Origin (51 page)

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?”

“
Somebody’s
got to be here,” Langdon said. “Edmond must have staff on hand, especially tonight. When they realize we have Edmond’s password—I suspect they will scramble to help us trigger the presentation.”

Fifteen seconds later, the helicopter touched down in a large semicircular park on the eastern border of Winston’s block. Langdon and Ambra jumped out, and the chopper lifted off instantly, speeding toward the stadium, where it would await further instructions.

As the two of them hurried across the darkened park toward the center of the block, they crossed a small internal street, Passeig dels Til·lers,
and moved into a heavily wooded area. Up ahead, shrouded by trees, they could see the silhouette of a large and bulky building.

“No lights,” Ambra whispered.

“And a fence,” Langdon said, frowning as they arrived at a ten-foot-high, wrought iron security fence that circled the entire complex. He peered through the bars, unable to see much of the building in the forested compound. He felt puzzled to see no lights at all.

“There,” Ambra said, pointing twenty yards down the fence line. “I think it’s a gate.”

They hurried along the fence and found an imposing entry turnstile, which was securely locked. There was an electronic call box, and before Langdon had a chance to consider their options, Ambra had pressed the call button.

The line rang twice and connected.

Silence.

“Hello?” Ambra said. “Hello?”

No voice came through the speaker—just the ominous buzz of an open line.

“I don’t know if you can hear me,” she said, “but this is Ambra Vidal and Robert Langdon. We are trusted friends of Edmond Kirsch. We were with him tonight when he was killed. We have information that will be extremely helpful to Edmond, to Winston, and, I believe, to all of you.”

There was a staccato click.

Langdon immediately put his hand on the turnstile, which turned freely.

He exhaled. “I told you someone was home.”

The two of them hurriedly pushed through the security turnstile and moved through the trees toward the darkened building. As they got closer, the outline of the roof began to take shape against the sky. An unexpected silhouette materialized—a fifteen-foot symbol mounted to the peak of the roof.

Ambra and Langdon stopped short.

This can’t be right
, Langdon thought, staring up at the unmistakable symbol above them.
Edmond’s computer lab has a giant crucifix on the roof?

Langdon took several more steps and emerged from the trees. As he did, the building’s entire facade came into view, and it was a surprising sight—an ancient Gothic church with a large rose window, two stone steeples, and an elegant doorway adorned with bas-reliefs of Catholic saints and the Virgin Mary.

Ambra looked horrified. “Robert, I think we just broke our way onto the grounds of a Catholic church. We’re in the wrong place.”

Langdon spotted a sign in front of the church and began to laugh. “No, I think we’re in the exact
right
place.”

This facility had been in the news a few years ago, but Langdon had never realized it was in Barcelona.
A high-tech lab built inside a decommissioned Catholic church.
Langdon had to admit it seemed the ultimate sanctuary for an irreverent atheist to build a godless computer. As he gazed up at the now defunct church, he felt a chill to realize the prescience with which Edmond had chosen his password.

The dark religions are departed & sweet science reigns.

Langdon drew Ambra’s attention to the sign.

It read:

Ambra turned to him with a look of disbelief. “Barcelona has a
supercomputing
center inside a Catholic church?”

“It does.” Langdon smiled. “Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction.”

THE TALLEST CROSS
in the world is in Spain.

Erected on a mountaintop eight miles north of the monastery of El Escorial, the massive cement cross soars a bewildering five hundred feet in the air above a barren valley, where it can be seen from more than a hundred miles away.

The rocky gorge beneath the cross—aptly named the Valley of the Fallen—is the final resting place of more than forty thousand souls, victims of both sides of the bloody Spanish Civil War.

What are we doing here?
Julián wondered as he followed the Guardia out onto the viewing esplanade at the base of the mountain beneath the cross.
This is where my father wants to meet?

Walking beside him, Valdespino looked equally confused. “This makes no sense,” he whispered. “Your father always despised this place.”

Millions despise this place
, Julián thought.

Conceived in 1940 by Franco himself, the Valley of the Fallen had been billed as “a national act of atonement”—an attempt to reconcile victors and vanquished. Despite its “noble aspiration,” the monument sparked controversy to this day because it was built by a workforce that included convicts and political prisoners who had opposed Franco—many of whom died from exposure and starvation during construction.

In the past, some parliamentary members had even gone so far as to compare this place to a Nazi concentration camp. Julián suspected his father secretly felt the same way, even if he could never say so openly. For most Spaniards, the site was regarded as a monument to Franco, built by Franco—a colossal shrine to honor himself. The fact that Franco was now entombed in it only added fuel to the critics’ fire.

Julián recalled the one time he had been here—another childhood outing with his father to learn about his country. The king had shown him around and quietly whispered,
Look carefully, son. One day you’ll tear this down.

Now, as Julián followed the Guardia up the stairs toward the austere
facade carved into the mountainside, he began to realize where they were going. A sculpted bronze door loomed before them—a portal into the face of the mountain itself—and Julián recalled stepping through that door as a boy, utterly transfixed by what lay beyond.

After all, the true miracle of this mountaintop was not the towering cross above it; the true miracle was the secret space
inside
it.

Hollowed out within the granite peak was a man-made cavern of unfathomable proportions. The hand-excavated cavern tunneled back nearly nine hundred feet into the mountain, where it opened up into a gaping chamber, meticulously and elegantly finished, with glimmering tile floors and a soaring frescoed cupola that spanned nearly a hundred and fifty feet from side to side.
I’m inside a mountain
, young Julián had thought.
I must be dreaming!

Now, years later, Prince Julián had returned.

Here at the behest of my dying father.

As the group neared the iron portal, Julián gazed up at the austere bronze pietà above the door. Beside him, Bishop Valdespino crossed himself, although Julián sensed the gesture was more out of trepidation than faith.