“Ambra?” he called, his voice taut. “Were you aware that Edmond was seriously ill?”

“Ill?” she said, startled. “No.”

Langdon told her what he had found in Edmond’s private bathroom.

Ambra was thunderstruck.

Pancreatic cancer? That’s the reason Edmond was so pale and thin?

Incredibly, Edmond had never said a word about being ill. Ambra now understood his maniacal work ethic over the past few months. Edmond knew he was running out of time.

“Winston,” she demanded. “Did you know about Edmond’s illness?”

“Yes,” Winston replied without hesitation. “It was something he kept very private. He learned of his disease twenty-two months ago and immediately changed his diet and began working with increased intensity. He also relocated to this attic space, where he would breathe museum-quality air and be protected from UV radiation; he needed to live in darkness as much as possible because his medications made him photosensitive. Edmond managed to outlive his doctors’ projections by a considerable margin. Recently, though, he had started to fail. Based on empirical evidence I gathered from worldwide databases on pancreatic cancer, I analyzed Edmond’s deterioration and calculated that he had nine days to live.”

Nine days, Ambra thought, overcome with guilt for teasing Edmond about his vegan diet and about working too hard. The man was sick; he was racing tirelessly to create his final moment of glory before his time ran out. This sad realization only further fueled Ambra’s determination to locate this poem and complete what Edmond had started.

“I haven’t found any poetry books yet,” she said to Langdon. “So far, it’s all science.”

“I think the poet we’re looking for might be Friedrich Nietzsche,” Langdon said, telling her about the framed quote over Edmond’s bed. “That particular quote doesn’t have forty-seven letters, but it certainly implies Edmond was a fan of Nietzsche.”

“Winston,” Ambra said. “Can you search Nietzsche’s collected works of poetry and isolate any lines that have exactly forty-seven letters?”

“Certainly,” Winston replied. “German originals or English translations?”

Ambra paused, uncertain.

“Start with English,” Langdon prompted. “Edmond planned to input the line of poetry on his phone, and his keypad would have no easy way to input any of German’s umlauted letters or Eszetts.”

Ambra nodded. Smart.

“I have your results,” Winston announced almost immediately. “I have found nearly three hundred translated poems, resulting in one hundred and ninety-two lines of precisely forty-seven letters.”

Langdon sighed. “That many?”

“Winston,” Ambra pressed. “Edmond described his favorite line as a prophecy … a prediction about the future … one that was already coming true. Do you see anything that fits that description?”

“I’m sorry,” Winston replied. “I see nothing here that suggests a prophecy. Linguistically speaking, the lines in question are all extracted from longer stanzas and appear to be partial thoughts. Shall I display them for you?”

“There are too many,” Langdon said. “We need to find a physical book and hope that Edmond marked his favorite line in some way.”

“Then I suggest you hurry,” Winston said. “It appears your presence here may no longer be a secret.”

“Why do you say that?” Langdon demanded.

“Local news is reporting that a military plane has just landed at Barcelona’s El Prat Airport and that two Guardia Real agents have deplaned.”

On the outskirts of Madrid, Bishop Valdespino was feeling grateful to have escaped the palace before the walls had closed in on him. Wedged beside Prince Julián in the backseat of his acolyte’s tiny Opel sedan, Valdespino hoped that desperate measures now being enacted behind the scenes would help him regain control of a night careening wildly off course.

“La Casita del Príncipe,” Valdespino had ordered the acolyte as the young man drove them away from the palace.

The cottage of the prince was situated in a secluded rural area forty minutes outside Madrid. More mansion than cottage, the casita had served as the private residence for the heir to the Spanish throne since the middle of the 1700s—a secluded spot where boys could be boys before settling into the serious business of running a country. Valdespino had assured Julián that retiring to his cottage would be far safer than remaining in the palace tonight.

Except I am not taking Julián to the cottage, the bishop knew, glancing over at the prince, who was gazing out the car window, apparently deep in thought.

Valdespino wondered if the prince was truly as naive as he appeared, or if, like his father, Julián had mastered the skill of showing the world only that side of himself that he wanted to be seen.

CHAPTER 54

THE HANDCUFFS ON Garza’s wrists felt unnecessarily tight.

These guys are serious, he thought, still utterly bewildered by the actions of his own Guardia agents.

“What the hell is going on?!” Garza demanded again as his men marched him out of the cathedral and into the night air of the plaza.

Still no reply.

As the entourage moved across the wide expanse toward the palace, Garza realized there was an array of TV cameras and protesters outside the front gate.

“At least take me around back,” he said to his lead man. “Don’t make this a public spectacle.”

The soldiers ignored his plea and pressed on, forcing Garza to march directly across the plaza. Within seconds, voices outside the gate started shouting, and the blazing glare of spotlights swung toward him. Blinded and fuming, Garza forced himself to assume a calm expression and hold his head high as the Guardia marched him within a few yards of the gate, directly past the yelling cameramen and reporters.