THE DOORBELL RANG insistently, shattering the silence of the study.
Damn it... why now? Saul thought irritably, removing his headphones and rising from his swivel chair. The amber glow of the monitor flashed encrypted messages, but he ignored them for the moment. He walked toward the front door, wary.
— Yes?
— I was asked to deliver this here, sir — the young man in a baseball cap replied, holding a small box wrapped in brown paper.
— Thank you, but I think someone made a mistake — Saul answered coldly, studying the stranger for a second longer than necessary.
As soon as he closed the door, he locked it firmly and returned to his study. The sound of the courier's footsteps faded down the hallway, but Saul still waited several seconds before turning up the volume on the transmitter sitting on his desk.
— Father, you're staying at L'oscar London under the identity of an Italian businessman, correct?
The Archangel immediately recognized the clear, composed female voice.
Meggie.
— Yes... — Raphaniè replied, with an almost imperceptible hesitation, as though carefully weighing every syllable.
— I know something that might help you.
— Then you'd better hurry, Meggie. You're almost home already — Saul observed, crossing his legs and lighting a cigarette.
— This may embarrass you, Father... — the journalist warned, her tone balanced somewhere between respect and provocation.
— Go ahead... — Raphaniè insisted, torn between curiosity and apprehension.
— A friend of mine, a massage therapist at the Mandarin spa, was paid five thousand pounds to seduce a businessman staying at the hotel...
— And how is that supposed to help us? — Saul interrupted impatiently.
— My God... — the priest whispered in distress.
— My friend said the businessman was a foreigner... and that he had a cut above his left eyebrow. It could just be a coincidence...
The silence that followed was as heavy as the fear coursing through his veins.
— What's your friend's name? — the priest asked, his voice trembling.
— Sabrina.
— Meggie, anything else? — Saul pressed.
— The person who paid for the service was English.
— My God... I thought it had been Greg... — Raphaniè whispered, every word soaked in remorse.
— One of the greatest detectives in the world has better things to do than hire prostitutes for someone else. Besides... where would a police officer get five thousand pounds? — Saul replied dryly.
— I hadn't thought about that... — the priest murmured, defeated.
— Look at it as life smiling on you, Father — Saul said sarcastically.
— Meggie... priests take vows of celibacy. That's actually rather disrespectful — Raphaniè replied awkwardly.
— I was only joking... — she answered, trying to ease the tension.
— Changing the subject... we're here. I'll walk you to your front door — Saul said as he parked the car and shut off the engine with a dry click.
— Goodbye, Father. It was a pleasure meeting you... — Meggie said, the smile evident in her voice.
— Goodbye... — the priest replied, lowering his head.
— I'll be right back... don't do anything foolish — Saul warned before stepping out of the car.
The Archangel heard the doors open and the muffled sound of their footsteps crunching across the gravel.
— What a humiliation... — the priest lamented, resting his head against the wall, his voice choked with guilt.
THE ARCHANGEL PICKED UP HIS PHONE and, with tense fingers, dialed Vice President Faradday's number.
Voicemail.
He tried again.
On the third attempt, the man's deep, sluggish voice finally came over the speakerphone.
— Has the lord departed yet? — Faradday asked between laughter and the clinking of glasses in the background.
— There'll be a celebration in Hell tonight — the Archangel replied with icy irony.
— Fantastic! Anything else? — the Vice President asked with the calmness of a man pulling invisible strings.
— The soulmates have recognized the threat... and they're beginning to conspire.
— Nothing serious... not yet.
— Black Code? — the Archangel pressed.
— Not yet. But soon they'll take the bait and finally have something truly serious to occupy themselves with... and so will you.
— What do you mean? — the Archangel asked, frowning.
— In two days, you'll be appointed curator of an exhibition at the Victoria and Albert Museum. And let's just say... with a substantial increase in your salary.
— Understood.
The Archangel's voice hardened.
— Make sure nothing goes wrong until then... I'll be in touch.
The line went dead, leaving behind nothing but the low hum of silence.
— Curator?! — the Archangel exclaimed in surprise, tossing the phone onto the desk.
He turned toward the computer monitors, where the hotel's surveillance cameras continued broadcasting in real time.
He knew the night ahead would be long...
...and dangerous.
He would spend the coming hours watching their every move—
the chosen,
the betrayed,
and those who, without realizing it,
had already signed their own death warrant.