The League of Night and Fog (35 page)

“No question. My guess is we’ll find the cards have a perfect rating. And I’m damned curious about who pays the bills.”

A phone rang. Saul glanced at Erika as Gallagher went over to answer it. They couldn’t hear what he said. Mostly Gallagher listened, and when he came back, he looked excited.

“The men whose names are on those passports died years ago. The addresses are rooming houses for transients. But the credit cards are three months old, and the bills were paid as quickly as they were received.”

“Who paid them?”

“Each man had a different card. Each bill was paid through a different bank. But each bank has photocopies of the checks paid through each account, and the signature on the checks
wasn’t the bogus name of each man you killed. No, the man who wrote the checks was an accountant. Unusual—don’t you think?—for someone whose address is a transient’s rooming house to have a need for an accountant. Even more unusual for
three
transients with
separate
addresses to have the
same
accountant. But it gets better. The accountant doesn’t exist either. His checks are good. But he’s in a graveyard in Marseilles. And he has a post office box instead of an office. So we go past the bogus accountant, and what do we find? You were right, Romulus. I’m sorry I ever doubted you.”

“Tell me.”

“The Catholic Church. The bills were paid through Rome. Through the Vatican office of a cardinal whose name is Krunoslav Pavelic. And here’s the kicker. The cardinal disappeared several months ago. So what does a missing cardinal have to do with three assassins who might be priests and the disappearance of—?”

“My father,” Erika said. “A Jew, not a Catholic.”

“But if the cardinal disappeared, who paid the bills?” Saul asked.

“The cardinal’s assistant,” Gallagher said. “Father Jean Dusseault.”

H
unched over a wooden table in the muffled silence of a reading room in Rome’s Vallicelliana Library, Drew and Arlene examined the books a librarian had given to them. The half-dozen titles, all in Italian, were dictionaries of religious biographies, the equivalent of
Who’s Who
in the Vatican, the Curia, the Roman Catholic Church. They found the information they wanted and glanced at each other with dissatisfaction, returned the books, and stepped from the library’s vestibule to face the brilliance and noise of Rome.

“Well, at least it was worth a try,” Drew said.

Arlene’s response surprised him. “As far as I’m concerned, we learned a lot.”

“I don’t see what. The biographical references in those books were little more than public relations for the cardinal.”

“He doesn’t lack ego, that’s for sure,” Arlene said. “Most
Who’s Whos
base their citations on information supplied by the people listed in them. The cardinal apparently views himself as a saint on earth. He has medals and testimonials from dozens of religious groups. He even has a papal decoration. But a list of honors isn’t a biography. The cardinal didn’t supply many details about his life. Either he thinks his biography is boring, which I doubt given his willingness to let everybody know his various titles and honors, or else—”

“He’s got something to hide?”

“Let’s put it this way,” Arlene said. “We know he was born in 1914 and raised in Yugoslavia. We know he felt an early calling to the Faith and entered the Church when he was eighteen. We know he received his religious training here in Rome. For a time, he served as the Church’s liaison with the Red Cross. He moved rapidly up through the ranks of the Church. At thirty-five, he was one of the youngest men to be admitted into the Curia. As a controller of the Church’s finances, he holds one of the most powerful positions in the Vatican.”

“He must have had talent, all right,” Drew said. “The question is, at what? There’s nothing in his biography to indicate why he was promoted so rapidly. If you’re right, if he’s hiding something, it won’t be in any official biography. I doubt we’d find it even if we checked the Vatican archives. A member of the Curia has the power to make sure his past is sanitized.”

“How do we get the unofficial version of Pavelic’s life?” Arlene asked.

“I think it’s time to have an intimate conversation with the cardinal’s close associates,” Drew said. “In the newspaper accounts of his disappearance, I remember a reference to Pavelic’s personal assistant. Father Jean Dusseault, I believe the name was.”

“French.”

“We can narrow the range of our discussion with him. What I’m interested in—”

“Is World War Two,” Arlene said, “and why the assassin sons of
Nazi
assassins would be determined to find our missing cardinal. Let’s go back to the Vatican.”

F
ather Jean Dusseault had an apartment in one of the many Renaissance palaces within the Vatican. The simplest way to contact him, of course, would have been to phone him and schedule an appointment at his office. But the subsequent conversation was unlikely to prove productive. Saul imagined the stony response to the questions he wanted to ask. “Do you know anything about a connection between Cardinal Pavelic and checks written out of your office to assassins who might be priests? Have you ever heard about a secret intelligence network within the Catholic Church? Absurd? Of course. I’m sorry I troubled you.” No, Saul thought as he waited in an alcove across from Father Dusseault’s apartment building. An interview in his office wouldn’t do. A private approach, an intimate—if necessary, forced—conversation: those were the only practical options.

Saul had agreed with Gallagher that, despite the Agency’s new willingness to help, it was best for Saul and Erika to go in alone. They had no present affiliations with any network. If they were caught, the worst accusation would be that a man and woman who happened to be Jews had too energetically questioned a Catholic priest about the woman’s missing father.

Besides, Saul thought, this really is still a personal matter. Erika’s father is all I care about. Gallagher gave me information I didn’t have—about the Vatican connection with the men who stalked me. In return,
he
learned about the possibility of a network, the existence of which no one suspected. It’s a fair exchange.

Lights flicked off in several apartments. The night became
blacker. The Vatican was closed to tourists after 7
P.M
., but Saul and Erika had hidden in a basement of one of the office buildings, creeping out after sunset. From his vantage point, Saul glanced down the narrow street toward where Erika waited in a similar alcove. They had flanked the entrance to Father Dusseault’s apartment building. As soon as the light went off in his apartment, they’d go up. Or if he came out, they were ready to follow.

As it was, he came out. Saul recognized the robust young Frenchman with his thick dark hair and his slightly weak chin from a late-afternoon visit he’d made to Father Dusseault’s office, pretending to be a journalist inquiring if there were developments in the search for the cardinal. The priest had been aloof, abrupt, dismissive. Saul wasn’t going to regret demanding answers from him.

The priest paused beneath a light above the entrance to the palace, then headed toward Saul’s right, in Erika’s direction. His dark suit blended with the shadows; his white collar remained visible, however.

Saul shifted from his hiding place, having given Erika a chance to go after the priest before he himself did. He concentrated on a dim light at the end of the street, waiting to see which direction Father Dusseault would take.

The priest went straight ahead. His apartment building was to the right of St. Peter’s Square, near the so-called downtown area of the Vatican, where its supermarket, pharmacy, and post office were located. His route led Saul and Erika between the Sistine Chapel and St. Peter’s Basilica, past the Pontifical Academy of Science, and deep within the Vatican woods and gardens, the darkness of which was only partially dispelled by periodic lamps. Twice Saul had to stop and hide—once when two priests walked past him from one building to another, again while a Swiss guard patrolled a street. As soon as he entered the cover of shrubs and trees, he felt less uneasy. But he was troubled by two gestures the priest made. One was to remove his white collar and tuck it into his suitcoat pocket. The other was to push his right
hand along the middle finger of his left hand as if he put on a ring.

With an intersecting cross and sword?

Is Father Dusseault connected with the three men who tried to kill me? Is that why their bills were paid through the cardinal’s office?

The priest’s movements, formerly casual, now became wary. A man of the cloth on a late-night stroll became an operative on guard against danger. He skirted the pale glow of a garden lamp. Without the white collar, his black suit blended perfectly with the darkness of shrubs.

He disappeared.

Somewhere ahead, among trees and bushes, Erika would be watching, Saul knew. Perhaps she was close enough to see where the priest went. But as she stalked him, would the priest be stalking her as well? Had Father Dusseault suspected he was being followed?

Saul was sure of
this
. He and Erika thought so much alike, the same suspicion would have occurred to her. She’d take extra care. Silently he crept forward, past fountains, hedges, and statues. Marble angels had always reminded him of death. The scent of the plants was cloying, as in an undertaker’s parlor. He sank to the ground, squirming forward through a gap between shrubs, pausing when he saw a clearing before him. A large fountain in the shape of a Spanish galleon loomed ahead.

At first he thought the priest with his back to the fountain was Father Dusseault. Then the emergence of a quarter moon made him realize that
this
priest wore a white collar. The man was taller than Father Dusseault. His strong-chinned profile made Saul tingle. In these gardens that reminded him of a cemetery, he had the eerie sensation he was seeing a ghost. For an instant, he would have sworn he was looking at his dead foster brother, Chris.

Saul stared in shock. Had Chris somehow survived? Saul had never seen Chris’s body; he’d only been told about the knife attack that had killed him. But despite the longing in Saul’s heart,
he knew in his soul that his hope was groundless. This priest, no matter the resemblance, was not in fact Chris.

A subtle movement at the side of the fountain attracted Saul’s attention. Was it Erika trying to gain a better vantage point on this unexpected second priest?

No, he decided. She was too professional to let curiosity force her into the risk of revealing herself.

The movement beside the fountain became more evident. A shadow detached itself from darker shadows. A man stepped forward. In a priest’s black suit but without the white collar. A man with a ring on the middle finger of his left hand.

Father Dusseault.

The other priest had apparently been aware of Father Dusseault’s approach. Calmly, he turned to his visitor and raised his hands in a gesture of peace. Or so it seemed. The gesture was identical to an operative’s invitation to search him, a signal that he wasn’t armed.

T
o protect his night vision, Drew had taken care not to glance up at the moon or toward a lamp down a nearby path. Instead he’d concentrated on the darkest group of shrubs before him, keeping his back protected against the fountain. Though Father Dusseault should have arrived by now, he assumed that the priest was being cautious, approaching slowly, on guard against a trap. When he heard soft movement behind the fountain and turned with exaggerated calm, raising his arms in a gesture of nonaggression, he was grateful that Father Dusseault had chosen the darkest approach to this clearing, inadvertently helping Drew to preserve his sight.

Of course, this priest might not be Father Dusseault at all. Drew had never met the man. That afternoon, he’d phoned the priest at his Vatican office and asked for an appointment.

“What did you wish to speak with me about?” a smooth voice with a slight French accent had asked.

“Cardinal Pavelic,” Drew had said.

“You’ll have to be more specific. If this is about the cardinal’s disappearance, I’ve already had one reporter here today, and I told him what I’m telling you. We have no information. Talk to the police.”

“I’m not a reporter,” Drew had said. “And I don’t think you should tell me to see the police. It might make trouble for you.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re—”

“You asked for something specific. Try this. Two assassins are looking for the cardinal. The sons of Nazi SS men from World War Two. Their fathers reported directly to Hitler. Does that spark your interest?”

The line had been silent for a moment. “Ridiculous,” Father Dusseault had said. “What would make you imagine—?”

“Not on the phone. I told you I want an appointment. In private. As soon as possible. Tonight.”

“Who
is
this?”

“Sorry,” Drew had answered.

“You expect me to trust an anonymous voice on the phone? To meet you in secret and talk about assassins?”

Father Dusseault’s outburst had seemed more calculated than spontaneous. Drew had decided to test him. “If you want a character reference, I can direct you to a Fraternity.”

Again the line had been silent.

Encouraged, Drew had tested him further, beginning the Fraternity’s recognition code.
“Dominus vobiscum.”

“I don’t understand why you told me that.”

“Surely, Father, you recognize a quotation from the Latin mass.”

“Of course. ‘The Lord be with you.’”

“Et cum spiritu tuo.”

“That’s right. ‘And with your spirit.’
Deo gratias.”
Drew had held his breath, waiting for the last part of the Fraternity’s recognition code.

“ ‘Thanks be to God.’ Amen.”

Drew had exhaled silently. The code had been completed. “There’s a Spanish-galleon fountain in the Vatican gardens.”

The reference to the fountain was also a test. Several days ago, when Drew and Arlene had disguised themselves as a priest and a nun to meet Father Sebastian at the Vatican gardens, that fountain had been their rendezvous. It was where Father Victor, the member of the Fraternity who’d sent Arlene to find Drew in Egypt, had been shot.