So their original plan, to detonate the ammo dump, would have been doomed to failure in any case: it was placed too deeply in the fortress to have blown open an entrance for the colonel and his men.
But there was no time for further examination, and they passed through the space into another passage leading out the far side.
Soon this passage came to a T, then branched again, lined with rows of empty cells, the rotting remains of wooden doors lying on the damp ground. An ancient skeleton, streaked with copper salts, was chained to one wall. Water leaked down the walls, and puddles lay on the cindery floor, which—Pendergast noted—was most unfortunately preserving the footprints of their passage.
Now the grunt of running men, the thud of boots, grew ever closer.
“We’ve got to kill those men,” the colonel said.
“An excellent suggestion,” Pendergast replied. “Grenades, please.”
He pulled out the last of his grenades, nodded to the colonel; as they ran, following Pendergast’s lead, the colonel and his three remaining men all pulled the pins from their own grenades, keeping the spoons in position. As a corner in the tunnel loomed ahead, Pendergast gave a sharp nod; they released the spoons simultaneously as they dropped the grenades into the soft cinders, turned the corner, and threw themselves to the ground.
“How do you say it in English?” the colonel muttered. “Payback is a bitch.”
“Douse all lights,” Pendergast whispered in return.
Seconds later, multiple explosions ripped the tunnel directly around the corner, almost deafening them. Immediately Pendergast was on his feet, gesturing for the others to follow; they charged back around the corner, where confused, dim flashlight beams could be seen here and there amid falling rubble. They fired frantically into the massive dust cloud, aiming at the lights, the return fire ineffectual and chaotic.
In a few moments it was over. Their pursuers were dead, the dust was settling in the damp air. Turning on his own flashlight, Pendergast played it over the dead: six soldiers in simple gray uniforms with only one small insignia in the shape of an Iron Cross. But the seventh, clearly the leader, was wearing an old Nazi uniform, the feldgrauefield uniform of the Waffen-SS, with a few latter-day additions.
“ Babaca!” the colonel said, kicking the body. “Look at that son of a whore, playing Nazi. Que bastardo.”
Pendergast briefly examined the uniformed officer, then turned his attention to the other dead: half a dozen fine-looking young men, ripped apart by the explosions and gunfire, their blue eyes staring sightlessly this way and that, mouths open in surprise, delicate hands still on their weapons. He bent down, retrieved another magazine and a spare grenade. The others similarly replenished their own supplies.
And then there was only silence, save for the slow cadence of dripping water. The smell of blood and death mingled with the muck, mold, and decay. But into the silence came the sound of rustling. The explosion had dislodged a section of the massive wall, and now insects, disturbed from their resting places, were slithering and crawling out, many falling from the ceiling—oily centipedes, white vinegaroons with spiked pedipalps, giant earwigs with greasy pincers, albino scorpions clacking their claws, furry leaping spiders.
With an oath the colonel brushed an insect from his shoulder.
“We must get out of here,” Pendergast said. “Now.”
Then something strange happened. One of the colonel’s soldiers gasped, turned—and pulled a bloody throwing knife from his chest, staring at it in astonishment before collapsing to his knees.
75
COLONEL SOUZA, HEARING THE GASP, SPUN AND FIXED his light on the soldier. The man clutched the heavy blade in his own hand, staring at it with an expression of sheer amazement, before folding slowly to the ground.
“Take cover!” said Pendergast, dropping to a crouch.
Souza staggered up against the wall while Pendergast probed the passage with his light, examining the walls, the ceilings, the dark cells and rotten doors. Tendrils of mist drifted through the tunnel, illuminated in the thin beam. There was nothing but silence and the drip of water. The light played over the chained skeleton, a single wisp of long black hair still attached to its cranium.
“ Nossa Senhora,” the colonel whispered, turning to Pendergast, their gazes meeting. Once again he found himself disconcerted by those pale eyes, which seemed almost to shine in the dark. He could feel his lower lip trembling, and he struggled to suppress it. He could not think, not yet, of how badly he had failed in this mission. His son, Thiago, had said nothing—nothing—since the disaster. He couldn’t bring himself to meet the gaze of his son… but he could feel it. Yes, he could feel the pressure of the youth’s eyes, the fear and censure, against the back of his neck, as if it were a tangible thing.
Crouching there, waiting for he did not know what, having no idea what they could possibly do now, he saw Pendergast move, reach out, and touch his fallen soldier’s neck at the pulse. He waited a moment, then glanced over at the colonel with a faint shake of the head. It felt like another thrust of the knife. To lose these men, so many good men… but he couldn’t contemplate that now.
Pendergast gently removed the bloody knife from the soldier’s dead hand and examined it before sliding it into his own belt. Souza could see it was an old Nazi knife—an Eickhorn hewer—a heavy, thick blade, not easy to throw, but massive enough to split the breastbone on its way to the heart.
Again the colonel listened and again was surprised, even astonished, that he could neither hear nor see anything out there in the darkness. It was as if the knife had simply materialized in the man’s chest.
No one said anything. There was a moment of stasis, and then Pendergast cautiously rose, breaking the terrible spell. Motioning the remaining men to follow him, he continued down the tunnel. The colonel covered the rear with his son, neither one looking at the other. He had somehow ceded command to this civilian, but he could not collect his wits sufficiently to reassert his role. With four men against a fortress of trained Nazi fighters, what could possibly come next? Once again, he pushed these terrible thoughts from his mind. Did Pendergast have a plan? The gringo was so silent, so strange.
The tunnel began to slope downward and the air became increasingly fetid, foul smelling, the floor covered with water that gradually deepened as the slope continued, forcing them to wade. The mists thickened and their breath added more fog to the already-supersaturated air. The sound of their movement through the water echoed softly in the tunnel. At a certain point Pendergast gestured for a halt, and they stood in the tainted air, listening, but could hear no sound of anyone moving through the water behind them.
Still the tunnel continued, the water deepening. Dead, bloated insects floated on the surface scum, and on several occasions they passed human skeletons chained or partially walled into alcoves, dating back to the Spanish era, the bones eaten by time. Once a fat, white water moccasin glided by, paying them no attention.
Soon they came to a circular chamber, a confluence of tunnels. The water was now waist-deep. Here they paused while Pendergast appeared to examine the water for signs of a current, shining his light down and dropping a piece of thread onto the surface. But the thread just left a dimple; there was no movement, none at all, to indicate which direction they should go.
As Pendergast was about to turn away, the colonel saw the thread give a sudden spin; at the same time, the beam of his flashlight, penetrating the murky water, picked up a faint blur.
“Watch out!” he shouted, as simultaneously a cry came from the soldier behind him— Thiago. The colonel spun around, swinging his light frantically, but Thiago had vanished into the water. There was a violent thrashing below the surface, which ended almost as suddenly as it began. The colonel staggered over to where the murky water was still swirling; his flashlight revealed something under the water, rising, rising… A form surfaced, a dark cloudy stain spreading out from its neck, staining the water.