THE JOURNALIST HELD OUT HIS HAND. It was a sign that he had chosen the path advocated by the priest—the path of forgiveness.
Winston Nolland smiled and shook his son's hand before pulling him into an embrace; he wanted a less formal reconciliation. Saul felt his father's heart beating against him. He was relieved and happy, and he felt strong. At that moment, he would have been capable of entering the labyrinth and facing the "monsters" hidden within its treacherous corridors.
— I forgive you, Dad — Saul whispered.
— Thank you, son. I really needed that — Nolland replied, drawing back so he could look at his face.
As Saul stared into eyes holding back tears, his father's own tears streamed freely down his cheeks. Nolland wiped them away with the back of his right hand. It was the first time the journalist had ever seen his father cry, and he realized just how fragile that man could be.
— I'm happy to have my family back — the journalist said with a broad smile.
— May the goddess Diana and her doe bear witness to this moment — his father announced, pointing toward the sculpture above the fountain.
— This ring has been in our family for hundreds of years...
He continued, raising his right index finger to Saul's eye level.
— Passed down through the firstborn from generation to generation.
— It's our family crest — the journalist observed.
— It's more than that. It is our connection to the past and to the future. You were supposed to receive it after I was gone.
— Have you forgotten I already received my share of the inheritance? — Saul joked.
— You can lose material possessions, but your personal history cannot be stolen, nor can it be eroded by time. That is your true inheritance, son.
— What do you mean by that, Dad?
— I mean I'm going to break with tradition — he replied, removing the ring from his finger.
— I can't, Dad... — Saul murmured hesitantly.
— Give me your right hand — his father ordered.
The journalist extended it toward him.
— Saul, accept this ring as a token of loyalty. May it be a bridge between your ancestors and your descendants. It must remain on your finger until your firstborn bids farewell to your soul and buries your body — he solemnly declared as he slipped the ring onto his son's index finger.
— It's heavy.
— It's the weight of the family tree... of your blood. You'll learn to live with it.
— I hope so.
— Shall we head back? I don't want you to be late for your professional commitments.
— Goodbye, Diana — Saul waved toward the statue.
— Until next time — his father added, and Saul nodded.
— When do you want to receive the dossier on Hawkings and his lackeys?
— Sometime in the next few days. My schedule is pretty tight today.
— How about spending next weekend together? We could combine business with pleasure. I'll show you the dossier, and in our spare time we can hunt, ride, and... try to reach the center of the labyrinth.
— It's a tempting offer, but I won't be able to give you an answer until sometime during the week. Is that all right?
— No problem — Nolland replied, pausing briefly before adding:
— And feel free to bring someone if you'd like.
Saul felt his heart tighten. Fifteen years earlier, his father had made the same invitation, and on the way back Saul had suffered the tragic accident that took Justine from him. If he could turn back time, his answer would have been different.
— If I don't have any commitments preventing me from being here next weekend, Dad, I'll come alone — Saul replied firmly.
— As you wish, son.
The two of them reached the front door of the mansion.
LIZBETH STOOD BEFORE THE FIREPLACE, anxiously awaiting the return of her husband and son. The door opened, and she first studied her husband's expression.
He must have gotten that weight off his shoulders... — she deduced before turning toward Saul. Her son looked happy, and Lizbeth let out a long sigh of relief.
— The walk went very well — her husband commented.
— Too bad it was so short — Saul added, glancing at his wristwatch.
— Are you having lunch with us? — his mother asked.
— Unfortunately, I don't have time. Work is forcing me to head back.
— Perhaps he'll spend next weekend here, won't you, son? — his father insisted.
— Maybe — Saul replied, approaching his mother for a farewell embrace.
— Thank you so much, son — she whispered in his ear.
— Don't thank me for that — he replied as he shifted his cane from one hand to the other. Then he turned toward his father with a smile, his right hand extended and tilted slightly upward.
— A beautiful ring, son — Nolland observed as he shook his hand.
He gave Saul the ring! Why didn't he tell me he was going to do that? — Lizbeth thought, casting a worried glance toward the two men.
— And if I never have children, Dad, who am I supposed to leave this to? — Saul joked.
— That's your problem, son. I've already done my part — Winston Nolland shot back with a smile.
The butler opened the door, smiling.
— Goodbye, Mr. Saul.
— Goodbye, Garvin.
THE JOURNALIST GOT INTO THE TESLA and started the car. Before passing the griffins guarding the estate, he activated the hands-free system. He had two urgent calls to make. He decided to start with his assistant.
Meggie answered on the second ring.
— Meggie, how are you?
"... More or less..."
— Something wrong with Jessyca's arrival? — Saul asked immediately.
"... No. I found out from the newspaper today that I missed the greatest journalism lesson of my life. Congratulations on the Hawkings story..."
— Thank you, but that's only the tip of the iceberg, and you can help me bring the rest of it to the surface.
"... I'm at your disposal..."
— I should be there in about half an hour. We need to have a meeting before your afternoon tea with Jessyca.
"... Want to give me a hint about what it's about?..."
— I'd rather discuss it in person.
"... Where do you want to meet?..."
— Near your house... by the Wynne sculpture, close to Albert Bridge.
"... I'm becoming quite familiar with the sculptures of Chelsea..." — Meggie joked.
— I'll call when I'm nearby. See you soon — Saul said goodbye, then dialed Raphaniè's number. It rang until it went to voicemail.
AFTER THE CALL, Saul turned on the radio. He was happy about his reconciliation with his father. He looked at his right hand resting on the steering wheel and admired his family ring like a trophy. Two years earlier, when Winston Nolland had disowned him, Saul had purchased a 1945 Château Mouton Rothschild at Sotheby's. The label, designed by Willpe Jullian, displayed the V for victory and bore the words:
"Année de La Victoire."
He had intended to uncork the bottle as soon as he proved to his father that he had been right all along. He left the mansion with a victory far more glorious than he had imagined. He no longer needed to prove anything to his father, and now he would even have his help in bringing down the satanic cult, while also restoring his professional prestige and the public's trust. He deserved to celebrate with that Premier Grand Cru Classé, but there would be no time for that in the next few hours...
Perhaps not even in the next few days...
It was time to set his feelings aside and organize his thoughts.
The bastard X, Drew-LaVey, Baruch Hawkings's bastard son... — he thought.
— My childhood friend... — he said aloud.
His distant gaze stirred vague memories.
If Mikhail's theory is correct, LaVey is the serial killer, and if we could capture him, we could get the evidence of the crimes. Now, if X is Hawkings's illegitimate son, and Hawkings is the Ipsissimus, then he becomes the main link between the satanic cult and the ritual murders... — Saul deduced.
— The question is: how do we get our hands on this psychopath?
If Scotland Yard has been covering everything up from the beginning, they would never investigate LaVey unless the evidence were irrefutable... Perhaps this is where the priest's prophecies can point the way to the satanic cult... The dark brotherhood intends to carry out a demonic version of the Apocalypse... A devastating attack? A ritual for the conception of the Antichrist? Perhaps both... Perhaps the five previous murders foreshadow what will happen to the sixth woman, the Babalon...
— Jessyca Volpi...
Could they be planning to murder the model? It would be an effective way to trigger an international cataclysm. I wouldn't put it past them, and I bet LaVey has been assigned the job. He has the know-how, and the best time to catch him is during the act. I have to catch him red-handed... I need to come clean with Meggie and demand absolute secrecy. The operation is delicate. If the Brazilian woman is part of the cult and suspects anything, the whole plan will fall apart...
— Mikhail, we're going to turn the tables.
Saul was approaching the place where he had suffered the accident.
— Why don't you show yourself now, you bastard? — he challenged the man in the black cloak and mask, then remembered Raphaniè's words:
Perhaps you saw the opposite: the devil dressed as a man. He is capable of superhuman feats, such as appearing and disappearing in the blink of an eye...
Saul slammed his foot down on the accelerator and sped past the same spot where he had rolled the car fifteen years earlier, the speedometer reading one hundred and eighty kilometers per hour. He slowed down and looked into the rearview mirror. A dark shadow hovered over the road.
Perhaps Raphaniè is right. This is more than a battle between men, and if that message I received in my dream is written in Enochian, it couldn't have come from my subconscious... It must have come from outside. I've never studied John Dee's cryptography... — he concluded with a mixture of hesitation and bewilderment.
— If LaVey has the Book of Silver Leaves, it's possible he'll use it with Jessyca...
Naturally, these Satanists believe demons truly exist. Raphaniè does too. And I... That doesn't matter now. That book must contain the key ritual for bringing about the Dark Apocalypse... I don't doubt Raphaniè's good intentions, but he himself said there is a traitor within his Catholic brotherhood. It's possible someone is manipulating him...
— I need to be cautious with him — he told himself.
Although, during our dinner at Heston Blumenthal, Raphaniè promised to destroy the book... Perhaps that isn't the best way to treat a piece of English history... — Saul pondered.