1 – The questions

‘Try the fish.’ The suggestion followed Bernadette all the way to Avignon, like an ear worm reminding her of home, of family and reassurance. Before she left for the airport and the flight chartered by Interpol her grandfather had insisted she shouldn’t leave the house without a proper meal. ‘Fish is light, it won’t give you trouble mid-flight,’ as if indigestion was the biggest problem she faced. But she knew by the time she landed in Avignon she’d have no time to eat.

The problems, the real problems, occupied an encrypted file on Bernadette’s laptop. The short flight to Avignon gave her enough time to run through the salient points and list the sequence of events in the Vatican. Events that continued to unfold; St. Peter’s Basilica remained cordoned off, the Sistine Chapel closed to the public, the Sala Ducale off limits. Bernadette typed:

SALA DUCALE:

Father Vittore Gianni encounters two demons

Cardinal Ernesto Herrera killed

Door cannot be opened

Interior ruined

ROME

Two paramedics murdered on Via del Mascherino (in the Basilica moments earlier)

She paused. The left hand uses magic, the right hand a semi-automatic. . . . Helsinki, Rigolato, now the Vatican State. According to a transcript of the interview with Father Gianni some of the Cardinals believed the ransacking of the Sala Ducale to be an act of vandalism, nothing supernatural. Others were convinced the mischief was demonic. The video of Gianni’s cross examination by Vatican Gendarmerie revealed a man scared out of his wits.

“Who locked up last night, Father?”

“I did?”

“And you checked no one was in there?”

“Yes.”

“But obviously someone was in there.”

“I checked. You can’t hide in the Sala Ducale.”

“Unless someone lets them in. Someone locking up for the night.”

If Father Gianni was part of the conspiracy he’d behave with more confidence. Instead, he twitched when the officer’s chair squealed on the tiled floor, he repeatedly dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief, corrected his answers, volunteered information, couldn’t keep his hands still.

Inspettore Breganza, the interviewing officer concluded his interview notes with the same conclusion Bernadette drew. Gianni was a witness, not a suspect, but his testimony was garbled and ridiculous.

However, Breganza had no explanation for the remains of Cardinal Herrera who had entered the Sala Ducale in spite of warnings to stay out. The plane descended towards Avignon and before fastening her seat belt and preparing for arrival Bernadette took one final look at the appalling state of Herrera’s corpse. She had seen those injuries before.

She closed the laptop, returned it to the bag and surrendered to the urge to look again at the letter, the solitary letter found by Father Gianni and passed around like an unwanted gift. Father Gianni passed it to Cardinal Riesling who promised to pass it on to the Pope, but instead passed it to Leonard Thwaite who passed it to Bernadette. The message meant nothing to her, but the handwriting did. Reading it again she studied the sharpness of the letters, the abrupt compaction of the handwriting and the sparse flourishes on certain risers and descenders. Together the details hinted at the writer’s identity. A person she knew very well.

Dremba met Bernadette at the airport, his armoured Mercedes parked on the runway at the head of a line of six other armoured Mercedes. “We’re going to a retirement party.”

Bernadette ignored him and went to sit in the back seat.

“Stop, you’re not sitting in the back. I’m not your fucking chauffeur. Sit in the front.”

“Still have that attitude.”

“I hate talking to people through the mirror. Stop working for ten minutes and just sit in the front.”

So she sat in the front and endured Dremba’s death metal and his cigarette smoke and his plans to put together a rapid action unit that Thwaite didn’t know about yet. “Has he arrived?” she said.

“Arrived? He’s arranged it all, even the catering. Says it was the least he could do for an old friend.”

“I bet Galvan was pleased.” She lit her first cigarette since touching down.

“Wouldn’t you be? Offered early retirement five years before his time. Wish I was going.”

“Why don’t you go? Nothing stopping you.”

“Do you know what happens to ex-security like me? Drink, drugs, women, weight gain. Weight gain I can do without. The others. . . .”

“Stay and do your job. You’re one of the few people who hasn’t been driven mad by it.”

“Yeah.” His glance contained so much accusation. He knew about Bernadette’s ‘dabbling’ as she called it. The book, the alchemy, the experiments, none of which had yielded a result.

Not yet.

“Does Thwaite know what I’m up to?” she said.

“No. He’d have said something by now, a hint, a suggestion, a carefully worded warning to step away from the occult even though he’s up to his neck in it.”

“Have you said anything to him?”

“No. I want to see his face when Frieda Schoenhofer walks into the room and it’s you.”

Bernadette couldn’t wait for that day too. Hours of studying Dee Vincent’s book on shapeshifting had done nothing. Several times she had walked down to breakfast in the form of her partner, her grandfather, her mother, and every time the family recognised her.

“You’re quiet,” said Dremba.

“I’m waiting to see what comes next. The Vatican is starting to turn inwards.”

At every junction Dremba checked his mirrors to make sure all seven Mercedes were still together. “You know what they’re saying? They’re holding council with the Devil himself.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.”

The SatNav guided Dremba to a large house across the Rhone from the Pope’s Palace. Crossing the bridge he tutted. “You know re-enactors damaged the door of the cathedral. Fucking lunatics.”

“This house,” said Bernadette, “on the satellite view it’s enormous. How does someone on our salary afford something as big as this?”

“He doesn’t. You’re getting slow. Do I need to tell you?”

She found out when they arrived, barely through the front door of the shabby mock farmhouse when Thwaite pounced, abandoning a group of men and pulling Bernadette into a side room. Dremba followed.

“Shut the door.” Dremba obeyed. “I don’t need to tell you how deep the shit is this time. But if you want to walk away say so now.”

“Walk away?” Bernadette sat down at a bare rustic wood table.

“Those bastards back there wouldn’t believe in heaven and hell if they were sent there on vacation.” Thwaite’s hair had grown since Bernadette last saw him. It was starting to curl. He placed his phone on the table and Bernadette swiped through a series of photos taken at Cardinal Herrera’s post-mortem. “The Vatican have asked us to delete these images.”

“Do we know who shot him?” said Dremba.

“A member of the Swiss Guard put him out of his misery. Do we know who shot him? That’s not the point. We can’t delete these images, we’ve seen them now. What are they trying to do? All they care about is reopening the Sistine Chapel and this shit is happening across the hallway. Whatever did this to Herrera is still in there.” Thwaite had more images to show off. “And these two. What did they see?” The paramedics, photographed in their ambulance, shot in the head. “They were found by the public. Italian police can’t cover it up.”

“The pictures are all over the internet,” said Dremba.

Thwaite held the phone for a moment and waited for Bernadette to speak. “What’s your conclusion?” he said.

“Bruck. Possibly.” She shook her head.

“Why are you shaking your head?”

“I’ve been at home with my family, spending time in the real world wondering if I want anything more to do with all this. You asked if we want to walk away. I might just do that.”

“Why?”

“Because those bastards through there won’t accept anything other than acts of terrorism. The truth will never reach pre-trial hearings and the only people who can help us have questionable loyalties.”

“Who are you talking about?”

Bernadette counted on her fingers. “Frieda Schoenhofer. Rob Wallet, Susan Bekker-“

“Rob Wallet, Susan Bekker? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“They must be connected. Their story doesn’t add up.”

“Of course it doesn’t. It’s Wallet’s fucking hoax. Forget them. This is where the conspiracy is happening.” Thwaite turned on Dremba. “Are you walking away?”

“No.”

“Okay. You’re in charge.”

“What?”

“She’s going back to the Carabinieri.” Thwaite headed for the door just as somebody knocked. “What?” A delivery guy had brought the catering, a delivery guy with a pistol inside a shoulder holster. He asked Thwaite to sign for the goods.

“Who are these people, Pierre?”

“Mainly CIA, some MI6, a couple of BND. There should be a cardinal around here somewhere. The great and the good running for cover. This is Thwaite’s last chance to convince them to keep the Malandanti programme going. He’s holding a losing hand if you ask me.”

The suspicion in the drawing room followed Bernadette into the dining room and the kitchen, through to the garden at the back. Nervous eyes, furrowed brows, and for a moment she wondered if they were looking at her and not someone she had inadvertently shapeshifted into.

“They know they’re losing the battle,” Dremba whispered. “They can’t control this, not like the usual terrorist movements. They finance most of that shit themselves. This is way beyond them.”

“But they know who’s running it all.”

“Yeah, but where the fuck are they?”

An old man met them by the patio furniture. Smart suit, well tailored, Bernadette waited for an Italian accent, but he was American. “You rounded up the mafia in Milan, didn’t you?”

“Some of them. Fifteen to be exact.”

He held out his hand. “Frank Trudeau. I was in Milan at the time. Watched it all. I saw you on the steps of the court house in Milan. You must have had balls like boulders to put that lot away.”

“Thank you.”

“Sorry. I shouldn’t say things like that. Not to you. You’re special. Thwaite can’t understand why you’re quitting.”

“I haven’t said that.”

Trudeau cocked his head. “He’s expecting it. Says you’re conflicted.”

“Has he put you up to this?”

“No. He doesn’t tell me what to do.” Trudeau had the calm swagger of a high ranker. If he was less important Bernadette would have known about him in Milan, but he came from the deepest depths of CIA operations. Most of his own colleagues didn’t know who he was.

“Why are you involved in all this?” Bernadette said.

“Let’s say I’m interested in history.”

She sighed. “Good luck.”

“What do you suggest is the solution?” said Dremba. Trudeau didn’t seem interested in answering. “All the resources and tech you guys use and you can’t catch forty-nine murderers.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m the chauffeur.” Dremba went back into the house.

“Believe it or not,” Bernadette said, “he’s closer than anyone to cracking this. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

–

Thwaite appeared and stepped aside to allow Dremba to pass. “Come with me.” He ignored Trudeau, called Dremba back into the kitchen and handed him a sheet of paper. “Both of you, go to this address and collect a package. The owner will be expecting you.”

“What is it? Retirement cake?”

“Just go to the address.”

Before he started the ignition Dremba paused and studied the car’s interior. “Everything’s bugged. Do you ever get that feeling? Everything around you is bugged.”

“Not really. I wonder about the people.” Dremba’s paranoia was infectious. Bernadette checked the wing mirror to see if they were followed. She relaxed when they were several kilometres into the countryside.

“Something evil in the Vatican, two paramedics murdered in a conventional way nearby.” Dremba spoke to his cigarette. “Two possibilities. They did see something and the Vatican’s security carried out the hit, or it was the network. Diabolism in the Vatican, their assault team outside. Remember Helsinki?”

Bernadette remembered the heat inside the police van as they drove through the rioters’ burning barricades. The flags of allegiance turned the city into a medieval battlefield, the fighters leaving their mess strewn across the playing surface of the Olympic Stadium.

“I don’t mean the riots,” said Dremba, “I mean the attack on Cobbold. The weather, the earthquake, the hit squad. How they work in tandem.”

“It’s clever. Very clever.” Bernadette had scanned pages of Dee Vincent’s book on her phone. The illustrations intrigued her, like cryptic puzzles, and she spent hours staring at them waiting for an accidental pattern to reveal a hidden meaning. “The early chapters are supposed to show you how to transform into an animal. It’s how witches avoided capture. Later chapters move on to transforming into other people. If they’re in the same room you can convince others they’re the witch, not you. Final chapters cover invisibility.”

“I feel like that sometimes.”

“This is the only way to stop them. Get amongst them using their own trickery.” She closed the app. “And you could be the hit squad.”

“If you sort all that shit out first. Are you even close to doing it.”

“No.”

“But it works. We know some can do it. If they can, so can you.”

“What’s this package we’re supposed to be collecting?”

“No idea.”

The package was waiting for them at the address on Dremba’s note. Waiting for them with his hat and coat on.”

“You’re the package?”

“I don’t understand.” Jerome Dugarry had been told to wait for a French man and an Italian woman. They would take him from his hillside studio where he lived alone to a farmhouse on the edge of Avignon. And his expertise would be a valuable contribution to a discussion.

“Who told you that?” said Dremba lifting a small suitcase into the boot of the car.

“That’s what the man said. English. I don’t know who you are even though your ID says Interpol. Anyone can fake an ID card. Means nothing these days.”

“You don’t have to come,” said Dremba.

“Okay.” The man walked back into his studio.

He lived in an atmosphere of spent charcoal, the burnt wood sitting in an open fireplace, blackened bubbles across the surface of the remains, several tiny bones mixed amongst the ashes. The room was hung with symbols woven in straw and small twigs, stick figures suspended in circles and triangles, heavy candles weighing down elaborate tablecloths. One wall was book lined, the spines titled in Latin, French, English and German. Bernadette concentrated on the titles looking for a match for her own book.

“A small collection,” said Dugarry hanging his wide brimmed hat on an antler coat hook.

“There’s a shop like this in Lyon.” Dremba lifted a heavy iron pot filled with desiccated flower heads.

Dugarry took it off him. “Don’t compare me with the Kierkegaards.”

“You know the Kierkegaards?” said Bernadette. Her head brushed a low hanging bundle of birch twigs.

“I know them all. The charlatans, the weirdos, the pretenders. This is about the covens, isn’t it?”

“What makes you say that?” said Bernadette.

“The Vatican surrounded by rumour, a man from Interpol, a woman from Interpol. Why do you want me to help?”

“I don’t know. Our manager sent us to collect you.”

“Described you as a package,” said Dremba.

A tapping sound on the window drew Dugarry to the back of the studio. He took a slice of bread, crumbled it and opened a window to feed a large eager crow dancing along the window sill. Dremba gestured to Bernadette to look down. Beneath the thick fabric rug the floor was painted with a pentacle, the gaps between the points filled in with ancient lettering.

“Can we go back?” she said. “You are expected, but we haven’t been told why.”

Dugarry leaned against the door frame. “Do you know what you’re standing on?”

“A pentacle. . . .”

“No. It’s more than that. Each letter is part of an incantation that attracts or deters demons. By rearranging them I can summon their help, give them further instruction by adding a second outer ring, and a third and a fourth, the more concentric rings the more detailed the instruction.”

“What else can you do?”

“That’s a very open question. I can bake bread, I can play the guitar, I can hold my breath for eighty seconds.”

“Occult. What else can you do apart from summon demons?”

“Like I said, that’s a very open question. I can make fruit ripen early, I can cure a horse of navicular, I can stop a river flowing and make the fish jump into my nets. I’m never ill, I never go hungry, I don’t feel the cold.”

“Can you transform into someone else?”

Dugarry stepped forward for a closer look into Bernadette’s eyes. “Can you?”

“No.”

“Good. Shall we go?”

The studio rattled when Dugarry locked the front door. He kept his hat on in the car and wheezed when he breathed; years of living in the sooty atmosphere of his demonic den. He spoke when he was spoken to and scanned the rushing landscape. When the spires and towers of Avignon rose above the Rhone he opened up. “Strange events over there recently. A ghostly army released in the grounds of the Palace. Witchcraft some say.”

“I heard the re-enactors smashed the door to the cathedral,” said Dremba.

Dugarry chuckled. “They must have had help. There was one amongst them who was more than a re-enactor.”

Dremba checked the mirror. “Go on.”

“What?”

“You’re teasing us. Someone more than a re-enactor?”

“Just rumours.”

“What rumours?” Bernadette twisted to hear his answer.

Dugarry whispered, letting his voice fade away. “Someone from Bamberg perhaps. . . .”

Bernadette’s neck stiffened. “Bamberg? Bamberg.” Dremba took his eyes off the road. “Can’t be her.”

“Are you sure she was from Bamberg?”

“She? I didn’t say it was a she. Could have been a he. Could have been an it.”

YouTube had videos of the re-enactors filmed by hundreds of excitable tourists that had crammed the periphery of the Pope’s Palace and then forced to run for their lives when a ferocious dark army threatened to spill out of the area set aside for the battle. Bernadette turned the volume up. Dugarry leaned forward to watch. At the centre of the melee a figure on horseback, men and women hammering each other and all of them surrounded by the shapes and shadows of fighters that had no solidity. “Is this a film? What is this?” Bernadette turned the phone for Dremba to see the action.

Another video was titled Avignon re-enactors battle call to arms. The still image showed the same figure on horseback outside the cathedral, her sword raised. The figure was a she and she was calling out for someone. “Turn up the volume,” said Dugarry.

The woman could be heard. ‘From the four corners of the earth, from the sky and the sea, from rock and water, gather the forces of life, gather the strength of the many and deliver to us the forces of hidden knowledge. I am the commander of the forces of hidden knowledge and I call upon the names contained in the ash beneath my feet. Bring your weapons and your strength. Stand with us, stand three footsteps deep and await for my command. On my word. . . .‘

“Attack,” Dugarry said.

‘Attack!‘

Dremba swung the car onto the pavement. In the video the Rhone, the same Rhone visible across the fields, churned until it boiled black and spewed up a legion of charging figures that swarmed across the Pont d’Avignon. “That’s her. That has to be Schoenhofer.”

“That’s a powerful incantation. Not many can summon an army so quickly, so effectively.”

“Thwaite needs to see this if he doesn’t already know about it,” said Bernadette.

“He’ll know about it.” Dremba rejoined the road. “If Vincent Price back there knows, Thwaite will know.”

Dugarry sat back and wheezed even louder.

Bernadette smirked. “Suggested videos. The conspiracy theorists are emerging already.”

“Doesn’t take them long.”

“Vatican hosting Jesus, Vatican hosting the Antichrist. Experts never agree on anything, do they. Sala Ducale 666 numerology. Female demon in Vatican.”

Dugarry’s hat reappeared between the seats. “Female demon?”

“Yes. Enaliza. It’s written down in one of the transcripts. Father Gianni spoke to her when he first entered the hall.”

“Eneliziel?”

“I don’t know-“

“Check it, check it.”

“Not your wife is it?” said Dremba. Dugarry slumped back into his seat.

Bernadette found the notes on her phone. “Gianni entered the Sala Ducale, found the place wrecked, a hole in the floor . . . two demons, small deformed, possibly male, the other . . . “

Dugarry lurched forward again. “The other?”

“Female, tall, large wingspan.”

Dremba laughed.

“Large wingspan. Talked about the paintings.”

“It is her. That sounds like Eneliziel.”

“Who is Eneliziel?” Bernadette could search for the name, but she knew the results would be uninformed rubbish. Dugarry was silent. His face ashen. “Who is Eneliziel? Are you okay?”

–

Walking into the shabby farmhouse, the looks of surprise could have been aimed at Dugarry’s flamboyant appearance, or his unfamiliarity in a world of uncertainty or the semi-comatose manner of walking as if he’d been drugged by his guardians. Knowing a person’s name and face was no longer enough to decide if they were an ally or an enemy. Dremba ignored everyone and aimed straight for the sumptuous buffet spread out across two tables in the dining room.

Thwaite grabbed Dugarry, took his hat and coat and supplied him with food. “Feel free to mingle,” he said.

“I’ve already eaten.” Dugarry poked at his salad. “Who are you exactly?”

“Who am I exactly? I don’t know who I am exactly, but approximately I’m Leonard Thwaite. I head Interpol’s Malandanti programme. Nobody here knows who you are. You don’t have to present yourself, they wouldn’t believe you anyway, but just observe. When I need your help I’ll come for you.”

Dugarry picked at his salad and stared into the rough garden. Drifting through the assembled groups and whispering couples he studied the decor of the farmhouse, the still life prints, dead flowers, a faded tapestry of a large horse.

Bernadette waited for Thwaite and then produced her phone. “You need to see this.” She played the video, turning the volume up just enough for Thwaite alone to hear the incantation. “He thought that was Frieda Schoenhofer.”

“Why?”

“Rumours. Someone from Bamberg at the centre of a re-enactment that didn’t quite go according to plan.”

“Don’t delete that video.” Wary of others watching him he stepped around the opposite side of the buffet table. “Send me the link. We think Schoenhofer’s back in Bamberg.”

“Have police there approached her parents?”

“They have, but they’ve done it so often her father has lodged a complaint of harassment. They don’t know what their own daughter is up to. She’s not the problem right now. Helsinki and the Vatican. The whole investigation is about to be kicked out the door. Once the jackals get onto it they’ll turn it into a real war.”

The jackals circled the buffet tables, feeding, devouring, wanting to know if Dugarry was the object of the celebration. Wanting to know if Dugarry was Jacques Tati.

“He thought it was Schoenhofer.”

“Thought?”

“He’s not so sure now, but he won’t say why.”

“I wish people would speak clearly.”

When the buffet tables began to reappear in between the food servings Thwaite invited the guests into the lounge of the house. A white screen and digital projector waited for them. The photograph on the screen, almost life size, was taken at Herrera’s autopsy.

The musical chairs stopped and one guy said, “That the Cardinal they shot?”

“Yes,” said Thwaite focussing the projector. Dremba slipped into the back of the room with Dugarry.

“They caught the guy, what’s the issue.”

“The issue is not the shooting.”

Without name badges or visible ID Bernadette could only guess which security service the men and two women came from. Americans were CIA, British MI6, one woman was Australian, the other Canadian.

“You mean the injuries,” said the same guy. “Nothing we haven’t seen before.”

“Where?”

“Where? Iraq, Syria, Egypt-“

“Islamists?” said Thwaite. “You’ve seen Islamists do this, have you? You fucking prick. Islamists cut off heads, throw people off buildings, set fire to them in cages. They don’t dismantle bodies and put them back together again without any sign of incision, cuts, bruises. Look at the fucking photograph. A human being cannot do this.”

“We don’t even know if that’s really him.”

“What?”

“I’ve seen bodies made by film effects companies. Couldn’t tell them from the real thing. Skin texture and body hair and everything. We use them ourselves.”

Thwaite introduced the group to Cardinal Pausini. “Is this Cardinal Herrera’s body, eminence?”

Pausini nodded. “Unfortunately.”

“Was he still alive when you first saw him in this state?”

“Yes, he was. I hope to God I never see the likes of this again, but I think I’m hoping in vain.”

“Why didn’t they kill the paramedics the same way?” said the Australian woman.

“Different parts of the Malandanti use their own methods. When they work together you get this. A supernatural event in one place, a more mundane event in another.”

Trudeau sat on a sofa with his arm stretched out along the back. “Let’s assume the rumours are correct and that the paramedics were killed because they saw something, it wouldn’t be the first time the Vatican has ordered a kill. They don’t do it themselves, of course, but they’re capable.” He glanced at Bernadette. “Sorry to any Catholics in the room.”

“Why won’t the Italians investigate?” Another voice, another stranger.

“The Italians are being very selective. Even though Hererra’s death is on Vatican soil they’re choosing to ignore the Lateran Treaty and saying it’s the Pope’s problem. Very convenient.“

“Very cowardly.”

“Smart, I’d call it.”

Pausini interrupted the gloating. “The death is about to cause a schism in the Vatican. Those who have little belief in god are having those disbeliefs called out.”

“What do you mean?” said Thwaite.

“They’ve never encountered it face to face. Heaven, hell. None of us have. Now we have to make a choice. If we deny this is a work of genuine evil then we deny god, the possibility of god, the ultimate foundation of the Church is pulled away.”

“But it could still be a hoax, father,” said an English guy. Pausini winced. “I beg your pardon, do I call you eminence? I’m not familiar-“

“Call me what you like. If we refuse to believe this is the work of the devil then we cannot celebrate the Eucharist, we cannot celebrate the virgin birth or the resurrection. You can’t have one without the other. Belief isn’t a one sided coin. Evil exists alongside good.”

“What if it doesn’t?” said Dugarry.

Pausini looked at Thwaite as if he had just thrown his voice. “I’m sorry.”

“What if there is only evil? Or what you call evil. What if that evil encompasses everything and is separate from this world? And what if this world is a plaything for that evil, a creation. That would be your coin, eminence. This world on one side, hell on the other.”

“That’s a philosophical debate for another day,” said Thwaite. Dugarry stepped back against the wall and accepted a cigarette off Dremba. “Let’s just stick to the facts as we know them.” He flicked through a visual timeline, a beating heart of criminality across Europe, the images appearing on the rhythm of Thwaite’s words. “In nine years we’re no closer to getting to the centre of this network. It almost collapsed, but it appears to be back. We have two problems. Isolating the leaders, Jennifer Enzo, Virginia Bruck, Gregor Shevchuck, Frieda Schoenhofer, and even if we do capture them the evidence is too extraordinary to put before a jury or a judge. I can’t convince you people and you have the evidence. When it’s in front of you your instinct is to look for a rational explanation.”

He stopped when he came to a video still. The Sala Ducale filmed through a gap in the door, the room in near-total darkness, but a large rough edged hole visible in the floor. Thwaite ran the video, nothing happened for a few seconds until the top of a head, an unnaturally shaped head peaked over the lip of the hole. The sound, like a magpie, echoed around the walls. Thwaite paused the video. “If any of you think this is a hoax or a fabrication I defy you to walk into that room and confront that thing in the hole.” He ran the video again, the shaky camera capturing the thing lifting itself out of the hole to scan the ceiling. Its body skeletal, but fluid in the way no animatronic could replicate.

“Have you spoken to Father Gianni?” said Pausini. “He’s come closest to the demon and survived. Spoke to her.”

Dugarry pushed off the wall. “He spoke to her?”

“That’s what he said. She had a name, Eziel or Ezekiel-“

“Eneliziel?”

“That might have been it, yes.”

“The name mean something to you?” said Thwaite.

Dugarry spoke to the back of everyone’s head. “She’s known for her intellect. Doesn’t surprise me she should show up in a place like the Sala Ducale with its paintings and history. She’s well versed in literature, music. . . .”

“She sounds like an arts critic,” said the guy at the front.

“Don’t underestimate her.” He was ready to go on, but stopped himself. “She doesn’t appear very often.”

“She in the phone book?” said the guy.

“You might think you have their cooperation, but you don’t. You never have their cooperation.”

“What do you mean?” said Thwaite. “Come to the front, please.”

Dugarry stood before the still video. “People dabble and they think they have control, but they don’t. They call themselves Satanists, but they don’t even know who Satan is. They think he’s the Devil, they think Satan and Lucifer are one and the same. They couldn’t be more wrong. They dance around their fires throwing incantations into the air and then they think the creatures that come along are under their control like pets. Two Satanists in Oslo were killed last year by their own demons. A man in Frankfurt suffered the same. Two women in Innsbruck, four men and a woman in Lucerne, I could go on. Satanists who have no idea what they’re doing. This lot are the same. They’re not terrorists, they’re a demented nuisance. An irritant and they’ll destroy themselves before the end comes.”

“Before the end comes. What makes you say that?” said Trudeau.

Dugarry pointed at the screen behind him. “Because one of them has accidentally summoned her. They don’t know what they’re dealing with now.”

The analysis was a real conversation stopper. Unacquainted with the foe, unfamiliar with the facts the assembled group dissipated, some into the garden for a cigarette, some into the kitchen to finish off what was left of the buffet. Bernadette hung back and an awkward stand off emerged as she waited for Dugarry to say something to Thwaite.

“What will you do in your spare time?” Thwaite said to her.

“Spare time?”

Dremba heard the exchange and hovered at the door.

“Yes. Once you leave here. Once you walk away.”

“What? Why?”

“Why? Pausini made the point. Christians like you are too choosy about what you want to believe. This is real. He knows it.” He nodded at Dremba without looking at him. “You want an easy separation between facts and faith, but it doesn’t work like that anymore. You can’t carry on with this investigation until you know what you believe in.”

“I know what I believe in.”

“No, you don’t. If you did you’d look at that thing in the hole and go after the people who put it there and you’d figure out how to make the evidence stand up in a court of law. I don’t want to lose you, you’re the best agent I’ve had on this programme, but your beliefs have become a hindrance. Sort out what you believe and come back to me when you’re ready. If we’re all still here, that is.”

“And what about them? Do they believe in all this? Didn’t sound like it to me.”

“In spite of what they said they’re the most sympathetic voices in the intelligence community. Probably the only sympathetic voices. They’ll go along with this and help out if the evidence stacks up, but I’m not counting on anyone else other than Pierre.”

When she left home there were outbuildings on the family farm to repair, a hillside field that hadn’t been tended to for five years and an attic space crying out to be cleared. Plenty of work to take her mind off things, lots of relatives to distract her, trivial problems, problems that wouldn’t have tragic consequences if left unsolved. And back in the Carabinieri she’d be escorting trumped up oddballs and obnoxious busybodies, analysing corruption evidence and talking to tourists. Not a horn or a cloven hoof in sight. No spells, no magic, no unsolvable puzzles.

“I’ll drive you back,” said Dremba.

“I thought you weren’t my chauffeur.”

“I’m not. We need to talk before you walk off into the sunset.” Before they left Dremba called to Dugarry and offered to drive him home too, but the old man ushered Thwaite into the dining room.

He didn’t speak again until the car was outside his studio. “Your bag’s still in the boot,” said Dremba. He carried it for him and left it on the rug in the front room. The silence was too much, unnerved Bernadette who had been resisting the urge to interrogate him. Dugarry scanned his bookshelves again and took out a small thick book, the pages almost fused together.

“See this. The last remaining copy.” He wheezed between each sentence. “Written in 989, should have fallen to bits by now. It is a conversation with the Devil written by a Christian scholar in Francia.” Within the book there was a page Dugarry searched for, but couldn’t find. “There is a promise made, some would call it a threat. Here,” Dugarry scanned the text, a particular exchange that ran across four pages. “Here. When he has had enough of his creation he will rebuild it. Destroy it and start again.” He ran his index finger along one of the sentences. “And he will ask his favourite ambassador to oversee the destruction. She will arrive when she is invited by another creator of life.”

Faith was never clear, whoever it belonged to; good or bad. Messages always came to the faithful written in vague terms, open ended, unclear. Ripe for misinterpretation. Bernadette only knew of one creator of life and this ambassador, if Dugarry’s book was correct, had turned up in God’s headquarters. Invited? Maybe. Accepted? Possibly. She was certainly a destructive ambassador, no respect for the artwork she claimed to admire when she spoke to father Gianni, but she was here now.

“Are you ready to go?” said Dremba.

“Yes, yes, I’m ready.” She couldn’t take her eyes off Dugarry’s book. “I suppose I don’t need to ask her name.”

“You already know it.” Dugarry put the book back on the shelf and left them alone.