THE TWO MEN ENTERED L'oscar London in complete silence, the weight of an unresolved disagreement lingering in the air between them. The soft lights of the lobby reflected off Venetian mirrors and gilded columns, casting long shadows across the polished marble floor. Their muffled footsteps echoed like the measured rhythm of a restrained war.
On their way to Dinner by Heston Blumenthal, the priest kept a stern expression, still wounded by Saul's attack on his beliefs, while the journalist, growing increasingly impatient, wondered why he still insisted on debating theology with a man who saw demons lurking behind every curtain.
I shouldn't have mentioned the SID... — Saul thought, adjusting his blazer as he caught his own reflection in the glass door.
This conspiracy is orchestrated by people of flesh and blood, not by heavenly ghosts.
He walked a few steps behind the priest, his mind racing and his heart torn between the logic of a reporter and the instincts of a survivor.
— Good evening, Mr. Mannieri, — a female voice greeted them at the restaurant entrance.
It was the first time Raphaniè had seen that hostess: a fair-skinned brunette with light brown curly hair cascading gracefully over her shoulders, green eyes that seemed to pierce the soul, and a smile that blended sweetness with defiance. She was tall, impeccably poised, and carried herself with a confidence that made every movement seem carefully rehearsed before a mirror.
— Good evening, — the priest replied, trying to conceal his uneasiness. — We'd like a more private table for two.
The tone of his voice betrayed a certain discomfort. There was something about the young woman that unsettled him—perhaps the way she looked at him with an almost profane curiosity, as though she knew far more than she should.
— Welcome, gentlemen, — she said with a slight nod, leading them through the occupied tables to one on the right side of the dining room, halfway between the entrance and the back. — I hope you enjoy your dinner.
— Thank you, Lauren, — Saul replied, taking the seat opposite the priest, with his back to the rest of the dining room.
Raphaniè looked at him, puzzled.
— I don't know her, yet she addressed me by name.
— The staff tends to treat the more generous guests very well, — Saul replied without the slightest surprise. — And don't forget: around here you're a successful Italian businessman. Perhaps your "massage" last night earned you a reputation among the hotel's girls.
The priest looked away, pretending to ignore the sarcasm.
— She reminded me of a quotation, — he murmured thoughtfully.
— By whom? — Saul asked, already accustomed to his companion's scholarly digressions.
— Samwell Petrarca, the inventor of the sonnet.
— And what did he say?
— "Woman is the devil himself." — Raphaniè answered in an almost reverent tone, recalling Sabrina's enigmatic smile just before she had undressed in front of him.
Saul raised an eyebrow, enjoying the exchange.
— In the Canzoniere, Petrarch's muse, Laura, is far closer to God than to the devil. That reminds me of Alexandre Dumas fils: "Woman is both angel and devil in the same body."
— It depends on how you look at her, — the priest replied, sounding more relaxed now.
— Everything depends on perspective.
— Well played! — the Italian complimented him, a hint of enthusiasm returning to his voice.
Before they could continue, the maître approached discreetly.
— Good evening, gentlemen.
— I'll have the lamb broth, — Raphaniè said first. — And you, Saul?
— The same, please, — the journalist replied before turning back to the priest with an inquisitive expression.
— If you're right about the Brotherhood's appropriation of Isaiah's prophecy, — Raphaniè began, — then the key to everything may lie in Dumas' son's statement.
— How so?
— Think about it. They intend to transform the mother of the Antichrist into an imitation of Mary—a supposedly pure woman destined to conceive the devil's son.
— "Woman is both angel and devil in the same body," — Saul repeated softly.
— Exactly. The angel and the devil inhabiting the same body.
— And what if these followers of Hell also appropriated the prophecies concerning the coming of the Antichrist?
— That's highly likely, — the priest agreed, staring into the distance. — Which is why I need my assistant at the Pontifical Athenaeum Regina Apostolorum to send me a confidential file.
— Father, do you remember any of those prophecies? — Saul pressed, leaning forward.
— Revelation is the most reliable source.
— And possibly the inspiration for these Satanists as well, — the journalist added.
Straightening in his chair, the priest said:
— John wrote:
"The woman was clothed in purple and scarlet, adorned with gold, precious stones, and pearls. In her hand she held a golden cup filled with abominations. Upon her forehead was written a mysterious name: Babylon the Great, the mother of prostitutes and of the abominations of the earth."
The waiter arrived with the first course, and the aroma of the lamb broth filled the air. Raphaniè attacked the bowl like a starving man, while Saul drummed his fingers against the linen tablecloth.
If the priest was right, then the man who had died in the stadium restroom had been the Ipsissimus—the supreme leader of the cult. And if his theory about the two rival factions was also correct, then the command had shifted to the United States. Unmasking the criminals now would be like hunting shadows on the other side of the Atlantic.
— What was that first diabolical riddle again? — Saul asked, interrupting his own train of thought.
— "With a blue cloak and a wide-brimmed hat, I shall rise from my stronghold upon the lake, and I shall be victorious."
— What does that mean?
— That the Brotherhood has chosen London for a devastating attack, — the priest replied without hesitation.
— So even with the Ipsissimus dead, the stage for the Dark Apocalypse will still be here?
— Yes. If this involves a ritual for the conception of the Antichrist, it will take place here, in this city cursed by its secrets.
— Then this is our chance to catch them, — Saul concluded, his eyes gleaming. — We just need to discover who the chosen woman is.
— Babylon, also called Babalon, the Great Harlot, the Scarlet Woman, — the priest added, wiping the last of the broth from his bowl with a piece of bread.
— Do you have any suspects?
Raphaniè hesitated. Sabrina's image flashed through his mind—she was the embodiment of sin itself, temptation made flesh. Yet the green-eyed hostess, Lauren, also seemed to carry something dark within her.
— I believe the signs point to one particular person, — Saul replied, swirling the wine in his glass beneath the priest's attentive and curious gaze.