THE SUNNY NEWSROOM was almost empty. Two cleaners were finishing their work, the office boy was stacking the day's edition on the reception desk, and a lone reporter was reading her first published article for the third time, visibly delighted.
She had landed a front-page headline on her debut, and the printed version was almost identical to the draft she had submitted to Saul, save for a few minor edits that improved the pacing.
— Congratulations. It was a brilliant debut.
It was Saul's voice.
— Thank you, she replied with a broad smile as she stood to greet him.
She was wearing tight jeans, a black velvet jacket over a short-sleeved white blouse that revealed the upper curve of her breasts, and a light perfume lingered around her.
— I see you still haven't adapted to our finest London habits, he commented, pointing at the cup of American coffee on her desk that she had bought from the Starbucks around the corner.
— Maybe someday.
— What are you doing tonight? he asked as he sat down and turned on his computer.
— I'd love to take part in another gastronomic marathon, but I already have plans.
— With George Eliot?
— That was last night. Tonight I'm meeting with English witches. We're planning to form a coven.
— What exactly is that?
— A group of practitioners. A spiritual family.
— Women only?
— The only male figure is our horned god.
Saul fell silent, seemingly hypnotized by the computer screen.
"Dear friend, your concern was not unfounded. Shortly after you left, the man who had been following me broke into my room. I believe he intended to kill me. If God had not sent Gregory Evans, he would have succeeded. I spent the night in the hospital. I should be discharged within the next few hours and will be returning to Italy. The mission has been aborted by the Vatican.
Thank you for your kindness, and I hope one day I can return the favor of afternoon tea with a coffee in Piazza Navona.
Warm regards,
Your friend,
Raphaniè."
— Damn it! he blurted out.
— What's wrong?
— The priest is abandoning ship. He told me to hold my ground, and he couldn't even endure the pressure himself.
— I expected no less from him. I doubt he could have endured what you went through when the bomb exploded.
Saul picked up the phone and called Raphaniè's cell phone, but it went straight to voicemail.
---
THE NEWSROOM REMAINED nearly empty.
Saul got up and left without another word. He seemed angry.
Meggie took the opportunity to check her emails.
She opened one from Jessyca Volpi.
"Dear Meggie,
How are you? I can't wait to see you and catch up. I miss you, my friend. I'm surrounded by opportunists. Most of my friendships are as fake as the designer labels sold in Chinatown.
And the men? Do you remember my last boyfriend? Bill left me because he couldn't stand the photographers. I can't blame him. I can't go out drinking, dancing, or flirting without getting caught and ending up on a magazine cover.
It sounds ridiculous, but when I first started my career, I would have sold my soul to appear on a magazine cover. Now I run from them.
The other day I managed to sneak into a nightclub in disguise and received the worst pickup line of my life. Still, I accepted an invitation from a muscular young guy for a night of sex. Imagine what happened when he found out who I was.
He couldn't perform.
And the idiot sold the story to two newspapers.
Anyway, I'll be arriving in London soon, but my schedule will be so packed that I'll have to settle for our afternoon coffee just to catch my breath. I'd love to go clubbing with you and relive the good old days, but my manager booked some commitments in Dubai and shortened my stay in England to only four days.
Love you, my friend.
Kisses,
Jess.
P.S. The exclusive interview for your boss is still on."
— Selling your soul is never a good deal, because the buyer always cheats, Meggie whispered, remembering the curious saying of a poker player who never lost.
He had confessed that to her when she was eight years old.
To everyone else, he explained his miraculous victories by saying that all you needed was luck and the ability to "bluff like a priest."
He was her father's friend, but also her best friend.
He always arrived carrying a basket of chocolates and toys, along with flowers for her mother. He loved sitting in the rocking chair in the living room.
As she rocked back and forth, he would tell fascinating stories about his travels around the world.
Always holding a glass of whiskey, he only set it down when he needed both hands to entertain her with magic tricks.
Those moments with the "poker player" were among the happiest memories of her childhood in a house where the adults were always too busy to pay attention to her.
Her father seemed to sleep and wake in a suit and tie, and she rarely crossed paths with him in that enormous mansion full of rooms and devoid of warmth.
Her mother was constantly concerned with appearances and divided her time between the gym, beauty salons, and social engagements.
There was little time left for young Meggie.
But that handsome, elegant man with the sweet scent of polished wood understood the emptiness in her heart.
And he knew how to fill it.
She used to tell her classmates he was her boyfriend and would become angry whenever her father summoned him to the study. He would leave with a wink of his right eye, and the room would feel empty once again.
Then the two men would close the door and spend hours discussing business.
---
WHEN SHE READ *THE THORN BIRDS* by Colleen McCullough, whose heroine shared her name and fell in love with Father Ralph de Bricassart, she never imagined fiction would one day mirror her own life.
Yet it had.
The same thing had happened to her sister.
Their mother always said their names had come from that novel.
Twice a month her mother hosted social gatherings.
The women drank liqueurs and chatted.
The men smoked cigars and drank whiskey.
On those occasions, she lost the company of her friend whenever the adults decided to play poker.
Where are you now? she wondered.
---
— HI, DEAR. Was your night good?
— You startled me! Meggie exclaimed, surprised by Diana.
The fashion editor was wearing a dark-green dress with a plunging neckline that accentuated her breasts, and she was clearly not wearing a bra.
Must be silicone. That's unfair competition, the American thought.
Then she answered:
— It was fantastic.
— Wonderful. Shall we have tea? Or perhaps coffee? Then you can tell me everything.
With a smile as fake as the designer brands sold in Chinatown, Meggie picked up her cup of American coffee and followed the fashion editor to the newspaper's tea room.
---
WHILE DRINKING an English Breakfast tea with milk in The Sunny's tea room, Saul continued calling the priest's cell phone.
After the sixth attempt, he gave up without leaving a message.
He was preparing to return to the newsroom when the newspaper's director approached him.
Without asking permission, Francis Bishop sat down at the same table carrying a glass of orange juice that matched his orange suspenders.
— Your assistant's debut was sensational, Francis said, referring to Meggie's article.
— Mick made an excellent recommendation.
— No false modesty, please. What's her name?
— Meggie.
— Meggie was lucky to end up in your department.
— Perhaps.
— I've had my eye on you for a long time, Saul.
— I appreciate the compliment, Francis.
— Let me tell you something.
The director lowered his voice and leaned closer.
Saul found the gesture oddly intimate and instinctively leaned back.
— Your assistant was recommended by a very influential person in the United States. Mick tried to gain an advantage during the negotiation and betrayed my trust.
— What did he gain from it?
— You're a journalist, Saul—one of the best. I'd have been surprised if you hadn't asked that question. He wanted a director's position at a major newspaper in New York. He received an advance payment of one hundred thousand dollars.
— If Meggie's sponsor has enough power to appoint a newspaper director, why didn't he simply make her an editor? That's a steep price for a mere internship at The Sunny.
— I'm not interested in the sponsor's motives. She's proven she deserves to stay here. I'm even considering promoting her.
He paused.
— But my problem now is Mick. He sold out the newspaper behind my back. He'll be fired next week, and I want you to replace him.
The proposal caught Saul by surprise.
There were dozens of people above him in the hierarchy who coveted the editor-in-chief position.
Still, he simply shrugged.
He deserved it more than anyone.
— I'm honored by the offer. When do you want me to start?
— You'll have your hands full with Jessyca Volpi's arrival. Once that's over, the promotion is yours. Until then, keep this conversation confidential. I'm preparing Mick's downfall.
— You can count on me.
She's hiding something from me, Saul thought, discreetly glancing toward his assistant.
Francis Bishop's revelations left him uneasy.
Fate had been playing games with him, and it could be just as deceitful as Mick.
After all, if his life had not been abruptly cut short, he owed that to him.
His cell phone rang.
The number was unfamiliar.
A moment later, the phone notified him of a voicemail.
Saul rose from the table with the director and walked past the two women with a sly smile on his face.
---
BACK IN THE NEWSROOM, he settled into his chair and listened to the voicemail.
"Saul, this is Clarence Mitchell. Father Raphaniè Marin has just left the College of Arms. He was looking for information about Baruch Hawkings, and he found what he wanted.
Changing the subject, I'm hosting a party at my house this weekend. I'd appreciate it if you could send a photographer and give it some coverage in The Sunny's society column.
Regards."
— He hasn't abandoned the mission, Saul concluded aloud.
His phone rang again.
Another unknown number.
"...Saul?..."
— Who is this?
"...You don't know me, but we have a mutual friend, and he asked me to repay a kindness on his behalf..."
— Which friend?
"...The Fountain of the Four Rivers cannot wait..."
Whoever this is, he must be referring to the Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi in Piazza Navona, Saul deduced.
He reread the final line of the priest's email.
"I hope one day I can repay the kindness of afternoon tea with a coffee in Piazza Navona."
— When and where? he asked.
"...I'll be at the Old Bull and Bush at eight o'clock..."
The caller hung up.
The pub was an old gathering place for artists.
Coincidentally, it was located in his neighborhood, near Hampstead Heath.
He must have arranged all of this to mislead the Enemy.
Good move, Raphaniè, Saul thought with satisfaction.