Two Graves (50 page)

T
HE JOURNEY WAS SHORT. THEY LANDED AT A STONE
quay; Pendergast was shoved forward, the soldiers prodding him with their rifles. Now the old fortress loomed directly above them, the crenellations of its outer wall like black, broken teeth. They ascended a cobbled road leading toward a massive iron gate; a small door in the gate opened and they passed through. The door clanged shut behind them.

An astonishing sight greeted Pendergast’s eye. The broken outer wall of the stronghold concealed an internal structure retrofitted to the ruins and the old stone foundations, which themselves had been sturdily rebuilt and reinforced. It had a superstructure of poured concrete, streaked with damp and done up in fascist monumental style, with smooth, massive walls, broken only infrequently by tiny windows high up along its flanks. A huge relief of the
Parteiadler
of the Third Reich—an eagle clutching a swastika—was carved into its side, the only adornment visible on the otherwise blank walls and towers of this fort within a fort.

Pendergast had paused to look around, and one of the soldiers jammed a muzzle into his side. “
Beweg Dich!
” he barked.

Pendergast moved forward, through an outer courtyard to a door leading into the main fortress itself. Here were many more soldiers—some on guard duty, others polishing their weapons, others simply looking at Pendergast with sneering expressions. Mechanics hurried past, bent on unknown tasks.

Once inside the inner fortress, they moved upward, first through old stone corridors and staircases wet with damp and whited with
niter, passing a few technicians and scientists in lab coats making their way down, until they emerged in the newer, upper portion of the fortress of concrete.

At the top of a circular staircase they came to an oaken door. The door opened into a suddenly spacious and airy room, high up, with glass windows providing splendid—if small—views over the rooftops of the fortress, across the lake, and reaching to the surrounding forests and mountains. It was a beautifully appointed office, the walls of dressed stone, a Persian carpet on the floor, a massive antique desk flanked by Nazi flags, with exquisite pieces of old silver and objets d’art carefully arranged along the walls. Behind the desk sat a remarkable-looking man, a specimen of Teutonic perfection: powerful and heavily muscled, with penetrating pale eyes, a dark tan, and a neatly trimmed thatch of white hair. He smiled.

Pendergast recognized the man instantly. Fischer.

“Very good, Oberführer Scheermann,” he said.

The captain stiffened, clicked his heels. “
Danke, mein Oberstgruppenführer.
”

Fischer rose, plucked a Dunhill cigarette from a repoussé silver box, lit it with a gold lighter, and inhaled deeply, all the while keeping his eyes on Pendergast. Exhaling, he walked over and examined Pendergast, who remained motionless, surrounded by the guards with submachine guns. Fischer reached out with a powerful veined hand, caressed Pendergast’s ersatz beard, then grasped it and tore it off. He circled Pendergast lazily, his smile growing.

And with that he extended his hand. For a moment, it seemed he might be offering to shake hands, but that turned out to be wrong: Fischer raised his massive palm and, with great force, slapped Pendergast across the face so hard it knocked him to the ground.

“Get those things out of his mouth,” he ordered.

The soldiers kept their weapons trained on Pendergast while one of their number jammed the barrel of a Luger into the FBI agent’s mouth, keeping it open while his fingers explored. A moment later he held his hand out to show Fischer what he’d discovered. In his palm lay some tiny lock-picking tools, several plastic theatrical cheek
pieces used for altering one’s appearance—and a small, glass ampoule filled with a clear liquid.

The soldier hauled Pendergast roughly back to his feet. Blood leaked from his nose. His eyes were the color of white paper.

“Now it is certain,” the man said, staring at him. “It is indeed our Agent Pendergast. How good of you to make the long journey to us. My name is Wulf Konrad Fischer. I am the man who abducted your wife.”

Another smile.

When Pendergast did not speak, Fischer went on. “I must say, your disguise was very good. I knew that a man like you would come looking for me—for
us
. And I assumed that, with your extraordinary abilities, you would eventually find me. What I didn’t expect was your disguise. I had assumed you would sneak in and blend with the locals, or skulk in the forest. I didn’t believe you would waltz in here, bold as brass. Your disguise was good, all that
Scheiße
about the Queen Beatrice. Very well done, the more so for being true. I commend you.”

He inhaled on the cigarette, holding it vertical to prevent the ever-lengthening ash from falling.

“Where you slipped up was that little stunt with Egon. You see, Egon grew up in the forest; he knows the forest. For you to give him the slip—when I heard about that, I knew you were no naturalist.”

Pendergast remained motionless.

“My colleagues and I were, shall we say, impressed by what you did on the
Vergeltung
. Of course, it was a great shock to learn that Helen Esterhazy was still alive. Although we very badly wanted to study her in vivo, you forced us to trim that loose end in a rather crude way. Still, we were at least able to perform a most revealing autopsy on her remains, which we quickly found in the makeshift grave you dug for her.”

At this, there might have been a slight twitch beneath one of Pendergast’s eyes.

“Oh, yes. We never allow a research opportunity to pass. We are scientists, first and foremost. For example, your spectacular and
unexpected entry into our program—the
Vergeltung
again, and then your subsequent pursuit of Helen—was rather alarming. But, being scientists, we were able to adapt. We very quickly revised our plans so as to incorporate
you
into the final phase of our great work down here. We saw an opportunity and took it. And so: I thank you for your participation.”

The ash had not yet fallen from the vertical cigarette. Fischer tilted it horizontally; the ash broke off, and then he took a moment to gently grind the butt into a chased-silver ashtray.

With a slender hand he picked up the tiny ampoule from where it had been placed on the desk along with the other things taken from Pendergast. He rolled it pensively between thumb and finger.

“I admire your courage. But you’ll find that there was no need for this. On the contrary, we’ll spare you the trouble.”

He turned to the soldiers. “Take him to Room Four.”

R
OOM 4 LAY IN THE BOWELS OF THE OLDEST PART OF THE
fortress. It was a tunnel-like space of massive basaltic blocks, with a floor of volcanic dirt and an arched ceiling. A single lightbulb hung from a wire. Pendergast was dragged in, prodded toward one wall at gunpoint, then chained hand and foot to a set of enormous iron ring-bolts set into the stonework, his arms and legs spread to nearly maximum extension.

Under the watchful eye of Scheermann, the soldiers made sure the chains were tight. Then, leaving him standing there, chained to the wall, they left the room, turning off the light and shutting behind them the massively thick iron door. A gleam of light briefly shone from a tiny Judas window set into the door, until that too was extinguished, the window shut and blocked.

Blackness reigned.

Pendergast stood in the humid darkness, listening. The soldiers remained outside, and he could hear their movements, the murmur of their voices. Beyond, he could make out nothing beyond a very deep rumble, the humming of large generators, and something else, something even deeper: perhaps the natural movement of magma beneath the not-so-extinct volcano. As if to underscore this, he felt a faint but discernible shuddering of the floor and wall, as if the entire fortress were trembling, ever so slightly, in response to the striking of a giant tuning fork in the earth beneath them.

In the darkness, Pendergast listened. And thought. Thought about what Fischer had said.

An hour passed. And then, Pendergast heard footsteps. There was a scraping noise as a heavy bolt was drawn back. A long cast of light as the door opened. Two figures stood in the doorway, silhouetted. They paused for a moment, side by side, and then separated as they came forward. The bare bulb in the center of the room went on. And standing before Pendergast were Fischer and Alban.

Alban
. Alban, free from all disguises, makeup, and deception.

In actual features he looked like Tristram—only stamped into those features was a very different, even diametrically opposite, personality. Alban radiated supreme confidence, an easy charisma, only a trace of arrogance mingling with a sense of amusement. He carried himself with a calm air of discipline, a detachment from the world of sensuality, passion, and intuition.

He was, in many ways, more like Pendergast than Tristram was. Although—to his distress and dismay—Pendergast noticed that Alban had his mother’s mouth and eyes. But the longer Pendergast gazed into that pale, angular face, with its high-domed forehead, blue-and-violet eyes, blond hair, and sculptured lips, the more he became aware something was missing. There was a hole, a huge hole, in this person, where his heart should have been.

Only then did Pendergast take in the rest of his son: the clean, fresh-pressed work shirt and plain canvas trousers of a simple cut, the braided leather belt and sturdy, handmade leather boots. His clothes, curiously, contrasted strongly with the finely cut, expensive gray suit worn by Fischer, with his gold rings, watch, and lighter.

Finally, Fischer spoke. “May I have the pleasure, Agent Pendergast, of formally introducing you to your son Alban?”

Alban stood there, gazing at him. It was impossible to tell what was in those eyes of his, what emotion he might be experiencing, if any; he was so perfectly in control. “Hello again, Father,” he said in a deep, pleasant voice, without the rough accent so apparent in Tristram’s speech.

Pendergast said nothing.

There was a sharp rap on the door.

“Come in, Berger,” Fischer said.

A small, very thin man with a blade-like face entered, carrying an old-fashioned doctor’s bag in one hand and a folding table in the other. Behind him—being prodded forward by the butt of a submachine gun—was Egon. His hair was matted and stiff, and his face was white and creased with anxiety. A hunted look was in his eyes.

The guard closed the door, then stood in front of it, weapon at the ready. Fischer waited while Egon was bound to the wall in the same fashion as Pendergast. Then he turned back to the agent.

“You appear to be a man possessed of great scientific curiosity,” he said. “In this respect, you are not unlike ourselves. So: Do you have any observations to make? Any questions? Because once we begin there won’t be an opportunity for you to speak.”

“Where is Tristram?” Pendergast asked. “Is he alive?”

“Tristram? So you have given
der Schwächling
a name. How nice. How domestic of you. If you’re referring, as I assume, to Forty-Seven: naturally he’s alive. He’s carrying all of Alban’s spare parts. For that reason, and that reason alone, he’s a very important boy. Rest assured he is safely back in the fold. His moment of freedom undomesticated him somewhat, but he’s been retamed and is now doing just fine.” Fischer paused. “Actually, his kidnapping and return served three purposes. It brought him back to us, a future donor bank for Alban. We also knew that his kidnapping would draw you, like a moth to a flame. And at the same time, successfully spiriting Forty-Seven out from your own house, from under your own guardianship, would be a fitting end to the final phase of our work. Such admirable economy of action! How might you put that in English: killing three birds with one stone?”

“The final phase of your work,” Pendergast said in a toneless voice. “You used that phrase earlier. I assume you refer to what you call the beta test?”

For a brief moment, Fischer seemed surprised. Then he smiled. “Excellent, excellent. Yes, I was referring to our beta test.”

“What is it, exactly?”

“Surely you can guess the answer to that already. For more than half a century, we’ve been following in the footsteps of Doctors Mengele and Faust, continuing their great work on twins.”

“Work that was started on helpless victims, held in concentration camps,” Pendergast said.

“Work that began during the course of that unfortunate war, which we later carried here to Brazil. Work that is now complete—thanks in part to you.”

“And the scientific principles involved?” Pendergast asked, coolly.

Fischer put a finger to his chin. “Simple in theory, exceedingly difficult in practice. Following conception, after the first mitosis, the two daughter cells are separated and begin to develop independently, creating the path toward identical twins. When the two embryos reach the morula stage, the really delicate work begins. We initiate a process of transferring genetic material between the embryos. In the good embryo, we augment the genetic material with the very best from the other embryo, swapping out the inferior stuff, which goes in turn into the bad embryo.”