MIKHAIL TOSSED RESTLESSLY in bed, as though wrestling with an invisible nightmare. The sheets were tangled, his pillow damp with sweat, and his head pounded as if a hammer were beating inside his skull. He tried to open his eyes, but the daylight blinded him for a moment. His cellphone vibrated on the nightstand, announcing a missed call from an unknown number.
He sat up with difficulty, rubbing his temples, and opened his message inbox.
"The Italian businessman has just placed a call to Rome from the Business Center. He left the room visibly shaken and returned to his suite."
He immediately recognized the voice of his spy embedded inside L'oscar London.
— Maybe there's more information in my email... — he muttered, already sensing it would be a long night.
The memory of his grandfather crossed his mind, almost like a curse.
"You'll be working for men who were born condemned. But you can still be redeemed. This is your last chance."
At the time, he had thought the old man was losing his mind. Now, he was beginning to question that assumption.
"You have two new messages..." the cellphone's metallic voice announced.
The moment he opened the email, a chill ran down his spine.
"The organization has suffered its second loss in just a few hours. An aristocrat put a bullet through his own mouth. Investigators found readable fragments of documents he had burned shortly beforehand in the trash bin of his office. Under normal circumstances, this would be completely irrelevant—if the information hadn't leaked to the journalist.
I'm afraid that may already have happened, and I want you to confirm it.
After Operation Lux, there's a good chance the journalist will identify his informant. The traitor goes by the alias Mikhail.
I want you to discover his true identity. Good luck."
Mikhail let out a deep sigh, his face tense.
— Shit... — he muttered, rubbing his face. — This is a suicide mission, and they're putting my neck on the chopping block...
He set the cellphone down on the table and remained silent for a few moments, weighing every word. His instincts screamed that something much bigger lay behind it all. Something beyond even the control of the men giving him orders.
— Why won't that damned journalist just let it go? — he growled as he activated the vehicle tracker.
The system confirmed it: Saul Nolland was on his way to The Holme. Mikhail followed the route in real time, watching the glowing dot crawl across the digital map.
During the drive, the journalist had made and received several calls. Every one of them had been recorded. He activated the recorder and began listening to the intercepted conversations.
The voices emerged through bursts of static, broken by interference. One of them unmistakably belonged to Raphaniè. The other—distorted and disguised by a voice modulator—belonged to Scotland Yard's mysterious contact: Mikhail.
The Archangel closed his eyes, straining to catch every word and every breath, but the deception was flawless. No accent. No vocal signature. Mikhail could be anyone.
— The Vice President is right... — he reflected. — That ghost could be a real threat. If Saul and the priest reach the Bastard, they'll bring the entire organization crashing down. But if they fail... everything comes crashing down on us.
Then another thought sliced through his mind like a blade:
The Church.
That ancient, omnipresent institution was once again involved where it had no business being. Experience had taught him that whenever the clergy infiltrated the underworld, their goal was rarely to save souls. It was to cover up explosions—or to trigger implosions.
— Think... That's why you're here... — he whispered to himself, trying to bring order to the chaos inside his head.
The sound of a notification shattered the silence of the room. His cellphone flashed with a new alert.
Saul Nolland was calling Raphaniè Marin, the Vatican's messenger.
Mikhail adjusted his headset, leaned back in the armchair, and smiled with irony.
— Time to hear the latest gossip... — he said as the recording began to play, the voices of the priest and the journalist filling the room like the opening notes of a coming war.