The League of Night and Fog (22 page)

“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.”

H
alloway 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?

R
io 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.”

R
osenberg 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.

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
.

W
illiam 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 don’t open it. Maybe if I throw 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 from 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.

“I
t’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 nonexpressive 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 tugged 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 anytime now, Medici, he decided. The tears streaming down Medici’s face confirmed his conclusion.

“One more time,” Seth demanded. “Who abducted the cardinal?”