Origin

Garza realized his jaw had fallen slack, and the prince was now staring at him with apparent concern. Valdespino was also leaning in to hear, his eyebrows arched with unmistakable interest.

“Ah—that’s excellent news!” Garza blurted suddenly, nodding with conviction. “Good work. We’ll see you all here later this evening. Let’s just confirm transport protocols and security. One moment, please.”

Garza covered the phone and smiled at the prince. “All is well. I’ll just step into the other room to sort out the details so that you gentlemen can have some privacy.”

Garza was reluctant to leave the prince alone with Valdespino, but this was not a call he could take in front of either of them, so he walked to one of the guest bedrooms, stepped inside, and closed the door.

“¿Qué diablos ha pasado?” he seethed into the phone. What the hell happened?

Fonseca relayed a story that sounded like utter fantasy.

“The lights went out?” Garza demanded. “A computer posed as a security officer and gave you bad intel? How am I supposed to respond to that?”

“I realize it is hard to imagine, sir, but that is precisely what happened. What we are struggling to understand is why the computer had a sudden change of heart.”

“Change of heart?! It’s a goddamned computer!”

“What I mean is that the computer had previously been helpful—identifying the shooter by name, attempting to thwart the assassination, and also discovering that the getaway vehicle was an Uber car. Then, very suddenly, it seemed to be working against us. All we can figure is that Robert Langdon must have said something to it, because after its conversation with him, everything changed.”

Now I’m battling a computer? Garza decided he was getting too old for this modern world. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, Agent Fonseca, how embarrassing this would be for the prince both personally and politically if it were known that his fiancée had fled with the American, and that the prince’s Guardia Real had been tricked by a computer.”

“We are acutely aware of that.”

“Do you have any idea what would inspire the two of them to run away? It seems entirely unwarranted and reckless.”

“Professor Langdon was quite resistant when I told him he would be joining us in Madrid this evening. He made it clear he did not want to come.”

And so he fled a murder scene? Garza sensed something else was going on, but he could not imagine what. “Listen to me carefully. It is absolutely critical that you locate Ambra Vidal and bring her back to the palace before any of this information leaks out.”

“I understand, sir, but Díaz and I are the only two agents on the scene. We can’t possibly search all of Bilbao alone. We’ll need to alert the local authorities, gain access to traffic cams, air support, every possible—”

“Absolutely not!” Garza replied. “We can’t afford the embarrassment. Do your job. Find them on your own, and return Ms. Vidal to our custody as quickly as possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

Garza hung up, incredulous.

As he stepped out of the bedroom, a pale young woman hurried up the hallway toward him. She was wearing her usual techie Coke-bottle glasses and beige pantsuit, and was anxiously clutching a computer tablet.

God save me, Garza thought. Not now.

Mónica Martín was the palace’s newest and youngest-ever “public relations coordinator”—a post that included the duties of media liaison, PR strategist, and communications director—which Martín seemed to carry out in a permanent state of high alert.

At only twenty-six years of age, Martín held a communications degree from Madrid’s Complutense University, had done two years of postgrad work at one of the top computer schools in the world—Tsinghua University in Beijing—and then had landed a high-powered PR job at Grupo Planeta followed by a top “communications” post at Spanish television network Antena 3.

Last year, in a desperate attempt to connect via digital media with the young people of Spain, and to keep up with the mushrooming influence of Twitter, Facebook, blogs, and online media, the palace had fired a seasoned PR professional with decades of print and media experience and replaced him with this tech-savvy millennial.

Martín owes everything to Prince Julián, Garza knew.

The young woman’s appointment to the palace staff had been one of Prince Julián’s few contributions to palace operations—a rare instance when he flexed his muscle with his father. Martín was considered one of the best in the business, but Garza found her paranoia and nervous energy utterly exhausting.

“Conspiracy theories,” Martín announced to him, waving her tablet as she arrived. “They’re exploding all over.”