Douglas Preston - Two Graves

Something most unusual was going on. It was as if Alban was reading his mind.

But he needed air. Now . He rose straight up, burst the surface, took a deep breath. And he saw Alban was heading away from him, swerving his boat and coming back around, a look of surprise and even consternation on the boy’s face.

No, Alban wasn’t reading his mind. It was something else. Pendergast recalled what Constance had said about Alban—something about a sixth sense, or perhaps an extension of one of the other five. The line from Nietzsche that Alban had quoted ran through his head, once, twice. What did it mean?

He kicked down under the surface about three feet and swam laterally, deliberately, toward shore. The boat above him swerved and made a loop, the whine of its engine filling his ears, then slowed and headed approximately toward the spot where he would have to surface for air. And yes, he would surface there; he would. That is what he would definitely do.

No, this was not a question of mind reading. Alban could not read a person’s mind. He had some sort of unusual ability, but it was not that. It was both less than that, and more.

Pendergast, long before he needed air, abruptly shot to the surface after a split-second change of plans—and Alban, only twenty feet away but moving in the wrong direction, saw him, again surprised; he swerved the boat and jammed on the throttle. Pendergast waited, dove, and as the boat came overhead and moved in a tight circle he darted upward again, the Nazi hewer in hand, and rammed it into the hull as the boat passed overhead; the heavy blade cleaved the light fiberglass and he gave the knife a twist before the boat’s forward motion wrenched it out of his hand. The propeller passed just inches over his head, buffeting him with turbulence, buzzing like a gigantic wasp.

Surfacing right behind the boat, he gulped air once, then again, and kicked off for shore, swimming like mad. It would take Alban at least a few minutes to deal with the flood of water introduced by the leak, and he was already approaching the shoaling water near shore, a hundred yards from the beginning of the marsh grass and two hundred from thick cattails and swamp.

As much as he could, he swam underwater, making random changes in direction unexpected even by himself, often opposite to what his instincts told him, sometimes actually doubling back on himself. When he surfaced he could see Alban hunched over in the boat, working frantically to stanch the leak, but every time Pendergast rose for air he stood, shouldered his rifle, and cracked out a shot that smacked the water inches from Pendergast’s head; turning and kick-diving down again, he heard several more shots zip past in the water.

His son was, without question, shooting to kill. That answered another important question that had been lingering in his mind.

He continued swimming, maintaining his erratic behavior but always trending toward shore. The boat was listing seriously now, but Alban had apparently blocked or stuffed the hole and was starting to bail, once in a while rising to take another shot when Pendergast surfaced. He was a superb shot: the only thing saving Pendergast was the afternoon sun lying low on the horizon, shining directly toward Alban and reflecting off the water in a blinding sheet.

Pendergast felt his feet brush the muddy bottom, and he swam until the water was waist-deep and he was at the edge of the marsh grass. Now he could wade, albeit awkwardly, keeping low. More shots came, but now distance and the surrounding cattails were in his favor, and then he was hidden by the thickening plants. Still, Alban continued firing—no doubt at the rustling of the vegetation disturbed by his passage. By slipping through the lanes of cattails, Pendergast was able to decoy his movements, reaching out and shaking stalks that were at a distance from him. But Alban quickly caught on to that, rounds ripping through on either side, snipping the cattails and sending up clouds of fluff.

The boat engine fired up and Pendergast redoubled his speed. He heard it approach, slapping through the reeds—and then there was a muffled sound as the propeller hit mud and the vessel grounded out.

A splash—Alban had jumped out and was pursuing him.

Thrashing through the cattails, Pendergast reached thick brush at the edge of the swamp, bulled through it, and continued on into the forest, shouldering past the heavy vegetation.

His son was superior to him physically and, perhaps, even mentally. No stratagem would shake Alban in this forest, a forest he knew well. Pendergast’s only chance was to fully understand Alban’s mysterious advantage—and use it against him.

The strange quotation from Nietzsche came into his mind yet again, unbidden:

Glance into the world just as though time were gone: and everything crooked will become straight to you.

That was when the revelation blossomed over him like a sunrise.

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.