And just like Kirsch, Blake loved to challenge Christianity.
The thought caused Langdon to stand up abruptly.
William Blake.
He drew a startled breath.
Finding Blake among so many other visual artists had caused Langdon to forget one crucial fact about the mystical genius.
Blake was not only an artist and illustrator …
Blake was a prolific poet.
For an instant, Langdon felt his heart begin to race. Much of Blake’s poetry espoused revolutionary ideas that meshed perfectly with Edmond’s views. In fact, some of Blake’s most widely known aphorisms—those in “satanic” works like The Marriage of Heaven and Hell—could almost have been written by Edmond himself.
ALL RELIGIONS ARE ONE
THERE IS NO NATURAL RELIGION
Langdon now recalled Edmond’s description of his favorite line of poetry. He told Ambra it was a “prophecy.” Langdon knew of no poet in history who could be considered more of a prophet than William Blake, who, in the 1790s, had penned two dark and ominous poems:
AMERICA A PROPHECY
EUROPE A PROPHECY
Langdon owned both works—elegant reproductions of Blake’s handwritten poems and accompanying illustrations.
Langdon peered at the large leather box inside the cabinet.
The original editions of Blake’s “prophecies” would have been published as large-format illuminated texts!
With a surge of hope, Langdon crouched down in front of the cabinet, sensing the leather box might very well contain what he and Ambra had come here to find—a poem that contained a prophetic forty-seven-character line. The only question now was whether Edmond had somehow marked his favorite passage.
Langdon reached out and pulled the cabinet handle.
Locked.
He glanced toward the spiral staircase, wondering whether he should simply dash upstairs and ask Winston to run a search on all of William Blake’s poetry. The sound of sirens had been replaced by the distant thrum of helicopter blades and voices yelling in the stairwell outside Edmond’s door.
They’re here.
Langdon eyed the cabinet and noted the faint greenish tint of modern museum-grade UV glass.
He whipped off his jacket, held it over the glass, turned his body, and without hesitation, rammed his elbow into the pane. With a muffled crunch, the cabinet door shattered. Carefully, Langdon reached through the jagged shards, unlocking the door. Then he swung the door open and gently lifted out the leather box.
Even before Langdon set the box on the floor, he could tell that something was wrong. It’s not heavy enough. Blake’s complete works seemed to weigh almost nothing.
Langdon set down the box and carefully raised the lid.
Just as he feared … empty.
He exhaled, staring into the vacant container. Where the hell is Edmond’s book?!
He was about to close the box when Langdon noticed something unexpected taped to the inside of the lid—an elegantly embossed ivory note card.
Langdon read the text on the card.
Then, in utter disbelief, he read it again.
Seconds later, he was racing up the spiral staircase toward the roof.
At that instant, on the second floor of Madrid’s Royal Palace, director of electronic security Suresh Bhalla was moving quietly through Prince Julián’s private apartment. After locating the digital wall safe, he entered the master override code that was kept for emergencies.
The safe popped open.
Inside, Suresh saw two phones—a secure palace-issued smartphone that belonged to Prince Julián and an iPhone that, he deduced, in all likelihood was the property of Bishop Valdespino.
He grabbed the iPhone.
Am I really doing this?
Again he pictured the message from monte@iglesia.org.
i hacked valdespino’s texts.
he has dangerous secrets.
the palace should access his sms records.
now.
Suresh wondered what secrets the bishop’s texts could possibly reveal … and why the informant had decided to give the Royal Palace a heads-up.
Perhaps the informant is trying to protect the palace from collateral damage?
All Suresh knew was that if there was information that was of danger to the royal family, it was his job to access it.
He had already considered obtaining an emergency subpoena, but the PR risks and the delay made it impractical. Fortunately, Suresh had far more discreet and expedient methods at his disposal.
Holding Valdespino’s phone, he pressed the home button and the screen lit up.
Locked with a password.
No problem.
“Hey, Siri,” Suresh said, holding the phone to his mouth. “What time is it?”
Still in locked mode, the phone displayed a clock. On this clock screen, Suresh ran through a series of simple commands—creating a new time zone for the clock, asking to share the time zone via SMS, adding a photo, and then, rather than trying to send the text, hitting the home button.
Click.
The phone unlocked.
This simple hack compliments of YouTube, Suresh thought, amused that iPhone users believed their password offered them any privacy at all.
Now, with full access to Valdespino’s phone, Suresh opened the iMessage app, fully anticipating that he would have to restore Valdespino’s deleted texts by tricking the iCloud backup into rebuilding the catalog.
Sure enough, he found the bishop’s text history entirely empty.
Except for one message, he realized, seeing a lone inbound text that had arrived a couple of hours ago from a blocked number.
Suresh clicked open the text and read the three-line message. For a moment, he thought he was hallucinating.
This can’t be true!
Suresh read the message again. The text was absolute proof of Valdespino’s involvement in acts of unthinkable treachery and deceit.
Not to mention arrogance, Suresh thought, stunned that the old cleric would feel so invulnerable as to communicate a message like this electronically.
If this text goes public …
Suresh shuddered at the possibility and immediately ran downstairs to find Mónica Martín.
CHAPTER 60
AS THE EC145 helicopter streaked in low over the city, Agent Díaz stared down at the sprawl of lights beneath him. Despite the late hour, he could see the flicker of televisions and computers in the majority of apartment windows, painting the city with a faint blue haze.
The whole world is watching.
It made him nervous. He could feel this night spiraling wildly out of control, and he feared this growing crisis was headed for a disturbing conclusion.
In front of him, Agent Fonseca shouted and pointed into the distance directly ahead. Díaz nodded, spotting their target at once.
Hard to miss.
Even from a distance, the pulsating cluster of spinning blue police lights was unmistakable.
God help us.
Just as Díaz had feared, Casa Milà was overrun by local police cars. The Barcelona authorities had responded to an anonymous tip on the heels of Mónica Martín’s press announcement from the Royal Palace.
Robert Langdon has kidnapped the future queen of Spain.
The palace needs the public’s help in finding them.