The Diabolist (Dominic Grey 3)

by Green, Layton

  “Stay with me until this is over,” he said.

  “It’s too dangerous. We’ve been together too long already.”

  “Protecting people is what I do,” he said.

  She reached up and stroked his cheek. “And I’m sure you’re very good at it. But you still don’t understand. You can’t fight him like that.”

  “Stay.”

  She rose, and he stood with her. She placed her hands on his chest. “I refuse to put you in danger any longer. He could show up any second.”

  “Anka—”

  “I’ll see you again soon. I promise.”

  He sat back in frustration. “Where’re you going?”

  “I don’t know. Away. I’ll be in touch soon, I swear. And please don’t follow me.”

  Her good-bye kiss rocked him on his heels. Then she hurried away, head down and arms crossed against her chest. Grey felt foolish letting her leave, but she flagged a taxi and sped away, and he didn’t know what else to do.

  When the rain came harder Viktor rose, eyes lingering on the tragic dates on Eve’s headstone. The pang in his gut was not quite as sharp, but even more bitter, than when he had stood in this cemetery many years ago, on the day of Eve’s funeral. He put two fingers to his lips, then pressed them into the engraving on the headstone. “Until next time, my love.”

  Viktor returned through the cemetery as rain poured down his face, his suit clinging to his flesh. Viktor did not make excuses for the things he had done, the paths he had explored in his quest for truth. Yet his one regret was this: that he had agreed to perform that last ritual, that he and Darius had introduced Eve to the monster that was Ahriman.

  Oh, Viktor did not believe that Ahriman himself had come into the basement that night, entered the broken circle, and tormented Eve until she took her own life. What Viktor did believe was that an idea had burrowed into Eve’s head that evening, then mutated like a virus inside her, filling every facet of her being with a terrible insinuation. An idea so powerful that, to someone as mentally unstable as Eve, it had proven fatal.

  The three of them had stared into the abyss that night, and none of them, in their different ways, had ever escaped.

  Viktor had begged Darius to tell Eve that none of it was real, and to Darius’s credit, he had tried. But Eve had seen in Darius’s eyes that he believed, and that knowledge only reinforced her own belief.

  Yet another poor decision by Viktor.

  Darius had never forgiven Viktor, both for failing to convince Eve to try to reverse the ritual, and for taking her to London and allowing her to slip away on the night of her death.

  Viktor had never forgiven himself, either.

  As he exited the cemetery he stopped to grasp the rusty iron bars on the gate, loath to leave his beloved alone again, lost and vulnerable, in that place of no return.

  Viktor trudged into the hotel well after midnight, falling asleep with a bottle of absinthe in the crook of his arm, images of Eve crowding the edges of his vision. The next morning his cell rang, and he recognized Jacques’s number in Paris. He let the phone ring as he shuddered to his feet, then returned the call.

  “Viktor, bonjour. Have there been any developments?”

  None I’m going to tell you about. “I’m in York with Gareth. He believes this is a game, a war between magicians. These childish men and their foolish magic—I say let them destroy one another with their meaningless charades!”

  There was silence on the other end. Viktor’s hand shook as he reached for the slotted absinthe spoon.

  Jacques’s voice was quiet. “Is everything okay?”

  “I apologize,” Viktor said evenly. “It’s difficult to help those who refuse to help themselves.”

  “Three people are dead, all after receiving the same letter. One would think Gareth would take this seriously.”

  “One would think,” Viktor said.

  “Do you have any theories?”

  Viktor watched the cube of sugar slowly dissolve into the absinthe. “My theory is that someone is performing some very elaborate magic tricks, and not of the supernatural variety. Do you have the toxicology reports yet?”

  “It’s one of the reasons I called,” Jacques said. “According to the autopsies, the gas that killed both Xavier and Ian Stoke was Vikane.”

  “I’m unfamiliar with that gas,” Viktor said.

  “It’s odorless and tasteless, virtually undetectable by humans. Quite toxic. The Americans use it for pest control, to fumigate termites.”

  “I see,” Viktor said. “And how was it administered?”

  “We have no idea. The gas dissipates quickly and is almost impossible to detect after a few days. As far as we know, both victims were alone the night of their deaths, so I suspect the gas was pumped in through a hole or an open window.”

  “Any chemist could figure something out,” Viktor said with a tired wave. And Darius was a brilliant chemist. “And the fires? Any news?”

  “The San Francisco arson experts inform me that for the fire to burn that hot and that quickly, a highly flammable starting agent with a high heat-release rate had to have been used. An accelerant, in layman’s terms. Using megawatts rather than kilowatts.”

  “Do we have any idea what that might have been?” Viktor said.

  “The accelerant could vary, but the delivery device itself was likely something akin to a flamethrower. Which is rather hard to conceal, oui. But they also tell me that if the clothing was soaked or sprayed with an odorless accelerant beforehand, that would speed the process and require a simpler delivery device.”

  Viktor grunted. “It’s starting to make sense. You might want to do some checking on Douglas Oakenfeld, Matthias’s right-hand man.”

  “Your theory, then, is that the murderer is using inside help from the cults?”

  “Of course,” Viktor said.

  “And your thoughts on the perpetrator?”

  “As soon as I have hard evidence to discuss, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “Wouldn’t someone in the room have noticed an ignition device?” Jacques said.

  Viktor twirled the spoon between his fingers. “Magic is all about sleight of hand, illusion. The robed figure is a diversion. The same person who soaks the clothing of the victim provides the spark for the fire, while the rest of the room is watching the illusory robed figure.”

  “It is the plausible theory.”

  “It’s the only theory,” Viktor said. “I plan to find out more tomorrow night.”

  “What precautions will you take?”

  “I’ll be alone in the room with Gareth, so there’ll be no chance for someone else to start the fire. I have a few other ideas as well. Let’s just say that I, too, know some tricks of the trade.”

  “And if Vikane is used?” Jacques said.

  “The gas has to enter from somewhere. I’ll ensure the room is sealed and the vents are closed, and I’ll have a protective mask on hand. How long does the gas take to affect human beings?”

  “Not instantaneous, though not long. I’m told a better option is a device that can measure levels of sulfuryl fluoride, the active ingredient in Vikane.”

  “I’ll try and obtain one,” Viktor said. He remembered the man from Zador’s and the coffee shop. “Did you run the photo I sent?”

  “There’s no facial match with Interpol, though the quality of the photo doesn’t help. Viktor, you needn’t do this.”

  The absinthe reached the perfect milky color, and Viktor hovered over the glass. “Darius knows Gareth is too proud to use the police for what appears to be a question of magic. I need to be there.”

  “Inform Gareth that this is the twenty-first century,” Jacques said.

  Grey spent the night in a hostel on the outskirts of Cambridge. He woke early and took a long run by the river to clear his head and tame the nervous energy coursing through him.

  When he finished, he showered and had breakfast at a café. At ten a.m. his cell rang. Viktor. The café was
quiet, and Grey took the call with coffee in hand. He listened as Viktor relayed his recent finds and the conversation with Jacques.

  After Viktor told him about the note in the back of Crowley’s copy of The Ahriman Heresy, Grey said, “And you didn’t tell Jacques that Simon is really Darius because we don’t have a shred of real proof, and telling him would only hamper our own investigation.”

  “Jacques knows enough to help as needed,” Viktor said.

  “I doubt Satanic cult leaders sleep very well at night, knowing their own people could turn on them on a dime.”

  “Unless measures were taken to ensure compliance,” Viktor said.

  “Like convincing your followers you have the ability to murder someone whenever and wherever you want.”

  “Precisely.”

  Grey’s eyes swept the empty café. “I assume you want me in York by tonight?”

  “No. We have to find out where he’s operating from, and the only way I know how to do that is penetrate his cult. I need you to start from the bottom, in London, and work your way up. Attend a meeting, find out how the leader became involved. Move to the next level and do the same. Wade through until you come to Darius. It won’t be easy, but the cult is relatively young.”

  “That sounds like it could take weeks,” Grey said.

  “It needs to take days. I don’t know his endgame, but I assure you we won’t want to find out.”

  “Do you think he’ll ever join the two? The Order of New Enlightenment with what’s he really doing?”

  “Perhaps one day,” Viktor said, “though he doesn’t need to. Worshippers of cults and religions worldwide have no idea what really occurs behind the veil. Darius will use L’église la Bête and others like it to do his dirty work, while extending his power and influence with New Order.”

  “We can expose his name change. He’s got a record in the occult, people know him. Why would anyone follow him after that?”

  Viktor gave a bitter laugh. “So he had a change of heart. Saint Paul once persecuted Christians, Joseph Smith was a convicted con man, countless religious and world leaders have checkered pasts and worse. People who want to believe in something will do so at all costs, especially when it comes to political or religious dogma. They hear what they want to hear.”

  “There’s got to be a link to his current crimes somewhere,” Grey said, “even if it’s buried deep within the Order of New Enlightenment.”

  “Yes, and he’ll go to any lengths to protect it.”

  “Which is why I should be there tomorrow night,” Grey said.

  “We don’t have that luxury.”

  “It’s your call,” Grey said. “You’ve heard my vote. Before you go, there’s something I need to tell you about.”

  Grey relayed the events of the previous evening to Viktor. “Astral projection’s an interesting angle,” Viktor said, “though I’d turn my research to misdirection and sleight of hand, if I were you.”

  “If she’s a liar, she’s a very good one.”

  “It’s Darius I don’t trust,” Viktor said.

  “She’s genuinely frightened, and what’s her motive?”

  “Motive doesn’t apply to those embedded in a cult,” Viktor said. “Either way, she could be our path to Darius.”

  Grey blew out a breath. “I had the same thought.”

  It didn’t take Grey long to find a meeting. On the Tube ride into town from the airport he saw a flyer for a gathering of the Order of New Enlightenment, that evening at six p.m. at Speakers’ Corner. He figured that was as good a place to start as any.

  Planning to stay in London for a few days, he dropped his backpack in one of the threadbare, cramped hotels that circled Victoria station like vultures. He slipped inside, paid cash, and gave a false name.

  At five p.m. he was stepping out of the Tube at Oxford Circus, grandiose gray buildings curving away in every direction, shops and chic cafés buzzing at street-level. London rushed at Grey as he walked, a blur of black cabs and double-decker buses, street vendors selling their red and blue trinkets, the babble of a hundred languages.

  Just past Marble Arch, Speakers’ Corner was pretty much as he remembered: a nutcase in a beanie cap standing on a makeshift platform and shouting conspiracy theories in a Cockney accent at an amused crowd, the regal calm of Hyde Park mocking his efforts in the background. Grey arrived thirty minutes early, hoping to catch the New Enlightenment representative before the event began.

  The current speaker was talking about New Age Nazis in California, linking the Fourth Reich to McDonald’s. When he left, the crowd swelled to an impressive size. No one arrived at the podium until five minutes after six, when a bulky, red-faced Scot stepped up and greeted the crowd with a booming hello.

  Though pleasant enough, his voice possessed the myopic tone of conviction that immediately turned Grey off. To Grey, anyone who saw the world in black-and-white wasn’t taking a hard enough look.

  The speaker announced himself as Alan Lancaster and proceeded to give the crowd a similar spiel Grey had heard from Simon Azar, though with less eloquence. How the old ways of thinking about the world had failed, yet everyone in power was clinging to the old ways because, well, why wouldn’t they? Some cheered, some jeered, most listened with hands in their pockets for a few minutes and then returned to their tourist maps.

  Was this how all movements started, Grey wondered? Spread from street corners by simple-minded blusterers, scorned by most, gobbled up by the gullible few?

  Was this how his mother had succumbed?

  Grey felt eyes on him during the speech, and he saw various men sprinkled in the crowd, subtly scanning the onlookers. After the speech a line formed to talk to the speaker. Grey joined in. When he reached the front, Alan Lancaster’s eyes locked on to his, hand extended in greeting.

  He gave Grey his full attention, one thing at which zealots excelled. “Welcome, friend. Can I give ye this pamphlet?”

  Grey took a loose-leaf pamphlet with a picture of the cosmos on the front, people of varying skin colors standing hand in hand beneath a starry sky.

  “I’d like to invite ye to one of our Saturday services. Yer an American on holiday?”

  Grey had to work to understand his accent. “This is home for now.”

  “Well, then. Let me suggest the Kensington and Chelsea Chapter House, in Earls Court. Services are Saturday mornings at ten. We’d love to have ye. Bring a guest or two.”

  “Appreciated,” Grey said. “Who’s the pastor there—or do you have pastors?”

  “We have directors, and we just use names, no better or worse than ye. Just call me Alan, and the Earls Court director is Thomas Greene. He brought me into the Order.”

  “Is that right?” Grey said. “How long ago did you join?”

  “Been a couple of months now.”

  “And you’re already a speaker? Impressive.”

  “The training only takes a few weeks,” Alan said. “Might ye be interested?”

  “I liked what you had to say,” Grey said. “Let me sleep on it.”

  “It’s a new way of thinking. No more false prophets or cryptic prophecies or silly codes of conduct, just human beings helping each other around the world.”

  “Sounds pretty good to me,” Grey said.

  “Aye, why don’t ye talk to Thomas? He’s at the chapter house most mornings, ye can tell him I sent ye.”

  Grey had what he needed, and he felt multiple stares on his back. “Sure. Looks like you’ve got plenty of people to talk to, so thanks again.”

  Grey stepped past him and kept walking. Step one had been easy, but he wondered how many starry-eyed handshakers he’d have to wade through to find someone who knew what was going on behind closed doors at the Order of New Enlightenment.

  He debated trying to isolate one of the three flint-eyed men now following him through the park, all of whom looked like ex-convicts who had put on a nice shirt for the gathering. He decided they didn’t look like decision makers, and t
here were too many people around. After exiting the park he turned left on Piccadilly, skirting Green Park on his right. He let them follow him for a while, so when he gave them the slip it would look natural, and so whoever sent them would keep searching for him in the West End. When he reached Leicester Square he kept on slipping, and out of the corner of his eye he saw them trying to keep up, unshaven faces walking a step too quickly, inexperienced with the subtle art of following someone in a crowd.

  Grey wove in and out of the narrow lanes between Leicester and Piccadilly, then doubled back to the labyrinthine streets of Soho. By the time he reached Charing Cross he was sure no one was still following him, but he scanned the crowds down the long escalator to the Underground just in case, disappearing into the bowels of the city as he pondered how to approach Thomas Greene in the morning.

  YORK

  By the time Viktor cleaned up and had brunch in his suite, it was nearly noon. Thirty-six hours before the alleged hour of Gareth’s execution.

  Viktor had a few things to do.

  First he searched for a pest-control company that used Vikane. Fortunately for the citizens of York and unfortunately for Viktor, termites were not a problem in northeast England. Viktor had to persuade a London company that manufactured devices measuring sulfuryl fluoride to overnight one to his hotel. The company balked at the request until Viktor suggested a four-figure delivery fee. There was silence, and then acquiescence.

  The sulfuryl fluoride device would let him know instantly if Vikane was present in the room, but just to be safe, he procured two gas masks from a local military supply store. Gareth agreed to seal off all ventilation to the room, and to check the walls and windows for cracks. Viktor was guessing that poison gas would be the weapon of choice, since Gareth would not be in a public place and there was less opportunity for deception.

  Still, Viktor urged Gareth to install a fire extinguisher, to avoid wearing any clothing that might have been tampered with, and not to let anyone enter the room besides the two of them. There would be other members of the Circle nearby, armed and ready, and Gareth had agreed to install a camera and make his chamber off-limits to anyone but himself before the next night.