The Diabolist (Dominic Grey 3) (2 page)

GEORGETOWN UNIVERSITY, WASHINGTON, DC

V
iktor Radek waited in the front row while Professor Johannes Holzman, whom Viktor had once mentored at Charles University in Prague, made the introduction. The room was cavernous; Phenomenology of Religion 101 was quite the popular course, and hundreds of chittering students filled the amphitheater.

“It is my pleasure to announce,” Professor Holzman said from the podium, “the most respected religious phenomenologist of our time, the world’s foremost expert on cults, the man who taught me everything I know but very little of what he knows… ladies and gentlemen, I give you our very special guest lecturer, Professor Viktor Radek.”

There was the usual applause, but as Viktor rose to his nearly seven-foot height and stepped to the lectern in his somber black suit, he sensed an apprehensive curiosity in the room, as if the students were observing a fascinating but dangerous species from behind the glass.

Without dispensing a greeting, Viktor said in his clipped Czech accent, “If I were to ask you, from a phenomenological perspective, whether human sacrifice was evil, what would be your answer?”

A murmur rippled through the students. Viktor called on a redheaded girl in the second row. “No,” she said, even as her pinkish face wrinkled in displeasure. “There’s no absolute good and evil.”

Viktor chided the incorrect response, then called on a young man wearing a Notre Dame sweatshirt. “Isn’t something as terrible as that,” the young
man said, “always wrong? It shouldn’t matter from which perspective you’re studying it.”

Viktor saw Professor Holzman wince. It was early in the semester, but that should have been covered on day one. More likely the student hadn’t been coming to class. “You might wish to reread the class description,” Viktor said. “Perhaps you thought this was Ethics 101.”

The class chuckled, and in the back left corner a skinny, goateed African-American student raised his hand. “The answer depends on whether the culture where the sacrifice took place believed it was evil. Or perhaps they believed it was evil, but necessary and justifiably so.”

The room quieted as Viktor stepped to the edge of the stage, dark brow tightening, blacksmith shoulders hunched. “Human sacrifice,” he boomed, “was perceived on rare occasion—and sometimes not so rare—as necessary for the greater good in many ancient cultures, to appease malevolent spirits and keep the village safe. It was used for other reasons as well, including”—Viktor turned to face the student in the Notre Dame sweatshirt—“as a test of faith.”

Viktor’s gaze withdrew from the room, to a time when he had stood amid a mesmerized crowd of worshippers in the African bush, rather than college students in an air-conditioned auditorium. His attention returned to the present with even more intensity. “And in certain Yoruba ceremonies, the sacrifice was tortured first, the flesh stripped from the body while the victim was kept conscious with potions from the
babalawo
, in order to increase the pain quotient and gain the attention of the spirit world.”

A collective gasp issued forth.

“I use this example not to shock but to illustrate the lengths to which you must go to remove emotion from the study of religious phenomenology. In order to understand—to truly comprehend—you must step outside of your milieu and put yourself wholly in the mind of the believer. Your modern-day subject might believe in the existence of angels and demons that walk among us, in ghosts and djinn and mystics, Satanic possession, or multidimensional planes of existence. You’ll find your own beliefs challenged; you’ll find
yourself drawn into a new world that frightens and excites you. You might find yourself ensconced in a remote Siberian village with shamans claiming they have the power to walk in dreams, studying witchcraft and warding off vampires with gypsies in the Carpathian Mountains, visiting a temple in India where thousands of free-roaming rats are revered as reincarnated ancestors, or investigating ascetics and faith healers with powers of the mind that defy science.”

By now the students were leaning forward in their seats, and when Viktor stopped speaking a falling feather could have broken the silence.

“But if you decide that religious phenomenology is for you,” he said without breaking into a smile, “then for the next eight or so years you will find yourself trapped in a dusty library.”

The class chuckled again, and Viktor paced the stage, his looming presence filling the room. “Yet the proper religious phenomenologist must go further still. What is evil? How does the term
evil
apply not just to one particular act but to the larger ethos of the worshipper? From where does the idea of evil derive in that belief system? Is it merely illusory? How does the adherent reconcile the existence of evil, if applicable, to the belief in an omnipotent God?” Viktor folded his arms. “Perhaps the hardest lesson of all is to realize that you, as the dutiful scholar, might have learned nothing about the true nature of good and evil. And that for each investigation you must clear your mind and start anew.”

The goateed young man raised his hand again. “I’m cool with all of that. But whether you’re religious or in a cult or not, you still have a viewpoint, right? That’s just human nature. I suppose one can be one’s very own phenomenological study.”

Viktor’s lips turned upward for the first time.

The young man continued, “So what do
you
think, after all you’ve seen and studied? Is evil real, or is it just perspective, a state of mind?”

The class tittered, and Viktor let the question hang in the air.

“An inquiry,” he said finally, “you must make for yourself. But I shall guarantee all of you one thing.”

Viktor waited until the anticipation in the room became palpable, not just for theatrics, but because it was the most important lesson he could teach them.

“If you do continue to become a religious phenomenologist,” Viktor said, “you’ll be given the opportunity to decide.”

After class ended, Viktor retired to Professor Holzman’s office. He had once reminded Viktor of himself, back when Viktor was a full-time professor at Charles University and Professor Holzman was simply Jan, an eager PhD student who received the best marks in Viktor’s class. Jan had shown great academic promise, which he fulfilled, but the drive for fieldwork had never manifested. He needed to put down his Belgian beer and get his hands dirty.

Viktor didn’t understand this: Religious phenomenology was simply anthropology of the mind, and were it up to him, extensive fieldwork would be mandatory. That was what drove Viktor to his career in the first place: The traditional study of religion was too dogmatic and dry, philosophy too remote and theoretical. But religious phenomenology, that shadowy borderland where subjective belief is paramount, that realm of cults and miracles and unexplained phenomena, this Viktor could sink into like a beautiful opera of mysterious origin.

Viktor uncorked the bottle of Absinthe Suisse Couvet on Professor Holzman’s desk, preparing the absinthe—Viktor’s preferred drink—with a practiced hand. As he laid the slotted spoon above the glass he remembered his own youth, his privileged upbringing in a Czech family that was once minor Bohemian royalty. He had wanted for nothing, had not even had to choose a profession, though his family had urged him to join the family business and become an “important” politician.

Important?
he had thought. Governors and senators come and go; kings and empires rise and fall. Something else had interested him, something more. The secrets of the universe, of life and death, of God and before: The timeless truths, if there were any, had driven young Viktor.

They drove him still. He sensed that the secrets lay just under the surface of the ice, floating away whenever the ice was tapped. The trick was to approach the ice from the proper angle, not to shatter but to peer beneath.

His cell buzzed, breaking his reverie. The caller was Jacques Bertrand, his Interpol contact. Viktor’s investigations occupied the bulk of his time now. He consulted with police agencies worldwide, and sometimes private clients, on the pathology of dangerous cults. Swirling his absinthe before he answered, he noticed that Jacques had called from his office number, even though it was after one a.m. in Lyon.

“It’s very late, Jacques.”

“
Oui
, thank you for answering. We have need of your assistance. You’re available?”

“That depends.”

Viktor felt the familiar tingle at the prospect of a new case. Most often the case would involve a cult familiar to Viktor, but the tingling was for the sect, religion, or secret society that he had yet to investigate. Or, better yet, one undiscovered: potential bearers of the hidden knowledge that Viktor craved.

“There was a murder in Paris this morning,” Jacques said. “Elements are involved that… require your expertise.”

Interpol called him for one of two reasons: either the case involved Viktor’s specialty as well as multinational criminal issues, which was rare, or else the local police in some jurisdiction had requested information from Interpol that suggested the need for Viktor’s involvement, and Interpol would recommend him.

Strange, however, that Jacques had called him so quickly. The link must be obvious.

“If possible,” Jacques said, “we would like you to go to San Francisco first. There was a similar murder there. It is closer to you than Paris, and there were witnesses.”

“Similar? Who was murdered in San Francisco?”

“A man named Matthias Gregory. He was—”

“High priest of the House of Lucifer,” Viktor murmured. That was indeed news. The House was the world’s largest official Satanic religion. “And the connection to the Paris murder?”

“There are several,
oui
, which we can discuss after you view the crime scene. But the most obvious connection is the identity of the victim, Monsieur Xavier Marcel.”

Viktor was lifting his glass to take another sip, and he eased the absinthe down. Xavier Marcel, also known as the Black Cleric, was both a wanted criminal and the underground leader of L’église de la Bête, or the Church of the Beast, Europe’s most infamous and dangerous Satanic cult.

News indeed.

MANHATTAN

T
he long shadows of dusk greeted Dominic Grey as he stepped out of the teen homeless shelter and into the twilight world of Washington Heights. After a few months of teaching jujitsu in a makeshift gym, Grey now had seven semiregular students. Most of the troubled kids tried his class once and never came back.

That pained him. He understood the martial arts were not for everyone, but he wanted to help each wary face that came through his door. Most of the kids yearned for knowledge and structure but weren’t ready to accept Grey’s strict code of honor.

Grey’s step was especially heavy that evening. One of his favorite students, a fourteen-year-old Latino gang member named Frankie, had cursed another student in class. Grey showed him the door, and Frankie had cursed Grey on his way out. Though thin and wiry, Frankie was scrappy, smart, and didn’t know how to quit. He reminded Grey of himself.

Frankie was also very proud, and Grey doubted he would come back. But that was the way it had to be. Grey had studied the martial arts since he was five, some of that time under one of the top Japanese jujitsu masters in the world. Grey’s own
shihan
had insisted that respect came before all else; no one should learn how to harm another human being before learning how to value one.