Two Graves

64

THE JOURNEY WAS SHORT. THEY LANDED AT A STONE quay; Pendergast was shoved forward, the soldiers prodding him with their rifles. Now the old fortress loomed directly above them, the crenellations of its outer wall like black, broken teeth. They ascended a cobbled road leading toward a massive iron gate; a small door in the gate opened and they passed through. The door clanged shut behind them.

An astonishing sight greeted Pendergast’s eye. The broken outer wall of the stronghold concealed an internal structure retrofitted to the ruins and the old stone foundations, which themselves had been sturdily rebuilt and reinforced. It had a superstructure of poured concrete, streaked with damp and done up in fascist monumental style, with smooth, massive walls, broken only infrequently by tiny windows high up along its flanks. A huge relief of the Parteiadler of the Third Reich—an eagle clutching a swastika—was carved into its side, the only adornment visible on the otherwise blank walls and towers of this fort within a fort.

Pendergast had paused to look around, and one of the soldiers jammed a muzzle into his side. “Beweg Dich!” he barked.

Pendergast moved forward, through an outer courtyard to a door leading into the main fortress itself. Here were many more soldiers—some on guard duty, others polishing their weapons, others simply looking at Pendergast with sneering expressions. Mechanics hurried past, bent on unknown tasks.

Once inside the inner fortress, they moved upward, first through old stone corridors and staircases wet with damp and whited with niter, passing a few technicians and scientists in lab coats making their way down, until they emerged in the newer, upper portion of the fortress of concrete.

At the top of a circular staircase they came to an oaken door. The door opened into a suddenly spacious and airy room, high up, with glass windows providing splendid—if small—views over the rooftops of the fortress, across the lake, and reaching to the surrounding forests and mountains. It was a beautifully appointed office, the walls of dressed stone, a Persian carpet on the floor, a massive antique desk flanked by Nazi flags, with exquisite pieces of old silver and objets d’art carefully arranged along the walls. Behind the desk sat a remarkable-looking man, a specimen of Teutonic perfection: powerful and heavily muscled, with penetrating pale eyes, a dark tan, and a neatly trimmed thatch of white hair. He smiled.

Pendergast recognized the man instantly. Fischer.

“Very good, Oberführer Scheermann,” he said.

The captain stiffened, clicked his heels. “Danke, mein Oberstgruppenführer.”

Fischer rose, plucked a Dunhill cigarette from a repoussé silver box, lit it with a gold lighter, and inhaled deeply, all the while keeping his eyes on Pendergast. Exhaling, he walked over and examined Pendergast, who remained motionless, surrounded by the guards with submachine guns. Fischer reached out with a powerful veined hand, caressed Pendergast’s ersatz beard, then grasped it and tore it off. He circled Pendergast lazily, his smile growing.

And with that he extended his hand. For a moment, it seemed he might be offering to shake hands, but that turned out to be wrong: Fischer raised his massive palm and, with great force, slapped Pendergast across the face so hard it knocked him to the ground.

“Get those things out of his mouth,” he ordered.

The soldiers kept their weapons trained on Pendergast while one of their number jammed the barrel of a Luger into the FBI agent’s mouth, keeping it open while his fingers explored. A moment later he held his hand out to show Fischer what he’d discovered. In his palm lay some tiny lock-picking tools, several plastic theatrical cheek pieces used for altering one’s appearance—and a small, glass ampoule filled with a clear liquid.

The soldier hauled Pendergast roughly back to his feet. Blood leaked from his nose. His eyes were the color of white paper.

“Now it is certain,” the man said, staring at him. “It is indeed our Agent Pendergast. How good of you to make the long journey to us. My name is Wulf Konrad Fischer. I am the man who abducted your wife.”

Another smile.

When Pendergast did not speak, Fischer went on. “I must say, your disguise was very good. I knew that a man like you would come looking for me—for us. And I assumed that, with your extraordinary abilities, you would eventually find me. What I didn’t expect was your disguise. I had assumed you would sneak in and blend with the locals, or skulk in the forest. I didn’t believe you would waltz in here, bold as brass. Your disguise was good, all that Scheiße about the Queen Beatrice. Very well done, the more so for being true. I commend you.”

He inhaled on the cigarette, holding it vertical to prevent the ever-lengthening ash from falling.

“Where you slipped up was that little stunt with Egon. You see, Egon grew up in the forest; he knows the forest. For you to give him the slip—when I heard about that, I knew you were no naturalist.”

Pendergast remained motionless.

“My colleagues and I were, shall we say, impressed by what you did on the Vergeltung. Of course, it was a great shock to learn that Helen Esterhazy was still alive. Although we very badly wanted to study her in vivo, you forced us to trim that loose end in a rather crude way. Still, we were at least able to perform a most revealing autopsy on her remains, which we quickly found in the makeshift grave you dug for her.”

At this, there might have been a slight twitch beneath one of Pendergast’s eyes.

“Oh, yes. We never allow a research opportunity to pass. We are scientists, first and foremost. For example, your spectacular and unexpected entry into our program—the Vergeltung again, and then your subsequent pursuit of Helen—was rather alarming. But, being scientists, we were able to adapt. We very quickly revised our plans so as to incorporate you into the final phase of our great work down here. We saw an opportunity and took it. And so: I thank you for your participation.”

The ash had not yet fallen from the vertical cigarette. Fischer tilted it horizontally; the ash broke off, and then he took a moment to gently grind the butt into a chased-silver ashtray.

With a slender hand he picked up the tiny ampoule from where it had been placed on the desk along with the other things taken from Pendergast. He rolled it pensively between thumb and finger.

“I admire your courage. But you’ll find that there was no need for this. On the contrary, we’ll spare you the trouble.”

He turned to the soldiers. “Take him to Room Four.”