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.
CHAPTER 66
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.”
The connection was broken.
In the sudden silence, Ávila raised his eyes to the brightest point on the horizon—a hideous cluster of deformed spires ablaze with construction lights.
Sagrada Família, he thought, repulsed by the whimsical silhouette. A shrine to all that is wrong with our faith.
Barcelona’s celebrated church, Ávila believed, was a monument to weakness and moral collapse—a surrender to liberal Catholicism, brazenly twisting and distorting thousands of years of faith into a warped hybrid of nature worship, pseudoscience, and Gnostic heresy.
There are giant lizards crawling up a church of Christ!
The collapse of tradition in the world terrified Ávila, but he felt buoyed by the appearance of a new group of world leaders who apparently shared his fears and were doing whatever it took to restore tradition. Ávila’s own devotion to the Palmarian Church, and especially to Pope Innocent XIV, had given him a new reason to live, helping him see his own tragedy through an entirely new lens.
My wife and child were casualties of war, Ávila thought, a war waged by the forces of evil against God, against tradition. Forgiveness is not the only road to salvation.
Five nights ago, Ávila had been asleep in his modest apartment when he was awoken by the loud ping of an arriving text message on his cell phone. “It’s midnight,” he grumbled, hazily squinting at the screen to find out who had contacted him at this hour.
Número oculto
Ávila rubbed his eyes and read the incoming message.
Compruebe su saldo bancario
Check my bank balance?
Ávila frowned, now suspecting some kind of telemarketing scam. Annoyed, he got out of bed and walked to the kitchen to get a drink of water. As he stood at the sink, he glanced over at his laptop, knowing he would probably not get back to sleep until he took a look.
He logged onto his bank’s website, fully anticipating seeing his usual, pitifully small balance—the remains of his military pension. However, when his account information appeared, he leaped to his feet so suddenly that he knocked over a chair.
But that’s impossible!
He closed his eyes and then looked again. Then he refreshed the screen.
The number remained.
He fumbled with the mouse, scrolling to his account activity, and was stunned to see that an anonymous deposit of a hundred thousand euros had been wired into his account an hour earlier. The source was numbered and untraceable.
Who would do this?!
The sharp buzzing of his cell phone made Ávila’s heart beat faster. He grabbed his phone and looked at his caller ID.
Número oculto
Ávila stared at the phone and then seized it. “¿Sí?”
A soft voice spoke to him in pure Castilian Spanish. “Good evening, Admiral. I trust you have seen the gift we sent you?”