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“Autopilot,” she said.
The effect was quite unsettling, and Langdon could not help but leave his hands hovering over the wheel and his foot over the brake.
“Relax.” Ambra reached over and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “It’s far safer than a human driver.”
Reluctantly, Langdon lowered his hands to his lap.
“There you go.” She smiled. “Now you can watch this Casa Milà video.”
The video began with a dramatic low shot of pounding surf, as if taken from a helicopter flying only a few feet above the open ocean. Rising in the distance was an island—a stone mountain with sheer cliffs that climbed hundreds of feet above the crashing waves.
Text materialized over the mountain.
La Pedrera wasn’t created by Gaudí.
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.”
