“I think I’ve already done you the favor.”
Pockmark sipped again. “That’s hard to imagine.”
“By gaining information you don’t have.”
“So you said on the phone. Be specific. What kind of information?”
“Are you wired?”
“Our conversation is completely one-to-one.”
“Of course. But are you wired?”
Pockmark shrugged. “I suppose the next thing you’ll search me.” He pulled a small tape recorder from a pocket of his white jacket and set it on a bedside table. Even from a distance, Saul could see the tiny reels turning.
“That’s the whole of it?” Saul asked. “No radio transmitter?” He stepped toward the cart.
“All right,” Pockmark said. “Just leave it alone. You’ll screw up the transmission.” He gently lifted the white linen on the cart, revealing a microphone and a power unit on a shelf underneath. “Happy now?”
“I want this official. I want your directors to know. I want to avoid misunderstandings.”
“More than anything, believe me, we want to understand.”
“Three men tried to kill me.”
“Yes. In Vienna. I was there, remember.”
“Not just in Vienna.”
Pockmark lowered his cup in surprise.
“Here in Switzerland,” Saul said. “In the mountains. South of Zurich. I assume the same three men. This time I discouraged them.”
“Too bad for them.”
“I’ve got their rings.”
“Say that again?”
“Rings. You can have them if we reach an agreement. They’re my favor to the network. In exchange for fulfillment of our bargain.”
Pockmark blinked. “Wait just a second. Let me understand this. You’re saying you’ll show us some rings, and that fulfills your obligation?”
“Along with automatic weapons, plastic explosives, and bogus IDs. You’re going to love it. There’s a network no one knows about.”
Pockmark laughed. “Don’t be absurd.”
“Fine. Then shut off your tape recorder, wheel your cart out, and give us five minutes to get away.”
“Five minutes? You’d never make it. But just because I said ‘absurd’ doesn’t mean I won’t listen.”
“More than that, you have to agree. I give you the rings. I tell you where to find the car the men drove. But our agreement has to be fulfilled. I don’t want shadows behind me.”
Pockmark hesitated. “I’ll need to discuss this with …”
The phone rang.
Saul had expected the call, but Pockmark jerked in surprise.
“That’ll be our faithful listeners,” Saul said. “Let’s find out what our ratings are.”
Pockmark picked up the phone. He listened, nodding as if eager to please. “Yes, sir. Of course. If that’s what you want, sir.” He set down the phone. “All right then, Romulus, damn you. Tell us what you have. If it checks out, if it’s as new as you claim, you’ve done your favor. I emphasize the if. Don’t try to jerk us around. And remember, we could have used chemicals to get the same information.”
“But chemicals only get answers from questions, and you don’t know what questions to ask.” Saul was aware of Erika sitting on the bed, one of the gunmen’s pistols beneath a blanket on her lap. “Besides, I’ve got too much to lose.”
“The rings.” Pockmark thrust out his hand.
Saul took them from his pocket and dropped them into Pockmark’s hand.
“A sword and a cross?”
“Religion and violence,” Saul said. “There’s a clasp on the side of each ring. Tilt the ruby up.”
Pockmark lifted the stone. His eyes narrowed when he saw the yellow capsule. “Poison?”
“Ever seen a ring like that?”
“Sure, every day.”
“Like hell. The men who wore those rings were extremely well-trained killers.”
Pockmark shook his head. “But that’s not enough to fulfill your obligation. It still doesn’t prove they belonged to a new network.”
“Did I say it was new? Look at the design on those rings. Medieval. I think the network’s very old.”
“But nobody’s ever heard of it? Ridiculous.”
“I’ll give you the chance to find out.” Saul wrote down the license number he’d memorized and handed the note to Pockmark. “Their car’s a black Renault. Last year’s model. It’s at the parking lot near the railway station. You’ll find the automatic weapons, plastic explosives, and bogus IDs. And maybe fingerprints, though I doubt it. These men were fond of gloves. But to rent a car, they had to leave a paper trail.”
“With bogus IDs, the paper trail won’t take us far.”
Saul hadn’t expected to lose control. “Quit being deliberately stupid. To rent a car, they had to use a credit card. Even if the card’s made out to an alias, somebody has to pay the bill. The money has to come from somewhere.”
“Take it easy.”
“I didn’t promise answers! I told you what I said I would! Do we have a deal or not? Is our bargain finished? Tell your bosses to make a decision! Put it on the record! Abide by it! I want to find Erika’s father and see my son again!”
9
One floor down, in a room directly under Saul’s, Gallagher sat at a long narrow table, watching the reels turn on a tape recorder connected to a radio receiver. The Agency station chief for Austria, he glanced down the table toward his counterpart, a short man with soft, pale, manicured hands, the station chief for Switzerland.
Gallagher’s suit was rumpled from his hurried flight with Pockmark from Vienna. Strictly speaking, he didn’t have authority here. But Romulus had insisted on dealing with the Vienna bakery, not the Zurich flower shop, and the bargain for a favor from Romulus had been made in Vienna, so that involved Gallagher regardless of whether his counterpart objected to his being here, though Zurich in fact didn’t seem to mind at all.
“What do you think?” Gallagher asked, pretending deference to his host.
Zurich assumed a look of grave deliberation. “It’s out of our power really. Langley will have to make the decision.”
“Based partly on our recommendation,” Gallagher said. “What do you think?”
“I’d like to see those rings and look at the car.”
“That’s not the deal Romulus offered. He wants a decision before you check out the car.”
“He hardly has much say in the matter, does he? What recourse does he have if his information leads us nowhere and we tell him he still owes us the favor?”
Gallagher grimaced, appalled by Zurich’s attitude. “You’ve never worked with Romulus, have you?”
“No. But so what? I know all I have to about him. He’s a troublemaker.”
“He’s a man of character. In Vienna, he made his bargain with us in good faith. I fully expect he’d have done us the favor.”
“Would have? Past tense?” Zurich looked puzzled.
“Because now he expects good faith from us, and if we jerk him around, he’ll refuse to cooperate.”
Zurich spread his hands. “Then we punish him and use him as an example of what happens to troublemakers. Honestly, I don’t see the problem.”
Gallagher wanted to slam his hands on the table. Instead he managed to keep his voice calm. “Let me explain. I have worked with Romulus, and I know how he thinks. He’s shrewd. I take for granted he hasn’t told us everything. He’ll have kept some important detail in reserve, as a further negotiation tactic.”
“So we pretend to agree until he tells us everything.”
“And what happens when word gets out that we didn’t show good faith? The repercussions would be disastrous. Freelance operatives wouldn’t deal with us. We have to say yes or no to Romulus. Maybe isn’t good enough. Besides, we need him.”
“To gain the extra information you think he hasn’t told us?” Zurich asked. “Unlike you, I doubt that information exists.”
Again Gallag
her mustered patience. “Listen. Romulus got into this because his wife’s father is missing. They want to find out what happened to him. Now they claim they found a network no one’s heard of. Assuming the network does exist, it’s related to what happened to the missing father. Everything Romulus knows about the one is pertinent to what we want to know about the other. We have to encourage him, not fight with him. As long as he keeps searching for his wife’s father, he’ll be doing the favor we wanted from him.”
Zurich surprised Gallagher. He agreed. “Yes, the search for the father is by extension a search for the unknown network. I see that now, and it does make sense to encourage Romulus. But there’s a further implication. We want him to do a favor for us. But if we investigate the possibility of this other network, if this other network has something to do with the missing father, we’ll be helping Romulus in his search. We’ll be doing a favor for him.” Zurich’s eyes twinkled. “He’s as shrewd as you said he was. He’s found a way to turn the situation around, to manipulate us into backing him up.”
As Zurich started to make his phone call to Langley, Gallagher picked up another phone and dialed the number in the room directly above.
“Put Romulus on… . This is Gallagher. I’m in the hotel. I’ve been listening with interest. We’re asking Langley to accept the bargain you’re offering. Understand, all we can do is recommend. Langley has the final say.”
“Of course.”
“But this is a good-faith gesture,” Gallagher said. “I promise I’ll do everything I can to back you up. I need something more from you, though. You haven’t told us everything. I’m sure of it. Give me something extra, something to help tilt the balance with Langley.”
“Good faith?”
“You have my word. I might have manipulated you, Romulus. But I never lied to you. Tell me something more.”
“The three men who wore the rings.” Romulus hesitated. “The men I killed.”
“What about them?”
“I think they were priests.”
BOOK FIVE
IMPACT
MEDUSA
1
Washington, D.C. Though it was only 9:16 A.M. and the kosher restaurant had not yet opened its doors to the public, eight elderly men sat at a banquet table in a private room in the rear. The room was usually rented for Bar Mitzvah parties and wedding feasts, but the present occasion was not a celebration. Memories of death and despair pinched each face, though solemnity did not preclude grim satisfaction as each man raised a glass of wine and drank ceremoniously. To retribution. To vindication.
Their first names were Abraham, Daniel, Ephraim, Joseph, Jacob, Moshe, Nathan, and Simon. Each man was in his late sixties or early seventies, and each had a number tattooed on a forearm.
“Has everything been arranged?” Ephraim asked.
He studied his comrades. They nodded.
“The mechanisms are in place,” Nathan said. “All that remains is to set the final process into motion. A week from today will see the end of it.”
“Thank the Lord,” Abraham said.
“Yes, that justice will finally be achieved,” Jacob said.
“No, that our part in achieving justice will have been concluded,” Abraham answered. “What we’ve done is distressing enough. But now we go further.”
“What we do is necessary,” Moshe objected.
“After all these years, what good is served?”
“It doesn’t matter how much time has gone by. If justice had value back then, it must have value now,” Simon insisted. “Or do you question the value of justice itself?”
“Do you urge passivity and forgiveness?” Joseph asked.
Abraham answered with force. “Passivity? Of course not. To be passive is to risk extinction.” He paused. “But forgiveness is a virtue. And justice is sometimes merely a word used to hide the ugliness of revenge. God’s chosen people must defend themselves, but do we remain His chosen people if we become obsessed by ignoble motives?”
“If you don’t approve of what we’re doing, why don’t you leave?” Jacob asked.
“No,” Joseph said. “Abraham is right to raise these issues. If we act without moral certainty, we do become ignoble.”
“I confess to hatred, yes,” Ephraim said. “Even now, I can see the corpses of my parents, of my brothers and sisters. What I want—what I crave—is to punish.”
“I have as much reason as you to hate,” Abraham said. “But I resist the emotion. Only feelings that nourish have worth.”
“And we respect your opinion,” Ephraim said. “But it’s possible for each of us to do the same thing for different reasons. Let me ask you two simple questions.”
Abraham waited.
“Do you believe that those who profited from our suffering should be allowed to retain those profits, to enjoy them?”
“No. That isn’t justice.”
“So I believe as well. Do you believe that the sins of the fathers should be allowed to be repeated by the children?”
“No, evil must not be permitted to thrive. Weeds must be destroyed before they can reproduce.”
“But in this case, they have reproduced, and once again our people are threatened. We must act, don’t you see that? Whether some of us do so for revenge doesn’t matter. The end is what matters, and this end is good.” The room became silent.
“Are we all agreed?” Joseph asked.
They nodded, Abraham reluctantly.
“Then let us eat together,” Ephraim said. “To symbolize our united resolve, the beginning of a too-long-postponed end.”
2
Mexico City. Aaron Rosenberg sat between two bodyguards in the backseat of his bulletproof Mercedes sedan, staring past the driver and the bodyguard in the front seat toward the Oldsmobile filled with more security personnel ahead of him. He turned to peer through the rear window toward the Chrysler van behind him filled with yet another team of guards. His imagination was tortured by images of what his wife and her bodyguard were probably doing with each other now that he’d left the house. At the same time, he dreaded whatever other threats the Night and Fog might leave at his home while he was gone. He’d tripled his security precautions, both at home and while away. He now refused to go anywhere unless his Mercedes was flanked front and back by protective vehicles. Nonetheless, he would never have left the house today if it hadn’t been absolutely necessary, if he hadn’t been summoned by one of the growing number of men he couldn’t refuse. There’s no question about it, Rosenberg thought. My life’s out of my control.
The caravan proceeded along the Paseo de la Reforma, maintaining a constant moderate speed, keeping a close formation. Soon the group drove south, leaving the sweltering city, heading toward the cool air of the estates at Lake Chalco. The compound through which his Mercedes passed was familiar to him. The red tiled roof on the sprawling main house had been reconstructed at Rosenberg’s expense. The large swimming pool in back, with its stunning view of the lake, had been Rosenberg’s gift to the occupant. The many gardeners and servants no doubt received their salaries through the special bank account into which Rosenberg deposited a considerable sum the first of every month.
The cost of doing business, Rosenberg thought, again reminded him of how much his life was out of control. Depressed, he stepped from the car and approached the house.
A high-ranking member of Mexico City’s police force stepped outside to greet him. His last name was Chavez. He wore sandals, shorts, and a bright red shirt open to his pudgy stomach. When he smiled, his pencil-thin mustache somehow maintained its straight horizontal line.
“Señor Rosenberg, how good of you to come.”
“It’s always a pleasure, Captain.”
Rosenberg followed the captain from the shadow of the house into the glaring sunshine beside the pool. He considered it significant that he hadn’t been offered a drink and began to feel apprehensive.
“Wait here, please,” the captain said. He went through a sliding glass d
oor at the back of the house and returned with a slender packet. “I’ve received information of importance to you.”
“A problem of some sort?”
“You tell me.” The captain opened the packet and withdrew a large black-and-white photograph. He handed it to Rosenberg.
Fear squeezed Rosenberg’s heart. “I don’t understand.” He raised his eyes toward Chavez. “Why would you show me a photograph of a German soldier from World War Two?”
“Not just a soldier, an officer. I’m told the rank … excuse my poor German accent … was Oberführer, or senior colonel. He belonged to the Totenkopfverbande, the so-called Death’s Head formation. You can see the silver medallion of a death’s head on his military cap. You can also see the twin lightning bolts on the sleeve of his jacket—the symbol for the SS. The photograph is so detailed you can even see the unit’s personal pledge to the Führer on his belt buckle—‘My loyalty is my honor.’ Note carefully in the background—the mounds of corpses. The Death’s Head division was in charge of exterminating the Jews.”
“You don’t need to tell me about the Holocaust,” Rosenberg bristled. “Why are you showing me this photograph?”
“You don’t recognize the officer?”
“Of course not. Why should I?”
“Because he bears a striking resemblance to your father, whose photograph you gave me when you asked me to investigate his disappearance a few months ago.”
“That man is not my father.”
“Don’t lie to me!” Chavez snapped. “I’ve compared the photographs in detail! Add facial wrinkles! Take away some hair! Add gray to the rest! Allow for minor reconstructive surgery! That man is your father!”
The League of Night and Fog Page 23