Origin (44 page)

“We like you. We want to help you. And out of fairness to you, I want to warn you that the pope’s mission is a difficult one.” He paused. “It may involve violence.”

Ávila’s body went rigid.
Violence?

“Admiral, the forces of evil are growing stronger every day. God is at war, and wars entail
casualties
.”

Ávila flashed on the horror of the bomb that had killed his family. Shivering, he banished the dark memories. “I’m sorry, I don’t know if I can accept a violent mission—”

“The pope handpicked
you
, Admiral,” the Regent whispered. “The man you will target in this mission … is the man who murdered your family.”

LOCATED ON THE
ground floor of Madrid’s Royal Palace, the armory is an elegantly vaulted chamber whose high crimson walls are adorned with magnificent tapestries depicting famous battles in Spain’s history. Encircling the room is a priceless collection of more than a hundred suits of handcrafted armor, including the battle garb and “tools” of many past kings. Seven life-size horse mannequins stand in the center of the room, posed in full battle gear.

This is where they decide to keep me prisoner?
Garza wondered, looking out at the implements of war that surrounded him. Admittedly, the armory was one of the most secure rooms in the palace, but Garza suspected his captors had chosen this elegant holding cell in hopes of intimidating him.
This is the very room in which I was hired
.

Nearly two decades ago, Garza had been ushered into this imposing chamber, where he had been interviewed, cross-examined, and interrogated before finally being offered the job of head of the Royal Guard.

Now Garza’s own agents had arrested him.
I’m being charged with plotting an assassination? And for framing the bishop?
The logic behind the allegations was so twisted that Garza couldn’t begin to untangle it.

When it came to the Royal Guard, Garza was the highest-ranking official in the palace, meaning the order to arrest him could have come from only one man … Prince Julián himself.

Valdespino poisoned the prince’s mind against me
, Garza realized. The bishop had always been a political survivor, and tonight he was apparently desperate enough to attempt this audacious media stunt—a bold ploy to clear his own reputation by smearing Garza’s.
And now they’ve locked me in the armory so I can’t speak for myself.

If Julián and Valdespino had joined forces, Garza knew he was lost, entirely outmaneuvered. At this point, the only person on earth with power enough to help Garza was an old man who was living out his final days in a hospital bed in his private residence at Palacio de la Zarzuela
.

The king of Spain.

Then again
, Garza realized,
the king will never help me if doing so means crossing Bishop Valdespino or his own son.

He could hear the crowds outside chanting louder now, and it sounded like things might take a violent turn. When Garza realized what they were chanting, he couldn’t believe his ears.

“
Where does Spain come from?!
” they shouted. “
Where is Spain going?!
”

The protesters, it appeared, had seized upon Kirsch’s two provocative questions as an opportunity to rant about the political future of Spain’s monarchy.

Where do we come from? Where are we going?

Condemning the oppression of the past, Spain’s younger generation was constantly calling for faster change—urging their country to “join the civilized world” as a full democracy and to abolish its monarchy. France, Germany, Russia, Austria, Poland, and more than fifty other countries had abandoned their crowns in the last century. Even in England there was a push for a referendum on ending the monarchy after the current queen died.

Tonight, unfortunately, Madrid’s Royal Palace was in a state of disarray, so it was not surprising to hear this age-old battle cry being raised again.

Just what Prince Julián needs
, Garza thought,
as he prepares for ascension to the throne.

The door at the far end of the armory suddenly clicked open and one of Garza’s Guardia agents peered in.

Garza shouted to him, “I want an attorney!”

“And I want a statement for the press,” the familiar voice of Mónica Martín shouted back as the palace’s PR coordinator manuevered around the guard and marched into the room. “Commander Garza, why did you collude with the killers of Edmond Kirsch?”

Garza stared at her in disbelief.
Has everyone gone mad?

“We know you framed Bishop Valdespino!” Martín declared, striding toward him. “And the palace wants to publish your confession right now!”

The commander had no reply.

Halfway across the room, Martín spun around abruptly, glaring back at the young guard in the doorway. “I said a
private
confession!”

The guard looked uncertain as he stepped back and closed the door.

Martín wheeled back toward Garza and stormed the rest of the way across the floor. “I want a confession now!” she bellowed, her voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling as she arrived directly in front of him.

“Well, you won’t get one from me,” Garza replied evenly. “I have nothing to do with this. Your allegations are completely untrue.”

Martín glanced nervously over her shoulder. Then she stepped closer, whispering in Garza’s ear. “I know … I need you to listen to me very carefully.”

AS LANGDON AND
Ambra followed Father Beña toward the colossal bronze doors of Sagrada Família, Langdon found himself marveling, as he always did, over the utterly bizarre details of this church’s main entrance.

It’s a wall of codes
, he mused, eyeing the raised typography that dominated the monolithic slabs of burnished metal. Protruding from the surface were more than eight thousand three-dimensional letters embossed in bronze. The letters ran in horizontal lines, creating a massive field of text with virtually no separation between the words. Although Langdon knew the text was a description of Christ’s Passion written in Catalan, its appearance was closer to that of an NSA encryption key.

No wonder this place inspires conspiracy theories.

Langdon’s gaze moved upward, climbing the looming Passion facade, where a haunting collection of gaunt, angular sculptures by the artist Josep Maria Subirachs stared down, dominated by a horribly emaciated Jesus dangling from a crucifix that had been canted steeply forward, giving the frightening effect that it was about to topple down onto the arriving guests.

To Langdon’s left, another grim sculpture depicted Judas betraying Jesus with a kiss. This effigy, rather strangely, was flanked by a carved grid of numbers—a mathematical “magic square.” Edmond had once told Langdon that this square’s “magic constant” of thirty-three was in fact a hidden tribute to the Freemasons’ pagan reverence for the Great Architect of the Universe—an all-encompassing deity whose secrets were allegedly revealed to those who reached the brotherhood’s thirty-third degree.

“A fun story,” Langdon had replied with a laugh, “but Jesus being age thirty-three at the time of the Passion is a more likely explanation.”

As they neared the entrance, Langdon winced to see the church’s most gruesome embellishment—a collosal statue of Jesus, scourged and bound to a pillar with ropes. He quickly shifted his gaze to the inscription above the doors—two Greek letters—alpha and omega.

“Beginning and end,” Ambra whispered, also eyeing the letters. “Very Edmond.”

Langdon nodded, catching her meaning.
Where do we come from? Where are we going?

Father Beña opened a small portal in the wall of bronze letters, and the entire group entered, including the two Guardia agents. Beña closed the door behind them.

Silence.

Shadows.

There in the southeast end of the transept, Father Beña shared with them a startling story. He recounted how Kirsch had come to him and offered to make a huge donation to Sagrada Família in return for the church agreeing to display his copy of Blake’s illuminated manuscripts in the crypt near Gaudí’s tomb.

In the very heart of this church
, Langdon thought, his curiosity piqued.

“Did Edmond say
why
he wanted you to do this?” Ambra asked.

Beña nodded. “He told me that his lifelong passion for Gaudí’s art had come from his late mother, who had also been a great admirer of the work of William Blake. Mr. Kirsch said he wanted to place the Blake volume near Gaudí’s tomb as a tribute to his late mother. It seemed to me there was no harm.”

Edmond never mentioned his mother liking Gaudí
, Langdon thought, puzzled. Moreover, Paloma Kirsch had died in a convent, and it seemed unlikely that a Spanish nun would admire a heterodox British poet. The entire story seemed like a stretch.

“Also,” Beña continued, “I sensed Mr. Kirsch might have been in the throes of a spiritual crisis … and perhaps had some health issues as well.”

“The notation on the back of this title card,” Langdon interjected, holding it up, “says that the Blake book must be displayed in a particular way—lying open to page one hundred and sixty-three?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

Langdon felt his pulse quicken. “Can you tell me
which
poem is on that page?”

Beña shook his head. “There
is
no poem on that page.”

“I’m sorry?!”

“The book is Blake’s
complete
works—his artwork and writings. Page one sixty-three is an illustration.”

Langdon shot an uneasy glance at Ambra.
We need a forty-seven-letter line of poetry—not an illustration!

“Father,” Ambra said to Beña. “Would it be possible for us to see it right away?”