The League of Night and Fog (36 page)

Any citizen of the Vatican would immediately link the meeting place Drew suggested with the recent murder there. Any indignant but innocent Vatican bureaucrat would call attention to the morbid choice of site. But Father Dusseault, pausing briefly, had merely said, “I’ll meet you there at one
A.M
.”

N
ow, fifteen minutes late for the appointment, Father Dusseault stepped from the darkness behind the fountain. He didn’t seem surprised that Drew was dressed as a priest. It was understandable, Drew thought. After all, a voice who gave the Fraternity’s recognition code would logically, in the Vatican, be expected to wear the appropriate uniform. Where else could a Catholic chameleon safely show his true colors?

Drew couldn’t help noticing that Father Dusseault wasn’t showing all of
his
colors, though—the priest had taken off his white collar to help him blend with the night. The tactic reinforced Drew’s suspicion that the priest’s training had not been entirely religious.

But Father Dusseault apparently hadn’t discovered Arlene, who like Drew had once again entered the Vatican wearing the costume of a religious order. She’d arrived in the gardens well before the 1
A.M
. meeting time, had taken off the white trim from her nun’s habit, and had spread herself flat on the ground, merging her black clothing with the darkest group of bushes in the area, the same dark bushes Drew had been looking at when Father Dusseault arrived.

In the glow from the moon, Drew studied the ring on the middle finger of Father Dusseault’s left hand: a ruby ring with the insignia
of an intersecting cross and sword. It was obvious that Father Dusseault had worn the ring to verify his membership in the Fraternity—and equally obvious that the absence of an identical ring on Drew’s finger put him under suspicion.

Indeed Father Dusseault pointed at Drew’s naked finger. “I assumed you were one of us.”

Drew recognized the resonant voice he’d heard on the phone. “No.”

“How do you know our recognition code?”

“A member of the Fraternity once told me … when he tried to recruit me,” Drew said.

“If he tried to recruit you, you must have special skills.”

Drew didn’t reply.

“Why did you refuse to join us?”

“I hate everything the Fraternity stands for,” Drew said.

“Hate?” Father Dusseault smiled. “A destructive emotion. You ought to confess it and seek absolution for it. But then confession is why we’re here.” He raised his right hand, blessing Drew. “The Lord forgives you. Now tell me why you’re so interested in the cardinal’s disappearance.”

Drew shook his head.

“Whom do you work for?”

Drew shook his head again. “I’d rather discuss the assassins I mentioned, the two men looking for the cardinal.”

“Ah, yes, the ones you claim are the sons of executioners who worked for Hitler. By all means, if that’s what you prefer to talk about. For now. How did you learn about them?”

“Let’s say we crossed paths. Their code names are Icicle and Seth.”

Though Father Dusseault’s face showed no reaction, his eyes betrayed him.

“You’ve heard of them?” Drew asked.

“No,” the priest lied. “I’m sure I’d remember such vivid names.”

“The sons of Nazi assassins,” Drew said. “It made me wonder. Why would they want to find the cardinal? I turned the question
around. What would the cardinal have to do with
them?
I started thinking about the cardinal’s past. What had he done to rise so quickly through the ranks of the Church?”

“There’s no mystery about it,” Father Dusseault said. “The cardinal was a never-tiring laborer for the Faith. His remarkable energy was repeatedly rewarded.”

“Well, the labor I was interested in took place in 1945, just before his first promotion. What’s the cardinal’s connection with the Nazis?”

S
aul watched from his hidden vantage point on the dew-wet ground beneath shrubs. The two priests were talking—their voices too low for Saul to hear what they said—when Father Dusseault stepped suddenly forward, lunging with his left hand. Moonlight glinted off …

… A
knife that must have been in a spring-loaded sheath … under Father Dusseault’s coat sleeve. Drew leapt back, feeling the blade snick across his lapel. Heat rushed through his body. His nerve ends quickened in response to a scalding spurt of adrenaline. He dodged another thrust of the knife, trying to maneuver so the moon was to his back, its glow on Father Dusseault, hoping to impair the priest’s night vision.

But Father Dusseault understood Drew’s intention and began to circle Drew, trying to put his own back to the moon.

When the knife flashed toward him again, Drew blocked the thrust and struck the heel of his palm against Father Dusseault’s chest, aiming toward the ribs above the heart. But the priest anticipated the blow, twisting to his left, absorbing the impact on his side. At the same time, using the torque of his body, the priest kicked his right foot high toward Drew’s jaw.

Drew snapped his head back, avoiding the kick, and grabbed
for the foot that sped past him. Father Dusseault spun evasively. In a blur, he slashed again.

Drew slammed the knife arm away and plowed the heel of his palm against Father Dusseault’s nostrils, feeling cartilage crunch. Though the blow wasn’t fatal, it would be excruciating, so stunning that for the next few seconds the priest wouldn’t be able to defend himself. Drew took the advantage, delivering a rapid sequence of forceful punches—to the diaphragm, under the jaw, across the bridge of the nose.

Father Dusseault went down.

S
aul continued to watch in amazement. The speed of the second priest’s reflexes was astonishing, again reminding him of Chris. The priest had struck with the heel of his palm. Just as Chris and I were trained to do. The priest’s agility, his rhythm, his accuracy, his
style
—they all made Saul think of Chris.

Or is it just that Chris died in a knife fight and I so wish he’d survived that I’m imposing my fantasy onto the priest who
did?

No, Saul thought. I’m not imagining the resemblance. The priest isn’t Chris. I know that. But he looks so much like him it’s eerie.

Saul’s thoughts were interrupted. Someone else was in the gardens. At first Saul suspected the shadowy figure that appeared from bushes to his right was Erika.

But it
wasn’t
Erika, he quickly realized. The figure was a woman, yes, but dressed as a nun. She rushed into the clearing. The victorious priest turned to her. They spoke urgently, crouching beside Father Dusseault.

Saul made a sudden dangerous choice. His years of professional conditioning objected. His protective instincts rebelled. They didn’t matter. He stood from his murky cover. If his intuition had betrayed him, he could always charge backward into greater darkness. Instead, he stepped into the clearing.

A
larmed, the priest and the nun swung toward him. “This is the biggest risk I’ve ever taken,” Saul said. He raised his hands. “I’m not alone, so stay as you are. I trust you. Please don’t make a move against me.”

The priest seemed paralyzed between conflicting motives, whether to run or to attack. The nun pulled a pistol from behind her back.

Saul raised his hands even higher, stepping closer. “You didn’t know I was out there watching, so assume I could have killed you if I’d wanted to. Assume we’ve got mutual concerns.”

“Mutual concerns?” the priest asked.

Saul felt another eerie tingle. The voice was Chris’s. It couldn’t be. But it was.

Or am I going crazy?

“What you did is what
we
wanted to do,” Saul said.

“Which is?” The nun continued to aim the pistol.

“Get our hands on Father Dusseault and make him tell us what he knows about …”

The priest cocked his head. “About?”

Saul hesitated, unsure how much to reveal, and abruptly committed himself. “About my wife’s missing father and why three men—I think they were priests—tried to kill my wife and myself.”

“You say you think they were
priests
?”

“Yes, like the man who just attacked you. He wears the same kind of ring they wore. A ruby with the insignia of an intersecting sword and cross.”

D
rew stared in surprise. “You know about the Fraternity?” The stranger was in his late thirties, tall and muscular, dark-haired, square-jawed, swarthy

Drew felt a momentary déjà vu, thinking he’d seen him before, though he couldn’t imagine where. He disregarded the unnerving sensation and waited for the man to answer.

“The Fraternity?” The stranger frowned. “Is that what they call themselves? No, I don’t know about them, but I’d sure like to learn.” The man stepped closer. “I do know this—the ring has a poison capsule hidden under the stone.”

“Yes, the stone,” Drew said. “The Fraternity of the Stone. They’re supposed to swallow the poison if there’s a danger they’ll be captured and forced to reveal the secrets of their order.”

“Order?”
The stranger spoke quickly. “Then I was right? They’re all priests?”

Drew nodded. Reminded of the poison, he crouched beside Father Dusseault and took the precaution of slipping the ring off the priest’s finger.

“You didn’t kill him, I hope,” the stranger said.

“I tried my best not to. He’ll wake up sore.”

“As long as he wakes up. I’ve got questions to ask him. On the other hand, since you seem to know about the Fraternity, maybe you can save me the effort. You don’t wear one of their rings. I assume you’re not a member. Something tells me you’re not a priest either, any more than your friend’s a nun.”

“I
have
seen you before,” Drew said.

S
aul felt as if he’d been jolted.

“Yesterday. In Switzerland,” the priest said. “At the crest of the Albis Pass.”

“I drove over it yesterday. Heading toward Zurich.”

“In a Renault.”

“How the hell—?”

“A woman was in a car behind you,” the priest said. “She drove a Volkswagen Golf.”

“She’s my wife. But how did you—?”

“She looked so intense, so tired, and yet so determined to concentrate on you driving ahead of her. I can’t explain why, but when both of you drove past, I identified with you.”

Saul felt a second jolt. He wanted to tell the priest about Chris, about his own eerie sense of identification.

But his attention was drawn toward Father Dusseault.

“We have to get him out of here,” the priest said.

“Before a guard comes along,” Saul agreed and glanced behind him toward the darkness. “My wife’ll be wondering what we’re talking about. I’d better let her know it’s safe to show herself.” He turned toward a clump of bushes and waved for her to come out. “You didn’t tell me your names. Unless you’re still suspicious of me.”

The man and the woman looked uncertainly at each other.

“Drew.”

“Arlene.”

“Saul. My wife’s name is Erika. You’ll like her.” He waved his arm again for Erika to come out.

Waited.

Waved a third time.

And suddenly realized that she wouldn’t be emerging from cover, that the world had gone terribly wrong, that his life was on the verge of destruction.

S
aul raced toward the edge of the murky gardens and stared toward the massive dome of St. Peter’s haloed by the night lights of Rome. He’d searched one half of the grounds while the man who called himself Drew checked the other half. Now, seeing a guard near a palace across from him, he knew he had reached the point where he didn’t dare go any farther. If Erika wasn’t in the gardens, he certainly couldn’t hope to find her in the maze of Vatican buildings. Again he wondered what had happened to her. He struggled to analyze the possibilities and concluded that only two made sense. She’d been forced to run, or
else she’d been caught. But forced to run or caught by whom? Guards? Someone else in the Fraternity?

More than the agreed-upon twenty minutes had elapsed since he’d begun to search. By now, Drew would have returned to the fountain.
Maybe Drew had found Erika
.

Saul rushed through the night, charging into the clearing next to the fountain, stunned to see it deserted.

He clenched his fists in outrage but heard a footstep to his right and recognized Drew coming from cover.

“We hid in case a guard came along,” Drew said. “You’re late.”

“Did you find her?”

“No … I’m sorry.”

Saul felt as if razor blades slashed his heart.

“I’m afraid we have to leave,” Drew said.

“I understand.”

“Will you be coming with us, or do you plan to go on searching?”

Saul turned toward the dark expanse of the gardens. He felt grievously tempted. “No.” He had trouble speaking. “If she were here, she’d have shown herself or we’d have found her. I’ll keep looking. Somewhere else.” His voice broke. “But I can’t imagine where.”

“We’ve still got the problem of where to go with the priest.”

Saul studied the gardens one last time. It took all his discipline to rouse himself. If he were discovered here, he told himself, it wouldn’t help Erika. On the other hand, Father Dusseault might know why she’d disappeared.

He struggled to concentrate. “You’d better follow me.”

They had limited options, he realized. They could try to take Father Dusseault back to his apartment, but the odds were too great that a guard would notice and raise an alarm. And if they did somehow manage to reach the apartment, what would they do after that? Question him there? In the morning, someone on his staff might be puzzled by his absence and come to look for him. No, they had to get Father Dusseault out of the Vatican.
But how? They’d certainly be stopped if they attempted to carry him through the Vatican’s guarded gates at 2
A.M
. They might be able to find a hiding place and stay there till morning, but what then? Walk the priest through the checkpoints while the guards were distracted by the usual throng of tourists? But how would they prevent Father Dusseault’s battered face from being noticed, and what if the priest caused a commotion at the gate? Only one solution seemed practical. To leave the Vatican now, but not past the guardposts.