THE PRIEST ARRIVED at the entrance lobby of L'oscar London at exactly five-thirty in the afternoon. With its gilded columns, velvet tapestries, and the scent of incense and aged wood lingering in the air, the hotel felt more like a pagan temple than a place of accommodation.
Raphaniè sat in an armchair near the fireplace, a copy of The Sunny spread open in his hands, trying to distract himself while waiting for Gregory Evans. He wore a perfectly tailored gray suit, an immaculate white shirt, and a silk gray tie adorned with tiny blue squares that reflected the warm glow of the chandeliers. A traditional black homburg hat partially covered his head—a piece he had found among the luggage left in his room, carefully prepared as though someone knew him better than he knew himself.
He was reading a lengthy article about American policy in the Middle East when the words began to blur together. A chill ran down his spine, and instinctively he glanced discreetly over the top of the newspaper.
His heart skipped a beat.
The woman the masseur had introduced to him at the spa—the same woman who had seduced him with a hypnotic gaze and hands that seemed to know the map of the human body by heart—was crossing the lobby with slow, regal steps, wrapped in an intoxicating perfume.
Raphaniè felt sweat trickle down the back of his neck.
He quickly turned his face away, as though the mere sight of her could burn him from within.
I can't... he thought, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to suppress the memory of her bronze skin beneath the candlelight.
His cellphone vibrated inside his jacket pocket.
When he saw the name on the screen, he finally released the breath trapped in his chest.
It was Gregory Evans.
"Mr. Mannieri, I've arrived..."
He set the newspaper on the coffee table, put on his overcoat, and headed for the entrance.
The cold London wind greeted him with a sharp gust.
Greg, as impeccable as ever, stood waiting beside the limousine.
— You look elegant, Mr. Mannieri — the driver complimented him while opening the rear door.
— I'm not used to wearing hats — the priest replied, removing it with an irritated gesture.
— I've heard that model became famous after a king adopted it.
— I don't care about kings — he answered curtly.
— Of course you don't... — Greg murmured with amusement.
The limousine pulled away in silence.
For several minutes, only the sound of the engine and the rain beginning to fall could be heard.
— How was your meeting with Saul? — the priest asked, trying to regain his composure.
— Productive. He knows how to defend his own interests.
— What interests? — Raphaniè pressed.
— You'll discuss that in person in half an hour — Gregory Evans replied with an enigmatic smile.
— You're a man of your word, Greg. You kept your promise.
— I'm just a driver, sir — he joked, though his eyes in the rearview mirror held the gleam of a man who knew far more than he revealed.
— Thank you.
— Are you enjoying your stay at L'oscar London? — he asked casually.
— I would have been satisfied with a simple room.
— Doesn't your God say, "If you are willing and obedient, you shall eat the good of the land"? Perhaps He wants you to enjoy the finest things this land has to offer.
— There was no need to include the special massage.
— Did you enjoy the massage? — Gregory teased.
Raphaniè leaned forward, his face flushed with anger.
— You arranged that, you scoundrel?
— Me? I have no idea what you're talking about. I merely asked the manager to treat you with the excellence a guest of your stature deserves. The spa is one of the hotel's jewels. What is this story about a prostitute?
— Forget it! — he grumbled, sinking back into his seat.
— Did something happen that I should know about?
— How much longer must I pretend to be someone else? — he asked gravely.
— Until the mission is over.
— As far as I'm concerned, it already is.
— I wouldn't be so sure of that, Mr. Mannieri.
Raphaniè leaned forward again, tension evident in his posture.
— What do you mean by that?
— Baruch Hawkings — Gregory Evans began — is a well-known enthusiast of greyhound racing. Tonight, he'll be at the stadium, seated near your table. If he is who you think he is... then the Angel of Death has not yet fulfilled his role. This may be the perfect opportunity to see him in action.
— What do you know about that, Greg?
— Mr. Mannieri... I know everything. That should not come as a surprise to you.
— I don't understand where you're going with this.
Gregory smiled faintly before revealing, in a cold voice:
— Mal'akh ha-Mavet. It's one of the passwords used by the Catholic Church's death squad.
— The Catholic Church doesn't have a death squad! — Raphaniè protested indignantly.
— Don't be naïve. Of course it does. It's a modern version of the Crusaders, bearing the same name, only abbreviated: Pauperes commilitones Christi.
— Poor Knights of Christ... — the priest murmured.
— Exactly. But instead of fighting infidels, they fight the servants of the Devil.
— That's absurd! — he shot back. — The Templars were extinguished!
— Temporarily. They were dispersed to deceive the French king. Afterwards, they operated in the shadows. Do you really think the Church would abandon a military arm without replacing it with another? It survived for millennia not through charity, but through strategy.
Raphaniè remained silent.
Deep down, he knew there were grains of truth in those words.
The Crusades. The Inquisition.
Bloodstains upon sacred history.
Pope John Francis II had already asked forgiveness for the sins of the past, but some wounds still bled.
"The only weapon the Church possesses in the twenty-first century is the Word of God!"
He remembered Cardinal Josefo DellaMonica's raspy voice echoing once more through his mind.
"It was arrogance that made you a killer, Raphaniè..."
As the car approached the stadium, the city lights reflected in his troubled eyes.
He repeated the cardinal's words silently, trying to drive away the corrosive doubt that was consuming his spirit.
When he stepped out of the limousine, the memory of those sacred voices followed him like a shadow—and for the first time, his faith felt like a burden too heavy to bear.