“My father does not like me,” Tristram said in an unhappy tone.
“He’s just doing what’s best for you,” Proctor replied gruffly.
They stopped at a small, vaulted room, completely empty except for a shield carved into one wall, depicting a lidless eye over two moons, one crescent, the other full, with a lion couchant beneath—the Pendergast family crest. Proctor approached it, pressed it with both hands. The stone wall behind swung away, revealing a circular stair that sloped down sharply into darkness. Tristram’s eyes widened but he said nothing.
Snapping on a light, Proctor descended the stairs into the sub-basement, Tristram following. Reaching the bottom, they moved through a short passage leading to a vaulted space that seemed to stretch on as far as the eye could see.
“What is this place?” Tristram asked, looking around in wonder.
“This building used to be an abbey,” said Proctor. “I believe the monks used this sub-basement as a necropolis.”
“Necropolis?”
“Burial ground. Where they buried their dead.”
“They bury the dead?”
Proctor refrained from asking what they did with the dead where Tristram came from.
He led the way past ancient laboratories; past rooms full of glass bottles, stored on row upon row of shelving; past rooms full of tapestries and ancient art. Proctor had never liked these moldering underground spaces, and he moved swiftly. The boy followed, looking left and right, eyes wide. At last Proctor led him down a side passageway to a small but well-furnished bedroom with an adjoining bath. There was a bed, a table and chairs, a row of books, and a dresser with a mirror set atop it. The space was as clean and as pleasant as the subterranean atmosphere—with its faint odor of ammonia and ancient decay—could permit. It sported a stout wooden door with a well-built lock.
“This is your room,” he told Tristram.
The boy nodded, looking around. He seemed pleased.
“Can you… read?” Proctor asked, glancing at the books, the thought suddenly occurring to him.
“Only the good twins are supposed to read. But I taught myself. Just a little. But only German.”
“I see. Well, if you will excuse me, I’ll get you some things, be back in half an hour.”
“What did you say is your name?”
“Proctor.”
The boy looked at him, smiled a little shyly. “Thank you, Herr Proctor.”
33
ALOYSIUS PENDERGAST BROUGHT THE ROLLS TO A HALT at the corner of Bushwick Avenue and Meserole Street in Brooklyn. This was—according to the cab company’s records—where the taxi had picked up the fleeing boy. It was an old, mostly abandoned industrial neighborhood that had just started to see the invasion of creative pioneers. But it still retained the rawness of graffiti, trash, boarded-up buildings, and the hulks of burned-out cars. The street scene was a mixture of derelicts, hipsters, and sketchy-looking young men.
Pendergast was conspicuous in his black suit as he stepped out of the Silver Wraith, locking the door behind him. Hands in his pockets, he strolled down Meserole Street. It was midafternoon, a brilliant but warmthless sun blasting the pavement. Several blocks ahead of him rose an old nineteenth-century brewery complex, covering almost an acre of ground. A huge square stack for the hops kiln rose above it, with the name VAN DAM still visible on it, along with the date of its founding: 1858.
A brewery. Tristram had, without knowing it, described just such a place: the long underground tunnel where the casks were stored; the huge brick kiln where the hops were dried. This, undoubtedly, had been the site of his incarceration and the site that his captors, Alban and no doubt his Nazi handlers, had been using as a base of operations—for whatever it was they were planning.
Pendergast approached, scrutinizing the building carefully. It was, even in this benighted corner of Brooklyn, a prime piece of real estate, and it had accordingly been securely boarded up with galvanized tin and plywood. Two ancient, massive industrial metal doors blocked what had once been the main entrance. These doors had been bolted shut, and the pedestrian door set into one of them was not only chained and padlocked, but also welded closed with two pieces of rebar.
Pendergast walked on, examining some of the smaller, secondary entrances set into the crumbling brick façade along the street, all of which were more or less impregnable. As he paused at one door, examining its frozen lock, he heard a voice behind him.
“Got any money, friend?”
Pendergast turned to see a rail-thin youth, undoubtedly a heroin addict, staring at him with hollow, hungry eyes.
“As a matter of fact I do.” Pendergast delved into his suit and brought out a twenty-dollar bill. A spark ignited in the man’s dead eyes, and he reached out with trembling fingers.
“I want to break into this building,” said Pendergast, twitching the bill out of reach. “How?”
The man stared at him, his mouth open. “You a thief?”
“Insurance adjustor.”
A hesitation as the man tried to think. “Can’t get in there, that I know of.”
“Yes, but if I were to try to break in—how would I?”
Another desperate effort to think. “I’d go ’round the back, where the railroad tracks are. Climb the fence.”
Pendergast twitched the bill back toward the man, who snatched it and then set off down the street at a fast wobble. “Don’t get caught,” he called over his shoulder.
Pendergast walked to the far end of the block and followed the complex around the corner, where it ended in a disused railroad yard, stacked with rotting containers and old machinery, surrounded by a chain-link fence.
In a single, bat-like motion, Pendergast grasped the fence, vaulted the top, and dropped down onto the far side. He paused a moment to smooth down his suit. Then, moving among the containers and chest-high weeds, he followed a set of railroad tracks to the back of the brewery, where the tracks disappeared into the complex behind another set of industrial metal doors. As he approached, he noted that a number of the weeds had been bruised, broken, or otherwise recently disturbed by the passage of people and objects. The soft ground away from the tracks showed signs of footprints.
He followed the faint marks of disturbance across the railroad yard, away from the tracks and toward a small door set into the massive brick façade. Reaching the door, he found it as old and massive as the others, but not welded, and with freshly oiled hinges and a new brass lock of a model he did not recognize.
The lock proved to be a challenge, requiring the full set of his tools and skills. It also, unfortunately, caused quite a bit of noise, as several of the pins had to be sheared off with brute force.
Finally the lock yielded, but Pendergast did not open the door immediately. He waited, .45 drawn, for almost ten minutes. And then, flattening himself behind the door, he nudged it open with his shoe. It swung silently at first, then stopped with a loud groan of metal.
Silence.
Five more minutes passed. Pendergast ducked inside, diving to the floor, rolling, and taking cover behind a brick knee wall.
More silence. No one had shouted an alarm; no one had opened fire.
He waited, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. He was in a vast space, illuminated by scattered holes and cracks in the roof, which let in brilliant pencil-beams of sunlight. Motes drifted through in slow cadences. The air smelled faintly sweet, earthy.
This was clearly the storage and loading area for the brewery, as the train tracks ran through the space, with loading docks and rotting cranes arrayed alongside. Where the tracks ended an old railroad car listed, its wheels off the rails, roof rusted and partially caved in.