I met someone. His name is Gerard. It’s a casual affair. I only see him when my urges for company become too strong. My divorce came through the other day. It’s all been taken care of by my lawyer in my absence. No one knows where I am. At least not for now. I have arranged for a fake passport. Via via, I got it, no questions asked, for four thousand euros. I am sure I got ripped off, but I am good to leave.

It’s light outside when I make my way out of the tunnels. My skin is stretching uncomfortably over the healing wounds, but so far it doesn’t break.

From a distance I can hear the buzzing sound of cars. It must be a motorway. I walk in the direction of the noise and find myself soon on the highway. I stand confused, letting the cars swoosh past me. Eventually a black Ford pulls over. It’s a man in his late thirties. He opens the door and steps out. He looks kind. Days ago I would have described him as trustworthy.

“You don’t look like you belong here lady. You need a ride?”

I don’t reply, trying to ascertain if I should accept his offer or not.

“Look, I’m a cop. Here.” He takes out his badge and identifies himself as Pierre Menard.

“I’m off from my shift. I’m not gonna take you in. Just if you need help, I’m here to help you.”

“OK,” I finally respond and slide into the front seat. He closes the door.

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. Away from here.”

“Where do you live?”

“In Paris.”

“You have a name?”

“Justine.”

“Justine who?”

“Bertrand.”

“Perhaps it’s better I take you home.”

“No, I really can’t go home.”

“Why?”

“It’s not safe.”

“OK.” He drives in silence, occasionally glancing at me. Forty minutes later, we drive up the road of a suburban street west of Paris.

“I live here. So you want to come in?”

It’s a small semi-detached house in a child-friendly neighbourhood. A dog is jumping up the door as he opens it.

“This is Caesar. Caesar meet Justine.”

He walks into the living room, which opens up to the kitchen.

“You want something to eat?”

I nod. I’m ravenous. He fries up a risotto, which must have been the leftovers from yesterday. I sit quietly staring at the wall in front of me.  On it hangs a large plasma TV screen.

“Here you go.” He serves up the whole lot for me and watches me as I eat in silence.

“You mind telling me what has happened to you? It’s all off the record. I’ve already checked, there is no arrest warrant out for you.” He smiles at me, trying to establish a bond, a connection.

“I need to get my belongings from my home and leave. Can you help me with that?”

“If all is kosher, of course I can.”

After helping me to a shower and some clothes from what I presume is from his teenage daughter, we drive to Rue de la Faisanderie. He uses his tools and picks the lock to the basement level.

“This is strange,” he admits. “Someone has already been here. Have you reported this?”

“No,” I say, “I can’t.” The house is deserted. Heaps of post lay on the inside of the door. I shovel it all up in my arms.

“My attorney needs to take care of this.”

I get my belongings, my passport and bank and credit cards I have in a well-hidden safe. I call my bank, but they haven’t been used.

“Here,” I offer, showing my passport to Pierre. “Just to prove to you I am who I say I am.”

“I know already,” he assures me.

“Thanks for helping me.”

“No thanks needed. Where are you going next?”

“I don’t know, maybe Brussels.”

It’s dark outside, a faint light emitting from a far away streetlight. But I run the other direction, turning darkness into my friend. In the background I hear the door shifting further and then closing. There are no calls for my name; it’s all quiet except for my heavy breathing, which leaves a trail of mist.

As I move hurriedly through the wasteland, my foot gets caught in something and I fall to the ground. It’s a round lid that has been placed slightly ajar. It reeks of filth, but right now it’s my only escape as I see a shadow at less than two-hundred metres distance. I push it aside with both of my still-cuffed hands and take a plunge, landing on what appears to be a discarded mattress. I slide the lid back into place from below, until it locks with a dull thud. At first it’s entirely dark, but after getting used to the coffin-like oppressiveness, I make out a trickle of light.

“Who’s there?” To my relief it’s a woman’s voice. Still, I am in too much of a fright to answer.

“Who’s there?” The light is coming closer and I huddle against the side of the tunnel.

“What’s the matter girl? What are you doing here?” I look at her. She must be a gypsy with her dark skin, long braided hair and hauntingly grey eyes.

“I need help.”

“I can see. You are bleeding.”

She puts my arm around her neck and shoulder and drags me to safety. It’s a cramped up place with a dirty mattress, a soup kitchen on gasoline, pots and pans. Clothes are hanging on wires making an improvised division between two rooms.

“Shh. My grandchild is sleeping,” she explains.

She places a homemade ointment and some compresses onto my skin. It stings, but I try not to scream, biting my lip raw to keep silent. She hands me a drink and I take it readily, quenching my thirst. Then I fall asleep.

—

I am not sure what is real or not, for the nightmares seem so vivid. It’s a state of confusion I have never found myself in. The few times I am lucid a woman whispers in my ear. “Sleep, sleep.” Her words have a soothing effect and the seductive world of darkness claims me once more.

“Justine, what’s your business here?’

“What do you mean? I already told you.”

“Wrong answer.” He administers another cut, a few millimetres apart from the previous ones, and pulls away the skin with the knife, like a peel from an apple. Once more she cries out in pain.

“I met someone…a man, who was involved.”

“Who, I want names.”

“He’s a writer.”

“Wrong answer.” He makes a third incision on her calf. The woman howls before the knife touches the skin. Anticipation can often be more painful, he thinks.

“Cyril, Cyril Monfort.”

“Cyril…yes Cyril. Why did he involve you?”

“He invited me to an apartment. 160 Rue de l’Université.” She sobs at her admission. “Then he took me to an underground crypt. The catacombs. He had found something there. Jewellery. He asked me to find out who it belonged to.”

“Go on, I’m listening.” He lights a cigar and puffs on it to fuel the burning.

“I did some research and reported it back. In return Cyril provided me with further information. He got me the members list and a letter written by a former member.”

“Why did he contact you Justine?”

“Because I am a historical investigator. I met him at a party and we started to talk. It was all professional.”

“And that’s it? Because Cyril told quite a different story, one of course you are not aware of.” He watches the reaction of Justine, yet casually squashes a bug with one of his hands as it flies by only centimetres away from his face.

“What have you done to Cyril?”

“I don’t think you are in a position to barter intel with me. Let’s just get this straight here, shall we? I’m the one with the questions, you stick to the truth.”

“No wait, wait. Sorry, I’ll tell you everything. I swear, I swear. Just please don’t hurt me.” She catches her breath before she continues. “I talked to a woman. A BDSM mistress. She is a member I believe. The letter was sent to her.”

“What’s her name?”

“Madame Douleur.”

“How did you get to her?”

Silence.

“I want names Justine. Names.”

“A prostitute name Blue.” He takes out his knife and begins to carve a fourth incision, next to the third. She wrenches, twisting her body so that the cut takes a slightly crooked shape.

“No!” she cries. “I promise, I met her at a brothel downtown. Sin City. She never told me her name. I swear.” She sobs so much her voice is becoming raw. Mr. Nemo never feels pity for his victims, but he knows when they tell the truth. He decides that she is.

In the moment he contemplates his next question his phone goes off. He can hear it buzzing on the desk in the adjoining room. Fuck, he has to take it. His work is coming to an end, and that means all loose ends need to be wrapped up.

“Excuse me,” he apologizes to the woman, as if she is a business acquaintance he has to leave in a meeting.

The phone is one ring away from going to a voicemail, which is no voicemail at all but just the end to a potential conversation that never would take place.

“Yes.”

“What is the status?”

“Douleur has been taken care.” He decided against telling about Justine just yet.

“Very well. However we have an issue you need to take into account. The Police are already at the scene. Check the news.”

The phone goes silent.

Mr. Nemo turns on France2 for the latest news. It is already three in the morning, but due to the interest in the case the broadcasters are using their midnight slots to air the latest developments. Mr. Nemo looks on as boxes are being carried out from the address of 160 Rue de l’Université. He tries to think of anything that could lead the discovery to him or the Organisation. It was more than twelve years ago. He had been meticulous in wearing gloves and a mask that not only concealed his face but also his hair. He is in no database registry, and if, against all odds, he somehow were, it would be linked to one of the many identities he has used – all of which are now inactive.

The apartment of Cyril had been cleared. The computer was gone along with the jewellery box, the letter and his body. It would never be found again as it was already residing in a deep cesspit of acid and mercury that sat on the terrain. He admits there had been no time for a more meticulous disposal. It has, after all, been one of his most intense days since a Bosnian operation fifteen years ago. His body is perhaps not what it used to be either. Signs of aging are slowly starting to appear. He can still do his twenty chin-ups, but his twenty-kilometre runs are now accompanied by pain in the knees, and his eyesight is beginning to falter. Two years ago he took up the habit of wearing glasses, but only when needed.

He runs through the events in his head. There are no open leads. He has taken care of everything with the exception of the safety deposit box of Madame Douleur. The security tapes have been erased, and the intel of the Hedge-Fund Man had all been followed up on and destroyed. The last piece of the puzzle was Justine who, despite her physical value, would have to go too. He is tired, so her end will have to come swiftly and without mercy.

—

“Draw them in by the prospect of gain, take them by confusion” ~Sun Tzu, The Art of War

The Supreme Master is in his villa on the Côte d’Azur. It is dark and windy, the first signs of spring still a few weeks away. He stands in his conservatory, looking out over the sea. The sea has a calming effect on him. As the waves beat the coastline, they not only chip away years of built-up sediment, but also the obstacles and problems that pose a threat to his carefully constructed world. What remains is the core of the problem, and to that the solution comes as swiftly as it does expediently, in a stroke of genius. He feels content.

His business has done him well. He owns villas, castles and city mansions around the world. He is respectable. He comes from a family of Swiss civil servants and has worked himself up through the chain of command in the world of private banking. He has served men well, invested their money, and come up with stratagems that would safeguard their interests without the prying eyes of the authorities. He has a good reputation and people trust him.

But he was once young and adventurous too. He saw his clients getting richer than he could ever expect to become. So he decided to cut a deal with the devil. When his clients were over, he dined and wooed them, serving them the best French and Swiss wines that would turn even the most sober into raving drunks. And rave they did. In their need to ease their hearts, they were more than happy to tell of their feats. After all, the man who sat opposite them was intelligent, accomplished and knew their financial secrets anyways. He was considered a friend. The Master — no master yet but a mere apprentice — took notes, memorized the people that were name-dropped and formed his own understanding of the underworld.

It took him five years before he summoned up the courage to venture into the world he had up until now only served as an adviser to. He started with a low-risk business, where only small investments needed to be made, and if something went wrong, he wouldn’t be looking at a hefty jail sentence or, worse, a bullet in his head. It was the time of the Balkan wars, and women and children from Bosnia were queuing to get out of the war-torn country. At first it was a simple operation of people smuggling. Those with money were handed fake passports and a new life in a country such as Italy, Germany or Sweden. But he soon noticed there were more lucrative ways of doing business.

His agents would scout for poor but beautiful girls, often already ravaged by the nature of war, they clung onto the only thing they had left: hope. Hope was something the Master could provide in abundance, and in many ways the life he offered was vastly better than any prospects their precarious situations offered. He bought properties in Geneva, Bern and Zurich where girls were installed to serve clients, sometimes as many as twenty a day. It was a profitable business, and many of his customers were high-ranking officers in the international arena. They brought him protection. And so he learned perhaps the most valuable lesson of all: we all are in debt to one another, and as long as someone’s indiscretion is recorded, it provides the perfect insurance. It made him untouchable, for his discretion only went so far.

The Master now had the answer to his problem. So he went back to bed and to his young wife, who was sleeping soundly in the light of the moon.

Frederic Berthelot paces back and forward in his room at Place Louis

His first option, and probably the only one, is to fabricate new evidence to support the theory of a lonely madman. He will have to go back to similar killings before the Reaper murders. It is a question of planting someone’s DNA and a very convenient confession and subsequent suicide.

—

Where the fuck am I? The Man is saying something inaudible as he draws a curtain. It exposes an arsenal of equipment, all designed for the purpose of severance of limbs, causing aggravating pain and bodily harm. He takes a fine knife. It’s miniature in comparison to the rest, and I feel relieved that I won’t be losing any limbs. At least not yet.

“What are you doing?” I hear myself ask. My voice already breaking with fear.

“You don’t know what this is? The Grim Reaper is visiting with you tonight.” He smiles at me.

He slips off my ballet flats and carefully unbuttons my jeans – button by button. As he pulls them off, my knickers follow with them, exposing my sex. The knife that I had hidden in the waist of my trousers falls to the ground. He picks it up and views it with great amusement.

“You really thought you could take me on with this? You have quite some guts.

I like it.” He puts it aside before adding, “We won’t be using it. It’s too dull and would make a hell of a mess.”

He turns his attention to my tank top and slices through each strap with a single stroke of his knife. Then follows the bra. I am petrified – it’s an indescribable terror, and although not gagged I instinctively know that screaming won’t help; no one is near enough to come to my rescue.

“Please don’t hurt me,” I softly plead with The Man. “Please, I have money, I can have it wired instantly, if you just let me go. Please.” For the first time tears are beginning to show. It may be the worst thing I could let happen, so I hold them, involuntarily heaving before I eventually stop.

“Do you know why you are here?”

I nod. I do know.

“Which is?”

“I had something that was yours.”

“Yes, and…?”

“I got involved in something that wasn’t my business.”

“Yes, very good. I knew you would understand me. So you will understand also if I apply certain techniques to make sure you tell me all I need to know.”

“I will tell you all, sir. I have…”

“You don’t need to tell me yet. First I will tell you something. You see… it’s not only that you may have certain things that I don’t wish for you to have. The problem is…” He walks away and takes a chair straddling it in reverse. “The problem is, you see, that you know a lot. It’s an issue that is very difficult, if nor impossible, to resolve, wouldn’t you say?”

“I promise whatever I know will stay with me. I won’t tell a word. I won’t say…”

“Shhhh.” He puts his hand over my mouth. “That’s what they all say. But it rarely works in practice. If it’s not the police they talk to, then it’s some friend, their wife, even their fucking dog. So you see, sooner or later it always comes back to ME.”

“I don’t even know your name, sir.”

“Well, that is debatable, and even though I go by many, you know enough to pick me out of a line-up, wouldn’t you say?”

“I promise, I’ll disappear. Whatever it takes. Just name your terms.”

“Won’t work, I would have to keep track of you.”

I’ve run out of options, and I am absolutely sure this is to be my last hour.

“But…” he begins, “there is one alternative. I can always keep you here. In the basement, away from everyone else. You have no escape of course, but I will let you live.” He ponders the idea in mock earnest and again I feel my eyes burning from supressed tears. A single tear escapes. The Man sees it and walks up to me, catches it with his finger and licks it off with his tongue.

“How sweet,” he coos, before continuing, “So yes, your life is not yet forfeit. But that is not all I need to tell you. You see…you will most likely suffer at the hands of this blade. If you don’t tell all, you will undoubtedly die. It’s a death that has gone down in history as the Thousand Cuts. It’s a centuries-old practice of the Chinese whereby the victim has his or her skin slowly removed until he or she will part with life…from the one-thousandth cut.” He looks at me, taking delight in my terror. I used to suffer from hyperventilation when I was a child, and for the first time in my adult life I start to draw deep breaths, first slow then fast and shallow. The cold air hits my lungs and, although it’s what I desperately crave, it burns with every breath.

“The Nigerians practice a similar rite – that of the 200 Cuts. It’s a ritual mostly performed on animals, but legend has it it’s been performed on humans too. There is in fact a famous account of a British soldier who suffered the fate under an infamous colonel and a witchdoctor by the name of Drago. The colonel, who practiced the ancient religion of Ju Ju, the origin of religions such Santeria and Palo Mayombe, needed a slave in the spirit world to serve his cause. The British soldier had been one that he knew well and had even had the pleasure of sharing his specially imported Cuban cigars and the best Scottish whisky with. But for all their friendship, which obviously the Brit took as a sign of loyalty, the colonel saw a deeper meaning too. So one night, he brought over his most loyal soldiers, the witchdoctor and his apprentice. He told them it was time to make the British soldier an ‘iko-awo’ – a spirit slave. The more he would scream — and that he would do of pain and fright — the more the Orishas, the gods, would come and see what was happening. When the final 201st cut was administered, severing the throat, the man would escape to the spirit world and become a sort of inter-mediator between the gods and the sorcerer he served. The man was put on a stainless steel medical table, very much like the one you are on now, with a tennis ball in his mouth. From there on Doctor Drago administered cut after cut. The man howled in pain, his eyes bulging, but he did well. A trained soldier, not unfamiliar with the cruelties of humankind, he took the cuts until he was completely flayed but still alive. The apprentice administered the last cut and the man transitioned from this world to the next.”

The story grips me with sheer terror, and I can feel, imaginary or not, my skin being flayed by the hands of The Man in front of me. He rises up, knife in hand, and makes a small incision on my left thigh. I cry out in pain.

“This is nothing compared to what you will suffer later. I will probably have to follow standard practice and mute you with a gag ball.” He laughs at this, a sudden roaring laughter. For a moment I can hear the colonel’s voice in his. He must have been there, I think.

Mr. Nemo makes a sharp left turn and, as he hears the familiar sound of gravel, he knows he is on home soil. Home is perhaps not the appropriate word, because Mr. Nemo knows no such thing. He is, after all, a vagabond without a past, a soul without a sanctuary. His mission is to serve the highest bidder, and as long as he can take pleasure through it, he will complete any mission given to him. Before he steps out of the car, he injects the woman with a strong dose of Propofol that will render her unconscious for at least an hour. This will give him enough time to investigate the document and the film in private and decide what to do with her.

Mr. Nemo carries her inside and lays her on the stainless steel surgical table that stands in the middle of the room. He takes off the handcuffs and instead cuffs her hands to either side of the table. Then he goes to the next room, his room, and starts to shift through the spoils of his mission. The room is used for both work and relaxation. The desk stands next to a window that looks out on the work floor. It was once a foreman’s office, allowing him to keep an eye on the workforce. Now it is used for similar purposes, making sure his victims are kept under close guard.

He first goes through her bag. It is filled to the brink with the useless items women always seem to find a need of: perfume, tampons, a notebook, several pens, keys, lipsticks and other make-up paraphernalia. He throws most of it back in the bag with the exception of the keys and the notebook. He then opens his own bag and takes out the folded flip charts containing the woman’s notes. He studies them carefully and somehow he is pleased to see she has managed to crack the riddle he knows his name has become synonymous with. He feels an almost intimate reverence for the red-head that now lays unconscious in the room next to him. What if they are somehow soul mates? Darkness-obsessed soul mates who have lived their lives in parallel without the knowledge of each other’s existence. He has never been married, and if he had children, they would now be scattered across the world, their mothers victims of his predatory sexual instincts. Perhaps they would one day become reflections of him. Evil breeds evil, he thinks.

But here is a woman that doesn’t appear to be evil, yet she possesses the strong mind and will so few women are gifted with by birth. He closes the curtain as the sight of her renders him weak and feeble. She will have to die. It has to be so. And it would warrant special treatment.

He turns to the document and reads it meticulously. It is all history by now, but for the sake of the people still involved, it would have to disappear. For now he stores it in an underground safe tucked away under the concrete floor. The computer is another story, but as his profession requires a broad knowledge, not least of all in the field of computers, internet technology and security, he has been trained by the best: a hacker going by the name of T0mahawk. He opens the folder for the main harddrive, querying names and keywords associated with the Organisation. It returns only a few documents. Good, she has not made any copies or spread the information. He transfers the files to a USB and then proceeds to drop the files in the waste bin along with the temp files of the same names. Lastly he deletes all the cookies and empties the trash. After this, he makes a clean installation on her Mac. This will take a little while, but he has a lot of time on his hands as he pulls back the curtains to find the woman in the same position he left her in.

Mr. Nemo looks down on Justine. She is sleeping what seems deeply, but any manhandling would easily bring her back to consciousness. He pulls down the chain that is attached to the ceiling. It is strategically placed directly above the surgical table and allows him to hoist up his victim when desired. It is just a matter of securing the handcuffs to the chain through a strong metal fastener, similar to the ones that hold weights to gym machines. It is an easy procedure, especially if the victim is already unconscious and as lightweight as Justine. He hoists her up and secures the chain to the floor. She begins to stir.

“Justine, my dear.  It’s time to wake up.” He wouldn’t usually call his victims by endearing terms, but this one is different. Plus, sometimes it serves a purpose. Sometimes he needs to gain their trust and maybe even their support. There had been times he’s kept his victims hostage for months, and true to profiles of renowned psychologists, his victims start to identify themselves with him. Creating a bond that, to their blissful unawareness, is one-sided. From the psychology books he’s read, he knew this phenomena intimately well as the Stockholm syndrome. He also knows his own personality to be classified as that of a psychopath, and given his crimes he would undoubtedly be described by many as a sexual predator too. Such descriptions never bother him. Instead they make him feel proud. He is one of the lucky few that will live life without remorse. Unlike most of his fellow humans, he won’t have to worry about if he has made any mistakes, if he creates enemies by his words or actions. But what is most remarkable perhaps, the thing that puts him in the category of Super-humans, is his lack of fear. Because this is one emotion he has truly never felt. It is both the antidote and cure to death. Because as his fellow humans wither away as fear takes hold of them, he never has to change his course in response to borders and obstacles determined by others. This makes him unique, and whenever his crimes are mentioned in the media, or sometimes in mere whispers by those he works for, he basks in the glory his name has created. Because, truly, if there are gods, he is one. It also adds another personally disorder to his Übermensch mind: that of a narcissist. Somehow he likes this definition the most. But this is purely for aesthetic reasons as it is the most beautiful of them all.

Justine groans as he slapped her about a few times. Her head is lolling from side to side.

“Look at me, Justine. Can you see me?” Her eyes try to focus but her head keeps dropping. He takes it in his hands and her pupils fix on him – if only for a brief moment.

“I haven’t figured out what I am going to do with you. But unlike the people I’ve dealt with earlier, I think I like you too much to let you die. But of course this all depends on you Justine.” He walks away and draws the curtain, exposing the wall where a variety of knifes, saws, axes and swords hang. “It all depends on you,” he repeats softly to himself.

Two detectives arrive at the scene of 160 Rue de l’Université. They are let in by one of its residents who also opens the door to the communal cellar. With a search warrant already having been issued, they don’t need to wait for someone with keys to open up the brown door. The detectives descend the stairs until they find themselves looking at a part of the Paris catacombs that they never knew existed. They put on their latex gloves and set to work. It takes an hour before one of the detectives finds the first mummified head. At the exact time as the younger agent calls for backup from the forensics department, the older detective gets a call on his personal cell. It is Frederic Berthelot, the head of the National Police.

“This is a matter for the National Police. We will take it from here.”

“Sir, with all due respect, the Director of the Paris Police is already involved. I cannot abort unless I get his consent.”

—

In a different part of town a dispute ensues between two strong-willed men. One had appointed the other, but the other is already after his job. He wouldn’t let this go so easily. Within the hour, the discovery of several severed heads has been leaked to the press, who camp outside a house on Rue d’Université as boxes are removed throughout the night. Seven mummified heads are found in total. Roux, the Director of the Paris Police Department, knows this will be his golden ticket in a career that holds few possibilities beyond an early retirement.

—

It is late in the evening. I’ve read and reread the words of Jean-Marie Rabois, and the anonymous private detective. I’ve watched a film portraying the final hour of Catherine da Luz. I had not expected to feel so apathetic, almost indifferent. In all its stark cruelty I have heard and witnessed too much to even find it shocking. Yet I suspect it’s a defence mechanism for something I don’t know how to cope with. Fear has always been an ally, but with the past hours’ events, I start to feel something that can only be described as quiet apprehension. When I can’t reach Cyril I try for Amélie, but the call is directly diverted to voicemail. I try to reason with my mind, but as the dark and the quiet settles over the city mansion on Rue de la Faisanderie, I sense something far more sinister breathing within these very walls.

“Justine, it’s your mind playing games,” I say quietly to myself. “Get a grip of yourself.” I walk to the kitchen in search for any weaponry I can get my hands on. It doesn’t amount to much but I take all the knives, which I strategically place in exactly the same spots as our potpourri sachets are currently residing. It will help remind me of their locations in case I forget. I take all the empty wine bottles and place one on the floor behind each curtain. A broken bottle makes for good improvisation. I also make a mental note of the positions of the fire extinguishers, escape routes going over balconies and lastly I set the external alarm on. I’m so tired, having survived on only a few hours of sleep from the previous night. I make myself a cup of coffee before resuming my research work on the Organisation and the Network. As the coffee machine churns out an espresso, I turn on the TV and find myself watching the developing news on the excavations at 160 Rue de l’Université.

“An anymous tip is what led the police to the underground chamber on 160 Rue de l’Université in the 7th arrondissement of Paris. The Police are still reluctant to reveal any details pertaining to the discovery and its nature, but we have just received news from unofficial sources confirming the discovery to be that of the remains from the murder victims attributed to the Reaper of Paris who plagued the city in the mid-to-late 1990s. “

The news anchor, a young woman in her late twenties, slim and petit, with large brown doe eyes magnified by her false eyelashes, continues to recite the background of the murders and the known facts about the alleged victims. Just before the commercial break, she throws in a last cliff hanger: “Stay with us for the gruesome discovery of the mummified heads of the Reaper victims.”

I turn off the TV and walk to the study where I left the letter and the CD. Something isn’t right, as the letter is gone. So is my laptop, with only an empty CD cover hastily thrown to one side.

I search for it frantically, sure that I left it here. Well, almost sure. There is no one in the room, as far as I can determine. I take one of the knives, a small fruit knife that sits in a glass bowl on a bookshelf. Then I reach for the landline to make that call I should have made a long time ago. Without feeling the slightest bit of surprise I discover the line is dead. Where the hell did I leave my mobile? My bag? It’s in the bedroom. Armed with the fruit knife and a bottle, I walk out over the landing, which I need to cross in order to reach the bedroom. It’s eerily quiet except for the sound of my feet. He must know my exact position. I pray I can reach the bedroom, which also offers an escape route via the balcony. The handbag, a nude-coloured Balenciaga, stands at the side of the bed, seemingly in the same position I left it. I bend over to get my phone and my keys but don’t quite reach it as I’m stopped in my tracks by a voice I don’t recognise.

“Justine, so finally we meet face to face.”

I turn around slowly, finding a tall man standing in front of me. He’s wearing jeans, well-polished brogues and a white shirt that is unbuttoned to his chest. He is tanned, but it looks more red than a deep brown. The sleeves are rolled to just below his elbows, exposing strong, sinewy arms. Not a bodybuilder’s arms, but the arms of someone who is naturally fit from work that requires both strength and endurance. His hair is straight, a dark blond. Perhaps it would qualify as light brown. But what is most striking are his eyes. They are piercing blue and seem to change colour with mood and intention.

“Of course, we already met…” He looks at his clock. “Technically almost two days ago. I could see you, but you didn’t have the same benefit.” He takes a few steps towards the door and closes it. One escape route less.

“I don’t want to harm you Justine. Trust me, I have done enough of that for one day. I just want us to have a little chat. I have the document and your computer, so I just need to know a few things.”

I regard him as he walks around the room. He reminds me of someone. A younger Max Headroom, or an older Barry Pepper. It is in fact difficult to put a description to him. Yes, he is the mercenary from the letter. And equally the Executioner. The Reaper. The knowledge of this makes me sick. I stand still, gazing at the intruder, unable to speak a word.

“You and I are going to go for a little ride. We will take my car, I will handcuff and blindfold you, and an hour later you will find yourself at my home. I will return the courtesy of your hospitality. It will be a friendly talk, and as long as you tell me everything, I will let you leave. You understand?”

I don’t say or do anything. My eyes dart quickly towards the balcony, but the doors are closed. It will be a matter of nanoseconds before he overpowers me. The fruit knife is tucked in the waist of my jeans. With that I still have a weapon, although the advantage is slim.

“OK, I can make you understand if you prefer that. Here is a semi-automatic Smith & Wesson. It comes with a silencer, which will render a shot near inaudible.  I will not hesitate to use it Justine. Your playtime is over. Turn around, or I will make you.”

I do as he says. A push to my back, a hard grip on my arms and the cold touch of steel to my wrists. He pulls me up again, takes my bag and as well as his own, which presumably is where my laptop and documentation rest. We walk outside to a car that is parked next to the curb. I try to find someone to make eye contact with, but the street is deserted. He opens the back door and pushes me in. A scarf is tied around my eyes. I believe I can sense a faint odour of some commercial fragrance. Prada?

We drive for what appears to be an hour. It’s impossible to know the direction, but at one point we stop. The Man heaves a deep sigh as the car comes to an unexpected stop. I hear a woman shouting in American English. “How the fuck did we end up on Rue Marc Séguin? This is Hotel Belfort. Wrong hotel, moron.” I have no idea where we are but I memorize the street name and the hotel. Moments later I hear someone getting into the car in front of us and The Man shifts gear and continues.

Madame Douleur realises only moments later that the letter is gone together with the CD. “Merde!” She calls for Marat to run after the woman, but she has already vanished, absorbed into the street that now stands empty but for the few exceptions of passing vehicles and a trickle of tourists coming out of the museum.

Marat thinks himself ingenious at his bright epiphany: of course, she had entered the museum! He buys himself a ticket of admission and, for the first time, sets his foot inside the building dedicated to the romantic époque. Marat soon forgets what he is looking for and gets lost in 19th-century paintings and furniture. When a young dark man strikes up a conversation with him, he completely loses track of both time and his target. And the one furthest away from his thoughts is his mistress. In this hour she appears to be missing him more than he does her.

—

Madame Douleur changes into a costume made entirely out of PVC. It exposes her breasts through two round openings. It is what the client wished for. Very seldom did she have sex with a client, but this one will be an exception, so the garment accommodates for this too. It is a new client, thus apart from the information he provided over a few scantily written emails, she knows nothing of him.

She tries to push the recent theft from her mind. Marat was securing the letter along with the CD and the bitch had already given her name. What a stupid cow!

There is a knock on the door. A rather tall, yet unassuming man stands on the other side. It must be her client, who was five minutes too early. She opens the door and lets him in.

—

Mr. Nemo watches the woman as she walks into the adjourning room. She swaggers her full hips as she places her feet, one after the other, in a perfectly straight line. The way she walks, she might have been a model years ago. She still looks good, he thinks. Good enough to fuck.

She closes the door behind him and asks him to sit down.

“Do you want to start straight away?”

“Yes.”

“Any preferences?”

“No, I’m here to give you the best fuck of your life,” he responds.

“Excuse me?” She looks confused, like this is the response she least expected.

“You heard me. I’m here to give you the best fuck ever.”

She walks slowly backwards towards a wall cabinet. Although well hidden, he notes a small alarm bell beneath it.

“Don’t move,” he threatens as he flips open a stiletto knife. The woman freezes, as any woman in his experience has done in response to the vision of a sharp instrument. A moment later he is at her side, running the knife along the front of her body. In one fine movement it separates the rubbery material, revealing her white skin that has turned pink where the edge of the knife has brushed by. He pushes her down and straps her to a table, and for a moment becomes deeply inspired by her instruments of torture – an abundance of whips, gags and dildos that form a well-stocked arsenal. He doesn’t bother to rip her suit off further. Everything that needs to be exposed is. He unbuckles his belt, and pulls down his pants,

First he places it in her mouth. She gives a good blowjob. “Suck for your life, bitch!” he commands as he holds her hair in a steady grip. He is almost about to come when he pushes her head away and shoves his veiny member into her cunt. She is surprisingly tight for a whore, but a good fuck, just as he had anticipated. He hasn’t gagged her and she doesn’t scream. Instead she moans with what he believes is pleasure as he rams his thirty-something-centimetre cock into her tight hole. He is a master of controlling himself and lets his dick work on her for a good fifteen minutes. When he finally comes, he misses the knock on the door. It could have been Madame Douleur’s only escape, but the client, who is a little too late for his appointment, just thinks she has already closed for the day and leaves the building crestfallen. It would have been his first time with Madame, but as life takes a different turn – as often life does – he will never work up the courage to entertain his perversions ever again.

Madame lies on her own table, having indeed had what probably constituted the best fuck of her life. Her attacker had worn a condom, and thus there would be no DNA at the scene of the crime. Mr. Nemo looks around for a good implement to secure her confession. He settles on a medieval instrument that he is certain he has seen elsewhere. As his memory is jogged by the instrument’s strange shape, he knows it had to be some three and a half years ago during a solitary trip to the region of Languedoc. He is quite fond of his history, especially that relating to the Inquisition and the Crusades, and thus he took most of an afternoon wandering the medieval merchant house now turned into a museum of torture within the walled city of Carcassonne. It was therefore not so strange that his cold blue eyes fell on a small and delicate piece of iron called the Pear of Anguish. He takes it down from the hook it is hanging on and decides to give the woman a lesson in history.

“This beautiful piece of a torture device is called the Pear of Anguish. As you know, it’s made out of four metal leaves, almost like petals, that are joined by a hinge on top. As you also know, the beauty of it is that it will expand the further I turn the key on the very top. In medieval times it was used for heretics, homosexuals, witches and adulterers alike. The Inquisition was of the distinct belief that the punishment should fit the crime, which is why the pear would be inserted in different cavities depending on the sin.” He stops for a moment and brushes the cold device against her cheek. For the first time he can see fear in her eyes.

“In your case, two crimes are quite obvious. But I think one holds the higher ground, don’t you?” He waits for a brief moment, but his victim remains silent. It appears she is preparing herself for the ultimate sacrifice that any man or woman dedicated to giving and receiving the pleasure of pain could seek. In this case he would offer her a beautiful gift that would only be fully understood on the brink of death.

He speaks to her in a soft, gentle, almost hushed voice. “You see, a bird whispered to me that you have something that belongs to the Organisation. I want to know where it is.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“You don’t? That’s interesting. So let me refresh your memory. Monsieur Codorniou sent it to you together with a video. This was a little over a year ago.”

“I don’t know a Codorniou. What do you want me to say?”

“You don’t have to say anything. I’d much prefer seeing this device do its work first.” Madame Douleur screams, but this only serves to create an entrance for the implement, and soon her voice is muted by the pear-shaped device. As he starts to turn the key, her back teeth begin to fracture. The woman frantically wrenches her head to and fro, but he holds it down with his right hand as he continues to turn with his left. As happened with the Hedge-Fund Director, Monsieur Codorniou, she pleads with her eyes for him to stop. This is always the tell-tale sign they are ready to sell out.

Mr. Nemo unscrews the device. The inside of her mouth is largely still intact with the exception of the back of her inside jaw, which has started to look like a red-and-white pulp. She coughs violently, spitting up little pieces of shattered enamel together with blood and saliva. She takes a moment to adjust her jaw before she begins to speak.

“OK, I did get a letter, from an anonymous sender. But I don’t have it anymore. The woman has it.”

“Which woman?”

“Bertrand – Justine Bertrand. Her business card is still on the table.” She tilts her head in the direction of the adjoining room. He walks over and picks up a white card with black printed letters. He weaves it through his fingers, as if creating an interlude of amusement. Like a court jester performing before the queen loses her head.

“When was she here?”

“About half an hour ago. She stole it.”

“Where’s your safe?”

“Behind the big painting.”

“And the code?”

“B5348A8423.”

He walks over and opens it. If any document had ever been there it was now gone. The only piece of value is a stash of twelve thousand euros in cash, which he puts in his back pocket. He walks back to the woman who is moaning in pain.

“Where are the copies?”

“I have no copies. This is it.”

“Do I look like I was born yesterday?” He takes her jaw in his strong hands and gives it a hard squeeze. The woman cries out in agony.

“I have two copies. That’s all. One in my apartment and another in my bank safety deposit box.” He looks at her as if he expects more information.

“The key to the deposit box is in the safe. Right lower side.”

Shit I missed it, he thinks to himself. He was getting sloppy.

“The key to my apartment is on the key ring in my bag. It’s the green one.” He goes for the items and picks them up. He already knows her address, but still isn’t sure if she is telling everything. So he decides to put her through a final test. He takes out his lighter and starts to burn her bound feet. Again she howls in agony.

“I swear, I’ve told you everything. I know nothing else.” He watches her eyes, and this time they convince him his victim has told him all there is to know. So again he inserts the Pear of Anguish into her mouth, this time not stopping until it had expanded to its full size. He can hear her teeth fracture, her jaw dislocating. Her head thrashes once more, her eyes rolling backwards as she slowly dies of hypoxia, which eventually results in cardiac arrest. He leaves the body still jerking. In the end the whore did have a big mouth. And this was indeed a fitting punishment to a crime that should have long been recognised and dealt with.

It’s a quiet neighbourhood I enter half an hour later. It’s already well past three o’clock, but the Thursday commerce, which is still thriving on the surrounding streets, doesn’t appear to have had much effect on Rue Chaptal. The building lies across a little alley from the Musée de la Vie Romantique, which stands in stark contrast to the business of Madame Douleur, but perhaps her clients need both in equal measures.

I stand in front of the door to number 9, an edifice built in the distinct Parisian Haussmann style. Only a code will give me access to the building, so I wait until a young man comes out. Could he be a customer? It would have been difficult to know which door to seek out if it weren’t for Michelle’s description. Ground floor, to the left. There isn’t even a doorbell, so I resort to a gentle knock. No one opens, and I curl my hand into a fist before pounding.

“OK, OK.” A man opens the door just enough to get a good look at who is standing on the other side. A chain is all that separates us.

“I am looking for Mademoiselle Lefèvre. It’s a matter of urgency,” I add.

“Un Moment.” The door closes again and I stand there in the draughty doorway until a woman in her late forties comes out.

“Who are you?”

“Justine Bertrand. It’s a matter of…”

“I know. Michelle called. Come in.” I walk into something that could pass as any other waiting room. Perhaps the colours are somewhat quirky. Dark silk tapestries cover three-metre-something walls, and large gilded Louise XVI armchairs in zebra skin stand in a group formation. It’s not my taste, but someone with an eye for detail has clearly been the mastermind behind it. Her assistant seems a likely culprit, signalling strongly on my gaydar.

The man, with a boyish frame and short, straight hair (the only thing that is straight about him), is entirely dressed in black. He approaches with a silver tray and asks me if I would like coffee or tea. For reasons entirely unknown to me, I opt for the latter.

“Very well,” he clips with a sharp Parisian accent.

Madame Douleur returns, dressed in a black suit, Armani Privé with tell-tale Christian Louboutin shoes on her slender feet. As she pours herself a cup of coffee, I get my first good look at her face. Traces of beauty still remain, although years of work in a dark and brooding business have left it gaunt and pasty. Still there is little doubt that men will readily see past these flaws. The doors behind her are slightly ajar, and I strain to get a glimpse of the room. So far I can only see the left side of large chair. I believe it to be a throne, but I suppose it could equally be a chair of torture.

“I understand you are here regarding the Reaper killings.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“What makes you think I know anything about it?”

“You shared an apartment with Marie Laroche and Leila Girard.”

“Who told you this?”

“A newspaper article. You identified yourself as Mademoiselle Ava. But your real name is Jeanette Lefèvre, isn’t it?” Her ice-cold, blue eyes penetrate mine before she picks up a cigarette in a holder and lights it using a fragrant candle that rests on the coffee table.

“Why do you want to know all of this?” The harshness in her voice is now gone, seamlessly transitioned into a soft, feminine tone.

“I am researching the Reaper Murders.”

“You are?” She sounds curious.

“Yes, I am a historical investigator by profession.” I hand her my card, but moments later regret having done so as my identity now is compromised. She takes the card.

“I already know. Michelle informed me. And of course I could read between the lines from those emails you sent earlier, although you weren’t exactly forthcoming with information.” She takes a drag on her long cigarette and expels the smoke, worthy of a 1940s screen siren. Then she adds: “I liked the alias you used – Severine. Mmm, quite the sophistication….” She trails off and I leave her comment for what it is – a preluding mind game, one I’m not inclined to play.

“There have been recent developments in this case, which is now more than fourteen years old,” I start.

“Such as?”

“Certain evidence has come to light.” I look for ways to circle the truth but find myself floundering for the right lies.

“Look, you better be straight with me. If not I cannot help you.”

I decide to drop one of my aces. “Jean-Marie Rabois.”

A flutter in her eyes, a millisecond blink, yet a blink nevertheless.

“Do you recognise the name?” Madame Douleur remains silent.

“You live on 2 Rue Crébillon, right? How did you come to be in possession of this apartment?” She stands up and calls for Master, a Doberman who has been kept from view until now. He comes to attend her, growling at me, his upper teeth exposed enough to show he means business.

I stand up to leave, and I’m just about to turn towards the door when I decide to drop my last card.

“Your activities in the Hellfire Club have been exposed. The evidence will soon be revealed.”

“Wait,” she blurts. She kicks her dog, and he whimpers, more so from being betrayed by his mistress than from actual pain. “What do you want?”

“I want the truth.”

“And what if I can’t give it to you?”

“I will expose your organisation and, without your cooperation, I cannot guarantee your anonymity. “

“If you know this much you also know I have nothing to do with it.”

“Of course I do. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here. But you are safeguarding people in your organisation that are not so innocent as you. That’s a crime punishable by law, as far as I know.”

“What makes you think I belong to this organisation?”

“Because I have established links to it. To the very top. And there are forces at work, bringing on its demise. I would say it is time you choose your allegiances.” She ponders her options for a moment, then calls for her assistant.

“Marat, fix me a double scotch. In fact, make that two.” Before she’s continues her story, two crystal glasses generously filled with whisky are served.

“Santé, Mademoiselle Bertrand!” She raises her glass before taking a good sip.

“I can’t deny I knew this day would eventually come. They are clever, but not that clever, and God be damned, I wish I never accepted that invitation.”

“Why did you? Was it for the apartment?”

“I can’t deny it played a role. It’s not like one gets filthy rich in this business, –  au contraire to some people’s beliefs.” She raises her cigarette holder to her lips for a long drag before once again expelling the smoke in my direction. ”So, yes, it definitely played a role. Rabois was a client of mine. He had come to me for years, letting off steam from a stressful job. You know a lot of men are like that. They won’t admit it to their wives of course, but they love to be dominated, hog tied, whipped, dog walked, playing servant to a superior mistress. Rabois was no different. And he liked whores. Had a soft spot for them. But I didn’t know more beyond that. Although he liked to tell me things, always after our sessions as I suppose they brought him relief, he kept certain parts very private. His was quite peculiar about that. Not like most clients I have, who feel they can be very open about almost anything.” She stops, like she’s considering what to say next.

“He would come here once a month, sometimes less. The last time was a week before he died. I had no idea that anything was wrong, and frankly I didn’t count myself as one of his friends. Then three weeks later I have a solicitor at my door. He says he is the executioner of the last will and testament of Monsieur Rabois and I am mentioned as his sole beneficiary. He asked me if I could come to his office. It was all very odd, as I would have expected to get a letter rather than a personal visit, but perhaps he was just curious about my services.” She takes a sip of her whisky and, without thinking, I follow her example.

“The testament was a very odd one too. I would stand to receive all of his possessions, an apartment and 150,000 euros in a savings account as well as some stocks in a high-tech company I had never heard of. There was also a pension that would be paid out over the next twenty years. I would receive all of this on the condition that I joined a society by the name of the Hellfire Club. I asked what kind of society this was, but the solicitor couldn’t say. I got an address and was told to meet with a Monsieur Rabelais the following Tuesday at three o’clock. I went there, and the man I had come to meet seemed most normal and quite friendly. He explained the rules, ones I totally endorsed already through the life path I’d chosen. So I saw no reason not to join. At the sixth degree. Monsieur Rabois had been a Seventh Degree member – but this I only found out later -, but as members can only be elected to this level, I was initiated into the degree below. This was in 2003.”

“Yes, I know, in October,” I cut in.

“That’s right. Then exactly a year ago to the month, I am sent a letter by an anonymous sender who claims to be a dissident of the Seventh Degree. He has been trusted with a full confession of another fellow member – Rabois’, as it turns out – a confession that was to be sent to me when the time was right. And apparently last year time had reached its pinnacle. The confession started off most strangely. Let me see, I will find it for you. She walks to a painting depicting Dante’s Inferno and brushes it to the side. A few strokes with her finger and the door to the safe opens.

“Here,” she says, placing it on the table.

“May I take a look?”

“No, but I will read it to you.” She flips through several pages before she starts.

“It’s dated July 14, 2003.”

Dear Reader,

I will not name you to avoid drawing unwanted attention to your person. You don’t deserve it after everything I have done to you. But I hope you know my reasons and remain faithful to my memory. As I am writing this letter, I am naturally still alive, but I believe my days are numbered. Someone is following my whereabouts with great interest and, having survived a near-death experience in a hit and run, I fear they will not give up until their mission is accomplished. Now you ask yourself why I have brought such wrath onto myself. After all, I am a doctor dedicated to the cause of Hippocrates. Well, if only I could only answer that with ‘I don’t know’. But I can’t. I have done certain things that I should stand trial for and for which most people would think I should pay with my life.

But before I tell you, I also need to tell you the background. It might serve as somewhat mitigating circumstances, although I don’t expect you to feel that way.

Some fifteen years ago I was initiated into a society going by the name of the Hellfire Club. As you now know, it is a society with one motto: Do what thou wilt, or Fais ce que tu voudras. My predecessor was not a very wealthy man, but I suppose I just liked the idea so much that despite a not-too-substantial inheritance, which amounted to a central Parisian apartment and an old Fiat Uno, I accepted without further ado. My enthusiasm knew no bounds and I quickly rose within the ranks until I was finally accepted into the highest degree: the Seventh Degree. This was in 1995.

Our Grand Master Rabelais was a kind man, and his presence was one of reason and order. What very few people knew, though, was that his influence was rather limited. For beyond him stood a Supreme Master, one I never knew beyond his ominous presence, always disguised by a dark cloak and mask.

I made my acquaintance with the Supreme Master a late September evening during my first Seventh-Degree meeting in the theatre. He started off by conducting a sermon in Latin until a man who wore an executioner’s garment with leather hood and apron stepped out. With him he had a girl. She was no older than her late teens. A runaway, I thought; her white limbs bore bruises, some newer than others. She didn’t appear afraid, but then again the influence she was under would have negated any alarm she might have felt.

The Supreme Master told him to proceed, and the man with the executioner’s garment forced her down onto a makeshift bed where she was ravished and then knifed to death. I am not sure which was more disturbing, and my stomach turned in disgust as he spilled her gut. I have, of course, through my profession seen many things, but this was something else. A few vomited at the sight. I recall one fainted. This didn’t seem to bother the hooded man, although Rabelais looked pale as he watched on.

The strangest thing was that we never attempted to leave or stop what was happening. Instead we sat transfixed by what was playing out, like it was some bad, very bad horror film. The next day, before any of us could have possibly collected our senses and done the decent thing and reported what we’d witnessed, I was sent a parcel. It contained a film, which showed me in a number of compromising situations with women from previous parties. It also contained a type-written letter, which outlined my personal life. Needless to say most of it wasn’t pretty. The letter concluded with ‘Fais ce que tu voudras’. Or, do what thou wilt.

It was very simple. If I went to the police, I would lose it all: the apartment I had inherited, my career, but most of all my name and life as I knew it. So I kept quiet, hoping the experience would never repeat itself. I never discussed it with my fellow initiates, as I supposed they too were blackmailed into silence. I kept an eye out for any news in connection to the dead girl, but there was nothing. After a while I started to think it had just been a bad dream.

Our normal gatherings continued and, by then, I started to feel safe again. Until June the following year, when we celebrated a party themed ‘The Beautiful and the Damned’. It was a party as all others, full of food, wine and all the rest that follows. But our invitation specified our required attendance in the tower room of Chateau Vert at the strike of midnight. Fear held me in its grip as I walked in procession along with the rest of the seven.

The door was closed behind us by our Grand Master Rabelais, who told us the time had come to be initiated into the highest level. I must admit I was struck by confusion, as we were already in the highest degree, which I thought was little more than taking part in secret meetings, exotic parties and the odd favour within an old boys’ network. But the initiation was into a different kind of activity. That of murder. The Supreme Master selected one of the members, who was told to undress, defile and eventually murder the woman that was brought forward, gagged and handcuffed. As we all wore masks, and by the time the initiation took place had had plenty to drink, I was never sure who it was. But the man complied and, to my surprise and horror, he appeared to enjoy it – but let’s not forget, fear does strange things to us humans. We all watched as the woman was brutally taken by force for what seemed like a long time.

Eventually the time came to end her life, but the man shied away. Our Grand Master reminded him of his duty to the society, and he was told he could use any tool he wanted of the array glistening in the candlelight on a table nearby. The man looked up, and I could only see his wild eyes through the black mask he wore. Then he strangled her. The girl choked over and over, rolling her eyes until the only motion that remained was the spastic twitching of her legs. The man with the leather mask, the Executioner, placed her head on a block, her body twisted sideways next to it. It took two strokes with an axe before her head was severed from her body. He took the head, walked around with it, her eyelids still half open, and then he placed it in what looked like a body bag and removed himself from the scene. The party dispersed quickly after, and I thought I saw a few of the members in the arms of other ladies downstairs. I longed for the same warmth only the softness of a woman can provide, and eventually found myself a dark-haired beauty to take my mind off what I had just witnessed.

The same ritual, involving a female human sacrifice, was re-enacted twice, sometimes three times, during the following years. Only during spring and summer at Chateau Vert. You probably ask yourself why I didn’t leave, but I was afraid, for my own life, for my reputation and, more importantly, for the wellbeing of those close to me. But to take precautions, I had hired a private investigator to find out more about the people behind the organisation, in particular the Supreme Master and the Executioner. I shall come to this later as my story is still far from over.

At one of the parties at the apartment I had the pleasure of meeting a girl by the name of Catherine. She was a beautiful southern girl, and after years of living alone, with the occasional female as my only company, I fell in love with her. Two weeks before our next event at Chateau Vert, I received a personal request to bring my lady friend by the name of Catherine da Luz. Along with the telegram was a box with a fine garment in the tradition of Marie Antoinette. Despite knowing what might happen, I gave her the dress and the invitation. My fear was apparently greater than my love.

We enjoyed ourselves like royalty, although I could sense a certain discomfort in Catherine. As previous times, I was asked to make my appearance in the tower room by midnight. I handed over a secret note including my name and personal password and was admitted in. To my great surprise, and relief, there was no woman nor Executioner amongst us. Rabelais stood silently behind the Supreme Master, this time in a red vestment with a bird’s mask – a similar one to the ones used during the time of the great bubonic plague. He announced to us that we had a traitor among us. “And a traitor’s death he shall suffer as he will live to see his four limbs quartered by that of horses.” My heart was beating with great fervour as I was certain they had discovered my transgression of hiring the private investigator and my ultimate disloyalty.

“Will the traitor come forward?” The Supreme Master called out in a hollow voice. No one did, and I bided my time.

“Very well then, bring the girl out,” he sighed, and from the shadows of a remote corner a girl was pushed forward to the centre of the circle. It was Catherine. I wanted to rush to her, embrace her, take her place with mine. But I couldn’t. On the brink of death, a gruesome and dishonourable one, I couldn’t act. And so I allowed events to unfold in a shocking manner that only a coward could be an accomplice to. Events that through my lack of intervention turned me into a traitor of the worst kind.

Catherine was ritually abused and taken by all men present with the exception of Rabelais and the Supreme Master. You must know by now that none was spared, including myself, and as my anger mounted, I took her over and over and over again until my seed washed away my rage only to be replaced by shame and humiliation. I had turned into something sub-human, I had lost any power and knowledge of the person I once was. Catherine was barely conscious when the Executioner put her head on the block and with one single stroke severed her head. I turned away when he lifted it, and with that I ousted myself out as the traitor they were truly seeking.

There were to be no more ritualistic murders as Rabelais died a few months later and a new Grand Master was elected. My actions with the private detective had made apparent that the possibility of a leak was far too dangerous, so the society regrouped under the new leadership.

I tried to make contact with the PI, but he was nowhere to be found. Under the circumstances, I presumed he had gotten too close to the fire and aborted his mission. Or was dead. It would take five years before there was any further word of him. By then I was a mere shadow member in the Seventh Degree, where little activity took place.

The letter was posted from South Africa and contained a brief account of the society. I include the main part of it in here:

The Hellfire Club, also called the Society by its members and the Organisation by the ones in absolute power, is a network dating at least back to early-18th-century England, thus even earlier than the first Masonic Lodges. Others believe it to have been instigated by François Rabelais himself around 1540. A third version circulates that it was founded at the time of the French Revolution in a backlash to the Reign of Terror. The foundation is probably to you of little importance, but from what can be ascertained, members have more often than not been highly influential in contemporary society. There are rumours that The Hellfire Club was instrumental in the organisation of the French resistance. Equally they seem to have infiltrated the French Foreign Legion’s operations in Africa, South America and French Indochina. Depending on the Grand Master and the era, the activities have gone from that of the benign to what might be constituted as criminal. Money laundering, illegal diamond export and much more disturbing recent discoveries: sex parties, orgies, prostitution, human trafficking and perverted acts of sex and violence, often filmed for small-scale distribution. In other words, what you might call snuff.

The murders you asked me to initially look into, of which there were eventually seven, although I believe there were many more, have been attributed to a character by the name of Mr. Mr. Nemo. This Mr. Mr. Nemo appears to be one of the organisation’s own henchmen, going under several different names including, among others, Albert Long, Robert Doyle, Francesco Puzzi and Luc Pierot. He has a chequered past to say the least, having served for the US Navy Seals before being discharged for unknown reasons. Thereafter he became a mercenary before joining the French Foreign Legion, where he served for five years before leaving in 1995, working on special missions in Yugoslavia and other war zones.

There are no positively identified photos of him, but the little information I can find to attest to his physical attributes is that he is naturally dark blonde, rather tall and well built without being overly muscular. An unconfirmed source mentioned he has a tattoo in the form of inscriptions of where he has served. Needless to say, I couldn’t find any birth records either, but doing the math, he should have been born around 1960, making him around 43 years old today.

Now, the most interesting part is that I have managed to come across one of the so-called snuff movies they produced. It’s about an hour long, showing multiple men raping a dark-haired woman in a setting that appears to be a dungeon or a castle keep of some sort. The woman is eventually beheaded with an axe by what I can only presume to be the man known as the Reaper. If you look closely at his right arm, you can see the bottom half of a tattoo, which appears to say 1990-1995 FFL, Bosnia. I have included a copy of the video here on an enclosed CD.

Lastly, it took me some time to find the full membership list. I cannot vouch for it entirely, but the only source I have confirmed it to be accurate. The organisation with its members appears to be structured as follows:

The Network – The umbrella organisation responsible for activities such as prostitution, child pornography, trafficking, snuff movies and other illegal activities. I can’t find anything at all on this beyond that it does exist and is linked with several of the largest criminal networks around the world.

| Supreme Master – unknown*

* Cannot find any reference at all to him beyond his alias.

The Organisation – Tightly linked to the Network through its high-power, influential members. By ensuring these members take part in various unethical acts and even crimes, the Organisation and thus the Network have them forever in their hands. This ensures any on-going investigations are halted, any potential witnesses drop out, incriminating evidence disappears and so on. The Organisation also works on the principle the members make each other wealthy, from the first inheritance to beneficial deals that can be arranged at will. Thus there is a lot of money and power vested in here. The most senior members are extremely powerful and very serious people. They will stop at nothing to get what they want.

The Organisation is run by a Grand Master, always going by the name of François Rabelais. The previous Grand Master was Nicolas Bousquet, scion of an old banking dynasty. He was born in 1919, and had been a member since 1960. The date he was elected Grand Master is not clear, but he served until his death in November 1998. Thereafter he was succeeded by a David Ferro, the President of the European Central Bank.

The other seven members include:

1992 – present, Philippe Codorniou – Hedge-Fund Director at Brimstone Capital

1995 – present, Laurant Gaume – European Commissioner

1982 – present, Pascal Mapanas – Heir to the luxury-goods empire Helvetica

1977 – present, Eric Christol – Self-made billionaire running various ventures

1989 – present, Frederic Berthelot – Former Head of the Parisian Police, now Head of the Police Nationale

1995 – present, Jean-Marie Rabois – Neurosurgeon

2002 – present, Julienne Maillart, née Avaro* – Real-estate tycoon

* Widow of Lionel Maillart, who served as a member between 1972 and 2002”

The letter concluded that, as the transaction had been fully received, the assignment was to be considered concluded. There would be no further contact from my PI.

Within days after having received the letter I started to get calls. I thought they were prank calls at first, but then I received a note with the foreboding warning “Death to a traitor”. I’ve survived two near accidents that I am convinced have been attempts on my life. It’s only a matter of time until they succeed. Until then, I have made my preparations to secure the knowledge I have through people that one day will be able to expose it and those responsible for crimes that are still being perpetrated to this day. I will leave my life with the knowledge that I have ultimately done the right thing. I can only hope that God will have mercy on my soul.

Paris, July 14, 2003

Jean-Marie Rabois

Madame Douleur puts the letter down on the table. There is a short silence before I decide to shatter it.

“I don’t know what to say,” I start.

“No, neither do I. The strangest thing is that he got me involved even though he knew of their evil doings.”

“Perhaps he felt you would be able to expose them – in time.”

“Perhaps. But still…they are extremely dangerous and will ensure no one gets in the way of them and their activities.”

“What were you planning to do with this information?” I ask.

“Nothing, of course. Not until you showed up. Now is another matter, though.” She finishes her glass and calls to Marat for a refill. “This is my pension, of course, and what makes me an untouchable. I know too much. Needless to say there are several copies of this document, guarding my life.”

“If I were you I would be careful.”

“So should you my dear,” she retorts. “And on that note, I think we are done here. I have said enough and I trust my name will be kept out of whatever you decide to publish.”

“Of course, you have my word.”

“I know I do dear. The information you are now in possession of is very dangerous, so use it wisely. Now if you’ll excuse me, you have got to leave. I have a client in fifteen minutes.” She stands up and I gather my bag and walk through the hallway to the door. I am just about to leave when I give a bewildered peak into my bag, feigning the loss of my wallet.

“I think I left it on the table when I handed you my card,” I offer.

“OK, but please be quick.”

I walk back and, to my surprise, the letter and the CD are still there. I scoop them up as fast as I can with my back obscuring the view.

“Yes, I found it,” I say, holding my wallet triumphantly in my hand.

“You have my word that what has been said here remains between us two.”

“I know it will. Remember I already know a great deal about you too.” She draws her lips in what is supposed to be a smile, although it only underscores an expression of bitterness.

She stretches out her hand in a courteous adieu. “Goodbye, I don’t think we will be seeing each other again.”

“No, I don’t think we will.”

The operator, a middle age woman by the name of Madeleine Royale, sends a dispatch over to

He calls Rabelais to tell him a dispatch has been sent to the address of the apartment. Rabelais informs him things are already being taken care of, but that he will call him later to confirm. What he doesn’t know about is Cyril’s warning concerning the welfare of Justine. But as Mademoiselle Royal is new to the job, she has simply forgotten to pass this piece of information through.

—

Mr. Nemo removes the gas source. He inserts a little camera underneath the door to see if all is clear. The Seneschal lays on the floor amidst his own vomit with froth emitting from his mouth. There is no sign of life. He takes out a measurement devise to detect cyanide levels, which are now rapidly dropping, still he will use a gasmask when he enters. The lock is not difficult to pick. It is an old cylinder lock that has for years been replaced with more heavy dead bolts at other residences. For some reason the Seneschal had never deemed personal security a top priority. He wonders if the benefit of hindsight would have changed this.

It takes only two minutes. The day is young; it’s just a little past noon. He hasn’t slept much, in fact not at all, but sleep is something he can do without. The Foreign Legion had trained him to go for three days without sleep whilst marching rugged and often immensely hot terrains.

He closes the door behind him, and checks for breath or a pulse. The man is as dead as can be, so he steps over him and secures the apartment. One room after the other. No one is there, which makes his work a little bit easier. He doesn’t wish to make a mess in the apartment, as there will be no crime to report when the authorities are eventually alerted. Instead, it will be called a disappearance, one which would probably never see a resolution.

Mr. Nemo has done searches in under two minutes. But here he will need at least ten times that time if he is not to leave any signs of disturbance. But he has time. That is something he is sure of.

Fortunately, it isn’t a large place, so he starts off with the living room. It is a cluttered room, mostly from books piled high in crooked formations. Most of it hasn’t seen a cleaning for weeks, maybe months. He scans the area in front of him, avoiding the dust-covered heaps of books. At least for now, unless nothing turns up.

The living quarters are made up of a threadbare silk chaise longue, an antique coffee table, two antique chairs and a Chesterfield. He turns over the cushions and checks for anything inserted in their filling, but they turn up empty. He checks under carpets, in cabinets, behind curtains and paintings of minor masters. Nothing. He is meticulous in his search and it is already approaching one o’clock when he is done with the first room.

He continues to the bedroom and the adjourning bathroom with similar results. The search is precise and fastidious yet reveals nothing. So he sits down on the bed that stands in stark contrast with the rest of the furniture. Cyril Monfort, he thinks to himself, You are a writer, a bibliophile, whose most precious possessions are your books. It’s the one thing you will protect at all costs, and it’s the one thing you will think of at all times. Would you sacrifice them for the sake of something even more precious?

He turns his attention to the library, and the thousands of volumes that sit on its shelves. It will take time, but he is certain it will yield results. He first scans the place, and with the exception of a few books, all is covered in dust. He pulls out the books that aren’t as well as those sitting immediately next to them. He flips through them, but to no avail.

No, it can’ be here, he thinks. Then he thinks of the piles of books, all covered with dust. Is it that simple? He recalls the mystery of Rennes-le-Chateau. Saunière, the parish priest, was said to have found the first parchments in a Visigoth pillar holding up the altar in his parish church. Pillars, yes pillars, that must be it. He scans every room and finds over thirty piles of books. So he sets to work, one by one, lifting carefully the first book so as not to disturb the built-up residue of dust. Underneath sit fresh books, any one could be the harbour of treasures.

Eventually he comes to the last pile, sitting in a corner of the living room. The middle book is an old hardcover with yellowing pages: Jamaica Inn by Daphne du Maurier. He turns the book upside down, so the pages face the floor, and waves them. A letter falls out. He recognises the handwriting as that of the Hedge-Fund Man and places it in his back pocket before he continues the search.

The last book – the last book of all the book piles – is a heavy old late 17^th century bible. Its leather cover is cracking, exposing the brown-stained cellulose underneath. He opens the cover and several pages of gothic print follow with it. This exposes the insides of the book, which are now gone and replaced by a cut-out cavity. He immediately recognises the box inside – a wooden box he had bought from a gypsy street vendor for five euros. He had haggled with her, eventually knocking the price down from twelve to five. The woman, who had the most intense grey eyes, had told him he would find good use for it. When he turned around, ready to cross the street, he thought he heard her say, “That was the Devil who just paid us a visit.” He stopped for a moment and turned back, but the woman, her daughter and her belongings were already gone.

Now he looks down at the same box. He opens it and untangles its contents. He remembers every single one of their owners. He relives their last moments, quick flashing moments, a white neck, a single stroke with the axe, squirts of blood in rapid succession, a head that rolls to the side.

He is done here. He has what he came for. The only other things he needs to take with him are the computer and a battered brown briefcase containing the Seneschal’s agenda and notebook. And then there is the body. Rigor mortis will start to set in within the next hour. He goes downstairs and collects a large box and a crate carrier on wheels.

The body has to be bent, but needs no further work to fit it in its temporary confinement. He seals the box with duct tape, and before he leaves makes a last survey of the apartment. It all looks like the way it did when he came. He closes the door and takes the lift down with his cargo in tow. An old woman holds open the door as he wheels the earthly remains of Cyril Monfort out to his van. He thanks her. If the woman should ever be asked whom she had met, she would say it was a deliveryman. And he was most polite.

It is already close to three o’clock. He makes a quick call to the Supreme Master, notifying him of the latest events.

“I am now on my way to dispatch of the goods,” he assures him.

The Supreme Master has his own news. “There have been some developments. They are not good.”

“I’m listening.”

“The police have been sent to the crypt. Perhaps the Seneschal warned them after all.”

“Is it certain?”

“We are looking into it. But for now stay away. I have other men on the case.”

“Certainly. What about Douleur?”

“She has top priority.”

“Understood.”

He listens until the phone line goes dead. Then he turns his attention to 9 Rue Chaptal.