Origin

Langdon could now see that all of MareNostrum’s wire harnesses merged at the center of the room, forming a single trunk that climbed vertically like a massive vine into the first floor’s ceiling.

As Langdon’s gaze rose to the second story of the huge glass rectangle, he saw a totally different picture. Here, in the center of the floor, on a raised platform, stood a massive metallic blue-gray cube—ten feet square—with no wires, no blinking lights, and nothing about it to suggest it could possibly be the cutting-edge computer that Winston was currently describing with barely decipherable terminology.

“… qubits replace binary digits … superpositions of states … quantum algorithms … entanglement and tunneling …”

Langdon now knew why he and Edmond talked art rather than computing.

“… resulting in quadrillions of floating-point calculations per second,” Winston concluded. “Making the fusion of these two very different machines the most powerful supercomputer in the world.”

“My God,” Ambra whispered.

“Actually,” Winston corrected, “Edmond’s God.”

CHAPTER 85

ConspiracyNet.com

BREAKING NEWS

KIRSCH DISCOVERY TO AIR WITHIN MINUTES!

Yes, it’s really happening!

A press release from Edmond Kirsch’s camp has just confirmed that his widely anticipated scientific discovery—withheld in the wake of the futurist’s assassination—will be streamed live to the world at the top of the hour (3 a.m. local time in Barcelona).

Viewer participation is reportedly skyrocketing, and global online engagement statistics are unprecedented.

In related news, Robert Langdon and Ambra Vidal were allegedly just spotted entering the grounds of Chapel Torre Girona—home to the Barcelona Supercomputing Center, where Edmond Kirsch is believed to have been working for the past several years. Whether this is the site from which the presentation will be live-streamed, ConspiracyNet cannot yet confirm.

Stay tuned for Kirsch’s presentation, available here as a live stream on ConspiracyNet.com!

CHAPTER 86

AS PRINCE JULIÁN passed through the iron doorway into the mountain, he had the uneasy feeling that he might never escape.

The Valley of the Fallen. What am I doing here?

The space beyond the threshold was cold and dark, barely illuminated by two electric torches. The air smelled of damp stone.

A uniformed man stood before them holding a loop of keys that jangled in his trembling hands. Julián was not surprised that this officer of the Patrimonio Nacional seemed anxious; a half-dozen Guardia Real agents were lined up right behind him in the darkness. My father is here. No doubt this poor officer had been summoned in the middle of the night to unlock Franco’s sacred mountain for the king.

One of the Guardia agents quickly stepped forward. “Prince Julián, Bishop Valdespino. We’ve been expecting you. This way, please.”

The Guardia agent led Julián and Valdespino to a massive wrought iron gate on which was carved an ominous Francoist symbol—a fierce double-headed eagle that echoed Nazi iconography.

“His Majesty is at the end of the tunnel,” the agent said, motioning them through the gate, which had been unlocked and stood partially ajar.

Julián and the bishop exchanged uncertain glances and walked through the gate, which was flanked by a pair of menacing metal sculptures—two angels of death, clutching swords shaped like crosses.

More Francoist religio-military imagery, Julián thought as he and the bishop began their long walk into the mountain.

The tunnel that stretched out before them was as elegantly appointed as the ballroom of Madrid’s Royal Palace. With finely polished black marble floors and a soaring coffered ceiling, the sumptuous passageway was lit by a seemingly endless series of wall sconces shaped like torches.

Tonight, however, the source of light in the passageway was far more dramatic. Dozens upon dozens of fire basins—dazzling bowls of fire arranged like runway lights—burned orange all the way down the tunnel. Traditionally, these fires were lit only for major events, but the late-night arrival of the king apparently ranked high enough to set them all aglow.

With reflections of firelight dancing on the burnished floor, the massive hallway took on an almost supernatural ambience. Julián could feel the ghostly presence of those sad souls who had carved this tunnel by hand, their pickaxes and shovels poised, toiling for years inside this cold mountain, hungry, frozen, many dying, all for the glorification of Franco, whose tomb lay deep within this mountain.

Look carefully, son, his father had told him. One day you’ll tear this down.