SAUL WAS EAGER to see his friend again and learn everything that was happening.
As soon as he parked the car, he hurried toward the place where he was staying. Meggie followed a few steps behind, unconcerned by her companion's lack of attention, for she understood how important this was to him.
At the entrance of the kennel, he greeted a man of average height dressed in slightly dirty sportswear. Meggie assumed he was Wolfgang van Bach's trainer.
The moment the journalist saw the dog his mother had given him as a puppy, he broke into a broad smile. The dog ran toward him, wagging its tail and barking with unrestrained joy.
He must be trying to say, "Why did you leave me here? My home is much more comfortable." If it weren't for that fence, the two of them would be rolling around in the dirt together... Meggie concluded as she watched her boss crouch down.
In front of his assistant, Saul settled for stroking the animal's head and whispering:
— I don't care if you're the underdog. Just give it your best.
Meggie approached, and the dog turned toward her silently. The American crouched down, rubbed her palms against the dirt, then stood up uttering words in a language Saul did not recognize and blew the dust toward Wolfgang van Bach.
— What are you doing? — the journalist asked, puzzled by the ritual.
— Turning the underdog into the favorite.
— Is that witchcraft?
— Let's just say it is.
— I appreciate the good intentions, but it won't work, Meggie. The favorite is Baron Fawkes, Baruch Hawkings's dog.
— I guarantee that whoever bets on this one will go home happy — his assistant replied.
— God willing.
She gave him an unfriendly look, and he silently apologized.
— By the way, why did you give him such a strange name as Wolfgang van Bach?
— They're my three favorite composers: Mozart, Beethoven, and Bach.
— Original?
— A little. Let's head to the restaurant, and I'll tell you the story on the way — suggested her boss.
— Let's go, then.
— Goodbye, champion. See you on the podium — he said farewell to the animal and offered his left arm for Meggie to hold during the walk.
THEY HAD JUST ARRIVED at the reception desk of the Grandstand Restaurant and were escorted to the table reserved by the journalist, overlooking the starting line. They sat facing each other. Four seats were still empty.
— Where are the other guests? — Meggie joked.
— I only invited you, but unexpected things happen.
There was still half an hour before the first race, and the dining hall remained largely empty.
The journalist requested the wine list.
— They need to improve their selection — he complained while examining the available labels.
— Either way, a Moët & Chandon Brut Impérial is an excellent choice to celebrate Wolfgang van Bach's victorious debut... — said Meggie.
— And our second meeting outside the newsroom.
He answered with a smile.
RAPHANIÈ STRUGGLED WITHIN HIMSELF to accept the story about the Church's "death squad."
It was one thing for a man to commit murder in defense of his faith. It was something entirely different for the Church itself to defend its flock through violence.
Gregory Evans's statement contradicted his beliefs, yet it somehow made his own sin seem less terrible. After all, he had merely imitated a modus operandi employed by the very institution that guided his steps.
Lost in thought, he allowed the American to lead him and failed to notice when they passed through the reception area of the Grandstand Restaurant.
He was therefore caught off guard by Saul's greeting.
— You're looking elegant...
— Allow me to introduce him to you, Saul. This is Italo Mannieri — Greg interrupted.
— A pleasure to meet you. This is my assistant, Meggie — said the journalist.
The priest took the American woman's hand and kissed it, smiling as though he had known her for years.
— An excellent choice, Saul.
— Thank you, Mr. Mannieri — Meggie replied, returning the smile.
Contrary to her own expectations, she immediately felt sympathy for the gentle and affable man.
— I see you've been injured. Are you feeling better? — Saul asked, noticing the bandage above his left eyebrow.
— This was just a minor household accident. Nothing serious — the priest replied.
— I only came by to introduce you, but I must leave for an appointment. I hope you all have a pleasant evening — Gregory Evans said as he departed.
Raphaniè sat beside Saul, removed his hat, and placed it on the chair next to him.
Smiling warmly, he embraced the journalist.
— I've missed you, my friend.
— Would you like some champagne?
— Why not?
— Priests drink champagne? — Meggie whispered, catching Raphaniè by surprise.
— She knows who I am? — he asked Saul.
— It's all right, Father. My assistant is one of the few people I trust. She can help us with this mission.
— Before we discuss the mission, I'd like to explain something to you, Meggie. The first miracle described in the New Testament was the transformation of water into wine — more than six hundred liters of the finest wine of that era. Just imagine that. And champagne itself was created by the French Benedictine monk Dom Pérignon...
— Following that logic, a priest who doesn't drink is practically a heretic!
They burst into laughter.
— I like him, Saul — Meggie commented.
The ice bucket with the champagne arrived at the table. The sommelier uncorked the bottle with almost no sound and filled their glasses.
— A toast to Wolfgang van Bach — Meggie declared.
— To whom? — Raphaniè widened his eyes.
— My dog. It's his debut race.
— A toast to the dog with a whole collection of names — the priest joked.
They raised their glasses.
— And another toast to the lovely couple you make.
Meggie blushed while Saul smiled. For the first time, he had seen the priest in such good spirits.
— I heard you visited the College of Arms. What did you discover? — the journalist asked.
They were interrupted.
— Well, what a surprise! Sir Saul Nolland.
A man passing by their table interrupted the conversation.
He was tall and wore a Cordings of Piccadilly tweed coat, a checkered shirt, and a red tie embroidered with dogs. On his feet were a pair of Tricker's boots. It was the traditional attire of an English huntsman.
— Good evening, Sir Hawkings — Saul replied, standing to greet him.
After the greeting, Saul said:
— These are my friends: Italo Mannieri and my assistant Meggie.
— A tremendous pleasure to meet you both — the lord replied, greeting the lady first before extending his hand to Raphaniè.
With a sweaty hand, the priest shook the cold hand of the man. Meeting him in person had not been part of his plans.
— You're working for that tabloid, The Sunny, aren't you? — Hawkings asked Saul.
— For quite some time now.
— You must feel right at home there. You can invent whatever you want about celebrities and they'll still thank you for it...
— It's the triumph of "say whatever you want about me, as long as you talk about me" — Saul jabbed.
The lord turned his back on him and sat two tables away with a group of five men in sporting attire who were drinking whiskey.
— Sir Saul? — Meggie asked.
— According to royal conventions, yes.
— What a stupid man.
— Hawkings being Hawkings... there's nothing new under the sun...
— Or under the same roof occupied by that buffoon.
Saul nodded at the priest's comment.
— Why did he attack you like that?
— It's quite simple. I exposed him as belonging to a satanic cult, and in the organizational chart he was listed as one of its honorary members.
— He is the answer to the third riddle, Saul. He is the Grand Master of the dark brotherhood.
— Are you telling me he's the Ipsissimus?
— Yes. I'm certain of it — Raphaniè confirmed. — I can say with complete conviction that today you laid eyes upon the Ipsissimus.
— Wow. That would've been my last guess. But I must admit that if it's a disguise, it's a remarkably good one.
— During my investigation, I found clues pointing toward him, but they weren't strong enough to accuse him of leading the organization.
— That's a serious accusation — Saul warned.
— I believe you — Meggie supported him, staring into Raphaniè's frightened eyes, now lacking the brightness they had possessed moments earlier. — But I still have one question... what exactly is an Ipsissimus?
The two men exchanged glances and laughed.
— Sorry, Meggie. I suppose we've been talking without bringing you up to speed.
— That's true — agreed the priest. — Have you ever heard of the Tree of Life?
— Yes...
The priest searched on his phone and showed her an image.
— The Ipsissimus is beyond all of this and beyond all comprehension available to the lower grades. However, some additional information regarding the last three grades can be found in The Temple of Solomon the King, The Equinox I through X, and elsewhere.
— We should note that these grades are not necessarily attained completely, in strict succession, or even manifested fully on every plane.
— The subject is very difficult and entirely beyond my limits.
— It's always like that in the beginning when it comes to occultism.
Saul imagined that being a witch would make it easier for Meggie to understand all of this. She must have studied some of it. If she was an ally, it was best for her to know what they were discussing.
— The Grade of Ipsissimus cannot be described in full — the priest continued — but its principle is indicated in Liber I vel Magi. There is also a description in a certain secret document that will be published when the time is deemed appropriate.
Saul silently gave thanks.
— It merely states that the Ipsissimus is completely free from all limitations, existing within the nature of all things without discrimination of quantity or quality.
— I see...
— He swears to accept this Grade in the presence of a witness and to express his nature in word and action, but immediately to withdraw behind the veils of his natural manifestation as a human being, maintaining silence during his human existence concerning his attainment, even from other members of the Order.
— Is that why nobody knows who he is?
— Exactly! The Ipsissimus is preeminently the Master of all modes of existence. That is, he is entirely free from any internal or external necessity, and his task is to destroy every tendency to construct or abolish such necessities.
— He is the Master of the Law of Insubstantiality, known as Anatta.
— The Ipsissimus has no relation as such to any Being. He possesses no will in any direction and no consciousness involving duality of any kind.
— But all of nature is duality.
— In theory, yes. But in Him all things are fulfilled, as it is written: "beyond the Word and the Fool."
— Then he's beyond me.
The three laughed.
— Welcome to the club, my dear...