Dan Brown - Origin

Kirsch’s offer makes no sense , Beña had thought, suspecting a catch. Is it a publicity stunt? Perhaps he wants influence over the construction?

In return for his donation, the renowned futurist had made only one request.

Beña had listened, uncertain. That’s all he wants?

“This is a personal matter for me,” Kirsch had said. “And I’m hoping you’ll be willing to honor my request.”

Beña was a trusting man, and yet in that moment he sensed he was dancing with the devil. Beña found himself searching Kirsch’s eyes for some ulterior motive. And then he saw it. Behind Kirsch’s carefree charm there burned a weary desperation, his sunken eyes and thin body reminding Beña of his days in seminary working as a hospice counselor.

Edmond Kirsch is ill.

Beña wondered if the man was dying, and if this donation might be a sudden attempt to make amends with the God whom he had always scorned.

The most self-righteous in life become the most fearful in death.

Beña thought about the earliest Christian evangelist — Saint John — who had dedicated his life to encouraging nonbelievers to experience the glory of Jesus Christ. It seemed that if a nonbeliever like Kirsch wanted to participate in the creation of a shrine to Jesus, then denying him that connection would be both unchristian and cruel.

In addition, there was the matter of Beña’s professional obligation to help raise funds for the church, and he could not imagine informing his colleagues that Kirsch’s giant gift had been rejected because of the man’s history of outspoken atheism.

In the end, Beña accepted Kirsch’s terms, and the men had shaken hands warmly.

That was three months ago.

Tonight, Beña had watched Kirsch’s presentation at the Guggenheim, first feeling troubled by its antireligious tone, then intrigued by Kirsch’s references to a mysterious discovery, and ultimately horrified to see Edmond Kirsch gunned down. In the aftermath, Beña had been unable to leave his computer, riveted by what was quickly becoming a dizzying kaleidoscope of competing conspiracy theories.

Feeling overwhelmed, Beña now sat quietly in the cavernous sanctuary, alone in Gaudí’s “forest” of pillars. The mystical woods, however, did little to calm his racing mind.

What did Kirsch discover? Who wanted him dead?

Father Beña closed his eyes and tried to clear his thoughts, but the questions kept recurring.

Where do we come from? Where are we going?

“We come from God!” Beña declared aloud. “And we go to God!”

As he spoke, he felt the words resonate in his chest with such force that the entire sanctuary seemed to vibrate. Suddenly a bright shaft of light pierced the stained-glass window above the Passion facade and streamed down into the basilica.

Awestruck, Father Beña stood up and staggered toward the window, the entire church now thundering as the beam of celestial light descended along the colored glass. When he burst out of the church’s main doors, Beña found himself assaulted by a deafening windstorm. Above him to the left, a massive helicopter was descending out of the sky, its searchlight strafing the front of the church.

Beña watched in disbelief as the aircraft touched down inside the perimeter of the construction fences on the northwestern corner of the compound and powered down.

As the wind and noise subsided, Father Beña stood in the main doorway of Sagrada Família and watched as four figures descended from the craft and hurried toward him. The two in front were instantly recognizable from tonight’s broadcast — one was the future queen of Spain, and the other was Professor Robert Langdon. They were tailed by two strapping men in monogrammed blazers.

From the look of things, Langdon had not kidnapped Ambra Vidal after all. As the American professor approached, Ms. Vidal appeared to be by his side entirely by her own choice.

“Father!” the woman called with a friendly wave. “Please forgive our noisy intrusion into this sacred space. We need to speak to you right away. It’s very important.”

Beña opened his mouth to reply but could only nod mutely as the unlikely group arrived before him.

“Our apologies, Father,” said Robert Langdon with a disarming smile. “I know this must all seem very strange. Do you know who we are?”

“Of course,” he managed, “but I thought...”

“Bad information,” Ambra said. “Everything is fine, I assure you.”

Just then, two security guards stationed outside the perimeter fence raced in through the security turnstiles, understandably alarmed by the helicopter’s arrival. The guards spotted Beña and dashed toward him.

Instantly, the two men in monogrammed blazers spun and faced them, extending their palms in the universal symbol for “halt.”

The guards stopped dead in their tracks, startled, looking to Beña for guidance.

“ ¡Tot està bé! ” Beña shouted in Catalan. “ Tornin al seu lloc. ” All is well! Return to your post.

The guards squinted up at the unlikely assembly, looking uncertain.

“ Són els meus convidats ,” Beña declared, firmly now. They are my guests. “ Confio en la seva discreció. ” I will rely on your discretion.

The bewildered guards retreated through the security turnstile to resume their patrol of the perimeter.

“Thank you,” Ambra said. “I appreciate that.”

“I am Father Joaquim Beña,” he said. “Please tell me what this is about.”

Robert Langdon stepped forward and shook Beña’s hand. “Father Beña, we are looking for a rare book owned by the scientist Edmond Kirsch.” Langdon produced an elegant note card and handed it to him. “This card claims the book is on loan to this church.”

Though somewhat dazed by the group’s dramatic arrival, Beña recognized the ivory card at once. An exact copy of this card accompanied the book that Kirsch had given him a few weeks ago.

The Complete Works of William Blake.

The stipulation of Edmond’s large donation to Sagrada Família had been that Blake’s book be placed on display in the basilica crypt.

A strange request, but a small price to pay.

Kirsch’s one additional request — outlined on the back of the linen card — was that the book always remain propped open to page 163.

Five miles to the northwest of Sagrada Família, Admiral Ávila gazed through the windshield of the Uber at the broad expanse of city lights, which glittered against the blackness of the Balearic Sea beyond.

Barcelona at last , the old naval officer thought, pulling out his phone and calling the Regent, as promised.

The Regent answered on the first ring. “Admiral Ávila. Where are you?”

“Minutes outside the city.”

“Your arrival is well timed. I have just received troubling news.”

“Tell me.”

“You have successfully severed the head of the snake. However, just as we feared, the long tail is still writhing dangerously.”

“How can I be of service?” Ávila asked.

When the Regent shared his desires, Ávila was surprised. He had not imagined that the night would entail any more loss of life, but he was not about to question the Regent. I am no more than a foot soldier , he reminded himself.

“This mission will be dangerous,” the Regent said. “If you are caught, show the authorities the symbol on your palm. You will be freed shortly. We have influence everywhere.”

“I don’t intend to be caught,” Ávila said, glancing at his tattoo.

“Good,” the Regent said in an eerily lifeless tone. “If all goes according to plan, soon they will both be dead, and all of this will be over.”