GREG WAS EXHAUSTED. His pale face betrayed a sleepless night, and his soul bore the weight of a guilt he could not yet name. Baruch Hawkings' death had come at the worst possible moment—not merely because it jeopardized the mission, but because Greg's instincts as a strategist told him that someone was manipulating events from within the very machinery itself.
He had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the mere fact that he had crossed paths with Morris Standhaw at that cursed racetrack had been enough to throw the entire game off balance.
Greg held his breath for a moment, trying to organize his thoughts, when he heard a raspy voice behind him.
— Mr. Evans, what a coincidence to find you here. Do you enjoy dog racing?
Greg turned around slowly, adjusting his dark gray suit jacket, his gaze cold and calculating.
— I'm merely monitoring the progress of the mission.
Standhaw lit a cigar and slowly exhaled the smoke, wearing an ironic smile.
— I hope the mission isn't that loudmouth.
Greg raised an eyebrow.
— I don't waste my time on tragedies that everyone saw coming.
— He was a big fish.
— You know what they say about fish, don't you?
— They die because they open their mouths.
— Exactly.
The silence between them was filled by the distant sound of racing dogs, barking and applause blending into the tension. Standhaw leaned forward slightly, studying the American's face.
— But I have a question.
Greg fixed his eyes on him, patient and dangerous.
— Go ahead.
— Since when have you taken an interest in fishing?
Greg's smile was almost imperceptible, but his eyes revealed irony and calculation. He offered no reply. Instead, he walked away, leaving the other man alone with the echo of his own provocation.
GREGORY WATCHED the black Tesla leave the parking garage and disappear around the corner, its headlights fading into the London fog like silent ghosts. The cold night wind cut across his face, but he seemed not to notice.
Those two are going to cause me problems sooner or later... — he thought, clenching his jaw. — I need to find out what they're planning...
He pulled out his wallet, tossed a bill to the valet, and climbed into his own car. The city drifted past in a blur of amber lights reflected across the rain-soaked pavement. On the way to his office, he discreetly activated the hidden listening device inside Saul's vehicle. The static faded, and familiar voices soon filled the cabin.
— Do you remember Mikhail? — Saul's voice asked, deep, weary, yet surprisingly steady.
— Your contact at Scotland Yard? — Raphaniè asked.
— Yes...
— Why did you choose that pseudonym?
— He chose it himself. As for what it means... I haven't the slightest idea.
— The character is biblical—an archangel, a warrior, one of the seven most powerful in our Church.
Greg turned up the volume. That caught his attention.
— Well... my contact at Scotland Yard joined the force because he believed in justice, — Saul continued. — But once he saw what really goes on inside, he felt betrayed as well.
— And now he fights back by leaking classified information... — the priest completed.
— Exactly.
— So, what happened to the controversial lord? — Raphaniè insisted.
Saul cleared his throat before answering.
— The death will be investigated by the SID, a special division responsible for supernatural crimes. Apparently, he was pierced by something incandescent... some kind of blade that left one burn on his back and another on his chest. It tore everything apart from the inside out, including his heart.
The priest rose abruptly from his chair, his breathing unsteady.
— A flaming sword! — he exclaimed.
— What's that supposed to be? — Saul asked incredulously.
— The weapon of the destroying angels.
— And you actually believe that?
— If this were an ordinary crime, — Raphaniè replied, — why would they assign the investigation to a special division? Wouldn't they have found the killer already?
— Perhaps there's another explanation.
— Why do you always dismiss the religious explanation, Saul?
— Because even religious evidence has to be proven.
— But faith cannot be explained.
— Then faith isn't material evidence of a crime. It's as simple as that.
The priest lowered his head, closed his eyes, and murmured:
— There are more mysteries in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy.
Saul let out an exasperated sigh.
— Why is it that every religious person, when they run out of rational arguments, quotes Shakespeare? He wrote fiction, Father. And as far as I'm concerned, religious beliefs are fiction too.
A heavy silence settled between the two men.
On the other end of the wiretap, Gregory watched the sleeping city through the windshield and allowed himself a faint smile. That conversation confirmed what he had already suspected: between faith and reason, the true battlefield was only just beginning.