Two Graves

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.

“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…