Before going to bed, Saul checked his emails again, more out of habit than necessity. The monitor lit the dim room, and the bluish glow reflected on his glasses as he mechanically scrolled through the dozens of messages accumulated throughout the day.
The journalist's eyes were tired, but his mind still boiled with unease. He opened only three of them. The first was from his sister, writing from Harvard, telling him about her progress in International Law, the long nights in the library, and the lectures with judges from The Hague Court.
I miss her… Saul sighed, feeling her absence like a sudden sting. It had been months since they last saw each other.
The second message carried the cold, impersonal tone of Mick Gallagher, the editor-in-chief of The Sunny. The old shark demanded his presence at the next morning's editorial meeting, claiming the director wanted even more explosive pieces about the Brazilian top model.
Explosive stories… Saul thought, with a hint of irony. Modern journalism felt more like a factory of scandals than a trench for truth. Maybe it's in the next email… he reflected, with a flicker of expectation as he opened the following message.
It was from Meggie, his young assistant:
The article is attached.Hope you like it.Kisses, Meggie.
The journalist smiled faintly, clicked on the attachment, and printed it. The sound of the printer broke the silence of the apartment as he prepared a pen and a glass of whiskey.
— This is very good… it doesn't even seem like it's from a rookie, — he murmured, surprised after reading it. The words flowed with rhythm, consistency, and an unusual boldness.
Meggie has talent… he thought.
There was fresh information, well woven together, and a rare sensitivity for someone still taking their first steps in the profession.
— Mick is going to fall off his chair when he realizes he's handed gold into my hands, — he joked, letting out a crooked, almost cruel smile.
The journalist shut down the computer, set the alarm for six-thirty, and leaned back on the bed. He wanted to wake up early and walk through the park before facing the newsroom.
Outside, London slept wrapped in fog and solitude. Inside the apartment, only the persistent ticking of the clock filled the air.
He had been asleep for a few hours when a strange sensation woke him. A chill ran down his spine, and his heart raced for no apparent reason. He had the clear impression that he was no longer alone. His breathing grew short, his skin covered in cold sweat—a sudden hyperhidrosis, typical of someone on the edge of an abyss.
He forced his eyes open and checked the digital clock: four in the morning.
Then he screamed.
Standing before his bed, motionless, was a tall, thin man with a long, unkempt beard, wearing a dark robe and a cap that covered half his forehead. His gaze was empty, ancient, as if it had crossed centuries. Saul tried to convince himself he was dreaming, but the fear was far too real. The figure felt strangely familiar—not from the streets, but from the walls of the National Portrait Gallery.
My God… it's as if he stepped out of a sixteenth-century portrait…
— How did you get in here? — he asked, his voice trembling.
The man did not answer. He simply shook his head in a slow, solemn gesture and extended both hands. Resting upon them was a book. The volume measured about twenty centimeters in height by eighteen in width, its silver spine reflecting the faint light of the lamp. The covers looked like ancient leather, the kind of object that did not belong to that century. Saul estimated it had about fifty pages, perhaps less, but he felt the symbolic weight emanating from it—a weight that did not come from paper.
— What do you want with this? — the journalist insisted, trying to remain calm.
The visitor then spoke, his voice hoarse, in a language that sounded like a ritual chant:
— Othil lasdi babage od dorpha Gohol!
Saul frowned, completely lost.
— I can't understand any of this… at least let me write it down, — he said, turning on the lamp and grabbing a notepad and a pen.
When he turned back, the man had vanished in the blink of an eye. The room was empty—and then everything went dark.
The alarm rang, and he saw it was six-thirty in the morning. The journalist woke with a start, his heart still pounding. He looked beside him and saw the notepad on the nightstand, open. His own handwriting covered the page with crooked lines and indecipherable words, written in a language he had never seen before.
Saul arrived early at The Sunny. He wanted time to plan the coverage of Jessyca Volpi's arrival in London, scheduled for two days later. He had an ace up his sleeve—Meggie's article—and perhaps the chance to secure an exclusive interview with the Brazilian model. At the same time, his collaboration with the priest required discretion and caution. He needed to balance journalism and secrecy.
When he entered the newsroom, the smell of freshly brewed coffee mixed with the sound of keyboards and telephones. Meggie was sitting at her desk, completely absorbed in reading The Blake Enigma. She did not notice her boss's presence as he approached silently, wearing jeans and a denim jacket over a black T-shirt.
She turned the page and startled when she saw Saul sitting in front of her, watching her with that penetrating, inquisitive gaze.
— That must be another one of those American best-sellers that say a lot without saying anything at all, — he teased with a half-smile.
— What do you have against them? — Meggie shot back, lifting her chin.
— Hollywood movies are only worth it for the action. Nothing more, nothing less. Shallow characters, weak plots. — He crossed his arms theatrically. — Light as feathers.
— I completely disagree. The stories are very good.
— Let me guess the plot of that book, — he said sarcastically. — A protagonist needs to solve riddles that some guy named Blake left behind, and thousands of lives depend on it.
— And what if this "Blake" were an English genius? — she replied, provoking him.
— Redundant statement.
His dry tone made Meggie laugh.
— So your ego goes so far as to compare yourself to William Blake?
— I wouldn't expect anything less from him being compared to me.
— You would make a great best-seller character, Saul, — the young woman winked.
— Insulting your boss is grounds for dismissal.
— So you don't like American literature?
— I like Ernest Hemingway. Do you know him?
— Of course, but I've never read anything by him. I prefer contemporary authors.
— Meaning disposable literature.
Meggie raised an eyebrow and, in a playful tone, replied:
— Since you like laws so much, insulting your subordinates' intelligence is workplace harassment. And I've heard the compensation is excellent around here.
Saul couldn't help but laugh.
— Congratulations on the article, — he said, changing the subject. — It's much better than I expected.
— Thank you! I hope to surprise you more often. I thought you would email me… I barely slept last night, — she confessed shyly.
— I've been busy with some research. — He stood up. — If you'll excuse me, I need to work.
— Shall we have lunch together today?
— Sorry, I have lunch with the editors. But… — he hesitated — if you agree, we could have dinner.
Meggie's eyes sparkled.
— Where do we meet?
— Where are you staying?
— In Chelsea.
— I know an excellent restaurant there. I'll pick you up at eight.
— Deal.
— Then let's get to work. — And he smiled, returning to his desk.
Meggie watched him, her heart racing.
That wasn't as hard as Diana said… she must have been jealous, she thought, hiding her smile.
Saul regretted the invitation the very next instant, for he knew that an arrow once shot—and a word once spoken—never returned.
What makes her so irresistible? he wondered uneasily.
As he opened his email on the computer, his phone vibrated. It was the Italian priest.
— Hello, Father, how are you? Yes, I think I can help you. I have an appointment at eight, but we can meet beforehand. For me, the place is perfect, and the time as well. See you later.
As soon as he hung up, he heard Meggie's spirited voice:
— Attending exorcism sessions now, Saul?
He raised his eyes and replied coldly:
— Learn from the English to be a little more discreet. You may listen to my phone conversations, but pretend you didn't hear anything.
The message was polite, but clear. Meggie understood. She had much to lose if she irritated him. She looked away, embarrassed, and decided to focus on what truly mattered. She opened her inbox—and there it was: a reply from Jessyca Volpi.
The young woman's heart raced. She opened the message, read it carefully, and smiled. She would save the news for dinner.
I would also make a great best-seller protagonist, she murmured to herself, a mischievous gleam on her lips.