Crouching there, waiting for he did not know what, having no idea what they could possibly do now, he saw Pendergast move, reach out, and touch his fallen soldier’s neck at the pulse. He waited a moment, then glanced over at the colonel with a faint shake of the head. It felt like another thrust of the knife. To lose these men, so many good men… but he couldn’t contemplate that now.
Pendergast gently removed the bloody knife from the soldier’s dead hand and examined it before sliding it into his own belt. Souza could see it was an old Nazi knife—an Eickhorn hewer—a heavy, thick blade, not easy to throw, but massive enough to split the breastbone on its way to the heart.
Again the colonel listened and again was surprised, even astonished, that he could neither hear nor see anything out there in the darkness. It was as if the knife had simply materialized in the man’s chest.
No one said anything. There was a moment of stasis, and then Pendergast cautiously rose, breaking the terrible spell. Motioning the remaining men to follow him, he continued down the tunnel. The colonel covered the rear with his son, neither one looking at the other. He had somehow ceded command to this civilian, but he could not collect his wits sufficiently to reassert his role. With four men against a fortress of trained Nazi fighters, what could possibly come next? Once again, he pushed these terrible thoughts from his mind. Did Pendergast have a plan? The gringo was so silent, so strange.
The tunnel began to slope downward and the air became increasingly fetid, foul smelling, the floor covered with water that gradually deepened as the slope continued, forcing them to wade. The mists thickened and their breath added more fog to the already-supersaturated air. The sound of their movement through the water echoed softly in the tunnel. At a certain point Pendergast gestured for a halt, and they stood in the tainted air, listening, but could hear no sound of anyone moving through the water behind them.
Still the tunnel continued, the water deepening. Dead, bloated insects floated on the surface scum, and on several occasions they passed human skeletons chained or partially walled into alcoves, dating back to the Spanish era, the bones eaten by time. Once a fat, white water moccasin glided by, paying them no attention.
Soon they came to a circular chamber, a confluence of tunnels. The water was now waist-deep. Here they paused while Pendergast appeared to examine the water for signs of a current, shining his light down and dropping a piece of thread onto the surface. But the thread just left a dimple; there was no movement, none at all, to indicate which direction they should go.
As Pendergast was about to turn away, the colonel saw the thread give a sudden spin; at the same time, the beam of his flashlight, penetrating the murky water, picked up a faint blur.
“Watch out!” he shouted, as simultaneously a cry came from the soldier behind him—Thiago. The colonel spun around, swinging his light frantically, but Thiago had vanished into the water. There was a violent thrashing below the surface, which ended almost as suddenly as it began. The colonel staggered over to where the murky water was still swirling; his flashlight revealed something under the water, rising, rising… A form surfaced, a dark cloudy stain spreading out from its neck, staining the water.
“Meu filho!” the colonel cried, seizing the body. “Thiago! Meu filho!” He turned the body of his son over and with an inarticulate cry lifted it, horror-struck as the head flopped back, the throat cut to the bone, the eyes staring wide. “Bastardos!” he screamed, dropping the body and lifting his rifle, his vision clouded with rage. He let fly a blast on full automatic, aiming into the darkness and sweeping it around, firing crazily into the water. The other soldier panicked as well, backing up and firing his weapon into the miasmic darkness.
“Bastardos!” Souza screamed again.
“Enough,” Pendergast said, not loudly, but in a steel voice. “Stop.”
The colonel, feeling the cold grip of the man’s hand on his shoulder, came to a jerking halt. He was shaking all over. “My son,” he said in despair.
“He’s playing with us,” said Pendergast. “We’ve got to find a way out.”
“He?” the colonel cried. “Who is he? Who is this man?” He felt another rage take hold and he screamed into the darkness: “Who are you? Quem é você?”
Pendergast did not answer. He pointed to the last soldier. “You. Bring up the rear.” He turned back to the colonel. “Stay next to me. We must keep moving.”
Souza followed Pendergast down a tunnel, chosen for reasons he did not know nor any longer care about. The American moved fast through the water, almost like a shark, slipping along, the colonel struggling to keep up. He saw Pendergast remove a grenade and yank out the pin, keeping it clenched in his hand, the spoon lever depressed.
They continued on until they reached another confluence of tunnels; another danger zone. And then all of a sudden, to the colonel’s surprise, Pendergast turned and threw the grenade back down the tunnel they had just emerged from.
“Down!” he cried.
They threw themselves into the water as the explosion came, blasting down the tunnel in a wall of spray like a water cannon. After it passed, they could hear the echoes of it continuing to rumble this way and that through the labyrinthine passages.
Pendergast pointed to a tunnel.
“How do you know this is the way out?” the colonel gasped.
“It is the one without an echo,” came the murmured reply.
The water deepened, but a stone walkway soon appeared partway along the tunnel wall, with stone steps leading up. Pendergast had chosen correctly: this was a route out, an old tunnel no doubt leading to the lake, a secret water passageway in and out of the fortress.
“Agora eu esto satisfeito…” A voice came suddenly out of the mists, echoing, distorted, horrible.
The colonel dropped, turned, and fired almost without thought, a truncated burst cut off as his magazine emptied. He continued depressing the trigger, screaming, “Who’s there? Who is it?” His trembling voice echoed away among the mists.
The only reply was the single report of a gun out of the darkness; a brief flash of light; and the last of his soldiers dropped back into the water with a low gargling sound.
Pendergast crouched next to the colonel, using the stone quay as cover, his silvery eyes piercing the darkness.
Souza fumbled out the magazine, dropped it into the water, grabbed another from his rucksack, and with shaking hands tried to affix it into place. Pendergast reached over, placing a steadying hand on the gun as Souza finally got the magazine in place.
“Save your ammo,” he said quietly. “This is what he wants.”
“Os fantasmas?” said the colonel, shaking all over.
“Unfortunately, it’s real.”
With this enigmatic answer, Pendergast scrambled up the stone steps, the colonel stumbling after him, slipping as he climbed the slimy stairs to the narrow walkway, running along it and taking cover in an alcove.
“Agora eu esto satisfeito…” came the voice again out of the miasma, the sound like an ice pick into the colonel’s ear. In the tunnel it was impossible to tell the direction; it came from everywhere and nowhere at once, a low but curiously penetrating voice.
“What does that mean?” Pendergast whispered.
“How horrible… it means ‘satisfaction, fulfillment…’ ” Souza choked, his mind whirling. He could hardly come to grips with what had happened, what was still happening. It was a nightmare beyond anything he could have imagined.
“We’ve got to keep moving, Colonel.”
Something about the agent’s cool voice steadied him a little. Gripping his M16, Souza rose and followed Pendergast’s fleeting form down the passage. They passed side pipes and tunnels, some of which were spewing black water.
Low laughter followed them. The colonel could not stand it. He felt everything crumbling again; his world was destroyed—and now this. How was this happening? Who was this devil?
“Você está satisfeito, Coronel?” came the voice, closer in
the mists. Are you satisfied, Colonel?
It was as if the world suddenly flew away. Colonel Souza spun with a roar and ran back in the direction of the voice, a sound coming from his throat that wasn’t entirely human, a bestial scream of rage, his finger locked on the trigger, the weapon on full automatic, the muzzle sweeping back and forth, the thirty-round magazine emptying into the mist.
A sudden silence fell as the magazine ran out. Souza stopped, almost as if waking up; stopped and waited, waited for the end, which he suddenly wanted more than anything else he had ever wanted in his life.
76
PENDERGAST, FLATTENED AGAINST THE WALL, HEARD the long, wild, sustained firing and the animalistic scream of the colonel as he charged down the walkway into the darkling mists, followed by a sudden silence. There was a moment of stasis as the sound echoed and died away in the tunnels: and then another single shot, not very loud, from a small-caliber weapon, broke the silence.
A moment later, he heard the colonel’s body hit the water. And then he heard the voice again—the voice he knew so well.
“And now, Father, here we are. Just the two of us.”
In the darkness, pressed against the wall, Pendergast said nothing.
“Father?”
Finally he felt able to speak. “What do you want?” he asked, slowly and evenly.
“I am going to kill you.”
“And you really think you can do it? Kill your own father?”
“We shall see.”
“Why?”
“Why climb Mount Everest? Why go to the moon? Why run a marathon? For me, this is the ultimate test of character.”
A silence. Pendergast could formulate no response.
“You really can’t escape me. You realize that, don’t you?” The voice paused briefly. And then Alban said: “But first, a gift for you. Earlier, you asked about the Copenhagen Window. Would you like to know my secret? Glance into the world just as though time were gone: and everything crooked will become straight to you. Nietzsche, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
A knife flashed out of the darkness, like a bat on the wing, so fast and so unexpected that Pendergast could not quite dodge it. It struck his clavicle a glancing blow, little more than a flesh wound. He twisted away, fell and rolled, then was up and, after a quick sprint, took cover again, pressing himself into the next alcove, up against the wet, slimy wall. Even with the thrown knife, he couldn’t pinpoint Alban’s current location, the youth taking advantage of the peculiarities of the way sound echoed in the tunnels to disguise his position.
“You won’t kill me, because you’re weak. That’s where we differ. Because I can kill you. As I just demonstrated. And I must say, that was an excellent evasion, Father. As if you sensed it was coming.”
Pendergast noted a hint of pride in the boy’s voice: that of a son impressed with his father. The weird sickness of it made it hard to focus. He felt the sting of the injury to his already-wrenched shoulder, felt the warm blood seeping through his wet shirt. A certain part of him—perhaps the greater part—did not care now whether he lived or died. He only hoped his son would shoot straight and true.
“Yes, it is true I could kill you now,” the voice went on. “And, in fact, you’re in my crosshairs as I speak. But that wouldn’t be right. I’m a man of honor and wouldn’t just shoot you down like a dog. So I’ll give you a choice. I shall count to ten. If you choose to die, do nothing, and on ten I will help you with your assisted suicide. If you wish to flee, to give yourself a sporting chance, you may do so.”
Pendergast dove into the water, but not until the count had reached six.
Keeping underwater, he swam as fast as he could, the heavy rifle dragging him down. He stayed close to the wall, only coming up when he needed to gulp air. He heard several bursts of gunfire—Alban was true to his word and fired on ten—and could hear the bullets zipping underwater all around him. He wasn’t moving fast enough, not nearly fast enough, and with a moment’s regret he released the rifle. He swam with his eyes open but could see nothing. The water was cold and foul and full of dead things that bumped against him, and he felt more than once the slithering brush of a water snake. Ignoring all this, he kept going.
The tunnel made a broad curve and then—slowly, kicking hard under the water—Pendergast began to see the faintest light. He surfaced, noticed a gleam on the slick walls of the tunnel. The shooting had stopped. He continued, swimming on the surface. As he emerged from the tunnels into the lake, the light almost blinded him. It was still afternoon. He looked westward and saw that he was about half a mile from the opposite shore. He paused to glance behind him. Alban was nowhere to be seen, either at the mouth of the tunnel or anywhere on shore.
That, he knew, would not last long. The boy was surely coming after him.
He continued swimming, heading westward, toward the mainland.
77
ALBAN LISTENED FOR A WHILE IN THE DARKNESS WHILE the sounds of his father’s swimming slowly faded. The opening to the lake wasn’t far; he would reach it within a few minutes. His heart was beating strongly and he could feel all his senses at their keenest level of alertness, his mind running smooth and fast. This was the most electrifying thing he had ever done, strangely, unexpectedly thrilling. Now he understood what Fischer had meant about appreciating the finer things. A few years earlier, as a coming-of-age challenge, Fischer had sent him into the forest, armed only with a knife, to kill a jaguar. That had been a remarkable experience. But this—hunting a man, and not any man, but his own father—was the ultimate challenge.
Alban considered what his father would do next. And the answer came easily: He would not remain on the island, where he could do nothing and was completely outgunned and overwhelmed. He would swim for shore. And he would swim due west, toward the defectives’ camp. Because he would be looking for his other son, Forty-Seven. Alban’s twin. The one who now had a name: Tristram.
Tristram. Something about that name—the very existence of the name—deeply angered Alban.
Moving quickly, Alban jogged down the walkway to an obscure metal door in a side alcove. With a quick twist of a key in the well-oiled lock, he moved into a narrow tunnel that he knew led diagonally toward shore. A few moments later he emerged through another door into the light of afternoon, at a crumbling stone platform just above the lakeshore, surrounded by reeds. Pushing his way out of the vegetation, he climbed a few dozen feet up the side of the volcanic hill, his feet crunching on the cinders. Then he paused, turned, and surveyed the lake. Almost immediately his keen eyes spotted the figure of his father, swimming westward toward shore precisely as he had surmised.
He raised his rifle and examined his father through the magnification of the scope. He thought, idly, that despite it being a three-hundred-yard shot, in this windless and pleasant afternoon, given his superb marksmanship, it was an almost certain kill.
He lowered the rifle without firing, complimenting himself again on his strong sense of honor and justice. His father was a great man who would die a good death—not shot in the back from afar. The swim was about half a mile, and at the rate he was going with his wounded shoulder, it would take him at least fifteen minutes to reach the swamp on the far side. There was plenty of time to arrange for a more equal, more interesting contest.
Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he hiked along the well-worn path circling the island. Within a few minutes a small landing came into view, to which were tied several outboard launches. Walking up to them, he looked them over, selecting the lightest and most maneuverable: a thirteen-foot fiberglass flat-bottomed skiff with a two-stroke engine. He leapt in, checked the gas, fired up the engine, and headed out into the lake.
The skiff slapped the water as it skimmed away from shore, with Alban standing at the tiller, peering ahead, feeling the lovely, cool air rush past. This close to the water it was hard to see his father, but he knew where he would be. And sure enough, as he approached the middle of the lake, he could see the man’s fa
int movement in the afternoon light: the regularly moving arms, the splash of the feet, as he swam.
His father glimpsed him and dove. Alban slowed the boat, turning slightly to the south. With the dive and swim underwater, his father would change direction. But no: he wouldn’t. That would be his surprise, to keep going in the same direction.
How long could he hold his breath?
An astonishing two minutes later—Alban could hardly believe it—he reappeared, just where Alban expected, along the same route almost a hundred yards closer to shore. Alban could swim a hundred and fifty yards underwater, but one hundred was still extraordinary, especially for a man his father’s age.
Alban steered the boat toward the swimmer, closing the distance fast. Why not just run him over?
Why not, indeed? That would be sport. His father would dive, of course. And dive again. He goosed the engine to full throttle and aimed at the figure, sweeping toward him. His father dived at the last minute and Alban jammed the tiller around, carring the boat in a tight circle, aiming for where he knew his father would surface.
He didn’t really expect to kill his father this way. But it would wear him out, exhaust him.
Best of all, it would be good sport—for both of them.
78
UNDERWATER, HIS EYES OPEN, PENDERGAST COULD SEE the boat make a tight turn on the surface and head in the very direction he had planned to take. But even as he saw this, and changed his plans yet again—hovering underwater and holding his breath—the boat changed its trajectory, slowing down even more, as if reading his mind.
Reading his mind? It seemed absurd… and yet even the most unusual hypotheses must be considered to explain the most unusual events. Pendergast was at the cusp of a revelation; he could sense it. A number of threads were twining themselves together in his hypoxic brain—the inexplicable nature of the killings in New York; the recent stalk in the fortress tunnels, with its uncanny display of second-guessing; Alban’s pride-filled statement about his father’s abilities; the youth’s supreme self-confidence that Pendergast could not escape him. And then, the odd quotation from Nietzsche.
Two Graves Page 40
