League of Night and Fog

  See these hands. The cleanest in the city."

  The draperies were closed. Beyond them, the roar of evening traffic intensified. The husk of the opened package lay on the hotel bed, next to a safe-deposit box key, Italian money, two Mausers, and the sheaf of documents. Drew divided the documents between Arlene and himself. All were photocopies. Of newspaper clippings. Father Victor's appointment book, transcripted telephone conversations, reports from informants, files compiled by the lay investigators assigned to the case. Arlene looked up, impressed. "Father Victor's sources were excellent He had access to everything Interpol and the local police knew."

  "And a lot they didn't know, thanks to his contacts within the Church.

  Look at this. He even had sources in all the major intelligence networks, including the KGB." It took them three hours before they felt they'd studied the documents sufficiently. Drew slumped on the sofa.

  "Looks like the Fraternity went through a lot of wasted trouble bringing us into this. I don't see anything that gives us a lead." Arlene rubbed her tired eyes. "Father Victor did everything I'd have done. He covered every angle--religious, political, criminal."

  "And apparently came up with nothing. Yet someone killed him. Why?"

  "It could have been an unrelated matter. Nothing to do with the cardinal's disappearance," she said. "Could be. But his appointment book suggests the meeting at the Vatican gardens involved this case. And something else bothers me. The Fraternity's one of the best networks

  I've ever seen. With all its resources, what are we supposed to do that it can't?"

  "Just what Father Sebastian explained," she said. "A member of the

  Fraternity wants to sabotage the order. Two motivated outsiders have a better chance of learning why Cardinal Pavelic disappeared."

  "Because the traitor within the network won't know what we're doing and can't interfere." Drew stood and paced. "Does that make sense? Why doesn't Father Sebastian detach himself from his order and rely on his own devices to do what he expects us to do? What's the difference? Why me? Why us? "You think we're being set up?"

  "Sure looks that way. The ambush in the desert. The bomb in Cairo. The traitor obviously knows you were sent to bring me to Father Sebastian.

  Maybe Father Sebastian chose us because as outsiders we're expendable.

  Instead of risking his life or someone else's in the Fraternity, he lets us take the risk and hopes the traitor will make a mistake when he comes after us."

  "But wouldn't any outsider have served his purpose?" Arlene asked. "For sufficient money. Father Sebastian could have had his pick among any number of independent contractors." She hesitated. Her green eyes flared. "Except, no amount of money would have kept an independent contractor on the job after two attempts against him. We were chosen because we had a better motivation. If we don't cooperate, the

  Fraternity will kill us."

  "Life does seem very sweet right now." Drew smiled and squeezed her hand. "We've got the greatest reason in the world to want to keep living." His voice became hoarse. "So we weigh a certain death against a less certain death. And here we are. We know we're being manipulated, but we have to permit it."

  "Then let's get the job done."

  "And get on with our lives."

  He picked up a photostat of a newspaper story.

  CARDINAL'S DISAPPEARANCE

  REMAINS A MYSTERY

  rome, italy, February 28 (AP)--Vatican officials and Rome police remain baffled five days after the disappearance of Cardinal Kninoslav Pavelic, influential member of the Roman Catholic Church's central administration group, the Curia. Pavelic, seventy-two, was last seen by close associates after celebrating a private mass in the chapel of his Vatican living quarters Sunday evening. On Monday, he had been scheduled to give the keynote address to a widely publicized conference of Catholic bishops on the subject of the Church's political relations with Eastern

  European communist regimes. Authorities at first suspected right-wing terrorists of abducting Cardinal Pavelic to protest a rumored softening of the Vatican's attitude toward any communist regime willing to ease restrictions on Church activities. However, no extremist group has so far claimed responsibility for Pavelic's disappearance. Drew finished reading. He turned to Arlene, who'd leaned forward to read past his shoulder. "What can a newspaper story tell you that isn't better substantiated in the primary documents Father Victor had?" she asked.

  "Right now, I'm interested in what isn't in those other documents."

  Drew's hand tightened on the photostat of the newspaper story. "You said Father Victor had covered every angle--religious, political, criminal? But one angle's missing."

  "Missing?"

  "It might be the reason Father Sebastian wanted us. Wanted me." He had trouble speaking. "It used to be my specialty." Again, unbearably, he suffered through the memory of the explosion that had dismembered his parents before his eyes, the rage that had turned him into an instrument of vengeance and had ultimately driven him to the penance of the monastery. 'Terrorists." The word made bile rise to his mouth. "The newspaper story mentions the possibility that Cardinal Pavelic was abducted by them. But where in these other documents has that possibility been investigated and dismissed? Is that our direction?"

  The morning sun fought through a veil of smog. Escaping the blare of traffic. Drew entered a pay phone near the Colosseum and dialed a number he hadn't used in almost eight years. He felt an unnerving sense of deja vu. A man, whose raspy voice Drew didn't recognize, answered in

  Italian. "Forum Dry Cleaners." Drew replied in Italian, "Mr. Carelli, please."

  "No Carelli here."

  "But can you relay a message to him?"

  "/ told you no Carelli. I never heard of him." The man hung up. Drew replaced the phone on its hook and leaned against the glass wall of the booth. Arlene stood just outside. "Prom the look on your face, I gather you didn't make contact"

  "Apparently some changes have been made."

  "Eight years. It isn't surprising. Relays are changed as often as every week."

  "I guess I'd hoped we could do this easily."

  "Who is Carelli?"

  "A pseudonym for a man called Gatto. In the old days, when I was an operative, he was a middleman. Sometimes we used him as a backup, in case a mission went sour. More often, we bought information from him."

  The look in her eyes made clear she understood. Terrorists usually operated in small groups independent of one another. This tactic gave them the advantage of secrecy, but it also meant they had no network to depend upon for weapons, information, and safety routes. After all, an assassination required careful planning. Unless a terrorist group was engaged in a suicidal mission, they needed "clean" weapons, never before used, untraceable to them. As soon as a mission was completed, these weapons would be disassembled and either destroyed or discarded in widely separated areas, preferably at sea. Such virgin weapons were expensive. But even before an operation, the victims had to be located, their daily schedules determined, their moments of exposure discovered.

  This information was costly to acquire. After the mission, of course, the terrorists would need to go to ground. Alibis, escape procedures, safe houses--these too were expensive. A first-class mission, one which by definition meant that the terrorists would survive un apprehended and be able to kill again, had a minimum price tag of $150,000. The money was supplied to terrorists by various governments committed to causing chaos, and the terrorists in turn paid the money to middlemen, sometimes called brokers, who provided the weapons, information, and safe houses, no questions asked. As far as the middleman was concerned, what his clients did with the services he made available was none of his business. Carelli, a. k.a. Gatto, had been one of these middlemen.

  "He had professional ethics," Drew said. "You mean he was careful."

  "Exactly. The information he gave us never exposed his clients," Drew continued. "But he had no qualms about accepting money in exchange for what he knew about
terrorists imprudent enough not to have hired him."

  "Sounds like a charming fellow." 'To tell the truth, if you could forget what he did for a living, he was."

  "And of course you hated him."

  "Him and the hate he fed off. But if anyone might know if terrorists abducted Cardinal Pavelic, it's Gatto."

  "Or it would have been Gatto eight years ago. Ether he's changed his conduit system since then, or he's left the business," Arlene said. "Of course, there's a third possibility. Maybe he knew too much and became a liability to his clients. Do business with the Devil..."

  "And the Devil destroys you. In this case--I never thought I'd say it--1 hope the Devil held off."

  "It looks like you'll never know." Drew shook his head. "There were alternate methods to get in touch with him. Different phone numbers, different intermediaries." He stepped back into the booth. His next three attempts resulted in similar "no Carelli" answers. Glancing with discouragement toward Arlene, he made his final call. A nasal female voice said, "Pontine Medical Supplies."

  "Can you get a message to Mr. Carelli?" Drew asked. The woman didn't answer. "Carelli," Drew repeated. "Can you... ?"

  "I haven't heard mat name in almost six months." 'It's been even longer since I spoke with him," Drew said. "I can get in touch with him, who

  ... ?"

  "Mr. Haverford," Drew told her, supplying the pseudonym he'd always used when dealing with Gatto. "I'll ask around. Please call again in thirty minutes." Drew walked with Arlene toward the Colosseum, back toward the phone boom, back toward the Colosseum. Precisely thirty minutes later, he redialed the number. "I phoned earlier about Mr. Carelli."

  "Write down these directions."

  Filled with misgivings. Drew urged the rented Flat up a zigzag wooded road. Never, in his many discussions with Gatto, had they met at a residence. The rule was to use a one- time-only public meeting place, a restaurant or a park, a location mat could never be traced to Gatto's organization. You didn't do business at anyone's home. For Gatto to jeopardize the safety of whoever lived here, he must have had an extremely good reason. The moment Drew entered the lavish drawing room in the heavily guarded villa, he knew the reason--Gatto was too sick to leave the premises. The villa was ten miles north of the outskirts of

  Rome, situated on a bluff with a view for miles around. Every luxury surrounded him. But the once-robust man, formerly engorged on the fees he earned from terrorist killings, was now a shell, his facial skin hanging loose, his complexion liver-spotted, his loss of hair disguised by a wide- brimmed hat. He slumped on a sofa. "Ah, Haverford." Gatto wheezed. "It's been too long. And such an attractive companion you bring with you."

  "Mr. Carelli." Smiling, Arlene grasped the bony fingers he extended.

  Her smile didn't waver when he pressed his shrunken lips to the back of her hand. Two bodyguards stood at the narrow ends of the room. "Yes, it's been a while," Drew said. "I had a change of heart... I might say a change of soul... I retreated from the profession." Gatto coughed.

  "As did I. Refreshment? Wine?"

  "You know I never indulged."

  "I remember. But with your permission..."

  "Of course." Gatto poured purple liquid into a glass. He had trouble swallowing it. The room smelled of medication. "Now that we've honored the amenities, Haverford, how may I help you?" His grin was a rictus.

  "In former times, you used to provide me with information about those foolish enough not to be your clients." Gatto's sagging clothes shook as he laughed. "Those foolish enough." He chortled. "Haverford, have you seen my new Matisse?" He gestured toward one wall. Drew turned, assessing it. "Impressive."

  "A million dollars, Haverford. What I sometimes earned on one assignment. How many people died, do you suppose, for Matisse to paint that picture?"

  "None... except a part of Matisse." Gatto coughed again. "And even if

  I sold it for the magnificent profit due to me, it wouldn't save my life. Come closer, my dear. Sit next to me." With a smile, Arlene complied.

  "So tell me, Haverford, in my place what would you do?"

  "In your place?"

  "If you were dying."

  "I see. In that case, I'd confess."

  "Oh?"

  "To a priest."

  "Oh?"

  "And do my best to save my soul."

  "You've got religion, Haverford?"

  "Late. But finally."

  "And is it comforting?"

  Drew thought about it. "No. In fact, it's quite a burden. But it's powerful."

  "Power, I understand."

  "And it helps me to adjust to thoughts of death."

  "That, my friend, is priceless," Gatto said. "So let me make an offer. A minister of God has disappeared. Can you help me find out why?"

  "A minister?"

  "Actually a cardinal. Krunoslav Pavelic." Gatto nodded, recognizing the name. "We think some of your former associates might be responsible for his disappearance. If you help me find him, I'd consider it a favor. No doubt, the Lord too would consider it a favor. And of course I would pay you."

  "Pay me? In this regard, Haverford, I don't care to be paid." 'Then...

  ?"

  "I want revenge!"

  "Against?"

  "Those who abandoned me in my infirmity!"

  Drew spread his hand. "You know what they're like. You can't blame them. They're survivors."

  "Survivors? Not if I can help it!" The effort of his outburst made

  Gatto close his eyes in pain. "The bastards dispense death readily enough, but they can't bear to do business with someone on the verge of death."

  "You're that offended because they won't do business with you?"

  "Business gave my life meaning."

  "Then maybe it's time to find another meaning."

  "Religion?" Gatto's spasm of pain subsided. He opened his eyes into slits. "Very good, Haverford. Help you find the cardinal, and in the process save my soul?"

  "Try to save it anyhow."

  "if it isn't too late."

  "The greatest sin is despair."

  "I meant if it isn't too late to find the cardinal. He disappeared months ago. From rumors I've heard, I gather the fullest efforts were made to find out what happened to him. Now that the trail has gone cold

  ..."

  "I'm interested in other kinds of rumors," Drew said. "About my former clients?" Gatto's eyelids trembled as he fought back his pain. "If they were responsible for taking the cardinal, don't you think they'd have bragged about it? Letters to newspapers, phone calls to Interpol?"

  "Since they didn't, I'm wondering if they bragged among themselves."

  "The truth?"

  "It's always refreshing."

  "You won't like it The truth is, I don't know. My disease was diagnosed in January. Word traveled fast I haven't heard insider news since

  February. I always enjoyed discussing world events with you, Haverford, so for old times' sake, I agreed to see you. But your trip here, I'm afraid, has been wasted. I'm not the man to ask." Gatto winced and held his breath. When he exhaled, it sounded like a tire deflating. Drew stood. "I'm sorry. We've stayed too long. We've exhausted you."

  "But I do know who you should ask." Drew kept himself perfectly still.

  "Who?"

  "The maggot who replaced the. The vermin who took my clients, who would have insider news. His name is Bonato."

  "His pseudonym?"

  "Medici."

  "Political intrigue. Chaos. Appropriate.

  Can you arrange an introduction with him?"

  "From me? Impossible, Haverford. When he gained me favor of my clients, I became dispensable. I exist by his sufferance, because I'm close to death already. If I told him I was sending you to meet with him, such an introduction would cost you your life. I'll tell you how to get in touch with him. The rest is up to you. Be cautious. Ask him questions at your peril."

  "Believe me, I intend to be careful. Tell me about him. Everything."

&nb
sp; 'Perhaps you're right, Haverford. Perhaps God will look with favor upon me if I show concern for His cardinal."

  Dressed in black. Drew stood with Arlene in the shadows of an alley, watching the cars in a parking lot next to a restaurant across the street The time was shortly after 8 p. m. They'd waited here for fifteen minutes, and if Gatto's information was correct, the broker with (he pseudonym of Medici would arrive at the restaurant within the next five minutes. The restaurant is considered off-limits, Gatto had said.