The League of Night and Fog (31 page)

“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 Gallagher 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.”

W
ashington, 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.”

M
exico 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 door 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!”

“How could a Jew be an SS officer?”

“Your father wasn’t a Jew, and you’re not either! Your real family name is Rodenbach! Your father’s first name was Otto! Yours is Karl!” Chavez took documents from the packet. “That officer’s picture appeared on SS identification records and on immigration forms when he came to Mexico. The face is the same, though the name is different. Government authorities will soon be told who he really is! The United States authorities will also be told, and as both of us know, the United States bolsters its relations with Israel by pretending indignation toward Nazi war criminals.”

Rosenberg couldn’t move. “Who told you these things?”

“You don’t expect me to reveal my sources.” Chavez spread his arms in a gesture of goodwill. “But I wonder, how much are you willing to pay for me to neutralize my information, to assure the authorities there’s been a mistake?”

Rosenberg wanted to vomit. Blackmail never ended. It only bought time. But time was in limited supply. It would last only as long as his money did. He thought of the cargo in the ship headed toward the Mediterranean and what he assumed now was certain disaster.

“How much do you want?” he asked.

The glint in the captain’s coal-black eyes didn’t reassure him.

S
t. Paul, Minnesota. William Miller feigned a polite smile of greeting as he crossed the cocktail lounge and approached the man in the left rear booth.

On the phone, the man had said his name was Sloane. He was with the Associated Press, he claimed, and wanted to talk about Miller’s father.

Now Sloane imitated Miller’s smile of greeting, stood, and extended his hand.

They surveyed each other.

“Somebody sent you what?” Sloane asked. “On the phone, you said something about filth.”

“You’re really a reporter?”

“Cross my heart.”

“Shit.” Miller swallowed, disgusted at himself. “I’m sorry I lost my temper when you called. I thought for sure you were involved.”

“That’s why we’re here. To talk about it.” Sloane gestured toward the booth.

They sat across from each other. Sloane was in his mid-thirties, short, heavy-chested, with dark thin hair and intelligent eyes. “What do you mean by filth?” he asked.