He had found nothing yet that hinted at Edmond’s possible answers to these questions. So far, Langdon’s search of the library had yielded only one volume that seemed potentially relevant—Unexplained Art—a book of photographs of mysterious man-made structures, including Stonehenge, the Easter Island heads, and Nazca’s sprawling “desert drawings”—geoglyphs drawn on such a massive scale that they were discernible only from the air.

Not much help, he decided, and resumed his search of the shelves.

Outside, the sirens grew louder.

CHAPTER 57

“I AM NOT a monster,” Ávila declared, exhaling as he relieved himself in a grungy urinal in a deserted rest stop on Highway N-240.

At his side, the Uber driver was trembling, apparently too nervous to urinate. “You threatened … my family.”

“And if you behave,” Ávila replied, “I assure you that no harm will come to them. Just take me to Barcelona, drop me off, and we will part as friends. I will return your wallet, forget your home address, and you need never think of me again.”

The driver stared straight ahead, his lips quivering.

“You are a man of the faith,” Ávila said. “I saw the papal cross on your windshield. And no matter what you think of me, you can find peace in knowing that you are doing the work of God tonight.” Ávila finished at the urinal. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

Ávila stepped back and checked the ceramic pistol tucked into his belt. It was loaded with his lone remaining bullet. He wondered if he’d need to use it tonight.

He walked to the sink and ran water into his palms, seeing the tattoo that the Regent had directed him to place there in case he was caught. An unnecessary precaution, Ávila suspected, now feeling like an untraceable spirit moving through the night.

He raised his eyes to the filthy mirror, startled by his appearance. The last time Ávila had seen himself, he was wearing full dress whites with a starched collar and a naval cap. Now, having stripped off the top of his uniform, he looked more like a trucker—wearing only his V-neck T-shirt and a baseball cap borrowed from his driver.

Ironically, the disheveled man in the mirror reminded Ávila of his appearance during his days of drunken self-loathing following the explosion that killed his family.

I was in a bottomless pit.

The turning point, he knew, had been the day when his physical therapist, Marco, had tricked him into driving out into the countryside to meet the “pope.”

Ávila would never forget approaching the eerie spires of the Palmarian church, passing through their towering security gates, and entering the cathedral partway through the morning mass, where throngs of worshippers were kneeling in prayer.

The sanctuary was lit only by natural light from high stained-glass windows, and the air smelled heavily of incense. When Ávila saw the gilded altars and burnished wood pews, he realized that the rumors of the Palmarians’ massive wealth were true. This church was as beautiful as any cathedral Ávila had ever seen, and yet he knew that this Catholic church was unlike any other.

The Palmarians are the sworn enemy of the Vatican.

Standing with Marco at the rear of the cathedral, Ávila gazed out over the congregation and wondered how this sect could have thrived after blatantly flaunting its opposition to Rome. Apparently, the Palmarians’ denunciation of the Vatican’s growing liberalism had struck a chord with believers who craved a more conservative interpretation of the faith.

Hobbling up the aisle on his crutches, Ávila felt like a miserable cripple making a pilgrimage to Lourdes in hopes of a miracle cure. An usher greeted Marco and led the two men to seats that had been cordoned off in the very front row. Nearby parishioners glanced over with curiosity to see who was getting this special treatment. Ávila wished Marco had not convinced him to wear his decorated naval uniform.

I thought I was meeting the pope.

Ávila sat down and raised his eyes to the main altar, where a young parishioner in a suit was doing a reading from a Bible. Ávila recognized the passage—the Gospel of Mark.

“‘If you hold anything against anyone,’” the reader declared, “‘forgive them, so that your Father in heaven may forgive you your sins.’”

More forgiveness? Ávila thought, scowling. He felt like he’d heard this passage a thousand times from the grief counselors and nuns in the months after the terrorist attack.

The reading ended, and the swelling chords of a pipe organ resounded in the sanctuary. The congregants rose in unison, and Ávila reluctantly clambered to his feet, wincing in pain. A hidden door behind the altar opened and a figure appeared, sending a ripple of excitement through the crowd.

The man looked to be in his fifties—upright and regal with a graceful stature and a compelling gaze. He wore a white cassock, a golden tippet, an embroidered sash, and a bejeweled papal pretiosa miter. He advanced with his arms outstretched to the congregation, seeming to hover as he moved toward the center of the altar.

“There he is,” Marco whispered excitedly. “Pope Innocent the Fourteenth.”

He calls himself Pope Innocent XIV? The Palmarians, Ávila knew, recognized the legitimacy of every pope up to Paul VI, who died in 1978.

“We’re just in time,” Marco said. “He’s about to deliver his homily.”

The pope moved toward the center of the raised altar, bypassing the formal pulpit and stepping down so that he stood at the same level as his parishioners. He adjusted his lavalier microphone, held out his hands, and smiled warmly.