Two Graves p-12

by Douglas Preston

  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.

  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, grrrrrrr sound. 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 created by 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 course I’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 addictio
n—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 are simply 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
thwack the 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—