Origin
Page 120
All at once Ambra’s exasperation seemed to disappear, and she cocked her head to peer down more intently. “Actually, that line is familiar. Why do I know it?”
“Look at the entire block,” Langdon urged. “A diamond shape with one strange border in the lower right.” He waited, sensing Ambra would recognize it soon. “Look at the two small parks on this block.” He pointed to a round park in the middle and a semicircular park on the right.
“I feel like I know this place,” Ambra said, “but I can’t quite …”
“Think about art,” Langdon said. “Think about your collection at the Guggenheim. Think about—”
“Winston!” she shouted, and turned to him in disbelief. “The layout of this block—it’s the exact shape of Winston’s self-portrait in the Guggenheim!”
Langdon smiled at her. “Yes, it is.”
Ambra wheeled back to the window and stared down at the diamond-shaped block. Langdon peered down too, picturing Winston’s self-portrait—the bizarrely shaped canvas that had puzzled him ever since Winston had pointed it out to him earlier tonight—an awkward tribute to the work of Miró.
Edmond asked me to create a self-portrait, Winston had said, and this is what I came up with.
Langdon had already decided that the eyeball featured near the center of the piece—a staple of Miró’s work—almost certainly indicated the precise spot where Winston existed, the place on the planet from which Winston viewed the world.
Ambra turned back from the window, looking both joyful and stunned. “Winston’s self-portrait is not a Miró. It’s a map!”
“Exactly,” Langdon said. “Considering Winston has no body and no physical self-image, his self-portrait understandably would be more related to his location than to his physical form.”
“The eyeball,” Ambra said. “It’s a carbon copy of a Miró. But there’s only one eye, so maybe that’s what marks Winston’s location?”
“I was thinking the same thing.” Langdon turned to the pilot now and asked if he could set the helicopter down just for a moment on one of the two little parks on Winston’s block. The pilot began to descend.
“My God,” Ambra blurted, “I think I know why Winston chose to mimic Miró’s style!”
“Oh?”
“The palace we just flew over is the Palace of Pedralbes.”
“¿Pedralbes?” Langdon asked. “Isn’t that the name of—”
“Yes! One of Miró’s most famous sketches. Winston probably researched this area and found a local tie to Miró!”
Langdon had to admit, Winston’s creativity was astonishing, and he felt strangely exhilarated by the prospect of reconnecting with Edmond’s synthetic intelligence. As the helicopter dropped lower, Langdon saw the dark silhouette of a large building located on the exact spot where Winston had drawn his eye.
“Look—” Ambra pointed. “That must be it.”
Langdon strained to get a better view of the building, which was obscured by large trees. Even from the air, it looked formidable.
“I don’t see lights,” Ambra said. “Do you think we can get in?”
“Somebody’s got to be here,” Langdon said. “Edmond must have staff on hand, especially tonight. When they realize we have Edmond’s password—I suspect they will scramble to help us trigger the presentation.”
Fifteen seconds later, the helicopter touched down in a large semicircular park on the eastern border of Winston’s block. Langdon and Ambra jumped out, and the chopper lifted off instantly, speeding toward the stadium, where it would await further instructions.
As the two of them hurried across the darkened park toward the center of the block, they crossed a small internal street, Passeig dels Til·lers, and moved into a heavily wooded area. Up ahead, shrouded by trees, they could see the silhouette of a large and bulky building.
“No lights,” Ambra whispered.
“And a fence,” Langdon said, frowning as they arrived at a ten-foot-high, wrought iron security fence that circled the entire complex. He peered through the bars, unable to see much of the building in the forested compound. He felt puzzled to see no lights at all.
“There,” Ambra said, pointing twenty yards down the fence line. “I think it’s a gate.”
They hurried along the fence and found an imposing entry turnstile, which was securely locked. There was an electronic call box, and before Langdon had a chance to consider their options, Ambra had pressed the call button.
The line rang twice and connected.
Silence.
“Hello?” Ambra said. “Hello?”
No voice came through the speaker—just the ominous buzz of an open line.
“I don’t know if you can hear me,” she said, “but this is Ambra Vidal and Robert Langdon. We are trusted friends of Edmond Kirsch. We were with him tonight when he was killed. We have information that will be extremely helpful to Edmond, to Winston, and, I believe, to all of you.”
There was a staccato click.
Langdon immediately put his hand on the turnstile, which turned freely.
He exhaled. “I told you someone was home.”
The two of them hurriedly pushed through the security turnstile and moved through the trees toward the darkened building. As they got closer, the outline of the roof began to take shape against the sky. An unexpected silhouette materialized—a fifteen-foot symbol mounted to the peak of the roof.
“Look at the entire block,” Langdon urged. “A diamond shape with one strange border in the lower right.” He waited, sensing Ambra would recognize it soon. “Look at the two small parks on this block.” He pointed to a round park in the middle and a semicircular park on the right.
“I feel like I know this place,” Ambra said, “but I can’t quite …”
“Think about art,” Langdon said. “Think about your collection at the Guggenheim. Think about—”
“Winston!” she shouted, and turned to him in disbelief. “The layout of this block—it’s the exact shape of Winston’s self-portrait in the Guggenheim!”
Langdon smiled at her. “Yes, it is.”
Ambra wheeled back to the window and stared down at the diamond-shaped block. Langdon peered down too, picturing Winston’s self-portrait—the bizarrely shaped canvas that had puzzled him ever since Winston had pointed it out to him earlier tonight—an awkward tribute to the work of Miró.
Edmond asked me to create a self-portrait, Winston had said, and this is what I came up with.
Langdon had already decided that the eyeball featured near the center of the piece—a staple of Miró’s work—almost certainly indicated the precise spot where Winston existed, the place on the planet from which Winston viewed the world.
Ambra turned back from the window, looking both joyful and stunned. “Winston’s self-portrait is not a Miró. It’s a map!”
“Exactly,” Langdon said. “Considering Winston has no body and no physical self-image, his self-portrait understandably would be more related to his location than to his physical form.”
“The eyeball,” Ambra said. “It’s a carbon copy of a Miró. But there’s only one eye, so maybe that’s what marks Winston’s location?”
“I was thinking the same thing.” Langdon turned to the pilot now and asked if he could set the helicopter down just for a moment on one of the two little parks on Winston’s block. The pilot began to descend.
“My God,” Ambra blurted, “I think I know why Winston chose to mimic Miró’s style!”
“Oh?”
“The palace we just flew over is the Palace of Pedralbes.”
“¿Pedralbes?” Langdon asked. “Isn’t that the name of—”
“Yes! One of Miró’s most famous sketches. Winston probably researched this area and found a local tie to Miró!”
Langdon had to admit, Winston’s creativity was astonishing, and he felt strangely exhilarated by the prospect of reconnecting with Edmond’s synthetic intelligence. As the helicopter dropped lower, Langdon saw the dark silhouette of a large building located on the exact spot where Winston had drawn his eye.
“Look—” Ambra pointed. “That must be it.”
Langdon strained to get a better view of the building, which was obscured by large trees. Even from the air, it looked formidable.
“I don’t see lights,” Ambra said. “Do you think we can get in?”
“Somebody’s got to be here,” Langdon said. “Edmond must have staff on hand, especially tonight. When they realize we have Edmond’s password—I suspect they will scramble to help us trigger the presentation.”
Fifteen seconds later, the helicopter touched down in a large semicircular park on the eastern border of Winston’s block. Langdon and Ambra jumped out, and the chopper lifted off instantly, speeding toward the stadium, where it would await further instructions.
As the two of them hurried across the darkened park toward the center of the block, they crossed a small internal street, Passeig dels Til·lers, and moved into a heavily wooded area. Up ahead, shrouded by trees, they could see the silhouette of a large and bulky building.
“No lights,” Ambra whispered.
“And a fence,” Langdon said, frowning as they arrived at a ten-foot-high, wrought iron security fence that circled the entire complex. He peered through the bars, unable to see much of the building in the forested compound. He felt puzzled to see no lights at all.
“There,” Ambra said, pointing twenty yards down the fence line. “I think it’s a gate.”
They hurried along the fence and found an imposing entry turnstile, which was securely locked. There was an electronic call box, and before Langdon had a chance to consider their options, Ambra had pressed the call button.
The line rang twice and connected.
Silence.
“Hello?” Ambra said. “Hello?”
No voice came through the speaker—just the ominous buzz of an open line.
“I don’t know if you can hear me,” she said, “but this is Ambra Vidal and Robert Langdon. We are trusted friends of Edmond Kirsch. We were with him tonight when he was killed. We have information that will be extremely helpful to Edmond, to Winston, and, I believe, to all of you.”
There was a staccato click.
Langdon immediately put his hand on the turnstile, which turned freely.
He exhaled. “I told you someone was home.”
The two of them hurriedly pushed through the security turnstile and moved through the trees toward the darkened building. As they got closer, the outline of the roof began to take shape against the sky. An unexpected silhouette materialized—a fifteen-foot symbol mounted to the peak of the roof.
