Douglas Preston - Two Graves

“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 bred here, 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 true master 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.