The Diabolist (Dominic Grey 3)

by Green, Layton

  Grey thought, I’ve heard your analogy parroted before, and it sucked when the last guy said it. “I’ve seen the head guy on YouTube and I gotta say,” Grey said, “I like what he says. But I thought it was a universal kind of organization. No more secrets.”

  “I must be doing a poor job of conveying what we’re about. We’re not trying to keep people out, but advancing each person as they’re ready.” Thomas spread his hands. “Trust me, there’re no secrets to be kept here.”

  Grey found that whenever someone asked to be trusted, he probably wasn’t trustworthy. And what he wanted to say was, I suppose that’s why your leader’s keeping the location of his headquarters secret and pretending he’s not a Satanist?

  “You know,” Grey said, “you remind me of the guy on TV, real polished. I bet you’re on the fast track. Out of curiosity, how many levels are there between you and the big man? Are you like, say, a governor? Bishop? Prez?”

  Thomas chuckled again, this time with a slight edge. “The people who report to the council contact me. I assume they report to Simon.”

  “What’s he like in person?” Grey said.

  “Simon?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Couldn’t say. I’ve never met him, though I hope to change that once the new headquarters are functional.”

  “I’m dying to see where these headquarters are going to be,” Grey said.

  “Me, too. No one knows outside of the council.”

  “You’re pretty close, right?” Grey said. “A million followers, isn’t that the goal?”

  “We’re within fifty thousand, if you can believe it.”

  “Hey, maybe I’ll be the millionth! Is there a special prize or anything?”

  Thomas brightened. “That’s not a bad idea. Maybe I’ll raise it at the next meeting.”

  Grey had already decided Thomas didn’t know much of anything, and that he was going to have to find a way to jump a few levels.

  His fingers closed around the envelope in his pocket. He might have just the thing.

  “Why don’t you come by on Saturday?” Thomas said. “I usually stay after the service and answer questions.” He beamed a smile. “No dress code required.”

  “I like the sound of that already.”

  Thomas held the door for Grey. “Cheers, then.”

  “Cheers.”

  After Grey merged into the chaos of Earls Court he opened the envelope he had lifted. When he saw the paycheck, confirming his suspicions, he beamed a grim smile of his own.

  Paychecks were paper, and paper left trails.

  Grey walked to Kensington High Street before finding a café tucked into a shopping center. He sat in a corner with a view of the street, knocked back an espresso, and took another look at the return address on the paycheck: Central London Staffing Company, Suite 550, Inner Ring Road, London, WC1X 8VH.

  He knew Inner Ring Road was a major road encircling central London, thus the name, so that didn’t narrow it down much. He entered the zip code into his smartphone and discovered the address was in King’s Cross. King’s Cross was the gateway to East London, and Grey was getting the feeling that East London played an important role in Darius’s plans.

  It made sense: East London was notorious for housing London’s roughest neighborhoods, yet it was also home to revitalization projects, one of the few areas of the city where property was semiaffordable.

  Of course, East London was about the size of Houston.

  After his coffee, Grey took a taxi to King’s Cross and then to the address on Ring Road, which turned out to be a mailing store. Grey stepped inside the store, his suspicions confirmed as soon as he saw the wall lined with numbered metal containers.

  Suite 550 was a PO box.

  “Central London Staffing Agency” was clearly a front, and Grey had to hope someone made daily pick-ups. The Order of New Enlightenment was a large organization now, so it was a possibility, and could short-circuit his search. On the other hand, the Order might use the PO box only as a return address for paychecks.

  He supposed there was only one way to find out.

  Luckily, a street window afforded a view of PO box 550. Unluckily, there was no café or bar across the street, just a ragged park. Grey found a bench with a view of the window, concealed enough that no one would spot him unless they entered the park.

  It was almost noon, and the store closed at eight. Masses of charcoal cloud banks governed the sky, and by four p.m. no one had approached the PO box. Grey rose to shake out his legs. At four thirty p.m. his cell rang.

  His forehead wrinkled when he saw the long exchange, coming from somewhere outside England. Then he picked out Romania’s country code, and realized Rick Laskin must be returning Grey’s voice mail asking him to look into Anka’s background.

  He rose to take the call. “Rick?”

  “It’s been a while, buddy. How the hell are you?”

  “Older,” Grey said.

  “I hear that. You know you’re a bit of a legend around the DS water cooler.”

  “I’m guessing of the infamous variety,” Grey said.

  “Depends on who you talk to. The top brass use you as an example of what not to do, Harris and his middle-management cronies hate your guts, but most of the grunts like me, especially the old SF types, respect the hell out of you. Of course it helps you’re a badass, or else you’d just be a whiny dissident.”

  “I don’t think that counts for much of anything.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Rick said.

  “How’s the posting?” Grey said.

  “Romania’s beautiful. Bucharest, on the other hand, is dirty, poor, corrupt, and full of stray dogs and prostitutes. A real shame what Ceauşescu did to this place, Commie asshole. They say it used to look like Paris.”

  “How much you have left on your rotation?”

  “Year and a half,” Rick said. “I’m hoping for ASPAC next, or even a banana republic, to be honest with you. I’m sick of being cold.”

  “I’m not that partial to it, either,” Grey said.

  “So what’re you up to these days? Rumor is you’re hooked up with some international PI outfit, investigating cults or something like that? That true?”

  “Pretty much,” Grey said.

  “Gotta say, I never figured you for that sort of thing.”

  “Me, either.”

  “Probably doubled your pay, didn’t you?” Rick said.

  “Pretty much.”

  “Slick bastard. For double the pay, I’d investigate gypsy carnies for a living.”

  “You’re a patriot with a family, Rick. Stay where you are. The pension alone’s worth it.”

  He grunted. “Yeah, probably right. Carnie healthcare might suck. I do miss the action, though.”

  “You miss it until it kills you,” Grey said.

  “Yeah, well, I miss you, too, buddy. Our own little Buddha. So listen, I checked out that girl.”

  Grey felt a fluttering in his chest. “I appreciate that.”

  “It took a few phone calls, but I found her. I hope this helps you in one of your cases, because I gotta tell you, it was a bit creepy.”

  Grey uncrossed his legs and held the phone tighter. “What do you mean?”

  “I called the British-run convents in Bucharest—there aren’t that many—and found one that knew what I was talking about. Your girl’s roughly twenty-eight years old now. She was picked up off the street as a child by one of their nuns, like the rest of them.” He paused. “You failed to mention she was kicked out of the convent for worshipping the Devil.”

  Grey grimaced but didn’t respond.

  “The nun said every now and then she appeared in different places around the convent from where her body was, called it astral projecting or something and said it was a power of the Devil. You know anything about that?”

  “Not much,” Grey mumbled. He felt a mixture of emotion at the news, sadness at the petty ignorance of mankind and for Anka’s terrible childhood, relief
her story had checked out, and unease at the fact that she might not have been physically present when she appeared to him on the plane and in the catacombs.

  “As you can imagine, the Church looked on that very poorly,” Rick said. “I was raised Baptist, so I can’t say I disagree all that much.”

  “Did the nun say anything else?”

  “Not really, except that Anka brought it on herself.”

  “What?” Grey said.

  “Said she was into the occult before this astral projecting started happening. And that when you invite the Devil in, he usually comes.”

  Viktor spent the next day pacing the hotel. The air outside, pregnant with an approaching front, crackled with energy. The impending midnight rendezvous with Gareth was a tangible thing, present with Viktor no matter where he went, swirling in his morning cappuccino, hovering behind him as he paced.

  Viktor begged Gareth to let him spend the day with him and help prepare the chamber. Like most magicians of his stature, Gareth was bright but arrogant, stuffed full of perceived power. Letting a nonbeliever such as Viktor assist with the magical defenses was unthinkable. He did, however, consent to Viktor’s practical suggestions.

  The day passed without event, and at ten thirty p.m. Viktor taxied the few blocks to Stonegate. The mood was grim as Viktor made his way to Gareth’s chambers, the magicians in the building clad in full defensive regalia, busy in preparation. Freshly painted runes filled the doors and passageways, a fine golden powder covered the steps of the winding staircase. At least the powder had a sensible purpose, Viktor thought, noticing the imprint of his shoes as he passed.

  Viktor wanted to throttle these people, these poor souls who were so desperate to believe in magic that they dressed like fools and behaved like jesters. And tonight, unless Viktor could do something about it, their misguided beliefs were going to result in a very non-magical death.

  At the other end of the hallway, Viktor was pleased to see an armed security guard standing beside the door to Gareth’s suite. At least the old fool had a modicum of sense.

  “Professor Radek,” the guard said, inclining his head as he opened the door. Gareth strode to clasp Viktor’s hand, white robes rustling. Viktor set down the square black box he was carrying, then extracted two gas masks from his duffel bag, handing one to Gareth.

  “You did as I asked?” Viktor said.

  Gareth pointed to a fire extinguisher in the far corner and to a small video camera attached to the wall above the extinguisher. “The vents are sealed, I handled my robe myself, and no one else is to enter the room. We have an armed guard and everyone is on high alert, watching all possible entrances and ready to assist as needed. And no one is powerful enough to avoid our magical defenses.”

  Viktor gave Gareth a withering look, then set the controls on the black box as instructed by the vendor. “This device detects sulfuryl fluoride, in case Vikane gas is the weapon of choice. Regardless, to be safe we should leave the room within minutes of midnight.”

  “He won’t use gas tonight,” Gareth said. “He’ll come himself. Or try.”

  “We shall see.”

  Viktor folded his arms and checked his watch. Fifteen minutes until midnight. He felt the hilt of his knife resting in a special pocket of his coat, and in another pocket was a Taser, adjusted to the most powerful setting.

  Gareth closed the door, then extracted a jar from his robe and splashed the door with the contents. He performed a series of hand movements Viktor didn’t recognize, took out an ornamental dagger, and carved a seven-pointed star into the wooden door. He pricked his arm, and with the bloody knife carved a circle connecting the tips of the heptagram. “It’s sealed.”

  Viktor was busy inspecting the room, probing the floor for loose boards, checking the spherical walls for cracks, uneven surfaces, and secret entrances. Satisfied the room was secure, he joined Gareth in tense silence for the remaining minutes. Gareth rested his hands on his golden sash as Viktor’s eyes continued roaming the chamber.

  Viktor had to admit he was satisfied. They had the poison gas angle covered, the defenses against fire in place. He didn’t think Darius himself had been present for any of the murders, but regardless, as far as Viktor could tell, there was no way to enter the room undetected. And Viktor and an armed guard stood between Gareth and the only entrance.

  From Viktor’s vantage point, a last-minute entrance by Darius was an impossibility.

  The alarm on Viktor’s phone chimed at midnight, startling them both. Nothing happened, and Viktor congratulated himself on a job well done. Apparently Darius had decided that tonight was not a good night for murder after all. The case was far from solved, but tonight, at least, a life had been spared.

  It was amazing, Viktor thought, how easily the veil of superstition could be cast aside with logic and attention to detail. His eyes moved to the ceiling and then the door, satisfied nothing was going to happen. When his gaze returned to the center of the room a black-clad figure was standing behind Gareth.

  It happened so fast that Viktor reared in shock. The figure was just as witnesses had described, cloaked in a black robe, face enshrouded by a voluminous cowl. There was nothing shadowlike about the figure: It looked tangible, as present as Viktor or Gareth. Just as John Sebastian had claimed, silver stars adorned the robe. The hood obscured the face, but the figure was the same height as Darius, about six feet tall.

  “Gareth,” Viktor said evenly, “step forward and turn around.”

  Gareth spun, and a number of things happened at once. Gareth shouted and raised his hands in defense when he saw the figure. When he cried out, the door behind Viktor swung open, and Viktor turned to see the security guard rushing inside, both hands clutching his gun. As the guard rushed past Viktor to get an angle for his shot, Gareth burst into flames.

  Viktor roared and moved to help Gareth, but the heat was so intense he had to back away, hands shielding his face. Gareth’s compact body became a pillar of flame, blazing as if soaked in lighter fluid and set alight with a blowtorch.

  Viktor ran for the fire extinguisher as Gareth screamed and struggled to remove his robes. As Viktor jerked the fire extinguisher off the wall, he smelled the nauseating stench of burning flesh and saw bits of Gareth’s hair and beard falling to the ground in charred clumps. Flames licked at the security guard’s clothing as well. He dropped the gun and rolled to smother the flames.

  “Ah, Viktor,” the figure said, and all doubt in Viktor’s mind as to his identity was erased as Darius’s once-familiar voice resonated from underneath the hood. “Still the nonbeliever, I see.”

  Viktor ran towards Gareth with the fire extinguisher. “What have you done?”

  “I’ll see you soon, old friend,” the figure said.

  Out of the corner of his eye Viktor noticed the security guard scrambling to his feet. A shot rang out as the figure disappeared, winking out of existence as abruptly as it had arrived. The shot shattered the wall right behind where the figure had been. The whole exchange had taken seconds.

  “Call for emergency!” Viktor shouted. He sprayed Gareth until the flames died, though a terrible amount of damage had been done. He could only watch in horror as Gareth’s skin continued to crackle and bubble off his body, his crumpled form convulsing in shock until the paramedics rushed him away.

  Viktor rode with a caravan of Gareth’s followers to the hospital, waiting with folded arms as the families of the other patients tried to avert their eyes from the group of oddly garbed magicians swarming the lobby. Hours later a solemn-faced doctor informed them that Gareth had died from organ failure.

  Viktor escaped the constable’s questioning by invoking his Interpol status, promising to report to the station in the morning. He returned to his hotel in a state of shock, trying to sort through his muddled thoughts, unsure if the absinthe would hurt or help that cause, and not giving a damn either way.

  He prepared the emerald liquid with shaky hands, still processing Gareth’s death and the a
ppearance of the figure with the voice of Darius Ghassomian, both of those events far more troubling to Viktor than the details of whatever slick illusion Darius had used to deceive him.

  The confirmed involvement of Darius magnified everything, gave the crimes a personal connection, a gravitas of familiarity that rattled him more than any of the previous atrocities he had witnessed during the course of his career. The psychotics, lunatics, and cult leaders he investigated were always a thing apart, their freakish genesis in society someone else’s cross to bear.

  Until now.

  The first glass was finished before he left the suite’s mini-kitchen, the second prepared and in hand as he entered the sitting room. He shrugged out of his suit coat, took off his tie and unbuttoned his collar, then rolled up the sleeves on his starched dress shirt. He sank into the leather couch and moved to set his glass on the coffee table.

  Then he saw it.

  He had the sensation of the hair on the back on his neck rising, as if he had hackles. His hand stopped halfway to the table, glass in midair. A sight came to him unbidden, Gareth’s body on the stretcher as it entered the hospital, bandages swaddling the ruined body.

  Before he reached for the thing on the table, he forced himself to remember who he was and where he had been, the hundreds of investigations that had preceded this one. It was just another case, another violent megalomaniac to be put behind bars.

  Lips compressed, he reached for the envelope sealed with red wax, his eyes fixated on the single word handwritten in black ink on the envelope.

  NONBELIEVER.

  Like he imagined Gareth and the others had done, Viktor extracted the single piece of paper and read the words, also scrawled in black ink, below his own name.

  Viktor Radek,

  You, NONBELIEVER, shall acknowledge the power of Ahriman in a public forum, or you will die at the hand of the one true God on the third midnight hence.

  By eight p.m., Grey was beginning to question the wisdom of his decision to wait for a courier to visit PO Box 550. By midnight, he was questioning his decision, despondent, and freezing.