“And you plan to retire from public life?” Lenel asked.

“Not entirely, but I’ve always liked the idea of more tranquillity and nature, and waking up to imposing mountains.”

“When he leaves, follow Franco,” Lenel ordered one of his chosen men. “Find out where he’s building his house in New Zealand. La Perouse is a clue. I want the GPS coordinates. He must not disappear.”

He turned to another loyalist. “Find out what old Genaro is up to,” he said, glancing toward the man who had once humiliated him and dared to call him bambino.

“Congratulations, Lenel. We’ll see you soon in Amsterdam,” said the leader of Holland.

“Thank you. Everything will be better from now on,” Lenel replied, and thought, Not for you.

Everything would indeed be better, for him, not for them. He needed them to believe he was divine. He knew Franco hadn’t believed the trick of his altered voice, but doubt was enough. After all, weren’t they all mystical and superstitious? Didn’t they believe in the primacy of consciousness over existence? Didn’t they believe in the primacy of narrative and propaganda over material reality? Didn’t they believe that actions could occur without entities to act? Didn’t they trust in supernatural forces? If so, how could they deny that he was Baal’s chosen channel? He couldn’t prove it, but they couldn’t disprove it either. Like the concept of God, he had mastered the trick of arbitrariness, and would use it to his advantage.

“Independent journalists and the information spreading online are not helping us. We must suppress it,” said the hierarch of England.

“The Temple will remain sacred ground,” Alexandre said.

“There was no need to be so blunt, but it’s true, the Temple will always be The Temple.”

“Do you have doubts?”

“Oh no, none!” said the hierarch.

“Who am I?” Lenel asked?

“You are the Temple, and from there you speak.”

“Can you see beyond appearances and prostrate yourself at my feet?” Lenel asked, staring into his eyes.

“Oh yes! You are the Imperial Master now. I prostrate myself at your feet!”

“What is my name?”

“Baal,” said the hierarch of England, bowing. Then he stepped back, thinking, He has no idea where he stands.