Right?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Angus was gesturing, in the lamplight. ‘But the first option was closed. No one would tell them where the data were hidden. That left the second option. Science. Redoing the experiments. But it has taken seventy years for science to catch up with the Nazi discoveries at Gurs, and begin to prove them, all over again. And even now, when science has caught up, there are still forces ranged against the whole concept of racial differences and eugenics. The Human Genome Diversity Project at Stanford was shut by pressure from western governments – and from the church.’
‘So the Kellermans switched to GenoMap.’
‘Exactly. The experiments we were doing at GenoMap were directly funded and abetted by Kellerman Namcorp. That old Nazi doctor, Dresler, fled to Namibia in the 90s, after he was uncovered by David’s father. And he forwarded advice to GenoMap on how to reproduce the Fischer results. He even suggested blood testing the same people: Gurs survivors – Cagots especially.’
Angus continued: ‘And you know what? This plan would have succeeded, if Fazackerly hadn’t blabbed. At a conference in France, he boasted he was going to successfully repeat the experiments of Eugen Fischer at Gurs. I was there. It was mortifying. And I guess that’s when the Catholic church was alerted, and began taking more serious steps. They recruited the Society of Pius X: because, as we all know, they are some zealous fuckers. And because they already knew the secrets of Gurs, so it involved no widening of the circle of knowledge. Their roots go back to Vichy France.’
Simon briefly glanced David’s way, then looked at his notes.
‘And sympathizers with the Society had already killed off previous attempts to unearth the Gurs secrets. David’s parents – when they came to France, innocently seeking the truth of the Martinez’s, ah, Basque ancestry…’
Amy interrupted, her voice fierce in the flickering shadows. ‘And the Society was already using the most ruthless operatives to do this work: ETA terrorists like Miguel. Perfect! A highly trained killer, a devout Catholic. And he had a hatred – concealed self-hatred – for Cagots.’
Angus had returned to one of the cases. He lifted out a document, embossed with several black swastikas, like rigid and futurist lauburus.
‘It also makes sense…’ David said, hesitantly. He was trying not to think of his parents; trying not to think of Granddad; trying not to think. He stammered his words. ‘Using him. I mean Miguel. The Wolf. Cause he knows the crucial area: the Basque Country, where many Cagots and Gurs survivors lived…’
Simon concluded the story.
‘The murders began anew. A number of Gurs survivors were deliberately killed. The few remaining provable Cagots were killed, some of them simply because they were Cagots.’ He gazed around the dimly lamplit space, and closed his notebook. ‘And that is the tragedy of the Cagots, isn’t it? They had to go. They were living proof of human speciation, the speciation that might one day happen to the Jews. But take away the Cagots, at least anyone of provable Cagot ancestry, and the evidence for speciation is gone. Remove the Cagots, and the Fischer experiments can never be repeated. Catholic doctrine is safe. Multiracial democracy is safe. And so the last remaining Cagots had to die.’
They all sat back.
‘That’s about it,’ said Simon. ‘Jesus Christ.’
David spoke:
‘OK. We need to go. We got the answer. We have some leverage. We’re gonna run out of light…’
Angus was clutching that last document.
‘David. You should see this.’
The dread crept through David’s soul. The moment had come.
‘Yes. No. Why?’
‘I found it. A name caught my eye.’ He paused. ‘Martinez…’
He offered the paper under the torchlight.
David grabbed the single sheet and read it, avidly, his hand shaking, a tightening sensation in his chest. He read it twice. He looked at Amy, and then at Angus, and then back at the list of names. He had enough German to glean the meaning; his mind swayed with the shock. His own hand was shaking now. He handed it back to Angus. And said: ‘Read it out…’
Nairn carefully took the document. And he read it out: it was the story José hadn’t told David…couldn’t tell him.
‘Your grandfather…thought he was a Cagot. But of course he wasn’t. It was a lie. It says it all here. After a year in the camp, he was seen as a troublemaker, a teenage Basque rebel. So the Germans humiliated him, and silenced him…by putting him in the Cagot section. The barracks of the hated pariahs. They convinced him he