For the next thirty seconds, Langdon watched as the surf began carving the mountain into the distinctive organic-looking exterior of Casa Milà. Next the ocean rushed inside, creating hollows and cavernous rooms, in which waterfalls carved staircases and vines grew, twisting into iron banisters as mosses grew beneath them, carpeting the floors.
Finally, the camera pulled back out to sea and revealed the famous image of Casa Milà—“the quarry”—carved into a massive mountain.
—La Pedrera—
a masterpiece of nature
Langdon had to admit, Edmond had a knack for drama. Seeing this computer-generated video made him eager to revisit the famous building.
Returning his eyes to the road, Langdon reached down and disengaged the autopilot, taking back control. “Let’s just hope Edmond’s apartment contains what we’re looking for. We need to find that password.”
CHAPTER 50
Commander Diego Garza led his four armed Guardia agents directly across the center of Plaza de la Armería, keeping his eyes straight ahead and ignoring the clamoring media outside the fence, all of whom were aiming television cameras at him through the bars and shouting for a comment.
At least they’ll see that someone is taking action.
When he and his team arrived at the cathedral, the main entrance was locked—not surprising at this hour—and Garza began pounding on the door with the handle of his sidearm.
No answer.
He kept pounding.
Finally, the locks turned and the door swung open. Garza found himself face-to-face with a cleaning woman, who looked understandably alarmed by the small army outside the door.
“Where is Bishop Valdespino?” Garza demanded.
“I…I don’t know,” the woman replied.
“I know the bishop is here,” Garza declared. “And he is with Prince Julián. You haven’t seen them?”
She shook her head. “I just arrived. I clean on Saturday nights after—”
Garza pushed past her, directing his men to spread out through the darkened cathedral.
“Lock the door,” Garza told the cleaning woman. “And stay out of the way.”
With that, he cocked his weapon and headed directly for Valdespino’s office.
—
Across the plaza, in the palace’s basement control room, Mónica Martín was standing at the watercooler and taking a pull on a long-overdue cigarette. Thanks to the liberal “politically correct” movement sweeping Spain, smoking in palace offices had been banned, but with the deluge of alleged crimes being pinned on the palace tonight, Martín figured a bit of secondhand smoke was a tolerable infraction.
All five news stations on the bank of muted televisions lined up before her continued their live coverage of the assassination of Edmond Kirsch, flagrantly replaying the footage of his brutal murder over and over. Of course, each retransmission was preceded by the usual warning.
CAUTION: The following clip contains graphic images that may not be appropriate for all viewers.
Shameless, she thought, knowing these warnings were not sensitive network precautions but rather clever teasers to ensure that nobody changed the channel.
Martín took another pull on her cigarette, scanning the various networks, most of which were milking the growing conspiracy theories with “Breaking News” headlines and ticker-tape crawls.
Futurist killed by Church?
Scientific discovery lost forever?
Assassin hired by royal family?
You’re supposed to report the news, she grumbled. Not spread vicious rumors in the form of questions.
Martín had always believed in the importance of responsible journalism as a cornerstone of freedom and democracy, and so she was routinely disappointed by journalists who incited controversy by broadcasting ideas that were patently absurd—all the while avoiding legal repercussions by simply turning every ludicrous statement into a leading question.
Even respected science channels were doing it, asking their viewers: “Is It Possible That This Temple in Peru Was Built by Ancient Aliens?”
No! Martín wanted to shout at the television. It’s not freaking possible! Stop asking moronic questions!
On one of the television screens, she could see that CNN seemed to be doing its best to be respectful.
Remembering Edmond Kirsch
Prophet. Visionary. Creator.
Martín picked up the remote and turned up the volume.
“…a man who loved art, technology, and innovation,” said the news anchor sadly. “A man whose almost mystical ability to predict the future made him a household name. According to his colleagues, every single prediction made by Edmond Kirsch in the field of computer science has become a reality.”
“That’s right, David,” interjected his female cohost. “I just wish we could say the same for his personal predictions.”
They now played archival footage of a robust, tanned Edmond Kirsch giving a press conference on the sidewalk outside 30 Rockefeller Center in New York City. “Today I am thirty years old,” Edmond said, “and my life expectancy is only sixty-eight. However, with future advances in medicine, longevity technology, and telomere regeneration, I predict I will live to see my hundred-and-tenth birthday. In fact, I am so confident of this fact that I just reserved the Rainbow Room for my hundred-and-tenth-birthday party.” Kirsch smiled and gazed up to the top of the building. “I just now paid my entire bill—eighty years in advance—including provisions for inflation.”
The female anchor returned, sighing somberly. “As the old adage goes: ‘Men plan, and God laughs.’?”
“So true,” the male host chimed. “And on top of the intrigue surrounding Kirsch’s death, there is also an explosion of speculation over the nature of his discovery.” He stared earnestly at the camera. “Where do we come from? Where are we going? Two fascinating questions.”
“And to answer these questions,” the female host added excitedly, “we are joined by two very accomplished women—an Episcopal minister from Vermont and an evolutionary biologist from UCLA. We’ll be back after the break with their thoughts.”
Martín already knew their thoughts—polar opposites, or they would not be on your show. No doubt the minister would say something like: “We come from God and we’re going to God,” and the biologist would respond, “We evolved from apes and we’re going extinct.”
They will prove nothing except that we viewers will watch anything if it’s sufficiently hyped.
“Mónica!” Suresh shouted nearby.
Martín turned to see the director of electronic security rounding the corner, practically at a jog.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Bishop Valdespino just called me,” he said breathlessly.
She muted the TV. “The bishop called…you? Did he tell you what the hell he’s doing?!”
Suresh shook his head. “I didn’t ask, and he didn’t offer. He was calling to see if I could check something on our phone servers.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You know how ConspiracyNet is now reporting that someone inside this palace placed a call to the Guggenheim shortly before tonight’s event—a request for Ambra Vidal to add ávila’s name to the guest list?”
“Yes. And I asked you to look into it.”
“Well, Valdespino seconded your request. He called to ask if I would log into the palace’s switchboard and find the record of that call to see if I could figure out where in the palace it had originated, in hopes of getting a better idea of who here might have placed it.”
Martín felt confused, having imagined that Valdespino himself was the most likely suspect.
“According to the Guggenheim,” Suresh continued, “their front desk received a call from Madrid Royal Palace’s primary number tonight, shortly before the event. It’s in their phone logs. But here’s the problem. I looked into our switchboard logs to check our outbound calls with the same time stamp.” He shook his head. “Nothing. Not a single call. Someone deleted the record of the palace’s call to the Guggenheim.”
Martín studied her colleague a long moment. “Who has access to do that?”
“That’s exactly what Valdespino asked me. And so I told him the truth. I told him that I, as head of electronic security, could have deleted the record, but that I had not done so. And that the only other person with clearance and access to those records is Commander Garza.”