MEN DRESSED IN RED COATS and top hats approached the black BMW. They were the doormen of the imposing L'Oscar London. With a swift and elegant gesture, one of them opened the rear door, the synchronized movement resembling a choreographed routine reserved for distinguished guests. The fabric of the top hat shimmered faintly beneath the cold sidewalk lights; the hotel's metal emblem gleamed for an instant, as though confirming the solemnity of the moment.
— Good morning, sir — greeted the newly arrived guest with a polished voice and precise manners, as though the routine itself were part of a sacred ritual.
— Please close the door. I need to speak with my driver before getting out — the passenger replied sharply, his voice laden with urgency and restraint, like a man hiding dangerous secrets behind an impeccable suit.
— My apologies, sir — said the doorman, closing the door and waiting with discreet professionalism for the order to open it again.
The silence that followed was filled only by the soft purr of the engine and the rustling of fabric.
— What is this? — he asked the driver, staring at him through the rearview mirror, his eyes sharpening like blades beneath the cabin light.
— One of the finest hotels in London.
The answer came measured and practical, almost devoid of emotion.
— Have you seen my room at Temple Church? — Raphaniè snapped, irritation creeping into his voice.
— Yes, sir. It was quite austere.
The driver replied calmly, like someone accustomed to both humble quarters and luxurious accommodations.
— Exactly as it should be, Greg. I cannot attract attention.
The response came like a knife. There was fear in it—the fear of watchful eyes and loose tongues. Prudence had become habit; habit had become survival.
— Mr. Mannieri, I would agree if you were a Jesuit priest who had taken a vow of poverty, but you are one of the most successful businessmen in Italy. It would be stranger if you wanted a less luxurious hotel.
Gregory Evans delivered the observation with a balance of sincerity and irony, wrapped in professional courtesy.
— Fine. I'll pretend to be someone else. But I still want to meet Saul tomorrow — demanded the Italian, the word carrying the authority of a man accustomed to manipulating appearances.
— I arranged a meeting with him tonight to explain your situation. Tomorrow, I'll pick you up at five-thirty. Be prepared to watch a dog race.
Gregory Evans kept his tone light, a remedy for the tension gathering in the back seat.
— Until tomorrow — replied the priest, opening the car door with a brief motion, trying to maintain control of the situation.
The doorman hurried forward to assist him and offered to carry his briefcase, professionalism replacing any trace of human warmth.
— Enjoy the hotel's services, Mr. Mannieri — Greg called as he pressed the accelerator.
The BMW pulled away with the discreet growl of its engine.
Raphaniè's nervousness prevented him from noticing the grandeur of the lobby. His mind was tangled in threads of urgency and caution.
He handed over the forged passport at reception with hands trembling just enough not to attract attention.
Do not run from yourself, Raphaniè...
The words echoed in his memory like an old warning, spoken by someone who understood the cost of masks.
The receptionist typed calmly during check-in, as though nothing extraordinary were happening.
WHILE RUBBING HIS FINGERS against his palms, he rehearsed a brief prayer, almost a mantra designed to sharpen his courage.
Golden details caught his attention—arabesques, mirrors, reflections multiplying figures and intentions.
No one can serve two masters... You cannot serve both God and wealth...
The words of Jesus Christ struck him with the force of lightning, a moral question piercing the varnish of his mission.
He closed his eyes and felt sweat caress his face.
His skin grew sticky, as though the very air conspired against his composure.
— Mr. Mannieri, are you all right? — asked the receptionist, a young man of Arab features, alert to the slightest sign of distress.
— I'm fine. Just a little tired — Raphaniè replied, forcing calm into his gaze.
— A porter will escort you to the Presidential Suite. Your luggage arrived earlier and is already waiting for you. Enjoy your stay.
The employee continued with practiced efficiency, allowing formality to serve as anesthesia.
— Thank you.
The word emerged dry and concise.
My God, do not let me fall into temptation, and deliver me from all evil. Let me complete the mission...
He murmured the prayer as he walked, the words accompanying the soft jingle of hotel keys.
He moved down the corridor like a man walking through a hallway of decisions.
AS SOON AS THE DOOR CLOSED, the porter turned toward the priest with a smile that demanded financial recognition.
— We've arrived — announced the porter, accompanying him to the suite door and waiting openly for a substantial tip worthy of a Presidential Suite guest.
Expectation lingered in the air like smoke.
The priest slipped a hand into his pocket and felt metal beneath his finger.
A penny.
A modest and ironic coin amid such luxury.
— Unfortunately, it's all I have at the moment — said Raphaniè, tossing him the coin with the same coldness with which he issued orders.
The porter, completely bewildered, handed over the briefcase and left visibly displeased.
His shoulders were tense, as though reconsidering the value of the service he had provided.
— This place is a house — Raphaniè concluded from the suite's living room, looking around as though claiming newly conquered territory.
The sentence carried ritual weight.
This room would be his temporary refuge and the stage for whatever came next.
He retrieved his cell phone from the briefcase and settled onto the sofa before the vast windows.
The view offered glimpses of Hyde Park: trees peeking through curtains, distant greenery softening the city's rigid lines.
He dialed the number Cardinal DellaMonica had entrusted to him.
His fingers moved with precision while anticipation tightened around his chest.
Someone answered and immediately remained silent.
— Mal'akh ha-Mavet — the priest whispered into the line, speaking the password.
"...Who forgot to smear blood on the doorposts of his house?..."
The voice on the other end was deep, austere, and laced with warning.
— Baruch Hawkings.
Raphaniè answered and immediately hung up, as though every extra syllable might deepen the shadow surrounding his target.
He shuddered at the meaning of the password.
Mal'akh ha-Mavet.
The Angel of Death.
The instrument of divine wrath upon mankind.
In Exodus, it had been the executor of Egypt's tenth plague, slaying the firstborn of every family that failed to mark their doorposts with blood.
The image lodged itself in his mind with the coldness of a blade.
The countersign pointed to the tragic destiny of the English lord—a poisoned prophecy that could become reality at any moment.
— May God's will be done.
The priest rose from the sofa and began exploring the ninety-square-meter suite with measured steps.
He had completed his mission, he concluded.
Now it was time to enjoy the reward Providence had granted him—or so it seemed.
LUNCH AT DINNER by Heston Blumenthal had been magnificent, a sequence of flavors and techniques that seemed to challenge the very logic of taste.
Raphaniè returned to the suite two hours after the amuse-bouche, partially intoxicated—not merely by wine, but by carefully measured relief.
His stomach was full, as though the luxury around him could somehow fill the voids within.
— My God, I shall consider this extravagance a victory banquet — he murmured, almost as though reciting an inverted prayer.
Not an excessive sin of gluttony...
He justified himself while lying on the bed, attempting to tame guilt through well-rehearsed reasoning.
His suitcases remained unopened beside the walk-in closet.
He assumed they were filled with designer clothing, mobile symbols of a perfect disguise.
Closing his eyes, he felt a sharp pain above his left eyebrow.
The discomfort faded within seconds, like a simple physical warning of accumulated tension.
— What a marvelous bed! — he exclaimed, surrendering to the soft sheets and calculated comfort of the room.
He drifted into sleep with the same abandon as an actor preparing for another role upon life's stage.
RAPHANIÈ AWOKE to the ringing of the telephone, the sound cutting through the silence like an order.
— Who is it? — he answered in irritated Italian, his voice still thick with sleep.
"...This is the hotel spa, Mr. Mannieri. I'm calling to remind you that your treatment is scheduled in fifteen minutes..."
The voice was professional and kind.
— I didn't schedule anything.
"...It's a complimentary service from the hotel..." the woman explained.
"...Would you like us to send someone to escort you down?..."
The offer was delivered skillfully; when dealing with guests of this caliber, kindness was currency.
— All right.
Raphaniè accepted the gesture as part of the reward he had earned—or perhaps been granted.
It must be part of my reward...
He dragged himself to the edge of the bed.
— This will do me good after last night — he concluded, stretching his muscles in search of relief from the moral burden he carried.
WHILE WAITING, he leafed through his notebook with almost ritual calm.
The notes were maps of logic and superstition, a mixture of evidence and belief that had guided him.
The conclusion of the mission had been simpler than he had imagined.
In the cold field of hypotheses, reality often proves less terrifying than imagination.
He had not needed to waste so many hours of sleep trying to understand Enochian magic.
The realization brought both relief and regret.
With the leader dead, the cult falls apart.
Dead?!
The word startled him.
It seemed capable of leaping from the page and landing directly upon his conscience.
He knew Baruch Hawkings only through the words of the President of the College of Arms:
"The most controversial of all the lords. He has highly unorthodox methods of defending his interests."
The memory conjured the image of a controversial nobleman, equally skilled in protocol and intrigue.
— The demon said blood was dripping from my hands. Mal'akh ha-Mavet. I didn't pull the trigger, but if anything happens to Baruch Hawkings, the blame will be mine!
The realization struck him hard.
Responsibility hovered above him like a shadow threatening to eclipse every sense of victory.
For several moments he remained silent, staring into the emptiness of the suite.
The furniture stood around him like mute witnesses.
He thought of the consequences.
He mentally revisited every gesture, every exchanged glance, every password spoken aloud.
Inside him, doubt gnawed relentlessly.
If the biblical prophecy invoked through that password became reality, what room would remain for excuses or justifications?
Raphaniè swallowed hard, dragging his fingers across his chin as though touch alone might restore clarity.
Outside, London continued its indifferent rhythm.
Palaces and modest buildings shared the same urban breath.
He had managed to wear the masks of rest and pleasure.
The mask of remorse, however, was far more difficult to bear.
He took a deep breath, searched for strength, and whispered a brief prayer for redemption and courage while, in the background, the suite's clock counted its merciless seconds.