The League of Night and Fog (4 page)

Kessler studied them in return. They were of different heights, weights, and facial structures, but they shared one physical characteristic: their ages fit within the same narrow range, late thirties, early forties.

“It’s about time,” one said.

Two others spoke in rapid succession.

“I’ve been here since yesterday.”

“This meeting was supposed to be urgent!”

“My flight got delayed,” Kessler told them. “I came as soon as I could.”

The three men who’d spoken had accents—Spanish, Swedish, and American midwestern. Coming down the hall, Kessler had heard other accents—French, British, Italian, Egyptian, and American southern.

“Gentlemen, please,” Halloway said. “If we start to argue among ourselves, we help the enemy achieve the second half of his purpose.”

“Second
half?” The Frenchman frowned.

“And what do you mean ‘his’?” the Texan asked.
“One
man couldn’t have done this!”

“Of course,” Halloway said. “But no matter how many, they’re organized, and they share a common goal. That’s why I think of them as one and why
we
have to act as one.”

“It’s true,” the Italian said. “We can’t allow ourselves to be distracted by our frustrations. We mustn’t be divided. Isn’t that why we got in touch with each other so many years ago and why we
stayed
in touch? Because as a group we’re stronger than each of us is alone. We can better protect ourselves.”

“But we’re not the ones who need protecting!” the Spaniard said.

“Not physically perhaps,” Halloway said. “At least not yet. But in our hearts? And suppose they’re not satisfied? Suppose they decide to come for
us
now, our wives, our children?”

The others straightened.

“That’s what I meant by the second half of our enemy’s purpose. It’s to torture us with uncertainty, to make us suffer from constant dread.”

“Dear God.” The Egyptian paled.

“You understand?”

“It’s the Night and Fog all over again.”

Kessler couldn’t restrain himself. “What’s the matter with all of you?”

They stared at him.

“Before you pat yourselves on the back about how smart you were to stay in touch with each other, why don’t you admit you’ve been your own worst enemy?”

“What are you talking about?”

“How do you think they found us? All they had to do was track down just one and follow the trail to the rest.”

“We took precautions.”

“Obviously not well enough. And look at us now. All together.”

The American midwesterner stepped forward, his features twisted with resentment. “My father would never have told.”

“Under torture? Come on,” Kessler said. “How much pain can an old man stand? Or what if chemicals were used? I was late because I almost didn’t come at all. The reason I did was to warn you. You’re as much to blame as whoever did this. Don’t stay in touch with each other. I don’t want to know anything more about you, and I don’t want you to know anything more about me.”

“That won’t solve the problem,” Halloway said. “We’d still be in danger, and it doesn’t bring our fathers back.”

“I’ve already accepted the fact—mine’s dead.”

“I don’t give up as easily as you,” Halloway said. “But what if you’re right? What if your father and mine and everybody else’s are dead? Do you intend to let the matter end?”

“Oh, believe me, I want the bastards to pay.”

“In that case, we have plans to discuss.”

Kessler stepped quickly forward. “You have something specific?”

“Indeed. It may be you didn’t notice. You weren’t the only member of the group who had second thoughts about coming. Two of us in fact declined. In many respects, the most important members.”

Kessler glanced at the group in confusion and suddenly understood.

“Given what I intend to propose, their participation is crucial,” Halloway said.

Kessler nodded.

Seth and Icicle.

S
ydney, Australia. June. St. Andrew’s Cathedral, the foundation of which had been set in 1819, was as impressive as the guidebook maintained. Kessler roamed the shadows of its echoing interior, studied its vaulted ceiling, admired its stained-glass windows, and strolled outside. Squinting in the painfully brilliant sunlight, he descended a wide tier of steps to the sidewalk. Next to the cathedral here on George Street, he reached the town hall, used for concerts and assembly meetings, his guidebook explained. After lingering as long as seemed appropriate, he strolled to the corner, hailed a taxi, and proceeded to one of the many Oriental restaurants that Sydney was famous for. He’d arranged to meet his business connection there, but he arrived deliberately early, went to a phone booth, and dialed the number Halloway had given him.

A male voice answered. “Bondi Beach Surf and Dive Shop.”

“Mr. Pendleton, please.”

“The son or the father?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I’m the son.”

“Mr. Pendleton, do you have icicles in Australia?”

For a moment, the silence was so intense that Kessler thought the phone had gone dead. “Mr. Pendleton?”

“Who
is
this?”

“A friend.”

“I’ve got customers waiting. I rent and sell surfboards. I sell and fill scuba tanks. Icicles I don’t need. Or people with stupid questions.”

“Wait. Perhaps if I mentioned a name. Thomas Conrad. Post office box four thirty-eight.”

Again the line was silent. When Pendleton finally spoke, his voice sounded muffled, as if he’d cupped a hand to his mouth. “What do you want?”

“A meeting. It’s obvious if I meant you harm, I didn’t need to call. I wouldn’t have put you on guard.”

“You’re from
them
, aren’t you?”

“My name is Kessler.”

“Christ, I made it clear. I want nothing to do with—”

“Things have happened. Circumstances have forced me to come here.”

“You’re in
Sydney?
Mother of God!”

“I’m using a pay phone in a restaurant. I’ve never been here before. This call can’t possibly be overheard or traced.”

“But you know my name, where to reach me! If you’re picked up … !”

“I was careful not to be followed.”

“Careful?” Pendleton’s voice was contemptuous. “If you’re so sure you weren’t followed, you wouldn’t have called me. You’d have come here.”

“I didn’t want to risk surprising you in person. If I seemed a threat, I might not have had the chance to explain.”

Pendleton swore.

“I’ve tried to show good faith,” Kessler said. “Please, we need to meet. The sooner we talk, the sooner I’m out of the country.”

“Not here.”

“Not at the shop? Of course. I wouldn’t want to put you in danger.”

“Don’t write this down,” Pendleton said. “At four this afternoon …”

T
he instructions completed, Pendleton set down the phone. He’d kept his voice low. His assistant, waiting on a customer at the front of the store, could not have heard. Even so, he felt threatened. To be contacted so directly broke one of the most sacred rules he’d ever learned. God save me from amateurs. He stepped from his office, passed a row of scuba tanks, and pretended an interest in his assistant’s customer.

“That wet suit’s the top of the line. You shouldn’t have trouble keeping warm in it,” Pendleton told the customer. “Any problems, if the fit seems wrong, make sure you come back and tell us. We’ll make it right.” Though he and his father had come to Australia almost ten years ago, Pendleton still retained American patterns of speech. The local beach hogs thought him quaint; he liked it that way. Invisibility was sometimes better achieved by standing out. As a local character, he created the illusion of being ever-present, except for occasional diving expeditions, his absences easily explained.

He waved good-bye to the customer, patted his assistant on the back—“Nice big sale”—and returned to his office, stepping out the back door. Even in the off-season, Bondi Beach was surprisingly crowded. Tourists. A few die-hard surfers. Some muscle-bound gays on the make. In his terry-cloth pullover, faded jeans, and canvas deck shoes (no belt, no shoelaces, no socks), Pendleton looked like a beach hog himself. Overaged, granted. But even at forty, with his sun-bleached windblown hair, his deeply tanned face, and his iron-hard shoulders and chest, he could give the beach hogs competition if he wanted to. Not that he’d ever show off his full skills.

He scanned the activity on the beach and saw his father waxing a surfboard, talking to teenagers gathered around him, holding court.

Pendleton’s eyes crinkled with affection. He stepped from the deck at the back of the dive shop, crossed the sand, and reached his father.

Waves lapped the shore. The cool wind smelled salty. Pendleton waited respectfully while his father described to his audience an astonishing series of waves five years ago. His father—as tall as Pendleton, as muscular, and, even at seventy-two, wrinkled by age and ten years of sun, almost as ruggedly handsome—glanced at him.

“A minor problem’s come up, Dad. I need to talk to you.”

His father sighed in mock frustration. “If it’s really necessary.”

“I’m afraid it is.”

“I’ll be back, lads.”

Pendleton walked with his father toward the shop. “A contact from your former friends just phoned me. He’s here in town.”

His father’s sigh was genuine now. “I told those fools to stay away from me. I never approved of maintaining contact. If it weren’t for the priest, I should have anticipated the problem and solved it years ago.”

“The contact wanted a meeting. It sounded like an emergency.”

“It must have been for someone to come all this way. The planet isn’t big enough to hide in.”

“The letter they sent last month …”

“Demanding a meeting in Canada.” Pendleton’s father scoffed. “Do they think I’m a fool?”

“It seems that they’re the fools. But I have no choice now. To keep him from coming to the shop, I have to meet with him somewhere else.”

“For the first and last time. Make sure he understands that.”

“What I wanted to tell you … While I’m gone, be careful.”

“Icicle’s always careful.”

“I know.” Pendleton smiled and hugged him.

E
ntering Sydney’s Botanic Gardens precisely at four as instructed, Kessler felt nervous. He suspected he hadn’t been convincing when he’d used sudden illness as his motive for leaving his business meeting in the middle of delicate negotiations. Though business was hardly the reason he’d come to Australia, it was what he believed was called his “cover.” Of the group that had met in Canada, he had the best excuse for traveling to Sydney without attracting attention. But now, by interrupting negotiations for a long-sought merger between his electronics firm and one in Sydney, he’d attracted the attention he’d hoped to avoid. In retrospect, he wished that he’d insisted to Pendleton that their meeting take place later, but on the other hand, Pendleton had been so reluctant to meet that Kessler was in no position to make demands.

As he proceeded along a path rimmed by exotic plants, Kessler worried that, despite his precautions in coming here, he’d been followed. Not just to these gardens but all the way from America. I’m a businessman, not an expert in intrigue, he thought. Perhaps my father would know—he almost changed the tense to “would have known” but tried to be hopeful—would know how to conduct himself in this sort of situation, but I was never trained for it.

Still, he didn’t think he could go wrong if he used his common sense. Don’t look around to see if you’re being watched. The recent disappearances had demonstrated that the enemy was remarkably organized and skillful. A “tail”—he allowed himself what he believed was the correct melodramatic expression—surely wouldn’t be careless enough to let him know he was being followed. He’d made sure to bring his guidebook along. Though the nape of his neck itched from the strain of resisting the impulse to look back down the path, he forced himself to peer at the guidebook and then at the abundant plants before him. The
path led upward. He reached a bench flanked by shrubs and paused, facing west, apparently to survey a building that his book explained was Government House, the home of the governor for New South Wales. His actual motive for pausing, though, was to obey the instructions Pendleton had given him.

Pendleton was another reason Kessler felt nervous. In his prime, Pendleton’s father, Icicle, had been one of the most feared men in Europe. Though Icicle would now be in his seventies, there wasn’t any reason to assume he wasn’t still dangerous. Rumor had it—Halloway was the source—that Icicle’s son was equally to be respected, trained by his father. This meeting, exposed, in a public place obviously chosen for its cover and its many escape routes, could pose a danger from Icicle’s son as much as from the enemy.

As instructed, Kessler sat on the bench. From the far side of shrubs where the path curved around and continued, he heard the voice of the man he’d spoken to on the phone.

“All right, so you’ve got your meeting. Make it quick.”

Kessler’s instinct was to turn toward the bushes, but the voice anticipated him.

“Look straight ahead. Keep staring toward Government House. If anybody comes along, shut up. And this better be important.”

Kessler swallowed. He started explaining.

O
n the bench on the opposite side of the bushes, wearing jogging clothes, wiping his sweaty forehead as if exhausted and needing a rest, Pendleton peered north toward the State Conservatorium of Music. Its design dated back to 1819, and Pendleton wished that he lived in that simpler time. No instant satellite communications. No computer files. No jets that made Australia no longer a hard-to-reach outpost. “The planet isn’t big enough to hide in,” his father had said. Of course, the obverse
was that without those modern conveniences of communication and travel, he and his father would not have been able to practice their trade.

His face hardened as Kessler, unseen behind the bushes, explained.
“What? All of them? Disappeared?
For God’s sake, why didn’t the message you sent make that clear?”