Origin
Page 49
Langdon studied the beautiful woman a long moment. “You don’t trust your fiancé at all, do you?”
Ambra took a deep breath. “The truth is, I don’t know him as well as you might assume.”
“Then why did you agree to marry him?”
“Quite simply, Julián put me in a position where I had no choice.”
Before Langdon could respond, a low rumble began shaking the cement beneath their feet, reverberating through the grotto-like space beneath the bridge. The sound grew louder and louder. It seemed to be coming from up the river, to their right.
Langdon turned and saw a dark shape speeding toward them—a powerboat approaching with no running lights. As it neared the high cement bank, it slowed and began to glide up perfectly beside them.
Langdon stared down at the craft and shook his head. Until this moment, he had been unsure how much faith to place in Edmond’s computerized docent, but now, seeing a yellow water taxi approaching the bank, he realized that Winston was the best ally they could possibly have.
The disheveled captain waved them aboard. “Your British man, he call me,” the man said. “He say VIP client pay triple for … how you say … velocidad y discreción? I do it—you see? No lights!”
“Yes, thank you,” Langdon replied. Good call, Winston. Speed and discretion.
The captain reached out and helped Ambra aboard, and as she disappeared into the small covered cabin to get warm, he gave Langdon a wide-eyed smile. “This my VIP? Señorita Ambra Vidal?”
“Velocidad y discreción,” Langdon reminded him.
“¡Sí, sí! Okay!” The man scurried to the helm and revved the engines. Moments later, the powerboat was skimming westward through the darkness along the Nervión River.
Off the port side of the boat, Langdon could see the Guggenheim’s giant black widow, eerily illuminated by the spinning lights of police cars. Overhead, a news chopper streaked across the sky toward the museum.
The first of many, Langdon suspected.
Langdon pulled Edmond’s cryptic note card from his pants pocket. BIO-EC346. Edmond had told him to give it to a taxi driver, although Edmond probably never imagined the vehicle would be a water taxi.
“Our British friend …,” Langdon yelled to the driver over the sound of the roaring engines. “I assume he told you where we are going?”
“Yes, yes! I warn him by boat I can take you only almost there, but he say no problem, you walk three hundred meters, no?”
“That’s fine. And how far is it from here?”
The man pointed to a highway that ran along the river on the right. “Road sign say seven kilometers, but in boat, a little more.”
Langdon glanced out at the illuminated highway sign.
AEROPUERTO BILBAO (BIO) 7 KM
He smiled ruefully at the sound of Edmond’s voice in his mind. It’s a painfully simple code, Robert. Edmond was right, and when Langdon had finally figured it out earlier tonight, he had been embarrassed that it had taken him so long.
BIO was indeed a code—although it was no more difficult to decipher than similar codes from around the world: BOS, LAX, JFK.
BIO is the local airport code.
The rest of Edmond’s code had fallen into place instantly.
EC346.
Langdon had never seen Edmond’s private jet, but he knew the plane existed, and he had little doubt that the country code for a Spanish jet’s tail number would start with the letter E for España.
EC346 is a private jet.
Clearly, if a cabdriver had taken him to Bilbao Airport, Langdon could have presented Edmond’s card to security and been escorted directly to Edmond’s private plane.
I hope Winston reached the pilots to warn them we are coming, Langdon thought, looking back in the direction of the museum, which was growing smaller and smaller in their wake.
Langdon considered going inside the cabin to join Ambra, but the fresh air felt good, and he decided to give her a couple of minutes alone to gather herself.
I could use a moment too, he thought, moving toward the bow.
At the front of the boat, with the wind whipping through his hair, Langdon untied his bow tie and pocketed it. Then he released the top button of his wingtip collar and breathed as deeply as he could, letting the night air fill his lungs.
Edmond, he thought. What have you done?
CHAPTER 33
COMMANDER DIEGO GARZA was fuming as he paced the darkness of Prince Julián’s apartment and endured the bishop’s self-righteous lecture.
You are trespassing where you do not belong, Garza wanted to shout at Valdespino. This is not your domain!
Once again, Bishop Valdespino had inserted himself into palace politics. Having materialized like a specter in the darkness of Julián’s apartment, Valdespino was adorned in full ecclesiastical vestments and was now giving an impassioned sermon to Julián about the importance of Spain’s traditions, the devoted religiosity of past kings and queens, and the comforting influence of the Church in times of crisis.
This is not the moment, Garza seethed.
Tonight, Prince Julián would need to deliver a delicate public relations performance, and the last thing Garza needed was to have him distracted by Valdespino’s attempts to impose a religious agenda.
The buzz of Garza’s phone conveniently interrupted the bishop’s monologue.
“Sí, dime,” Garza answered loudly, positioning himself between the prince and the bishop. “¿Qué tal va?”
“Sir, it’s Agent Fonseca in Bilbao,” the caller said in rapid-fire Spanish. “I’m afraid we’ve been unable to capture the shooter. The car company we thought could track him has lost contact. The shooter seems to have anticipated our actions.”
Ambra took a deep breath. “The truth is, I don’t know him as well as you might assume.”
“Then why did you agree to marry him?”
“Quite simply, Julián put me in a position where I had no choice.”
Before Langdon could respond, a low rumble began shaking the cement beneath their feet, reverberating through the grotto-like space beneath the bridge. The sound grew louder and louder. It seemed to be coming from up the river, to their right.
Langdon turned and saw a dark shape speeding toward them—a powerboat approaching with no running lights. As it neared the high cement bank, it slowed and began to glide up perfectly beside them.
Langdon stared down at the craft and shook his head. Until this moment, he had been unsure how much faith to place in Edmond’s computerized docent, but now, seeing a yellow water taxi approaching the bank, he realized that Winston was the best ally they could possibly have.
The disheveled captain waved them aboard. “Your British man, he call me,” the man said. “He say VIP client pay triple for … how you say … velocidad y discreción? I do it—you see? No lights!”
“Yes, thank you,” Langdon replied. Good call, Winston. Speed and discretion.
The captain reached out and helped Ambra aboard, and as she disappeared into the small covered cabin to get warm, he gave Langdon a wide-eyed smile. “This my VIP? Señorita Ambra Vidal?”
“Velocidad y discreción,” Langdon reminded him.
“¡Sí, sí! Okay!” The man scurried to the helm and revved the engines. Moments later, the powerboat was skimming westward through the darkness along the Nervión River.
Off the port side of the boat, Langdon could see the Guggenheim’s giant black widow, eerily illuminated by the spinning lights of police cars. Overhead, a news chopper streaked across the sky toward the museum.
The first of many, Langdon suspected.
Langdon pulled Edmond’s cryptic note card from his pants pocket. BIO-EC346. Edmond had told him to give it to a taxi driver, although Edmond probably never imagined the vehicle would be a water taxi.
“Our British friend …,” Langdon yelled to the driver over the sound of the roaring engines. “I assume he told you where we are going?”
“Yes, yes! I warn him by boat I can take you only almost there, but he say no problem, you walk three hundred meters, no?”
“That’s fine. And how far is it from here?”
The man pointed to a highway that ran along the river on the right. “Road sign say seven kilometers, but in boat, a little more.”
Langdon glanced out at the illuminated highway sign.
AEROPUERTO BILBAO (BIO) 7 KM
He smiled ruefully at the sound of Edmond’s voice in his mind. It’s a painfully simple code, Robert. Edmond was right, and when Langdon had finally figured it out earlier tonight, he had been embarrassed that it had taken him so long.
BIO was indeed a code—although it was no more difficult to decipher than similar codes from around the world: BOS, LAX, JFK.
BIO is the local airport code.
The rest of Edmond’s code had fallen into place instantly.
EC346.
Langdon had never seen Edmond’s private jet, but he knew the plane existed, and he had little doubt that the country code for a Spanish jet’s tail number would start with the letter E for España.
EC346 is a private jet.
Clearly, if a cabdriver had taken him to Bilbao Airport, Langdon could have presented Edmond’s card to security and been escorted directly to Edmond’s private plane.
I hope Winston reached the pilots to warn them we are coming, Langdon thought, looking back in the direction of the museum, which was growing smaller and smaller in their wake.
Langdon considered going inside the cabin to join Ambra, but the fresh air felt good, and he decided to give her a couple of minutes alone to gather herself.
I could use a moment too, he thought, moving toward the bow.
At the front of the boat, with the wind whipping through his hair, Langdon untied his bow tie and pocketed it. Then he released the top button of his wingtip collar and breathed as deeply as he could, letting the night air fill his lungs.
Edmond, he thought. What have you done?
CHAPTER 33
COMMANDER DIEGO GARZA was fuming as he paced the darkness of Prince Julián’s apartment and endured the bishop’s self-righteous lecture.
You are trespassing where you do not belong, Garza wanted to shout at Valdespino. This is not your domain!
Once again, Bishop Valdespino had inserted himself into palace politics. Having materialized like a specter in the darkness of Julián’s apartment, Valdespino was adorned in full ecclesiastical vestments and was now giving an impassioned sermon to Julián about the importance of Spain’s traditions, the devoted religiosity of past kings and queens, and the comforting influence of the Church in times of crisis.
This is not the moment, Garza seethed.
Tonight, Prince Julián would need to deliver a delicate public relations performance, and the last thing Garza needed was to have him distracted by Valdespino’s attempts to impose a religious agenda.
The buzz of Garza’s phone conveniently interrupted the bishop’s monologue.
“Sí, dime,” Garza answered loudly, positioning himself between the prince and the bishop. “¿Qué tal va?”
“Sir, it’s Agent Fonseca in Bilbao,” the caller said in rapid-fire Spanish. “I’m afraid we’ve been unable to capture the shooter. The car company we thought could track him has lost contact. The shooter seems to have anticipated our actions.”
