DESPITE HIS NERVOUSNESS, FARADDAY noticed that he wore a thick gold ring on the index finger of his right hand.
During the afternoon, the American Vice President Adameck Faradday remained locked inside his West Wing office, ignoring phone calls, urgent reports, and even the aides who, anxious, awaited presidential orders. The golden clock on the wall marked the hours with almost ironic precision, each tick reminding him that this could be the most decisive day of his life.
Instead of official papers or cabinet meetings, Faradday spent his time playing solitaire on his computer—a solitary card game for a man who, paradoxically, was surrounded by power yet isolated by fear.
He was waiting for a single call. A voice. A password. That was all. Everything else—the country, the party, the press, even the president himself—seemed distant, irrelevant. That phone call represented the thin line between glory and the abyss, between remaining the man closest to the White House and becoming just another forgotten corpse in a staged plane crash or a poorly explained suicide.
It was a price he had accepted since the age of thirty, when an unlikely invitation opened the doors of the Senate to him. A political meteoroid, the newspapers said—but what no one knew was who had lit the match that launched him to the skies, and everyone who knew Adameck Faradday's benefactor also knew the rumor: whoever betrayed him ended up dismembered—literally—and still alive.
So when the cellphone vibrated on the mahogany desk, he felt his blood run cold, for the number was the expected one.
"…The tea is splendid…" announced a firm, cutting voice on the other end of the line.
Faradday swallowed hard. The countersign was correct.
—I hope you're drinking Earl Grey, —he replied, staring at the ceiling.
"…There would be no other option…"
A heavy silence followed.
—The students have done their homework.
"…Excellent. Are they doing well?…"
—Yes. They passed the exam.
"…I want you to continue giving them extra lessons. Their performance depends on you…"
—Don't worry, —Faradday concluded with a faint smile. —They'll move up to the next grade.
He hung up and, for a few seconds, remained motionless, listening to the echo of his own heartbeat. Then he grabbed a cold sandwich from the table and devoured it as if trying to fill the emptiness in his stomach—and his conscience.
SHORTLY AFTER THE CALL, he canceled all his appointments and boarded a private flight to New York. The country slept under the illusion of stability while the vice president moved silently toward a meeting that could never be recorded in the annals of history.
At exactly nine o'clock at night, his black car stopped in front of Rockefeller Center. The building shimmered against the sky, and the lights of Manhattan reflected on its glass like stars trapped on Earth.
Faradday went up to the sixty-fifth floor, accompanied by a silent maître who led him through narrow corridors lined with antique tapestries and mirrored doors. The golden hall was completely empty—only the glow of crystal chandeliers, the démodé décor, and the vertiginous view of the city below kept him company.
Why arrange a meeting in this decadent place when there are dozens of exceptional restaurants in New York? he wondered, trying to decipher the enigma.
He didn't have to wait long for the answer.
A side door opened, and from it emerged a man in his fifties, gray hair cut with military precision, an impeccable navy-blue suit, white shirt, and red tie. His gaze carried the confidence of someone accustomed to dictating destinies.
Without formalities, the two men greeted each other with a brief handshake—a silent assessment. It was the kind of meeting where every gesture meant more than any word.
—It is a pleasure to meet you, sir.
—The pleasure is mine. Please, come with me.
They walked side by side. Faradday noticed something that unsettled him: the man did not seem impressed to be standing before the Vice President of the United States. On the contrary—there was a cold, almost divine aura of superiority about him.
—In this very place, —said the host, gesturing toward the panoramic window,— John D. Rockefeller used to envision the world. Here, he met with the leaders of the thirteen lineages… among them, your great-grandfather.
Faradday's heart skipped a beat.
So it was true… everything he had heard in the shadows carried a thread of reality…
The man's gaze fell upon his hand.
—Yes… —he continued, as if reading his thoughts,— it is identical to the ring your father left you. Wear it after this meeting—and never remove it.
Faradday touched the inner pocket of his jacket, where the ring rested.
—I am grateful for everything you have done for me.
—It is time you understand who we are—and what we represent.
They sat across from each other. The silence was dense.
—The Invisible Sovereigns, —the man revealed.
—The conspirators? —Faradday let slip, his voice trembling.
—I prefer the term "Liberators."
—Of course…
—Do not worry, I am used to that reaction.
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a solemn whisper:
—Our secret society has existed since the Assyrian invasion of Israel, in the eighth century before Christ. We come from one of the twelve tribes—the one that was cursed and erased from the Scriptures. Our genealogy was suppressed from the Old Testament, and John omitted it in Revelation.
Faradday remained silent, absorbing every word.
—We are the other side of history, Mr. Vice President.
The man raised his hand, revealing the golden ring gleaming under the chandelier.
—Our master chose the tribe of Dan, and to it we swore loyalty. What do you see in this symbol?
—An eagle… with a scale above it.
—Exactly. It is the emblem of the royal lineage. Some of our brothers discreetly engrave it into their family crests.
The Vice President took a deep breath.
—And the mission in London?
—That is why you are here. The Ipsissimus is facing difficulties ensuring the continuity of the royal lineage.
—Why not choose another leader?
—Because this is not a democracy. —The answer came sharp, dangerous.— Blood is the only legitimacy. The Ipsissimus is the last pure descendant of the tribe of Dan.
Faradday bowed his head.
—I apologize…
The man interrupted him with a glacial stare.
—Apologies are for the weak.
For a moment, silence was absolute—heavy as lead. Then the man continued:
—Months ago, the master confided in me that the time to act had come. We sent an Archangel to London.
Faradday looked up, surprised.
—The perfect person.
—Without a doubt.
A brief smile crossed the host's face.
—Failure, Faradday, is intolerable. The Archangel must lead our adversary exactly where we want him—and no one can discover who he is.
The vice president nodded, trying to hide the cold sweat running down the back of his neck.
—The Archangel is flawless. The best we have.
The man raised his glass of wine.
—I hope you know how to deal with the past… don't you?
Faradday smiled, nervous.
—He certainly will.
—Perfect.
The clinking of glasses sounded like a sealed pact—and perhaps, a death sentence.