The League of Night and Fog

by David Morrell

  “My father’s handwriting,” Erika said.

  “You’re the expert in Hebrew.”

  “They’re quotations. From Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, I think. The first group says, ‘The horror, the horror.’”

  “And the second group?”

  She hesitated.

  “What’s the matter?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “You’re having trouble translating?”

  “No, I can translate.”

  “Then?”

  “They’re from Heart of Darkness as well… . ‘Exterminate the brutes.’”

  5

  An hour of searching brought them back to the confusion with which they’d started. In that shadowy room, Saul finally couldn’t bear it any longer. He had to get away.

  Erika closed a box of documents. “How could my father have come back repeatedly to pin those photographs to the wall and go through these records? The persistent exposure must have affected him.”

  “There’s still no proof he committed suicide.”

  “There’s no proof he didn’t, either,” Erika responded grimly.

  They extinguished the lamp and started up the stairs. In the darkness, Saul suddenly remembered something. He gripped Erika’s shoulder.

  “There’s one place we didn’t look.” He guided her back down the stairs, scanning the flashlight along the floor.

  “What are you … ?”

  “Misha wouldn’t tell us what we’d find down here. He didn’t want us to have preconceptions. But inadvertently he did tell us something about this room. During the war, the doctor hid his sickest Jewish patients down here. And also hid their files.”

  “He said that, yes. But how does … ?” Erika’s voice dropped. “Oh.”

  “Yes, ‘oh.’ The doctor hid the files beneath the floor, Misha said. There must be a trapdoor.”

  Saul scanned the flashlight across the floor. In a corner, behind a stack of boxes, he found a layer of dust that seemed contrived. He felt a niche where fingers could grab and lifted a small section of concrete.

  A narrow compartment. The stark gleam from the flashlight revealed a dusty notebook.

  Saul flipped it open. Though the words were written in Hebrew, Saul couldn’t fail to recognize a list.

  Of names.

  Ten of them.

  All Jewish.

  6

  The rain persisted. Christopher slept on the sofa. Beside him, Misha stared toward the open bedroom door.

  Saul stepped through, gesturing angrily with the notebook.

  “So you found it,” Misha said.

  Erika entered, even more angry. “We almost didn’t. That makes me wonder if you meant for us to find it.”

  “I wasn’t sure.”

  “Whether you wanted us to find it, or whether we would?”

  “Does it matter? You did.”

  “For the first time, I’m beginning not to trust you,” she said.

  “If you hadn’t found it and you’d still insisted on wanting to hunt for your father, I’d have resisted,” Misha said.

  Christopher squirmed in his sleep.

  “Think about it,” Misha said. “From my point of view. How do I know how soft you got in the desert?”

  “You should try it some time,” Erika said.

  “I’m allergic to sand.”

  “And to telling the truth?”

  “I didn’t lie. I merely tested you.”

  “Friends don’t need to test each other.”

  “Professionals do. If you don’t understand, you did get soft in the desert.”

  “Fine. So now we’ve found it.” Saul’s grip tightened around the notebook. “Tell us the rest. What does the list of names mean?”

  “They’re not the names of the Jewish patients the doctor hid in the war,” Erika said. “This notebook’s dusty, yes, but the paper’s new. My father’s name is included. The handwriting isn’t his.”

  “Correct. The notebook belongs to me.”

  “What do the names on the list have to do with what happened to my father?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I don’t believe that. You wouldn’t have made the list if there isn’t a connection among them.”

  “Did I say there isn’t a connection? We know their backgrounds, their addresses, their habits, their former occupations.”

  “Former?”

  “These men are all ex-Mossad, all retired. But you asked how they related to what happened to your father, and that puzzle I haven’t been able to solve yet.”

  “They claim they don’t know my father? They won’t answer your questions? What’s the problem?”

  “I haven’t been able to ask them anything.”

  “You’re doing it again. Evading,” Erika said.

  “I’m not. These men share two other factors. They survived the Nazi death camps …”

  “And?”

  “They’ve all disappeared.”

  CHURCH MILITANT

  1

  Despite the worsening heat of the desert, excitement overcame exhaustion, making Drew and Arlene stumble quickly toward the tire tracks in the sand at the far end of the pass.

  After their encounter with the two Arab assassins, they’d taken the small canvas sheet from Arlene’s knapsack and anchored it across a space between two rocks where, protected from the sun, they’d sipped water sparingly, then eaten some of the dates and figs the killers had carried with them. But the killers hadn’t brought enough food to sustain them long out here.

  “What about their water supply?” Drew had wondered. “We searched the slopes from where they shot at us.” He held up two canteens and shook them. Water sloshed hollowly. “Not enough here for them to walk any distance. So how did they hope to get back?”

  With a sudden thrill of understanding, they got to their feet, ignoring the hammer force of the sun. Reaching the end of the pass, they veered to the right, followed the indentations in the sand, and came to a clump of boulders behind which a jeep had been hidden.

  “Outsiders, for sure,” Drew said. “No local villager has a jeep, let alone a new one. It even has air-conditioning. Those killers were used to traveling first-class.”

  The jeep had a metal top. The angle of the sun cast a shadow over the driver’s side. Arlene welcomed the slight relief from the scorching blaze as she peered through the open driver’s window. “Small problem.”

  “What?” he asked.

  “No ignition key.”

  “But we searched both bodies and didn’t find it on them.”

  “So logically they must have left it in the jeep.”

  But fifteen minutes later, they still hadn’t found the key.

  “In that case …” Drew climbed inside.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Waiting.”

  “For what?”

  “You to hot-wire the ignition.”

  She laughed and leaned beneath the dashboard.

  But after she started the engine, as they jolted across the bumpy desert, he lapsed into sober silence. He had many questions. Though he didn’t want to, he had to talk to the priest.

  2

  Cairo. The next afternoon. Sitting on the bed in the Western-style hotel room, Arlene listened to the spray of water from the bathroom as Drew took a shower. But her attention was focused on the telephone.

  She didn’t know what to do. When the priest had contacted her in New York, directing her to go after Drew, he’d given her a Cairo telephone number. “Call me as soon as you bring him out of the desert.” At the time, she’d been so grateful to be told where Drew was, to have the chance to be with him again, that she’d readily agreed to the priest’s condition. But now that she and Drew were together, she hesitated. Whatever the Fraternity wanted from Drew, it would surely not be a dispensation. No, by definition, a summons from the Fraternity meant trouble. She’d lost Drew once when he entered the monastery. She’d lost him again when he fled to the desert.
She didn’t intend to lose him a third time.

  But what if the Fraternity’s punishment for disobedience was … ?

  To kill Drew, whom they’d spared till now, and instead of killing her as well, leave her to grieve for the rest of her life.

  She decided to make the call. But her hand felt so heavy she couldn’t raise it toward the phone on the bedside table.

  In the bathroom, the water stopped flowing. The door came open, and Drew stepped out, naked, drying himself with a large plush towel. She had to smile. After his six years in the monastery, after his monk’s vow of celibacy, he had sexual inhibitions, true. But modesty? He was more comfortable with his body, naked or clothed, than any man she’d ever met.

  He grinned as he toweled himself. “Once a year, whether I need it or not.”

  She touched her still damp hair. “I know. I feel like I lost a ton of sand.”

  Drew had used her Egyptian money to buy shampoo, scissors, shaving soap, and a razor. His beard was gone now. He’d trimmed his hair. Tucked back behind his ears, it made his gaunt cheeks look even thinner. But the effect was attractive.

  He set down the towel. “I’ve had a lot of time … too much … to think,” he said.

  “About … ?”

  “Some laws are God-made, others are human-made.”

  She laughed. “What are you talking about?”

  “My vow of chastity. If Adam and Eve weren’t allowed to have sex, God wouldn’t have made them man and woman.”

  “Is this your way of telling me sex is natural? I knew that already.”

  “But as you’ve probably noticed, I’ve been confused.”

  “Oh, that I’ve definitely noticed.”

  “So I’ve decided …”

  “Yes?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind …”

  “Yes?”

  “Choosing nature over artificial laws …”

  “Yes?”

  “I’d enjoy making love to you.”

  “Drew …”

  It was his turn now to ask, “Yes?”

  “Come over here.”

  3

  In the late afternoon, with the draperies closed and the room in cool shadows, they held each other on the bed after making love. Naked, relaxed, enjoying the touch of each other’s skin, neither spoke for quite a while. But preoccupations intruded.

  “The priest,” Drew said.

  “I know. I wish we didn’t have to.”

  “But the problem won’t go away.”

  Brooding, he reached for his clothes.

  “There’s something I’m curious about,” Arlene said.

  He stopped buttoning his shirt. “Curious?”

  “Before, when you had to leave the monastery, you couldn’t stop asking questions. About how the culture had changed in the six years you’d been away and who was president and what had happened in the world. But this time, after a year in the desert, you haven’t asked me anything.”

  His cheek muscles rippled. “Yes. Because the last time, I didn’t like what I learned.”

  “Then why call the priest? Why don’t we disappear? Retreat. Together.”

  “Because I no longer believe I can retreat. I want this settled. So I don’t have to worry about the Fraternity. Or anyone else interfering with us. Ever again.”

  4

  Cairo was heat, noise, crowds, and traffic jams. Automobile exhaust fought to destroy the fragrance of Arabian food and spices sold at bazaars. The complex directions they’d been given over the telephone led Drew and Arlene through a maze of narrow streets. They reached a door to a restaurant whose Egyptian sign Drew translated as “The Needle’s Eye.” He glanced both ways along the lane, seeing no sudden reaction from anyone, no interruption of the natural rhythm of the crowd. Of course, the absence of unusual activity didn’t prove they weren’t being followed; a professional tail wasn’t likely to give himself away so easily. On the other hand, at least they hadn’t proved they were being followed, and for the moment, that consolation would have to do.

  They entered the restaurant’s murky interior. Drew’s first impression, apart from shadows, was one of smell. Pungent tobacco smoke. Strong coffee aroma. Next came touch—the gritty feel of the stone floor beneath his shoes. In a moment, his eyes adjusted to the layout of the restaurant—wooden tables and chairs, no tablecloths, but several ornate Arabian rugs on the walls, except in back, where behind a counter colorful bottles and polished brass containers were stacked on shelves below a mirror. Here and there along the walls, intricately carved wooden partitions surrounded the tables. Apart from a white-aproned waiter behind the counter and two men dressed in dark suits and red fezzes sitting at the far-left corner table, the place was deserted.

  Drew and Arlene chose a table on the right. The table was equidistant between the entrance and what Drew assumed would be a rear exit through the kitchen behind the counter. They sat with their backs to the wall.

  “What time did he say he’d meet us?” Drew asked.

  “He didn’t exactly. All he said was, he’d be here before sundown.”

  Drew tapped his fingers on the table. “You want some coffee?”

  “Egyptian coffee? That stuff’s so strong I might as well put a gun to my head and blow my brains out that way.”

  Drew started to laugh but stopped when he heard a chair scrape behind a wooden partition to his left. A man in a white suit appeared from behind the partition and paused at the table.

  The man was solidly built, olive-complexioned, with a thick dark mustache that emphasized his smile. The smile was one of amusement as much as friendliness. “Ms. Hardesty, I spoke to you earlier on the phone.”

  “You’re not the priest who came to me in New York,” Arlene said.

  Drew braced himself to stand.

  “No,” the man said agreeably. “You’re right, I’m not. The priest you spoke to—Father Victor—was called away on an urgent assignment.” The man continued to smile. “My name is Father Sebastian. I hope the shift in personnel is acceptable. But of course, you’ll want credentials.”

  The man held out his left hand, palm down, revealing a ring on his middle finger.

  The ring had a large perfect ruby that glinted even in shadow. Its band and setting were thick gleaming gold. On the tip of the ruby, an insignia showed an intersecting sword and cross. Religion and violence. The symbol of the Fraternity of the Stone. Drew shuddered.

  “I see you’re familiar with it.” Father Sebastian kept smiling.

  “Anybody can wear a ring.”

  “Not this ring.”

  “Perhaps,” Drew said. “May the Lord be with you.”

  Father Sebastian’s smile faded. “Ah.”

  “That’s right.” Drew’s tone became gruff. “The code. Go on and finish it. The Fraternity’s greeting. ‘May the Lord be with you.’”

  “And with your spirit.”

  “The rest of it?”

  “Deo gratias. Are you satisfied?”

  “Just getting started. Dominus vobiscum.”

  “Et cum spiritu tuo.”

  “Hoc est enim …”

  “Corpus meum.”

  “Pater Noster …”

  “Qui est in coeli.”

  Arlene interrupted, “What are you two talking about?”

  “We’re exchanging the responses of a traditional mass,” Drew said. “The Fraternity’s conservative. In the mid-sixties, it never shifted Catholic ritual from Latin into the vernacular. And you”—Drew studied the swarthy, Egyptian-looking man with the ring who’d said his name was Father Sebastian—“are younger than I am. Thirty? Unless you belonged to the Fraternity, you wouldn’t have seen a real mass in so long you couldn’t remember the Latin responses. Who founded the Fraternity?”

  “Father Jerome.”

  “When?”

  “The Third Crusade. Eleven ninety-two.”

  “His real name?”

  “Hassan ibn al-Sabbah. Coincidentally the same name as the Arab origi
nator of terrorism a hundred years earlier. Though a monk, Father Jerome was recruited as an assassin by the crusaders because he was an Arab and hence could mix freely with the heathen. But in contrast with Arab terror, Father Jerome’s was holy terror. And since that time, we’ve”—Father Sebastian shrugged—“done whatever was necessary to protect the Church. Now are you satisfied?”

  Drew nodded.

  The priest sat at the table. “And your credentials?”

  “You had plenty of chance to study me through that partition. You must have a photograph.”

  “Plastic surgery can work wonders.”

  “Your ring has a poison capsule inside. Your monastery is on the western coast of France, across from England, in the territory contested by France and England during the Third Crusade. Only someone who’d been approached, to be recruited, by the Fraternity would know these things.”

  “True. Approached. And now we approach you again.”

  Drew felt suddenly tired. It was all coming back. There was no escape. His voice shook. “What do you want? If you knew where I was hiding, why did you force me to spend a year … ?”

  “In a cave in the desert? You had to do penance for your sins. For your soul. To purify you. We kept you in reserve. You refused to join us, but we found a way to encourage you to help us if we needed it.”

  “Help?”

  “Find.”

  “What?”

  “A priest.”

  The room exploded.

  5

  The concussion struck Drew a millisecond before he heard the actual sound of the blast. The room became bright, then smotheringly dark as he flew back against the wall. The back of his head struck stone. He rebounded toward the table. It collapsed from his weight and the force of the explosion. The impact of his chest against the floor took his breath away. As he squirmed in pain, the room burst into flames.

  The counter, now obliterated, must have been where the bomb had been hidden. The waiter behind it and the two men near it never screamed, presumably torn apart by the detonation. But this understanding came much later.