The Diabolist (Dominic Grey 3) (41 page)

“My partner’s working on finding him.”

“Surely someone knows where he is?”

“His broadcasts from the Internet are from an undisclosed location,” Viktor said. “You could try a trace, but he’s far too clever not to have planned for that. We suspect he’s in London, but London’s a megalopolis. Alert the local police, but he won’t appear in public before tomorrow night.”

“And yourself? What precautions are you taking?”

“I’m not concerned with myself,” Viktor said as he paced back and forth, eager to start the journey to Geraci Siculo. “Surely there’s another purpose to your call? I assume you have the pope under close surveillance?”

“Of course, though your presence is always comforting in these situations, when dealing with these… how do you say in English… maniacs.
Bien sur
, I’ve been thinking about what you said, that it may not be a direct attack on His Holiness.”

“And?” Viktor said.

“I admit the alternative, the unknown, frightens me just as much.”

“It should,” Viktor said. “Darius is a very devious man.”

“We discovered that Gareth’s bodyguard has connections to L’église de la Bête. We detained him and found their ring at his apartment. He’s currently being interrogated, but has given us nothing.”

“He fears his own church far more than prison,” Viktor said. “That’s helpful, though, and answers the question of who set Gareth on fire.
Do prdele
. I told him no one else was to be in the room.”

“Your theory is the guard, and Douglas Oakenfeld in San Francisco, worked in tandem with Darius?” Jacques said.

“Of course. The black-robed figure is a clever illusion used to frighten his followers. The guard used a recording of his voice in Gareth’s room, which the guard must have had on his person.”

“Is there anything else you suggest we do?” Jacques said.

“Prepare for the worst.”

Geraci Siculo was not far in kilometers, but it was a winding drive through the Madonie Mountains, Sicily’s wildest and most remote region, full of switchbacks and cliff-hugging roads knifing through steep mountain passes. Viktor’s driver took him deep into the interior, isolated villages replacing the towns, vultures and peregrines taking the place of cars and people.

More akin to enormous hills than mountains, the rugged Sicilian topography reminded Viktor of the Greek islands, though the brown slopes of Sicily possessed a more somber hue than the playful colors of Greece, as if life were lived more seriously here. They spotted Geraci Siculo on a distant hillside long before they arrived, a speck of white snuggled amid the craggy peaks like the pearl of a half-cracked oyster.

The village disappeared as they passed through a forest of stunted cork oaks, the exposed crimson of the half-harvested trees resembling flesh wounds. Viktor kept a constant vigil, but no other cars appeared ahead or in the rearview. After the forest they passed through a grove of wild olives, the short and twisted limbs a group of old crones cringing from the sun.

The vegetation lessened, the topography morphing to a vast moonlike plateau of peaks and ridges shadowed by taller mountains in the distance, the swaths of brown broken by clusters of ocher-colored grass. Geraci Siculo reappeared, the road ascending sharply towards the village, winding around the mountain like a coiled spring before narrowing into a cobblestone road that dead-ended at the village entrance.

Viktor felt a rush of warm air as they exited the car, and he left his jacket on the seat. The village was a chiseled block of stone on top of the mountain, the inaccessible location and tight architectural layout designed, he knew, to shield the villagers from medieval bandits roaming the countryside.

He told the driver to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice, then extracted the photo of Darius from his coat pocket, prepared to walk around the village until someone recognized him. He had been here, Viktor was sure of it.

The village looked deserted, and in true Sicilian fashion, the few faces Viktor saw eyed him warily. How much of the legendary Sicilian Mafia still remained was a matter of fierce debate, but here in the timeworn hills and villages, with customs and appearances unchanged for centuries, the old rules held sway, the deep mistrust of outside influence that had to the rise of local enforcers in the first place.

Most of the villagers, especially the black-garbed older women, scurried away before Viktor got close enough to show the photo. The men who let him approach glanced at the photo and shook their heads.

Viktor was undaunted. He had no time for ancient custom or untrusting villagers, and he continued walking the absurdly steep streets, ducking through ancient passageways, popping into every tabacchi and café, even pestering the customers at the lone pizzeria. He came to a group of elderly
men sitting in a line on a stone ledge outside a cathedral and went down the line one by one, the swarthy old men either giving him scathing looks or ignoring him outright. Viktor cursed and carried on.

At the edge of the village he entered a bar with a patio view of the surrounding mountains. After flashing the photo in vain to the patrons at the inside bar, Viktor ordered a bottle of water and sat on the patio in frustration, resting his legs.

Time was running out, and the showdown with Darius the midnight after next loomed like the rumble of an avalanche. Maybe Darius had only passed through the town, or sent someone else.

No, Viktor thought. If this was indeed the path to the grimoire, then Darius would not have entrusted this journey to anyone but himself.

He finished the water, thighs aching, the breeze on the patio chilling the dried sweat under his shirt. As he stood to leave, one of the patrons from the bar, a scruffy young man with weatherworn skin, looked up. Viktor eased back into his seat and indicated for the young man to join him. He came over, hesitant. Like the old man in Sant’Ambroggio, his thick Italian was peppered with the occasional incomprehensible dose of Sicilian.

He set his beer on the table and cradled it in both hands. “The man in the photo? I’ve seen him.”

Viktor leaned forward. “Where?”

He glanced over his shoulder, towards the men in the bar, and lowered his voice. “There’s no work in the village. I’m a guide in the Madonie, I have a wife and son and… there’s not much work,” he finished lamely.

“What’s your name?” Viktor said.

“Antonio.”

Viktor knew what Antonio couldn’t bring himself to say, and he withdrew two hundred euro notes from his wallet. Excessive, but there was no time for delay. Viktor slid the bills across the table. “Would this help?”

Antonio pounced on the bills, then straightened in the chair, a proud Sicilian once again. “This man in the photo, he came to Geraci months ago, looking for a guide.”

Viktor forced himself not to appear overeager. “And you complied?”

“He paid like you.”

“Where did he want to go?”

“He asked if there were any monasteries or chapels in the mountains near Geraci,” Antonio said.

“And?”

“I said there are four, maybe five. He asked if any of them had been there for a very long time, centuries. I said there is one. A monastery.”

“Of what type?” Viktor said.

Antonio frowned. “This is Sicily.”

“Catholic, then,” Viktor murmured. He had assumed it was Catholic, and had been questioning the type of monastic order, many of which had been present in Sicily over the centuries. “Do you know if this monastery has ties to the Tutori?”

“What?”

“Do you know the history of this monastery?” Viktor said.

“Just that it’s been here longer than anyone can remember, and the monks keep to themselves.”

“Is no one curious?”

“In Sicily, these questions are not asked, especially of the Church. The Church has a reason for this monastery, and the Church will tell us what they want us to know.”

If the Tutori had indeed selected this site, Viktor thought, then it had been well chosen.

“What do you know about this monastery?” Viktor asked.

“It is very small and hard to reach, just a tiny chapel on top of the mountain. Only a couple of monks live there. One of them comes to town a few times a year for supplies.”

“Have you seen this monk recently?”

The young man rolled his Moretti between his palms. “It’s been some time. Maybe last year?”

“I assume you took the man in the photo to the monastery?” Viktor said.

“Yes.”

“Has anyone else been to Geraci, asking about this place?”

“Not to me,” Antonio said.

Viktor had a very bad feeling about the current state of this monastery. “Is Geraci the closest village to the monastery?”

He nodded. “This monastery is deep in the Madonie, on one of the most remote mountains in Sicily.” He must have seen Viktor deflate, because he grinned and said, “Lucky for you, Geraci is one of Sicily’s most remote villages. And this is not the Alps. It is a half-day journey, less on horseback. Would you like me to take you?”

Viktor extracted three more bills and pushed them forward. “Indeed. I’ll require your services for at least the day.”

“When do you wish to leave?” Antonio said.

“After you finish your beer.”

Antonio tipped it back.

It took an hour for the guide to procure the horses and meet Viktor on the western edge of the village. They trotted off on a dirt trail, descending into the high valley.

They navigated the valley and climbed the next ridge over, cantering alongside a line of spindly windmills, hearing the tinkling of bells before they saw the sheep gnawing on a patch of yellow grass.

Viktor saw no other signs of civilization on the journey, amazed at how remote the small island could feel. The sun bore down on them, causing Viktor to keep a constant grip on his handkerchief. An hour later they topped another ridge. As far as Viktor could see, there was nothing but brown hillside, bulbous cacti, blue sky, and the pulsating sun. A few vultures circled lazily on the current.
What a glorious, tortured island,
he thought.

They descended a few hundred feet on an angle, then circled the hill until they came to a shallow, basin-like depression ringed by peaks. Antonio reined in his horse and pointed towards the top of the highest peak. “There.”

Viktor saw a speck of white just below the peak, above a near-vertical cliff. It looked like a slight rock overhang. Antonio reached into his pack and withdrew a pair of binoculars. He focused on where he had pointed, then handed the binoculars to Viktor.

Viktor peered into the lens, realizing the rock overhang was a clever rampart, built into the side of the mountain like the aerie of some great prehistoric bird.

“The monastery,” Viktor said.

“Sì.”

He led Viktor across the basin to the base of the peak. “This is where I left the man in the photo,” Antonio said. “He requested I go no further. I didn’t ask why.”

So you wouldn’t witness whatever it was he was about to do,
Viktor thought. “How long is the climb from here?”

“I’ve never been to the monastery, but”—Antonio eyed the top of the huge rock—“that’s a three-hundred-meter climb, maybe three hours on foot if we’re lucky? It’s not safe for the horses.”

“I’ll go alone,” Viktor said.

The guide regarded Viktor’s disheveled form, sweat already trickling down his face, skin reddening from the sun. “I should go with you.”

“Thank you, but no.”

Whatever waited at the top of the mountain was Viktor’s cross to bear, and he wouldn’t endanger the guide. He was dehydrated and suffering from the heat, but he could make this final push.

“Then I’ll wait for you here.”

Viktor eyed the exposed ground, then said, “Why don’t you return to the top of the hill, and wait by that fig tree? If I’m not back by dusk, return to the village. I’ll find my way back.”

“It’s not a good idea to walk the hills after dark.” He unslung his pack and thrust it towards Viktor. “You’ll need more water, and there’s an emergency kit inside. Take the binoculars as well.”

Viktor objected, but Antonio moved his horse closer, reaching up to loop the pack around Viktor’s neck. He pointed at a faint path worn into the rock. “When I was a boy I took this path halfway up the mountain before turning back. I believe it leads to the monastery. Be careful of loose rock.”