Origin

Ambra closed her eyes for a long moment, and Langdon sensed a wave of melancholy washing over her, as if this seemingly incontrovertible proof of Julián’s involvement had just erased her last remaining hope that perhaps her fiancé was an innocent bystander in all of this.

“This is about Edmond’s discovery,” Langdon declared. “Someone in the palace knows we are trying to show Edmond’s video to the world, and they’re desperate to stop us.”

“Perhaps they thought their work was finished when they silenced Edmond,” Winston added. “They didn’t realize that there were loose ends.”

An uncomfortable silence hung between them.

“Ambra,” Langdon said quietly, “I obviously don’t know your fiancé, but I strongly suspect Bishop Valdespino has Julián’s ear in this matter. Remember, Edmond and Valdespino were at odds before the museum event even started.”

She nodded, looking uncertain. “Either way, you’re in danger.”

Suddenly they became aware of the faint sound of sirens wailing in the distance.

Langdon felt his pulse quicken. “We need to find this poem now,” he declared, resuming his search of the bookshelves. “Launching Edmond’s presentation is the key to our safety. If we go public, then whoever is trying to silence us will realize they’re too late.”

“True,” Winston said, “but the local authorities will still be hunting for you as a kidnapper. You won’t be safe unless you beat the palace at their own game.”

“How?” Ambra demanded.

Winston continued without hesitation. “The palace used the media against you, but that’s a knife that cuts both ways.”

Langdon and Ambra listened as Winston quickly outlined a very simple plan, one that Langdon had to admit would instantly create confusion and chaos among their assailants.

“I’ll do it,” Ambra readily agreed.

“Are you sure?” Langdon asked her warily. “There will be no going back for you.”

“Robert,” she said, “I’m the one who got you into this, and now you’re in danger. The palace had the gall to use the media as a weapon against you, and now I’m going to turn it around on them.”

“Fittingly so,” Winston added. “Those who live by the sword will die by the sword.”

Langdon did a double take. Did Edmond’s computer really just paraphrase Aeschylus? He wondered if it might not be more appropriate to quote Nietzsche: “Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.”

Before Langdon could protest any further, Ambra was moving down the hall, Edmond’s phone in hand. “Find that password, Robert!” she called over her shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

Langdon watched her disappear into a narrow turret whose staircase spiraled up to Casa Milà’s notoriously precarious rooftop deck.

“Be careful!” he called after her.

Alone now in Edmond’s apartment, Langdon peered down the winding snake-rib hallway and tried to make sense of what he had seen here—cases of unusual artifacts, a framed quote proclaiming that God was dead, and a priceless Gauguin that posed the same questions Edmond had asked of the world earlier tonight. Where do we come from? Where are we going?

He had found nothing yet that hinted at Edmond’s possible answers to these questions. So far, Langdon’s search of the library had yielded only one volume that seemed potentially relevant—Unexplained Art—a book of photographs of mysterious man-made structures, including Stonehenge, the Easter Island heads, and Nazca’s sprawling “desert drawings”—geoglyphs drawn on such a massive scale that they were discernible only from the air.

Not much help, he decided, and resumed his search of the shelves.

Outside, the sirens grew louder.

CHAPTER 57

“I AM NOT a monster,” Ávila declared, exhaling as he relieved himself in a grungy urinal in a deserted rest stop on Highway N-240.

At his side, the Uber driver was trembling, apparently too nervous to urinate. “You threatened … my family.”

“And if you behave,” Ávila replied, “I assure you that no harm will come to them. Just take me to Barcelona, drop me off, and we will part as friends. I will return your wallet, forget your home address, and you need never think of me again.”

The driver stared straight ahead, his lips quivering.

“You are a man of the faith,” Ávila said. “I saw the papal cross on your windshield. And no matter what you think of me, you can find peace in knowing that you are doing the work of God tonight.” Ávila finished at the urinal. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

Ávila stepped back and checked the ceramic pistol tucked into his belt. It was loaded with his lone remaining bullet. He wondered if he’d need to use it tonight.