AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Pro Deo et patria,” Ávila replied immediately.
“Yes, Pro Deo et patria. For God and country. We are all honored to be in the presence today of a decorated naval officer who has served his country so well.” The pope paused, leaning forward. “But … what about God?”
Ávila gazed up into the man’s piercing eyes and felt suddenly off balance.
“Your life is not over, Admiral,” the pope whispered. “Your work is not done. This is why God saved you. Your sworn mission is only half complete. You have served country, yes … but you have not yet served God!”
Ávila felt like he had been struck by a bullet.
“Peace be with you!” the pope proclaimed.
“And also with you!” the congregation responded.
Ávila suddenly found himself swallowed up by a sea of well-wishers in an outpouring of support unlike anything he’d ever experienced. He searched the parishioners’ eyes for any trace of the cultlike fanaticism he had feared, but all he saw was optimism, goodwill, and a sincere passion for doing God’s work … exactly what Ávila realized he had been lacking.
From that day on, with the help of Marco and his new group of friends, Ávila began his long climb out of the bottomless pit of despair. He returned to his rigorous exercise routine, ate nutritious foods, and, most important, rediscovered his faith.
After several months, when his physical therapy was complete, Marco presented Avila with a leather-bound Bible in which he had flagged a dozen or so passages.
Ávila flipped to a few of them at random.
ROMANS 13:4
For he is a servant of God—
the avenger who carries out
God’s wrath on wrongdoers.
PSALM 94:1
O Lord, the God of vengeance,
let your glorious justice shine forth!
2 TIMOTHY 2:3
Share in suffering,
as a good soldier of Christ Jesus.
“Remember,” Marco had told him with a smile. “When evil rears its head in the world, God works through each of us in a different way, to exert His will on earth. Forgiveness is not the only path to salvation.”
CHAPTER 58
ConspiracyNet.com
BREAKING NEWS
WHOEVER YOU ARE—TELL US MORE!
Tonight, the self-proclaimed civilian watchdog [email protected] has submitted a staggering amount of inside information to ConspiracyNet.com.
Thank you!
Because the data “Monte” has shared thus far have exhibited such a high level of reliability and inside access, we feel confident in making this very humble request:
MONTE—WHOEVER YOU ARE—IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION AT ALL ABOUT THE CONTENT OF KIRSCH’S ABORTED PRESENTATION—PLEASE SHARE IT!!
#WHEREDOWECOMEFROM
#WHEREAREWEGOING
Thank you.
—All of us here at ConspiracyNet
CHAPTER 59
AS ROBERT LANGDON searched the final few sections of Edmond’s library, he felt his hopes fading. Outside, the two-tone police sirens had grown louder and louder before abruptly stopping directly in front of Casa Milà. Through the apartment’s tiny portal windows, Langdon could see the flash of spinning police lights.
We’re trapped in here, he realized. We need that forty-seven-letter password, or there will be no way out.
Unfortunately, Langdon had yet to see a single book of poems.
The shelves in the final section were deeper than the rest and appeared to hold Edmond’s collection of large-format art books. As Langdon hurried along the wall, scanning the titles, he saw books that reflected Edmond’s passion for the hippest and newest in contemporary art.
SERRA … KOONS … HIRST … BRUGUERA … BASQUIAT … BANKSY … ABRAMOVIC …
The collection stopped abruptly at a series of smaller volumes, and Langdon paused in hopes of finding a book on poetry.
Nothing.
The books here were commentaries and critiques of abstract art, and Langdon spotted a few titles that Edmond had sent for him to peruse.
WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?
WHY YOUR FIVE-YEAR-OLD COULD NOT HAVE DONE THAT
HOW TO SURVIVE MODERN ART
I’m still trying to survive it, Langdon thought, quickly moving on. He stepped around another rib and started sifting through the next section.
Modern art books, he mused. Even at a glance, Langdon could see that this group was dedicated to an earlier period. At least we’re moving back in time … toward art I understand.
Langdon’s eyes moved quickly along the book spines, taking in biographies and catalogues raisonnés of the Impressionists, Cubists, and Surrealists who had stunned the world between 1870 and 1960 by entirely redefining art.
VAN GOGH … SEURAT … PICASSO … MUNCH … MATISSE … MAGRITTE … KLIMT … KANDINSKY … JOHNS … HOCKNEY … GAUGUIN … DUCHAMP … DEGAS … CHAGALL … CÉZANNE … CASSATT … BRAQUE … ARP … ALBERS …
This section terminated at one last architectural rib, and Langdon moved past it, finding himself in the final section of the library. The volumes here appeared to be dedicated to the group of artists that Edmond, in Langdon’s presence, liked to call “the school of boring dead white guys”—essentially, anything predating the modernist movement of the mid-nineteenth century.
Unlike Edmond, it was here that Langdon felt most at home, surrounded by the Old Masters.
VERMEER … VELÁZQUEZ … TITIAN … TINTORETTO … RUBENS … REMBRANDT … RAPHAEL … POUSSIN … MICHELANGELO … LIPPI … GOYA … GIOTTO … GHIRLANDAIO … EL GRECO … DÜRER … DA VINCI … COROT … CARAVAGGIO … BOTTICELLI … BOSCH …
