The League of Night and Fog

by David Morrell

“Erika, it’s me. It’s Saul.” He put his arms around her.

  And froze when he felt the metal box under the back of the rain jacket. Moving his hands to her waist, he touched the metal belt that secured the box to her. Seth hadn’t been bluffing.

  Saul swung to stare toward the opposite side of the Colosseum. Seth had reached the priest, had lifted him to his feet, and was guiding him along a walkway toward an exit. The priest moved groggily. A few tourists glanced at him, but most were preoccupied with their cameras and the sunset-tinted ruins. At the exit, Seth turned toward Saul, raised his right arm, almost in an ancient Roman salute, his gesture ironic. Then Seth and Father Dusseault were gone.

  Wait five minutes before leaving, Seth had instructed.

  Five minutes it would be.

  He turned to Erika, hugging her again. “It’s Saul,” he repeated. “You’re safe.” He kissed her. “I love you. We’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  4

  Among shadows caused by sunset, Drew and Arlene watched from the Oppian Park to the east of Nero’s palace. Their view of the Colosseum was impeded by the busy traffic on the Via Labicana, but even the frustration of an obstructed view was better than the greater frustration they’d have felt if they’d stayed away.

  With only the northern and eastern curves of the Colosseum available to them, they probably would not see Father Dusseault and his captor, Drew realized. Still, the Via Labicana was the most likely escape route, and for that reason, he concentrated less on the Colosseum and more on the street leading away from it.

  He checked his watch. Twenty-five minutes after six. The exchange was scheduled to have occurred on the hour. Unless something had gone wrong, a no-show for example, they’d probably missed seeing Father Dusseault being led away.

  All the same, Drew kept staring toward the opposite side of the street. If he still didn’t spot the priest by seven o’clock, he and Arlene would go to a nearby phone booth where, by prearrangement, Saul would call to report.

  He felt Arlene grip his arm. On the other side of the street, a priest—Father Dusseault—was being guided through a crowd of tourists emerging from the Colosseum. A gray Citroën veered from traffic and stopped at the curb. The priest was pushed inside onto the backseat, his abductor following. The Citroën sped away.

  The pickup had taken no more than ten seconds, but even with the distraction of tourists and traffic, Drew had seen enough. There was no mistaking the red-haired man guiding the priest or the blond man driving the Citroën. Seth and Icicle. He bolted from Arlene’s grasp, charging toward the street. Arlene ran after him. There was still a risk that Seth and Icicle had posted a surveillance team to watch for any attempt to follow the Citroën. In that case, if they noticed Drew and Arlene in pursuit, all the team had to do was contact the Citroën via two-way radio, and Seth or Icicle might make good on their threat to blow up Erika. But Drew was convinced that there wasn’t a surveillance team. After all, Seth and Icicle hadn’t arranged for help when they grabbed Medici, and the efficiency of that operation made Drew strongly suspect they trusted no one but themselves.

  The Citroën was far enough down the street that he couldn’t see it. That meant Seth and Icicle couldn’t see Drew either as he darted through speeding traffic. He gestured frantically to a passing taxi. Arlene raced across the street to him, reaching the curb as the taxi responded to Drew’s waving arms. They scrambled inside.

  Drew blurted instructions to the driver. If only we don’t get caught in traffic, he worried. If only Seth and Icicle don’t take a side street before I see where they turn. He wondered whether Saul had gotten Erika back and fervently prayed that his friend’s wife was safe.

  5

  “What took you so long?” Driving, Icicle glanced quickly toward the backseat. “Did something go wrong?”

  “I scouted the ruins before I showed myself. The husband followed instructions exactly. I couldn’t be more pleased.”

  “Well, I won’t be pleased till we get out of here. What if the other man and woman are hanging around?”

  “Even if they are,” Seth said, “they’ll keep their distance. They know I can still use this.” He held up the detonator. “All that remains is to question the priest. They wouldn’t have abducted him unless they were certain he had vital information.”

  “But perhaps not the information we want.”

  “What reason would they have to question the priest, except to learn about the cardinal? He’s the only outsider who knew where our fathers were. Once we find out why he disappeared, we’ll know how the Night and Fog discovered our fathers.” Seth grinned. “Yes, all that remains is to question him. But on second thought, perhaps not all. Pull over.”

  “We have to get away from here. Why do you—?”

  “Do it. Stop.”

  Icicle obeyed, halting at the curb. “Tell me why—”

  “I can’t resist the temptation.” Seth peered through the Citroën’s rear window toward the Colosseum. “Of course, I won’t be able to see the explosion, but I’ll hear it.” He shrugged. “The commotion among the tourists should be interesting.” He flicked a switch to activate the radio-controlled detonator. A red light glowed.

  “No,” Icicle said.

  Seth turned. “You still feel protective about her?” His eyes gleamed.

  He’s doing this to taunt me, Icicle realized. Not to punish the woman but me.

  “What’s the point? You told me you’d lied to the husband. In a while, when we’re out of radio range, he’ll think it’s safe to disconnect the bomb without setting it off. Since she’ll die soon anyhow, why kill her now?”

  “Do I sense you hoping that the husband will find a way to remove the bomb without setting it off?”

  “What would be the harm if he did? The drug kept her from seeing us. She can’t identify—”

  “The harm,” Seth said. “is to my pleasure. Why should this woman, a stranger, matter to you?”

  “Why should she matter to you? She isn’t a threat to us. She doesn’t have to die.”

  “But she does, my friend. To teach you a lesson. Never interfere with me again.” Seth aimed a finger toward the detonator.

  Even then, Icicle might not have acted if it hadn’t been for the cruel look Seth gave him. Rage broke Icicle’s control. Like a tightly wound spring suddenly released, he flicked the switch to deactivate the detonator and yanked it out of Seth’s hand. His movement was so forceful he ripped a flap of skin from one of Seth’s fingers.

  Seth’s face contorted when he saw his own blood. “Give the detonator back.”

  “We’ve got too much at risk for you to delay. We’ll settle this later when we get away from here.”

  “We’ll settle it now.”

  In a blur, Seth drew a pistol. It had a silencer on the barrel, but even so, the confines of the Citroën made the muffled shot feel as if hands had slammed Icicle’s ears. The moment he saw the weapon, he twisted away and took the bullet intended for his chest through the flesh of his upper left arm. The projectile exited from his arm and slammed against the dashboard. Icicle ignored the shock of pain and lunged again, deflecting the pistol’s aim before Seth could fire a second time. They struggled for possession of the gun.

  Blood dripped from Icicle’s arm. Despite his force of will, his weakened biceps were no match for Seth. Inexorably the pistol’s barrel shifted toward Icicle’s face.

  Seth’s lips curled. “I should have killed you before. The same as I did your father.”

  Icicle’s eyes widened. “Killed my father?” Perhaps Seth had hoped that the statement would distract him, make him falter sufficiently for Seth to move the pistol the last few inches toward Icicle’s face. If so, Seth miscalculated. Instead of faltering, Icicle screamed insanely and, with a savage burst of strength, he rammed the pistol back toward Seth’s face, cracking the silencer against Seth’s forehead. Seth’s eyes lost focus.

  Icicle scrambled over the seat, punching Seth’s mouth. “You bastard, wh
at do you mean you killed my father?” He punched Seth’s lips a second time, mangling them. “Tell me!” he shouted, yanking the pistol out of Seth’s hand. Just as he twisted it around to put his finger on the trigger, a taxi stopped behind the Citroën, its doors flying open. Icicle saw the man and the woman who’d been dressed as a priest and a nun in the Vatican gardens.

  Seth struck Icicle in the stomach. Doubling over, Icicle felt Seth grab for the pistol, but Seth didn’t get a firm hold, and the gun thumped onto the floor. Outside, the man and the woman were running toward the Citroën. With no time to do anything but obey his instincts, Icicle pivoted, grabbed the detonator off the front seat, shoved open the curbside door, and raced into the crowd. His wounded arm hurt terribly. He heard a muffled shot. A window shattered. Pedestrians scattered, screaming.

  6

  When Drew saw the gray Citroën stopped ahead at the side of the street, he yelled for the taxi driver to pull over. Through the car window of the Citroën, he saw two men struggling with each other. For an instant, he thought one of them was Father Dusseault, now sufficiently alert to put up a fight. But then he saw the blond and red hair of the two men grappling for what appeared to be a gun and realized that Icicle and Seth were trying to kill each other.

  Their struggle was so intense, their distraction so great, Drew realized they wouldn’t notice until he and Arlene were in position to overpower them. The taxi stopped. Drew darted out, followed by Arlene, racing toward the Citroën.

  But Icicle’s rugged face turned abruptly in their direction. His look of shocked comprehension was replaced by one of pain as Seth punched him in the stomach. In quick succession, Icicle grabbed something from the Citroën’s front seat and lunged from the car just as Seth picked up an object from the rear floor, gaped at Drew and Arlene, who were about to reach the Citroën, and raised a pistol, firing.

  The rear window shattered. Pedestrians screamed. Drew and Arlene dove to the street. Drew hadn’t wanted to alarm the taxi driver by showing his handgun earlier, but now he pulled it out, prepared to return fire. The detonator, he kept thinking. Have to get the detonator. But he now identified the object that Icicle had grabbed from the front seat before rushing out of the Citroën. He could see the small rectangular control in Icicle’s right hand as the blond assassin surged through the scattering crowd. At the same time, he noticed the stream of blood on Icicle’s left arm.

  Flat on the street, Drew shifted his attention back toward the Citroën, aiming at the shattered rear window. The moment Seth showed himself, Drew was prepared to pull the trigger. But Seth stayed low, charging out the open curbside door and racing into the crowd. Powerless, Drew couldn’t shoot without hitting bystanders. He watched Seth escaping.

  Or was he escaping? Seth didn’t seem to want to get away so much as to chase after Icicle. The blond man ran along the Via Labicana and veered to the right, disappearing around a corner. Holding his pistol, the red-haired assassin sprinted after him.

  What had happened to turn them into enemies? Drew wondered.

  He stared into the Citroën. The priest was slumped across the backseat. “Arlene, get him out of here. Make sure you’re not followed. Take him back to the hotel.”

  “But what about—?”

  Drew shouted as he ran. “I’m going after them!”

  7

  The son of a bitch is coming after me! Icicle thought. Even when he’s almost cornered, he still wants to kill me!

  Icicle hadn’t even been aware that he’d grabbed the detonator as he ran from the Citroën. The gesture had been reflexive. Only when he reached for the pistol wedged behind his belt beneath the back of his jacket did he realize that he was holding something in his right hand. The detonator. He switched it to his blood-smeared left hand, pulled out his pistol, and darted right off the Via Labicana.

  He expected Seth to shoot at him, but not to kill, at least not right away. Seth would want to bring him down, disarm him, and make him watch the detonator being pushed. A few blocks away from the Colosseum, they would be able to hear the blast. Only then, having gained the maximum pleasure from his victory, would Seth kill Icicle and still have time to escape.

  It didn’t have to be this way! Icicle raged. If it hadn’t been for the woman, we wouldn’t have argued! Seth wouldn’t have told me he’d murdered my father! We’d be safely out of here! The woman means nothing to me! Why did I protect her from him?

  Another thought was equally distressing. Seth’s arrogance, his pride and hate, had such control of him that, in taunting Icicle, he’d lost the chance to question the priest and find his father.

  He’s more insane than I imagined.

  Racing down the side street, Icicle felt an excruciating jolt against the back of his right shoulder. The impact threw him off balance, twisting him to the right, almost shoving him to the pavement. Blood sprayed ahead of him. The muscles of his right arm refused to obey his mental commands; his hand opened involuntarily. His pistol clattered onto the sidewalk. Still able to make his wounded other arm respond, he clutched the detonator to his chest and ran with greater determination. But his loss of blood had weakened him. His vision blurred. His legs became wobbly. He hadn’t heard the spit of Seth’s silenced weapon. He didn’t expect to hear it the next time either, but he had no doubt that Seth would aim toward one of his legs.

  I’m too easy a target. Have to get off this side street. Find a place to hide.

  Ahead, to his right, Icicle saw a structure that took up half the block and whose shadow filled the street. An ancient church! He rushed unevenly toward it. At that moment, Seth fired, his bullet missing Icicle’s leg, smacking against concrete twenty feet ahead.

  Arms throbbing, Icicle realized he was too exposed, too likely to be shot if he went up the steps to the huge main entrance to the church. He hurried forward, his face dripping sweat. In pain, he came to an intersection and veered toward the right once more.

  But along this farther street, he saw a side entrance to the church. A sign said St. Clement’s Basilica. Seth rounded the corner, about to aim. With no other possibility of escape, Icicle lurched toward the church’s small side door, mustering strength to shove it open.

  Inside, he slammed the door and tried to lock it, but there wasn’t a bolt to slide into place, only a slot for a key. Whirling, he raced onward, finding himself in a massive chamber that stretched to his right and left. Frescoes of Christ and the apostles lined the walls. Two aisles were broken up by towering columns. A guide appeared, telling him that the basilica was closed to tourists after six-thirty. Icicle scurried past him, sensing rather than seeing the altar far to his left.

  His impulse was to hide in what appeared to be the sacristy across from him, but the tour guide kept objecting to his presence, and when he heard the side door bang open, he knew that the guide would attract Seth to him.

  I’ve got to find somewhere else to hide.

  To the right of the sacristy, stairs descended. He started down them just as the side door slammed shut and Seth’s footsteps echoed urgently after him. It was possible that Seth hadn’t seen him, but he couldn’t fail to see the trail of blood.

  He came to a landing, turned right to descend another tier of stairs, and groaned not only from pain but also from desperation when he saw that he’d entered a long empty corridor. He heard Seth’s footsteps coming nearer and rushed lower toward a door along the right side of the corridor. He entered yet another basilica.

  The must of fourteen hundred centuries swelled his nostrils. Pale lights fought to dispel the darkness. But the ancient shadows couldn’t hide him, not with the blood from his arms dripping across the floor. He staggered past faded frescoes depicting a Roman nobleman and his servants, all of whom had apparently been blinded by the aura of a holy man, and heard Seth’s footsteps charging down the stairwell.

  He stared toward the left of the altar toward an exit. If I can get through it before Seth takes another shot at me, maybe I can find a way to surprise him. He’s so co
nfident, he might not expect me to attack.

  Quit kidding yourself. You don’t have the strength. You’ve lost your pistol.

  But I’ve got a knife.

  He flinched as a bullet spattered pieces of fresco from a wall. Seth’s footsteps rushed closer. But at once the tour guide entered this lower basilica, shouting at them. Seth shot the man. Hearing the body fall, Icicle could barely breathe.

  By the time Seth aimed again toward the front of the church, Icicle had reached the exit to the left of the altar. He rushed through, hearing a bullet crack against a wall behind him, and saw only more stairs. Even older than the lower church that he’d just left, these stairs led down as well. There was no other choice—he had to follow them.

  A landing. A turn to the right. He passed a sign that said Mithraeum and stumbled into an eerie underground structure that might have dated back to the birth of the Catholic Church. Directly below the altar of the lower basilica, the remnants of two Roman houses had been joined to form a temple, but the temple was, astonishingly, not Christian but pagan. Beyond two parallel stone benches that reminded Icicle of pews, there stood a statue of the Roman god Mithras. The center of the temple was taken up by an altar upon which another statue of the god—clean-shaven, resplendently handsome—performed some kind of sacred rite by slicing open the throat of a bull. A dog, a scorpion, and a serpent were trying to kill the bull before Mithras could complete the sacrifice.

  In the time it took him to scan the temple, he realized he was trapped. He heard Seth scramble down the lower stairs and chose the only possible hiding place: behind the altar. His blood pooled on the ancient stone floor almost as if blood from the bull’s slit throat were streaming off the altar down to him. Putting the detonator into a pocket, he used his more mobile left hand to withdraw a knife from a sheath strapped above his right ankle. He held his breath, wiped sweat from his face, quivered with pain, and waited.