Текст книги "Two Graves"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 34 страниц)

63

IN THE BRAZILIAN FOREST, NIGHT STILL REIGNED. MISTS drifted through the dense trees and night-blooming orchids. Pendergast made a silent beeline back to where he had left Egon and soon found signs of the man’s blundering passage: broken branches, torn leaves, boot prints in the mossy floor. Following these signs, he moved swiftly until he could hear the man, still calling and wandering about. Pendergast made a long loop around him and came up from the opposite direction.

“Here I am!” he cried, waving his light about. “Over here!”

“Where were you?” Egon said, advancing on him with menace and suspicion, pointing the light in his face.

“Blast it, where were you?” Pendergast cried angrily. “I gave you specific instructions to follow, and you disobeyed! I’ve been wandering about, lost, for hours—and I missed a chance to capture that Queen Beatrice. I’ve half a mind to report you to the authorities!”

As Pendergast expected, Egon—steeped in a culture of authority and subordination—was instantly cowed. “I’m sorry,” he stammered out, “but you moved so fast, and then vanished—”

“Enough excuses!” Pendergast cried. “A night has been wasted. I’ll let it go this time—but don’t ever lose track of me again. I could have been killed by a jaguar or eaten by an anaconda!” He paused, fuming. “Let’s go back to the town. You can show me to my quarters. I need some sleep.”

They emerged into the town, wet and bedraggled, as dawn rose over the crater rim, casting a light that touched the bottoms of the clouds, blushing them coral. The crescent-shaped town came to clockwork life as the rays of sun invaded the cobbled streets: doors opening, chimneys smoking, streets filling with purposeful foot traffic. The island in the middle of the lake remained the same: black, grim, foreboding, issuing the faint sound of clanking machinery.

As they walked along the thronging streets, Pendergast once again noted, this time with a shiver of horror, that some of the faces he had seen in the underground ghetto had their mirror image among these handsome, busy people.

Egon led Pendergast to a small, half-timbered house adjacent to the town hall. Egon knocked and a woman answered in an apron, wiping her hands, the smell of baking bread issuing from the interior.

“ Herzlich willkommen,” she said.

They entered to find two towheaded boys at a kitchen table eating bread with jam and soft-boiled eggs. They stopped and gaped at Pendergast with the same astonishment and curiosity the other townsfolk had displayed.

“Nobody speaks English,” said Egon in his usual terse manner, ignoring the woman and her friendly greetings as he walked past her to a narrow staircase. He led the way up two stories to a cheerful garret with lace curtains, steeply pitched ceilings, and dormer windows looking back over town.

“Your room,” he said. “You stay here until sunset. Then the woman give you dinner. I wait downstairs. Do not leave room.”

“I’m to stay penned up here until sunset?” Pendergast cried. “Why, I only need four or five hours’ sleep. I’d like to stroll through the town, see the sights.”

“You stay here until sunset,” Egon repeated truculently, shutting the door. Pendergast heard the key turning in the lock.

As Egon’s footsteps retreated down the stairs, Pendergast perused the old-fashioned lock with a faint smile. Then he turned to his pack and collecting jars, unpacking the many specimens he’d collected on the river trip and in the forest that night, laying the butterflies out on spreading boards with flat-tipped tweezers, holding them in place with pinning strips. When he was done, he lay down on the made bed, fully clothed, and instantly went to sleep.

He awoke suddenly an hour later, hearing a knock at the door.

“Yes?” he said in English.

The tense voice of the hausfrau sounded on the other side of the door. “ Herr Fawcett, hier sind einige Herren, die Sie sprechen möchten.”

As Pendergast rose from his bed, he heard the lock turning. The door opened to reveal half a dozen men in plain gray uniforms, all armed, their weapons drawn on him. They entered smoothly and swiftly in a well-coordinated operation, led by Scheermann, circling him on both sides. The operation was done with impeccable efficiency, leaving no possibility of reaction or escape.

Pendergast’s eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth, as if to protest.

“Do not move,” said Scheermann, unnecessarily. “Hands away from your sides.”

Wordlessly, as Pendergast stood, hands extended, he was stripped, then dressed in a striped cotton gown and rude pants similar to the ones he had seen in the underground barracks. The guards led him down the stairs and pushed him into the street, weapons trained on him at all times, and he was paraded down to the docks. Strangely enough, the townsfolk paid him far less attention in his new prison garb than they had when he was wearing civilian clothes. This was clearly a sight they had seen before.

Nobody spoke. He was placed in the bow of a small barge, the guards forming a semicircle around him. With a roar from its steam engines, the barge moved slowly into the lake, leaving behind a boiling wake, heading in the direction of the gloomy fortress.

64

THE 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 Parteiadlerof 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 Scheißeabout 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 Vergeltungagain, 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 youinto 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.”

65

ROOM 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 Schwächlinga 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.”

“But if they are identical twins,” asked Pendergast, “how is there any difference between the two embryos?”

A smile illuminated Fischer’s fine features. “Ah, Mr. Pendergast, you have precisely identified the central question our scientists have struggled with for years. The answer is this: The human genome carries three billion base pairs. Even among identical twins there are errors: bad copies, reversed sequences, and so forth. We augment that variation by slightly irradiating the unfertilized egg and sperm before union. Not so much as to create a freak; just enough to give us the variation we must have to swap genes. So instead of mixing and matching genes randomly, as nature does so crudely, we can build a man or woman according to careful specifications.”

“And the ‘bad’ embryo?”

“Nothing is wasted. The bad twin develops into a baby as well. Your, ah, Tristramis a perfect example.” Fischer chuckled. “He or she is raised for menial labor in the camps and fields, a useful and fulfilled member of society. Arbeit macht frei. And of course this bad twin, der Schwächling, is an excellent repository of organs and blood in case the good twin is damaged or requires a transplant. Naturally, these are isograft transplants, the most perfect kind, which cannot be rejected.” He paused to light another cigarette. “The painstaking research, the refinement of the procedure, the perfection of the result—you can imagine it took years, decades, of careful work. It took many, many iterations, each one slightly better than the last.”

“Iterations,” Pendergast said. “In other words, sets of twins, intermediate steps in the process, that weren’t yet up to your exacting specifications. Human beings to be liquidated.”

“Not at all. You can see them every day in our village, living out useful and productive lives.”

“You can also see their doppelgängers in your underground concentration camp.”

Fischer cocked an eyebrow. “My, my, you were busy last night.”

“And Alban? I assume he is the acme, the pinnacle, of your work?”

Fischer could hardly disguise his pride. “Indeed he is.”

“Which means he himself is the beta test.” Pendergast answered his own question.

“Yes. Dr. Faust volunteered his own family—a true man of science. The Faust-Esterhazy line proved exceedingly rich. But I must say the Pendergast line proved even richer. The union between you and Helen, accidental though it was, produced a most remarkable product. Mostremarkable, exceeding all our expectations.” Fischer shook his head. “We had allowed her parents to move to America and live there freely, raising their children. It was an early experiment to see how our subjects might function in outside society. It was a catastrophic failure. When Helen grew up, she went rogue on us. Her body had already been prepared to always bear twins—that was easy. When she accidentally got pregnant, she was forced to return here. Otherwise her fetuses would have died, without certain special treatments necessary for her to carry them to term. But she returned to Brazil more than eight weeks’ pregnant, too late for the blastocyst cell treatment we’d developed here at Nova Godói. This forced us to try something new—a tricky and highly experimental technique of shifting genetic material between more developed fetuses. You’ll appreciate this irony, Herr Pendergast, but it was the very lateness that led to our crowning success. We had always believed the genetic work had to be done early, no later than the first few weeks. And yet the delayed work on Helen’s twins proved to be our breakthrough.” Fischer paused. “Helen could never accept the fact that we would not let her take her children back to America. We had to keep them, of course. Even at such an early age, Alban was so promising.”

Throughout this back-and-forth, Alban had been listening, a neutral expression on his face.

“This is your mother he’s talking about,” Pendergast said. “Doesn’t that trouble you in the least?”

“Trouble?” Alban said. “On the contrary, what I feel is pride. Look at how easy it was to learn the location of your Central Park meeting place—from an employee of New York’s own police department, no less!—and how quickly our people put a plan into effect.”

This was followed by a brief pause.

“And Longitude Pharmaceuticals?” Pendergast asked. “What of them?”

“Merely one of many satellite operations loosely affiliated with our work,” Fischer answered. “Our research was subtle, complex, and wide ranging; we had to draw from many sources. They are usually kept at arm’s length—but when accidents occur, as they did at Longitude, certain unfortunate steps must be taken.” Fischer shook his head.

“You mentioned that I was at least partly responsible for the successful conclusion of your work,” Pendergast said. “That you incorporated me into its final phase. What precisely did you mean by that?”

“My dear Agent Pendergast, surely you must have guessed that by now. I’ve already referred to it: your attack on the Vergeltung, your dogged pursuit of Helen and us, her kidnappers. We had another final beta test for Alban in mind—but when you blundered into the picture, we turned what could have been a setback into an opportunity. We completely changed the parameters of the test—rather hastily, I might add. We decided to set Alban free in New York City. To prove that he could kill with impunity, even while revealing his identity to the security cameras. Leaving clues convincing you that the murderer was, in fact, your own son. That knowledge would give you, ah, sufficient motivation to catch him—don’t you think? If the greatest and most intrepid detective, given every opportunity, cannot catch his own murderous son—wouldn’t you say our beta test was a success? A complete, unmitigated success?”

Pendergast did not reply.

“And then Forty-Seven escaped and blundered his way to you. Once again, we turned misfortune to our advantage. We altered Alban’s final mission. Instead of a fifth murder, he would kidnap Forty-Seven from your own house. A mission he executed flawlessly.” Fischer turned to Alban. “Well done, my boy.”

Alban nodded his acceptance of the praise.

“So now you’ve perfected your work on twins,” Pendergast said. “You can produce a pair of them at will—one, a perfect killing machine, strong and intelligent and fearless and cunning. And, most important, perfectly free of any kind of moral or ethical constraint.”

Fischer nodded. “Such constraints, as you put it, lost us the war, you know.”

“And then you have the other twin, as weak as his sibling is strong, as lacking in natural ability as his counterpart is overflowing with it: slave labor and, if necessary, an unwilling organ bank. And so, having perfected this process, this ability to manufacture these diabolically perfect human beings—now that it’s done, what are you going to do?”

“What are we going to do?” Fischer seemed taken aback by the question. “But surely that is obvious? The thing we have vowed—that we have sworn—to do ever since your armed forces stormed our cities, killed our leader, scattered our Reich to the four winds. Why would you think that our goal, Herr Pendergast, has varied one whit from that which it has always been? The only difference is, now—after seventy years of endless work—we are ready to set about achieving that goal. The final beta test is complete. We may now begin—what is the term you use?—the roll-out.”

He dropped the cigarette to the dirt floor, ground it beneath his boot. “But this begins to grow tiresome.” He turned to the man named Berger.

“You may proceed,” he said.