League of Night and Fog by David Morrell
Israel's desert. He remembered the irrigation ditches he'd worked so hard to complete. These two days of Austrian rain would have turned his meager cropland into an oasis. Imagining that wondrous possibility, he ached to go back home but wondered if he'd have the chance to do so.
Barges chugged along the river, hazy in the drizzle. He passed beneath dripping trees, entered a wooded park, and reached a gloomy covered bandstand. Its wooden floor rumbled hollowly as he crossed it. A man sat with one hip on the railing, angled sideways, smoking a cigarette, peering out toward the rain. He wore a pale brown nylon sucker, its metal fasteners open, a darker brown suit beneath it. In profile, his chin protruded. His cheeks showed sporadic pockmarks. As he exhaled smoke from his cigarette, he seemed unaware of Saul's footsteps coming toward him. For his part, Saul was aware of another man in an identical brown nylon slicker who waited beneath a nearby chestnut tree and looked with unusual interest at birds huddling in the branches above him. Saul stopped at a careful distance from the man on the railing.
The drizzle on the handstand's roof seeped through a few cracks and pattered next to him. "So, Romulus," the pockmarked man said, then turned, "how are you?"
"Obviously out of bounds."
"No kidding. You were spotted as soon as you showed up at the airport.
We've been watching you ever since."
"I didn't try to sneak in. The first thing I did was go to a phone and contact the bakery. This meeting was my idea, remember?"
"And that, my friend, is the only reason you're walking around." The pockmarked man threw his cigarette into the rain. "You've got a bad habit of breaking rules."
"My foster brother's the one who broke the rules."
"Sure. But you helped him escape instead of turning him in."
"I guess you don't have any brothers."
"Three of them."
"In my place, would you have helped them or sided against them?" The man with the pockmarks didn't reply. "Besides, my foster brother was eventually killed." Saul's voice became thick. After almost three years, his grief for Chris still hurt him terribly. "We're here to talk about you, not him."
"I admit I made a bargain with Langley. Exile. To stay in the desert.
But things have happened."
"What things?"
"The settlement where I live was attacked. My wife and son were nearly killed."
"In Israel"--the man shrugged--"attacks can happen."
"But this was personal. My son, my wife, and I were the targets!" The man's eyes narrowed. "A day before that, my wife's father disappeared!
Here in Vienna! That's why I left Israel--to find out what was--"
"Okay, I get your point. Take it easy." The man with the pockmarks gave a reassuring gesture to his partner beneath the nearby chestnut tree, who'd started approaching when he heard the emotion of Saul's voice.
"What you're saying"--the pockmarked man studied Saul--"is you're not back in business? You haven't signed on with another firm?"
"Business?
You think that's why I'm here? Business? It makes me want to throw up."
"Graphic, Romulus, but evasive. When I give my report, my superiors will want direct statements."
"You're giving your report right now. I assume you're wired. That blue van at the entrance to the park is recording every word we say. Am I right?" The man with the pockmarks didn't bother turning toward the van.
"All right, for the record," Saul said, "I'm not on anybody's payroll.
This is a family matter. I'm asking for a dispensation from the bargain
I made. Temporary. Till I settle my problem. The minute I do, I'll be on a plane back to Israel."
The pockmarked man's gaze became calculating. "My superiors will want to know why they should make the dispensation."
"As a favor."
"Oh?"
"In exchange, I'll do them a favor." The man slowly stood from the railing. "Let's be clear. A favor? You want to put it on that formal a basis? You're invoking a professional courtesy?"
"A favor for a favor. I don't have any other choice."
"You'll do anything we ask?"
"With reservations."
"Ah, then your offer isn't serious."
"Wrong. It's very serious. But I'd need to know the assignment. The risk factor's not as important as the ultimate objective. It can't be suicidal. But it mustn't be morally repugnant."
"Morals? Don't tell me you've acquired morals, Romulus."
"The desert can do that to you. In case your superiors haven't thought of this, I remind them that an operative publicly exiled from the network but secretly affiliated with it can have great value. I wouldn't be linked with it." The pockmarked man's gaze became more calculating. "You're that determined to find out what happened to your father-in-law?"
"And protect my family from another attack. / told you this isn't business--it's personal." The pockmarked man shrugged. "My superiors will have to assess the tape of our conversation."
"Of course."
"We'll get back to you." The man crossed the bandstand, his footsteps echoing. "I'm staying at my father-in-law's apartment. I'd give you the address and phone number, but I assume you already know them." The man turned, studied Saul, and nodded. His nod was ambiguous, either in farewell or out of respect. 2
In a bookstore across the street from the park, Erika watched the van pull away. She waited until it disappeared around a corner then turned her attention back toward the park. In the rain, the bandstand was barely visible. She and Saul had assumed that his contact would have a backup. As a consequence, she had come here earlier, prepared to act as backup for Saul. She stepped from the bookstore, pulled up the hood on her nylon jacket, and hurried through the downpour. Saul was waiting for her at the bandstand. "Do you think they'll agree?" she asked. "If they feel there's something in it for them. I had to promise a favor for a favor." Her voice sank in despair. "I'm sorry. I know how much you'd hate going back to work for them."
"But what's the alternative? Do nothing to find your father and protect ourselves?
I'd hate that even more. Only one thing matters. Doing what's necessary to keep our family safe."
"The more I know you, the more I love you."
"Step closer when you say that." He pulled down the hood on her jacket, joined his hands at the back of her neck beneath her long dark hair, and gently drew her toward him, kissing raindrops off her cheeks. But she sensed his nervousness. "What if they don't give permission?"
"I'll have to go ahead anyhow."
"No," she said. "We will." She hugged him. "And God help whoever tries to stand in our way." 3
"I'm staying at my father-in-law's apartment. I'd give you the address and phone number, but I assume you already know them." Exhaling cigarette smoke, the pockmarked man leaned forward from a leather-covered chair and shut off the tape machine positioned on the conference table. He turned to the CIA's chief of station for Austria.
"You want to hear it again?" Fluorescent lights hummed. Three other men in the oakpaneled room sat motionless, showing no reaction as the station chief tapped his fingers on the table. His name was Gallagher. A short wiry man in a blue pinstriped suit, he stopped drumming his fingers and splayed them firmly across the edge of the table. "No, the third time was sufficient. I'm clear about what he told you. But you were there. I wasn't. You saw the expression in his eyes. Did Romulus mean what he told you?"
"A gut reaction?" The pockmarked man stubbed out his cigarette. "Yes."
"Provided Romulus feels the mission isn't suicidal, provided he doesn't object to the mission's objective, he'll do anything for us?"
"Again a gut reaction? Yes."
"My, my." A balding man decided to risk a comment. "It's a major shift in his position. The original agreement was--he promised to remain in exile, but we had to promise to leave him alone."
"A man of his talents,"
Gallagher said, "he could be useful if he rejoined the game and no one
"But only once,"
the pockmarked man reminded him. Gallagher lifted his calloused fingers, the product of his black-belt karate training, and massaged his temples.
"Well, then, if he wants to pursue a personal vendetta, let him do it.
Something bothers me, though." The men in the room waited to hear what it was. "This personal vendetta might have professional consequences.
We don't know who's responsible for the attack on Romulus and his family, after all. Or who's responsible for the disappearance of his wife's father. We have to make sure he remains independent, unaffiliated."
"I don't understand," the pockmarked man said. "You will. Romulus must be impatient to hear from us. It's time I got clearance from Langley."
The rain had stopped. Streetlights reflected off wet grass and puddles.
The night air smelled sweet. Scanning the shadows of the park, Saul left the walkway beside the Danube and once again approached the bandstand. Again the pockmarked man sat on the railing, waiting for him.
"Romulus"--grinning, the man spread his arms in welcome--"it's your lucky day. I've been authorized by Control to agree to your proposal."
Saul breathed out. "All right." He steadied himself. "When I've settled my family concerns, I'll wait to be contacted-- so the network can have its half of the bargain."
"Oh, believe me, you'll be contacted." Saul turned to leave. "There's just one problem, Romulus."
"Problem?" Saul tensed, looking back. "Well, maybe not exactly a problem. Let's call it a condition. A stipulation."
"What are you talking about?"
"You can't have any help from your Israeli friends."
"What?"
"The way my superiors look at it, you're valuable to them only if you're perceived to remain a freelance."
"Perceived to... ? Damn it, say what you mean!"
"What you're about to do has to stay on a personal basis. If you accept help from Israeli intelligence, it'll look as if you're cooperating with them, working for them."
"My father-in-law used to be in their network, for God's sake! Of course, I'm cooperating with them! They want to find out what happened as much as I do!"
"Then I'll say it again. You can't accept Israeli help. Or any other network's help, for that matter. Our plans for you require an absolute detachment from every organization. You have to be totally disaffected.
Otherwise, if the mission we send you on is compromised, if you're compromised, the enemy could blame the Israelis, and the Israelis would blame us, and we'd be in the same shit as if you were still on our payroll. You said this matter was personal. Keep it that way. No outside help. If you don't agree to this condition, we'll be forced to punish you for breaking your original bargain with us."
"Bastards. I should have known better than to--"
"Negotiate with us?
Romulus, for what it's worth, you had no other option. Otherwise you'd be dead."
"And how am I supposed to--?"
"Use the talents you're famous for. I'm sure Israeli intelligence has already compiled information that gives you leads. By all means, take advantage of it. The professional community wouldn't be surprised if
Mossad got in touch with you about your wife's father, one of their former operatives. But from here on, reject them. You're on your own."
"And who's supposed to believe this?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"This park. This bandstand. We meet here twice in one day. No attempt at concealment. Other networks must be watching us by now."
"That would be my assumption. I certainly hope so." Furious, Saul raised his hands.
"Excellent, Romulus. It's time to put on a show." Bewilderment made
Saul lower his fists. "You're supposed to try to attack me," the pockmarked man said. "My backup's supposed to try to shoot you. To demonstrate your disaffection. To prove to the other networks you're still divorced from us. Here, let me make it easy for you." The pockmarked man stood from the railing and punched Saul--hard--in the stomach. Unprepared, Saul doubled over, gasping. The pockmarked man braced himself, drawing back a fist to punch Saul's face. Instinct overcame surprise and pain. In a blur, pivoting angrily to avoid the blow, Saul thrust the palm of his hand against his assailant's shoulder.
Cartilage cracked. The man fell, groaning, his shoulder dislocated. "You stupid son of a bitch!" Saul said. "I could have killed you!" A gunshot shattered the silence of the park. A bullet slammed against a post that supported the roof of the bandstand. Saul dove to the floor.
The pockmarked man lay near him, holding his shoulder, in agony. Through gritted teeth, he murmured, "Welcome back to the shadow game, Romulus.
Get out of here."
"That sniper's one of you?" Saul demanded in disgust. "I said get out of here!" A bullet splintered the handstand's railing. Saul scrambled across the floor. A third shot walloped the bannister on the steps leading down from the bandstand. He lunged toward the railing on the opposite side of the bandstand and vaulted it, landing on rain-softened grass. With the bandstand between him and the supposedly serious sniper, he raced through darkness toward a carousel. The way he'd been manipulated enraged him. His contact's readiness to suffer if his network ordered him to suffer was sickening. "Welcome back to the shadow game," the pockmarked man had said. Exactly. Shadows.
Illusions, Saul thought with revulsion. In the night, the sniper--no matter how skilled--could easily have made a mistake and not have missed. A shot roared behind him, blowing off the nose of a spotted horse on the carousel. That's enough! Saul mentally shouted. You've made your point! A murky figure appeared ahead of him, from behind the carousel. For an instant, Saul thought it was Erika, who, not understanding the show the network had choreographed, was coming to help him. The figure raised a handgun.
It's not Erika! I'm the target! Misha Pletz had given him a Beretta.
He yanked it from his dark windbreaker, but instead of firing toward the enemy ahead of him, he darted toward the right, hoping to blend with trees and bushes. A gunshot, much closer, made his ears ring. A bullet slashed the leaves of a bush beside him. He dove behind a concrete bench and spun to fire at the figure near the carousel. But the figure was gone. Behind him, urgent footsteps ran along a sidewalk, from the direction of the bandstand. Ahead, he saw a shadow step from behind a tree and aim. Saul fired. But the figure ducked behind the tree. A bullet cracked against the bench, chunks of concrete making Saul flinch.
The bullet had come from a third sniper in the park! Not from behind him or ahead! But to his right! He charged past a fountain. Someone shouted. Sirens wailed. His lungs burning, he surged from the park. The trees ended. The walkway beside the Danube appeared before him. He spun to the right. Fifty yards away, a figure raced out of bushes. He spun to the left. Another figure! Gripping the metal guardrail, his lungs protesting, he heaved himself over. Cold water enveloped him. He couldn't be sure, but swimming under the surface, resisting the weight of his sodden clothes, struggling toward the middle of the river, he thought he heard a bullet strike the water.
Erika hid among shadows on the street side of the park, watching the murky bandstand. She stiffened when she saw Saul's contact punch him in the stomach. Rushing forward, handgun drawn, determined to protect her husband, she noticed Saul pivot to avoid another blow and knock the man to the handstand's floor. A shot. Saul scrambled off the bandstand.
Chaos. First one, then two, then three gunmen raced through the shadowy park. More shots. Sirens wailed in the distance. Erika's only thought was to get to Saul, to help him. But the chaos intensified as Saul charged through the darkness, burst through bushes at the edge of the park, and vaulted the guardrail next to the Danube. A gunman
shot at the water, turned, and saw other figures racing toward him.
Firing repeatedly toward the shadows, not aiming so much as providing distr