‘The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was to convince the world that he doesn’t exist,’ said Nightingale.
‘That’s the truth,’ agreed Wainwright.
‘Because if there’s a devil, then there’s a God. You can’t have one without the other. So if the world believed in the devil then it would also have to believe in God. And given the choice, most people would side with God.’
Wainwright laughed out loud. ‘You believe that? You believe that people are inherently good? Look around you, Jack. Look how people treat each other. Whether they’re Christians or Muslims or non-believers, they rape and kill and lie and steal. Do you think they would behave any differently if they truly believed there was a God?’
‘I’m having trouble with the devil thing,’ sighed Nightingale.
‘You and the whole Catholic church,’ said Wainwright.
‘I mean, understanding what it means. You’ve summoned devils, right?’
‘That’s not the sort of thing you ask,’ said the American. ‘You’ve heard of the sanctity of the confessional, haven’t you?’
‘Sure.’
‘Well, this is sort of the opposite.’
‘But you have, right?’
‘Jack, please. I’ve already told you that there’s a non-disclosure agreement. Even if I wanted to tell you, I couldn’t. Just leave it at that.’
‘Okay, what about this: there are devils, lots of devils — three billion, right?’
Wainwright frowned. ‘Who told you that?’
‘It was in Sebastian Mitchell’s diary. “There are sixty-six princes under the devil, each commanding six thousand six hundred and sixty-six legions. And each legion is made up of six thousand six hundred and sixty-six devils.”’
‘Too many sixes,’ said Wainwright. ‘You sure that was in his diary?’
‘I got it second-hand,’ said Nightingale. ‘My secretary was reading it. It was in reverse Latin.’
‘Well, someone screwed up,’ said Wainwright. He sipped his whiskey. ‘There are only six hundred and sixty-six legions. That makes the total number just over a hundred and thirty-three million.’
‘That’s still a big number,’ said Nightingale.
‘Hellishly big,’ said Wainwright. He grinned and raised his glass.
‘So how do you know which one to summon?’
Wainwright shrugged. ‘Word gets around,’ he said.
‘Can you do a deal with any of them?’
‘You wouldn’t bother with the rank and file,’ said the American. ‘There’s not much they can deliver. And the princes probably wouldn’t bother with you. You’d be better off going for the heads of the legions or their number twos.’
‘And who’s at the top of the tree? Satan?’
‘Lucifer, yes,’ said Wainwright. ‘Directly below him would be Beelzebuth, a prince, and Astaroth, a grand duke. Beelzebuth and Astaroth are pretty much level in the hierarchy but they’d both probably argue otherwise.’
‘And you can summon them?’
Wainwright laughed, a harsh bark that echoed around the cabin. ‘You really are a lamb to the slaughter aren’t you, Jack?’
‘I’m just curious.’
‘Yeah, well, you know what curiosity did to the cat.’ Wainwright took another sip of his whiskey, then nodded slowly. ‘You can summon all three of them, but it would be the equivalent of opening the door to a nuclear reactor. You couldn’t cope with the power. It would blow you away.’
‘But they do appear sometimes?’
‘If they want to appear, they can choose their form. But if you summon them, they come as they are. And you really wouldn’t want any of the big three appearing in their true form. And even if you were able to bear being in their presence, they’d be hell to deal with.’ He smiled. ‘No pun intended.’
‘But a strong Satanist, someone who knew what he was doing, he could?’
‘Someone who knew what he was doing wouldn’t even attempt it. Even the best, even someone like your late father, wouldn’t go any higher than the six subordinates of the three rulers, and even then they’d be taking a risk.’ He took a long drag on his cigar. ‘You don’t mess around with these guys, Jack. Any sign of weakness, any hint that you’re not completely in control of the situation, and they’ll rip out your heart.’
‘Six subordinates, you said.’
‘Subordinates, or they’re sometimes called inferiors. The three main ones would report to Lucifer. There’s Satanachia, he’s commander-in-chief of the Satanic Army, and Aglaliarept, he’s a commander too. Lucifuge Rofocale functions as a politician, a sort of prime minister, but without elections, of course. All power flows down from Lucifer. But Lucifuge Rofocale has dominion over the wealth of the world and negotiates when there is conflict between the rulers.’
Nightingale smiled ruefully. ‘That’s what I was, in a previous life,’ he said.
‘A negotiator?’
‘Police negotiator. I was the guy called into sieges, hostage situations, suicides, that sort of thing.’ He sipped his beer before asking his next question. ‘This Lucifuge Rofocale. How would I summon him?’
‘Why would you want to?’
‘I’ve got a plan,’ he said. ‘And he’s a crucial part of it.’
Wainwright shook his head. ‘He’s way above my pay grade,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t know where to start. You have to know his character, and by that I mean the symbol that represents him. It has to be written on a special parchment and the ceremony is complicated. I doubt that there’re a dozen people in the world who would know how to summon him. And even if you did know how, if you tried it you’d be signing your own death warrant.’
‘Even if I was inside the pentagram?’
‘The pentagram is part of the protection but it’s not the be-all and end-all,’ said Wainwright. ‘You don’t have the experience. Or the power. And, frankly, neither do I.’ Wainwright sucked on his cigar and studied Nightingale with unblinking brown eyes. ‘Look, Jack, I like you. Plus you’ve got access to books that I’d love to have in my collection. So I’m happy to help you, if I can.’ He tapped ash into the ashtray by his elbow. ‘Tell me your situation,’ he said. ‘Think of me as a priest and this jet as the confessional, if that helps.’
‘Interesting analogy,’ said Nightingale.
‘I’m telling you that you can trust me,’ said Wainwright.
Nightingale nodded slowly. ‘I appreciate that, Joshua,’ he said.
‘Call me Josh. And I’m serious.’
Nightingale sipped his Corona. ‘Okay, here’s the thing,’ he said. ‘Gosling gave me away when I was born, and he did the same thing with my sister. He gave her up for adoption and he sold her soul to a devil. Frimost.’
‘So he wanted power over women, then. It’s almost a cliche.’
‘There’s an added wrinkle,’ said Nightingale. ‘She’s a serial killer. She kills kids. Or at least she did kill kids. She’s behind bars now.’
Wainwright’s cigar froze on the way to his lips. ‘You don’t do things by half, do you?’ he drawled.
‘It does get messier by the day,’ said Nightingale.
‘How old is she, your sister?’
‘Thirty-one,’ said Nightingale.
‘So she’s got two years. I’m assuming that Gosling did the same deal as he did with your soul, right?’
‘That’s right. It all goes tits up on her thirty-third birthday.’
There’s nothing you can do to save her, you know that?’
‘There are always options,’ said Nightingale. ‘Room for manoeuvre.’
Wainwright frowned as he sat back in his seat. ‘Once a soul is sold and the person bears the mark, there’s nothing that can be done. I told you that before.’ His raised his glass to his lips but then his eyes slowly widened. ‘You found the mark, didn’t you? On yourself?’
Nightingale nodded. ‘Yep.’
‘But you’re still here.’
‘Like I said, there’s always room for manoeuvre.’