— And what is the riddle that points to the key person? — Saul asked, leaning over the table, his eyes sparkling with journalistic curiosity, the recorder discreetly running in his jacket pocket.
— "The truth lies beneath the seal. The crowned lion claims his throne. He comes from the Root of Jesse." — Raphaniè recited, pausing between phrases as though uttering an ancient forbidden prayer.
— That's cryptic… sounds biblical… so I couldn't decode it… unless… — the journalist said, leaving the sentence hanging, raising the eyebrow marked by a scar that gleamed under the fading light filtering through the Orangery windows.
— Don't build suspense, Saul. — Raphaniè set his cup down and crossed his arms, intrigued.
— You're in London, Father, and the demon chose English weapons. The person referred to in the riddle must be from here.
— I have no doubt about that — but the Italian's grave tone betrayed an old concern. — How do we decipher the riddle? — he asked, leaning back, lightly cracking his back against the chair.
— The oldest and most traditional English families — Saul explained, gesturing with the silver spoon — can be identified by their heraldic coats of arms. Perhaps the "seal" mentioned in the riddle refers to that: a crest, a symbol of bloodline and lineage.
Raphaniè lifted his head and smiled, a nearly mystical glow in his eyes.
— I have no doubt that God placed you in my path, Saul. — His voice sounded like both a blessing and a sentence.
— I appreciate that, but even so, Father, it won't be easy to find this person. There are thousands of coats of arms across London, and the lion — remember — is the most common symbol in English heraldry. Even the royal coat of arms has three.
— With the Lord's help, we will succeed. — Raphaniè clenched his fists, and Saul realized the priest was involuntarily including him in that divine mission.
The journalist took a deep breath, adjusted the handkerchief in his pocket, and, changing the subject, launched his next question with the cold precision of someone setting a trap:
— Father, what did you do with the tongue that was in your suitcase?
Raphaniè's gaze narrowed.
— I flushed it down the toilet. I didn't want to risk being found with it and having to explain myself to Scotland Yard. We know the satanists have infiltrated there as well.
— You're right… — Saul paused deliberately, leaning forward. — By the way, are you familiar with this religion? — he asked, pulling a small crumpled note from his pocket and handing it to the priest.
Raphaniè took the note with his fingertips. As he read the handwritten word, he went pale. The scone he was about to taste was forgotten on the plate. A bead of sweat slid from his temple down to his clerical collar.
— I read the article about the Brazilian model, Jessyca Volpi. You wrote about it, didn't you? — he blurted, words tumbling over each other, trying to sound casual, but his voice betrayed panic.
Saul, impassive, simply watched him, his gaze fixed like that of a hunter before its prey.
— Father, you're mistaken. I didn't write about that in the article. My assistant is a friend of Jessyca's and told me about this religion this morning. I asked her to write down the name for me since I can't pronounce it properly. I just wanted your opinion.
Saul's journalistic instinct never failed: the priest knew more than he was saying.
— I saw you wrote about black magic and candomblé — Raphaniè ventured.
— According to my assistant, this religion was born from the syncretism between African cults and Catholicism. She said something interesting:
"If faith is the currency of exchange between man and the gods, practitioners of candomblé have more power than Catholics who pray out of obligation."
Saul watched closely every movement: the priest's trembling fingers, the grinding of teeth, the loss of control that precedes revelation.
— You could use that same argument to justify the sacrifice of people in satanic rituals! — Raphaniè exploded, his face flushed. — If faith justified crime, hell would be celebrating! God does not bargain with murderers, Saul! — he shouted, striking the table with a firm fist, drawing the attention of the entire room.
The guests glanced over, murmuring between sips of tea. Saul, phlegmatic, raised an eyebrow and smiled ironically.
— I hope you're enjoying the afternoon tea, Father — he remarked, helping himself to a generous slice of chocolate cake.
How intense these Italians are… he thought, savoring each bite.
Raphaniè took a deep breath, adjusted his collar, and murmured:
— Very good… but I need to use the restroom. — He stood up, glanced discreetly around, then sat back down closer to Saul. — Saul, if I'm not mistaken, the man who picked me up at the airport is here. — His voice was a distressed whisper. — I think he's the one who put the tongue in my suitcase… and he's watching us.
The journalist followed the priest's gaze. The man stood at the back, watching them from behind a newspaper.
Those eyes…
Something in them cut through him like a blade. In recent days, fate had been playing cruel tricks on him: an assistant identical to the late Justine, the coincidence of her being friends with Jessyca Volpi, the reunion with Raphaniè Marin — and now, that familiar gaze staring at him through the haze of tea and fear.
Demons were real, he thought — and closer than ever.
— Let's go, Father. — Saul stood abruptly. However, as he took a step, Raphaniè bumped into a passing man.
— I'm sorry — said the priest politely.
Saul froze.
— Uncle Phill?
The man smiled with the same charismatic expression as always.
— Saul, my boy… long time. — The embrace was warm, but the journalist felt an inexplicable chill.
— What are you doing here?
— Having tea after a long business trip, you know how it is.
— Of course I do… — Saul masked the tension. — Uncle, this is Father Raphaniè Marin.
— A pleasure, Father — said Phill, extending his hand with the same charming ease that made him a favorite at family gatherings. — I hope you can put some sense into my nephew.
— It's more like he'll help me than the other way around — the priest replied, trying to sound natural.
— Ah, my little Saul, always the great Saul.
— Don't exaggerate, Uncle.
— And your father, are you two getting along? — Phill asked, his look blending compassion and irony.
— You know the answer.
Phill smiled, as if he had expected it. — You know you can count on me, no matter the hour.
— I know, Uncle. It's always good to see you.
— Likewise, my dear boy. — He turned to Raphaniè. — A pleasure meeting you, Father. I hope our paths cross again.
NIGHT HAD ALREADY FALLEN when Saul and Raphaniè left the Orangery. London's damp air felt heavier, and the silence of the street was almost sepulchral. They walked quickly to the parking lot, feeling the cold cut through their coats. Only when they shut the car doors did they feel some relief.
During the drive, neither spoke for long minutes. Saul was absorbed, his gaze lost in the passing lights, while the priest whispered prayers in Latin, almost inaudible.
A few minutes from Temple Church, the journalist broke the silence:
— If anything happens, let me know.
— I'm tired — the priest admitted — but I can't waste time. I need to research more about John Dee.
— Just don't fall asleep at the computer — Saul joked. — The bed is more comfortable.
Raphaniè smiled, fatigue weighing on his eyes.
— Thank you once again for everything.
— If I can help with anything else, just call. — Saul fixed his gaze on the road. — And if you want, there's an exhibition about John Dee at Scotland Yard headquarters. It might be useful.
— I might stop by there. — the priest replied, opening the car door. — I think this time we weren't followed.
The journalist watched the priest walk away along the dark sidewalk. But when the rearview mirror caught a motionless figure beneath a streetlight, he realized that London nights rarely offered certainty.