Dan Brown - Origin

This is going to destroy Valdespino , Martín thought.

“Everyone, listen up!” Garza now shouted as he strode into the control room. “Prince Julián and Bishop Valdespino are together somewhere on the premises! Check all security feeds and find them. Now!”

The commander stalked into Martín’s office and quietly updated her on the situation with the prince and the bishop.

“Gone?” she said, incredulous. “And they left their phones in the prince’s safe ?”

Garza shrugged. “Apparently so we can’t track them.”

“Well, we’d better find them,” Martín declared. “Prince Julián needs to make a statement right now, and he needs to distance himself from Valdespino as much as possible.” She relayed all the latest developments.

Now it was Garza’s turn to look incredulous. “It’s all hearsay. There’s no way Valdespino could be behind an assassination.”

“Maybe not, but the killing seems to be tied to the Catholic Church. Someone just found a direct connection between the shooter and a highly placed church official. Have a look.” Martín pulled up the latest ConspiracyNet update, which was once again credited to the whistle-blower called monte@iglesia.org. “This went live a few minutes ago.”

Garza crouched down and began reading the update. “The pope !” he protested. “Ávila has a personal connection with—”

“Keep reading.”

When Garza finished, he stepped back from the screen and blinked his eyes repeatedly, as if trying to wake himself from a bad dream.

At that moment, a male voice called from the control room. “Commander Garza? I’ve located them!”

Garza and Martín hurried over to the cubicle of Agent Suresh Bhalla, an Indian-born surveillance specialist who pointed to the security feed on his monitor, on which two forms were visible — one in flowing bishop’s robes and the other in a formal suit. They appeared to be walking on a wooded path.

“East garden,” Suresh said. “Two minutes ago.”

“They’ve exited the building?!” Garza demanded.

“Hold on, sir.” Suresh fast-forwarded the footage, managing to follow the bishop and the prince on various cameras located at intervals across the palace complex as the two men left the garden and moved through an enclosed courtyard.

“Where are they going?!”

Martín had a good idea where they were going, and she noted that Valdespino had taken a shrewd circuitous route that kept them out of sight of the media trucks on the main plaza.

As she anticipated, Valdespino and Julián arrived at the southern service entrance of Almudena Cathedral, where the bishop unlocked the door and ushered Prince Julián inside. The door swung shut, and the two men were gone.

Garza stared mutely at the screen, clearly struggling to make sense of what he had just seen. “Keep me posted,” he finally said, and motioned Martín aside.

Once they were out of earshot, Garza whispered, “I have no idea how Bishop Valdespino persuaded Prince Julián to follow him out of the palace, or to leave his phone behind, but clearly the prince has no idea about these accusations against Valdespino, or he would know to distance himself.”

“I agree,” Martín said. “And I’d hate to speculate as to what the bishop’s endgame might be, but...” She stopped.

“But what?” Garza demanded.

Martín sighed. “It appears Valdespino may have just taken an extremely valuable hostage.”

Some 250 miles to the north, inside the atrium of the Guggenheim Museum, Agent Fonseca’s phone began buzzing. It was the sixth time in twenty minutes. When he glanced down at the caller ID, he felt his body snap to attention.

“ ¿Sí? ” he answered, his heart pounding.

The voice on the line spoke in Spanish, slowly and deliberately. “Agent Fonseca, as you are well aware, Spain’s future queen consort has made some terrible missteps this evening, associating herself with the wrong people and causing significant embarrassment to the Royal Palace. In order that no further damage be done, it is crucial that you get her back to the palace as quickly as possible.”

“I’m afraid Ms. Vidal’s location is unknown at the moment.”

“Forty minutes ago, Edmond Kirsch’s jet took off from Bilbao Airport — headed for Barcelona,” the voice asserted. “I believe Ms. Vidal was on that plane.”

“How would you know that?” Fonseca blurted, and then instantly regretted his impertinent tone.

“If you were doing your job,” the voice replied sharply, “ you would know too. I want you and your partner to pursue her at once. A military transport is fueling at Bilbao Airport for you right now.”

“If Ms. Vidal is on that jet,” Fonseca said, “she is probably traveling with the American professor Robert Langdon.”

“Yes,” the caller said angrily. “I have no idea how this man persuaded Ms. Vidal to abandon her security and run off with him, but Mr. Langdon is clearly a liability. Your mission is to find Ms. Vidal and bring her back, by force if necessary.”

“And if Langdon interferes?”

There was a heavy silence. “Do your best to limit collateral damage,” the caller replied, “but this crisis is severe enough that Professor Langdon would be an acceptable casualty.”

ConspiracyNet.com

BREAKING NEWS

Edmond Kirsch’s scientific announcement tonight began as an online presentation that attracted a staggering three million online viewers. In the wake of his assassination, however, the Kirsch story is now being covered on mainstream networks live around the world, with current viewership estimated at over eighty million.

As Kirsch’s Gulfstream G550 began its descent into Barcelona, Robert Langdon drained his second mug of coffee and gazed down at the remains of the impromptu late-night snack that he and Ambra had just shared from Edmond’s galley — nuts, rice cakes, and assorted “vegan bars” that all tasted the same to him.

Across the table, Ambra had just finished her second glass of red wine and was looking much more relaxed.

“Thanks for listening,” she said, sounding sheepish. “Obviously, I haven’t been able to talk about Julián with anyone.”

Langdon gave her an understanding nod, having just heard the story of Julián’s awkward proposal to her on television. She didn’t have a choice , Langdon agreed, knowing full well that Ambra could not risk shaming the future king of Spain on national television.

“Obviously, if I’d known he was going to propose so quickly,” Ambra said, “I would have told him I can’t have children. But it all happened without warning.” She shook her head and looked sadly out the window. “I thought I liked him. I don’t know, maybe it was just the thrill of—”

“A tall, dark, handsome prince?” Langdon ventured with a lopsided grin.

Ambra laughed quietly and turned back to him. “He did have that going for him. I don’t know, he seemed like a good man. Sheltered maybe, but a romantic — not the kind of man who would ever be involved in killing Edmond.”

Langdon suspected she was right. The prince had little to gain from Edmond’s death, and there was no solid evidence to suggest that the prince was involved in any way — only a phone call from someone inside the palace asking to add Admiral Ávila to the guest list. At this point, Bishop Valdespino seemed to be the most obvious suspect, having been privy to Edmond’s announcement early enough to formulate a plan to stop it, and also knowing better than anyone just how destructive it might be to the authority of the world’s religions.