AS HE LEFT THE RESTAURANT, Saul unfolded the piece of paper Raphaniè had handed him. The cold London wind swept through the silent avenues, and the distant hum of traffic mingled with the hollow sound of his footsteps on the marble pavement. Illuminated by the yellowish glow of the streetlamps, he read the message on his way to the hotel entrance, trying to decipher the enigma hidden within the words.
— Strange... — he murmured, frowning. — It doesn't make the slightest sense to me, but it proves that someone sent me an encrypted message in a dream — he concluded, slipping the note into the inside pocket of his coat, as though protecting a piece of a dangerous puzzle.
As he walked, his mind spiraled.
The priest's story... is terrifying and sensational at the same time.
This went beyond coincidence. An invisible mechanism was driving every event, and he felt like a chess piece about to be sacrificed.
Someone has been plotting all of this for a very long time... — he reflected. — A master chess player who has managed to bring all the pieces together for the decisive move. Perhaps it's a strategy devised by the brotherhood founded by John Dee. Or perhaps there really is a higher intelligence behind the scenes... something manipulating fate, faith, and power on a global scale.
The breeze carried the sound of bells from a nearby church. Saul raised his eyes to the overcast sky and asked the valet to bring his car.
— Devil, Satan... Samyaza — he muttered through clenched teeth, as though the words tasted bitter.
The journalist felt the strange certainty that he was inside the very story he was investigating.
I'm more involved in this than I realize. I'm part of this story... — he thought, remembering the masked man who had pursued him on the road to The Holme.
The memory still sent a chill through him.
Saul's mind was in turmoil.
The priest's story is a strong indication that the model is indeed involved in Satanism, even if indirectly.
His reasoning unfolded in his mind like an inexorable chain of logic.
And it's obvious that Raphaniè wasn't sent here by chance. He's being manipulated by his confessor... perhaps without even realizing it. Perhaps he's a link between the Great Harlot and the Satanic cult, but I can't ignore what Meggie argued.
The journalist's fingers trembled slightly as he touched his phone, resisting the urge to call her.
It's possible that Jessyca doesn't know what's about to happen and that she's LaVey's seventh victim. In that case, the sacrifice of a child by her father might represent the offering of his own daughter to the devil...
The thought pierced him like an icy blade.
— Forgive me, Meggie — he murmured, his voice choked with emotion, like someone who feared he might be unable to prevent the tragedy.
Which would be consummated by LaVey in a ritualistic murder. The beginning of the Dark Apocalypse...
His reasoning seemed like a sentence. Saul knew that if he was right, there was very little time left before chaos descended.
THE VALET PARKED the Tesla in front of the hotel. Its wheels glided smoothly over the wet asphalt. Saul thanked him with a generous tip, got into the car, and started the engine, watching the hotel facade disappear into the fog through the rearview mirror. The drive to the offices of The Sunny was short, but every traffic light seemed like an obstacle standing between him and the truth.
If both possibilities are correct... — he reasoned. — She will actively participate in a Satanic ritual, but she has no idea of the tragic fate awaiting her at LaVey's hands. The hypothesis seemed cruel to him, but logical. She must have scheduled the meeting for the night after the advertising campaign launch so as not to jeopardize her career. Tomorrow night...
Saul gripped the steering wheel tightly.
What would be the nature of this ritual? — he asked himself.
— Sex between angels and women — he answered aloud, surprised by his own thought.
The memory struck him: the tapestry depicting The Tempest in the game room of the mansion at The Holme. Caliban's gaze upon Miranda — animal desire confronting purity.
Perhaps I should place more trust in Shakespeare's final work... — he thought. — The monster desired Prospero's daughter. He wanted to procreate with her...
— What did one of the prophecies about the birth of the Antichrist say? — he murmured, trying to reconstruct the passage Raphaniè had quoted to him. The words came back like echoes:
He will be the result of sexual intercourse between his mother and father, like other men, and not of a solitary virgin. The Antichrist will be entirely conceived in sin, begotten in sin, and born in sin, the offspring of a fallen and impure woman and an abominable criminal.
The car passed through a tunnel, and the yellow lights flashed rhythmically across the windshield.
— She won't be murdered like the others — Saul concluded, his voice hoarse. — She'll be raped by the psychopath, the abominable criminal!
The name emerged in his mind like a shadow.
Where does Gregory Evans fit into this story?
For a few seconds, he remained motionless, staring into the emptiness ahead. The traffic seemed distant, the sound of engines dissolving into white noise.
He's here to make sure LaVey finishes the job... And that no one interferes with his dirty work. Not the impertinent journalist, nor the hotheaded priest... — he deduced, frowning.
But something didn't add up.
Evans was a national hero, decorated and admired... A man like that wouldn't be part of a cult. Unless he was being blackmailed or coerced...
The question echoed in his mind like a low note:
Who was putting pressure on him?
THE NEWSROOM OF THE SUNNY was in the middle of its working day. Half the team that had worked the previous day was resting, while the others alternated between their computers and cups of coffee. The air smelled of fresh ink and printed paper — the fragrance of journalism in full swing.
"The newspaper comes out every day. If you want an easy life, find yourself a job at a weekly magazine..." — that was the editor-in-chief's mantra, repeated with irony to every newcomer who complained about the long nights. Saul had heard it so many times that he had come to associate it with the very sound of Mick's voice.
As he crossed the central aisle, Saul looked around: desks piled high with reports, clippings, and scattered cables; the hum of keyboards filled the air like a frantic symphony.
He tried to get the upper hand, but all he did was help me... — Saul thought with a crooked smile. He handed me a clever — and beautiful — journalist on a silver platter, along with the position of editor-in-chief. Perhaps I should thank him for that...
His smile widened with irony.
I hope he doesn't cause me any trouble over the next few days...
Mick was chatting animatedly with one of the reporters Saul had assigned to cover the Brazilian supermodel's arrival. Their loud laughter contrasted with the tense atmosphere of the newsroom.
I wonder if he brought back anything interesting? — he asked himself, adjusting his cane and walking with firm strides toward his boss's desk.
Seeing him approach, Mick rose theatrically, flashing a smile that concealed more venom than cordiality.
— Saul, how are you?
— Fine... — the journalist replied, without changing his tone.
— George has just arrived with the cover story for the next edition.
— What happened at the airport? — Saul asked, turning toward the reporter.
— Jessyca Volpi happened — the young man replied enthusiastically, his eyes sparkling.
— All right, then... what else? — Saul insisted, impassive.
The editor-in-chief burst into laughter, and Saul regarded him with disdain.
You're nothing but a vulture whose days are numbered, Mick... — he thought.
Then, in a controlled voice, he delivered a cutting remark:
— I can see that you would indeed conduct a high-level interview... — he said, pausing deliberately. — ...What did Jessyca Volpi do?
Mick's laughter ceased, and the air between them seemed to stiffen.
— Isn't this story sensational, Saul? — the editor-in-chief challenged, trying to maintain control.
Saul stared at him coldly.
— Want to know what I really think, Mick? When Jessyca gets her copy of The Sunny and discovers that we've turned her into a goddess for nothing, she'll cancel the exclusive interview she promised us.
A heavy silence fell, and the smile vanished from Mick's face, replaced by a furious glint. Being undermined in front of a reporter was unforgivable.
George shifted his gaze toward the book on the desk: The New York Times Manual of Style. The contrast between ethics and vanity struck him as almost comical.
— What do you suggest? — Mick asked curtly.
— Keep the cover as planned — Saul replied — but give more weight to the other side of the story. Not an empty article about her arrival, but one about why she's here.
— Interview Jessyca Volpi?
— Yes.
— But the exclusive interview isn't until tomorrow.
— My assistant is meeting her for afternoon tea shortly — Saul explained, already anticipating the next move. — It's a personal engagement, but we might be able to obtain something more substantial. What do you think?
Mick took a deep breath.
— An excellent idea.
— I'll give it a try. And you, George — Saul added, turning toward the reporter — get that article to me by six o'clock. Okay?
The young man glanced at his watch, his eyes widening: barely more than an hour. His hands instantly broke into a sweat.
— Right — he replied, hurriedly gathering his notepad. He practically ran out, leaving behind the heavy silence of two beasts who knew that, sooner or later, they would face each other again.