IT WAS ALMOST SEVEN IN THE MORNING when the nurse turned on the light in Raphaniè's room. He was drenched in sweat, having just awakened from the worst nightmare of his life, and smiled with relief when he realized nothing was missing. His hand was still there. So were his eyes and the rest of his body. He took a deep breath as the nurse approached and removed the bandage from his left eyebrow.
— I'm starving, complained Raphaniè.
— Unfortunately, you won't be able to have breakfast. You need to fast for the CT scan.
— Not even a cup of coffee?
— Only after the exam. For now, I'm going to redo the dressing.
— I'm having that blessed exam right afterward, aren't I?
— Before that, you'll need to deal with a few matters involving your bodyguard.
— You must be joking! — Raphaniè raised his voice.
— I'm talking about the man who spent nearly the entire night standing guard outside your room, explained the nurse as she applied a yellow ointment to the stitched wound.
Someone knocked and immediately entered.
It was Gregory Evans, carrying a laptop case.
— Good morning, Father. I brought your computer.
— Can we do this after the scan?
— The thing is...
— I'm starving.
— We don't have time. We need to mislead the enemy before he decides to strike again, said Gregory, turning toward the nurse.
— Once you're done, please leave us.
— I'm already finished.
She left and closed the door.
— Let's get this over with, insisted Raphaniè.
— This little spy revealed everything you did on this computer, Gregory said, displaying a small device inserted into one of the laptop's USB ports.
— We're going to use the enemy's weapon against him.
— Exactly.
— What do you want me to do first?
— Buy a ticket back to Rome, departing from Heathrow late this afternoon.
— Easy enough. I'll use my credit card so there's no doubt.
After connecting to the hospital Wi-Fi, he completed the purchase.
— Done. Can I take the exam now?
— Not yet. Write an email to the journalist saying the Vatican aborted the mission. Tell him you have urgent business in Italy and will be leaving on the first available flight, so you won't be able to say goodbye in person.
— And what guarantees that you'll keep your end of the deal?
— I saved your life without asking for anything in return. What greater guarantee do you need?
— When will you look for Saul and explain everything?
— Today. Tomorrow I'll put the two of you in direct contact, free from any external threats.
Raphaniè agreed and opened Outlook.
There was a message from Saul sent four hours earlier. Subject: "The Followers of the Devil."
...
DESPITE THE VIOLENCE OF THE BLOWS, the examinations revealed no serious damage to the priest's head. The painful reminders of the previous night were the swelling on his face and the cut above his eyebrow. Yet those injuries were nothing compared to the words of God, which pierced his soul like arrows.
Outside the hospital, with the clock approaching one in the afternoon, he recalled his Lord's accusation:
It was arrogance that made you a murderer, Raphaniè. Do you truly believe any man is capable of defeating Lucifer?
A car horn interrupted his thoughts.
Gregory Evans sat behind the wheel of a black BMW 320i and motioned for the priest to enter through the rear door.
— So I get chauffeured around now?
— It's an honor to serve an Italian telecommunications businessman.
— There's a briefcase beside you. It belongs to you, Mr. Italo Mannieri.
— I think you've got the wrong person.
— Never. Your passport is inside, along with a reservation for a suite at L'oscar London, an unlimited credit card, a laptop, and a British cell phone.
— And what happened to Father Raphaniè Marin?
— He's probably preparing to return home. Let's not concern ourselves with him for now.
The priest opened the briefcase and found a passport bearing his photograph but another man's identity.
Soon afterward he inserted Saul's attachment into the laptop and reviewed the list of "followers of the devil." One name immediately caught his attention:
Baruch Hawkings.
...
THE MOVE WAS RISKY and could ruin everything.
Without knowing whether he had made the right decision, Gregory parked in front of the College of Arms.
— I should remind you that you have a very busy schedule today, Mr. Mannieri.
— No problem.
— I'll return in thirty minutes.
The priest barely listened. If necessary, he would spend the entire day researching coats of arms and genealogies.
The riddle echoed in his mind:
"The truth lies beneath the seal. The crowned lion claims his throne. He comes from the Tree of Jesse."
As soon as he found the answer, he would make a phone call. Cardinal DellaMonica had given him a number before the trip. The person on the other end would be waiting for a code word and a name.
If his suspicions were correct, that name would be:
Baruch Hawkings.
A chill ran through him.
— Father Marin? asked a tall, thin man with brown hair, dressed in a dark-blue suit and striped tie.
— You must be Clarence Mitchell.
— It's a pleasure to meet you. You come highly recommended. How may I help you?
— I need to consult the genealogy and coat of arms of four Englishmen.
— I assume they belong to the high nobility.
— They are members of the House of Lords.
— Then we won't have any problems. Please follow me to the Records Room.
...
AT THAT HOUR, the large upper-floor windows provided all the illumination.
Dark wooden cabinets lined the walls, their glass doors displaying thousands of catalogs and archives chronicling the history of England's most distinguished families.
Mitchell led Raphaniè to a central table.
— Please sit here, Father.
— Give me the names.
— The Earl of Norfolk, the Earl of Essex, Samwell LaVey, and Baruch Hawkings.
— The most controversial of them all, Mitchell commented.
— How so?
— Baruch Hawkings has rather unorthodox methods of defending his interests. At one of the most recent meetings, he brought a fox that had been shot that very day, simply to protest the hunting ban.
— A showman.
— With a very unusual sense of humor.
Mitchell left to retrieve the volumes.
...
SEATED ACROSS FROM HIM was a bald man with a thick, unruly mustache and a cold stare.
Moments later, Mitchell returned with a young assistant. Together they carried several heavy volumes.
— The information you need is in these books.
— Thank you.
— Where would you like to begin?
— With the most controversial one. I want to know whether Baruch Hawkings is descended from Sir Robert Bruce Hawkings, who died in 1631.
Mitchell consulted the genealogy.
Less than a minute later, he answered:
— Yes, Father. The gentleman you mentioned received a noble title, and Baruch Hawkings belongs to the lineage founded by him.
— May I see the coat of arms?
His hands began to sweat.
Mitchell opened another volume, turned several pages, and then raised the illustration to Raphaniè's eye level.
— I present the arms of the Hawkings family.
— Got you, the priest whispered.
He did not bother researching the other names. He already had his answer.
After thanking Clarence Mitchell, he left the College of Arms and went in search of Gregory Evans, who was already waiting at the agreed location.