Origin

“Where’s his apartment?”

“Robert, Edmond lived in Casa Milà.”

Langdon did a double take. “The Casa Milà?”

“The one and only,” she replied with a nod. “Last year, he rented the entire top floor as his penthouse apartment.”

Langdon needed a moment to process the news. Casa Milà was one of Gaudí’s most famous buildings—a dazzlingly original “house” whose tiered facade and undulating stone balconies resembled an excavated mountain, sparking its now popular nickname “La Pedrera”—meaning “the stone quarry.”

“Isn’t the top floor a Gaudí museum?” Langdon asked, recalling one of his visits to the building in the past.

“Yes,” Winston offered. “But Edmond made a donation to UNESCO, which protects the house as a World Heritage Site, and they agreed to temporarily close it down and let him live there for two years. After all, there’s no shortage of Gaudí art in Barcelona.”

Edmond lived inside a Gaudí exhibit at Casa Milà? Langdon puzzled. And he moved in for only two years?

Winston chimed in. “Edmond even helped Casa Milà create a new educational video about its architecture. It’s worth seeing.”

“The video is actually quite impressive,” Ambra agreed, leaning forward and touching the browser screen. A keyboard appeared, and she typed: Lapedrera.com. “You should watch this.”

“I’m kind of driving,” Langdon replied.

Ambra reached over to the steering column and gave two quick pulls on a small lever. Langdon could feel the steering wheel suddenly stiffen in his hands and immediately noticed that the car appeared to be guiding itself, remaining perfectly centered in its lane.

“Autopilot,” she said.

The effect was quite unsettling, and Langdon could not help but leave his hands hovering over the wheel and his foot over the brake.

“Relax.” Ambra reached over and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “It’s far safer than a human driver.”

Reluctantly, Langdon lowered his hands to his lap.

“There you go.” She smiled. “Now you can watch this Casa Milà video.”

The video began with a dramatic low shot of pounding surf, as if taken from a helicopter flying only a few feet above the open ocean. Rising in the distance was an island—a stone mountain with sheer cliffs that climbed hundreds of feet above the crashing waves.

Text materialized over the mountain.

La Pedrera wasn’t created by Gaudí.

For the next thirty seconds, Langdon watched as the surf began carving the mountain into the distinctive organic-looking exterior of Casa Milà. Next the ocean rushed inside, creating hollows and cavernous rooms, in which waterfalls carved staircases and vines grew, twisting into iron banisters as mosses grew beneath them, carpeting the floors.

Finally, the camera pulled back out to sea and revealed the famous image of Casa Milà—“the quarry”—carved into a massive mountain.

—La Pedrera—

a masterpiece of nature

Langdon had to admit, Edmond had a knack for drama. Seeing this computer-generated video made him eager to revisit the famous building.

Returning his eyes to the road, Langdon reached down and disengaged the autopilot, taking back control. “Let’s just hope Edmond’s apartment contains what we’re looking for. We need to find that password.”

CHAPTER 50

COMMANDER DIEGO GARZA led his four armed Guardia agents directly across the center of Plaza de la Armería, keeping his eyes straight ahead and ignoring the clamoring media outside the fence, all of whom were aiming television cameras at him through the bars and shouting for a comment.

At least they’ll see that someone is taking action.

When he and his team arrived at the cathedral, the main entrance was locked—not surprising at this hour—and Garza began pounding on the door with the handle of his sidearm.

No answer.

He kept pounding.

Finally, the locks turned and the door swung open. Garza found himself face-to-face with a cleaning woman, who looked understandably alarmed by the small army outside the door.

“Where is Bishop Valdespino?” Garza demanded.

“I … I don’t know,” the woman replied.

“I know the bishop is here,” Garza declared. “And he is with Prince Julián. You haven’t seen them?”

She shook her head. “I just arrived. I clean on Saturday nights after—”

Garza pushed past her, directing his men to spread out through the darkened cathedral.

“Lock the door,” Garza told the cleaning woman. “And stay out of the way.”

With that, he cocked his weapon and headed directly for Valdespino’s office.

Across the plaza, in the palace’s basement control room, Mónica Martín was standing at the watercooler and taking a pull on a long-overdue cigarette. Thanks to the liberal “politically correct” movement sweeping Spain, smoking in palace offices had been banned, but with the deluge of alleged crimes being pinned on the palace tonight, Martín figured a bit of secondhand smoke was a tolerable infraction.