Origin

Within seconds, the helicopter had climbed several hundred feet and was hovering above the hotel where Langdon and Edmond had gone to lunch two years ago. He told me his computer lab was only two blocks from here.

From their bird’s-eye vantage point, Langdon scanned the area around the hotel. The streets in this neighborhood were not as rectilinear as they were around Sagrada Família, and the city blocks formed all kinds of uneven and oblong shapes.

It has to be here.

With rising uncertainty, Langdon searched the blocks in all directions, trying to spot the unique shape that he could picture in his memory. Where is it?

It was not until he turned his gaze to the north, across the traffic circle at the Plaça de Pius XII, that Langdon felt a twinge of hope. “Over there!” he called to the pilot. “Please fly over that wooded area!”

The pilot tipped the nose of the chopper and moved diagonally one block to the northwest, now hovering over the forested expanse where Langdon had pointed. The woods were actually part of a massive walled estate.

“Robert,” Ambra shouted, sounding frustrated now. “What are you doing? This is the Royal Palace of Pedralbes! There is no way Edmond built Winston inside—”

“Not here! Over there!” Langdon pointed beyond the palace to the block directly behind it.

Ambra leaned forward, looking down intently at the source of Langdon’s excitement. The block behind the palace was formed by four well-lit streets, intersecting to create a square that was orientated north–south like a diamond. The diamond’s only flaw was that its lower-right border was awkwardly bent—skewed by an uneven jog in the line—leaving a crooked perimeter.

“Do you recognize that jagged line?” Langdon asked, pointing to the diamond’s skewed axis—a well-lit street perfectly delineated against the darkness of the wooded palace grounds. “Do you see the street with the little jog in it?”

All at once Ambra’s exasperation seemed to disappear, and she cocked her head to peer down more intently. “Actually, that line is familiar. Why do I know it?”

“Look at the entire block,” Langdon urged. “A diamond shape with one strange border in the lower right.” He waited, sensing Ambra would recognize it soon. “Look at the two small parks on this block.” He pointed to a round park in the middle and a semicircular park on the right.

“I feel like I know this place,” Ambra said, “but I can’t quite …”

“Think about art,” Langdon said. “Think about your collection at the Guggenheim. Think about—”

“Winston!” she shouted, and turned to him in disbelief. “The layout of this block—it’s the exact shape of Winston’s self-portrait in the Guggenheim!”

Langdon smiled at her. “Yes, it is.”

Ambra wheeled back to the window and stared down at the diamond-shaped block. Langdon peered down too, picturing Winston’s self-portrait—the bizarrely shaped canvas that had puzzled him ever since Winston had pointed it out to him earlier tonight—an awkward tribute to the work of Miró.

Edmond asked me to create a self-portrait, Winston had said, and this is what I came up with.

Langdon had already decided that the eyeball featured near the center of the piece—a staple of Miró’s work—almost certainly indicated the precise spot where Winston existed, the place on the planet from which Winston viewed the world.

Ambra turned back from the window, looking both joyful and stunned. “Winston’s self-portrait is not a Miró. It’s a map!”

“Exactly,” Langdon said. “Considering Winston has no body and no physical self-image, his self-portrait understandably would be more related to his location than to his physical form.”

“The eyeball,” Ambra said. “It’s a carbon copy of a Miró. But there’s only one eye, so maybe that’s what marks Winston’s location?”

“I was thinking the same thing.” Langdon turned to the pilot now and asked if he could set the helicopter down just for a moment on one of the two little parks on Winston’s block. The pilot began to descend.

“My God,” Ambra blurted, “I think I know why Winston chose to mimic Miró’s style!”

“Oh?”

“The palace we just flew over is the Palace of Pedralbes.”

“¿Pedralbes?” Langdon asked. “Isn’t that the name of—”

“Yes! One of Miró’s most famous sketches. Winston probably researched this area and found a local tie to Miró!”

Langdon had to admit, Winston’s creativity was astonishing, and he felt strangely exhilarated by the prospect of reconnecting with Edmond’s synthetic intelligence. As the helicopter dropped lower, Langdon saw the dark silhouette of a large building located on the exact spot where Winston had drawn his eye.

“Look—” Ambra pointed. “That must be it.”

Langdon strained to get a better view of the building, which was obscured by large trees. Even from the air, it looked formidable.

“I don’t see lights,” Ambra said. “Do you think we can get in?”