The League of Night and Fog

by Morrell, David

• ISBN13: 9780345512222
• ISBN10: 0345512227
• Edition: Reprint
• Format: Trade Paper
• Copyright: 2010-01-05
• Publisher: Ballantine Books

Summary

Two brilliant operatives known as Saul and Drew are drawn together to solve a baffling mystery: Why have ten elderly men from around the world been kidnapped? As the agents investigate they are pulled into a violent cycle of revenge that stretches back to World War II-and is now forcing sons to pay for their father's darkest sins. David Morrell's international thrillers have no equal. From the Vatican to the Swiss Alps, from Australia to the heartland of America, The League of Night and Fog brings together two generations bound by one chilling legacy.

Author Biography

David Morrell is the award-winning author of First Blood—the novel in which Rambo was created—as well as twenty-seven other books. This book was the basis for the 1989 mini-series starring Robert Mitchum. With eighteen million copies in print, his work has been translated into twenty-six languages. He was a professor in the English department at the University of Iowa and currently serves as the copresident of the International Thriller Writers organization. He lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico, with his wife.

Excerpts

ICICLE

Chapter One



cardinal's disappearance remains a mystery

rome, italy, February 28 (AP)—Vatican officials and Rome police remain baffled five days after the disappearance of Cardinal Krunoslav Pavelic, influential member of the Roman Catholic Church's administration group, the Curia.

Pavelic, seventy-two, was last seen by close associates after celebrating a private mass in the chapel of his Vatican living quarters Sunday evening. On Monday, he had been scheduled to give the keynote address to a widely publicized conference of Catholic bishops on the subject of the Church's political relations with Eastern European communist regimes.

Authorities at first suspected right-wing terrorists of abducting Cardinal Pavelic to protest a rumored softening of the Vatican's attitude toward any communist regime willing to ease restrictions on Church activities. However, no extremist group has so far claimed responsibility for Pavelic's disappearance.

Chapter Two


St. Paul, Minnesota. March. For the second time that night, the cards Frank Miller held became a blur. Though red and black were distinct, he couldn't tell the difference between a heart and a diamond or a spade and a club. Trying to subdue his concern, he took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and massaged his aching forehead.

"Something the matter?" Sid Henderson asked across the table from him. Like Miller, Henderson was in his seventies. Indeed all the bridge players in this room in the St. Paul community service center were either that old or just slightly younger.

Miller strained to focus on his cards. "The matter? Nothing."

"You sure? You look kinda sick."

"It's too hot in here. They've turned up the thermostat too high. Somebody ought to open some windows."

"And give us all pneumonia?" Iris Glickman asked to Miller's right. She claimed she was only sixty-seven. "It's freezing outside. If you're hot, take off your suit-coat."

But Miller had already loosened his tie. He couldn't allow himself to ignore decorum completely and play cards in his shirtsleeves.

"Maybe you should go home," Harvey Ginsberg said on the left. "You're awful pale."

Miller dabbed his sweaty brow with a handkerchief; his stomach felt queasy. "You need four players. I'd ruin the game for everybody."

"Screw the game," Harvey said.

As usual, Iris pursed her lips in pretended shock at Harvey's vulgar language.

Miller's forehead throbbed. "You won't think I'm a poor sport?"

"What I'll think, Frank, is you're a damned fool if you're sick and you don't go home."

Miller smiled. "Such good friends."

"I'll call you tomorrow and make sure you're feeling better," Harvey said.

Chapter Three


The instant Miller stepped from the hall, an icy wind stung his face. Shocking snow pelted him as he trudged toward the parking lot across the street, clutching his overcoat. At least he didn't feel ill anymore. The gusts revived him, affirming his suspicion that his headache and nausea had been caused by excessive heat inside the hall. He fondly remembered the winters of his youth. Toboggan rides and ice-skate races. My mind's still spry, he thought. It's this damned body that's let me down.

The street was deserted; the arc lamps in the parking lot were shrouded by falling snow. He reached his car—an Audi, a gift from his son—unlocked the driver's door, and heard a voice behind him.

Frowning, he turned, straining to see through the swirling snow. The voice had been muffled by the shriek of the wind. A man's voice, he thought, but when he didn't hear it again, he began to wonder if his ears were playing a trick on him.

He shrugged and gripped the latch on his car door. But again he heard the voice behind him, closer, though still not distinct. It seemed to be saying a single word, a first name,

---

Excerpted from The League of Night and Fog by David Morrell
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.