SITTING IN HIS FAVORITE ARMCHAIR in front of the fireplace, Saul finished preparing his pipe to the sound of Bach. Ever since he had arrived home from the newsroom, he had wanted to call Meggie. His assistant had sounded deeply shaken on the phone, and it was his fault. Maybe he should invite her to dinner.
It wouldn't be appropriate right now. Better leave it for later. When everything is settled... — he concluded, lighting his pipe.
He checked his wristwatch: eight forty-five.
The press conference must be almost over. George will call me in a few minutes... — he thought, taking two puffs.
— LaVey... LaVey... — he murmured. — Meggie said he was summoned by the man who discovered Jessyca Volpi... Besides being a psychopath, he must be the traitor from the English faction of that cult. Either way, I was right. Those bastards have been plotting something for a long time, and the outcome, the Dark Apocalypse, has a date and time set: tomorrow, at eleven-thirty at night. LaVey, this time you won't escape me.
— And the priest...
Raphaniè had been sent to Jessyca Volpi's village when she was still unknown...
— My God! He murdered her father and ran away! — he exclaimed, taking another puff from his pipe.
Years later, he arrives in London just days before the top model, stays at the same hotel and, when he meets her, pretends to be someone else.
I never thought... He always seemed sincere to me. Maybe too innocent and gullible, easily manipulated by his confessor, but sincere. Some things could be explained better if he...
— If he were part of that satanic cult... — he thought aloud.
I think I'm imagining things. It's easier to assume that the Brotherhood of the Four Angels, which he belongs to, is engaged in a holy war without restrictions. That would explain Baruch Hawkings's death just as well as the war between the two factions. I'm walking on eggshells...
— Damn it, this tingling won't leave me alone — he muttered impatiently, massaging his right temple with his ring and middle fingers.
Raphaniè said he would be at the press conference. Maybe the Church is planning an attack on LaVey. That would ruin my whole plan... — he considered, picking up his cell phone.
He called the priest's number.
I'll wait a little longer... — he decided, placing the phone back on the small table beside the armchair.
He looked at the ring on the index finger of his right hand.
He remembered his father's words:
"You may lose your material possessions, but your personal history can never be stolen from you or eroded by time. It is your true inheritance."
Saul took two more puffs from his pipe and placed it in the holder. With a smile on his face, he closed his eyes. That morning, a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and he rested his head against the back of the armchair.
— Today has been full of surprises... I'm exhausted... — he sighed.
International politics editor... Five hundred thousand dollars a year. A coveted position, with a salary far above average. It makes no sense for anyone to give Mick that kind of power. That bastard was hiding something..., but what? — he thought, until the ringing of his phone interrupted him.
He checked the number. It was Francis Bishop.
— Are you following the press conference?
"... From a distance. I sent a reporter and photographers, and I'm waiting for a report..."
— Tomorrow, I have an exclusive with Jessyca Volpi. Why?
"... I didn't want to interrupt your work..."
— How can I help you, Francis?
"... I want to know whether Mick has already co-opted you..."
— He invited me for a private conversation in the newspaper's tea room.
"... And in that conversation..." — Francis hinted, intending for his subordinate to finish the sentence.
— He offered me the position of international editor in New York, with an annual salary of...
"Five hundred thousand dollars..." — the director of The Sunny interrupted, showing that he already knew about the arrangement.
— Exactly...
"... A salary well above market rate, isn't it?..." — his boss insinuated.
— I found the offer, at the very least... strange — Saul commented.
"... Suspicious..." — Francis corrected.
— No doubt about it...
"... And naturally, an intelligent journalist like you must be wondering why he made you that offer..."
— To be honest, I'm so busy with Jessyca Volpi that I haven't had much time to think about it yet — the assistant editor evaded.
"... I called to save you some time. As you know, that bastard Mick sold himself to one of the partners of a major New York newspaper. I've just been informed by a reliable source that the price was not merely Meggie's hiring at The Sunny. You were part of the package, Saul..."
— What do you mean?
"... That bastard must have told you he has complete freedom to assemble his own team..."
— Yes.
"... In fact, the Americans demanded that he convince you to move to New York, no matter what it cost..."
— Why would they do that?
"... If I were you, I'd ask your assistant. You're intelligent, Saul. You must already suspect that Meggie isn't just an excellent reporter with powerful contacts..."
— Thank you for the call, Francis. I'll look into it.
"... As soon as you find out anything, contact me..."
— Okay! See you.
— MEGGIE?! WHY DO THEY WANT ME in New York? Who wants me in New York? — he asked himself, rising from the armchair.
I'm close to bringing down that damned cult. Could they be trying to lure me into an ambush? Meggie?! She seemed sincere to me. Maybe Gregory Evans knows the answer. Maybe he protected the priest to throw him into a trap, or perhaps to use him as bait to catch me...
— I need to talk to him.
He picked up his cell phone and called Raphaniè's number again.