The Diabolist (Dominic Grey 3)

by Green, Layton

  “Have someone find out everything you can about O.N.E Enterprises,” Grey said. “It’s the holding company for the Order of New Enlightenment.”

  “Done.”

  He told Jacques about the glass headquarters in East London, though the London police would be no help to Viktor, because Grey didn’t know what to tell them to do. His bitterness and frustration burned through him, and he fought against the rage that clawed at the edges of his vision.

  He entered the café, ordered a triple-shot espresso, and slid into a chair with a view of the front entrance. The café was empty except for a bespectacled girl typing in a corner.

  First he spent an hour scouring the Internet for mention of O.N.E. Enterprises. He found nothing, not even a listing on the Companies House website, the United Kingdom’s registry of corporations.

  He leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingertips on the mouse pad. He had a little more than fourteen hours to find Viktor. This company could be incorporated anywhere in the world, and it could take Grey days to find it.

  Then again, he knew from his peripheral dealings with legal when he was a DSO that corporations in most countries had to keep a local registered agent, or the equivalent thereof, when doing business in a particular country. A few searches confirmed this was the case in the United Kingdom. Unfortunately, registered agents for foreign corporations were not public information in the U.K. He texted Jacques to try and acquire that information.

  An idea came to him. Most companies used giant, specialized corporations as registered agents, but smaller companies, or companies who liked to keep their business under wraps, often used their own attorneys. It was a long shot, but Grey did know one attorney in England associated with Darius, and he was right here in London.

  The more Grey thought about it, the more he liked the idea of seeing what else Solicitor Alec Lister knew about Darius, the Order of New Enlightenment, and O.N.E Enterprises. Grey hadn’t trusted him then, he didn’t trust him now, and he was betting Alec had a hand in the death of Ian Stoke and knew far more than he was letting on.

  That, and Grey was out of options.

  It was just after noon when he arrived at the fancy law office off Portobello Road. Grey was all too aware of the time, which at the moment seemed to be flowing like a barrel over Niagara Falls.

  Solicitor Alec Lister was the sole occupant of the fourth floor of the building. The office door was shut and locked. Grey didn’t know many attorneys who closed up shop by noon on a weekday, unless they had someplace very important to be.

  After knocking loudly and receiving no response, his fingers whisked the thin metal file in and out of the keyhole, releasing the dead bolt. No alarm sounded, and he saw no evidence of wires or cameras. He eased the door shut behind him, locked it, and swept his eyes around reception and the three closed doors. Then he went to work.

  He moved as quickly as he could, aware this might be a red herring, trying not to think about the consequences if it were. He entered Lister’s office and tried to access his computer, but it was secured, and Grey was no hacker. It took him far too long to search the desk, but he found nothing except innocuous papers.

  After combing the rest of the office, still finding nothing, he tried the second door, which led to a conference room with boxes stacked along the wall. Before going through the boxes, he tried the third door, which revealed a file room filled with cabinets, shelves, and more boxes, all full of paper files.

  He stood in the middle of the conference room, running both hands through his hair and holding them there. It was already well into the afternoon, and the files and boxes in the office could take the rest of the day to pore through. Should he return to the glass building and take his chances with the cadre of guards and cult members? The thing was, even if he gained access again, he didn’t think he would find anyone of consequence in that building. And whatever was going down, Darius wouldn’t risk exposing his headquarters, especially after Grey knew where it was. It just didn’t feel right.

  His burner cell rang, and Grey answered on the first ring. Jacques again.

  “O.N.E. Enterprises is incorporated in Luxembourg,” Jacques said. “The registered agent in the U.K. is Alec Lister, an attorney in Notting Hill.”

  “Yeah, I’m standing in his office. Anything else?”

  “We investigated a few of the real estate purchases. As you said, it appears to be a holding company. Unfortunately, all of the transactions appear legitimate. Perhaps a full investigation would uncover irregularities, but I’m afraid there’s nothing that will help us today.”

  Grey swallowed his disappointment. “Thanks.”

  He shoved the cell in his pocket and paced the file room. The information did help: It confirmed that instead of a giant international firm, Darius had chosen a solo attorney as registered agent. Alec Lister was important to O.N.E. Enterprises, which meant he was important to Darius. Alec Lister knew Ian Stoke and Sir David Naughton, he was a prominent member of the Clerics of Whitehall, perhaps even part of the inner circle of the Order of New Enlightenment.

  Viktor and Darius were in London, Grey was sure of it. Dante was there; Anka was there; the power center was there. He wasn’t sure if Darius had deliberately misled Interpol by sending that letter to the pope or if he had something else in mind, but whatever he had planned, Grey’s gut told him it would take place in this city.

  But where?

  Grey tore into the boxes and files, determined to find something. But as afternoon faded to evening and Grey came up short, the doubts poured in and he questioned everything: his instincts, his judgment, his ability to save his friend.

  He glanced at the clock on the wall, looking away as soon as he did.

  Nine p.m.

  The office now resembled a war zone, and Grey plowed ahead, slinging files on to the floor as soon as he scanned them. An hour later he found something, of course in the next to last file cabinet. Grey had started with the newest files because of the recent appearance of the Order of New Enlightenment, but what he had just found concerned one of Lister’s oldest clients.

  It was the slimmest of leads, perhaps nothing, a nugget of information that meshed with something in his recent memory. The client was Niles Widecombe, member of the House of Lords, another rich and powerful customer of Alec Lister. Perhaps the richest and most powerful of all, judging by his financial statements. The man seemed to own half of Devon, as well as a huge estate on Swain’s Lane in North London.

  What got Grey’s attention was the North London address, combined with the fact that Niles Widecombe was a principal donor to Highgate Cemetery. Lister had set up an enormous trust in his name, the interest paid out to the cemetery in perpetuity.

  It struck a nerve because of something Anka had told him about the night she had discovered Darius’s identity. She said she had followed Darius to a mansion in North London that backed up to a cemetery. Grey couldn’t get on to the computer, and his smartphone had been stripped, so he raced out of the office to an Internet café he had noticed down the street.

  He did a quick Google maps search on the Widecombe address, and his grip on the mouse increased when he saw the large cemetery sprawling behind Swain’s Lane.

  He didn’t trust Anka in the slightest, but at least some of what she had told him had been verified. And something about her story about that house had the ring of truth, though Grey suspected Anka had been a willing participant in the ceremony rather than an observer. Or maybe Darius had caught her and forced her to participate, and she had been compromised since that night.

  What he did know was that Alec Lister’s connection to this house, this fancy property of this powerful member of the House of Lords, a house that backed onto one of London’s largest cemeteries, caused his internal radar to scream in alarm.

  He gave the cemetery on the screen a final glance, then limped out of the café and onto Portobello Road, frantically signaling for a cab.

  They came for him.

  Dari
us looked pleased to see that Viktor had already donned the robe, and he ordered Dante to replace the burlap hood. They left his hands and feet unbound, but Dante kept the tip of his knife on Viktor’s back, guiding him the entire time.

  Viktor had no thought of attempting an escape: He knew he was no match for Dante, let alone the numerous voices joining the entourage once they left the bedroom. His mouth tightened when he heard Oak’s belligerent growl.

  Viktor heard a door open and felt a rush of cool outside air. He also heard the sound of falling water, guessing from the fragrant smell that they had entered a garden. The noise from the waterfall drew closer and then faded. He heard the creak of another door, and then Viktor became disoriented. They walked for a long time in what felt like the prescient silence of a wood. When they stopped, Viktor estimated the journey had taken twenty minutes.

  The chatter ceased, and someone yanked his hood away. “Behold your place of execution,” Darius said. “I think you’ll find it quite appropriate.”

  Viktor’s gaze swept his surroundings. He and Darius and a small entourage were standing on a wide, raised mound of earth encircled by a pathway ten feet below. Contiguous stone tombs and vaults crowded the pathway on both sides, the impressive architecture a mix of Gothic, classical, and Egyptian. He saw the spot of darkness heralding the entrance tunnel he knew was called Egyptian Avenue, with its obelisks and lotus-flower columns waiting on the other side. And in the darkness beyond the circle of tombs, he knew an enormous Victorian cemetery formed a sepulchral barrier between Viktor and the outside world. Finally, with him on the small hill, he saw the cedar tree that still haunted his dreams.

  Yes, he knew at once where they were. It was a site he could never forget, not just because of the unique location but because this place had been forever scraped into the fabric of his soul, a festering wound that no medicine could heal.

  He was standing in a spot called the Circle of Lebanon, a landmark in London’s Highgate Cemetery.

  The exact place where Eve had taken her own life.

  Swain’s Lane was all the way across London, north of Camden Town and just east of Hampstead Heath. Grey balled his fists in frustration at the clogged late-night traffic in central London. His cabdriver pulled onto Swain’s Lane just after eleven p.m., and a few blocks later they arrived at the address for Niles Widecombe, an ivy-covered Italianate mansion with grounds that stretched into the darkness. By the light of the moon Grey could make out the tops of the twisted oaks dotting the cemetery grounds that backed onto the property. A large wall enclosed the sides and rear of the grounds, which rang true with Anka’s story.

  Grey had the cabbie drop him a few doors down the street. He hurried towards the side of the mansion, looking for a way to scale the wall and gain rear access. When he stepped onto the manicured lawn, a door opened and a man stepped out brandishing a large handgun. Grey dove behind a clump of trees and bushes, coming up behind a large elm, his own gun at the ready.

  No shots were fired, which didn’t surprise him. Grey flattened and then crawled forward to get a better view. Despite the fact that someone had a pistol pointed in his direction, he felt only the thrill of hope that an armed guard had been set. They don’t want anyone calling the police, and they don’t want anyone snooping around this house.

  Before he could decide on a course of action or scan the grounds, a voice called out from the direction of the house. “Grey?”

  Grey stilled. He knew that voice. “Dickie?”

  “You’re taking the mickey out of me. What the bloody hell’re you doing?”

  Grey peered beside the tree, still hidden from view by a line of bushes in the darkness. Dickie stood in the front door, now holding his handgun sideways, like an amateur gangster. “You know what,” Grey said. “Drop the weapon.”

  “Can’t do that.”

  Grey focused his weapon on Dickie, both hands gripping the hilt, thumbs forward, elbows steady. “You’re not trained like that,” Grey said, “and you know it.”

  No response. He had a clear shot at Dickie, and if he tried to reenter the house, Grey would take it. “My partner’s about to be killed by these animals,” Grey said. “That’s not what you’re about.”

  Dickie swung the gun around, trying to pinpoint Grey’s voice. “Forget it.”

  Grey’s index finger hovered over the trigger. “I won’t ask again.”

  “Like I said, they scare me even more than you do.”

  “And you were wrong then, too,” Grey said.

  Grey saw Dickie pull a cell phone out of his pocket. Grey rose to a crouch and shot him in the shoulder, thankful he had picked up that silencer. Dickie dropped the gun and fell into the house, and Grey moved towards him as fast as his leg would allow, gun leveled at his chest. “Don’t even think about it, Dickie. Just stay on the floor.”

  Dickie lay on his back, gasping in pain. Grey pocketed Dickie’s cell and kicked the gun out of reach.

  “Damn you, Grey.”

  “Where are they?”

  “I’m just a driver.”

  “With a semiautomatic?” Grey said. “I’m going to ask you one more time before I shove this gun in your mouth and pull the trigger. I already told you the stakes.” He took Dickie by the collar with one hand, holding the gun to his face with the other. “You know me, you know what I’m capable of, and you know I’m telling the truth.”

  “Fuck me.” He started shaking in Grey’s grasp, whether from pain or fear Grey was unsure. Nor did he care.

  “Last chance, Dickie.”

  “You don’t get it, the things I’ve seen them do. They won’t just kill me for this.”

  “Then help me end it,” Grey said.

  Grey pried the gun into Dickie’s mouth, cocking the trigger. Dickie mumbled, “The cemetery.”

  “How?”

  “There’s an entrance in the back, through the wall. I’ve no idea where they are or what they’re doing.”

  “How many?” Grey said.

  “Plenty, plus Dante. And he’s enough.” He pointed at Grey’s lame leg. “You can’t beat him like that.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Help me, Grey. Get me out of here before you go in.”

  “Close your eyes,” Grey said.

  “No, mate, don’t—”

  Grey struck him in the temple with the butt of his gun, leaving him sprawled on the ground. Then he sent a text to Jacques and stepped farther inside the mansion.

  The tapestries, chandeliers, and high-end art floated at the periphery of Grey’s vision as he moved through the Swain’s Lane mansion. He was in a hyperaware state, eyes sweeping the minutia of his surroundings for signs of danger. Except for Dickie, the house appeared empty.

  Grey hobbled through the dining hall and past an indoor swimming pool before entering a covered patio at the rear, wide French doors leading to the vast grounds in the back. On the far side the yard sloped uphill, topped by a rock garden with a waterfall spilling into a koi pond. Another detail corroborating Anka’s story.

  She had been to this house, whether in the way she told it or not.

  The grounds were deserted, and Grey followed a path through the rock garden. Behind the waterfall he found a door set into the twelve-foot-high stone wall.

  He took a few deep breaths to prepare himself mentally for the fight he knew was coming, readied the handgun at chest level, and opened the door.

  A narrow cavity led through the wall, to another door a few feet away. The next door had no handle, so he pushed gently on it. It creaked as it swung open. Grey pushed harder and stepped through, finding himself three feet behind two startled guards, one in a black leather jacket, the other a wool overcoat. Grey didn’t want to alert the entire cemetery if he could avoid it, so he reversed his grip on the handgun and pistol-whipped the first guard in the temple before he could react, dropping him. The next guard reached for his weapon, and Grey’s blow glanced across his face. As the guard reeled, Grey dropped his gun and pounced, coveri
ng the man’s mouth and driving his head back with one hand, holding the hand that might reach for the gun with his other. Grey spun him in a circle and then reversed his movement, striking him violently on the back of the neck with his stiffened forearm. The guard was unconscious before he hit the ground.

  After making sure no one else was around, Grey pulled the guards behind a bush and surveyed his surroundings with a grimace of pain. His own leg had almost crumpled during that fight.

  The moon hovered above like a swollen gray eye. He was standing in the middle of an unkempt wood, darkness pooled like blood, creepers and the spindly branches of moss-covered trees spreading throughout the gloom. Up ahead he could see a jumble of tombstones among the undergrowth, most leaning to one side or split by roots and vines. Behind him, the cemetery wall stretched in both directions.

  The door must have swung shut and blended into the wall, because it was now invisible. Grey was going to bet that the other benefactors of the cemetery weren’t using this entrance.

  He took a flashlight from one of the guards, and risked pointing the light at the ground. A path of flattened grass led deeper into the undergrowth, past a huge oak tree—yet another tidbit from Anka’s story—set twenty feet behind the wall.

  Grey followed the path for a hundred yards until it intersected with a two-foot-wide stone path that curved deeper into the cemetery. Grey had no idea how big this place was, no idea if he was even moving in the right direction.

  All he knew was that he had to hurry.

  A few minutes later the presence of two more guards confirmed his route choice, and he wasted precious minutes slipping into the undergrowth and circling behind them. He was in no condition to try to surprise the guards, nor could he risk a shot being fired or a cry being raised.

  After he rejoined the pathway his surroundings changed, the undergrowth on both sides becoming more manageable, most of the crypts and sarcophagi now free of vines and waist-high weeds. The tombs grew more frequent, fronted by mythological statues and carvings, some encased in marble vaults and mausoleums. The footpath wound among the atmospheric gravesites while the branches and undergrowth clutched at him from all sides, wraiths yearning for his warm flesh.