The League of Night and Fog

by David Morrell

  His mouth soured. “Yeah, those guys are geniuses, all right.”

  “But Gatto didn’t tell them about us,” Arlene said. “Otherwise they’d have tried to take us out before they moved against Medici.”

  Again Drew nodded. “I hope the Lord did look with mercy upon you, Gatto. In the end, you did damned fine.”

  “The blonde and the redhead,” Arlene said. “What did they want with Medici?”

  “Maybe their motive was the same as ours.”

  “To find the cardinal?”

  “I wish to God I knew. Are those two guys moving parallel to us? Or are they behind us?”

  “Drew, they’re just skilled enough, they might be ahead of us.”

  BOOK FOUR

  COLLISION COURSE

  GRAVE IMAGES

  1

  Mexico City. Using the phone in the backseat of his Mercedes sedan, Aaron Rosenberg called ahead to warn his bodyguards to double-check for suspicious strangers outside his home. Nothing had happened to persuade him an attack was imminent, but now that he and Halloway had decided to honor their business commitment, he’d become increasingly uneasy. The abduction of his father had filled him with foreboding. His wife’s affair with her bodyguard had further destroyed his peace of mind. Now, in spite of Halloway’s assurances that Seth and Icicle would root out the source of the Night and Fog, no reports of success had arrived. Yet Halloway’s prediction of their success had been the major reason Rosenberg had agreed to the danger of going ahead with delivery of the Devil’s merchandise. If the Night and Fog learned about the shipment, or if the Devil learned that the Night and Fog might be able to expose the nature of the shipment and who had ordered it, we’d face two enemies, Rosenberg thought. And both would attack, for different reasons.

  The Mercedes was trapped in a line of stalled traffic. At the head of the line, steam gushed from beneath the hood of an open truck filled with crates of chickens. Bystanders gesticulated around it. What the hell am I doing in this country? Rosenberg thought. For a nostalgic instant, he had a vision of mountains, streams, and forests. He jerked his head toward the bodyguard on his left, then with equal abruptness toward the bodyguard next to the driver. Madness, he thought. Before he realized what he was doing, he slid open the hatch on the bar built into the seat ahead of him, took out a bottle of tequila, filled a tumbler, and swallowed its oily contents in one gulp. As it jolted into his stomach, the Mercedes moved ahead, the stalled truck having been pushed to the side of the street.

  But the air-conditioning in the Mercedes had been strained. Tepid, recycled air drifted over him. Combined with the tequila in his stomach, it made him want to gag. He raised his fist to his mouth as if to stifle a cough and kept his dignity, anxious to reach the sanctuary of his home.

  Perhaps Maria would be in the mood to do more “driving,” he fantasized. Anything to distract him from his troubles. She owed it to him, he concluded. Didn’t he heap upon her the bounty of his labor? Hadn’t he held off confronting her about her infidelity?

  His driver managed to turn onto the spacious Paseo de la Reforma, gaining speed along the avenue, reaching the Spanish mansion squeezed between high-rise apartment buildings. Rosenberg’s bodyguards scrambled from the Mercedes, assessing potential dangers.

  Nonexistent ones apparently. One of the bodyguards nodded to Rosenberg. The mansion’s security force stepped from the entrance. Rosenberg darted from the car, up the stone steps, and into the vestibule of his home, where he slumped against a wall. Admittedly his arrival hadn’t been dignified, but death wasn’t dignified either, no matter what form it took. His security force might joke among themselves about his fear, but he paid them well, and they could joke all they wanted as long as they did their job.

  He straightened from the wall when he noticed his maid standing beside the curved staircase, surveying him in confusion.

  “It’s quite all right,” he said in Spanish. “The heat overcame me briefly. Is your mistress upstairs?”

  “No, Señor Rosenberg,” the servant said. “Your wife has gone out for the afternoon.”

  “Gone out?” Rosenberg scowled. “Where?”

  “She did not tell me, Señor.”

  “With Esteban?”

  “But of course, with her bodyguard.”

  Her bodyguard? Rosenberg thought. Her body violator would be more accurate!

  He charged up the stairs. Damn it, they fuck all day while I take the risks!

  At the top of the stairs, he stopped abruptly, hearing voices from Esteban’s room at the end of the hallway. The voices were too muted for Rosenberg to identify them, but they belonged to a man and a woman, and Rosenberg had the keen suspicion that the maid had been either mistaken or instructed to lie. He was powerless to solve his other problems, but by God, he could settle this one right now.

  He stormed toward Esteban’s room, and even when he’d gone sufficiently far along the hall to realize that the voices in fact came from the maid’s room—a television soap opera she’d forgotten to turn off—even then he was too committed to stop himself. He rammed Esteban’s door open, bursting in, fully expecting to find his wife and her bodyguard embracing on the bed.

  They weren’t. The room was deserted, but what he saw on the bed was so much more shocking than the tryst he’d imagined that his knees wavered. He gripped Esteban’s bureau to steady himself and, as soon as the spasms in his legs subsided, lunged for the bedspread, clutching it to his chest. An iron band seemed to tighten around his rib cage. He spun, staring furtively behind him, apprehensive lest the maid might have followed him upstairs and seen what was on the bedspread. She still might come up and wonder about his actions. He had to get the bedspread out of sight.

  He compacted the bedspread and shifted it from his chest to his right side where the maid might not notice it as he hurried along the hallway, past the upstairs landing, and along the opposite hallway toward the master bedroom. He’d already entered the bedroom, closed the door, and rushed toward the dresser to hide the spread when he saw the reflection of his own bed in the dresser’s mirror—and what was on the bedspread.

  It was identical to what he’d found on the spread in Esteban’s room. Huge, black, grotesque, so unnerving that after Rosenberg crumpled this spread too and shoved it into a drawer with the other, he didn’t consider driving to the secret office he maintained. He quite simply, absolutely panicked and lurched toward the bedside phone.

  2

  Halloway was appalled by Rosenberg’s stupidity in using an unsecured phone. That lapse in procedure, combined with Rosenberg’s babbling, made clear that the man had obviously lost all control. “Slow down, for Christ’s sake,” Halloway urged. “What are you talking about? You found what?”

  “A skull! A fucking death’s head! Painted in black on my bedspread! My wife’s bodyguard had one on his bed too!”

  “Take it easy. This might not mean what you think. It might be just a death threat. There’s no reason to assume—”

  “If we’re dealing with the Night and Fog, I have to assume! It’s more than just a death threat! You know what else the symbol means! Whoever painted those skulls wants to remind us they know all about us!”

  Halloway kept his voice low, not wanting to attract the attention of his bodyguards outside in the corridor. “All right, suppose they are reminding us, what difference does it make? It doesn’t change things. We already knew they’d found us out.”

  “It changes everything!” Rosenberg’s voice verged on hysteria. “It proves they weren’t content to take our fathers! Now they want us! The sins of the fathers! The next generation has to suffer! And they can do it! They managed to sneak inside my home despite every possible security precaution!”

  “We can’t keep talking about this on an unprotected phone,” Halloway warned. “Hang up. Call me an hour from now at …”

  Rosenberg rushed on. “And that’s not all! Why two skulls? Why on my bed? Why on the bed of my wife’s bodyguard?”

&nb
sp; “I assume to double the effect. To …”

  “Damn it, you don’t understand! My wife and her bodyguard are having an affair! I thought no one knew! I’ve been trying to pretend I don’t suspect! But the Night and Fog know! That’s why they painted the skulls on both beds! They’re telling me they know everything about me, including who’s screwing my wife! They’re bragging they know all my secrets! All our secrets, Halloway! The merchandise! The shipment! If they’ve learned about … !”

  “You’re jumping to conclusions.”

  “Jumping to conclusions?” Rosenberg moaned. “Dear God, why did I ever go into business with you? You’re so damned self-confident you won’t admit … !”

  “Seth and Icicle will take care of …”

  “Will take care of? Will? But they haven’t done it yet, have they? And that’s all I care about! While those two chase shadows, I’ve got a situation here! I’m cancelling our arrangement right now!”

  “What are you … ?”

  “Either that, or you let me stop the shipment! I don’t need two enemies, Halloway! If our clients find out we went ahead without warning them the enemy might know about the shipment, they’ll come for us! They’ll make the Night and Fog seem a minor nuisance!”

  “But I’m telling you …”

  “No, I’m telling you! The moment I hang up, I’m calling Rio! I’ll do what I should have done in the first place! I’ll tell him ‘no’! And then I’ll hope to God your two maniacs find a way to stop this madness!”

  Halloway’s mouth felt parched. He had no doubt that Rosenberg meant what he said. A balance had tipped. Events were now out of control.

  He tried to moisten his dry mouth. “All right,” he murmured. “If that’s what you think is best.”

  3

  Halloway set down the phone. The truth was—and he would never have dared tell Rosenberg—he’d received three other calls from members of their group, all about death’s heads. Miller in St. Paul, Minnesota, had found one painted on the bottom of his drained swimming pool. Culloden in Bristol, England, had found one painted on a billiard table in his game room. Svenson in Göteborg, Sweden, had found one painted on the floor of his kitchen.

  The parallels had disturbing implications. In each case, the symbol had been left at the victim’s home, as if to say “We can get close to you anyplace, even where you feel most protected. But if we’d wanted, we could have painted the death’s head where others could see it, at your workplace perhaps or in full view of your neighbors. We want you to realize—we can expose you at any time, humiliate your wife and children, embarrass your business contacts. And after that? Do you hope we’ll be satisfied? Or will we come after you as we did your father? Will you have to pay the ultimate penalty? As our own loved ones had to pay. As we had to pay.”

  Halloway shuddered, disturbed by one other parallel. After Miller, Culloden, Svenson, and now Rosenberg had discovered the death’s head, they all had ignored safe procedure and phoned him directly instead of through intermediaries. The Night and Fog was achieving its purpose, eroding discipline, promoting panic. How many others of the group would soon call him? When would he discover a death’s head? He’d instructed his guards to double security on the safe house in Kitchener where his family was being sequestered. He’d also hired as many extra guards as he needed to protect this estate. But perhaps the time had come to abandon the estate, to give up the exquisite surroundings his father had provided for him.

  He shook his head. No! As long as Seth and Icicle were on the hunt, there was every reason to believe in eventual victory. The Night and Fog would be destroyed.

  And in the meantime? Determination was everything.

  I won’t be defeated! Halloway thought. The vermin won’t control me!

  But again he wondered, When will it be my turn to find a death’s head?

  He struggled against his misgivings. He’d asked the wrong question, he realized. The proper question was, When will Seth and Icicle be victorious for us all?

  4

  Rio de Janeiro. From his glass-walled penthouse, the businessman had a perfect view of the throngs of bathers on the sensuous curve of Copacabana Beach. If he’d cared to, he could have walked to the opposite glass wall and peered up toward the far-off massive statue of Christ the Redeemer on top of Corcovado mountain, but he seldom chose that option. Situated between the Spirit and the Flesh, he almost always found himself drawn toward the telescope on his beach-side window and its view of the most arousing women in the world. His wealth guaranteed a temptation few of them could resist.

  But at the moment, all he felt was anger. He pressed a portable phone against his ear. “Rosenberg, you think I’ve got nothing better to do than make deals and then tell the clients it was all a mistake? Never mind that this is a hundred-million-dollar deal and I get fifteen percent of it. Never mind that I accepted a twenty percent down payment from them, and the money’s gaining interest in a Zurich bank. Let’s forget all that for a second. Friend to friend, a deal’s a deal. In the first place, my clients become severely unpleasant if a contract’s cancelled. In the second place, the contracts can’t be cancelled because the shipment’s on its way, and I always take care not to have any connection with it. I don’t even know what ship it’s on. I use so many intermediaries I wouldn’t know how to stop it. You should have thought of this earlier.”

  Rosenberg started to babble.

  The businessman interrupted. “If you’ve got cold feet, you shouldn’t step into the water. Or is it more than cold feet? Do you know a security reason that I don’t know for not delivering the merchandise? If you do, my friend, and you didn’t warn us, you’ll find out how truly unpleasant the clients can be. So what’s with the second thoughts? What problem’s on your mind?”

  “Nothing …” Rosenberg whispered.

  “What? I can barely hear you.”

  “It’s all right. No problem.”

  “Then why the hell did you call me?”

  “Nerves. I …”

  “Nerves?” The businessman frowned. “Friend, this conversation’s starting to bore me.”

  “There’s so much money at stake …”

  “You bet there is, and fifteen percent of it is mine.”

  “So many risks. The merchandise scares me. The clients scare me. My stomach’s been giving me problems.”

  “Try Maalox. You’re right about the clients. Any bunch who wants a hundred million dollars worth of black-market weapons is definitely scary. Incidentally, don’t call me again. I won’t do business with you anymore. You’re interfering with my peace of mind.”

  5

  Rosenberg set down the phone and stared at his trembling hands. He’d never believed in fate, but he was quickly beginning to wonder if something very like it was taking charge of him. He couldn’t recall when he’d felt this helpless, and he found himself mentally grasping for the only chance of salvation now afforded him—Icicle and Seth, their pursuit of the Night and Fog.

  His spirit felt buoyed for less than five seconds. About to go downstairs from his secret office, he suddenly stopped, his palm pressed so hard against the doorknob that he felt its cut-glass pattern indent his flesh. If the Night and Fog knew enough about his past to use a death’s head symbol to terrorize him, if they knew enough about his present to paint the symbol not only on his bed but on the bed of the bodyguard who was screwing his wife, wasn’t it also possible that they knew about other secrets in his life?

  Such as this office?

  With a tremor, he realized that he’d been in such a hurry he hadn’t checked for a tap on the phone before he called his contact in Rio. Trying to prevent the Night and Fog from learning about the shipment, had he inadvertently let them find out? Furious at himself, he slammed the door and locked it, hurrying down the stairs.

  6

  A windowpane absorbs vibrations from a voice in a room. Across the street from Rosenberg’s office, a fan stood in the open window of a second-story hotel room. The fan
was actually a microwave transmitter, which bounced waves off Rosenberg’s window and received, along with them, the vibrations from Rosenberg’s conversation. A decoder translated the waves into words and relayed them to a tape recorder. The tape was picked up every evening.

  Rosenberg’s home was also under microwave surveillance, as was Halloway’s and that of every other member of the group. It didn’t matter if they checked for bugs and phone taps. Everything they said was overheard. They had no secrets.

  7

  William Miller stared at the large manila envelope his secretary brought into his office.

  “It came special delivery,” she said. “I started to open it with the other mail, but you see it’s marked ‘personal,’ underlined, with an exclamation mark, so I thought I’d better let you open it yourself.”

  Miller studied the envelope. It was eight-by-twelve, crammed till it seemed that not one more sheet of paper could be squeezed inside. A hot pressure made him squirm. “Thanks, Marge. It’s probably just a new advertising scheme. Or maybe some young architect who wants to join the firm, trying to overwhelm me with his designs.”

  “Sure, it could be anything,” Marge said, eyes mischievous. “But for a second there, I wondered if you’d subscribed to some pornographic magazine you didn’t want your wife to know about.”

  He forced a laugh. “Whatever’s in the package, I didn’t send for it.”

  “Aren’t you going to open it?”

  “In a while. Right now, I’ve got this proposal to finish. The city council needs convincing on this low-rent renewal project.”

  He lowered his gaze to the cold print before him and pretended to concentrate on the cost-projection figures.

  “Anything I can do to help, Mr. Miller, just buzz me on the intercom.” She left, closing the door behind her.