Origin

Fortunately, there are still those who fight for the old ways.

Ávila heard strains of the Oriamendi hymn playing in his mind.

And I am honored to serve them.

CHAPTER 30

SPAIN’S OLDEST AND most elite security force—the Guardia Real—has a fierce tradition that dates back to medieval times. Guardia agents consider it their sworn duty before God to ensure the safety of the royal family, to protect royal property, and to defend royal honor.

Commander Diego Garza—overseer of the Guardia’s nearly two thousand troops—was a stunted and weedy sixty-year-old with a swarthy complexion, tiny eyes, and thinning black hair worn slicked back over a mottled scalp. His rodent-like features and diminutive stature made Garza nearly invisible in a crowd, which helped camouflage his enormous influence within the palace walls.

Garza had learned long ago that true power stemmed not from physical strength but from political leverage. His command of the Guardia Real troops certainly gave him clout, but it was his prescient political savvy that had established Garza as the palace’s go-to man on a wide array of matters, both personal and professional.

A reliable curator of secrets, Garza had never once betrayed a confidence. His reputation for steadfast discretion, along with an uncanny ability to solve delicate problems, had made him indispensable to the king. Now, however, Garza and others in the palace faced an uncertain future as Spain’s aging sovereign lived out his final days at the Palacio de la Zarzuela.

For more than four decades, the king had ruled a turbulent country as it established a parliamentary monarchy following thirty-six years of bloody dictatorship under the ultraconservative general Francisco Franco. Since Franco’s death in 1975, the king had tried to work hand in hand with the government to cement Spain’s democratic process, inching the country ever so slowly back to the left.

For the youth, the changes were too slow.

For the aging traditionalists, the changes were blasphemous.

Many members of Spain’s establishment still fiercely defended Franco’s conservative doctrine, especially his view of Catholicism as a “state religion” and moral backbone of the nation. A rapidly growing number of Spain’s youth, however, stood in stark opposition to this view—brazenly denouncing the hypocrisy of organized religion and lobbying for greater separation of church and state.

Now, with a middle-aged prince poised to ascend to the throne, nobody was certain in which direction the new king would lean. For decades, Prince Julián had done an admirable job of performing his bland ceremonial duties, deferring to his father on matters of politics and never once tipping his hand as to his personal beliefs. While most pundits suspected he would be far more liberal than his father, there was really no way to know for sure.

Tonight, however, that veil would be lifted.

In light of the shocking events in Bilbao, and the king’s inability to speak publicly due to his health, the prince would have no choice but to weigh in on the evening’s troubling events.

Several high-ranking government officials, including the country’s president, had already condemned the murder, shrewdly deferring further comment until the Royal Palace had made a statement—thereby depositing the entire mess in Prince Julián’s lap. Garza was not surprised; the involvement of the future queen, Ambra Vidal, made this a political grenade that nobody felt like touching.

Prince Julián will be tested tonight, Garza thought, hurrying up the grand staircase toward the palace’s royal apartments. He is going to need guidance, and with his father incapacitated, that guidance must come from me.

Garza strode the length of the residencia hallway and finally reached the prince’s door. He took a deep breath and knocked.

Odd, he thought, getting no answer. I know he’s in there. According to Agent Fonseca in Bilbao, Prince Julián had just called from the apartment and was trying to reach Ambra Vidal to make sure she was safe, which, thank heavens, she was.

Garza knocked again, feeling rising concern when he again got no answer.

Hastily, he unlocked the door. “Don Julián?” he called as he stepped inside.

The apartment was dark except for the flickering light of the television in the living room. “Hello?”

Garza hurried in and found Prince Julián standing alone in the darkness, a motionless silhouette facing the bay window. He was still impeccably dressed in the tailored suit he had worn to his meetings this evening, having not yet so much as loosened his necktie.

Watching in silence, Garza felt unsettled by his prince’s trancelike state. This crisis appears to have left him stunned.