Ignoring their presence, Gregory Evans crossed the entrance archway and entered. Inside the cathedral, a group of hooded figures formed a circle around a life-size sculpture of the Virgin Mary. They murmured their prayers in low voices.
As he approached, the group parted to let him pass. Before the base of the statue, he saw Candice, dressed as a queen. She was seated on a golden throne, adorned with strange Kabbalistic designs and writing similar to the Coptic hieroglyphics of Ancient Egypt.
Her arms rested on what appeared to be angels' wings, the tips of which touched, high above. Their names were inscribed on the front: Xakim and Boaz. Then he heard an incomparable melody, its echo resounding in every corner of the Temple. It was a music that spoke to the senses, that went directly to the heart, and filled one with a delightful grace. And that's when he heard a metallic, booming voice speaking in an incomprehensible language that he immediately linked to the language of angels.
He was about to grasp the meaning of that message when the ground gave way beneath his feet and he fell into the void. From that moment on, Greg's spirit disappeared into absolute darkness. His body disintegrated into a thousand tiny fragments of different sensations. It was a thought traveling through eternity.
He stopped watching the people going from one side to the other and focused on the laptop resting on his knees, sitting on one of the benches at Prat Airport, next to his luggage. He had just landed in Barcelona, and his only thought was to find his victim as quickly as possible, execute her, and return to Toronto, his hometown. It didn't seem complicated. He had known Sephy's modus operandi since they had worked together in Brighton a couple of years ago. Both were hired to execute three BBC journalists investigating a pederasty case, allegedly involving a Lord of Parliament and several other figures from the British political scene.
To locate her whereabouts in Spain, he relied on high-tech equipment provided by the Agency. Altar looked both ways before entering the search key into the GPS, which was connected to his computer. Within seconds, a flashing light appeared on the screen, moving along one of the central streets of a provincial capital whose name he didn't care about:
Murcia...
He couldn't help but smile. It was like spying on an ant in its anthill, or observing the bacilli of a virus through a microscope before suffering the effects of a vaccine that would end its endemic reign. Sephy, like all Agency assassins, was unaware that a chip—the size of a sesame seed—had been implanted under his scalp, a device created by a former NASA engineer, capable of bypassing airport security measures.
To carry out this type of operation, which sometimes entailed great risk to the recipient, the assassin was invited to a personal welcome party at the company's offices in São Paulo. After welcoming him with praise and offering him millions in compensation, and the succession of gifts made the new employee feel at home, the acting president would make a suite on the top floor of the building available to him, giving him the privilege of choosing between spending the night alone or continuing on in good company. Once the drug previously placed in his drink took effect, the honoree was quickly ushered to a small surgical room in the attic, where an experienced doctor implanted the chip in record time. The next day, if anyone felt unwell, they naturally attributed it to a hangover from a night of excess.
Altar closed his computer and got up.
He was still smiling as he left the airport. The trip to Murcia would be by train, even if it meant losing a few hours. He hated flying, accepting the ordeal only when necessary.