sprawled in boredom and fatigue over mountains of crates. He discovered later that they numbered thirty-five, including himself. Among them were a half dozen men, unshaven, unbathed, and looking utterly miserable. The scientists and chaperones his father had told him about. Water from an early-afternoon rain shower dripped off exposed rafters, producing a light melody on the crates and concrete floor.
He located a boy about his size, sitting on a short stack of pallets, and hobbled over to him. Karl had lost a shoe in a treacherous ravine several days before and now wore only a bulky rag on that foot.
'What's your name?' Karl demanded.
'Gregor.' His voice was weak, as though he had no energy for the task. His face was scratched and dirty. Karl knew his was the same.
'Your shoes—give them to me.'
Gregor looked him up and down. 'No.'
Karl moved in quickly. One hand clenched Gregor's neck, the other caught the arm that had come up in defense. He touched his lips to the boy's ear. 'Don't try me,' he whispered harshly. 'You won't survive to tell the tale.'
He took a step back and smiled wickedly at Gregor's stunned expression. Then Gregor lowered his head and untied the shoes.
Six hours later, he watched as the SS officer with the submachine gun hidden behind him used subtle hand signals to organize his soldiers into a crescent around the dockworkers. The military men eyed the officer for a signal, as an orchestra would watch its conductor. Just as one of the workers tossed a cigarette aside and turned his head in suspicion, the officer nodded. He swung the gun around and started firing.
When the other soldiers joined in, the sound was like the sky ripping open from one end to the other.
Within seconds it was over. Smoke billowed like souls into the night, disappearing as it caught the wind and escaped the light. After a moment, the boy felt his father's hand pressure him to walk forward toward the U-boat. At the gangplank, they turned to each other. All the things he could say and do ran through the boy's head, but finally he simply held out his hand to give his father a handshake. Instead of grabbing Karl's hand in return, his father thrust his arm forward, head-high, and said quietly, 'Heil, Hitler!'
Karl straightened and returned the gesture. Their eyes locked and the boy whispered, 'Heil. . . Father.' He hungrily scanned his father's strong features. The man smiled softly and lowered his arm. Josef snapped his head at the warship, and Karl boarded.
From the bridge atop the conning tower, he watched the wharf shrink with distance. He had turned and was about to climb into the sub when a single sharp crack of pistol fire startled him. When he jumped back to the rail, he saw all the men who'd stayed behind: his father, the soldiers, and the scientist-chaperones. They were huddled on the dock, faces turned down looking at a body. One of them leaned over and picked something up. He held it to his head, a shot rang out, and he fell. Another man stepped forward, picked up the gun, and repeated the process.
Karl watched his father stoop down, stand up, and stick the barrel of the gun into his mouth. His arm appeared to be shaking, but at that distance, Karl couldn't be sure. He was facing the harbor, seemingly watching the U-boat.
For a moment, Karl forgot who he was supposed to be. Gone from his mind were the grueling lessons he had endured since age three: what it meant to be part of the Master Race, to be Josef Litt's son, to be a scientist with special knowledge of nature's way . . . None of it mattered now. Only his father's acknowledgment.
His father yanked the gun out of his mouth and stared across the increasing expanse of water toward the U- boat. His shoulders seemed to fall slightly.
He was about to raise his arm and call out when the U-boat, which had been making a wide bank out of the harbor, suddenly passed a shoulder of land, and the dock vanished. Five seconds later, the last shot rang out.
Karl stood on the bridge a long time, sea spray slapping his face, stinging his eyes. Finally he lowered himself into the boat.
When the captain told him they were bound for Bahia
Blanca, Karl had imagined emerging into a bright Argentinian sun. But when they disembarked forty-five days later, it was into another moonless night. Soldiers in green uniforms ushered them toward a waiting bus. They filed past a tall man with a young, earnest face. 'Wait!' the man said in German. He had an unsure smile on his face. He turned to look back at the U-boat, at the crew unloading boxes of unused supplies under the supervision of armed soldiers. To the children he said, 'Where are the adults? Where are the scientists?' His German was heavily accented.
Karl stepped forward. 'We are the scientists.'
The man's smile broadened, then disappeared.
'Are you Herr Reynolds?' Karl asked. 'I am.'
The boy withdrew an envelope from inside his shirt and held it out to the man. 'My father asked me to give you this.'
Reynolds tore open the envelope and read the letter inside, glancing often at the small faces before him. He lowered the letter and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he had reached some sort of decision.
'Very well, then,' he said. His voice was strained. 'Welcome, all of you!' He sighed and gestured toward the bus. 'Please . . .'
The bus took them to an airfield; a plane took them to America.
Kendrick Reynolds eventually found families for the other children. Karl he adopted—though Karl refused his name. And while the boy's dockside claim that he and his peers were scientists had been an exaggeration, most of them were extraordinarily brilliant children with a foundation of scientific knowledge rivaling postgraduate students. From this foundation, Reynolds developed a program that made him powerful and wealthy. And Karl grew to love the man.
Until the betrayal.
twenty
The fire occasionally flickered and flared as it found a remnant of virgin wood to consume. But mostly it smoldered resentfully as it faded away. Still, the stone hearth held its heat and sent it into the den. Allen Parker came back to the world and realized he was hot. He pushed back from his desk, dead tired. He'd learned more about the topic of Donnelley's deathbed remarks than he'd ever wanted to know. Acid churned in his stomach.
He shut down his computer, saved the Mozart CD from yet another play-through, and meandered out of the den, switching off lamps as he went.
He stepped into the kitchen to turn off the light over the stove and remembered again the turkey dinner he'd left in the microwave. He pulled it out, peeled back the cellophane, and held up two pieces of meat with his thumb and index finger. He lowered them into his mouth and switched off the light with his other hand. In the master bedroom, he turned on the bedside lamp, stripped off his clothes, and pushed them into a chute. He heard them fall softly into a basket in the basement laundry room, where Maria, his part-time housekeeper, would wash and press them.
He walked naked into the bathroom and up to a panel set into the tile near the doorless shower stall. It was more of a shower
really; some families lived in smaller spaces. He pushed a button that would bring the water temperature and pressure of the showerheads to a preconfigured setting. He checked himself out in the wall-sized mirror opposite the shower, pulling his belly in a little. He didn't look too bad, considering.
A bit of the exhaustion washed away under the steaming shower jets, replaced by a healthy, relaxed tiredness. He cranked his neck around, letting the stream massage his muscles. The heat, the pulsating pressure, the tropical sound of the water splashing against the tiles and reverberating between the walls—it all made holding on to the day's tension impossible. He was just rinsing the shampoo from his hair when the phone rang. He darted
