Dangerous days, Garza knew. A contentious cusp between past and future.
In addition to a deepening religious rift, Spain faced a political crossroads as well. Would the country retain its monarch? Or would the royal crown be forever abolished as it had been in Austria, Hungary, and so many other European countries? Only time would tell. In the streets, older traditionalists waved Spanish flags, while young progressives proudly wore their antimonarchic colors of purple, yellow, and red—the colors of the old Republican banner.
Julián will be inheriting a powder keg.
“When I first saw the Franco tattoo,” Martín said, drawing Garza’s attention back to the tablet, “I thought it might have been digitally added to the photo as a ploy—you know, to stir the pot. Conspiracy sites all compete for traffic, and a Francoist connection will get a massive response, especially considering the anti-Christian nature of Kirsch’s presentation tonight.”
Garza knew she was right. Conspiracy theorists will go crazy over this.
Martín motioned to the tablet. “Read the commentary they intend to run.”
With a feeling of dread, Garza glanced at the lengthy text that accompanied the photo.
ConspiracyNet.com
EDMOND KIRSCH UPDATE
Despite initial suspicions that Edmond Kirsch’s murder was the work of religious zealots, the discovery of this ultraconservative Francoist symbol suggests the assassination may have political motivations as well. Suspicions that conservative players in the highest reaches of Spanish government, perhaps even within the Royal Palace itself, are now battling for control in the power vacuum left by the king’s absence and imminent death…
“Disgraceful,” Garza snapped, having read enough. “All this speculation from a tattoo? It means nothing. With the exception of Ambra Vidal’s presence at the shooting, this situation has absolutely nothing to do with the politics of the Royal Palace. No comment.”
“Sir,” Martín pressed. “If you would please read the rest of the commentary, you’ll see that they are trying to link Bishop Valdespino directly to Admiral ávila. They’re suggesting that the bishop may be a secret Francoist who has been whispering in the king’s ear for years, keeping him from making sweeping changes to the country.” She paused. “This allegation is gaining a lot of traction online.”
Once again, Garza found himself at a total loss for words. He no longer recognized the world in which he lived.
Fake news now carries as much weight as real news.
Garza eyed Martín and did his best to speak calmly. “Mónica, this is all a fiction created by blog-writing fantasists for their own amusement. I can assure you that Valdespino is not a Francoist. He has served the king faithfully for decades, and there is no way he is involved with a Francoist assassin. The palace has no comment on any of it. Am I clear?” Garza turned toward the door, eager to get back to the prince and Valdespino.
“Sir, wait!” Martín reached out and grabbed his arm.
Garza halted, staring down in shock at his young employee’s hand.
Martín immediately pulled back. “I’m sorry, sir, but ConspiracyNet also sent us a recording of a telephone conversation that just took place in Budapest.” She blinked nervously behind her thick glasses. “You’re not going to like this either.”
CHAPTER 38
My boss was assassinated.
Captain Josh Siegel could feel his hands trembling on the stick as he taxied Edmond Kirsch’s Gulfstream G550 toward the main runway at Bilbao Airport.
I’m in no condition to fly, he thought, knowing his copilot was as rattled as he was.
Siegel had piloted private jets for Edmond Kirsch for many years, and Edmond’s horrifying murder tonight had come as a devastating shock. An hour ago, Siegel and his copilot had been sitting in the airport lounge watching the live feed from the Guggenheim Museum.
“Typical Edmond drama,” Siegel had joked, impressed by his boss’s ability to draw a huge crowd. As he watched Kirsch’s program, he found himself, along with the other viewers in the lounge, leaning forward, his curiosity spiking, until, in a flash, the evening went horribly wrong.
In the aftermath, Siegel and his copilot sat in a daze, watching the television coverage and wondering what they should do next.
Siegel’s phone rang ten minutes later; the caller was Edmond’s personal assistant, Winston. Siegel had never met him, and although the Brit seemed a bit of an odd duck, Siegel had become quite accustomed to coordinating flights with him.
“If you have not seen the television,” Winston said, “you should turn it on.”
“We saw it,” Siegel said. “We’re both devastated.”
“We need you to return the plane to Barcelona,” Winston said, his tone eerily businesslike considering what had just transpired. “Prepare yourselves for takeoff, and I’ll be back in touch shortly. Please do not take off until we speak.”
Siegel had no idea if Winston’s instructions would have aligned with Edmond’s wishes, but at the moment, he was thankful for any kind of guidance.
On orders from Winston, Siegel and his copilot had filed their flight manifest to Barcelona with zero passengers—a “deadhead” flight, as it was regrettably known in the business—and then had pushed back out of the hangar and begun their preflight checklist.
Thirty minutes passed before Winston called back. “Are you prepped for takeoff?”
“We are.”
“Good. I assume you’ll be using the usual eastbound runway?”
“That’s right.” Siegel at times found Winston painfully thorough and unnervingly well informed.
“Please contact the tower and request clearance to take off. Taxi out to the far end of the airfield, but do not pull onto the runway.”
“I should stop on the access road?”
“Yes, just for a minute. Please alert me when you get there.”
Siegel and his copilot looked at each other in surprise. Winston’s request made no sense at all.
The tower might have something to say about that.
Nonetheless, Siegel had guided the jet along various ramps and roads toward the runway head at the western edge of the airport. He was now taxiing along the final hundred meters of the access road, where the pavement turned ninety degrees to the right and merged into the eastbound runway head.
“Winston?” Siegel said, gazing out at the high chain-link security fence that surrounded the perimeter of the airport property. “We’ve reached the end of the access ramp.”
“Please hold there,” Winston said. “I’ll be back in touch.”
I can’t hold here! Siegel thought, wondering what the hell Winston was doing. Fortunately, the Gulfstream’s rearview camera showed no planes behind his, so at least Siegel was not blocking traffic. The only lights were those of the control tower—a faint glow at the other end of the runway, nearly two miles away.
Sixty seconds passed.
“This is air traffic control,” a voice crackled in his headset. “EC346, you are cleared for takeoff on runway number one. I repeat, you are cleared.”
Siegel wanted nothing more than to take off, but he was still waiting for word from Edmond’s assistant. “Thank you, control,” he said. “We need to hold here just another minute. We’ve got a warning light that we’re checking.”
“Roger that. Please advise when ready.”
CHAPTER 39
“Here?” The water taxi’s captain looked confused. “You want stop here? Airport is more far. I take you there.”
“Thanks, we’ll get out here,” Langdon said, following Winston’s advice.
The captain shrugged and brought the boat to a stop beside a small bridge marked PUERTO BIDEA. The riverbank here was covered with high grass and looked more or less accessible. Ambra was already clambering out of the boat and making her way up the incline.
“How much do we owe you?” Langdon asked the captain.
“No pay,” the man said. “Your British man, he pay me before. Credit card. Triple money.”