"If we're dealing with the Night and Fog, I have to assume! It's more than just a death threat! You know what else the symbol means! Whoever painted those skulls wants to remind us they know all about us!"

Halloway kept his voice low, not wanting to attract the attention of his bodyguards outside in the corridor. "All right, suppose they are reminding us, what difference does it make? It doesn't change things.

We already knew they'd found us out"

"It changes everything!" Rosenberg's voice verged on hysteria.

"It proves they weren't content to take our fathers! Now they want us!

The sins of the fathers! The next generation has to suffer! And they can do it! They managed to sneak inside my home despite every possible security precaution!"

"We can't keep talking about this on an unprotected phone," Halloway warned. "Hang up. Call me an hour from now at..." Rosenberg rushed on. "And that's not all! Why two skulls? Why on my bed? Why on the bed of my wife's bodyguard?"

"I assume to double the effect To..."

"Damn it, you don't understand! My wife and her bodyguard are having an affair! I thought no one knew! I've been trying to pretend I don't suspect! But the Night and Fog know! That's why they painted the skulls on both beds! They're telling me they know everything about me, including who's screwing my wife! They're bragging they know all my secrets! All our secrets, Halloway! The merchandise! The shipment! If they've learned about...!"

"You're jumping to conclusions."

"Jumping to conclusions?" Rosenberg moaned. "Dear God, why did I ever go into business with you? You're so damned self-confident you won't admit...!"

"Seth and Icicle will take care of--"

"Will take care of? Will? But they haven't done it yet, have they? And that's all I care about! While those two chase shadows, I've got a situation here! I'm cancelling our arrangement right now!"

"What are you--?"

"Either that, or you let me stop the shipment! I don't need two enemies, Halloway! If our clients find out we went ahead without warning them the Night and Fog might know about the shipment, they'll come for us! They'll make the Night and Fog seem a minor nuisance!"

"But I'm telling you..."

"No, I'm telling you! The moment I hang up, I'm calling Rio! I'll do what I should have done in the first place! I'll tell him 'no'! And then I'll hope to God your two maniacs find a way to stop this!"

Halloway's mouth felt parched. He had no doubt that Rosenberg meant what he said. A balance had tipped. Events were now out of control. He tried to moisten his dry mouth. "All right," he murmured. "If that's what you think is best."

Halloway set down the phone. The truth was--and he would never have dared tell Rosenberg--he'd received three other calls from members of their group, all about death's heads. Miller in St. Paul, Minnesota, had found one painted on the bottom of his drained swimming pool.

Culloden in Bristol, England, had found one painted on a billiard table in his game room. Svenson in Goteborg, Sweden, had found one painted on the floor of his kitchen. The parallels had disturbing implications.

In each case, the symbol had been left at the victim's home, as if to say

"We can get close to you anyplace, even where you feel most protected. But if we'd wanted, we could have painted the death's head where others could see it, at your workplace perhaps or in full view of your neighbors. We want you to realize--we can expose you at any time, humiliate your wife and children, embarrass your business contacts. And after that? Do you hope we'll be satisfied? Or will we come after you as we did your father? Will you have to pay the ultimate penalty?

As our own loved ones had to pay. As -we had to pay." Halloway shuddered, disturbed by one other parallel. After Miller, Culloden,

Svenson. and now Rosenberg had discovered the death's head, they all had ignored safe procedure and phoned him directly instead of through intermediaries. The Night and Fog was achieving its purpose, eroding discipline, promoting panic. How many others of the group would soon call him? When would he discover a death's head? He'd instructed his guards to double security on the safe house in Kitchener where his family was being sequestered. He'd also hired as many extra guards as he needed to protect this estate. But perhaps the time had come to abandon the estate, to give up the exquisite surroundings his father had provided for him. He shook his head. No! As long as Seth and Icicle were on the hunt, (here was every reason to believe in eventual victory.

The Night and Fog would be destroyed. And in the meantime? Determination was everything. I won't be defeated! Halloway thought. The vermin won't control me! But again he wondered. When will it be my turn to find a death's head? He struggled against his misgivings. He'd asked the wrong question, he realized. The proper question was. When will Seth and

Icicle be victorious for us all?

Rio de Janeiro. Prom his glass-walled penthouse, the businessman had a perfect view of the throngs of bathers on the sensuous curve of

Copacabana Beach. If he'd cared to, he could have walked to the opposite glass wall and peered up toward the far off massive statue of

Christ the Redeemer on top of Corcovado mountain, but he seldom chose that option. Situated between the Spirit and the Flesh, he almost always found himself drawn toward the telescope on his beach side window and its view of the most arousing women in the world. His wealth guaranteed a temptation few of them could resist. But at the moment, all he felt was anger. He pressed a portable phone against his ear. "Rosenberg, you think I've got nothing better to do than make deals and then tell the clients it was all a mistake? Never mind that this is a hundred million-dollar deal and I get fifteen percent down payment from them, and the money's gaining interest in a Zurich bank. Let's forget all that for a second. Friend to friend, a deal's a deal.

In the first place, my clients become severely unpleasant if a contract's cancelled. In the second place, the contracts can't be cancelled because the shipment's on its way, and I always take care not to have any connection with it. I don't even know what ship it's on. I use so many intermediaries I wouldn't know how to stop it. You should have thought of this earlier." Rosenberg started to babble. The businessman interrupted. "If you've got cold feet, you shouldn't step into the water. Or is it more than cold feet? Do you know a security reason that I don't know for not delivering the merchandise? If you do, my friend, and you didn't warn us, you'll find out how truly unpleasant the clients can be. So what's with the second thoughts? What problem's on your mind?"

"Nothing..." Rosenberg whispered. "What?

I can barely hear you."

"It's all right. No problem."

"Then why the hell did you call me?"

"Nerves... I..."

"Nerves?" The businessman frowned. "Friend, this conversation's starting to bore me."

"There's so much money at stake..."

"You bet there is, and fifteen percent of it is mine."

"So many risks. The merchandise scares me. The clients scare me. My stomach's been giving me problems." 'Try Maalox. You're right about the clients. Any bunch who wants a hundred million dollars worth of black-market weapons is definitely scary. Incidentally, don't call me again. I won't do business with you anymore. You're interfering with my peace of mind."

Rosenberg set down the phone and stared at his trembling hands. He'd never believed in fate, but he was quickly beginning to wonder if something very like it was taking charge of him. He couldn't recall when he'd felt this helpless, and he found himself mentally grasping for the only chance of salvation now afforded him--Icicle and Seth, their pursuit of the enemy. His spirit felt buoyed for less than five seconds.

About to go downstairs from his secret office, he suddenly stopped. his palm pressed so hard against the doorknob that he felt its cut glass pattern indent his flesh. If the Night and Fog knew enough about his past to use a death's head symbol to terrorize him, if they knew enough about his present to paint the symbol not only on his bed but on the bed of the bodyguard who was screwing his wife, wasn't it also possible that they knew about other secrets in his life? Such as this office? With a tremor, he realized that he'd been in such a hurry he hadn't checked for a tap on the phone before he called his contact in Rio. Trying to prevent the Night and Fog from learning about the shipment, had he inadvertently let them find out? Furious at himself, he slammed the door and locked it, hurrying down the stairs.

A windowpane absorbs vibrations from a voice in a room. Across the street from Rosenberg's office, a fan stood in the open window of a second-story hotel room. The fan was actually a microwave transmitter, which bounced waves off Rosenberg's window and received, along with them, the vibrations from Rosenberg's conversation. A decoder translated the waves into words and relayed them to a tape recorder. The tape was picked up every evening. Rosenberg's home was also under microwave surveillance, as was Halloway's and that of every other member of the group. It didn't matter if they checked for bugs and phone taps.

Everything they said was overheard. They had no secrets.

William Miller stared at the large manila envelope his secretary brought into his office. "It came special delivery," she said. "I started to open it with the other mail, but you see it's marked 'personal"

underlined, with an exclamation mark, so I thought I'd better let you open it yourself." Miller studied the envelope. It was eight-by-twelve, crammed till it seemed that not one more sheet of paper could be squeezed inside. A hot pressure made him squirm. "Thanks, Marge. It's probably just a new advertising scheme. Or maybe some young architect who wants to join the firm, trying to overwhelm me with his designs."

"Sure, it could be anything," Marge said, eyes mischievous. "But for a second there, I wondered if you'd subscribed to some pornographic magazine you didn't want your wife to know about." He forced a laugh.

"Whatever's in the package, I didn't send for it"

"Aren't you going to open it?"

"In a while. Right now, I've got this proposal to finish. The city council needs convincing on this low-rent renewal project-He lowered his gaze to the cold print before him and pretended to concentrate on the cost-projection figures. "Anything I can do to help, Mr. Miller, just buzz me on the intercom." She left, closing the door behind her. The envelope--bold black ink emphasizing its personal! caution--lay on his desk. The postage cost, including the special delivery fee, had been nine dollars and fifteen cents. No return address. So why am I nervous?

he thought. It's just an envelope. He glanced back down at the cost-projection figures but found himself compelled to glance again at the envelope. Couldn't turn his eyes away. Well, maybe if I didn't open it at all. Maybe if I threw it in the trash. No, Marge might find it there and open it Then I could take it with me when I left the office and get rid of it on the way home. And anyway, so what if Marge saw what was in it? What difference would that make? Because it's marked personal!, and after what you found at the bottom of your swimming pool, you'd better pay attention when your psychic alarm bells start going off. You might not want to open it, but you'd damned well better. Even so, he sat motionless, staring at the envelope. At last, he exhaled and inched his fingers across the desk. The envelope felt heavy, dense. He started to tear open its flap and froze, tasting something sour. This might be a letter bomb, he thought. His impulse was to drop it back on the desk and hurry frfrom the office, but he hesitated, compelled by a stronger impulse to pinch it gently and trace a finger along its edges.