Alec swallowed but managed to keep his superior tone. “How do you know about the letter?”
“Because you’re not the only lowlifes on the hit list. Who’s in charge of the Clerics now?”
No answer.
“Is it you?” Grey said. “Or Dante?”
This time Grey got a reaction. Alec shrunk into his seat as if deflating. “God, you know about Dante? Who are you?”
“Is Dante in charge now?”
“If you think we’re the criminals”—he gave a short, hysterical laugh—“then you haven’t met Dante. He’s an animal, that one. A very cunning, vicious animal. Dante and his ilk are a sorry lot.”
“Your predecessors sounded pretty sorry themselves,” Grey said.
“The Monks? Christ, we’re nothing like them,” he said with a snort, though Grey could tell by the shifting of his eyes that they, in fact, were. “What is it you want, then? No one was present when Ian died, and I don’t know anything about it other than the letter.”
“Were you with him the night he died?”
“I talked to him on the mobile,” Alec said. “There’s a night guard on his street, and he retired to his room. He thought it was an idle threat, some kook. The maid found him at sunrise the next morning, on his bedroom floor.”
Grey felt like he was plugging a dam with his thumb. It took far longer than a few days to investigate something like this properly, the forensic report hadn’t even come in, and by the time he found a clue the next letter would be delivered and another victim found dead.
“I’ll need to see the house,” Grey said.
“I don’t have a key, so I don’t see how—”
“Just take me. Now.”
Grey kept his hand on Alec’s elbow as they walked down the busy street. Ian’s residence was only a few blocks away on Ladbroke Mews, a quiet cul-de-sac just inside Holland Park. Grey’s eyebrows rose as they entered the tree-lined, cobblestone scythe of a street; it was stocked with immaculate, stand-alone brick homes with ground-floor garages. This was the center of London, and those properties would cost millions.
Ian’s three-story home had an iron entrance gate, and the white brick facade was trimmed in black wood and draped with climbing roses. Grey inspected the front door. Solid and likely dead-bolted. Grey would need cover of darkness for that job. He led Alec to the rear of the house, inspecting as he went. High windows and fairly secure.
Any half-trained professional could break into a house. It was the alarm system Grey saw, the wires and the cameras, that raised questions about the night of Ian’s death.
“Did the alarm go off that night?” Grey said.
“No.”
No alarm meant one of three things. Either a master thief was involved, someone Ian knew assisted with the murder, or the Magus teleported himself inside and administered poison gas. Grey was going with option number two.
“Have the police talked to the guards and checked the cameras?” Grey said. “Did anyone go inside that night?”
“Not a soul, other than Ian.”
“He drove in?” Grey said.
“I assume so. Bollocks, I don’t know.”
Grey rubbed at his stubble. “The cameras probably don’t reach inside the car.”
“Anyway, Ian has tinted windows.”
“I’m sure he does. Was he seeing anyone?”
“Just the same young filly he’d been seeing for a few months. But you must understand,” he said with a creepy smile, “Ian always had a young filly, the younger the better.”
Grey’s voice hardened. “Do you know her name?”
“Why would I?”
Grey took him by the elbow again, exerting pressure on the ulnar nerve. Alec yelped in pain. “This isn’t a courtroom,” Grey said. “I ask the questions, and you answer.”
“Isabella.”
Grey knew he was getting straight answers; the man didn’t have the stomach for interrogation. “Isabella what?”
“He never said.”
“Where can I find her?” Grey said.
“No idea.”
“Did Ian videotape?”
Alec didn’t answer, and Grey pressed harder on the nerve. “Yes! But not here, as far as I know. Only with the group.”
“When was the last… meeting… that was taped?” Grey said.
“Ten days ago.”
“Where’s the tape?”
“With his lawyers,” Alec said.
Damn.
“I’ll need to see it,” Grey said.
Alec laughed, harshly. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
They moved to the rear of the property, a narrow courtyard filled with plants and a gurgling fountain. It smelled of lavender. Grey shoved Alec against the wall of the house and told him to wait. He spotted the camera covering the back door halfway up the house, and he shimmied up a trellis to redirect it, using a waterspout for support. He jumped back down, pulled a thorn out of his leg, and went to work on the back door with his iron filings. If the alarm was still active, and Grey doubted it would be, he could just leave if he tripped it.
He had the door open within minutes, with Alec watching in sullen silence. Grey took him with him as he walked through the house.
Either everything of interest had been stripped, or Ian kept his goody bags elsewhere. Like Xavier’s abode, the house was unassuming, full of expensive furniture and bric-a-brac from around the world. Maybe Grey was expecting too much, trying to impose too much abnormality on to these people. Then he remembered the catacombs and the girl hanging upside down, blood spilling into a silver bowl. No, there was nothing normal about this place. Ian and Xavier just knew, like other sociopaths, how to wear the mask of civility, how to construct a quotidian existence that would divert prying eyes.
He inspected the bedroom last, finding a king-size bed, a double-vanity bathroom, and a full entertainment system behind wood cabinets. He also found a closet full of sex toys, an empty camcorder, a bathroom full of lubricants and scented lotions, a bottle of cologne and an oversize copy of the Kama Sutra on the nightstand, and stacks of German pornography inside a chest at the foot of the bed.
He could go for the videotape, but there was no time for a legal battle. Talking to this Isabella was another option, but he would have to track her down, and if she had been with Ian the night of the murder, the guard would have seen her leave, if not enter.
After ushering Alec out through the back door, Grey left him standing in the rear garden. He called out as Grey walked away. “Where’re you going?”
Grey felt no need to reply.
Dante lay on the chair at the tattoo parlor, listening to the prick of sharpened bone as it worked down his spine, the thin skin and nerves making it one of the most painful places on the body to apply a tattoo. Dante had decided to work the name of Ahriman into the intertwined snakes running down his spine, though he knew that half the reason for the decision was that he enjoyed the sting. Dante’s entire body was covered in piercings and tattoos, from the pentagram on his scalp to the crosses on the soles of his feet.
Though the parlor was cool, beads of sweat formed on the artist’s brow as Dante observed in the mirror. The artist was one of the best in the business, and one of the few who knew the traditional Hawaiian method of tattooing, far more painful than vibrating needles. He was also one of the few who could work on Dante without his fingers trembling.
The pricking bone released a rush of warmth that spread through Dante, lightening his limbs, releasing some of the terrible pressure that had built within him since his sister’s death.
His cell vibrated from a table in the corner, and Dante tilted his head towards the phone. The artist scrambled to retrieve it, and Dante checked the number. A London exchange.
“Yes?” Dante said.
“Sorry to bother you, but something’s come up.”
Dante recognized Alec Lister’s posh English accent. A particularly cruel and depraved man, of which Dante approved, but also a
cowardly one, of which he did not. He could hear the fear seeping through the phone. “The gent you told us to watch out for just paid me a visit.”
Dante straightened in the chair. “Dominic Grey? In London?”
“Just left me outside Ian’s flat ten minutes ago. He came to my office. I’d like to know what you have planned for the little bugger, because I’d like to—”
“Where is he?”
“I’ve no idea, he left on foot. Didn’t say a word about his plans, just wanted to know about Ian. What do you think—”
Dante hung up on the buffoon and rose from the chair. The rest of the tattoo would have to wait. He donned his shirt and strode out of the parlor without a word, walking down the underground corridor in the depths of the East End that housed a row of unsavory establishments.
After what happened in Paris, even Dante had to admit Dominic Grey was someone to take seriously, though the next time Grey would be dealing with Dante himself, and the outcome would not be so fortunate. Dante made a call of his own, to Dickie Jones, a Japanese-Irish gangster who ran an underground fighting ring that used to fund the IRA. Now it funded an assortment of unsavory people, Dante included.
“Yep?”
“Have you found what I asked for?” Dante said.
Dante knew Dickie had not paid attention to the number, because it took him a few seconds to process who was speaking. After a pause he blubbered into the phone. “Dante, sorry, didn’t make it for you. Yeah, yeah, I looked into that. Was gonna ring you later.”
“And?”
“I didn’t need to look into anything, I know the bloke from way back. I ran fights for Dominic Grey. He’s not one to feck with. Ex-Recon and a jujitsu expert, a real killer. Use to obliterate guys twice his size in the ring.”
“Do you fear him?” Dante said softly.
“Jujitsu isn’t much good against a Glock, and I’ll take my laddies against a Marine, on my streets, any day of the week.”
“He’s in London,” Dante said.
Dante heard the hesitation in Dickie’s voice. “You want me to have a talk with him?” Dickie said.
“I do,” Dante said. “We have things to discuss.”
“I’ll put the word out. Anything else?”
Dante reached the end of the hallway, the sickly light filtering down the staircase illuminating decades of grime and neglect. He whispered into the phone. “Do you fear him more than you fear me?”
There was another brief silence, then Dickie spoke in a subdued voice. “I’m not soft in the head.”
This time Dante heard no equivocation, and he hung up the phone.
Since Viktor was en route to York, Grey decided to try a different angle. He made a few phone calls and then took the Tube to Lewisham, following Google directions to the only listed temple of Zoroaster in Greater London. Lewisham was a calm suburb, full of weathered townhomes and a flurry of low-end shops and restaurants surrounding the Tube station. Grey walked a mile or so southwest, then down a street lined with plane trees rustling in the breeze.
The address was a two-story brick house, one of the nicer residences in the area. A short iron gate surrounded the property, and a plaque on the gate confirmed the location of the temple.
Grey wasn’t sure what he expected from a Zoroastrian place of worship, perhaps something akin to a Hindu temple, complete with beehive towers and exotic frescoes. What he hadn’t expected was the home of the local dentist.
He rang the bell. A sallow East Indian man in jeans, a tailored sweater, and a white turban opened the door and walked to the gate. “Dominic Grey?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you for making an appointment, though as you can see, we’re in no danger of overbooking.”
“My pleasure,” Grey murmured.
“I’m Ervad Kasraavi; we spoke on the phone. Do come inside.”
“Thank you,” Grey said.
“Chai?”
“Please.”
He led Grey into a study redolent with the sweet smell of sandalwood. Grey took a seat in a leather armchair while tea was served with a plate of chickpea flour cookies.
“The place of worship is in the rear of the house, though unfortunately, we don’t have the resources to be a full-fledged agiary, or fire temple. I must say, this is quite an unusual request. For a thousand years Zoroastrianism was the religion of three empires, but today we number less than the population of Brighton. After you called I would have guessed a graduate study thesis, but you… don’t look like a student.”
“I’m a private investigator,” Grey said. “Something has come up during an investigation that might have to do with Zoroastrianism.”
His eyebrows lifted as he sipped his tea. “I can’t imagine what that might be.”
“There’s a specific subject I’m looking for information on,” Grey said. “I assume you’re familiar with Ahriman?”
He stopped sipping. “Your investigation involves Angra Mainyu?”
“Something like that,” Grey said.
“This temple doesn’t concern itself with that aspect of the Prophet’s teachings. What is it you wish to know?”
Grey covered his mouth with his hand, tapping two fingers against his lips. “I’d like to know more about the worshippers of Ahriman, if any still exist. If not, then maybe something about the mythology surrounding Ahriman.”
“I’m afraid,” he said slowly, “you’re talking to the wrong person. As far as I know, no worshippers of Ahriman exist today, thank goodness. But I’m simply not educated on the subject.”
Grey sat back. Ervad Kasraavi cocked his head, thoughtful. “I do know someone who might be able to help.”
“I’d appreciate a referral,” Grey said. “Is he in London?”
“Cambridge. Dastur Zaveri. He’s a Parsi high priest, perhaps the foremost historian of our religion outside Mumbai. I can’t speak to his availability, but I’ve heard the topic of Angra Mainyu is a specialty of his.”
YORK
Upon arrival in York, Viktor took up residence at a luxury hotel on the northern edge of the city center. The hotel sat just outside Bootham Bar, one of the four gatehouses that provided access through the enormous wall encircling the medieval old town.
After a shower in the marble bathroom of his suite, Viktor put on a fresh suit and headed to the dining area, where he enjoyed foie gras and a peppercorn filet alongside a glass of vintage Bordeaux.
An hour remained before Viktor’s seven p.m. meeting with Gareth With-erspoon, chief thaumaturge of the York Circle. Gareth had been a few years ahead of Viktor and Darius at Oxford, and Viktor knew him to be a fair and intelligent, if misguided, man. Viktor was interested to find out what Gareth knew about Darius’s activities over the years.
Viktor left the hotel, walking through Bootham Bar and then alongside the Gothic bulk of the Minster, cake-like spires and crenellated towers rippling across the top of the block-long cathedral, statues and gargoyles looming from every angle. He wound through the old city, a place full of worn stone and magic, enclosed by an ancient wall and steeped in history.
Like his beloved Prague, York felt lost in time to Viktor, as if half the city were obscured not just by the omnipresent mist, but hidden in some ethereal dimension more connected to the swirling vapors of myth than to the technological and geopolitical complexities of the modern world. One could wander the twisted cobblestone alleys and forget what century it was, lost in the corridors of imagination, soaking in the spirits rumored to roam the streets at night.
York’s old town was not large, but it was a maze, and Viktor realized he had ventured too far east. He found his way back to Stonegate, a handsome street which housed the headquarters of the York Circle.
The entrance was deceptive: An iron gate gave access to a brick-walled alley, but further in he realized the end of the alley opened into a large courtyard and an even larger mansion that had been built within the surrounding blocks, such that it was unnoticeable from the street. Two stone s
phinxes flanked a set of double doors, and a weathervane in the shape of a dragon pierced the sky from atop the four-story building. Viktor guessed the entire structure had been planned and built by the Freemasons who had lived in York for centuries.
Viktor rolled his eyes as he performed the secret knock Gareth had given him. A young mage in white robes opened the door and led Viktor down a hallway covered with tapestries, through an oak door and then up a staircase to the fourth floor. Down another hallway to a rune-covered wooden door that was reinforced with iron hinges and cross-braces. The mage performed a different knock, and the door swung open to reveal a domed room with walls covered in more arcane scrawl. A room whose purpose Viktor recognized from his own days as a magician.
A room designed to protect its occupants from magical attack.
The mage bowed and left, and moments later Gareth Witherspoon entered from a concealed door opposite Viktor. He was wearing the white robes and golden sash of the Magister Templi, the highest grade of magician awarded by the Circle, requiring decades of study and demonstrations of power during secret rituals. Though it was alleged that different planes of existence were tapped at the higher levels of initiation, Viktor had not witnessed these rituals and had his doubts as to just what in fact occurred.
Viktor studied Gareth’s appearance as he approached: a short and compact body more suited to an aging footballer than a magician, a tight silver beard adding gravitas to his burly appearance. Viktor had not seen Gareth in years, but he had aged well.
“Viktor,” Gareth said, clasping Viktor’s hand. “A shame we have to meet under such circumstances. Thank you for coming.”
“Of course,” Viktor said.
“How’s your work?” Gareth said.
“At the moment, quite interesting.”
Gareth’s mouth tightened, and he withdrew a folded letter from his robes and handed it to Viktor. “This was delivered on Saturday.” Viktor opened the letter as Gareth said, his voice laced with sarcasm, “It appears I have two days left to resign my position as chief mage.”
The Diabolist (Dominic Grey 3) Page 15