SITTING IN FRONT OF HIS COMPUTER, Saul drummed the fingers of his right hand against the desk.
As promising as his conversation with Bishop had been, it had also awakened Meggie's suspicions.
He would not be able to focus on work until he heard an explanation from his assistant.
What is she hiding? he had asked himself countless times.
His eyes scanned the news page open on the screen.
One article caught his attention:
Artifacts Stolen from the British Museum
Last night, six objects mysteriously disappeared from the British Museum. They were part of the collection of John Dee, the scientist and mystic who gained notoriety after being appointed astrologer to Queen Elizabeth I. His fame inspired William Shakespeare in the creation of the character Prospero in The Tempest. Among the stolen items were the shew-stone, an Aztec mirror, and the Sigillum Dei, or Seal of God. The artifacts were likely used in magical rituals. British Museum curator Todd Gerard stated that the crime is being investigated by Scotland Yard. Authorities suspect that the museum's night security officer may have been involved. The alarms were disabled for several minutes during the early hours of the morning, in violation of the institution's security protocols.
Reported by the BBC.
— John Dee inspired Prospero? — he wondered aloud, surprised. — This robbery must have some connection to Raphaniè's mission and that satanic organization...
— I love your perfume.
Meggie interrupted him as she approached his desk.
Saul merely stared at his assistant with a furrowed brow, one eyebrow raised, suspicion evident in his gaze.
— Do you always draw conclusions before hearing the other side of the story? — Meggie asked.
— You should have explained everything during dinner yesterday.
— You missed a perfect opportunity to ask.
— I hate being caught off guard, — Saul shot back, clearly irritated.
— I told you what truly mattered to me. I could never have become an editor in New York. The best solution was exactly what you suggested over the phone: buying an assistant position in London.
— And who paid for that?
— A publisher. A friend of my father.
— And who the hell is your father?
— Off the record, do you want to know how I paid him back for the favor? During my last month in New York, I slept with him every single day.
Meggie held her boss's gaze provocatively.
— Is that how you get what you want? — Saul asked.
— Do you usually believe every ridiculous thing people tell you?
She smiled.
— You're avoiding the question.
— I thought your instincts were sharper. After all, you've won plenty of journalism awards.
— What exactly do you mean by that?
— Why didn't I sleep with you yesterday? — Meggie countered.
— You're reversing the roles. I'm supposed to be the one asking that question.
She lowered her head.
— My first time has to be with someone special, Saul. I want to be in love with that person.
— You're...? — he asked, genuinely stunned.
— Yes.
— Then what was the price for being here?
— Investigative journalism and blackmail. I found evidence in my father's office proving that he paid for articles to hide fraud and artificially boost the stock prices of several companies. The publisher who got me this position handled all the transactions behind the editorial board's back and made a fortune from it.
— You must really hate your father.
— I promised to destroy his reputation if he didn't help me.
Meggie looked directly at him again.
Her chin tilted slightly upward, and the smile at the corner of her lips revealed how proud she was of her own cleverness.
— You would expose your own father? — Saul asked, astonished.
— I just wanted to pursue my career in peace, far away from home. Sometimes freedom comes at a high price. It's not easy being the daughter of who I am.
— Thank you for your honesty.
— I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I still haven't fully processed everything myself.
Saul discreetly glanced around.
Once he was certain nobody was nearby, he lowered his voice.
— I'll trade your apology for an invitation.
— Let me guess: a classical music concert?
— I see you and Diana discussed more than just my perfume.
— During our conversation, I also discovered that your speech about perfect pairs is a cliché. You could have been more original with me, Saul.
— I never invited Diana to a dog race.
— A what?
— A dog race. It'll be the debut of my Wolfgang van Bach.
— A dog race?
Meggie burst out laughing.
— What's the problem? Don't they have dog races in America?
— You really surprised me.
— Can I pick you up tomorrow at six? We can have dinner at the stadium.
— Aren't we working tomorrow?
— Aren't we on Saturday duty? The race is the day after tomorrow, when your friend lands at Heathrow.
— Deal. You already know my address.
A soft smile appeared on her face.
— Perfect.
— Diana asked if I could write a fashion article.
— That's fine. I'll lend you to her for a little while.
Saul turned back to his monitor.
The article about the British Museum robbery remained open on the screen.
THERE WERE TEN MINUTES LEFT before the editorial meeting.
Saul had no desire to participate in planning the next edition of The Sunny.
Instead, he had become absorbed in a digital copy of The Tempest that he had downloaded shortly after inviting Meggie to the dog race.
From time to time, he scribbled notes into his notebook.
He wanted to understand how William Shakespeare's final play, inspired by John Dee, could possibly relate to a satanic conspiracy in the twenty-first century.
Everything began with a storm at sea, carrying the King of Naples, Alonso; his heir, Ferdinand; his brother, Sebastian; the Duke of Milan, Francisco; and a small entourage to a mysterious island.
On that remote land, Prospero commanded an army of spirits and nymphs.
One of his goals in causing the shipwreck through one of those spirits was revenge against his brother.
With King Alonso's help, Francisco had usurped his throne and cast him into the sea along with his daughter Miranda, hoping they would perish adrift.
Among the magician's followers—the true Duke of Milan—stood two opposing figures.
The spirit of air, Ariel, embodied submission.
He carried out every command in exchange for the promise of freedom.
The slave Caliban, however, was the bastard son of the Devil and a witch.
A monstrous creature who hated his master and constantly sought to betray him.
Throughout the play, the literary John Dee forgave his enemies and reclaimed his dukedom.
A dark brotherhood was founded by the "all-seeing eyes" to preserve secrets revealed by angels... Saul reasoned.
The priest said the followers of the Devil are planning the Dark Apocalypse. In other words, they want to reverse the ending of the story.
That's it. Prospero is a wronged Lucifer seeking to reclaim his throne.
The members of the cult believe they are working for him.
They are his instruments.
Who would Ariel be?
And the monster Caliban?
And Prospero's virgin daughter, Miranda?
She falls in love with and marries Ferdinand, son and heir of Alonso. The union transcends emotion—it is dynastic.
If the brotherhood's greatest legacy is a ritual of sexual magic intended to conceive the Antichrist, then they are trying to recreate the fiction...
The priest said that the Devil is God's monkey. He wants to imitate the Gospel narrative: the son who unites God and mankind, vengeance transformed into forgiveness.
This play reads like a blueprint for the dark brotherhood.
Could Shakespeare have written it on commission?
The thought lingered.
Coincidentally, it was the only completely original play written by William Shakespeare.
— SAUL, THE EDITORIAL MEETING has already started.
Meggie's voice shattered his concentration.
It sounded like a crack of lightning, pulling him back to reality and dispersing the fog of theories gathering in his mind.
— Thanks for letting me know.
He rose slowly, leaning on the ebony cane that always accompanied him.
The tap of wood against marble echoed like the rhythm of an ancient ritual.
— You looked like you were on another planet, — Meggie commented, crossing her arms and arching an eyebrow.
— I think I'm being contaminated by your bestsellers.
— Sorry... I don't think I understand.
— I only mean that instead of searching for hidden codes in the Sistine Chapel like one of your literary heroes, I'm trying to decipher The Tempest.
He began walking toward the meeting room, his cane punctuating every sentence.
— It's my favorite Shakespeare play, — Meggie confessed, adjusting the folder against her chest.
Saul stopped halfway down the corridor and slowly turned toward her.
It was as though he had just discovered a side of her he had never expected.
— So you like Shakespeare too?
— I prefer the movie adaptations.
— He wrote the plays for the theater, Meggie. I guarantee they come alive under stage lights far more intensely than on a cold cinema screen.
— Taste is not something you argue about.
— It's something you regret, — Saul corrected with a playful grin.
— It happens in the best families.
Her witty reply drew a brief but genuine laugh from him.
For a moment, he studied her.
There was something intriguing about the combination of insolence and charm that made her so unpredictable.
— I want you to come with me to a performance at Shakespeare's Globe. You do know what that is, don't you?
— Another one of your provocations?
She winked mischievously.
— I think our relationship is becoming... busy. Dinner, dog racing, theater... Maybe we can skip the classical music.
— We'll discuss that later. Right now I need to get to the meeting. They're waiting for me.
He tried to hide his smile.
He failed.
Meggie watched him walk away, the sound of his cane echoing through the newspaper offices like the beat of a drum.
— I bet that cane is more than just a cane! — she called after him.
Saul stopped but did not turn around.
— What do you mean by that?
— It must be a disguised sword.
She laughed.
— For defending yourself from villains... and protecting your lady.
Saul hesitated, glancing down at the object in his hand.
— Perhaps.
The journalist quickened his pace toward the meeting room door while a mysterious smile appeared on his lips.
The sound of the cane faded into the distance.
But the playful tension between them lingered in the air like an unspoken promise—
a sign of something yet to come.