Текст книги "Two Graves"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 30 (всего у книги 34 страниц)

79

IN HIS ELEGANT OFFICE, OBERSTGRUPPENFÜHRER WULF Fischer indulged himself in another cigarette, offering one to his second in command, Scheermann. Fischer then lit it for the man, enjoying the reversal of roles; a gesture that demonstrated his own confidence and security, as well as the trust he placed in his captain.

He walked to the window that looked westward over the lake and raised his binoculars. He could see Alban’s boat moving in circles, see the tiny swimming figure of Pendergast. If Alban had had any reluctance about killing his father, it did not seem to be in evidence now.

“This is charming. Take a look, Oberführer.”

Fischer stepped aside and let his second in command gaze at the scene. He waited, inhaling the blended Syrian Latakia tobacco, grown and cured on their own farms, the finest in South America.

“Yes, most charming,” Scheermann said as he lowered the glasses. “Alban seems up to the challenge. Very encouraging.”

A silence. “We shall see if he is capable of the kill.”

“I’m sure he will be, mein Oberstgruppenführer. His breeding and training were impeccable.”

Fischer did not respond. The truth was, the true and final test had yet to take place. He inhaled smoke, let it stream from his nose. “Tell me: are there any survivors from the invading unit?”

“None. Five got into the fortress, but Alban and our soldiers seem to have killed them all. We found all five bodies.”

“Any casualties among the Twins Brigade?”

“None. Although we lost a fairly large number of regular soldiers—upwards of two dozen. I’m still awaiting a final count.”

“Regrettable.” Fischer took back the glasses and peered through them again. It could almost have been two children playing in the lake, the boat moving in lazy circles, the swimmer diving and swimming underwater, coming up for air—everything, at that distance, appearing as if in slow motion. But now something happened: the boat appeared to have been holed, and Pendergast was swimming straight for shore.

Logic told Fischer that Pendergast was no match for his son—the son who carried all of his father’s own best genes, enhanced, while unburdened of the deleterious ones. And who had been trained from birth for this very sort of challenge.

“Quite a show,” he said, keeping his voice confident. “The Romans in the Colosseum would be envious.”

“Yes, Oberstgruppenführer.”

That nagging feeling, however, that shadow of doubt, refused to go away, and as the contest on the water became prolonged the doubt only increased. Finally, Fischer spoke again. “I’m confident that Pendergast, if he reaches shore, will head for the defectives’ camp. Alban will pursue, of course, but to be sure there are no problems, I want you to mobilize a group of our regulars and the Twins Brigade—now that they are warmed up—and transport them across the lake. I want them to act as a backup for Alban. Just in case. An insurance policy, you understand, nothing more.” He tried to make it sound casual.

“Immediately, Oberstgruppenführer.”

“On the double.”

Oberführer Scheermann left with a crisp salute. Fischer turned back to the window, glassing the little drama on the lake. Alban was now standing in the boat, shooting—and missing. Granted, it was a highly difficult and precarious shot, in constant motion, unable to steady the weapon properly, the light the way it was.

Still…

80

AS PENDERGAST SLIPPED THROUGH THE FOREST, HE WAS well aware that Alban would be in pursuit, despite the silence behind him. And, without doubt, he would soon catch up.

As he glided forward, he considered his recent revelation. He thought he now understood Alban’s unusual ability. It was a quality that he himself, and others, possessed as well—but only vestigially, weakly. In Alban it had been greatly enhanced. He had to be careful how he deployed his realization; he had to wait for the right moment, not let Alban realize he was aware of his special advantage: he could not afford to throw the surprise away at the wrong time.

He came upon a trail in the forest leading in the direction of the defectives’ camp. He sprinted along it, pushing himself as hard as he could. The trail switchbacked up a low rise, and within a few hundred yards he crested the rim of the crater that enclosed the fields and camp. He dropped down the far side, still running, ignoring the switchbacks and descending at breakneck speed straight down the steep slope.

He burst out of the vegetation edging the cultivated land. A field of tall corn offered some cover and he darted into it, the rows running at a ninety-degree angle to his route of travel. He continued on, slowing only slightly, slipping and twisting between the rows of tall plants. But now he could hear his pursuer behind him, the rustle of his progress growing closer, always closer.

Pendergast turned ninety degrees and ran down a row of corn; then, as quickly as he could, he changed tactics, bashing through the rows, zigzagging from one to another. It was fruitless; there was no way to shake Alban and no way to ambush him. Alban was armed; he was not. This was not going to end well.

He saw light ahead and broke out of the far end of the corn. Still running, he crossed a field of bright cotton, the low plants affording no cover whatsoever. He could hear Alban running behind him, his breath coming hard. It had become a straight-ahead race now—and one he would lose.

Even as he realized he wasn’t going to make the opening to the underground camp, he spotted the so-called defectives, streaming back in confusion from the far fields, dressed in ragged clothes, battered straw hats on their heads, tools and implements slung over their shoulders. It was a strange, silent, disorderly mob. Those in front paused, their mouths hanging open, astonished at the sight of the chase. He searched their milling ranks but could not make out Tristram.

At the same time, he heard, bizarrely, the sound of singing—a martial tune, no less. Looking to his right, he saw, streaming toward them from the direction of the docks, dozens of soldiers—the twins. There were around a hundred of them, the same number as the defectives: men and women, girls and boys, aged from perhaps fourteen to around forty, dressed in simple gray uniforms, sporting Iron Crosses—apparently the symbol of their new master race—led by several officers in crisp Nazi regalia. They were heavily armed, and as they approached they easily fell into formation, their voices bursting into song:

Es zittern die morschen Knochen,

Der Welt vor dem großen Krieg,

This was it, Pendergast realized. He could not outrun his son. He stopped, turned, and faced him.

A hundred yards back, Alban slowed to a trot, his face breaking into a smile as he approached. He unslung his rifle and fell back into a walk.

The soldiers approached.

Wir haben den Schrecken gebrochen,

Für uns war’s ein großer Sieg.

But Alban didn’t shoot him down. As he drew close, Pendergast saw, from the triumph in his eyes, that he wanted to draw it out, savor the moment of victory—not end it prematurely with a squalid shot. Indeed, now there was an audience. Now there was high drama, and a chance for Alban to prove himself: vindication in front of all.

It sickened Pendergast how well he understood his son.

Wir werden weiter marschieren

Wenn alles in Scherben fällt,

Supremely confident, Alban approached Pendergast, searched him, removing Pendergast’s last weapon, a small knife. He held it up, tucked it in his own belt: a souvenir.

Now the marching soldiers came to a halt before them—young, beaming, rosy-cheeked, glowing with health and athleticism. Standing in rows, they finished their song:

Denn heute da hört uns Deutschland

Und morgen die ganze Welt!

The commander, Scheermann, dressed in a Waffen-SS uniform, strolled along the line of now-silent soldiers, turned and looked at Pendergast, and then at Alban. He walked around them in a slow circle.

“Well done,” he said to Alban in perfect English. “He is the last one. I leave it in your hands.”

“Thank you, mein Oberführer,” Alban responded.

The boy turned to Pendergast with a smile. “Well, this is it, Father.”

Pendergast waited. He looked over at the field hands, the slave twins, standing in a disorganized bunch, staring slack-jawed. They appeared not to have the slightest idea what was going on. The uniforms, the soldiers, the two groups of twins staring at each other across an unfathomable gulf of biology, of genetics…

Glancing from the soldiers to the enslaved field hands, Pendergast saw many of the same faces. Only where the defectives’ faces were discouraged and hollow, the soldiers had the look of those who had found their place in the world and were supremely satisfied with it. This was how it should be. All was in order.

The horror of it closed off Pendergast’s throat; he almost couldn’t bear the knowledge that this was where his wife had come from, that she had been bredhere, an early iteration of this vast eugenics experiment, stretching across at least three generations from the concentration camps of World War II to the forests of Brazil. Bred, no doubt, with the ultimate aim of creating a truemaster race, capable of establishing and maintaining a Fourth Reich, without the imperfections—mercy, compassion, shortsightedness—of their merely human forebears.

The idea was monstrous. Monstrous.

Scheermann, the Oberführer, said quietly: “Alban? We are waiting.”

Alban took a step forward, his smile growing. With a brief glace at the Oberführer, he swung his fist and punched Pendergast in the side of the head with such force that it knocked the FBI agent to the ground.

“Fight,” he said.

Pendergast rose, blood trickling from his mouth. “I’m afraid I can’t give you that satisfaction, Alban,” he said.

Another blow sent Pendergast sprawling again.

“Fight. I will not have my father die like a cowardly dog.”

Again Pendergast rose, his pale eyes on his son. Again the fist swung hard. Yet again Pendergast went down.

A cry went up from among the ragged slaves. And now, out of nowhere, Tristram emerged.

“Stop it!” he shouted. “That’s my father. And your father, too!”

“Precisely,” said Alban. “And I’m glad you’re here to see this, Schwächling.”

He turned and struck Pendergast again. “What a coward our father is. How disappointing!”

Tristram rushed at Alban, but with the utmost clumsiness; Alban deftly stepped aside while sticking out his foot—a schoolboy trick—and sent Tristram sprawling.

A manly laugh went up among the soldiers.

Pendergast got up from the dirt and stood silently, awaiting the next blow.

81

THE LAUGHTER DIED AWAY. ALBAN LOOKED DOWN AT HIS brother, lying in the dirt. Then he turned slowly back to Pendergast. Reaching down, he removed his sidearm, a Walther P38 that he had lovingly restored by hand. He felt the cool, heavy weapon in his hands. It had been given to him by Fischer when he turned ten, and he had replaced the original grips with elephant ivory he had carved himself.

His twin, Forty-Seven, sat up in the dirt, staring at the pistol.

Alban said, offhandedly: “Don’t worry, brother, I’ve no intention of damaging my own personal blood and organ farm.” He hefted the gun. “No—this one’s for Father.”

Der Schwächlingrose to his feet.

“Go back to your own kind,” Alban said. Meanwhile, the Nazi officers waited, expectantly. As did the brigade of superior twins. Waiting to see what he would do, how he—the one chosen for the beta test—would end this. This was the moment. Hismoment.

He would not make a mistake. Alban ejected the magazine to make sure it was full, then slid it back into place. With slow deliberation, holding his arm straight, he racked a round into the chamber.

His twin, however, did not move. He spoke in German, his voice loud and clear: “ Is this good?”

Alban laughed harshly and, in return, quoted Nietzsche: “ What is good? All that heightens the feeling of power in man, the will to power, power itself.”

“That’s sick,” said his twin.

Alban waved as if at a pesky insect, highly conscious of his audience. The only one missing was Fischer. “What are you, Forty-Seven, but a bag of blood and organs—a genetic garbage dump? Your opinions are as meaningless as the wind in the trees.”

This elicited another round of laughter from the soldiers. He couldn’t help but glance at his father, who stared at him with those strange eyes. He seemed unable, now, to read anything in that look. No matter: it was irrelevant.

His twin—who clearly didn’t know when to stop—spoke up again, but this time he spoke not to Alban, but to his own people. “You heard him. He called me and all of you my own kind. How much longer are we going to be treated like storage bags of blood and organs? How much longer are we going to be treated like animals? I am a man.”

And now a low murmur from the crowd.

“Don’t strain yourself, brother,” said Alban. “If you want to see the power of will, watch this.” He pointed the pistol at his father.

“ Brother?” the twin cried, again addressing the crowd of defectives. “You hear that word? Can’t you see how wrong this is? Brother against brother? Son murdering his own father?”

To Alban’s mild surprise, the defectives responded. There was a sharp and growing murmur, more restless movement.

“Oh, ho!” Alban cried facetiously. “Speech, speech!”

This, to his relief, elicited a merry round of laughter from the soldiers. And he told himself it was, in fact, quite amusing, this crowd of pathetic imbeciles getting themselves all exercised with the pent-up frustrations and privations of many years. But he found himself shocked at the articulateness of Forty-Seven. That was not supposed to be allowed. And as he glanced around, he was unable to suppress an uneasiness developing in his forward-time sense, like an approaching storm. The ever-branching paths were narrowing, coming together and converging in his mind, leading toward a single future.

He looked back at his father, who was staring at him with glittering eyes. His finger moved to the trigger. It was time to get this over with.

“This is not right!” Forty-Seven cried out loudly, turning to the crowd. “Deep inside, you know it’s wrong! Open your eyes! We are all brothers—sisters– twins! We share the same blood!”

The world-lines whipped and curled about in Alban’s mind, a sudden five-alarm fire. He saw it, felt it: the great turning of the wheel. This couldn’t be happening, not with their careful indoctrination, their years of planning and refining… and yet it washappening, and he could already begin to glimpse, like the ghostly image of an underpainting, how all this was going to end. The murmur of the defectives was growing into a hubbub, then into a roar, and the crowd moved tentatively forward, their hoes and shovels and scythes raised, some picking up rocks.

“ We can stop this!” Forty-Seven shouted. “ Now!”

Alban took a step back, the pistol leveled at his father. Oberführer Scheermann rapped out an order and the soldiers—lined up and heavily armed—raised their weapons.

“Go back to your fields!” cried the Oberführer. “Or we shall fire!”

But Alban knew that they would not—could not—fire on the defectives. Except for a handful of the latest iteration of twins—the best and most advanced, like himself—the others could not, if push came to shove, actually kill their siblings with their own hands. And if the Nazi officers, their minders, tried to shoot the defectives… It was all coalescing in Alban’s mind with horrifying clarity. It would be the end of the program, the colony, an abrupt and shocking end to more than half a century of scientific research. The defectives, for all their hideousness, were essential. For the first time, he realized they were as essential to the project as he was. One could not exist without the other. Why had he not seen that before? Why had nobody seen that before? The whole plan had been based on a false hypothesis—a bluff. And now his own twin was calling that bluff.

This realization, this sudden reversal of fortune—unexpected and dreadful—left him stunned.

The crowd of defectives continued to jostle forward toward the line of soldiers, less tentative now, shouting, gesturing with their crude tools. Alban could feel the heat of their fury.

Now. He squeezed the trigger and fired at Pendergast.

But his father had anticipated it. Somehow, he had begun to move even before Alban fired, like a flash, incredibly quickly and unexpectedly—how did he do it?—evading the shot. Alban fired a second time but this shot was ruined by a volley of stones that came flying out of the crowd toward him, striking him and forcing him to fling up his arms in self-defense.

Pendergast had veered away and now lunged at him, launching himself in the air. Alban evaded with a pirouette, his father just striking him in the side. He fired again, but it was impossible to aim with the pelting rain of rocks and he was forced back, turning and hunching, his arms raised to protect his head. He could hear Scheermann crying an order to his regulars: Fire over their heads!With the lieutenants repeating it down the line, there came a massive volley of shots, and then another, like thunder.

It gave the defectives pause in their headlong rush. They halted in a kind of confused, chaotic milling, and the incipient fight abruptly turned into a standoff. Alban cast about and found his father, back up again, standing next to his twin, Forty-Seven, at the head of the crowd. Once again, he raised his weapon. But as he did so he saw in his mind the inexorable turning of the wheel, the crooked pathways of time growing straight… and he backed up, horrified by what he saw, as Pendergast stared at him with those terrible eyes. It was useless: every branch, every road of time led to a dead end, a checkmate at the end of every time line.

All at once he turned and fled, running through the line of soldiers, who parted to let him pass, as he knew they would. He needed to get to the lake and get a boat to the fortress, to find Fischer.

And to warn him of what was about to happen.

82

PENDERGAST WATCHED ALBAN RUN, AND HE UNDERSTOOD why. Alban’s own gift had allowed him to see far enough ahead to—in essence—defeat himself. His genetically enhanced ability to sense just far enough into the future to carry out the Hotel Killings with such success, to elude his father’s pursuit with ease, to kidnap his brother from the Riverside Drive redoubt, to survive and prevail in almost any imaginable confrontation—this gift had now turned against him. Knowledge of the future—even a brief, ten– or fifteen-second glimpse—turned out to be a double-edged sword with the keenest blade.

Meanwhile the standoff continued. Tensions were escalating to the breaking point: the defective twins were lined up on one side, furious, disorganized, raging; and on the other side was the Twins Brigade, lined up in disciplined ranks, silent but deeply rattled. And in the middle, the small cadre of Nazi officers who were only now realizing their dilemma as the two sets of twins, each about a hundred strong, faced each other in a standoff.

“Submit!” screamed Scheermann at the defectives. “Go back to your camp!” He pointed at Pendergast. “Take that man into custody!”

Tristram, at the front of the crowd, cried out: “Touch my father, and we attack!”

A murmur of assent. The Oberführer hesitated. Pendergast waited. And then he saw the moment had arrived.

Without warning he strode toward the lines of twin soldiers and seized one by the collar of his uniform, as a teacher might seize a truant schoolboy.

“Stop him!” screeched Scheermann, removing his own sidearm, but in the standoff he seemed paralyzed to act, obviously surprised by the sudden, unexpected flight of Alban. Pendergast ignored him and dragged the astonished, passive soldier across the gap while with his other arm he snatched one of the defectives—the soldier’s twin—by his ragged shirt, yanking him out, bringing the two men together.

“Meet your brother!” he cried at the soldier. “ Your own brother!” He turned to the groups of twins facing each other. “All of you, right now—seek out your brothers and sisters! Your own flesh and blood!”

And he could see the eyes of the twins roving despite themselves, locking one after another on their opposites. There was a restless muttering, and the orderly lines of twin soldiers began to slacken, grow loose.

“That’s enough,” Scheermann said, raising his pistol toward Pendergast.

“Lower your pistol or we attack!” cried Tristram.

“You, attack? With hoes? You’ll be slaughtered,” Scheermann said contemptuously.

“Slaughter us—and there ends your grand experiment!”

Scheermann hesitated, his eyes darting along the line of ragged twins.

“These men—” Pendergast pointed at the Nazi minders—“they’re your realenemy. Dividing brother from brother, sister from sister. They’ve turned you allinto guinea pigs. But not them. Theyhaven’t participated. And theyremain in charge. Why is that?”

The Oberführer’s pistol hand was shaking ever so slightly. The seething crowd moved toward him. “Fire and you die!” came a voice, and another.

“Go back to your brigade, soldier,” Scheermann said contemptuously.

The soldier did not move.

“Obey or face discipline!” Scheermann screamed, swiveling the pistol from Pendergast’s head to point at the soldier.

“Lower your weapon,” the soldier said slowly, “or we’ll kill you all.”

The commander’s face was white. After a moment, he dropped his arm.

“Step back.”

The Oberführer took a careful step back. Then another. Suddenly his arm flew up again, and he fired into the soldier’s chest. “Attack the weak twins!” Scheermann screamed to the Nazi minders. “Fire at will! Destroy them!”

A roar of anger and dismay rose from the twins on both sides of the battle lines. There was a moment of terrible stasis. And then it was as if a dam had burst. The disorderly crowd of twins rushed the Nazi officers, their crude weapons raised.

Scheermann backed up, firing into the crowd, but he was immediately mobbed by the crowd of defectives, surging forward at a roar. There was a fusillade of shots from the soldiers and their commanding officers as the battle was joined, hand-to-hand, the Nazi officers firing every which way into the crowd at point-blank range, causing a dreadful slaughter. All was confusion, a fearful firefight erupting in the open field, soldiers struggling with the ragged defectives, the roar of automatic weapons, the clang of shovel and scythe against rifle, the screams of the wounded coming out of the fury of dust and blood.

“Brothers and sisters!” Tristram’s voice rose up. “Don’t murder your own kin!”

Something was happening. Many of the Twins Brigade were breaking ranks, changing sides, some throwing down their weapons and embracing their siblings—others turning their weapons on their officers. But a small cadre of latest-iteration twins remained with the Nazi officers, defending them furiously.

The chaos began to resolve itself and two sides emerged, fighting each other. The small group of loyalist twin soldiers and their Nazi officers were now outgunned and being forced to retreat, slowly, firing all the while, exacting a huge toll. The rest of the Twins Brigade who had turned were fighting alongside the defectives, more organized now, mounting a stronger attack and putting an end to the initial slaughter. The Nazis fell back into the cover of the cornfield, pursued by the main body of reunited twins. The battle raged on in the cornfield and a fire soon started, the flames leaping out of the dry stalks, a pall of smoke blanketing the scene, creating still more confusion.

Pendergast relieved a dead soldier of his sidearm, knife, and flashlight and headed into the corn toward the fiercest nucleus of fighting, battering his way through shattered cornstalks and heavy columns of smoke, looking for Tristram. He could hear the boy’s voice in the thickest part of the action, calling, exhorting, urging his fellows forward—and it struck him to the core how much he had underestimated his son.

Now he circled fast around the Nazi officers and their rump of loyalist troops, retreating toward the lake. He swung around in a flanking maneuver and came up behind them, in their line of travel, crouching and waiting for them to come to him. As they did, Pendergast raised his gun, aimed at the Oberführer in the rear, as he anticipated, and brought him down with a single shot. He immediately came under heavy fire, the automatic weapons mowing down the corn around him; but the loss of their commander demoralized the retreating group, and after a moment of panic and confusion they broke and ran toward the lake, pursued by the others.

Continuing his one-man flanking maneuver, Pendergast moved eastward through the cornfields and into the forest. He bushwhacked his way to the top of the crater rim, where he stopped to reconnoiter. The retreating soldiers had arrived at the boats, and from his vantage point he could see what was happening: a group of them were hunkering down, making a stand while the rest loaded onto the vessels, scuttling the extras so they couldn’t be followed. Another furious fight broke out as the vanguard of the pursuers, led by Tristram, reached the shore. But the Nazis and their remaining twin allies managed to cast off their boats and speed away from shore, leaving behind half a dozen wrecked and burning vessels.

The gunfire fell off and finally ceased as the vessels headed away from land, smoke drifting across the scene. The Nazis had gotten away and were now headed back across the lake to the fortress—to make their final stand.