The Devil Will Come

FIVE

JANKO MULEJ HABITUALLY cracked his knuckles when he became impatient. The gesture wasn’t lost on Krek.

‘What’s the matter?’ Krek demanded.

Mulej was in his forties, a decade younger than his host, ugly as the back of a bus, as Krek liked to say, even to Mulej’s face. He was almost twice Krek’s size, a giant of a man who would have had to go around in tracksuits were it not for his excellent tailor in Ljubljana. ‘Perhaps we should pack it in for the night.’

The great room at Castle Krek never got warm even in the height of summer and on this spring night Krek had deemed a fire to be in order. He liked his flames to leap high and throughout the evening he liberally piled on fresh logs to keep the massive fireplace roaring hotly.

The medieval manor had been in his family for four hundred years though it was nominally out of Krek hands during the unpleasant decades of Communist rule. Nestled in several hundred hectares of Slovenian woodlands, a few kilometers from Lake Bled, its original squared-off keep dated from the thirteenth century. The deep moat was stocked with carp and from outward appearances the ragged stonework of the castle suggested a certain shabbiness and disrepair.

That impression was obliterated upon entry. Krek’s father had been a reclusive man who had rarely left the grounds. Throughout his life he lavished greater attention on his basement-to-parapet renovation of the castle than on his son. Ivo Krek had concentrated on the guts of the house, the masonry, the plumbing, furnace, wiring. His son shared his father’s devotion to the castle but turned his keen eye toward furnishings and trappings of modernity. The reception rooms with their Romanesque arches were lavishly appointed with period antiques but Krek blended in contemporary overstuffed pieces to make the rooms inhabitable. Flat-panel televisions coexisted with medieval walnut carvings. A sixteenth-century cabinet with painted hunting scenes contained a €400,000 Danish audio system. The state-of-the-art chef’s kitchen could have sprung from the pages of a decorating magazine.

He chose to receive Mulej and others in the great room. Its magnificent scale dwarfed men, even one of Mulej’s size, and Krek liked his people to feel small in his presence.

Krek glanced at the grandfather clock. It was ten o’clock. ‘I’ve been up since four and you’re the one who’s tired?’ he asked Mulej, his voice rising. ‘Don’t you know what’s at stake here? Don’t you realize how little time we have?’

Mulej shifted his considerable weight on the armless leather sofa. He was seated uncomfortably close to the fire and was sweating profusely but he would never move from the spot because this was where Krek had placed him. The table between them was piled high with corporate folios, financial reports and a selection of newspapers.

‘Of course I do, K,’ Mulej said, wiping his damp forehead with his soaked handkerchief. ‘I’m sorry. We’ll go on as long as you like.’

Krek threw a log down hard onto the pile, making the fire spark wildly. An ember landed on his trousers. He swore and when he flicked it off he continued swearing at Mulej. The man’s apology was having little effect. ‘The Conclave is in less than a week, there’s going to be a new Pope and now we’ve got this problem at St Callixtus! We have an enormous amount of work to do! You’ll sleep when I tell you to sleep, you’ll eat when I tell you to eat! Do you understand?’

To the outside world Mulej was Krek’s Cerberus, the menacing beast guarding the gates of hell, the managing director of his conglomerate. But when his boss raged at him the hellhound became a small, frightened mutt.

Krek looked upwards as if he could see through the ceilings to the constellations of the night sky. ‘Why the hell did Bruno Ottinger have to die? I miss the old goat. I trusted him.’

‘You can trust me too,’ Mulej said meekly.

‘Yes, I suppose I can trust you,’ Krek said, calming down. ‘But you’re rather stupid. Ottinger was a genius, almost my equal.’

Mulej quickly picked up the copy of the daily newspaper, Delo, and dropped it back on the stack, as if anxious to change the subject. ‘So what do you want me to do about this?’

The editorial-and-opinions page sported a good-sized photo of Krek, a flattering if somewhat brooding treatment, emerging dramatically from blackness with the headline: DAMJAN KREK – WHY WON’T HE RUN FOR PRESIDENT? A political commentator they knew well, a gadfly of the right, was stirring the pot again.

‘We should ignore it,’ Krek sighed. ‘Why won’t this guy leave me alone?’

Mulej answered his question with another. ‘How many billionaires are there in Slovenia?’

‘The disadvantage of being a large fish in a small lake,’ Krek said. ‘We do best when we work in the shadows. Politicians!’ He spat the word out.

‘We’ve had our share,’ Mulej said.

Krek’s voice was full of contempt. ‘Moths to the flame.’

The phone on the internal line from the gatehouse rang. Krek answered it. ‘I’d forgotten,’ he said. ‘Send her up.’

‘Do you want me to stay?’ Mulej asked.

‘I’ll be no more than an hour,’ Krek said. ‘Yes, stay! Don’t you dare leave. When I get back I want to see a proposal of the trades we’re going to set up between now and next week.’

‘I know what to do, K,’ Mulej said wearily.

‘And I want you to make sure the statement is checked by one of our Arabic speakers. It has to appear authentic.’

‘It’s being done.’

‘And draw up a press release expressing the company’s outrage on behalf of myself and, of course, our Catholic employees. Got it?’

‘Got it.’

‘And, most importantly, I want a plan for dealing with the catacombs. I can’t believe this happened at the worst possible moment. I want our people in Italy to know this is my highest priority. I want the best information, the best plan and the best execution.’ He had been gradually creeping closer to Mulej and now he stood over him. He stabbed a finger into his shoulder. ‘Got it?’

The big man nodded obediently. ‘Yes, K.’

The doorbell chimed and Krek responded personally.

One of his security men was escorting a young woman. Krek welcomed her into the hall with a smile. ‘What’s your name?’

‘My name is Aleida, Mister Krek.’ She had a Dutch accent.

‘My friends call me K,’ he said. ‘I was told you were lovely. I’m not disappointed.’

‘It’s an honor to meet you. Surely one of the great events of my life.’ Aleida was a brunette with a film-star face. Her cheeks were flushed with the excitement of the moment.

‘Come with me,’ Krek said. ‘My time is limited.’

‘Of course, Mister Krek – K – a man like you has many responsibilities, I’m sure.’

He led her up an ornately carved staircase past a succession of bygone Kreks frozen in portraiture. ‘You have no idea.’

Both sides of the hallway were lined with stag antlers, a dangerous gauntlet to run if one stumbled through in a drunken stupor. The residential areas of the castle were also uncontaminated by any traces of femininity. Krek’s wife had died of a swiftly moving neurological condition years earlier and what frills of hers he had tolerated were purged when she was gone. His estate was feral, populated with wild boar and roe deer. It was a hunting castle. A man’s house.

Krek’s bedroom was large but austere. A planked floor with a few small rugs. A huge spiral-carved oak post in the center of the room supporting enormous beams. A medieval chest against a wall. A tapestry. A large bed with a half-canopy covered in striped damask.

Krek sat at the foot of the bed and removed his necktie.

‘I was told you’re altered,’ he said.

Aleida lowered her eyes and whispered something by way of apology.

‘I don’t ordinarily accept altered women but I was advised I should make an exception.’

‘My parents sent me to a boarding school where the girls showered together,’ she said softly. ‘I didn’t want to lose it but they sent me for the operation.’

‘It’s a common story. I wish these things didn’t happen but I accept that they do. Show me.’

Obediently, Aleida began to remove her clothes. First her coat, then her high-heeled shoes, her blouse, her tight skirt. There was no furniture nearby. She let the items drop to the floor.

Krek told her to stop to allow him to feast his eyes on the way she looked in her lingerie. He didn’t want her to turn around, not for the moment. ‘Keep going,’ he finally said.

Aleida unclipped her black stockings from their garters and peeled them off, then deftly shed her bra and slowly pulled down her black thong. She was shaved and smooth.

‘Very nice,’ Krek said, leaning back on one arm. ‘Now turn around.’

She did. There it was: a pale thin midline scar over her sacral spine running about six centimeters.

‘Come closer.’

He inspected the scar and traced it with his finger. ‘Who did it?’

‘Dr Zweens,’ she said. ‘In Utrecht.’

‘I know him. He does good work. So, Aleida, you’re quite beautiful. I see no problems here.’

He turned her by the hips to face him. She looked down at him gratefully.

Krek stood, undid his belt and let his trousers fall to the floor. She finished the job and pulled down his shorts.

He guided her hands around his waist. Aleida did the rest, moving them slowly and sensually to his lower back where she grabbed hold of the thick shaft at the base of his spine. She ran her fingers down its length. It was as meaty as his cock and every bit as hard.

‘Pull it,’ Krek moaned. ‘Pull it hard.’