The back of his throat felt like sandpaper, and he felt lost in a fog. It took long minutes for his head to clear, but then he remembered the journey back to the villa, the grotesque body of the driver and the swarm of cult members, the painful injection.
He had no idea how long he waited under the hood, barely able to think through his thirst. At one point he heard a faint hum, then felt a whisper of warm air. He reasoned he had been taken to a cooler climate, kept indoors, and placed near a heating vent.
A rising intonation of voices, then footsteps creaking on wood. He heard a door open. Light flared as his hood was yanked away. Viktor blinked and saw a hardened man in a black cloak, about Grey’s size and build, his scalp covered with a pentagram tattoo that spilled on to his forehead. Viktor’s gaze traveled to the man’s flat eyes, and Viktor knew at once there would be no quarter given.
The man stepped aside, revealing Darius standing behind him, hands clasped, his face calm and sure. He was different from the college student Viktor had known, almost unrecognizably so. This man was dignified, smooth, handsome—as if his previous incarnation had been the caterpillar, and he had emerged from a cocoon into this polished specimen. But the eyes were the same, and the way he stood with his left foot splayed at an angle, and the nickel-size birthmark on the back of his right hand.
A hand Viktor had once clasped in friendship.
“Free his hands and feet and leave us,” Darius said to the other man. After the man complied Viktor flexed his limbs, still bound by the waist.
“It’s been a very long time, Viktor. Or I suppose I should say Professor Radek. We’ve taken quite different paths.”
“Indeed we have.”
“Congratulations on your success,” Darius said. “I hear you’re the world’s foremost expert on cults.”
Viktor didn’t answer, taking a moment to examine his prison, a plush bedroom exuding the sort of good taste to which Viktor had long grown accustomed. The creamy Persian rug, the original artwork on the walls, the period furniture and king-size bed: They all screamed wealth and privilege. The only difference was the ceiling, painted with baroque pornographic images.
Viktor realized he was wearing the same soiled suit, now reeking of sweat and urine. They had left him with the rosary the priest had given him.
“I hope you enjoy your accommodations,” Darius said, “though I’m afraid they’re only yours for the day. We have an appointment tonight.”
“The one where you murder me.”
“I view it as justice. Human tribunals are such arbitrary constructs. How is an execution by the state, ordered by an impartial judge and carried out by hourly workers, more just than a retribution killing by the father of a murdered son, or the mother of a raped daughter?”
“Or the negligent murderer of one’s beloved,” Viktor said.
Darius lifted his chin in agreement, the silver coif unmoving.
“Where’s my partner?” Viktor said.
“Incapacitated and in the dark, like the rest of the world.”
Viktor sneered. “And thus spoke Simon Azar. Where are we?”
“The house of a supporter.” The flash of Darius’s white teeth lingered on narrowed lips. “It’s what’s adjacent to this property that you’ll recognize.”
“Oh?” Viktor said.
“I prefer it to be a surprise.”
“What about the girl?” Viktor said.
“You mean Eve?”
“Don’t, Darius. It happened thirty years ago. We were just children. No one regrets it more than I.”
Darius took a few steps closer, his voice soft. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
Viktor shook his head. “Was it so bad, Darius, that it’s come to this? Did you need the power that badly?”
Viktor’s question was rhetorical, because history, and his own cases, had proven to him time and again that people like Darius did, in fact, need power that badly. They would do anything to get it, and once they got it, it corrupted them even further.
“Spare me your needs, your wants, your contrived philosophy and morality,” Darius said. “There are those who live, and take, and there are those who do not. After tonight, the Order of New Enlightenment will experience a meteoric rise, and I will take even more. It’s been too long since we’ve had a new major religion, don’t you think?”
Viktor laughed. “Your shallow little cult?
“Even you must admit a million followers in less than a year is impressive. And don’t they all start small, a band of twelve disciples, a man alone in a cave, a young prince on a pilgrimage of enlightenment?”
“Colossal hubris was not exactly a hallmark of those three men.”
“Wasn’t it? Did you know them? Did you oversee the chain of oral and written history that documents their exploits? And my cult, as you so loosely term it, has the weight of history behind it, as well as a very powerful sponsor. Someone you know quite well.”
“Don’t you see this is typical cult behavior, displacing guilt and logic and morality with the guise of faith?” Viktor said. “And if you believe as you say, then why blame me? Ahriman was responsible for Eve’s death, not I.”
Darius snarled. “It was Eve’s fault for disrupting the ritual, and it was your fault for taking her from me, poisoning her mind with untruths, not allowing me to reverse the deed, and leaving her alone when she needed you most. Ahriman has rules, and we failed to follow them. I accept those consequences, and it doesn’t impact my faith in the slightest.”
“I can’t believe this is all about your towering ego. After all these years, you still have to prove yourself to me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Darius said.
“Then why not just kill me ages ago? It’s quite amazing the lengths to which you went, sending me around the world to witness your cleverness. Am I the only person who’s ever challenged you, is that it?”
Darius took a step closer. “You’re the most pompous, arrogant, conceited man I’ve ever known.”
Viktor scoffed. “The truth hurts.”
Darius backhanded Viktor across the face. “Then why is it you’re sitting in this chair, awaiting your execution?”
Viktor gave a harsh laugh as his eyes watered. “Is that what you think? That you could possibly get the better of me? I have a secret for you, Darius. But I think I’ll wait for you to find out. I’ll wait until the time of my alleged death, with all of your followers watching.”
“You’ve no idea who I am, what I’ve become. No idea.”
“Sorry,” Viktor said, “did you mean a prankster, an illusionist, a parlor act performing tricks for a gullible audience of feeble-minded cultists?”
“You’ve seen my work.”
“Oh, I’ve seen it. Using plants to help you start the fires, Vikane gas to asphyxiate the other victims.”
Darius’s smile, slow and sure, chilled Viktor. “In all your brilliance, Viktor, you still lack one quality that has always been your Achilles’ heel.”
“I assume you mean my faith? You don’t know me as well as you think, Darius.”
“Don’t I?” He reached down and grasped the rosary around Viktor’s neck with a mocking grin. “Are you a man of faith now, Viktor?”
Viktor produced a matching grin. “You’ll see tonight.”
“What’re you talking about, old fool?”
“Don’t you have things to do, preparations to make?”
Darius leaned down, until he was inches from Viktor’s face. “You’ll die tonight, by my hand and at the will of Ahriman. Eve’s death shall be avenged, the broken circle repaired.” He straightened. “Dante will return to untie you and bring food and wine. I assure you nothing has been tainted. You’ll find the shower quite pleasant, the bed should you desire. Enjoy your last hours of life.”
He opened the door, but just before he left the room he turned. “You shouldn’t have taken her from me, Viktor. It was your gravest mistake. And yes, I’ve preparations to make.”
&n
bsp; As he spoke his last words, he looked Viktor in the eye, and Viktor searched deep for the touch of madness that characterized nearly every single cult leader he had faced. He saw nothing in Darius but a coldly rational mind, firm in his beliefs, and that unnerved him most of all.
Grey was going to see for himself what Anka was up to. After stumbling down the first block in apparent despair, he saw her gait straighten as she hastened down the street. She observed her surroundings like someone untrained in the art of espionage: furtive body language revealing her state of mind, head whipping back and forth for signs of pursuit. She was worried about someone or something, that much was clear. Grey trailed half a block behind, slipping in and out of parked cars, trees, storefronts, and the few people still on the street.
He followed her for five blocks, then saw her veer towards an entrance to the Underground. Just before she reached the station, a black Mercedes screeched to a stop next to her. Anka screamed as two men leapt out and stuffed her in the car, to the horror of a couple strolling arm in arm on the other side of the street.
Grey couldn’t catch the vehicle’s plate, cursing as his only lead slipped away. He thought about how they might have found her, and got a chill when he remembered her words that Darius could find her whenever he pleased.
He scoffed at himself. They might have a tracking device on her, one of their lookouts might have spotted her, or she might even have staged the capture knowing Grey would follow, though it sure looked as if she had gone into that Mercedes unwillingly.
Was it all a ruse, Grey a pawn in some elaborate scheme? Or was it something else altogether?
He wanted to check to see if the vending machine was out of service, but he couldn’t risk returning to the hotel. Hurrying as best he could, dragging his foot behind him, Grey took the Tube to Islington and found another hotel, this one dirty and anonymous and close to the Underground. Islington was the gateway to East London, and offered a plethora of transportation possibilities.
Confident no one had followed him, Grey hunkered down in his boxcar of a room and resumed poring over the documents. They were his last link to Viktor. They had to produce.
Three hours later, deep into the night, he stopped to caffeinate again, his eyes crossing from not sleeping for two days straight, his only rest a few hours of forced unconsciousness. He read spreadsheet after spreadsheet, picked apart receipt after receipt. The goateed desk attendant knew him by now, the disheveled guy with the limp who kept asking for more coffee. Grey didn’t care. Someone recognizing him was no longer his principal worry.
So far the documents had been useless. He had found stacks of receipts, loan documentation, payroll information, and other records that came with running a large business. Despite the mundane nature of the documents, he pored through them with painstaking care, knowing the answer might lie with an extra number here, a dab of Wite-out there.
The cult’s reach stunned him. Darius, and whoever else was involved in the power structure of the cult, already owned a king’s ransom of stocks and bonds, as well as properties in London, Tokyo, Shanghai, Paris, Mumbai, New York, Doha, Sydney, and San Francisco, together worth untold millions. Tithes and donations had been pouring in from around the world, and that was just the income on the books. Grey was quite sure a large portion of the transactions were illegitimate and unrecorded, and he was looking at the fiscal records that would satisfy the inevitable government inquiries.
The cult business, Grey thought grimly, was booming.
By four a.m., Grey had gone through every single document, and he had but a single piece of information that he decided to pursue: O.N.E. Enterprises, the name of the company that had purchased the East London properties. A few other threads had potential, but not in the time frame in which he was working.
Though he could always push further, his eyes had almost gummed shut, his head so torpid from exhaustion it felt filled with glue. He needed to be alert for tomorrow, and he needed information he wasn’t going to find in the middle of the night. He set a wake-up call for six a.m., asleep before the small hand on the clock completed a single revolution.
His last conscious thought was that he had not found a single mention of Anka.
Soon after Darius left, Dante entered the room carrying a tray full of caviar and paté. He handed Viktor a bottle of Bordeaux and a wineglass. He also left a white robe atop the bed and ordered Viktor to wear it when they returned for him before midnight. Seeing the way Dante fondled the long knife at his side, gleaming underneath the cloak, Viktor had no doubt he would be forced to comply.
Viktor didn’t touch the food or drink, but he used the huge, glass-enclosed shower to wash away the grime. The steam and pounding water helped clear his head, and he sat on the marble bench inside the shower, thinking through his predicament.
Viktor knew he was probably going to die. He had no idea where he was, and he had no means of communication with the outside world. He feared for Grey’s life, but even if he was still alive, Viktor had no hope that Grey would find him before midnight.
Viktor was no coward, but he did fear entering that looming abyss, that most occluded of passageways, without a shred of knowledge of what to expect. After a lifetime of searching, the only thing he could say for certain was that he was not convinced that death was the end of the line. He had seen far too much, experienced too many implausibilities, to know for sure.
Regardless, Viktor wasn’t ready.
What did he know? He knew Darius had gained access to the Ahriman Grimoire roughly a year ago, and had gone public with the Order of New Enlightenment shortly thereafter. Either Darius wanted his followers to believe this book granted him favor by Ahriman, or he did, in fact, believe such a thing, in which case Viktor had to give weight to the power of belief. The human mind was a powerful and barely understood tool—a weapon—that could, quite literally, accomplish miracles. He had witnessed the power of the mind time and again with his own fieldwork, including the extreme example with the Juju sorcerer in Zimbabwe, his first case with Grey. Just recently in the national news, a group of teenage girls in upstate New York had all contracted the same mysterious twitching disease for which no doctor could identify a cause, forcing the medical community to admit the disease was a collective physical manifestation of psychological symptoms.
Translation: It was all in their minds.
Viktor had a plan of attack to counter Darius’s belief, which he had already implemented. Every word uttered by Viktor during their last conversation had been carefully chosen, and he believed he had accomplished his initial objective: He had planted the seeds of doubt.
Tenuous at best, the larger problem with Viktor’s plan to undermine Darius’s faith was that, even if successful, Viktor would still be surrounded by cult members in an unknown location, with no help on the way.
The needles of hot water slammed into his back, millions of droplets running off his body and swirling into the drain. He watched their inevitable journey, wondering how much fate played a part in the human lifespan, whether all was predetermined or random chance or whether, as with most things, the truth lay somewhere in between.
Before Viktor rose, he cupped a handful of water and tossed it on the bathroom floor. A perverse and ridiculous gesture, he knew. Maybe he had no say in the matter, and he knew his odds had never been worse, but if force of will counted for anything, then let it be known to the universe that Viktor Radek would not sail gently past those barrier islands.
He knew Darius had toyed with him from the beginning, had left clues along the way for Viktor to follow. And Viktor had to admit that he had bested him thus far, had used Viktor’s insatiable curiosity and pride against him. The girl had been an ingenious addition.
He knew Darius had used artifice on some level to set up the fire-based murders, and he guessed that he had used an accomplice, probably the man with the knives, to administer the poison to the other victims. Or, Viktor mused, perhaps he had used the girl. Mind control within a cult
was a powerful and well-documented precedent to murder, from the Manson family to the Jonestown massacre to the Aum doomsday cult.
Viktor was sure a tiny ignition device was used to start the fires, and surmised that the victims’ robes had been soaked in an accelerant beforehand. He had already saturated his robe with water to counteract any accelerant. After hanging it on the towel rack, he wrung it out every few minutes, hoping it dried in time.
He knew about the Vikane, and thus the only remaining mystery was the strange appearances by the robed figure before the murders. Viktor had examined every inch of Gareth’s chamber for a hidden device or recorder, and had found nothing. How was Darius doing it?
The water poured over him, not so much a final cleansing but a pounding reminder of the mistakes he had made in life, of the inevitable regrets from a life spent chasing the unknown, rather than home and hearth.
He reached for the fresh bar of soap in the ornate dish, every last detail of this bedchamber as carefully planned as Darius’s rise to power. One thing bothered him: Soaking the robe seemed too easy, too obvious a solution. Darius had to have something else in mind.
Every last detail.
With sudden comprehension, his hand stopped in midair.
The clang of the wake-up call jolted Grey awake. He jumped out of bed and reached for his gun before remembering where he was.
Eyes gummy and wounds throbbing, he took another handful of ibuprofen, then scooped up the folders and hurried out of the cheap hotel room. It didn’t take him long to find his next destination, an Internet café two blocks away. Before entering the café he called Jacques.
“Do you have word from Viktor?” Jacques said.
“He’s compromised,” Grey said. “I’m sure of it.”
“We have all our resources dedicated to protecting the pope and the major archbishops. I’m not sure what I can do.”
“I need two things: a piece of information, and your hand on your cell the rest of the day.”
“Oui, of course. What is it that you need?”
The Diabolist (Dominic Grey 3) Page 32
