David Morrell - League of Night and Fog

by League of Night

  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, (here 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?

  Rio de Janeiro. Prom 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 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."

  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 enemy. 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.

  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.

  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. The envelope--bold black ink emphasizing its personal! caution--lay on his desk. The postage cost, including the special delivery fee, had been nine dollars and fifteen cents. No return address. So why am I nervous?

  he thought. It's just an envelope. He glanced back down at the cost-projection figures but found himself compelled to glance again at the envelope. Couldn't turn his eyes away. Well, maybe if I didn't open it at all. Maybe if I threw it in the trash. No, Marge might find it there and open it Then I could take it with me when I left the office and get rid of it on the way home. And anyway, so what if Marge saw what was in it? What difference would that make? Because it's marked personal!, and after what you found at the bottom of your swimming pool, you'd better pay attention when your psychic alarm bells start going off. You might not want to open it, but you'd damned well better. Even so, he sat motionless, staring at the envelope. At last, he exhaled and inched his fingers across the desk. The envelope felt heavy, dense. He started to tear open its flap and froze, tasting something sour. This might be a letter bomb, he thought. His impulse was to drop it back on the desk and hurry frfrom the office, but he hesitated, compelled by a stronger impulse to pinch it gently and trace a finger along its edges.

  The contents felt solid-- no give in the middle where cardboard might cover a hollow filled with explosives. Cautiously, he tore open the flap and peered inside. At a thick
stack of photographs. He stared at the image on top. It was black-and-white, a reproduction of what evidently had been a picture taken years ago. The horror of it made him gasp. Filled with disgust, he leafed through the stack, finding other horrors, each more revolting than the one before, obscenity heaped upon obscenity.

  His lungs didn't want to draw in air. Corpses. The top photograph--and the countless others beneath it--showed corpses, stacks and stacks of corpses, thrown together on top of each other, arms and legs protruding in grotesque angles, rib cages clearly outlined beneath starved flesh.

  Gaunt cheeks, sunken eyes, some of which were open, accusing even in death. Scalps shaved bare. Lips drawn inward over toothless gums.

  Features contorted with permanent grimaces of fright and pain. Old men.

  Women. Children. So many. He almost screamed.

  It's true! You have to believe me! I don't know!" Medici insisted.

  "Please!" Again Seth slapped him across the mouth. The slap, though it produced less pain than a punch, resulted in paradoxically greater terror, as if assaulting Medici's dignity was the key to breaking him.

  "The priest!" Seth demanded. "Cardinal Pavelic! I'm losing my patience! Who abducted the priest?"

  "If I knew, I'd tell you!" This time Seth used the back of his hand, slapping Medici's head to the side, leaving angry red welts on Medici's cheek. Seth's own cheeks were as red as his hair, his usually non expressive eyes bright with what might have been pleasure. Icicle stood in a corner of the kitchen in the isolated farmhouse they'd rented, watching with interest His interest had two causes: Seth's interrogation technique and Medici's response to it. Seth had tied Medici to a chair, bound the prisoner's wrists behind the back of the chair, and looped a noose around the prisoner's neck, the tail of the noose attached to the rope that bound his wrists. Every time Medici's head jerked from a slap, the noose nigged into his throat and the resultant pressure yanked

  Medici's wrists up toward his shoulder blades. Ingenious, Icicle decided. A minimum force produces a maximum effect The prisoner realizes he's inflicting most of the agony upon himself. He struggles to resist the impact of the slap, but the way he's been tied, he can't resist. His body becomes his enemy. His self-confidence, his dignity, becomes offended. You'll crack any time now, Medici, he decided. The tears streaming down Medici's face confirmed his conclusion. "One more time,"

  Seth demanded. "Who abducted the cardinal?"

  Medici squinted, calculating his answer. Pain had unclouded his mind.

  He understood his situation now. None of his men realized where he was.

  No one was going to rescue him. Pain wasn't his problem so much as how to survive. "Listen first. Why don't you listen before you slap me again?" Seth shrugged. 'The problem is, I need something to listen to."

  Medici tried to swallow, but the tight noose constricted his throat

  "I'm just a middleman. Clients come to me. They want weapons, information, surveillance teams, safe houses. I supply these services. They don't tell me why they want these services. I don't ask." Seth turned to

  Icicle, pretending to yawn. "I ask him about the cardinal, he gives me the story of his life."

  "You're not letting me explain!" Medici said. "I will when you say something!" Medici hurried on. "My clients don't tell me their plans, but I do keep my ears to the ground."

  "Now he gives the grotesque images," Seth told Icicle. "I have to keep up with the ins and outs of the profession, don't I? To keep on top of things?"

  "He has a problem with prepositions," Seth told Icicle. "But I haven't heard any rumors, not a whisper, about terrorists going after the cardinal. Believe me, I would have heard." Medici squirmed, causing the noose to bind his neck tighter. He made a gagging sound. "Whoever took the cardinal they weren't radicals, they weren't..."

  "Terrorists. Scum," Seth said. "Your clients have no style. They're indiscriminate and clumsy. Bombs on buses." Seth pursed his lips in disgust. "Dismembered children." For an instant. Icicle wondered if

  Seth had dimensions of character he hadn't recognized. But then he realized that Seth's objections were aesthetic, not moral. If Seth were paid enough, and if the plan required children to be killed as a distraction from the central purpose of executing a diplomat, this man would do it. On the other hand. Icicle thought and firmly believed, I'd never agree to killing children. Not under any circumstances. Never.

  Medici continued. "Terrorists might attack the Church as an institution they believed was corrupt, abduct a cardinal whose politics disagreed with their own. They went after the Pope a few years ago, didn't they?

  But what I'm telling you is I haven't heard about anyone going after the cardinal. I don't believe you're on the right trail."

  "In that case," Seth said and spread his hands magnanimously, "as one professional to another"--his words implied respect, but his tone was mocking--"what course do you suggest we follow?" Medici's eyes became furtive. "Have you thought about ethe Church itself? Someone in the

  Church?" Seth turned to Icicle. "A possibility." Icicle shrugged. "I'm not convinced," Seth said. 'That the cardinal might be a victim of the

  Church?"

  "I don't believe this predator is telling the truth."

  "I can!"

  Medici insisted. "We'll soon find out" Seth turned to Icicle. "We'll do it your way now."

  "Thanks for the belated confidence."

  "It's a matter of using every method. Force by itself can lead to convincing lies. Chemicals can elicit programmed responses. But the two together make up for each other's liabilities."

  "In that case, I'll fill a hypodermic with Sodium Amytal. Stand back.

  As you say, it's my turn now."

  With the noose removed from his neck but his body still tied to the chair, Medici slumped, semiconscious. In theory, the Sodium Amytal had eliminated his mental censors, making it possible to elicit information that Medici otherwise, even in pain, might not reveal. The trick was not to inject so much Amytal that Medici's responses became incoherent or that he sank fully into unconsciousness.

  Now it was Icicle's turn to stand before the prisoner. Holding the almost empty hypodermic in one hand, he asked the key question that had brought him from Australia to Canada and finally to Italy. "Does the expression Night and Fog mean anything to you?" Medici responded slowly.

  His tongue seemed stuck in his mouth. "Yes... from the war."

  "That's right. The Second World War. The Nazis used it as a terrorist tactic. Anyone disloyal to the Third Reich risked vanishing without a trace, disappearing into the Night and Fog." Icicle spoke slowly, distinctly, letting the words sink in. "Has the Night and Fog come back? Have you heard rumors about its being reactivated?" Medici shook his head. "No rumors." 'Try to remember. Did terrorists or a group pretending to be terrorists approach you? Did anyone ask for information about Cardinal Pavelic? Did anyone hire you to put surveillance on the cardinal?"

  "No surveillance on the cardinal," Medici whispered. "No one asked me about him."

  "Who do you think abducted the cardinal?"

  "Don't know."

  "Why would he have been abducted?"

  "Don't know."

  "Could someone within the Church be responsible?"

  "Don't know."

  Seth stepped forward. "That last answer's interesting. He doesn't know whether someone in the Church was responsible."

  Icicle understood what Seth meant. Forty minutes ago, Medici had insisted that they direct their attention toward the Church. "Before, he was grasping for any way he could imagine to distract us. He doesn't know anything."

  "But the more I think about it, his suggestion is worth exploring."

  "The Church? Why not? We have to eliminate the possibilities. It's conceivable that someone within the Church discovered what the cardinal knew and passed it on to the Night and Fog."

  "Or that someone in the Church is the Night and Fog."

  "Pavelic." Icicle's voice was fraught with hate. "For
forty years, the bastard kept his hooks in our fathers. The records he kept God knows how much money he demanded in exchange for keeping those records a secret. Pavelic was the only outsider who had the information that linked all our fathers. The Night and Fog couldn't have organized its terror against them without knowing what was in the cardinal's files."

  "Logical," Seth said, "but not necessarily the case. There could be an explanation we've overlooked."

  "Such as?"

  "That's the problem. We don't know enough," Seth said. "But this man doesn't either. I suggest we investigate the cardinal's private life."