Minutes later he was knocking at a heavy mahogany door on the fifth floor. The door bore a brass plate on which was the one word, Chairman. He waited. After a few seconds, a green light glowed on his right, and the lock emitted a faint bleep. He turned the handle and entered.
He had been in this place before and knew what to expect. Heavy oak paneling. Heavy velvet curtains, closely drawn. Deep carpet. Heavy Edwardian furniture. All dimly perceived in the glow of a single table lamp, dark green and bronze, and the flames of artificial fire logs that glowed and crackled beneath an ornate mantel and bathed the room in constantly shifting light. The central heating seemed, as always, to be on full power and combined with the fire to create an atmosphere of stifling heat.
And yet as Wheatley stood in the doorway he was aware of a change. Usually the chairman was seated behind his desk. This time the desk was empty, and at first Wheatley could see his master nowhere.
Then a voice came from a deep leather armchair in front of the blaze.
“Come.”
Slowly, Wheatley advanced.
“Sit.”
This was an unusual honor. Wheatley sat in the facing armchair, his knees almost touching the old man’s. The heat was here quite appalling, and at close quarters the chairman reeked of sickly sweet cologne that did not at all disguise the stench of decay. But Wheatley had long since ceased caring whether another’s company gave him pleasure or satisfaction in any normal way—intellectual or emotional or even physical. What mattered was power. And here was a source of it. Clearly, this was to be a special occasion.
The old man leaned forward, his scraggy neck craning awkwardly over the stiff Victorian collar.
“You know why I have sent for you?”
“Perhaps.”
“The offering.”
“Yes?” Wheatley realized that his voice was slightly breathless.
“You are ready to make it. It shall be part of the Ceremony of Power.”
Wheatley waited through a silence.
The chairman spoke again.
“The policewoman—the one who came to you. Cavaliere. She has her family living next door to her. Her mother and father. They shall be the offering. You know what to do?”
“Yes, but—her parents? Surely they won’t be… virgin?”
siding stAr 121 “It does not matter. They are wholesome, affectionate, and intelligent. On this occasion it will be enough.”
“I see.”
“At Samhain. It will be a holocaust. The house. Everything. You and I must make the dedication here. Alone. Before the ceremony. The ceremony will release it, and it will advance you to Mastery. The others will not know. They are not yet ready.”
The old man leant forward and laid a bony hand on Wheatley’s knee.
“It will also be a vengeance, will it not? A vengeance on foolish women who interfere, and silly parents who bring them up to interfere.” His lips stretched in what seemed to be a smile.
Even Wheatley’s heart gave a leap at that grimace. But his hesitation was momentary—an instinctive rebellion of flesh against the fixed determination of will. A second later, and he had himself under control.
He smiled back.
The two sat motionless, gazing into each other’s eyes. Firelight sent their shadows leaping and dancing around the walls. Suddenly it was difficult to distinguish the old man from the younger.
Or even to be sure that either of them was alive.
twenty-eight
London, Hackney. The same evening.
The air in the room was heavy with the smell of cheap cigarettes, Embassy Tipped and Players Number Six. British flags festooned the walls, almost obliterating the fading yellow paintwork.
Maria Coleman’s eyes roamed over the dozen or so men and women who sat on folding wooden chairs, listening to the oratory of Joe Clanthorpe and occasionally interjecting questions. Two of them, in their tweed sports coats, old but well pressed cavalry twill trousers, and shoes outdated in style but polished to brilliance, looked to be retired military men. Six or seven others were in their late thirties. A few looked like late teenagers, cropped hair or shaved heads and imitation leather jackets the favored look. One wore a long black trench coat. Several, absurdly, wore sunglasses.
“… the answer is simple. The repatriation of immigrants will free vast sums at present tied to social services for these people. That money will be redirected to our own old people. And what is more, our getting rid of the burden of membership of the European Union will mean….”
She looked discreetly at her watch. She must at least catch some of the other meeting.
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ChristoPher BryAn She rose quietly from her chair and slipped out the door. Fifteen minutes later she pulled the black Porsche to a curb in Steadman Street and for a few minutes sat peering into the vanity mirror and making adjustments. When she got out, her hair was combed straighter than usual and she was wearing thick-rimmed glasses. Instead of her white belted raincoat she had on a rather battered mackintosh.
The atmosphere at the left-wing meeting was much like that of the meeting she’d just left, right down to the uncomfortable folding chairs. Even the cigarette smoke smelled the same. The mix of people was slightly different—younger, with several women, wearing blue denim rather than black leather. And there were, thank God, no sunglasses.
In other words, everything looked as usual.
Good.
She moved a chair at the back to a place where she could see better and sat down.
Why exactly she kept this personal watch on her cells, she wasn’t sure. She could just as easily—and in many ways more safely—have worked only through her agents, as did Hargrove and Wheatley. But for some reason she preferred this personal check. It kept her in touch. And there was no doubt that if the academy’s plans went through, the cells would be important. A scenario of chaos had been planned—but these were the foot soldiers who would have to make it work. Without them there would be no New Order. There was, then, a degree of wisdom and efficiency in keeping her finger on their pulse. And wasn’t efficiency what mattered?
Efficiency!
She thought of Wheatley again.
Affection is a muddy affair that clouds the true basis of relationship. Pompous little cretin. What the hell did he know about affection? He wouldn’t recognize it if he fell over it.
She’d certainly put a shot across his bows at the last board meeting. She’d quite enjoyed that.
siding stAr 125 Still, she’d better be careful. Wheatley was influential in the academy, and the academy offered the surest entrée she’d ever come across to wealth and power. Its resources seemed inexhaustible. As for the ceremonies and rituals? She didn’t like the sound of them. She’d never set foot in the “temple” they talked about in the upper part of the building, nor was she looking forward to the moment when, she gathered, it would be necessary. But these things seemed to be the way in, and so long as they were, she expected she could live with them.
At least, she could live with what she’d seen so far. And just in case one day she couldn’t, there was always the briefcase, resting in the safe deposit box at Paddington Station. Only a fool would leave herself with no way out. For all the academy’s talk about New Orders and taking power, what it was attempting was risky. Some would call it treason. And even the academy could make a mistake.
On the other hand, the possibility of a rich harvest from the academy still remained, and if she wanted a share in it she must stay in control—above all she must, as Wheatley said, keep control of herself.
Resolutely, if belatedly, she gave her attention to the speaker.
twenty-nine
Holborn. The same evening.
On their most recent stay in London, Cecilia’s parents had found within walking distance of the hotel an excellent little restaurant that specialized in the cuisine of Abruzzo. That evening, having gone through her materials for the court and checked her wardrobe, Cecilia decided to complete her day
by eating there.
She was not disappointed.
Bearing in mind her responsibilities the next day, she ate and drank modestly but well: an excellent brodetto di pesce, pieces of fish swimming in a delicious tomato and wine and garlic and vinegar and anchovy and peperoncino broth. With it she drank San Bernadetto sparkling water and a single glass of a lightly chilled young Montepulciano. She left the little ristorante in a general glow of goodwill, with auguri and complimenti for Mama and Papa, and the promise on her part—willingly given—that she would return when she could.
On her return to the hotel, she found five large volumes stacked on the desk in her room. The Zohar. On top of the books was a note in Michael Aarons’s small, neat handwriting:
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Dear Cecilia, Here are the references. I know that you will be careful! These books are something of a treasure.
God bless you.
Best wishes,
Michael. There followed a list of passages and pages. She nodded with satisfaction, left the books where they were, and went to bed.
thirty
Wednesday morning, October 29.
Rosina Cavaliere clattered to the front door with milk bottles and blinked at the early morning sun. Bushes and paths were soaked—there had been rain during the night. Now the skies were clear, and she breathed an exhilarating freshness. Marvelous! And convenient, too—for today was a day when she had to make visits, always more pleasant in the sun.
She was about to close the door when her attention was caught by something fluttering on it, low down. A roughly torn triangle of paper, fastened with a pin. She withdrew the pin and peered at the paper. On it were some words written in what she rather thought was Hebrew. And someone had taken the trouble to pin it there. How very odd!
The kettle whistled. Resolving to “show it to Andrea when he gets back,” she laid the scrap of paper on the hall table and went back to the kitchen.
Figaro and Pu sniffed curiously at the bottom of the door and then trotted after her.
Tocco was already waiting bossily by her bowl in the kitchen.
***
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Christopher Bryan Cecilia rose early, went to the fitness room, and worked out for forty-five minutes. By seven-thirty she was dressed and ready for the day, although she was not required at the court until ten. She had at least two hours before she need leave the hotel, which was just what she had planned.
She got some coffee and a patisserie from the decent little French coffee shop across the road (the hotel coffee she regarded as undrinkable), took them up to her room, sat down at the table, and took the first volume from the pile Michael Aarons had sent to her. It was not difficult to see what he meant about their being a treasure. The blue leather binding was beautiful. She opened the flyleaf and was further informed:
This edition of the Zohar is limited to 1250 sets of twelve volumes, volume I being numbered 1 to 1250, and 48 special sets printed on Banham Green’s handmade paper, volume I of which is signed by the translators and numbered I to XLVIII.
Beneath was the number of the copy, followed by two autographs, written (she suspected) with steel nibs.
H. Sperling
M. Simon In the next two hours, she learned something of the experience of Israel (“As the lily among thorns is tinged with red and white, so the community of Israel is visited now with justice and now with mercy”), and even something about God (“For all things are in Him and He is in all things: He is both manifest and concealed: manifest in order to uphold the whole, and concealed for He is found nowhere”). Concerning Wheatley or Kakoyannis she learned nothing.
And perhaps that was something.
For about one thing DS Sims had clearly been right. Kakoyannis was worshipping the devil. That he should have taken with him in order to do so a set of texts that so obviously
siding stAr 131 had nothing to do with such worship—texts, indeed, that appeared to be devoted to its antithesis—seemed, at the very least, unlikely. Not, she supposed, that it was any use expecting devil worship to make sense. Nonetheless, she found herself more and more convinced that the book Wheatley had given her was a fake.
In which case, Wheatley was a liar. Still, though, she had to prove it. She had to find the smoking gun.
What you can’t show, you don’t know.
Perhaps it would help if she talked to Michael Aarons again.
thirty-one
The same day.
At the request of the defense, the court adjourned for the day almost as soon as it began. Cecilia might as well not have been there. Could she make use of the unexpected time? She looked at her watch, took out her mobile, and called.
Michael Aarons himself answered.
Yes, he would be happy to talk to her again about her case and could see her if she came round at three thirty. He was tied up until then and had another meeting at five, for which he would have to leave a little early. But that would give them something over an hour.
When she arrived, he already had coffee prepared—this time in the English style, with mugs and a cafetière, what in Italy she might have called Americano. But it was good coffee, and she took it gratefully. He waved her to a chair, sat down himself, and waited. “Michael, have you ever come across something called the Academy for Philosophical Studies?”
His eyebrows shot up. “You mean the group in Bayswater?”
“Off the Bayswater Road. So you do know about them?”
“A little, yes.”
“It’s just that they seem to be coming up in this case. It could
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be important. If you felt free—professionally free, I mean—to say how you felt about them, I’d like to know.” “Would you?” A pause. When he spoke again, it was slowly and even more quietly. “I must confess I find the academy rather tiresome. Some of us seem to have to spend a lot of time with its… failures.”
“Can you tell me what kind of failures?” When he did, Cecilia had the impression that he chose his words with great care.
“The academy seems to expect certain very rigid mental and spiritual standards from those who go far with it. In return, it offers rewards. But those who can’t maintain the standards tend to find the experience—well, depressing. And some of us, from time to time, have to help. Breakdowns. Clinical depressions. People trying to commit suicide. That sort of thing.”
“You and other priests?”
“Oh, not all priests by any means. I’ve a friend who’s a psychiatrist. Another who’s a G. P. Several cases have come through the Samaritans. All sorts of people have been involved.”
“You aren’t saying that the academy itself refers people to you?”
“Oh no! The academy never recognizes any responsibility in these matters, so far as I know.” He sighed. “Sometimes there’s a financial side to things as well. I must be careful what I say here. I’m not saying I’ve any evidence of them doing anything actually illegal.”
No one ever had, so far as Cecilia knew.
Michael went on.
“But like other groups, including, of course, the church, the academy does look for financial and material commitment from its members. A few people seem to have got themselves into difficulty. To be fair, when the academy has been presented with irrefutable evidence on that score, they’ve always cancelled covenants—even refunded money on one or two occasions. But
siding stAr 135
you know how threatened and irrational people become when they feel themselves under pressure.” “I do.” She waited a moment, then said, “Of course I’m not asking you to break any confidences, but would you feel able to tell me how many of these people you and your friends are helping? I mean, just roughly? Is it well—two or three a year? Or a dozen or so? Or what?”
“So far as I can recall, we’re at present working with about twenty-five people. I will tell you that a sister in one of our Anglican orders has had
eleven cases passed to her since the summer.”
About twenty-five. Out of seven and a half million who pop - ulate Greater London, perhaps not many. Yet considering the small size of the academy, more than enough. Nor was there any clear reason to assume that the priest and his friends were the only people helping former members of the academy. Perhaps there were more? On the other hand, perhaps the academy tended to attract neurotic, depressive people. Wouldn’t that account for a high number of such people among its “failures”?
Michael Aarons, like Verity Jones, now displayed a slightly disconcerting ability to answer the question she hadn’t asked.
“I think I’m also free to tell you that of the cases I’ve mentioned, only two appear to have any previous history of mental breakdown. The rest may not have been the happiest or most integrated people in the world before they came to the academy, but they seem at least to have coped with life. Which is more than they can do now.”
She nodded. What he said about the academy confirmed feel- ings she already had. But the stronger those feelings became, the more she was troubled by another question.
“But why do you think they’re involved in all this? I mean, what’s in it for the academy?”
He fetched the cafetière and poured more coffee for them both before answering.
“All right.” He sighed, as she had begun to notice he often did before starting to speak about something he found distasteful. “I think that at the core of the academy there’s a group of people whose approach to life is what I would call ‘gnostic.’ That’s to say, they seek knowledge, especially knowledge of the supernatural—what I think they’d call ‘spiritual’ knowledge. Actually, what they’re looking for is power through such knowledge. Because they know, they’ll be strong. Because they understand, they’ll be able to use others, to control them.”
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