Back at base a colonel put an arm around Grey and told him that someone as talented as he in the art of inflicting pain and suffering could still help his country. That Grey could teach hand-to-hand combat to new Recon soldiers, or enjoy a court-martial.
Grey left with a clean record and never looked back.
After flirting with the CIA, who loved his profile but loathed his internal moral compass, he stumbled upon an opening in Diplomatic Security. He thought the mix of travel and security work would be a good fit, but after tossing his badge at the feet of the United States ambassador to Zimbabwe, again for disobeying orders, he realized that no government position, no job where he was forced to compromise his principles for any reasons other than his own, would ever be a good fit for Dominic Grey.
In Zimbabwe he had been staffed on a case with Viktor that still caused Grey to lie awake at night. After the case, Viktor offered him a job. The work hit the right notes: travel, intellectual stimulation, using his skills to help those in need.
Working with Viktor was a lonely lifestyle, but Grey had always been an island, and work was not to blame for those demons. And there was one thing he could say for sure about Viktor’s cases: They were never boring.
He nodded off. When he woke, a blond woman had claimed the seat next to him. He thought he had fallen asleep after boarding had finished, but he wasn’t certain. Maybe she had switched seats.
It wasn’t like him not to wake up. In the middle row beside him, a businessman sprawled across all three seats, lightly snoring. The plane had the quiet hum of midflight.
The woman was watching the running script on the bottom of the overhead monitor, and Grey caught the tail end of a news report about the murder of a Satanic church leader in San Francisco. There weren’t many details, but he had the strong suspicion he was about to learn a lot more about that murder.
The news switched to sports and then to the upcoming election, both of which Grey ignored. He had never played sports, because his father insisted he train in his spare time. And politics just disgusted him.
A tall man in his fifties appeared on-screen, giving a video conference to a group of reporters gathered in London. He was a dapper man with silver-streaked, coiffed dark hair. The caption read Order of New Enlightenment Worldwide Headquarters.
Grey had heard of the Order and its clever Iranian-American leader, Simon Azar. The “church,” one of those New Age self-help nightmares, was very young, but Simon’s few taped speeches had already become a social-media phenomenon.
The Order was reputedly based in London, but Simon appeared only on the Web, from an undisclosed location. The mystique seemed to fuel the growth. Grey had read somewhere that Simon planned to unveil the location of the brand-new headquarters after he gained a million followers. He found it ridiculous that the reporters were pandering to this guy. The Internet had crowned another jester as king.
A reporter was speaking. Grey decided to use his headphones. “Congratulations on your success, Pastor.”
Simon was wearing a silver shirt and a crisp black suit with no tie. He clasped his hands in front of him. “Thank you” he said, “but I prefer not to be called pastor.” He had the smooth voice of an orator and a smile that showcased perfect white teeth. Grey didn’t trust anyone with perfect white teeth. “A pastor implies a traditional religion, and our Order is anything but traditional.”
“What title do you prefer?”
“How about my name?” Simon said mildly. “I’ve no need for a title. And it isn’t my success; it’s the success of our members worldwide, united in their desire to usher in a new way of thinking for a modern world.”
Another day, another demagogue, Grey thought. Whether politics or religion or business, it was always the ones with something to prove, the ones who burned from within to dominate others, who clamored loudest to be heard.
It was something Grey particularly enjoyed about his new profession: taking down those who sought to control others for their own gain. Grey’s mother had died in extreme pain after electing not to seek medical attention, following the advice of her fist-shaking pastor. Praying every second of the day while the cancer ravaged her from within.
Another reporter said, “Is the Order of New Enlightenment a religion?”
“Call it what you will,” Simon said. “What we worship is creation. And we believe God enjoys what He has created, rather than the logical fallacy that defines the rest of the world’s religions.”
“Would you care to expound?”
“Why would a Supreme Being go to the trouble to create us, this world and everything in it, this physical universe, to be concerned only with the realm of the spirit? To deny worldly pleasures, to act against every principle of nature and biology? Worshippers of every creed should ask themselves whether their theology actually makes sense, or whether it was invented to fit the religion neatly inside the particular political and social agenda of the time. We live in a radically different era, and it’s time we espoused a theology that relates to today’s world.”
Despite his own feelings, Grey could see why this church was gaining popularity. The man had a hypnotic voice, as well as a sharp intelligence conveyed in a down-to-earth manner.
“Your followers have been accused of having some rather… open… views on sexual behavior. Would you like to say something about these radical claims?”
“More radical than a record of rampant child molestation? Or of archaic subjugation of women’s rights? Or of arranged marriages, polygamy? Our policy of embracing our natural sexuality in a responsible manner rather pales in comparison, wouldn’t you say?”
The reporter faded into the background, and another stepped forward. “You’ve been hard to pin down on who or what it is that you worship.”
“I’m sorry, was that a question?”
The reporter waved a hand. “Do you worship a Supreme Being, or are you just espousing a philosophy, a way of life?”
“Perhaps it would put your mind at ease if I tell you that we worship the same God as everyone else, if by God you mean a force or entity that created and governs the universe.”
Another smile, this time accompanied by most of the reporters. Grey wondered if Viktor had seen this guy.
A slender blond woman stepped forward, all high heels and confidence. She reminded Grey of Veronica Brown, the ambitious investigative journalist who had followed Grey on his previous case. She had pursued him in other ways as well, and though clever and beautiful, they were two ships sailing in different directions. Veronica was searching for worldwide fame and fortune, while Grey was searching for a coffee shop where someone knew his name. “What about the criticism that your Order has attracted many, well, fringe elements?”
Simon gave a patient nod. “Is it possible these fringe elements have not yet been spoken to, or been denied access elsewhere? Your statement implies that, should these ‘fringe elements’ all of a sudden join, for example, the Catholic Church, that Rome and the Papacy should be questioned? Did Jesus not wash the feet of the prostitute? Why was your question not: What is it about my Order that is speaking to these ‘fringe elements’? We have new followers of all types, all races and cultures and nationalities. We embrace them all.”
“But isn’t it true that the meetings of the top leaders are conducted in secret? Is that not indicative of a cult?”
“I urge you to name a single religion where this is not the case,” Simon said.
The blond reporter opened and then closed her mouth, and Grey smiled to himself. Veronica would have found a clever response.
There were a few more exchanges, then the news switched to a suicide blast in Karachi. Grey removed the headphones. The woman next to him, a tawnier blond than the reporter, said, “He’s not what he seems.”
He started, surprised she had spoken. When he turned his head towards her, the first thing he noticed was the luminosity of her green eyes, which enhanced the mystery of her statement.
After her eyes he
noticed creamy skin and an oval face so symmetrical and compelling Grey couldn’t stop staring at it. She was wearing a fitted white blouse, and when she shifted he could see the contours of a trim and compact body. She was not elongated like a model, but well proportioned, an everything-in-the-right-place kind of woman.
“Sorry?” Grey said. “Who, Simon Azar?”
She bit into her lower lip, then glanced down the aisle. “It’s important that you believe me.”
Her accent sounded like a mix between Spanish and a Slavic language. Grey’s guess was Romanian. “Do I know you?”
“I know how this sounds. Just remember what I said, because you’ll hear things that will make you doubt.”
Grey chuckled. “Okay. Did Viktor send you? Is he on this flight?”
The intensity of her stare never wavered. She took his hand in both of hers and held it, while Grey sat there dumbly. “I have to return,” she said, then rose and walked down the aisle, passing through the curtain to first class.
At this point Grey imagined Viktor lounging with a bottle of absinthe in the front of the plane, having a good laugh at Grey’s expense.
Except Viktor didn’t joke.
Grey’s next thought was that she left off “to my seat” in her statement. Why hadn’t she said she had to return to her seat? After ten minutes passed, and then twenty, Grey frowned and rose. He walked to first class, checking every seat and restroom along the way. When he didn’t find her, he stood by the door to the cabin with folded arms.
A flight attendant approached, and Grey said, “Excuse me, did you see a woman come through first class a few minutes ago? Dark blond hair, white blouse, very attractive?”
“Sorry, no.”
“She was sitting next to me and walked up here maybe fifteen minutes ago.”
Her head cocked. “Honey, I’ve been here the whole flight, and no passenger except you has come through that curtain.”
“I just saw her come up here,” Grey said. “You had to have seen her.”
She patted his hand. “Did you fall asleep, have a bad dream?” She giggled. “Or maybe that was a good dream. How about some coffee?”
“I was awake,” Grey muttered, although his voice lacked conviction.
He returned to his seat and engaged a male flight attendant standing in the rear of the plane, just behind his seat. Grey asked the same questions.
“I can tell you no one’s come back here in the last twenty minutes except a seven-year-old boy.”
Grey mumbled his thanks and leaned towards the businessman across the aisle, the only other potential witness to a conversation Grey was starting to wonder if he had ever had.
The businessman was still snoring, face buried into a courtesy pillow.
SAN FRANCISCO
Grey relished the crisp San Francisco air, a welcome respite from the asphalt-choked swelter of New York in late summer. After dropping off his backpack at the hotel, he had time for a quick run and a shower before meeting Viktor. Grey worked in his jogs whenever possible, his way of clearing the thoughts crowding his head.
The strange encounter with the girl presided over his run. Before deplaning, Grey had worked his way to the front of the flight and had waited outside the gate as the passengers and then the crew left.
No sign of the girl. He could accept the fact that she had tricked him, but why?
Now clad in cargo pants, boots, sweater, and a black Windbreaker, Grey felt underdressed and out of place in the posh hotel. When Grey met Viktor under the canopied entrance to the Fairmont, country flags snapping in the wind, the sweep of San Francisco on the hills below, he felt relief at seeing a friendly face, as if he had been at sea for months and had just spotted land.
Grey knew he was one of those men both blessed and cursed to live on the hinterlands of society, able to see the machinations of his era in their true light, yet unable to erase the part of himself that wanted to be embraced by them. He was also well aware of his isolating dichotomies: a born fighter who abhorred violence, a wanderer who yearned for a place to call home, someone trying to accomplish the Sisyphean task of creating a future while still erasing the past.
Viktor clasped him on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you, Grey. Come. We have some time before we meet with the detective.”
Grey felt silly telling Viktor about the girl, so he made idle chitchat as he followed Viktor downhill to an upscale French coffee bar just off Union Square. A chill seeped through his Windbreaker as they walked. He always underestimated the city’s stiff breeze.
Viktor wore his familiar dark suit, looking the part of the stodgy professor, but Grey knew better. Viktor carried a kris, a curved dagger from Indonesia, underneath that suit, and he knew Viktor had traveled to as many of the world’s unsavory places as Grey himself, which was saying something. He also knew Viktor had an unhealthy fondness for absinthe, and that he had not just an encyclopedic knowledge of the world’s religions and sects, but more firsthand experience with pathological cult behavior than perhaps anyone alive.
No, a stodgy professor he was not.
The café, full of polished brass and exposed brick, was across the street from the red-and-green pagoda heralding the entrance to Chinatown. Grey inhaled the aroma of fresh pastries and gourmet coffee. Knowing the best places around the world to eat and drink was another of Viktor’s talents. Grey had stayed with Viktor in Prague for a week after the insanity of the biotech case, and had dined in more fine restaurants in one week than the rest of his life combined.
Viktor stirred his cappuccino and relayed what he knew about the murder of Matthias Gregory, high priest of the House of Lucifer. Grey had not yet worked on a case involving a Satanic cult and found himself both wary and intrigued.
“Judging from the identity of the other victim,” Viktor continued, “which we shall discuss in a moment, and the fact that the murder was committed at midnight on September 21, a day of feast and sacrifice on the Luciferian calendar, it appears someone has a vendetta against Satanists.”
The word brought a chill to Grey, despite his personal lack of faith. His devout mother had possessed a very real belief in God and Satan, and had tried to impress upon Grey the seriousness of their existence. As much as Grey had loved and respected his mother, the circumstances of her terrible death—the failure of her faith after her refusal to seek medical care—had undone any convictions she might have imparted.
“Given the note to the victim,” Grey said, “I assume we’re talking some kind of religious zealot, maybe a fundamentalist Christian?”
“The obvious answer,” Viktor agreed. “And burning to death is a traditional punishment for heretics.”
Grey sipped his coffee. “You don’t sound convinced.”
“I hesitate to speculate too much at this stage, but fundamentalists are not exactly known for such exotic circumstances.” He checked his watch. “We’re to meet with Detective Chin at the House of Lucifer at four. I’d like to educate you on the cult aspects before we arrive. I assume you have little familiarity with Satanism?”
“I wasn’t even allowed to listen to Ozzy Osbourne.”
A waiter arrived to check on them; Grey had never been in a coffee bar with servers. Viktor continued, “Many misconceptions about the Satanic cults have endured over the centuries, and some truths as well. The reality is, as usual, far more complex.”
“You mentioned cults, as in plural—I didn’t realize there was more than one type of Satanic cult.”
“There haven’t been quite as many Satanic cults, schisms, and heresies over the years as their Christian counterparts, but the number would shock you. Hundreds, if not thousands. Most, of course, were eradicated by the Catholic Church or angry mobs. But plenty exist today, the House of Lucifer being the largest and most well-known.”
Grey cupped his coffee mug in his hands. “I’ve always taken this for granted, and maybe it’s an ignorant question, but are Satan and Lucifer the same… being?”
“It’s a
n astute inquiry. While Satan and Lucifer are used interchangeably today, historically there was a difference. Many names have been used for the Christian Devil, though the concept itself is derivative of an ancient Persian deity.”
“You’re talking about Zoroastrianism?”
“I see you’ve been doing some reading in your downtime,” Viktor said.
“This is my profession now, and I don’t like being in the dark. I may never have your knowledge, but I don’t need to swim in ignorance.”
Viktor gave a crisp nod of approval. “The evolution of the Devil from Zoroastrianism is a story for another day. But Christianity’s and Zoroastrianism’s version of the Devil, as well as the original Jewish concept of a Satan—which simply means adversary in Hebrew—all beg the same question: From where did evil arise?”
“Assuming a belief in God,” Grey said slowly, “then either it came from God, which makes evil a part of God’s nature, or it came from somewhere else. Thus the concept of the Devil.”
Viktor opened the palm of his left hand. “But if the Devil is responsible for evil, then who or what is responsible for the creation of the Devil?
Grey contemplated the question. “On the one hand you have a Devil created by God, which means that even if evil stems from the free will of man or from the Devil, God is ultimately responsible.”
Viktor stirred his cappuccino. “And on the other hand?”
“If God is not ultimately responsible for evil, the only other logical explanation is that the Devil is equal to, or was at least created separately from—and by whom?—God.”
“Good,” Viktor said. “You’ve just outlined the problem of evil, otherwise known as the dilemma of theodicy: Either God is responsible for evil, or someone else is and God is not omnipotent. Theologians have bent over backwards for centuries trying to resolve this issue.”
The Diabolist (Dominic Grey 3) Page 3