pressed.
Valdespino felt his stomach tighten, but he paused a moment, exhaled, and replied as calmly as he could. “Yehuda, if, in the end, you and I cannot find a way to proceed together, then we will part as friends, and we will each do what we feel is best. You have my word on that.”
“Thank you,” Köves replied. “On your word, I will come to Madrid.”
“Good. In the meantime, lock your doors and speak to no one. Pack a bag, and I’ll call you with details when I have them.” Valdespino paused. “And have faith. I’ll see you very soon.”
Valdespino hung up, a feeling of dread in his heart; he suspected that continuing to control Köves would require more than a plea for rationality and prudence.
Köves is panicking … just like Syed.
Both of them fail to see the bigger picture.
Valdespino closed his laptop, tucked it under his arm, and made his way through the darkened sanctuary. Still wearing his ceremonial robes, he exited the cathedral into the cool night air and headed across the plaza toward the gleaming white facade of the Royal Palace.
Above the main entrance, Valdespino could see the Spanish coat of arms—a crest flanked by the Pillars of Hercules and the ancient motto PLUS ULTRA, meaning “further beyond.” Some believed the phrase referred to Spain’s centuries-long quest to expand the empire during its golden age. Others believed it reflected the country’s long-held belief that a life in heaven existed beyond this one.
Either way, Valdespino sensed the motto was less relevant every day. As he eyed the Spanish flag flying high above the palace, he sighed sadly, his thoughts turning back to his ailing king.
I will miss him when he’s gone.
I owe him so much.
For months now, the bishop had made daily visits to his beloved friend, who was bedridden in Palacio de la Zarzuela on the outskirts of the city. A few days ago, the king had summoned Valdespino to his bedside, a look of deep concern in his eyes.
“Antonio,” the king had whispered, “I fear my son’s engagement was … rushed.”
Insane is a more accurate description, Valdespino thought.
Two months earlier, when the prince had confided in Valdespino that he intended to propose marriage to Ambra Vidal after knowing her only a very short time, the stupefied bishop had begged Julián to be more prudent. The prince had argued that he was in love and that his father deserved to see his only son married. Moreover, he said, if he and Ambra were to have a family, her age would require that they not wait too long.
Valdespino calmly smiled down at the king. “Yes, I agree. Don Julián’s proposal took us all by surprise. But he only wanted to make you happy.”
“His duty is to his country,” the king said forcefully, “not to his father. And while Ms. Vidal is lovely, she is an unknown to us, an outsider. I question her motives in accepting Don Julián’s proposal. It was far too hasty, and a woman of honor would have rejected him.”
“You are correct,” Valdespino replied, although in Ambra’s defense, Don Julián had given her little choice.
The king gently reached out and took the bishop’s bony hand in his own. “My friend, I don’t know where the time has gone. You and I have grown old. I want to thank you. You have counseled me wisely through the years, through the loss of my wife, through the changes in our country, and I have benefited greatly from the strength of your conviction.”
“Our friendship is an honor I will treasure forever.”
The king smiled weakly. “Antonio, I know you have made sacrifices in order to stay with me. Rome, for one.”
Valdespino shrugged. “Becoming a cardinal would have brought me no closer to God. My place has always been here with you.”
“Your loyalty has been a blessing.”
“And I will never forget the compassion you showed me all those years ago.”
The king closed his eyes, gripping the bishop’s hand tightly. “Antonio … I am concerned. My son will soon find himself at the helm of a massive ship, a ship he is not prepared to navigate. Please guide him. Be his polestar. Place your steady hand atop his on the rudder, especially in rough seas. Above all, when he goes off course, I beg you to help him find his way back … back to all that is pure.”
“Amen,” the bishop whispered. “I give you my word.”
Now, in the cool night air, as Valdespino made his way across the plaza, he raised his eyes to the heavens. Your Majesty, please know that I am doing all I can to honor your final wishes.
Valdespino took solace in knowing that the king was far too weak now to watch television. If he had seen tonight’s broadcast out of Bilbao, he would have died on the spot to witness what his beloved country had come to.
To Valdespino’s right, beyond the iron gates, all along Calle de Bailén, media trucks had gathered and were extending their satellite towers.
Vultures, Valdespino thought, the evening air whipping at his robes.
CHAPTER 25
THERE WILL BE time to mourn, Langdon told himself, fighting back intense emotion. Now is the time for action.
Langdon had already asked Winston to search museum security feeds for any information that might be helpful in apprehending the shooter. Then he had quietly added that Winston should search for any connections between Bishop Valdespino and Ávila.
Agent Fonseca was returning now, still on the phone. “Sí … sí,” he was saying. “Claro. Inmediatemente.” Fonseca ended the call and turned his attention to Ambra, who stood nearby, looking dazed.
“Ms. Vidal, we’re leaving,” Fonseca announced, his tone sharp. “Don Julián has demanded that we get you to safety inside the Royal Palace at once.”
Ambra’s body tensed visibly. “I’m not abandoning Edmond like that!” She motioned to the crumpled corpse beneath the blanket.
“Local authorities will be taking over this matter,” Fonseca replied. “And the coroner is on his way. Mr. Kirsch will be handled respectfully and with great care. At the moment, we need to leave. We’re afraid you’re in danger.”
“I am most certainly not in danger!” Ambra declared, stepping toward him. “An assassin just had the perfect opportunity to shoot me and did not. Clearly, he was after Edmond!”
“Ms. Vidal!” The veins in Fonseca’s neck twitched. “The prince wants you in Madrid. He is worried about your safety.”
“No,” she fired back. “He’s worried about the political fallout.”
Fonseca exhaled a long, slow breath and lowered his voice. “Ms. Vidal, what happened tonight has been a terrible blow for Spain. It has also been a terrible blow for the prince. Your hosting tonight’s event was an unfortunate decision.”
Winston’s voice spoke suddenly inside Langdon’s head. “Professor? The museum’s security team has been analyzing the building’s external camera feeds. It appears they’ve found something.”
Langdon listened and then waved a hand at Fonseca, interrupting the agent’s reprimand of Ambra. “Sir, the computer said one of the museum’s rooftop cameras got a partial photo of the top of the getaway car.”
“Oh?” Fonseca looked surprised.
Langdon relayed the information as Winston gave it to him. “A black sedan leaving the service alley … license plates not legible from that high angle … an unusual sticker on the windshield.”
“What sticker?” Fonseca demanded. “We can alert local authorities to look for it.”
“The sticker,” Winston replied in Langdon’s head, “is not one I recognized, but I compared its shape to all known symbols in the world, and I received a single match.”
Langdon was amazed how fast Winston had been able to make all this happen.
“The match I received,” Winston said, “was for an ancient alchemical symbol—amalgamation.”
I beg your pardon? Langdon had expected the logo of a parking garage or a political organization. “The car sticker shows the symbol for … amalgamation?”
Fonse
ca looked on, clearly lost.
“There must be some mistake, Winston,” Langdon said. “Why would anyone display the symbol for an alchemical process?”
“I don’t know,” Winston replied. “This is the only match I got, and I’m showing ninety-nine percent correspondence.”
Langdon’s eidetic memory quickly conjured the alchemical symbol for amalgamation.
“Winston, describe exactly what you see in the car window.”
The computer replied immediately. “The symbol consists of one vertical line crossed by three transverse lines. On top of the vertical line sits an upward-facing arch.”
Precisely. Langdon frowned. “The arch on top—does it have capstones?”
“Yes. A short horizontal line sits on top of each arm.”
Okay then, it’s amalgamation.
Langdon puzzled for a moment. “Winston, can you send us the photo from the security feed?”
“Of course.”
“Send it to my phone,” Fonseca demanded.
Langdon relayed the agent’s cell-phone number to Winston, and a moment later, Fonseca’s device pinged. They all gathered around the agent and looked at the grainy black-and-white photo. It was an overhead shot of a black sedan in a deserted service alley.
Sure enough, in the lower-left-hand corner of the windshield, Langdon could see a sticker displaying the exact symbol Winston had described.
Amalgamation. How bizarre.
Puzzled, Langdon reached over and used his fingertips to enlarge the photo on Fonseca’s screen. Leaning in, he studied the more detailed image.
Immediately Langdon saw the problem. “It’s not amalgamation,” he announced.
Although the image was very close to what Winston had described, it was not exact. And in symbology, the difference between “close” and “exact” could be the difference between a Nazi swastika and a Buddhist symbol of prosperity.
This is why the human mind is sometimes better than a computer.
“It’s not one sticker,” Langdon declared. “It’s two different stickers overlapping a bit. The sticker on the bottom is a special crucifix called the papal cross. It’s very popular right now.”
With the election of the most liberal pontiff in Vatican history, thousands of people around the globe were showing their support for the pope’s new policies by displaying the triple cross, even in Langdon’s hometown of Cambridge, Massachusetts.
“The U-shaped symbol on top,” Langdon said, “is a separate sticker entirely.”
“I now see you are correct,” Winston said. “I’ll find the phone number for the company.”
Again Langdon was amazed by Winston’s speed. He’s already identified the company logo? “Excellent,” Langdon said. “If we call them, they can track the car.”
Fonseca looked bewildered. “Track the car! How?”
“This getaway car was hired,” Langdon said, pointing to the stylized U on the windshield. “It’s an Uber.”
CHAPTER 26
FROM THE LOOK of wide-eyed disbelief on Fonseca’s face, Langdon couldn’t tell what surprised the agent more: the quick decryption of the windshield sticker, or Admiral Ávila’s odd choice of getaway car. He hired an Uber, Langdon thought, wondering if the move was brilliant or incredibly shortsighted.
Uber’s ubiquitous “on-demand driver” service had taken the world by storm over the past few years. Via smartphone, anyone requiring a ride could instantly connect with a growing army of Uber drivers who made extra money by hiring out their own cars as improvised taxis. Only recently legalized in Spain, Uber required its Spanish drivers to display Uber’s U logo on their windshields. Apparently, the driver of this Uber getaway car was also a fan of the new pope.
“Agent Fonseca,” Langdon said. “Winston says he has taken the liberty of sending the image of the getaway car to local authorities to distribute at roadblocks.”
Fonseca’s mouth fell open, and Langdon sensed that this highly trained agent was not accustomed to playing catch-up. Fonseca seemed uncertain whether to thank Winston or tell him to mind his own damn business.
“And he is now dialing Uber’s emergency number.”
“No!” Fonseca commanded. “Give me the number. I’ll call myself. Uber will be more likely to assist a senior member of the Royal Guard than they will a computer.”
Langdon had to admit Fonseca was probably right. Besides, it seemed far better that the Guardia assist in the manhunt than waste their skills transporting Ambra to Madrid.
After getting the number from Winston, Fonseca dialed, and Langdon felt rising confidence that they might catch the assassin in a matter of minutes. Locating vehicles was at the heart of Uber’s business; any customer with a smartphone could literally access the precise locations of every Uber driver on earth. All Fonseca would need to do was ask the company to locate the driver who had just picked up a passenger behind the Guggenheim Museum.
“¡Hostia!” Fonseca cursed. “Automatizada.” He stabbed at a number on his keypad and waited, apparently having reached an automated list of menu options. “Professor, once I get through to Uber and order a trace on the car, I will be handing this matter over to local authorities so Agent Díaz and I can transport you and Ms. Vidal to Madrid.”
“Me?” Langdon replied, startled. “No, I can’t possibly join you.”
“You can and you will,” Fonseca declared. “As will your computer toy,” he added, pointing to Langdon’s headset.
“I’m sorry,” Langdon responded, his tone hardening. “There is no way I can accompany you to Madrid.”
“That’s odd,” Fonseca replied. “I thought you were a Harvard professor?”
Langdon gave him a puzzled look. “I am.”
“Good,” Fonseca snapped. “Then I assume you’re smart enough to realize you have no choice.”
With that, the agent stalked off, returning to his phone call. Langdon watched him go. What the hell?
“Professor?” Ambra had stepped very close to Langdon and whispered behind him. “I need you to listen to me. It’s very important.”
Langdon turned, startled to see that Ambra’s expression was one of profound fear. Her mute shock seemed to have passed, and her tone was desperate and clear.
“Professor,” she said, “Edmond showed you enormous respect by featuring you in his presentation. For this reason, I’m going to trust you. I need to tell you something.”
Langdon eyed her, uncertain.
“Edmond’s murder was my fault,” she whispered, her deep brown eyes welling with tears.
“I beg your pardon?”
Ambra glanced nervously at Fonseca, who was now out of earshot. “The guest list,” she said, returning to Langdon. “The last-minute addition. The name that was added?”
“Yes, Luis Ávila.”
“I am the person who added that name,” she confessed, her voice cracking. “It was me!”
Winston was correct …, Langdon thought, stunned.
“I’m the reason Edmond was murdered,” she said, now on the verge of tears. “I let his killer inside this building.”
“Hold on,” Langdon said, placing a hand on her trembling shoulder. “Just talk to me. Why did you add his name?”
Ambra shot another anxious glance at Fonseca, who was still on the phone twenty yards away. “Professor, I received a last-minute request from someone I trust deeply. He asked me to add Admiral Ávila’s name to the guest list as a personal favor. The request came only minutes before the doors opened, and I was busy, so I added the name without thinking. I mean, he was an admiral in the navy! How could I possibly have known?” She looked again at Edmond’s body and covered her mouth with a slender hand. “And now …”
“Ambra,” Langdon whispered. “Who was it that asked you to add Ávila’s name?”
Ambra swallowed hard. “It was my fiancé … the crown prince of Spain. Don Julián.”
Langdon stared at her in disbelief, trying to process her words. The director of the Gugge
nheim had just claimed that the crown prince of Spain had helped orchestrate the assassination of Edmond Kirsch. That’s impossible.
“I’m sure the palace never expected I would learn the killer’s identity,” she said. “But now that I know … I fear I’m in danger.”
Langdon put a hand on her shoulder. “You’re perfectly safe here.”
“No,” she whispered forcefully, “there are things going on here that you don’t understand. You and I need to get out. Now!”
“We can’t run,” Langdon countered. “We’ll never—”
“Please listen to me,” she urged. “I know how to help Edmond.”
“I’m sorry?” Langdon sensed that she was still in shock. “Edmond can’t be helped.”
“Yes, he can,” she insisted, her tone lucid. “But first, we’ll need to get inside his home in Barcelona.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Please just listen to me carefully. I know what Edmond would want us to do.”
For the next fifteen seconds, Ambra Vidal spoke to Langdon in hushed tones. As she talked, Langdon felt his heart rate climbing. My God, he thought. She’s right. This changes everything.
When she was finished, Ambra looked up at him defiantly. “Now do you see why we need to go?”
Langdon nodded without hesitation. “Winston,” he said into his headset. “Did you hear what Ambra just told me?”
“I did, Professor.”
“Were you already aware of this?”
“No.”
Langdon considered his next words very carefully. “Winston, I don’t know if computers can feel loyalty to their creators, but if you can, this is your moment of truth. We could really use your help.”
CHAPTER 27
AS LANGDON MOVED toward the podium, he kept one eye on Fonseca, who was still engrossed in his phone call to Uber. He watched as Ambra drifted casually toward the center of the dome, talking on her phone too—or at least pretending to talk—precisely as Langdon had suggested.
