The League of Night and Fog (43 page)

The assistant pointed toward the last paragraph of the report.
“He made it a point of honor. The price for Joseph telling us about the shipment is we have to leak the names to the Libyans.”

S
aul waited anxiously with Father Dusseault in a recess of one of the middle terraces at the northern side of the Colosseum. The priest was able to walk, but he was still groggy enough to be passive, easily guided. He’d made no trouble when Saul had brought him here and sat him down. The many tourists paid no attention to the infirm priest.

Saul had arrived fifteen minutes early for the six o’clock appointment, and now it was ten minutes after. He used his binoculars to scan the opposite side of the Colosseum, worried that the exchange would not take place. As instructed, he’d come here alone with Father Dusseault. But terribly conscious of the sun setting lower, he cursed himself for disobeying one condition of the exchange by allowing Drew and Arlene to watch the Colosseum from the gardens of the Esquiline across the street. The Esquiline, one of the seven hills of Rome, was dominated by Nero’s palace, the so-called Golden House, and the sightseers swarming through both it and the surrounding park made the chances of an enemy spotting Drew and Arlene highly unlikely. It had seemed prudent to take the slight risk.

But now he wished he hadn’t permitted the violation. Because by twenty after six he was sure that something was wrong. The number of tourists began to dwindle. A woman with blue-tinted hair stepped in front of Saul, obscuring his gaze through the binoculars. Her overweight husband joined her, listening to her complain about the high-heeled shoes he shouldn’t have let her wear.

Saul stepped to the right, to reestablish his view of the opposite terraces. Scanning them, he suddenly froze the binoculars on a woman sitting on a walkway, her back against a wall. Saul had trouble steadying his hands on the binoculars. Erika? Even magnified,
the woman wasn’t distinct, her head drooping toward her chest. But her hair was long and dark like Erika’s, and she seemed to be the same age, to have the same long legs and lithe body. What confused him was that this woman wore a green nylon jacket, which Erika did not possess.

Abruptly, he remembered the voice on the phone telling him that Erika would wear a jacket to hide the bomb secured to her. When a man strolled over to her and set down a blue travel bag, Saul realized that the exchange was about to take place. With his binoculars, he tracked the tall pale man who’d left the travel bag and was moving to Saul’s left. At once, the man stopped and raised his own binoculars, aiming them at Saul.

He’s waiting for me to start circling in the other direction, Saul thought. He won’t move until I do.

Saul didn’t need encouragement. He left the priest sitting in the recess of the terrace and walked rapidly to the right. It took all his self-control not to run. For a moment, though, he almost faltered as the significance of something about the man occurred to him.

The color of his hair.
It was red
.

Dear God, had the voice on the phone belonged to
Seth?
The assassin, the son of a
Nazi
assassin, whom Drew and Arlene had described? If so, would his partner, the blond-haired Icicle, be in the Colosseum with him?

Saul didn’t dare turn to scan the crowd. The gesture might disturb Seth into blowing Erika up as he’d threatened. Besides, at the moment Seth didn’t matter. Nor did Icicle. Only Erika did. Rounding the curve of the Colosseum, approaching its southern side, he quickened his steps, his gaze focused anxiously on Erika. She continued to sit with her head drooped toward her chest. He hadn’t seen her shift position. Had Seth reneged on his bargain?
Was Erika dead?

He zigzagged through clusters of tourists, ignoring their angry objections, too distraught to murmur apologies. He was thirty yards from Erika now, and she still hadn’t moved. He started running. Twenty yards. No sign of life. He reached her.
When he raised her face and saw her eyelids flutter, he sank to his knees, almost weeping with relief.

“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.”

A
mong 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.

“W
hat 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, what 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.

W
hen 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.