Стив Берри - The Kaiser's Web--A Novel

The heavy oak door across the room eased open. In the blackened window before him he caught Engle’s reflection as his associate entered. He turned and asked what he wanted to know: “What happened?”

“An American, Cotton Malone, and a woman, Cassiopeia Vitt, met with Eisenhuth at her schlöss. They talked for an hour. Malone and Vitt are now headed to Chile.”

They had spies within Eisenhuth’s household.

Good ones.

“Strange, how she so quickly involved the Americans.”

“Ex-president Daniels is a friend. She’s quite distrustful of our intelligence people and even her own security team. It appears the seeds of paranoia we planted are sprouting.”

He smiled. All part of the web they’d so carefully spun.

“I checked on Malone,” Engle said. “He’s an ex-operative. Highly regarded. Not an amateur. Vitt, too, is experienced. She’s the sole owner of Terra.”

He knew of the French conglomerate.

“They are headed to find the operative Eisenhuth sent to Santiago,” Engle said.

“Let’s make sure they find his body.”

“I’ll handle it myself.”

Good to hear. “Is the American government involved?”

“No indication. This seems a private matter with Daniels, at least for now. Which makes sense. Eisenhuth would not want any of this to be public. She’ll keep it close, as we predicted.”

Until circumstances forced it public.

“Pour yourself some wine,” he said to his associate.

Engle accepted the offer and moved toward a table.

“Tell me more of the conversations.”

“The chancellor is anxious to learn the truth about you and Martin Bormann. She told Malone about her father and showed him pictures. As we already knew, she clearly resents what happened to him.”

“So they know of Albert Herzog?”

Engle nodded. “They saw the pictures. No need for us to make sure that information gets to them.”

He could not be more pleased.

Exactly what they wanted was happening.

“Her media event with the trees and the swastika played well on the evening news reports,” he said. “She has to believe that exposing my supposed lineage will force me to withdraw. She can feel reelection within her grasp. A fifth term. Not since Helmut Kohl has anyone managed that. That sensation must be tantalizing. More than enough for her to take the bait we are offering.”

Engle enjoyed a swallow of alcohol. “The presence of the Americans could raise problems. We did not anticipate this level of assistance. Bad enough we had to deal with Hanna Cress.”

“Any indication as to what that woman told Daniels before she died?”

Engle shook his head. “It doesn’t seem much other than one word.”

He waited.

“Kaiser.”

He knew Cress had been hired in Belarus as the envoy to deliver the information to Eisenhuth. At some point, original documents would have to be produced, and that moment came last Friday. She’d then been arrested, which had been a bit surprising, but not wholly unexpected. So they’d arranged for her death in a dramatic fashion. That act alone should be enough to spur Eisenhuth’s curiosity and send her on a fool’s quest.

But he was curious. “Why would Cress utter ‘Kaiser’ ?”

“She apparently did her research and learned that you enjoy the label.”

“But how did she know I was involved?”

All of their contacts had been through third parties. Neither he nor Engle had ever spoken to Cress.

Engle shrugged. “That, I do not know.”

Which bothered him.

The nickname was only used here at his residence, or by a few of his closest associates. Men and women who wanted to benefit from his rise to power. How had Hanna Cress known?

And was she even referring to him?

“It is good she is dead,” he said.

“There is still the matter of the Americans.”

“I don’t see how they will matter,” he said. “We’ll lead them, too, and in the end Herr Malone and Fräulein Vitt will be two more casualties of Eisenhuth’s ambition. I’m sure you can adapt the web to include their deaths.”

Engle nodded. “But the Americans could have access to information we and Eisenhuth don’t. They have vast resources available and the ability to reach many more. They also have diplomatic connections that can gain access to restricted data banks.”

“As in South America?”

“Precisely. This whole endeavor hinges on our controlling the information flow.”

“Which only means we need to spur them along quickly. Let’s not give them time to learn more than we desire.”

“I’m leaving for Santiago in two hours by private jet.”

He moved toward the wine carafe and poured himself another glass. “Keep a tight hold on this, Josef. It’s imperative this plays out as we envisioned. Timing is critical.”

“These two Americans might not be as easily led.”

He did not want to hear any pessimism. “It all depends on what they find. Make it tantalizing. Irresistible. Remember, they are anxious and time is running short for them, too. The election is fast approaching.”

He sipped his wine and thought a moment, considering his adversaries.

“They’ll follow. Of that I’m sure. But after their usefulness has waned, kill them both.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHILEAN LAKE DISTRICT

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 12

3:40 P.M.

Cotton was glad he’d slept on the plane. Danny Daniels arranged a ride for them on a military transport out of Ramstein Air Base that had flown directly to Santiago. Not the smoothest flight and Cassiopeia had taken a little longer to adapt, but by the time they reached cruising altitude over the Atlantic she’d comforted herself with lots of bottled water, headphones with music, and a nap.

A LATAM Chile commuter flight south to Puerto Montt finished off the nearly 650 miles between Santiago and Chile’s popular lake district. The view from the air was one of verdant forests, deep-violet lakes, and towering volcanoes, their snowcapped cones tinged in ruby red. A four-wheel-drive jeep was waiting for them when they landed, and he drove as they headed north, out of town.

“How far to the coordinates?” he asked her.

“About an hour. It’s near Lake Puyehue, almost to the Argentine border.”

In the information Hanna Cress had provided were GPS coordinates for a location in the Chilean lake district. Google Maps had verified that a dwelling stood there. Or a hacienda, as it would be called here. The plan was to head there first, then connect tomorrow in Santiago with the man Eisenhuth had hired. They’d made contact by phone and provided him with everything they knew, including what had happened in Chile a few years before with Jonathan Wyatt. The investigator concurred in their plan, saying he was working on some things and should be ready to share everything with them by tomorrow.

The highway forked and Cassiopeia motioned right.

He veered and realized they were now headed northeast and climbing in altitude. Huge ulmo trees lined the dark asphalt, and a thick understory of quila and fuchsia carpeted the ground beneath.

Ahead, a skunk fled the roadway.

“All this talk about Bormann has made me think of Henrik,” he said.

Their friend Henrik Thorvaldsen had been gone awhile now. Killed in Paris. He missed the old Dane. They hadn’t parted on the best of terms, a regret Cotton would harbor for the rest of his life.

Henrik had hated Germans.

And for good reason.

At 4:00 A.M. on April 9, 1940, eighty thousand Wehrmacht soldiers swarmed north across the Danish border into southern Jutland. At the same time, thousands more emerged from German colliers berthed in Copenhagen’s harbor. Parachutists dropped down. Bombers dotted the sky. Danish Life Guards at the palace fought to protect King Christian, but the monarch called off the fight at 6:30 A.M. and allowed Denmark to be occupied. By 1943 the occupation had turned brutal and Danes were slaughtered by the thousands in an effort to restrain the population.