by Dan Brown
CHAPTER 32
BILBAO’S LA SALVE Bridge crosses the Nervión River in such close proximity to the Guggenheim Museum that the two structures often have the appearance of being fused into one. Immediately recognizable by its unique central support—a towering, bright red strut shaped like a giant letter H—the bridge takes the name “La Salve” from folkloric tales of sailors returning from sea along this river and saying prayers of gratitude for their safe arrival home.
After exiting the rear of the building, Langdon and Ambra had quickly covered the short distance between the museum and the riverbank and were now waiting, as Winston had requested, on a walkway in the shadows directly beneath the bridge.
Waiting for what? Langdon wondered, uncertain.
As they lingered in the darkness, he could see Ambra’s slender frame shivering beneath her sleek evening dress. He removed his tails jacket and placed it around her shoulders, smoothing the fabric down her arms.
Without warning, she suddenly turned and faced him.
For an instant, Langdon feared he had overstepped a boundary, but Ambra’s expression was not one of displeasure, but rather one of gratitude.
“Thank you,” she whispered, gazing up at him. “Thank you for helping me.”
With her eyes locked on his, Ambra Vidal reached out, took Langdon’s hands, and clasped them in her own, as if she were trying to absorb any warmth or comfort he could offer.
Then, just as quickly, she released them. “Sorry,” she whispered. “Conducta impropia, as my mother would say.”
Langdon gave her a reassuring grin. “Extenuating circumstances, as my mother would say.”
She managed a smile, but it was short-lived. “I feel absolutely ill,” she said, glancing away. “Tonight, what happened to Edmond …”
“It’s appalling … dreadful,” Langdon said, knowing he was still too much in shock to express his emotions fully.
Ambra was staring at the water. “And to think that my fiancé, Don Julián, is involved …”
Langdon could hear the betrayal in her voice and was uncertain how to reply. “I realize how it appears,” he said, treading lightly on this delicate ground, “but we really don’t know that for sure. It’s possible Prince Julián had no advance notice about the killing tonight. The assassin could have been acting alone, or working for someone other than the prince. It makes little sense that the future king of Spain would orchestrate the public assassination of a civilian—especially one traceable directly back to him.”
“It’s only traceable because Winston figured out that Ávila was a late addition to the guest list. Maybe Julián thought nobody would ever figure out who pulled the trigger.”
Langdon had to admit she had a point.
“I never should have discussed Edmond’s presentation with Julián,” Ambra said, turning back to him. “He was urging me not to participate, and so I tried to reassure him that my involvement would be minimal, that it was all nothing but a video screening. I think I even told Julián that Edmond was launching his discovery from a smartphone.” She paused. “Which means, if they see that we took Edmond’s phone, they’ll realize that his discovery can still be broadcast. And I really don’t know how far Julián will go to interfere.”
Langdon studied the beautiful woman a long moment. “You don’t trust your fiancé at all, do you?”
Ambra took a deep breath. “The truth is, I don’t know him as well as you might assume.”
“Then why did you agree to marry him?”
“Quite simply, Julián put me in a position where I had no choice.”
Before Langdon could respond, a low rumble began shaking the cement beneath their feet, reverberating through the grotto-like space beneath the bridge. The sound grew louder and louder. It seemed to be coming from up the river, to their right.
Langdon turned and saw a dark shape speeding toward them—a powerboat approaching with no running lights. As it neared the high cement bank, it slowed and began to glide up perfectly beside them.
Langdon stared down at the craft and shook his head. Until this moment, he had been unsure how much faith to place in Edmond’s computerized docent, but now, seeing a yellow water taxi approaching the bank, he realized that Winston was the best ally they could possibly have.
The disheveled captain waved them aboard. “Your British man, he call me,” the man said. “He say VIP client pay triple for … how you say … velocidad y discreción? I do it—you see? No lights!”
“Yes, thank you,” Langdon replied. Good call, Winston. Speed and discretion.
The captain reached out and helped Ambra aboard, and as she disappeared into the small covered cabin to get warm, he gave Langdon a wide-eyed smile. “This my VIP? Señorita Ambra Vidal?”
“Velocidad y discreción,” Langdon reminded him.
“¡Sí, sí! Okay!” The man scurried to the helm and revved the engines. Moments later, the powerboat was skimming westward through the darkness along the Nervión River.
Off the port side of the boat, Langdon could see the Guggenheim’s giant black widow, eerily illuminated by the spinning lights of police cars. Overhead, a news chopper streaked across the sky toward the museum.
The first of many, Langdon suspected.
Langdon pulled Edmond’s cryptic note card from his pants pocket. BIO-EC346. Edmond had told him to give it to a taxi driver, although Edmond probably never imagined the vehicle would be a water taxi.
“Our British friend …,” Langdon yelled to the driver over the sound of the roaring engines. “I assume he told you where we are going?”
“Yes, yes! I warn him by boat I can take you only almost there, but he say no problem, you walk three hundred meters, no?”
“That’s fine. And how far is it from here?”
The man pointed to a highway that ran along the river on the right. “Road sign say seven kilometers, but in boat, a little more.”
Langdon glanced out at the illuminated highway sign.
AEROPUERTO BILBAO (BIO) 7 KM
He smiled ruefully at the sound of Edmond’s voice in his mind. It’s a painfully simple code, Robert. Edmond was right, and when Langdon had finally figured it out earlier tonight, he had been embarrassed that it had taken him so long.
BIO was indeed a code—although it was no more difficult to decipher than similar codes from around the world: BOS, LAX, JFK.
BIO is the local airport code.
The rest of Edmond’s code had fallen into place instantly.
EC346.
Langdon had never seen Edmond’s private jet, but he knew the plane existed, and he had little doubt that the country code for a Spanish jet’s tail number would start with the letter E for España.
EC346 is a private jet.
Clearly, if a cabdriver had taken him to Bilbao Airport, Langdon could have presented Edmond’s card to security and been escorted directly to Edmond’s private plane.
I hope Winston reached the pilots to warn them we are coming, Langdon thought, looking back in the direction of the museum, which was growing smaller and smaller in their wake.
Langdon considered going inside the cabin to join Ambra, but the fresh air felt good, and he decided to give her a couple of minutes alone to gather herself.
I could use a moment too, he thought, moving toward the bow.
At the front of the boat, with the wind whipping through his hair, Langdon untied his bow tie and pocketed it. Then he released the top button of his wingtip collar and breathed as deeply as he could, letting the night air fill his lungs.
Edmond, he thought. What have you done?
CHAPTER 33
COMMANDER DIEGO GARZA was fuming as he paced the darkness of Prince Julián’s apartment and endured the bishop’s self-righteous lecture.
You are trespassing where you do not belong, Garza wanted to shout at Valdespino. This is not your domain!
Once again, Bishop Valdespino had inserted himself into palace politics. Having materialized like a spe
cter in the darkness of Julián’s apartment, Valdespino was adorned in full ecclesiastical vestments and was now giving an impassioned sermon to Julián about the importance of Spain’s traditions, the devoted religiosity of past kings and queens, and the comforting influence of the Church in times of crisis.
This is not the moment, Garza seethed.
Tonight, Prince Julián would need to deliver a delicate public relations performance, and the last thing Garza needed was to have him distracted by Valdespino’s attempts to impose a religious agenda.
The buzz of Garza’s phone conveniently interrupted the bishop’s monologue.
“Sí, dime,” Garza answered loudly, positioning himself between the prince and the bishop. “¿Qué tal va?”
“Sir, it’s Agent Fonseca in Bilbao,” the caller said in rapid-fire Spanish. “I’m afraid we’ve been unable to capture the shooter. The car company we thought could track him has lost contact. The shooter seems to have anticipated our actions.”
Garza swallowed his anger and exhaled calmly, trying to ensure that his voice would reveal nothing about his true state of mind. “I understand,” he replied evenly. “At the moment, your only concern is Ms. Vidal. The prince is waiting to see her, and I’ve assured him that you’ll have her here shortly.”
There was a long silence on the line. Too long.
“Commander?” Fonseca asked, sounding tentative. “I’m sorry, sir, but I have bad news on that front. It appears that Ms. Vidal and the American professor have left the building”—he paused—“without us.”
Garza almost dropped his phone. “I’m sorry, can you … repeat that?”
“Yes, sir. Ms. Vidal and Robert Langdon have fled the building. Ms. Vidal intentionally abandoned her phone so we would be unable to track her. We have no idea where they’ve gone.”
Garza realized his jaw had fallen slack, and the prince was now staring at him with apparent concern. Valdespino was also leaning in to hear, his eyebrows arched with unmistakable interest.
“Ah—that’s excellent news!” Garza blurted suddenly, nodding with conviction. “Good work. We’ll see you all here later this evening. Let’s just confirm transport protocols and security. One moment, please.”
Garza covered the phone and smiled at the prince. “All is well. I’ll just step into the other room to sort out the details so that you gentlemen can have some privacy.”
Garza was reluctant to leave the prince alone with Valdespino, but this was not a call he could take in front of either of them, so he walked to one of the guest bedrooms, stepped inside, and closed the door.
“¿Qué diablos ha pasado?” he seethed into the phone. What the hell happened?
Fonseca relayed a story that sounded like utter fantasy.
“The lights went out?” Garza demanded. “A computer posed as a security officer and gave you bad intel? How am I supposed to respond to that?”
“I realize it is hard to imagine, sir, but that is precisely what happened. What we are struggling to understand is why the computer had a sudden change of heart.”
“Change of heart?! It’s a goddamned computer!”
“What I mean is that the computer had previously been helpful—identifying the shooter by name, attempting to thwart the assassination, and also discovering that the getaway vehicle was an Uber car. Then, very suddenly, it seemed to be working against us. All we can figure is that Robert Langdon must have said something to it, because after its conversation with him, everything changed.”
Now I’m battling a computer? Garza decided he was getting too old for this modern world. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, Agent Fonseca, how embarrassing this would be for the prince both personally and politically if it were known that his fiancée had fled with the American, and that the prince’s Guardia Real had been tricked by a computer.”
“We are acutely aware of that.”
“Do you have any idea what would inspire the two of them to run away? It seems entirely unwarranted and reckless.”
“Professor Langdon was quite resistant when I told him he would be joining us in Madrid this evening. He made it clear he did not want to come.”
And so he fled a murder scene? Garza sensed something else was going on, but he could not imagine what. “Listen to me carefully. It is absolutely critical that you locate Ambra Vidal and bring her back to the palace before any of this information leaks out.”
“I understand, sir, but Díaz and I are the only two agents on the scene. We can’t possibly search all of Bilbao alone. We’ll need to alert the local authorities, gain access to traffic cams, air support, every possible—”
“Absolutely not!” Garza replied. “We can’t afford the embarrassment. Do your job. Find them on your own, and return Ms. Vidal to our custody as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
Garza hung up, incredulous.
As he stepped out of the bedroom, a pale young woman hurried up the hallway toward him. She was wearing her usual techie Coke-bottle glasses and beige pantsuit, and was anxiously clutching a computer tablet.
God save me, Garza thought. Not now.
Mónica Martín was the palace’s newest and youngest-ever “public relations coordinator”—a post that included the duties of media liaison, PR strategist, and communications director—which Martín seemed to carry out in a permanent state of high alert.
At only twenty-six years of age, Martín held a communications degree from Madrid’s Complutense University, had done two years of postgrad work at one of the top computer schools in the world—Tsinghua University in Beijing—and then had landed a high-powered PR job at Grupo Planeta followed by a top “communications” post at Spanish television network Antena 3.
Last year, in a desperate attempt to connect via digital media with the young people of Spain, and to keep up with the mushrooming influence of Twitter, Facebook, blogs, and online media, the palace had fired a seasoned PR professional with decades of print and media experience and replaced him with this tech-savvy millennial.
Martín owes everything to Prince Julián, Garza knew.
The young woman’s appointment to the palace staff had been one of Prince Julián’s few contributions to palace operations—a rare instance when he flexed his muscle with his father. Martín was considered one of the best in the business, but Garza found her paranoia and nervous energy utterly exhausting.
“Conspiracy theories,” Martín announced to him, waving her tablet as she arrived. “They’re exploding all over.”
Garza stared at his PR coordinator in disbelief. Do I look like I care? He had more important things to worry about tonight than the conspiratorial rumor mill. “Would you mind telling me what you are doing strolling through the royal residence!”
“The control room just pinged your GPS.” She pointed to the phone on Garza’s belt.
Garza closed his eyes and exhaled, swallowing his irritation. In addition to a new PR coordinator, the palace had recently implemented a new “division of electronic security,” which supported Garza’s team with GPS services, digital surveillance, profiling, and preemptive data mining. Every day, Garza’s staff was more diverse and youthful.
Our control room looks like a college campus computer center.
Apparently, the newly implemented technology used to track Guardia agents was also tracking Garza himself. It felt unnerving to think that a bunch of kids in the basement knew his whereabouts at every instant.
“I came to you personally,” Martín said, holding out her tablet, “because I knew you’d want to see this.”
Garza snatched the device from her and eyed the screen, seeing a stock photo and bio of the silver-bearded Spaniard who had been identified as the Bilbao shooter—royal navy admiral Luis Ávila.
“There’s a lot of damaging chatter,” said Martín, “and much is being made of Ávila’s being a former employee of the royal family.”
“Ávila worked for the navy!” Garza spluttered.
“Y
es, but technically, the king is the commander of the armed forces—”
“Stop right there,” Garza ordered, shoving the tablet back at her. “Suggesting the king is somehow complicit in a terrorist act is an absurd stretch made by conspiracy nuts, and is wholly irrelevant to our situation tonight. Let’s just count our blessings and get back to work. After all, this lunatic could have killed the queen consort but chose instead to kill an American atheist. All in all, not a bad outcome!”
The young woman didn’t flinch. “There’s something else, sir, which relates to the royal family. I didn’t want you to be blindsided.”
As Martín spoke, her fingers flew across the tablet, navigating to another site. “This is a photo that has been online for a few days, but nobody noticed it. Now, with everything about Edmond Kirsch going viral, this photo is starting to appear in the news.” She handed Garza the tablet.
Garza eyed a headline: “Is This the Last Photo Taken of Futurist Edmond Kirsch?”
A blurry photograph showed Kirsch dressed in a dark suit, standing on a rocky bluff beside a perilous cliff.
“The photo was taken three days ago,” Martín said, “while Kirsch was visiting the Abbey of Montserrat. A worker on-site recognized Kirsch and snapped a photo. After Kirsch’s murder tonight, the worker re-posted the photo as one of the last ever taken of the man.”
“And this relates to us, how?” Garza asked pointedly.
“Scroll down to the next photo.”
Garza scrolled down. On seeing the second image, he had to reach out and steady himself on the wall. “This … this can’t be true.”
In this wider-frame version of the same shot, Edmond Kirsch could be seen standing beside a tall man wearing a traditional Catholic purple cassock. The man was Bishop Valdespino.
“It’s true, sir,” Martín said. “Valdespino met with Kirsch a few days ago.”
“But …” Garza hesitated, momentarily speechless. “But why wouldn’t the bishop have mentioned this? Especially considering all that has happened tonight!”
Martín gave a suspicious nod. “That’s why I chose to speak to you first.”
