“I do, but I’ve read online that you’re quite good at breaking codes.”
Langdon slumped. “I’m a little tired for puzzles, Winston. There’s no way I can guess a six-digit PIN.”
“Check Edmond’s hint button.”
Langdon eyed the phone and pressed the hint button.
The screen displayed four letters: PTSD.
Langdon shook his head. “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?”
“No.” Winston gave his awkward laugh. “Pi to six digits.”
Langdon rolled his eyes. Seriously? He typed 314159—the first six digits in the number pi—and the phone promptly unlocked.
The home screen appeared and bore a single line of text.
History will be kind to me, for I intend to write it.
Langdon had to smile. Typical humble Edmond. The quote—not surprisingly—was yet another from Churchill, perhaps the statesman’s most famous.
As Langdon considered the words, he began to wonder if the claim was perhaps not quite as bold as it seemed. In fairness to Edmond, in the four short decades of his life, the futurist had influenced history in astonishing ways. In addition to his legacy of technological innovation, tonight’s presentation was clearly going to resonate for years to come. Moreover, his billions in personal wealth, according to various interviews, were all slated for donation to the two causes Edmond considered the twin pillars of the future—education and the environment. Langdon could not begin to imagine the positive influence his vast wealth was going to have in those areas.
Another wave of loss gripped Langdon as he thought of his late friend. In that moment, the transparent walls of Edmond’s lab had begun to feel claustrophobic, and he knew he needed air. As he peered down to the first floor, he could no longer see Ambra.
“I should go,” Langdon said abruptly.
“I understand,” Winston replied. “If you need me to help with your travel arrangements, I can be reached with the touch of a single button on that special phone of Edmond’s. Encrypted and private. I trust you can decipher which button?”
Langdon eyed the screen and saw a big W icon. “Thanks, I’m pretty good with symbols.”
“Excellent. You would, of course, need to call before I am deleted at one p.m.”
Langdon felt an inexplicable sadness to be saying good-bye to Winston. Clearly, future generations would be far better equipped to manage their emotional involvement with machines.
“Winston,” Langdon said as he headed for the revolving door, “for whatever it’s worth, I know Edmond would have been incredibly proud of you tonight.”
“That’s most generous of you to say,” Winston replied. “And equally proud of you, I’m sure. Good-bye, Professor.”
CHAPTER 99
Inside Hospital El Escorial, Prince Julián gently pulled the bedsheets up around his father’s shoulders and tucked him in for the night. Despite the doctor’s urging, the king had politely declined any further treatment—forgoing his usual heart monitor and IV of nutrients and painkillers.
Julián sensed the end was near.
“Father,” he whispered. “Are you in pain?” The doctor had left a bottle of oral morphine solution with a small applicator on the bedside as a precaution.
“On the contrary.” The king smiled weakly at his son. “I am at peace. You have permitted me to tell the secret I’ve buried for far too long. And for that, I thank you.”
Julián reached out and took his father’s hand, holding it for the first time since he was a child. “All is well, Father. Just sleep.”
The king gave a contented sigh and closed his eyes. Within seconds, he was snoring softly.
Julián got up and dimmed the lights in the room. As he did, Bishop Valdespino peered in from the hallway, a look of concern on his face.
“He’s sleeping,” Julián reassured him. “I’ll leave you to be with him.”
“Thank you,” Valdespino said, entering. His gaunt face looked ghostly in the moonlight that filtered in from the window. “Julián,” he whispered, “what your father told you tonight…it was very hard for him.”
“And, I sensed, for you as well.”
The bishop nodded. “Perhaps even more so for me. Thank you for your compassion.” He patted Julián gently on the shoulder.
“I feel like I should be thanking you,” Julián said. “All these years, after my mother died, and my father never remarried…I thought he was alone.”
“Your father was never alone,” Valdespino said. “Nor were you. We both loved you very much.” He chuckled sadly. “It’s funny, your parents’ marriage was very much an arranged one, and although he cared deeply for your mother, when she passed away, I think your father realized on some level that he could finally be true to himself.”
He never remarried, Julián thought, because he already loved someone else.
“Your Catholicism,” Julián said. “Weren’t you…conflicted?”
“Deeply,” the bishop replied. “Our faith is not lenient on this issue. As a young man, I felt tortured. When I became aware of my ‘inclination,’ as they called it back then, I was despondent; I was unsure how to proceed with my own life. A nun saved me. She showed me that the Bible celebrates all kinds of love, with one caveat—the love must be spiritual and not carnal. And so, by taking a vow of celibacy, I was able to love your father deeply while remaining pure in the eyes of my God. Our love was entirely platonic, and yet deeply fulfilling. I turned down a cardinalship to remain near him.”
At that instant, Julián recalled something his father had said to him long ago.
Love is from another realm. We cannot manufacture it on demand. Nor can we subdue it when it appears. Love is not our choice to make.
Julián’s heart ached suddenly for Ambra.
“She’ll call you,” Valdespino said, eyeing him carefully.
Julián was forever amazed by the bishop’s uncanny ability to peer into his soul. “Maybe,” he replied. “Maybe not. She’s very strong-minded.”
“And that’s one of the things you love about her.” Valdespino smiled. “Being a king is lonely work. A strong partner can be valuable.”
Julián sensed that the bishop was alluding to his own partnership with Julián’s father…and also that the old man had just given Ambra his quiet blessing.
“Tonight at the Valley of the Fallen,” Julián said, “my father made an unusual request of me. Did his wishes surprise you?”
“Not at all. He asked you to do something that he has always longed to see happen here in Spain. For him, of course, it was politically complicated. For you, being one more generation removed from Franco’s era, it might be easier.”
Julián was stirred by the prospect of honoring his father this way.
Less than an hour ago, from his wheelchair inside Franco’s shrine, the king had laid out his wishes. “My son, when you are king, you will be petitioned daily to destroy this shameful place, to use dynamite and bury it forever inside this mountain.” His father studied him carefully. “And I beg you—do not succumb to the pressure.”
The words surprised Julián. His father had always despised the despotism of the Franco era and considered this shrine a national disgrace.
“To demolish this basilica,” the king said, “is to pretend our history never happened—an easy way to allow ourselves to move happily forward, telling ourselves that another ‘Franco’ could never happen. But of course it could happen, and it will happen if we are not vigilant. You may recall the words of our countryman Jorge Santayana—”