by Dan Brown
ROYAL PALACE: APOLOGY, ALLEGATIONS, AILING KING
The Royal Palace has issued statements clearing Commander Garza and Robert Langdon of any wrongdoing tonight. Public apologies have been extended to both men.
The palace has yet to comment on Bishop Valdespino’s apparent involvement in tonight’s crimes, but the bishop is believed to be with Prince Julián, who is currently at an undisclosed hospital, tending to his ailing father, whose condition is reportedly dire.
WHERE IS MONTE?
Our exclusive informant [email protected] seems to have disappeared without a trace and without revealing his or her identity. According to our user poll, most still suspect that “Monte” is one of Kirsch’s tech-savvy disciples, but a new theory is now emerging that the pseudonym “Monte” may be short for “Mónica”—as in the Royal Palace PR coordinator, Mónica Martín.
More news as we have it!
CHAPTER 102
THERE ARE THIRTY-THREE “Shakespeare gardens” in existence worldwide. These botanical parks grow only those plants cited in the works of William Shakespeare—including Juliet’s “rose by any other name” and Ophelia’s bouquet of rosemary, pansies, fennel, columbines, rue, daisies, and violets. In addition to those in Stratford-upon-Avon, Vienna, San Francisco, and Central Park in New York City, there is a Shakespeare garden located alongside the Barcelona Supercomputing Center.
In the dim glow of distant streetlights, seated on a bench among the columbines, Ambra Vidal finished her emotional phone conversation with Prince Julián just as Robert Langdon emerged from the stone chapel. She handed the phone back to the two Guardia agents and called over to Langdon, who spotted her and approached through the darkness.
As the American professor strolled into the garden, she couldn’t help but smile at the way he’d tossed his suit jacket over his shoulder and rolled up his shirtsleeves, leaving the Mickey Mouse watch fully displayed.
“Hi there,” he said, sounding utterly drained, despite the lopsided grin on his face.
As the two of them walked around the garden, the Guardia officers gave them space, and Ambra told Langdon about her conversation with the prince—Julián’s apology, his claims of innocence, and his offer to break off their engagement and start dating all over again.
“A real Prince Charming,” Langdon said jokingly, although he sounded sincerely impressed.
“He’s been worried about me,” Ambra said. “Tonight was hard. He wants me to come to Madrid right away. His father is dying, and Julián—”
“Ambra,” Langdon said softly. “You don’t need to explain a thing. You should go.”
Ambra thought she sensed disappointment in his voice, and deep inside she felt it too. “Robert,” she said, “can I ask you a personal question?”
“Of course.”
She hesitated. “For you personally … are the laws of physics enough?”
Langdon glanced over as if he had expected an entirely different question. “Enough in what way?”
“Enough spiritually,” she said. “Is it enough to live in a universe whose laws spontaneously create life? Or do you prefer … God?” She paused, looking embarrassed. “Sorry, after all we’ve been through tonight, I know that’s a strange question.”
“Well,” Langdon said with a laugh, “I think my answer would benefit from a decent night’s sleep. But no, it’s not strange. People ask me all the time if I believe in God.”
“And how do you reply?”
“I reply with the truth,” he said. “I tell them that, for me, the question of God lies in understanding the difference between codes and patterns.”
Ambra glanced over. “I’m not sure I follow you.”
“Codes and patterns are very different from each other,” Langdon said. “And a lot of people confuse the two. In my field, it’s crucial to understand their fundamental difference.”
“That being?”
Langdon stopped walking and turned to her. “A pattern is any distinctly organized sequence. Patterns occur everywhere in nature—the spiraling seeds of a sunflower, the hexagonal cells of a honeycomb, the circular ripples on a pond when a fish jumps, et cetera.”
“Okay. And codes?”
“Codes are special,” Langdon said, his tone rising. “Codes, by definition, must carry information. They must do more than simply form a pattern—codes must transmit data and convey meaning. Examples of codes include written language, musical notation, mathematical equations, computer language, and even simple symbols like the crucifix. All of these examples can transmit meaning or information in a way that spiraling sunflowers cannot.”
Ambra grasped the concept, but not how it related to God.
“The other difference between codes and patterns,” Langdon continued, “is that codes do not occur naturally in the world. Musical notation does not sprout from trees, and symbols do not draw themselves in the sand. Codes are the deliberate inventions of intelligent consciousnesses.”
Ambra nodded. “So codes always have an intention or awareness behind them.”
“Exactly. Codes don’t appear organically; they must be created.”
Ambra studied him a long moment. “What about DNA?”
A professorial smile appeared on Langdon’s lips. “Bingo,” he said. “The genetic code. That’s the paradox.”
Ambra felt a rush of excitement. The genetic code obviously carried data—specific instructions on how to build organisms. By Langdon’s logic, that could mean only one thing. “You think DNA was created by an intelligence!”
Langdon held up a hand in mock self-defense. “Easy, tiger!” he said, laughing. “You’re treading on dangerous ground. Let me just say this. Ever since I was a child, I’ve had the gut sense that there’s a consciousness behind the universe. When I witness the precision of mathematics, the reliability of physics, and the symmetries of the cosmos, I don’t feel like I’m observing cold science; I feel as if I’m seeing a living footprint … the shadow of some greater force that is just beyond our grasp.”
Ambra could feel the power in his words. “I wish everyone thought like you do,” she finally said. “It seems we do a lot of fighting over God. Everyone has a different version of the truth.”
“Yes, which is why Edmond hoped science could one day unify us,” Langdon said. “In his own words: ‘If we all worshipped gravity, there would be no disagreements over which way it pulled.’”
Langdon used his heel to scratch some lines on the gravel path between them. “True or false?” he asked.
Puzzled, Ambra eyed his scratchings—a simple Roman-numeral equation.
I + XI = X
One plus eleven is ten? “False,” she said immediately.
“And can you see any way this could be true?”
Ambra shook her head. “No, your statement is definitely false.”
Langdon gently reached out and took her hand, guiding her around to where he had been standing. Now, when Ambra glanced down, she saw the markings from Langdon’s vantage point.
The equation was upside down.
X = IX + I
Startled, she glanced up at him.
“Ten equals nine plus one,” Langdon said with a smile. “Sometimes, all you have to do is shift your perspective to see someone else’s truth.”
Ambra nodded, recalling how she had seen Winston’s self-portrait countless times without ever grasping its true meaning.
“Speaking of glimpsing a hidden truth,” Langdon said, looking suddenly amused. “You’re in luck. There’s a secret symbol hiding right over there.” He pointed. “On the side of that truck.”
Ambra glanced up and saw a FedEx truck idling at a red light on Avenue of Pedralbes.
Secret symbol? All Ambra could see was the company’s ubiquitous logo.
“Their name is coded,” Langdon told her. “It contains a second level of meaning—a hidden symbol that reflects the company’s forward motion.”
Ambra stared. “It’s just letters.”
&nbs
p; “Trust me, there’s a very common symbol in the FedEx logo—and it happens to be pointing the way forward.”
“Pointing? You mean like … an arrow?”
“Exactly.” Langdon grinned. “You’re a curator—think negative space.”
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.
CHAPTER 103
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.
CHAPTER 104
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 Expo
sition 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:
I AM [email protected]
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.
ABUNDANCE: THE FUTURE IS BETTER THAN YOU THINK
