Текст книги "Two Graves"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 26 (всего у книги 34 страниц)

66

BERGER—WHO HAD BEEN CHAIN-SMOKING THROUGHOUT the conversation—now nodded almost primly. He set the folding table in place, placed the medical bag on it, opened it, and rummaged around inside. A moment later he removed a hypodermic syringe—a thick glass tube surrounded by a sheath of gleaming steel, with a long and cruel-looking needle attached. Bringing out a rubber-stoppered pharmaceutical vial containing a reddish liquid, he pushed the needle into it and then—carefully, without hurry—drew back the plunger until the hypo was nearly three-quarters full. He squeezed off a few drops of the liquid. Then he turned and approached Egon, syringe extended.

Throughout the conversation, Egon had been looking floorward, dangling from his manacles, like an animal resigned to his fate. But now, seeing Berger approach, he suddenly became animated. “ Nein!” he shouted, struggling wildly. “ Nein, nein, nein, nein—!”

Fischer shook his head in disapproval, then glanced over at Pendergast. “Egon failed to follow his explicit instructions: remain with you at all times. We see no point in rewarding failure here, Herr Pendergast.”

Berger nodded to the guard. Putting his weapon to one side, the man came forward, grasped the luckless Egon’s hair in one hand and his chin in the other, brutally forcing his head back. Berger approached, needle extended. He used it to gently probe various spots in the soft flesh beneath Egon’s chin. Then, choosing one, he forced the needle—slowly, precisely—up into Egon’s soft palate, inserting it right up to the needle hub. He depressed the plunger.

Egon’s struggles grew hysterical. He screamed—or, rather, made a frightful gargling sound between his clenched teeth, as the guard kept his head locked.

Then—quite quickly—both Berger and the guard drew back. Egon slumped forward, panting, whimpering. Then his whole body stiffened. Veins began to stand out on his neck, blue and bulging. The network of veins quickly spread, like rivers finding new courses through fresh ground. They spread up to his face, down to his forearms, throbbing visibly. Egon began bucking against the restraints, making a strange grrrrrr, grrrrrrrsound. His spasms grew more violent, his face increasingly purple—until, with a violent eruption of blood from his nose, ears, and mouth, he collapsed, sagging against the restraints.

It was the most dreadful of executions.

With oddly fastidious motions, Berger returned the hypodermic and vial to his bag. Fischer had not even bothered to watch the proceedings. Alban had looked on, however, a glimmer of interest kindling in his blue-and-violet eyes.

Fischer turned back to Pendergast. “As I said, we were impressed by what you did on the Vergeltung. However, in the course of the proceedings, you caused us to lose many good men. Now that the beta test is complete, you are no longer necessary. In fact, you are a random element that needs to be removed. But before Berger continues with his work, you perhaps have a final observation, or a final question?”

Pendergast remained motionless, bound to the wall by the heavy chains. “I have something to say to Alban.”

Fischer extended his hand in an offering gesture, as if to say, Be my guest.

Pendergast turned to Alban. “I am your father.” It was a simple statement, spoken slowly, but pregnant with meaning. “And Helen Esterhazy Pendergast was your mother.” He nodded toward Fischer. “Murdered by this man.”

There was a long silence. And then Fischer turned to Alban, speaking in a condescending, almost fatherly tone. “Alban, do you have anything to say to that? Now would be an appropriate time.”

“Father,” Alban said, turning his eyes to Pendergast and speaking in a high, clear voice, “are you trying to provoke some sort of parochial family feeling? You and Helen Esterhazy merely donated sperm and egg. I was createdby others.”

“While your twin, your brother, is a slave laboring in the fields?”

“He’s a productive member of society. I am happy for him. Everyone has his place.”

“And so you think you’re better than he is.”

“Of courseI’m better. Everyone here is created for his place and knows it from the beginning. This is the ultimate social order. You’ve seen Nova Godói. There’s no crime. We have no depression, no mental illness, no drug addiction—no social problems whatsoever.”

“Supported by a camp of slave laborers.”

“You speak from ignorance. They have a purpose. They have all they need or want—except, of course, we can’t let them reproduce. Some people aresimply better than others.”

“And you, being the best of all, are an Übermensch. The final, the ultimate Nazi ideal.”

“I accept the label proudly. The Übermensch is the ideal human being, creative and strong, beyond the petty considerations of good and evil.”

“Thank you, Alban,” said Fischer. “That was most eloquent.”

“The Übermensch,” Pendergast repeated. “Tell me: what is the Kopenhagener Fenster? The Copenhagen Window?”

Alban and Fischer exchanged glances, obviously surprised and, perhaps, alarmed by the question. However, both men quickly mastered themselves.

“It is something you shall go to your grave in ignorance of,” Fischer replied briskly. “And now, auf Wiedersehen.”

A silence fell in the room. Pendergast’s face was the color of marble. Slowly, his head drooped, and his shoulders sagged—a picture of despair and resignation.

Fischer regarded his captive for a moment. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Herr Pendergast.”

Pendergast did not look up.

Fischer nodded to Berger and began walking toward the door of the cell. After a moment, Alban turned as well to follow him.

At the door, Fischer stopped, glanced back at Alban. A look of mild surprise came over his face. “I would have thought you’d like to witness this,” he said.

“It makes no difference,” Alban replied. “I have better things to do.”

Fischer hesitated for a moment. Then he shrugged and exited the room, followed by Alban. The door clanged shut heavily behind them and the guard stepped over to take up position before it, submachine gun at the ready.

67

THERE WAS A BRIEF CHATTER OUTSIDE. THEN THE DOOR opened again. Three more guards came in: two bearing various chains and manacles, and another with an acetylene torch. Berger looked around. Now there were seven in the room: the four soldiers, himself, the prisoner—and the dead body of Egon.

Berger glanced at the corpse, its face still frozen in a ridiculous expression of agony, limbs stiff and angular, tongue protruding, thick as a kielbasa, streams of blood running down from the ears, nose, and mouth. He turned to the soldier on guard duty. “Get that out of the way,” he ordered.

The soldier walked over and unshackled the iron clasps from Egon’s wrists and ankles. Freed of the restraints, the corpse collapsed heavily to the ground. The soldier reached down, seized one raised claw, and hauled the body to a corner of the chamber, kicking it up against the wall.

Berger nodded at the prisoner named Pendergast, shackled to the wall. “Soften him up a bit,” he told the soldier in German.

The soldier gave a slow, cruel smile. He approached Pendergast—his arms and legs pinned to the stone wall—and over the course of several minutes administered a dozen vicious, methodical, well-placed blows to the face and, especially, the abdomen. Pendergast writhed against his restraints, and grunted with pain, but made no other sound.

At last, Berger nodded his approval. “Cover him,” he said. The guard, breathing heavily, stepped back, picked up his submachine gun, and returned to his position near the door.

Following Berger’s orders, the other three soldiers now approached. They freed Pendergast from the wall clasps, and the man fell to the ground. While the soldier with the machine gun kept a careful eye, two of the guards dragged Pendergast back to his feet, then fitted him with wrist manacles, a belly band, and leg hobbles consisting of two ankle cuffs. These were all welded in place by the guard wielding the acetylene torch. Finally, two six-foot iron chains were threaded from the manacles to the foot hobbles. When the restraints were all in place and the welds completed, the men glanced at Berger for further instructions.

“You may go,” Berger told them.

The three turned toward the door.

“Just a minute,” Berger said. “Leave the torch. I have a use for that.”

The third guard placed the rucksack containing the acetylene torch and its two canisters on the floor. Then they left. The soldier with the submachine gun closed the door, then took up his position before it.

Berger pulled a short, metal-tipped quirt from his bag, then took a moment to observe the prisoner, take his measure. He was tall and thin, and clearly weak, his arms weighed down by the chains. His head hung down listlessly, his blond hair limp, blood streaming from his nose and mouth. His skin was gray and translucent, his spirit clearly broken. No matter: Berger would make him lively before the end—very lively.

“Before we begin,” he said, “there’s something you need to know. I was chosen for this task because you killed my brother on the Vergeltung.In our society, victims are always given the satisfaction of carrying out justice on the perpetrator. It is my right, and my duty, to punish you, and I accept the challenge with gratitude.” He nodded at the body of Egon, crumpled up in a far corner like an oversize spider. “You will wish for a death as pleasant as his.”

The man didn’t seem to hear him, which raised Berger’s anger a notch.

“Bring him forward,” he told the soldier.

The soldier, propping his Sturmgewehr 44 rifle against the wall, approached Pendergast and pushed him roughly toward Berger. Then he moved back toward the door, picked up his rifle again, and resumed guarding the prisoner.

“Pendergast,” said Berger, tapping Pendergast’s chest with the quirt. “Look at me.”

The bedraggled man raised his head. His eyes focused on Berger.

“First, you dig your grave. Then, you will suffer. And finally, you will be buried in it, perhaps alive, perhaps not. I haven’t quite decided yet.”

No sign of comprehension.

“Get that pick and shovel.” Berger gestured toward the corner of the room.

The soldier underscored the order with a wave of his gun. “ Beweg Dich!” he barked.

Slowly, the prisoner shuffled toward the far corner, the hobbles clanking awkwardly, the chains dragging.

“Dig here.” Berger took his heel and scraped it along the floor, outlining a crude rectangle in the volcanic dirt. “Hurry! Spute Dich!”

As Pendergast began digging, Berger kept a safe distance, well beyond the swinging range of the tools. He watched the man lift the pick and bring it down painfully into the dirt, again and again, until he had broken up the top layer. He labored awkwardly, heavily encumbered with steel, and the short length of the chains greatly restricted the movement of his arms. When he slowed, Berger stepped forward and gave him a few brisk lashes with the quirt for motivation. Gasping with effort, the prisoner switched to the shovel and removed the loose dirt. At one point he laid the shovel down and mumbled that he needed to rest; Berger responded to that request with a kick that sent the man sprawling. That woke him up a bit.

“No stopping,” Berger said.

The grave made slow progress. The prisoner worked doggedly, chains rattling against the cuffs, his face a mask of mental apathy and physical exhaustion. Here, thought Berger, was a man who knew he had failed; a man who wanted nothing more than to die. And die he would.

An hour dragged by, and finally Berger’s impatience got the better of him. “Enough!” he cried. “ Schluss jetzt!” The grave was only two and a half feet deep, but Berger had grown eager to move on to the next stage. The prisoner stood there, at the edge of the grave, waiting. Turning to the soldier, Berger said in German: “Cover me while I work on him. Take no risks. If anything happens, shoot him.”

The soldier took a few steps forward, raising his weapon.

“Drop the shovel,” Berger ordered.

The prisoner dropped the shovel and stood there, arms at his sides, head drooping, waiting for the end. Berger advanced on him, picked up the shovel, and—bracing himself—swung it against the prisoner’s side. With a thwackthe prisoner dropped to his knees, a look of pained surprise on his face. Placing the flat of his foot on the prisoner’s chest, Berger gave him a push that sent him sprawling backward into the grave. Making sure the guard had a good bead on the prisoner, Berger stepped over and picked up the rucksack containing the torch and its heavy acetylene tanks. Holding its nozzle up like a candle, he snapped the torch on. It popped into life, an intense white light that filled the cell with harsh shadows.

“ Ich werde Dich bei lebendigem Leib verbrennen,” he said, leering at Pendergast and gesturing meaningfully with the torch.

He stepped back to the grave and looked down. The prisoner lay there, eyes widening in fear. He tried to sit up, but Berger planted his foot on the prisoner’s chest again and stepped down, pushing him back. Keeping pressure on the foot, he leaned in and brought the needle-like flame toward the prisoner’s face. It cast a ghastly light, turning the prisoner’s eyes into gleaming points of fire. Closer and closer grew the flame. The prisoner struggled, trying to turn his face aside, first one way and then the other, but Berger pressed relentlessly with his foot, holding him in place, while the very edge of the flame began to sear the prisoner’s cheek. Now he could see a gratifying terror fill the prisoner’s eyes as the flame blistered the skin—

An extremely rapid and forceful—but slight—movement occurred; suddenly the prisoner seemed to contort himself in the strangest way, accompanied by a grinding popof dislocating bone and sinew. Berger, starting back in surprise, saw, suddenly, the prisoner’s hand rise. He felt the nozzle twitched out of his grasp, and an instant later a brilliant white light filled his field of vision. He pulled back, crying out, and was astonished to feel the cold bite of steel around the back of his neck, one of the prisoner’s chains looping around and pulling him forward into the white light, closer and closer. It seemed to last forever—and yet it could have taken no longer than a second or two. The hissing spear of white drove like a needle into his mouth, nose, and then eyes; there was a sudden boiling and a soft, bubbly explosion, followed by pain to end all pain; and then all dissolved into white, white heat.

Pendergast fell back into the makeshift grave, yanking Berger’s body on top of his own, using the hole and the body as cover while the soldier—having recovered from his surprise at this unexpected development—fired, the bullets kicking up dirt all along the rim of the grave. The depth was shallower than Pendergast would have liked, but it was enough. Still covered by Berger, he directed the needle flame of the torch to the chain that attached his left wrist to the steel belly band, slicing it away not at the wrist but at the band, leaving six feet of loose chain attached to his wrist. Bullets nicked and whined around him, several thudding into Berger’s body with a sound like a hand slapping meat. With a sudden cry, Pendergast rose from the grave, flinging aside the body and swinging his arm around, wielding the now-free chain like a whip. It swung in an arc toward the ceiling, shattering the bulb.

As the room was plunged into darkness, he came forward, avoiding the soldier’s panicked fire by staying low and moving in an arc diagonally and very fast. Meanwhile, he gave the chain another massive swing, wrapping it around the soldier’s Sturmgewehr and wrenching it out of his hands, into his own. A single burst of the weapon dropped the soldier. Pendergast dove back into the grave just as the door burst open and the guard detail outside came pouring in, sweeping the room with fire. He waited until he was sure they were all within the room, and then—lying flat on his back in the makeshift grave—he raised the Sturmgewehr and raked them all with the weapon on full auto, emptying the massive box magazine in less than three seconds.

Suddenly all was silent.

Scrambling back out of the grave, Pendergast dropped the weapon and walked to the closest wall, stepping over still-twitching bodies. He took a deep breath, then another. And then, with all his strength, he slammed his shoulder against the wall, resetting the joint he had been forced to dislocate in order to get enough extra play with the chain to strangle Berger with it. Wincing at the pain, he waited until he was sure the shoulder was set properly and could be moved. He then grabbed the acetylene torch, switched it on, and used it to slice off his leg irons, belly band, and wrist cuffs, in his haste setting afire his shirt, which he pulled off while it was still burning. Throwing the rucksack containing the torch and tanks over his good shoulder, he looted a handgun, knife, lighter, wristwatch, flashlight, and a couple of box magazines from the corpses, scooped up the pick he’d used to dig the grave, grabbed the least bloody shirt he could find from one of the dead guards, and then charged out the door and sprinted down the tunnel beyond.

As he ran, slipping his arms into the shirt, he could already hear the commotion of shouted voices and the pounding of soldiers’ boots echoing through the stone bowels of the old fortress.

68

COLONEL SOUZA AND HIS HANDPICKED FORCE OF THIRTY men moved through the dense evergreen forests east of Nova Godói. He could see, through the breaks in the trees, the looming hills that marked the volcanic crater within which the town was located. He stopped to consult his GPS and observed, with satisfaction, that they were only a mile from the previously determined reconnoitering point on the crater rim.

All had gone according to plan. Their approach had been unobserved. The eastern forests were the densest and hilliest in the area. The lack of trails and any signs of hunting indicated this was, as hoped, a place not frequented by the residents of the town.

While thirty soldiers was a great many less than Pendergast had asked for, Souza had carefully considered the pros and cons of going in with a much larger force of less trained soldiers versus one of highly trained, fit commandos cherry-picked from his former group. He had settled on this as the perfect number. A lightning-fast commando-style assault was what the colonel had spent his earlier life training for, what he knew how to do—and what was more, it was clearly appropriate in this situation, against a limited force of fanatics. The men he had picked were proficient with their weapons, boasting exceptional tactical training and psychological preparation. His own son, Thiago, a superbly built, loyal, and intelligent young man, was acting as his aide-de-camp. Tactics were key; surprise was essential; to hit hard and fast the way to go.

The colonel smiled, thinking how the Internet had told them everything they needed to know. It was something he had never even considered until Pendergast had brought him detailed maps of the town and surrounding terrain, all created from Google Earth and overlaid onto standard topographic maps obtained from the Serviço Geológico do Brasil. These Americans with their technological ingenuity! The only essential information remaining was the internal layout of the fortress—and the actual numbers of men-at-arms in the enemy camp.

He felt sure Pendergast—with his clever plan of allowing himself to be captured—would obtain that information for him. The more time he had spent with the strange, pale gringo, the more impressed he had been. Of course, escaping from the Nazis was no sure thing—especially for a lone man. On the other hand, a lone man might well be the perfect strategy. Pendergast seemed to think so—he’d been willing to stake his life upon it.

The colonel’s soldiers moved through the dripping forest in complete silence, shadows among the trees. The ground rose as they ascended the forested rim of the crater. At a certain point, Souza gestured for the soldiers to remain back while he went ahead with Thiago, his ADC. They were exactly on schedule, and he hoped Pendergast—given the unknown variables he would have to face—would be similarly efficient. Souza motioned for his squad to come forward. Moving with great caution, they came to an outcropping of rock. A convenient break in the trees afforded them a view of the village, lake, and island fortress.

The town lay below them, about a mile off, a half-moon of white and yellow stucco buildings with slate roofs arranged along the shores of the lake. Off to one side lay a large expanse of cultivated fields. The fortress itself sat half a mile offshore, to their northeast. It was built on a low cinder cone in the center of the lake, the lower ramparts of stone, with poured concrete forming the modern inner superstructure. This first glance gave the colonel a bad moment. A lot depended on the gringo.

Glassing the position of the fortress, he identified a shallow cove on the back side: an ideal place to land his forces, separated from the fortress by a ridge, protected and hidden. He examined it with minute care, memorizing every detail.

He consulted his watch. Fifteen minutes before the scheduled signal. He snugged himself down to wait in the shelter of the rocks and brush.

“Let the men have tea,” he told his son. A moment later he and his men were enjoying hot thermoses of sweetened black tea with milk. The colonel sipped as he waited, occasionally gazing at the fortress with his binoculars. The sun was in just the right position—that had been carefully planned—and fortunately was not obscured by clouds. The weather reports were holding up nicely.

The tea tasted marvelous, and he enjoyed it slowly, taking the opportunity to light up a cheroot as well. He puffed at it reflectively. He had had his doubts about this mission, but those were behind him now. He had, he knew, two traits that were perhaps not always desirable in a public official: absolute integrity, with a hatred of bribes and corruption—and an instinct for finding his own solution to a problem, even if it meant operating well outside standard procedure. Both of these had seriously hurt his career, eventually landing him back—as Pendergast had so shrewdly observed—in Alsdorf. But Souza was now convinced that the only way to stop the murders in the town he’d sworn to protect, to lance the boil that was Nova Godói, was through extraordinary action. Pendergast, he sensed, was also one comfortable operating outside accepted practice. They had that much in common. Whatever the outcome, they were committed now. There was no longer any time for second-guessing—only for action.

Finally the moment came and he began to scrutinize the fortress steadily with the binoculars. And there it was: flashes of sunlight off a mirror. Pendergast had penetrated the fort according to plan.

The colonel felt an enormous sense of relief—not because he had doubted Pendergast’s abilities, but because he knew, from his days with BOPE, that no matter how well one planned an operation, there were an unlimited number of ways it could go wrong.

The flashed message, in standard Morse code, was a long one. Very long. Grinding out the cheroot upon the rocky outcropping, Souza wrote everything down in his field notebook, word after word: a description of the fortress, a general layout of its passageways and tunnels, its strong and weak points, the size of the defending force, their weapons loadout—everything.

It was all good. Except for the fact that the defending forces, as best Pendergast could make out from his preliminary reconnaissance, numbered well over a hundred. That was considerably more than the colonel had assumed. Still, they would have the advantage of surprise. And according to Pendergast’s information, they would have a clean line of attack, where the fortress’s straightened quarters, passageways, and tunnels would minimize the defenders’ advantage in numbers.

He sent Thiago back down to the group, and soon his men were moving down from the rim, spreading out, surrounding the town in preparation for a three-pronged assault—stage one of the attack.