Furthermore, the Palmarians claimed to have evidence that the “true” pope was in fact their own founder—a man named Clemente Domínguez y Gómez, who took the name Pope Gregory XVII. Under Pope Gregory—the “antipope,” in the view of mainstream Catholics—the Palmarian Church grew steadily. In 2005, when Pope Gregory died while presiding over an Easter mass, his supporters hailed the timing of his death as a miraculous sign from above, confirming that this man was in fact connected directly to God.
Now, as ávila gazed up at the massive church, he couldn’t help but view the building as sinister.
Whoever the current antipope might be, I have no interest in meeting him.
In addition to criticism over their bold claims about the papacy, the Palmarian Church endured allegations of brainwashing, cultlike intimidation, and even responsibility for several mysterious deaths, including that of church member Bridget Crosbie, who, according to her family’s attorneys, had been “unable to escape” one of the Palmarian churches in Ireland.
ávila didn’t want to be rude to his new friend, but this was not at all what he had expected from today’s trip. “Marco,” he said with an apologetic sigh, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can do this.”
“I had a feeling you were going to say that,” Marco replied, seemingly unfazed. “And I admit, I had the same reaction when I first came here. I too had heard all the gossip and dark rumors, but I can assure you, it’s nothing more than a smear campaign led by the Vatican.”
Can you blame them? ávila wondered. Your church declared them illegitimate!
“Rome needed a reason to excommunicate us, so they made up lies. For years, the Vatican has been spreading disinformation about the Palmarians.”
ávila assessed the magnificent cathedral in the middle of nowhere. Something about it felt strange to him. “I’m confused,” he said. “If you have no ties to the Vatican, where does all your money come from?”
Marco smiled. “You would be amazed at the number of secret followers the Palmarians have within the Catholic clergy. There are many conservative Catholic parishes here in Spain that do not approve of the liberal changes emanating from Rome, and they are quietly funneling money to churches like ours, where traditional values are upheld.”
The answer was unexpected, but it rang true for ávila. He too had sensed a growing schism within the Catholic Church—a rift between those who believed the Church needed to modernize or die and those who believed the Church’s true purpose was to remain steadfast in the face of an evolving world.
“The current pope is a remarkable man,” Marco said. “I told him your story, and he said he would be honored to welcome a decorated military officer to our church, and meet with you personally after the service today. Like his predecessors, he had a military background before finding God, and he understands what you’re going through. I really think his viewpoint might help you find peace.”
Marco opened his door to get out of the car, but ávila could not move. He just sat in place, staring up at the massive structure, feeling guilty for harboring a blind prejudice against these people. To be fair, he knew nothing of the Palmarian Church except the rumors, and it was not as if the Vatican were without scandal. Moreover, ávila’s own church had not helped him at all after the attack. Forgive your enemies, the nun had told him. Turn the other cheek.
“Luis, listen to me,” Marco whispered. “I realize I tricked you a bit into coming here, but it was with good intentions…I wanted you to meet this man. His ideas have changed my life dramatically. After I lost my leg, I was in the place where you are now. I wanted to die. I was sinking into darkness, and this man’s words gave me a purpose. Just come and hear him preach.”
ávila hesitated. “I’m happy for you, Marco. But I think I’ll be fine on my own.”
“Fine?” The young man laughed. “A week ago, you put a gun to your head and pulled the trigger! You are not fine, my friend.”
He’s right, ávila knew, and one week from now, when my therapy is done, I will be back home, alone and adrift again.
“What are you afraid of?” Marco pressed. “You’re a naval officer. A grown man who commanded a ship! Are you afraid the pope is going to brainwash you in ten minutes and take you hostage?”
I’m not sure what I’m afraid of, ávila thought, staring down at his injured leg, feeling strangely small and impotent. For most of his life, he had been the one in charge, the one giving orders. He was uncertain about the prospect of taking orders from someone else.
“Never mind,” Marco finally said, refastening his seat belt. “I’m sorry. I can see you’re uncomfortable. I didn’t mean to pressure you.” He reached down to start the car.
ávila felt like a fool. Marco was practically a child, one-third ávila’s age, missing a leg, trying to help out a fellow invalid, and ávila had thanked him by being ungrateful, skeptical, and condescending.
“No,” ávila said. “Forgive me, Marco. I’d be honored to listen to the man preach.”
CHAPTER 49
The windshield on Edmond’s Tesla Model X was expansive, morphing seamlessly into the car’s roof somewhere behind Langdon’s head, giving him the disorienting sense he was floating inside a glass bubble.
Guiding the car along the wooded highway north of Barcelona, Langdon was surprised to find himself driving well in excess of the roadway’s generous 120 kph speed limit. The vehicle’s silent electric engine and linear acceleration seemed to make every speed feel nearly identical.
In the seat beside him, Ambra was busy browsing the Internet on the car’s massive dashboard computer display, relaying to Langdon the news that was now breaking worldwide. An ever-deepening web of intrigue was emerging, including rumors that Bishop Valdespino had been wiring funds to the antipope of the Palmarian Church—who allegedly had military ties with conservative Carlists and appeared to be responsible not only for Edmond’s death, but also for the deaths of Syed al-Fadl and Rabbi Yehuda K?ves.
As Ambra read aloud, it became clear that media outlets everywhere were now asking the same question: What could Edmond Kirsch possibly have discovered that was so threatening that a prominent bishop and a conservative Catholic sect would murder him in an effort to silence his announcement?
“The viewership numbers are incredible,” Ambra said, glancing up from the screen. “Public interest in this story is unprecedented…it seems like the entire world is transfixed.”
In that instant, Langdon realized that perhaps there was a macabre silver lining to Edmond’s horrific murder. With all the media attention, Kirsch’s global audience had grown far larger than he could ever have imagined. Right now, even in death, Edmond held the world’s ear.
The realization made Langdon even more committed to achieving his goal—to find Edmond’s forty-seven-letter password and launch his presentation to the world.
“There’s no statement yet from Julián,” Ambra said, sounding puzzled. “Not a single word from the Royal Palace. It makes no sense. I’ve had personal experience with their PR coordinator, Mónica Martín, and she’s all about transparency and sharing information before the press can twist it. I’m sure she’s urging Julián to make a statement.”
Langdon suspected she was right. Considering the media was accusing the palace’s primary religious adviser of conspiracy—possibly even murder—it seemed logical that Julián should make a statement of some sort, even if only to say that the palace was investigating the accusations.
“Especially,” Langdon added, “if you consider that the country’s future queen consort was standing right beside Edmond when he was shot. It could have been you, Ambra. The prince should at least say he’s relieved that you’re safe.”
“I’m not sure he is,” she said matter-of-factly, turning off the browser and leaning back in her seat.
Langdon glanced over. “Well, for whatever it’s worth, I’m glad you’re safe. I’m not sure I could have handled tonight all alone.”
“Alone?” an accented voice demanded through the car’s speakers. “How quickly we forget!”