David Morrell - League of Night and Fog

by League of Night

  " 'Private'?" Icicle laughed. "I didn't know priests were allowed to have 'private' lives." He hesitated. "And what about... ?" He gestured towards Medici. "Kill him, of course. He's useless to us, even a danger. Another injection of Amytal should be sufficient. Painless."

  Seth raised his shoulders. "Perhaps even pleasureful."

  "That still leaves the man and the woman in the alley across from where we grabbed him. You noticed them as I did. They weren't hiding there by coincidence. They had the same interest in Medici that we did."

  "If we see them again, we'll kill them." The blaze in Seth's eyes suggested that too would be a pleasure. nightmares then AND now

  As the mountain road curved higher, the rented Volkswagen's engine began to sputter. The car refused to gain speed to compensate for the incline. A half-kilometer later, Saul smelled gasoline and veered toward an observation point at a bend in the road. He shut the ignition off. Beside him, Erika squirmed and wakened. When she peered toward the valley below them, the bright morning sun made her squint The sky was turquoise, the farm fields emerald. Yawning, she glanced at her watch.

  'Ten forty-six?" Concern made her fully alert. "You've been driving since dawn. You must be exhausted. I'll change places with you."

  "I can manage. We've only got fifteen kilometers to go."

  "Fifteen kilometers? If that's all, why did you stop?"

  "We almost had a fire." Her nostrils widened, "I smell it now.

  Gasoline."

  "I think it's the carburetor." He opened the driver's door, approached the front of the car, and lifted the hood. A film of liquid covered the engine. Vapor rose. Erika appeared beside him and studied the engine.

  "Hand me your pocketknife," she said. She opened its blade and adjusted a screw on the carburetor's stern. Saul knew what she was doing. The car, which they'd rented in Vienna, must have been tuned for lowland city driving. Now after struggling against the thin air of the mountains, the carburetor hadn't been able to mix sufficient oxygen with gasoline to allow the fuel to be detonated by the spark plugs. The engine had flooded. The excess fuel had backed up into the carburetor, which had overflowed. The simple adjustment to the carburetor would remedy me problem. "Another five minutes, and we'd have been walking,"

  Saul said.

  "Running's more like it." She laughed self-critically. "Before the gas tank blew up. We've been living in the desert too long. We forgot the problems altitude can cause." Her long dark hair glinted in the morning sun. Her beige jacket emphasized the deep brown of her eyes.

  Saul had never loved her more. "I hope that's all we forgot. I'd hate to think we've just been lucky so far, and now, out of practice for years, we're making mistakes."

  "Keep thinking that way. It'll stop us from being overconfident."

  "That's one thing I'm not." Eager to get moving, they subdued their frustration and waited for the gasoline to evaporate from the engine.

  The surrounding slopes, above and below, were lush with evergreens. The thin air of six thousand feet made breathing difficult. Snow-capped mountains towered in the distance.

  Under other circumstances, these dramatic conditions--the Swiss Alps, south of Zurich--would have been mesmerizing. Saul shut the car's hood.

  "It's probably safe to drive now. According to the map, the road'll take us down to the neighboring valley. But Misha investigated the names on the list he made. His agents must have already been where we're going.

  If they'd learned anything important, we'd have been told about it.

  Let's be prepared for disappointment."

  "We have to start somewhere." Saul's voice thickened. "Right. And if the answer isn't here, it's somewhere else... We'll keep searching till we finish this."

  The village was Weissendorf: a cluster of perhaps a hundred buildings perched upon a small plateau with a gently sloping pasture above and below. A road ran through it The buildings were narrow, often four stories tall, the upper levels projecting an arm's-length out from the bottom one so that they seemed like awnings designed to keep pedestrians dry when it rained. With their peaked roofs that curved slightly up at the eaves, the buildings reminded Saul of fir trees. At the same time, elaborately carved designs on railings, windowsills, and doors reminded him of gingerbread houses. He parked the Volkswagen outside an inn. An oversized ale tankard with a handle and hinged lid hung above the entrance. He turned to Erika. "Which one of us should ask directions to where Ephraim Avidan lives?" She realized the problem. Switzerland had no language of its own. Its citizens spoke the language of the nearest bordering country. "Your German's better than mine," she said. "But this is southern Switzerland. Our French is about the same, but my

  Italian's--"

  "Better. Besides--excuse a sexist remark--they might be more receptive to a female stranger. You want to give it a try?" With a grin that didn't disguise her troubled mood, she opened the passenger door and entered the inn. Saul waited uneasily. Before promising his former networic that he wouldn't accept help from any intelligence agency, he'd already received a great deal of help from Misha Pletz and the Mossad.

  He didn't think he could be accused of reneging on his agreement if he took advantage of that pre promise help. For one thing, Misha had supplied them with Israeli passports using cover names and fictitious backgrounds that, if questioned by the authorities, would be endorsed by

  Israeli civilians and businesses secretly affiliated with the Mossad.

  For another, Misha had given them sufficient money to conduct their search. He'd also provided them with weapons, though Saul and Erika had hidden these before leaving Austria, not wanting to risk crossing the border with them. But at the moment, the most important of Misha's contributions was a photocopy of his notebook--the list of names he'd made and the information about them. The first name on the list was

  Ephraim Avidan. "What do the names on the list have to do with what happened to my father?" Erika had asked.

  "I have no idea," Misha had answered. "/ 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."

  "I'm not. These men share two other factors. They survived the Nazi death camps..."

  "And?"

  "They've all disappeared." As Erika's father had disappeared.

  The inn door swung open. Saul couldn't interpret the expression on

  Erika's face when she got in the car. "Anything?" he asked. "They didn't exactly gush with information. I gather we're not the only strangers who've asked about Avidan, and these people don't take well to strangers, male or female, who aren't here just to spend money as tourists." Saul thought about it. "Whoever came before us must have belonged to Misha."

  "Maybe. Let's find out. I managed to get directions." Saul started the car and drove along the narrow street.

  "Tell me when to turn."

  "It's outside town. The third farmhouse on the left." He increased speed. The house was old, with white stucco walls, on a level section of the upper grassy slope. Though wider than the buildings in town, it did have a high peaked roof, its silhouette conforming with a mountain beyond it Saul turned and drove up a rutted dirt lane, hearing cow bells from the pasture as be stopped outside the house. The sun made the valley even more brilliant. He didn't pay attention to the scenery, his thoughts completely preoccupied with the list they'd discovered.

  And the first name on that list. They stepped from the car. A woman with handsome, almost mannish features came out of the house. She was i
n her early thirties, with short sun bleached hair and ruddy cheeks. Muscular, she wore sturdy ankle-high shoes, woolen knee socks, leather shorts, and a blue-checked shirt with its sleeves rolled up. Her shoes thunked on a wooden porch, then on stairs leading down to the car. When she stopped, her eyes flashed with suspicion. Saul took for granted that Erika would do most of the talking, just as he would have if this had been a man.

  Erika used Italian. "We're sorry to bother you, but we're told that

  Ephraim Avidan used to live here." The woman spoke in English. "Your accent. American?" Erika replied in kind. "No, I'm Israeli, but I lived in the United States for many years. In fact, I'm more comfortable with

  English than I am with my native language. Would you prefer... ?" 'To speak in English?" The woman shook her head and switched to Italian. "I could use the practice, but not when discussing Ephraim Avidan. He used to live here, but he's gone." She seemed sullen. "Are you with the others who came to ask about him?"

  "Others?"

  "Two men. I've days ago. They claimed to be old friends of Avidan. But they were thirty years younger. Like Avidan and yourself, they said they were Israeli. They claimed they owed Avidan money. Such conscientious debtors, don't you mink? They wanted to know where he'd gone."

  "And what did you tell them?"

  "The same thing I tell you. I don't know where. He left abruptly. In

  February. One evening he was here, the next morning he wasn't As far as

  I could tell, he took nothing with him. After several days, I notified our policeman in town. A search was organized, but we didn't find a body." She gestured toward the mountains. "We didn't expect to. No one goes hiking in the woods at night during winter. Suicide was a possibility. He'd been moody. But without a body... Our policeman notified the authorities in Bern. The matter passed out of our hands.

  But we treated him fairly, the same as if he'd been one of us. And he treated the fairly. Before he disappeared, he paid his rent. I never had trouble with him."

  "Of course." The woman tightened her arms across her chest

  "And what about yourselves? Are you also 'old' friends who owe him money?" She directed her question toward Saul. "We didn't know him at all." The woman smiled, apparently not having expected a candid response. Saul nodded toward Erika. "My wife's father was a friend of Ephraim Avidan, though." He paused for effect. "And her father has also disappeared."

  The woman seemed caught between surprise and skepticism. "On the other hand, your explanation might merely be more inventive than that of old friends owing money to someone."

  "Why are you so suspicious?" Erika asked. "All we want is information."

  "Suspicious? If your husband had left you... If you had the responsibility of managing..." Her voice trailed off. She stared toward swollen-uddered cattle in the pasture. "I probably wouldn't be suspicious if not for the priest." Saul's pulse quickened. "Priest?"

  "Not mat he said he was a priest. He was rugged, handsome. A hiker, so he claimed. He arrived two weeks before the Israelis did. He had blue eyes and straw-colored hair. He chopped wood for his supper. He was muscular. His chest was strong. But what I noticed most were his hands."

  "What about them?"

  "He took extreme care of them. I didn't think it unusual when he wore gloves to chop wood. A precaution against slivers and blisters. But later, after he'd taken off the gloves and washed his hands, when I ate supper with him, I couldn't help noticing how soft and smooth his hands were in comparison with his muscles. He was tanned, but on his left hand... here at the base of his middle finger... he had a white rim of skin where he'd recently taken off a ring. I still don't understand why he'd have done that. Who knows? Perhaps he'd merely lost it. But his right hand... here... the thumb, the first and second finger... those he was especially self-conscious about He didn't want food to touch those fingers, and later, when he helped me wash dishes, he kept a towel around his right hand, using his left to pick up the plates. Do you see the significance?"

  "I'm sorry," Erika said. "I'm afraid I don't."

  "As an Israeli, you wouldn't, I suppose. I myself am a Lutheran, but I know that for a Roman Catholic priest the thumb, first, and second fingers of his right hand are the most important parts of his body.

  They're blessed. They're what he uses to hold the wafer of bread that he consecrates and changes into what Catholics believe is the spiritual presence of Jesus Christ. If a priest's right thumb and first two fingers were amputated, he couldn't be a priest any longer, not totally.

  He couldn't say mass. He couldn't perform the ritual of consecrating the host and giving out Communion. And because those fingers have been blessed, he has to protect them not only from physical harm but also from indignities." Erika was puzzled. "But couldn't he merely have been left-handed, and that's why he seemed to favor his right?"

  "After supper, he put his gloves back on and offered to go to the barn, to do a few more chores. I needed help, so I promised him breakfast and agreed." She pointed toward the barn a corner of which projected from behind the house. "He worked longer than I expected. When I went to see if anything was wrong, I caught him by surprise. He shoved a small black book into his knapsack. Then I knew for certain."

  "I don't follow you," Erika said. But Saul did. He remembered what his foster brother, Chris, an Irish-Catholic, had taught him about the

  Church. 'The small black book was probably a breviary," he explained.

  "The collection of prayers a priest has to read every day." He faced the woman. "But you said you knew 'for certain" Forgive me, it still seems like supposition."

  "No," the woman said. "In the night, I went to his room in the barn and searched through his knapsack. The small black book was a breviary."

  "Searched through his... "You think I was bold? How could he rebuke me when he was as bold as I was, when he'd snuck from his room and gone up the hill to search Avidan's room?" Her face flushed with indignation.

  "I'd left the cabin as Avidan had left it. There was always the chance

  Avidan would return, and since no one else had asked to rent it, I didn't care to waste my time by moving his possessions. Where would I have put them anyhow? When I crept up the bill, I heard the priest in the cabin. I heard drawers being opened and shut. I saw the waver of a flashlight beam through cracks in the window shades."

  "What did you do about it?"

  "What would you expect? A woman alone? An apparently innocent guest who turns out to be a prowler? I returned to the house and did nothing.

  In the morning, I pretended not to know he'd gone to Avidan's cabin, and he--if he'd guessed I'd searched his knapsack--pretended not to have noticed. He ate the breakfast I prepared, asked if there were other chores he could do, and, when I declined, continued the hiking vacation he claimed to be on. For the next few nights, I kept a close watch on the cabin. So far as I know, the priest never came back."

  "And what would be the significance of the ring he took off?" Erika asked. "It could have been the insignia of his order," Saul said. "A few religious groups wear them."

  "I didn't find a ring in his knapsack," the woman said. "Maybe he considered it so valuable he kept it in a pocket."

  "Perhaps. Then, two weeks later, the Israeli pair arrived. They asked if they could see Avidan's cabin in case something in it might tell them where he'd gone--you understand, so they could repay the fabulous debt they said they owed him."

  "Did you let them?"

  "Yes. I had the sense that, if I refused, they'd return in the night and search it anyhow. Or search the cabin right then, despite my objections. I didn't want trouble. I hoped that, if I agreed, I'd see the end of it. Besides, what did I have to hide?"

  "Or what did Avidan have to hide?" Saul said. "Now you arrive, and you ask why I'm suspicious. Who was this Avidan? Why are you and those others interested in him?"

  "I can't speak for the priest," Saul said. "He's as puzzling to me as he is to you. But the two Israelis were probably intelligen
ce operatives. Mossad. Avidan used to belong to their organization. When one of them--even one who's retired from them--disappears, they want to know why, especially if his disappearance seems linked to the disappearance of yet another ex-Mossad operative. My wife's father."

  The woman inhaled sharply. "Politics? I don't want anything to do with politics."

  "We're not sure it's politics. It could be a personal matter from years ago. Honestly, we don't know. For us, it's definitely personal, though."

  "Are you Mossad?" Erika hesitated. "I used to be."

  "Politics."

  "I said I used to be. Look, please, we've told you a lot more than we should have. How can we make you trust us?"