Two Graves

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 addiction—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.