Tom Knox - The Marks of Cain

'Uh-huh.' Angus was gesturing, in the lamplight. 'But the first option was closed. No one would tell them where the data were hidden. That left the second option. Science. Redoing the experiments. But it has taken seventy years for science to catch up with the Nazi discoveries at Gurs, and begin to prove them, all over again. And even now, when science has caught up, there are still forces ranged against the whole concept of racial differences and eugenics. The Human Genome Diversity Project at Stanford was shut by pressure from western governments — and from the church.'

'So the Kellermans switched to GenoMap.'

'Exactly. The experiments we were doing at GenoMap were directly funded and abetted by Kellerman Namcorp. That old Nazi doctor, Dresler, fled to Namibia in the 90s, after he was uncovered by David's father. And he forwarded advice to GenoMap on how to reproduce the Fischer results. He even suggested blood testing the same people: Gurs survivors — Cagots especially.'

Angus continued: 'And you know what? This plan would have succeeded, if Fazackerly hadn't blabbed. At a conference in France, he boasted he was going to successfully repeat the experiments of Eugen Fischer at Gurs. I was there. It was mortifying. And I guess that's when the Catholic church was alerted, and began taking more serious steps. They recruited the Society of Pius X: because, as we all know, they are some zealous fuckers. And because they already knew the secrets of Gurs, so it involved no widening of the circle of knowledge. Their roots go back to Vichy France.'

Simon briefly glanced David's way, then looked at his notes.

'And sympathizers with the Society had already killed off previous attempts to unearth the Gurs secrets. David's parents — when they came to France, innocently seeking the truth of the Martinez's, ah, Basque ancestry…'

Amy interrupted, her voice fierce in the flickering shadows. 'And the Society was already using the most ruthless operatives to do this work: ETA terrorists like Miguel. Perfect! A highly trained killer, a devout Catholic. And he had a hatred — concealed self-hatred — for Cagots.'

Angus had returned to one of the cases. He lifted out a document, embossed with several black swastikas, like rigid and futurist lauburus.

'It also makes sense…' David said, hesitantly. He was trying not to think of his parents; trying not to think of Granddad; trying not to think. He stammered his words. 'Using him. I mean Miguel. The Wolf. Cause he knows the crucial area: the Basque Country, where many Cagots and Gurs survivors lived…'

Simon concluded the story.

'The murders began anew. A number of Gurs survivors were deliberately killed. The few remaining provable Cagots were killed, some of them simply because they were Cagots.' He gazed around the dimly lamplit space, and closed his notebook. 'And that is the tragedy of the Cagots, isn't it? They had to go. They were living proof of human speciation, the speciation that might one day happen to the Jews. But take away the Cagots, at least anyone of provable Cagot ancestry, and the evidence for speciation is gone. Remove the Cagots, and the Fischer experiments can never be repeated. Catholic doctrine is safe. Multiracial democracy is safe. And so the last remaining Cagots had to die.'

They all sat back.

'That's about it,' said Simon. 'Jesus Christ.'

David spoke:

'OK. We need to go. We got the answer. We have some leverage. We're gonna run out of light…'

Angus was clutching that last document.

'David. You should see this.'

The dread crept through David's soul. The moment had come.

'Yes. No. Why?'

'I found it. A name caught my eye.' He paused. 'Martinez…'

He offered the paper under the torchlight.

David grabbed the single sheet and read it, avidly, his hand shaking, a tightening sensation in his chest. He read it twice. He looked at Amy, and then at Angus, and then back at the list of names. He had enough German to glean the meaning; his mind swayed with the shock. His own hand was shaking now. He handed it back to Angus. And said: 'Read it out…'

Nairn carefully took the document. And he read it out: it was the story Jose hadn't told David…couldn't tell him.

'Your grandfather…thought he was a Cagot. But of course he wasn't. It was a lie. It says it all here. After a year in the camp, he was seen as a troublemaker, a teenage Basque rebel. So the Germans humiliated him, and silenced him…by putting him in the Cagot section. The barracks of the hated pariahs. They convinced him he was of Cagot blood. Yet he was Basque. And so, David, are you. You are a Basque.'

David looked at Amy. He felt the most intense relief, a kind of shameful joy. But her face was strained, and tense: he saw no joy there, no gladness, he saw distraction and fear.

And then his own joy vanished, replaced by an equally intense terror. Provoked by just one word.

'Epa!'

Simon watched, aghast. Miguel flashed a brief smile, and a gun, at Angus and David. The terrorist was surrounded by men, carrying weapons, cans of gasoline and flat silver packages. Explosives maybe. The men set to work: in the shadows at the edge of the vault.

They had been so engrossed in their unravelling of the story, they hadn't even heard the stealthy approach of the Wolf and his men. And now here he was.

Smiling at Amy.

'Amy. Esti. Muchas gracias, senorita.'

She was gazing back at him; her voice was an eerie monotone. 'Yes…I did…what I promised.'

'You did.'

Miguel laughed a richly sad laugh. David felt the anger surging inside, like an oncoming storm:

'You. Amy? You? You betrayed us?'

She didn't turn his way. She couldn't even bear to look at him.

Miguel strode close to David. His breath was sweet, and fragranced with red wine. It mingled with the reek of the petrol, that Miguel's silent men were splashing over the wooden cases. David was instantly reminded: the stench of the bonfire in Namibia. When Amy saved him. And now she had betrayed him.

Miguel nodded, almost sympathetically. 'Yes, of course, she betrayed you. She loves me. She always did. What is your life to her…'

David ignored the terrorist; instead he spoke, angrily, ferociously, at Amy. She was hunched and averting her eyes, maybe crying.

'So it was you? All along? Who told them where we were going? Namibia? You fucking bitch — '

Miguel intervened: 'Enough!'

David swore once again at Amy, who was now deep in the shadows.

Miguel's smile faded.

'Do not blame her. She is a woman. Arrotz herri, otso herri. And besides, Davido, she did the correct thing, the moral choice, she is correct. Because I am the good guy. The hero. We are the good guys. Do you not understand? We are on the side of the good.' Miguel's eye was faintly twitching. 'If the information in this cellar was ever to become known by others, then nations, races, tribes…would be forced into war. Humans who are not human? One race provably superior to another? Imagine. Human species fighting human species. Racial hierarchies confirmed. Nazi science vindicated. The democratic multiracial world — in ruins.'

Angus spoke up:

'But you can't stop science. One day a lab will repeat these results on genomic diversity, it is inevitable — '

'Is it, Nairn?' Miguel swivelled, turning on the scientist. 'Is it true? We closed down the Stanford Project. We closed down GenoMap. The Cagots are all dead, so the Fischer experiments can never be repeated. We have won. We have to win, or do you want us to be like animals, like rats, fighting each other, fighting always? Do you want that?…Umeak! You are children!'

He glanced along the vault; his men had set the charges, the flat, sinister grey packages were tucked snug against the walls. The crates, doused in petrol, were ready to burn.