Origin: (Robert Langdon Book 5)

by Dan Brown

  CHAPTER 38

  MY BOSS WAS assassinated.

  Captain Josh Siegel could feel his hands trembling on the stick as he taxied Edmond Kirsch’s Gulfstream G550 toward the main runway at Bilbao Airport.

  I’m in no condition to fly, he thought, knowing his copilot was as rattled as he was.

  Siegel had piloted private jets for Edmond Kirsch for many years, and Edmond’s horrifying murder tonight had come as a devastating shock. An hour ago, Siegel and his copilot had been sitting in the airport lounge watching the live feed from the Guggenheim Museum.

  “Typical Edmond drama,” Siegel had joked, impressed by his boss’s ability to draw a huge crowd. As he watched Kirsch’s program, he found himself, along with the other viewers in the lounge, leaning forward, his curiosity spiking, until, in a flash, the evening went horribly wrong.

  In the aftermath, Siegel and his copilot sat in a daze, watching the television coverage and wondering what they should do next.

  Siegel’s phone rang ten minutes later; the caller was Edmond’s personal assistant, Winston. Siegel had never met him, and although the Brit seemed a bit of an odd duck, Siegel had become quite accustomed to coordinating flights with him.

  “If you have not seen the television,” Winston said, “you should turn it on.”

  “We saw it,” Siegel said. “We’re both devastated.”

  “We need you to return the plane to Barcelona,” Winston said, his tone eerily businesslike considering what had just transpired. “Prepare yourselves for takeoff, and I’ll be back in touch shortly. Please do not take off until we speak.”

  Siegel had no idea if Winston’s instructions would have aligned with Edmond’s wishes, but at the moment, he was thankful for any kind of guidance.

  On orders from Winston, Siegel and his copilot had filed their flight manifest to Barcelona with zero passengers—a “deadhead” flight, as it was regrettably known in the business—and then had pushed back out of the hangar and begun their preflight checklist.

  Thirty minutes passed before Winston called back. “Are you prepped for takeoff?”

  “We are.”

  “Good. I assume you’ll be using the usual eastbound runway?”

  “That’s right.” Siegel at times found Winston painfully thorough and unnervingly well informed.

  “Please contact the tower and request clearance to take off. Taxi out to the far end of the airfield, but do not pull onto the runway.”

  “I should stop on the access road?”

  “Yes, just for a minute. Please alert me when you get there.”

  Siegel and his copilot looked at each other in surprise. Winston’s request made no sense at all.

  The tower might have something to say about that.

  Nonetheless, Siegel had guided the jet along various ramps and roads toward the runway head at the western edge of the airport. He was now taxiing along the final hundred meters of the access road, where the pavement turned ninety degrees to the right and merged into the eastbound runway head.

  “Winston?” Siegel said, gazing out at the high chain-link security fence that surrounded the perimeter of the airport property. “We’ve reached the end of the access ramp.”

  “Please hold there,” Winston said. “I’ll be back in touch.”

  I can’t hold here! Siegel thought, wondering what the hell Winston was doing. Fortunately, the Gulfstream’s rearview camera showed no planes behind his, so at least Siegel was not blocking traffic. The only lights were those of the control tower—a faint glow at the other end of the runway, nearly two miles away.

  Sixty seconds passed.

  “This is air traffic control,” a voice crackled in his headset. “EC346, you are cleared for takeoff on runway number one. I repeat, you are cleared.”

  Siegel wanted nothing more than to take off, but he was still waiting for word from Edmond’s assistant. “Thank you, control,” he said. “We need to hold here just another minute. We’ve got a warning light that we’re checking.”

  “Roger that. Please advise when ready.”

  CHAPTER 39

  “HERE?” THE WATER taxi’s captain looked confused. “You want stop here? Airport is more far. I take you there.”

  “Thanks, we’ll get out here,” Langdon said, following Winston’s advice.

  The captain shrugged and brought the boat to a stop beside a small bridge marked PUERTO BIDEA. The riverbank here was covered with high grass and looked more or less accessible. Ambra was already clambering out of the boat and making her way up the incline.

  “How much do we owe you?” Langdon asked the captain.

  “No pay,” the man said. “Your British man, he pay me before. Credit card. Triple money.”

  Winston paid already. Langdon was still not quite used to working with Kirsch’s computerized assistant. It’s like having Siri on steroids.

  Winston’s abilities, Langdon realized, should come as no surprise considering daily accounts of artificial intelligence performing all kinds of complex tasks, including writing novels—one such book nearly winning a Japanese literary prize.

  Langdon thanked the captain and jumped out of the boat onto the bank. Before heading up the hill, he turned back to the bewildered driver, raised his index finger to his lips, and said, “Discreción, por favor.”

  “Sí, sí,” the captain assured him, covering his eyes. “¡No he visto nada!”

  With that, Langdon hurried up the slope, crossed a train track, and joined Ambra on the edge of a sleepy village road lined with quaint shops.

  “According to the map,” Winston’s voice chimed on Edmond’s speakerphone, “you should be at the intersection of Puerto Bidea and the Río Asua waterway. You should see a small roundabout in the town center?”

  “I see it,” Ambra replied.

  “Good. Just off the roundabout, you will find a small road called Beike Bidea. Follow it away from the village center.”

  Two minutes later, Langdon and Ambra had left the village and were hurrying along a deserted country road where stone farmhouses sat on acres of grassy pastureland. As they moved deeper into countryside, Langdon sensed that something was wrong. To their right, in the distance, above the crest of a small hill, the sky was aglow with a hazy dome of light pollution.

  “If those are the terminal lights,” Langdon said, “we are very far away.”

  “The terminal is three kilometers from your position,” Winston said.

  Ambra and Langdon exchanged startled looks. Winston had told them the walk would take only eight minutes.

  “According to Google’s satellite images,” Winston went on, “there should be a large field to your right. Does it look traversable?”

  Langdon glanced over at the hayfield to their right, which sloped gently upward in the direction of the terminal lights.

  “We can certainly climb it,” Langdon said, “but three kilometers will take—”

  “Just climb the hill, Professor, and follow my directions precisely.” Winston’s tone was polite and as emotionless as ever, and yet Langdon realized he had just been admonished.

  “Nice job,” Ambra whispered, looking amused as she started up the hill. “That’s the closest thing to irritation I’ve ever heard from Winston.”

  “EC346, this is air traffic control,” blared the voice in Siegel’s headset. “You must either clear the ramp and take off or return to the hangar for repairs. What is your status?”

  “Still working on it,” Siegel lied, glancing at his rearview camera. No planes—only the faint lights of the distant tower. “I just need another minute.”

  “Roger that. Keep us apprised.”

  The copilot tapped Siegel on the shoulder and pointed out through the windshield.

  Siegel followed his partner’s gaze but saw only the high fence in front of the plane. Suddenly, on the other side of the mesh of the barrier, he saw a ghostly vision. What in the world?

  In the darkened field beyond the fence, two spectral silhouette
s were materializing out of the blackness, coming over the crest of a hill and moving directly toward the jet. As the figures drew closer, Siegel saw the distinctive diagonal black sash on a white dress that he had seen earlier on television.

  Is that Ambra Vidal?

  Ambra had flown on occasion with Kirsch, and Siegel always felt his heart flutter a bit when the striking Spanish beauty was aboard. He could not begin to fathom what in the world she was doing in a pasture outside Bilbao Airport.

  The tall man accompanying Ambra was also wearing formal black-and-white attire, and Siegel recalled that he too had been part of the evening’s program.

  The American professor Robert Langdon.

  Winston’s voice returned suddenly. “Mr. Siegel, you should now see two individuals on the other side of the fence, and you will no doubt recognize both of them.” Siegel found the Brit’s manner spookily composed. “Please know that there are circumstances tonight that I cannot fully explain, but I am going to ask you to comply with my wishes on behalf of Mr. Kirsch. All you need to know right now is the following.” Winston paused for the briefest of moments. “The same people who murdered Edmond Kirsch are now trying to kill Ambra Vidal and Robert Langdon. To keep them safe, we require your assistance.”

  “But … of course,” Siegel stammered, trying to process the information.

  “Ms. Vidal and Professor Langdon need to board your aircraft right now.”

  “Out here?!” Siegel demanded.

  “I am aware of the technicality posed by a revised passenger manifest, but—”

  “Are you aware of the technicality posed by a ten-foot-high security fence surrounding the airport?!”

  “I am indeed,” Winston said very calmly. “And, Mr. Siegel, while I realize that you and I have worked together only a few months, I need you to trust me. What I am about to suggest to you is precisely what Edmond would want you to do in this situation.”

  Siegel listened in disbelief as Winston outlined his plan.

  “What you’re suggesting is impossible!” Siegel argued.

  “On the contrary,” Winston said, “it is quite feasible. The thrust of each engine is over fifteen thousand pounds, and your nose cone is designed to endure seven-hundred-mile—”

  “I’m not worried about the physics of it,” Siegel snapped. “I’m worried about the legality—and about having my pilot’s license revoked!”

  “I can appreciate that, Mr. Siegel,” Winston responded evenly. “But the future queen consort of Spain is in grave danger right now. Your actions here will help save her life. Believe me, when the truth comes out, you will not be receiving a reprimand, you will be receiving a royal medal from the king.”

  Standing in deep grass, Langdon and Ambra gazed up at the high security fence illuminated in the jet’s headlights.

  At Winston’s urging, they stepped back from the fence just as the jet engines revved and the plane began rolling forward. Rather than following the curve of the access ramp, however, the jet continued straight toward them, crossing the painted safety lines and rolling out onto the asphalt skirt. It slowed to a crawl, inching closer and closer to the fence.

  Langdon could now see that the jet’s nose cone was aligned perfectly with one of the fence’s heavy steel support posts. As the massive nose cone connected with the vertical post, the jet engines revved ever so slightly.

  Langdon expected more of a fight, but apparently two Rolls-Royce engines and a forty-ton jet were more than this fence post could take. With a metallic groan, the post tipped toward them, pulling with it a huge mound of asphalt attached to its base like the root ball of a toppled tree.

  Langdon ran over and grabbed the fallen fence, pulling it down low enough that he and Ambra could make their way across it. By the time they staggered onto the tarmac, the jet’s gangway stairs had been deployed and a uniformed pilot was waving them aboard.

  Ambra eyed Langdon with a tight smile. “Still doubting Winston?”

  Langdon no longer had any words.

  As they hurried up the staircase and into the plush interior cabin, Langdon heard the second pilot in the cockpit talking to the tower.

  “Yes, control, I read you,” the pilot was saying, “but your ground radar must be miscalibrated. We did not leave the access ramp. I repeat, we are still squarely on the access ramp. Our warning light is now off, and we’re ready for takeoff.”

  The copilot slammed the door as the pilot engaged the Gulfstream’s reverse thrust, inching the plane backward, away from the sagging fence. Then the jet began its wide turn back onto the runway.

  In the seat opposite Ambra, Robert Langdon closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled. The engines roared outside, and he felt the pressure of acceleration as the jet thundered down the runway.

  Seconds later, the plane was shooting skyward and banking hard to the southeast, plunging through the night toward Barcelona.

  CHAPTER 40

  RABBI YEHUDA KÖVES rushed from his study, crossed the garden, and slipped out the front door of his home, descending the steps to the sidewalk.

  I am no longer safe at home, the rabbi told himself, his heart pounding relentlessly. I must get to the synagogue.

  The Dohány Street Synagogue was not only Köves’s lifelong sanctuary, it was a veritable fortress. The shrine’s barricades, barbed fences, and twenty-four-hour guards served as a sharp reminder of Budapest’s long history of anti-Semitism. Tonight, Köves felt grateful to hold the keys to such a citadel.

  The synagogue was fifteen minutes away from his house—a peaceful stroll Köves took every day—and yet tonight, as he started out along Kossuth Lajos Street, he felt only fear. Lowering his head, Köves warily scanned the shadows before him as he began his journey.

  Almost immediately he saw something that put him on edge.

  A dark figure sat hunched on a bench across the street—a powerfully built man wearing blue jeans and a baseball cap—poking casually at his smartphone, his bearded face illuminated by the glow of the device.

  He is not from this neighborhood, Köves knew, increasing his pace.

  The man in the baseball cap glanced up, watched the rabbi a moment, and then returned to his phone. Köves pressed on. After one block, he glanced nervously behind him. To his dismay, the man in the baseball cap was no longer on the bench. He had crossed the street and was walking along the sidewalk behind Köves.

  He’s following me! The old rabbi’s feet moved faster, and his breath grew short. He wondered if leaving his home had been a terrible mistake.

  Valdespino urged me to stay inside! Whom have I decided to trust?

  Köves had planned to wait for Valdespino’s men to come and escort him to Madrid, but the phone call had changed everything. The dark seeds of doubt were sprouting quickly.

  The woman on the phone had warned him: The bishop is sending men not to transport you, but rather to remove you—just like he removed Syed al-Fadl. Then she had presented evidence so persuasive that Köves had panicked and fled.

  Now, as he hurried along the sidewalk, Köves feared he might not reach the safety of his synagogue after all. The man in the baseball cap was still behind him, tailing Köves at about fifty meters.

  A deafening screech tore through the night air, and Köves jumped. The sound, he realized with relief, was a city bus braking at a bus stop just down the block. Köves felt as if it had been sent by God Himself as he rushed toward the vehicle and scrambled aboard. The bus was packed with raucous college students, and two of them politely made room for Köves in front.

  “Köszönöm,” the rabbi wheezed, breathless. Thank you.

  Before the bus could pull away, however, the man in the jeans and baseball cap sprinted up behind the bus and narrowly managed to climb aboard.

  Köves went rigid, but the man walked past him without a glance and took a seat in the back. In the reflection of the windshield, the rabbi could see that the man had returned to his smartphone, apparently engrossed in some sort of video game.
/>   Don’t be paranoid, Yehuda, he chided himself. He has no interest in you.

  When the bus arrived at the Dohány Street stop, Köves gazed longingly at the spires of the synagogue only a few blocks away, and yet he could not bring himself to leave the safety of the crowded bus.

  If I get out, and the man follows me …

  Köves remained in his seat, deciding he was probably safer in a crowd. I can just ride the bus for a while and catch my breath, he thought, although he now wished he had used the toilet before fleeing his home so abruptly.

  It was only moments later, as the bus pulled away from Dohány Street, that Rabbi Köves realized the terrible flaw in his plan.

  It’s Saturday night, and the passengers are all kids.

  Köves now realized that everyone on this bus would almost certainly get off in the exact same place—one stop away, in the heart of Budapest’s Jewish quarter.

  After World War II, this neighborhood had been left in ruins, but the decaying structures were now the hub of one of Europe’s most vibrant bar scenes—the famous “ruin bars”—trendy nightclubs housed in dilapidated buildings. On weekends, throngs of students and tourists gathered here to party in the bombed-out skeletons of graffiti-covered warehouses and old mansions, now retooled with the latest sound systems, colorful lighting, and eclectic art.

  Sure enough, when the bus screeched to its next stop, all of the students piled out together. The man in the cap remained seated in the back, still engrossed in his phone. Instinct told Köves to get out as fast as he could, and so he clambered to his feet, hurried down the aisle, and descended into the crowd of students on the street.

  The bus revved up to pull away, but then suddenly halted, its door hissing open to release one final passenger—the man in the baseball cap. Köves felt his pulse skyrocket once again, and yet the man did not glance even once at Köves. Instead, he turned his back to the crowd and walked briskly in the other direction, placing a phone call as he went.