Two Graves

Once inside the i

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 Scheerma

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.”

65

ROOM 4 LAY IN THE BOWELS OF THE OLDEST PART OF THE fortress. It was a tu

Under the watchful eye of Scheerma

Blackness reigned.

Pendergast stood in the humid darkness, listening. The soldiers remained outside, and he could hear their movements, the murmur of their voices. Beyond, he could make out nothing beyond a very deep rumble, the humming of large generators, and something else, something even deeper: perhaps the natural movement of magma beneath the not-so-extinct volcano. As if to underscore this, he felt a faint but discernible shuddering of the floor and wall, as if the entire fortress were trembling, ever so slightly, in response to the striking of a giant tuning fork in the earth beneath them.

In the darkness, Pendergast listened. And thought. Thought about what Fischer had said.

An hour passed. And then, Pendergast heard footsteps. There was a scraping noise as a heavy bolt was drawn back. A long cast of light as the door opened. Two figures stood in the doorway, silhouetted. They paused for a moment, side by side, and then separated as they came forward. The bare bulb in the center of the room went on. And standing before Pendergast were Fischer and Alban.

Alban. Alban, free from all disguises, makeup, and deception.

In actual features he looked like Tristram—only stamped into those features was a very different, even diametrically opposite, personality. Alban radiated supreme confidence, an easy charisma, only a trace of arrogance mingling with a sense of amusement. He carried himself with a calm air of discipline, a detachment from the world of sensuality, passion, and intuition.

He was, in many ways, more like Pendergast than Tristram was. Although—to his distress and dismay—Pendergast noticed that Alban had his mother’s mouth and eyes. But the longer Pendergast gazed into that pale, angular face, with its high-domed forehead, blue-and-violet eyes, blond hair, and sculptured lips, the more he became aware something was missing. There was a hole, a huge hole, in this person, where his heart should have been.