THE PRIEST CHECKED HIS WATCH. It had been more than two and a half hours since Saul had called. He picked up his cell phone and notepad and left the suite.
As soon as he reached the restaurant, he followed a brunette hostess with green eyes to an empty table and, within seconds, received the menu.
— I'm waiting for someone who may arrive after lunch. I'll start with an orange juice. I have the flu and need a little vitamin C.
— Certainly! Excuse me, sir — said the waiter, leaving him to contemplate the view.
He was already accustomed to London's gray sky and the melancholy, gloomy atmosphere the city seemed to exude. He remembered the first riddle revealed at the Brotherhood of the Four Angels:
"With a blue cloak and a wide-brimmed hat, I will rise from my stronghold in the lake and be victorious."
His cell phone rang.
"... I'm just a few minutes from the hotel. Where can I find you?..."
— I'm already in the restaurant.
"... See you soon..."
— I'M GLAD, YOU CHOSE the right path, Saul — Raphaniè said, breaking into a broad smile as he stood to embrace the journalist.
— It was easier than I imagined — the journalist commented, sitting down across from the Italian.
The waiter handed him the menu, and moments later he announced his choice:
— Cod with cider.
— Something to drink?
— Seasoned tomato juice.
— You're not having wine? — Raphaniè asked, surprised.
— Unfortunately, I don't have much time. Jessyca will be here shortly.
Raphaniè was seized by a coughing fit and struggled to breathe. Despite the spasms, he managed to grab the glass, take a sip of juice, and clear his throat.
— Are you all right? — Saul asked, concerned.
— I'm fine. I think I caught the flu — Raphaniè replied.
— You'd better take care of yourself.
— I'll have plenty of time for that during my exile. Now let's get to the point. What did you find out?
— Exile?
— It's a long story...
— Okay! Your attacker's name is Drew, and he uses the surname LaVey.
— The same name as the founder of modern Satanism.
— Probably... He's Baruch Hawkings's bastard son and... the likely serial killer of the satanic cult — the journalist explained.
— Let's report him!
— Scotland Yard probably wouldn't investigate the accusation.
— Why?
— Because he doesn't exist in any civil registry anywhere in the world.
— It's as if he were a ghost.
— In that case, the ideal thing would be to catch him in the act.
— The last ritualistic murder happened a few days ago. Even if he attacked again, we wouldn't know when or where.
— But we know who the victim is.
— Who?
— Babalon — the journalist replied.
— You're mistaken, Saul. The Great Whore isn't a victim. She chose the wrong path — Raphaniè shot back, raising his voice.
— I spoke to a close friend of hers, and she assured me that Jessyca has no connection whatsoever to Satanism.
— And the article you wrote?
— It was distorted by my ignorance about Afro-Brazilian religions and by The Sunny's sensationalism.
— Jessyca does have a connection to Satanism — Raphaniè said, staring at Saul.
— You can't say that just because she follows a religion different from yours.
— It has nothing to do with my religion. Her father was... — Raphaniè stammered.
The tomato juice arrived at the table in the waiter's hands and, contrary to his usual manners, the journalist did not thank him. He remained in the same position, staring at the Italian. He was an experienced interviewer and understood body language. Raphaniè was on the verge of revealing a secret. Any gesture, however trivial, could discourage him. On previous occasions, that ritual had worked. There was no harm in trying it with the priest.
— Was... — Saul prompted hesitantly.
— A priest.
— You are too...
— It's different...
— Just because he didn't believe in the same things you do? — Saul asked, changing his strategy.
Saul felt this was the moment to put him against the wall.
— If you really want to defend that argument, you need to provide more consistent evidence. I already told you I'm a man of science. Anything based solely on what you believe isn't enough to convince me, much less the people out there.
— I need to make a confession to you, Saul... — he whispered, lowering his head, visibly ashamed.
— As long as you don't mind me being without a cassock — the journalist joked, trying to ease the tension.
— I don't mind, as long as you keep it secret — Raphaniè replied, turning his face toward him with a serious expression.
Since my confessor didn't...
— Off the record — Saul agreed.
— He sacrificed a child — the priest revealed, switching the language of the conversation to Italian.
— How do you know that?
— The story is long and your time is short — Raphaniè evaded, watching the waiter serve the journalist's dish.
— Now I have time to listen — Saul insisted, taking his first sip of tomato juice.
— A few years after my ordination, I went through a crisis of vocation. I even thought about leaving the priesthood. That was when I met my current confessor.
— Cardinal DellaMonica.
He nodded and continued:
— He advised me to leave the comfort of my parish in Turin and involved me in missionary work because of my Jesuit training.
— Was that how you ended up in Brazil?
— Yes...
— Coincidentally in the same place where Jessyca lived...
— Yes...
— Who chose the destination?
— My confessor arranged everything — the priest replied.
— Okay.
— I knew Francisco practiced black magic, although his wife and daughter attended Mass regularly.
He looked at Saul, who was watching him intently, and continued.
— One afternoon, while I was walking through the village, a desperate woman ran past me, begging me to pray for her daughter's soul. She had given the girl to Jessyca's father for a human sacrifice ritual similar to what LaVey has been doing.
— Wow! — the journalist exclaimed, surprised by the story.
— I knew he held his ceremonies in the backyard of his house, but since all kinds of celebrations are common in Brazil, many of which even involve the Catholic Church, I went there to see whether the woman's story was true. I couldn't just stand by and do nothing, Saul. I... I... climbed the wall, and... — Raphaniè interrupted the story, his eyes lost in the past.
— And...?
— That bastard slit the child's throat as though she were an animal... — Raphaniè exploded, turning toward the journalist, his fists clenched and his face flushed.
— My God! — Saul let slip.
— I killed that bastard with my own hands — the priest continued, tears streaming down his face.
— You murdered Jessyca's father?
— That was my crime.
The journalist took a deep breath. He was not merely sitting across from a murderous priest. Raphaniè was also a fugitive, and his presence in London, only a few days before the top model's arrival, could hardly be a coincidence.
They planned everything from the very beginning... — Saul deduced.
— Was the same person who sent you to Brazil also the one who sent you on this mission?
Raphaniè remained silent.
— I'll take your silence as a yes.
— It's not what you're thinking...
— Since Cardinal DellaMonica is your confessor, he knew about the murder of Jessyca's father, right?
— Yes, but...
— There is no but. It's too obvious.
— What exactly are you trying to insinuate, Saul?
— That you don't need to waste any more time looking for your traitor — the journalist fired back.
— Never!
— Yes, Father. He didn't send you to Brazil by chance, just as he didn't send you here for some higher mission. Either your confessor is part of the satanic cult, or he has some hidden interest in this conspiracy.
— He may have been used to...
— The best accomplice is the one who suspects nothing, Father.
He glanced at his watch.
— I'm sorry, but I need to go.
— Let me help you — Raphaniè asked.
— Be at the press conference tonight at eight. If you notice anything that confirms the hypothesis that she really is this Babalon, let me know.
— Forgive me for not telling you this story earlier.
— Everything has its proper time. Besides, when we have secrets of this magnitude, we don't go shouting them from the rooftops to just anyone...
— You're right.
— And you had something for me, didn't you?
— Of course! I'd almost forgotten. Here is the message you received in Enochian — the priest said, taking a folded sheet of paper from the pocket of his jacket and handing it to the journalist.
— Thank you... I'll read it later — Saul replied, saying goodbye with a handshake.
Raphaniè watched him stride away and, as soon as he disappeared from sight, another coughing fit seized him and nearly left him breathless.
He's wrong. Josephus is a servant of God. I need to find out who the traitor is... — he thought. — My God, let Saul be wrong about Josephus... — he prayed silently.