A CODED MESSAGE on his cellphone made him cut short his lunch at the Old Bull and Bush. In less than twenty minutes, he was due to join a conference call. He devoured the Ribeye Steak and drained his glass of wine. He managed to get home with only two minutes to spare before the virtual meeting.
A brief vibration, the translucent notification on the phone screen: fragmented words, an unsigned sender—the kind of signal born in the murky zones between journalism and the underworld.
There was no time for formalities...
He chewed the last bites of meat, swallowed hastily, and set the crystal glass down on the table with a restrained click. Every gesture was a calculated ritual: the coat hung on the rack, the shoes untied, the keys placed down with the same precision as someone storing a weapon. His haste carried the rhythm of a man who knew tomorrow might be a trap.
The moment he turned on the computer, Adameck Faradday's call flashed across the screen.
— Good afternoon — he replied into the microphone.
The voice on the other end was polished, yet edged with steel. Adameck always spoke as though issuing orders disguised as questions.
"... Good afternoon. Is the new sanctuary decorated?..."
— Luxuriously decorated. It even has a spa.
The comment was dry and cutting—the sort of detail that interested men who measured the world through sofas and hidden mechanisms.
"... Excellent. And the journalist?..."
— He has a meeting tonight, and the soulmates will meet tomorrow at a dog race — he explained.
The answer caused a brief, calculated pause. The use of that image—"dog race"—was deliberate: an English pastime that seemed harmless and served as perfect cover.
"... We never agreed on that code..."
— It's not a code. I'm referring literally to the English hobby.
The conversation moved through metaphors and literal meanings like a walk across a minefield.
"... He must remain blindfolded. Be a player..."
— That won't be a problem.
Faradday's voice dropped lower, more intimate, as though sharing a secret with an accomplice rather than a subordinate.
"... I received a new leaflet..." the Vice President revealed.
A clinical term in such a political mouth—"leaflet"—sounded like a message delivered by messengers of an invisible enemy.
— What should I do?
"... If you meet the bastard..."
The word lingered in the air like poison: bastard. A simple label for a man carrying risks and secrets they preferred not to discuss openly.
— Is he a target? — he asked, surprised.
"... For now, consider him an ally..."
— He's a psychopath!
The statement came out hotter than intended. For the Archangel, it was easy to transform hatred into caution.
"... Can you think of a better candidate to carry out Operation Lux?..." Faradday shot back.
The question was a blade.
Questions like that did not expect answers; they imposed decisions.
— No...
For a moment, the line went still, as though both men could hear their own hearts beating through the cables.
"... Meet him tomorrow and hand over the device. The phone and instructions are in your email..."
— Anything else?
Formality returned to close the operation; it felt like sealing a deadly contract. After a silence that confirmed everything had been settled, the Vice President ended the call.
THE ARCHANGEL ACCESSED HIS inbox, and there it was—the bastard's name. He was to call him "LaVey."
The screen displayed an email filled with short lines, clinical instructions, and encrypted attachments. Every downloaded file pulsed with promises of danger—a device capable of changing destinies, a sealed box carrying the scent of conspiracy.
They were to meet at the London Eye...
The Ferris wheel operator would be bribed into allowing only two people inside one of the massive glass capsules, and when it completed half a rotation and reached its highest point, he would test his ally's identity with a password. If the countersign was correct, he would hand over the sealed box containing the secret apparatus. They would part in opposite directions as soon as the capsule doors opened.
The plan was flawless on the surface: simple logistics, few people, a distracting view—the classic ingredients for an anonymous exchange. Yet, as always, the beauty of a plan lay precisely in being simple enough to conceal the chaos surrounding it.
The bastard is treacherous... Don't forget to carry a nasal filter. It will protect you from any trap... the Vice President advised at the end of the message.
The recommendation sounded almost paternal, and the Archangel mentally noted every detail.
Nasal filter.
Poison?
Sedative?
A precaution suggesting that the box might not be just a box.
THE ARCHANGEL PICKED UP the phone and dialed the bastard's number. After six rings, someone answered and remained silent.
Six rings that stretched like an eternity. The silence on the other end was a gamble—a calculated wait that spoke as loudly as words.
— LaVey — the Archangel ventured in a disguised voice.
Those two syllables were both a test and bait. Identity was a rare currency in that underworld.
"... And you—the man who opened the doors of Scotland Yard..."
The response was immediate and sharp, carrying a tone that mixed recognition with mockery. LaVey made no effort to hide his fondness for displaying trophies in his words.
— A simple gesture of peace in the name of the new age... — he lied to gain the man's trust. — You may call me Archangel.
A polished lie; a garment concealing the nakedness of intention.
The Archangel knew that trust purchased with deception could be more effective than sincere friendship.
"... I received a call from the Master. He said you have a gift for me, Archangel..."
There was anticipation in LaVey's voice. Gifts among spies were rarely genuine; they were traps wrapped with ribbons.
— A beautiful gift, LaVey. I called to confirm the place and time of the party.
"... London Eye, tomorrow at four o'clock..."
Better schedule it at the same time as the dog race. That's my guarantee he won't interfere with the plans of the Four Angels... the Archangel thought, before suggesting:
— Could we make it six-thirty instead?
The change of schedule was a tactical maneuver: fewer people, more darkness, fewer chances of unwanted witnesses. Everything measured in minutes, as though describing an atlas of risks.
— Fine. I'll see you at six-thirty.
I'll bring two weapons... he decided as he hung up.
The decision was dry and inevitable. Two weapons: double precaution for a meeting between wolves.
He pocketed the phone, checked the email one final time, and as the fading sunlight painted the city in amber tones, the Archangel felt the weight of a night that promised more than a simple exchange—it promised a game in which betrayal and loyalty would be measured in breaths and codes.