Two Graves

The boat engine fired up and Pendergast redoubled his speed. He heard it approach, slapping through the reeds—and then there was a muffled sound as the propeller hit mud and the vessel grounded out.

A splash—Alban had jumped out and was pursuing him.

Thrashing through the cattails, Pendergast reached thick brush at the edge of the swamp, bulled through it, and continued on into the forest, shouldering past the heavy vegetation.

His son was superior to him physically and, perhaps, even mentally. No stratagem would shake Alban in this forest, a forest he knew well. Pendergast’s only chance was to fully understand Alban’s mysterious advantage—and use it against him.

The strange quotation from Nietzsche came into his mind yet again, unbidden:

Glance into the world just as though time were gone: and everything crooked will become straight to you.

That was when the revelation blossomed over him like a sunrise.

79

IN HIS ELEGANT OFFICE, OBERSTGRUPPENFÜHRER WULF Fischer indulged himself in another cigarette, offering one to his second in command, Scheerma

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,” Scheerma

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 Scheerma

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 ru

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 ru

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 ru

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.