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

“I’m wondering why the deputy Chilean minister of investigations is so concerned with us,” Cotton said. “Surely you have more important things to do.”

“Your vehicle was seen in the vicinity of a local hacienda earlier. One we have been aware of for some time. Gunshots were reported. A diligent farmer in the vicinity noted the license plate on your vehicle. We determined that it was a rental, paid for by a local importing company that I just happen to know is used as a front for American intelligence.”

Okay, now he saw the reason for the interest.

“My government cooperates with yours, Commander Malone, on a great many things. We are allies. Some I do not understand, nor particularly agree with, but I am a willing servant. But this? We are totally unaware. So please, what is your business here in Chile?”

Cotton sat. “You seem to know a great deal about me. I haven’t been in the navy for a while.”

“You are a known commodity.”

“It’s always nice to be appreciated. And by the way, I’m retired from the Justice Department, too.”

“Interesting the way you spend your retirement years.”

He caught the message but offered nothing more.

“Where are our weapons?” Cassiopeia asked as she sat.

“They are being held, pending answers to my questions.” His tone indicated that he wasn’t backing down, either.

Cotton decided a little cooperation might go a long way. So he told Vergara about what happened. He then displayed the photos from his pocket and asked, “Recognize anybody?”

The Chilean studied the images carefully. “They appear quite old. I am only forty-one, and these seem to have been taken long before I was born.”

That inquiry was going nowhere so he shifted gears. “Why the dog-and-pony show with the policemen and guns?”

“Your intentions were unclear. Is this an official visit? Now that you say you are retired, are you rogues? Inciting trouble in my country? Until I learn more, caution seemed warranted.”

“Does your agency maintain immigration records going back to the 1940s?” he asked, deliberately changing pace again.

“That is a curious inquiry. Why would you be in need of such obscure information?”

“It concerns our business here.”

“Until I learn what that may be, I will not be answering any more questions. On the contrary, you will do the answering.”

“Our business here is sanctioned by the German government,” Cotton declared. “Make whatever official inquiries you desire with Berlin. The chancellor herself is involved. By all means, talk to her office. Then I need an answer to my question.”

He decided to leave Danny Daniels out of the equation.

For now.

“I shall do just that.”

And Vergara retreated from the room without saying another word.

“He apparently knows more about us than he’s saying,” Cassiopeia whispered.

No question. “This house is impressive.”

He glanced around at the interesting mixture of Bavarian pinewood and Scandinavian furnishings, none of which was bargain-basement stuff.

He wondered if the place was Vergara’s or the government’s. And had someone really spotted them leaving the hacienda and recalled the license plate? A bit much, he thought.

Twenty minutes passed before the minister returned.

“They connected me directly to the chancellor. A charming woman. She explained your presence and officially requested our assistance.” He sat. “As I said, you have a fascinating retirement, Commander Malone. And you, Senorita Vitt, the sole owner of a multinational European corporation. Interesting how you spend your time, too. Be that as it may, what might my agency now do to help you both?”

All that was a little too easy for Cotton’s taste, but he decided to play along. “We’re looking for two Germans who immigrated to Chile after the war. The two in the photographs. A man and woman. It’s doubtful, though, that they entered officially, and most certainly aliases were used.”

“And who might these Germans be?”

He hesitated, then decided what the hell. “Martin Bormann and Eva Braun.”

A crease of amusement flashed across the policeman’s face. “You can’t be serious?”

“Would I kid you?” His attempt at humor seemed lost on Vergara, so he motioned to the photos. “Like you said, those shots were taken a long time ago, we think in the early 1950s.”

“Both of these individuals were hunted worldwide.”

“Not true, Minister,” he said. “Both were presumed dead. Braun committed suicide in the bunker with Hitler. Bormann was supposedly killed the next day by Russian artillery when he attempted to flee the bunker. No one seriously hunted either one of them.”

He did not voice what he was thinking, what he recalled from his reading on the flight over. In 1947 Bormann was actually tried in absentia at Nuremberg, found guilty, and sentenced to death. Corpses were not generally afforded such special attention. And—

“Bormann was not declared legally dead until 1973. The official listing even contained a curious qualification that death had not been completely established. ”

Vergara sat silent for a moment. His expression was stoic, a studied manner, as if running through a memorized routine.

“I may have some information on this,” their host said. “There was a Bavarian who lived here in the late 1930s. A man named Peter Graf. He’d been a minor German official who lost all his posts when the Nazis assumed power. So he moved to Chile and amused himself by publishing a newsletter on politics and economics. I know this because, as a junior carabinero, I once was involved in an investigation that caused his file to come across my desk. History is a hobby of mine. In 1948 Graf was visiting a Count von Reichenbach. He was another German refugee who owned a large estate in the south, near the Argentine border. One day Graf was walking in the rain forest near the estate when three horsemen appeared wearing ponchos and sombreros. He recognized one of them as Martin Bormann. He knew him from before the war. Supposedly, Bormann also recognized Graf, cried out that fact, then fled toward the border. Graf reported the incident, but nothing ever came of the sighting, as far as I know.”

“I imagine that is not the only sighting Chilean records indicate,” Cassiopeia said.

Vergara nodded. “I have read others and been told of many more. And not just Senor Bormann. There were many criminals from the war who supposedly chose Chile as a safe haven. All of us in the police were aware of that reality. Our government then was most sympathetic to their needs. Why? I have no idea. Today attitudes are different. We have gladly assisted foreign governments with apprehension and extradition of anyone suspected as a war criminal. The hacienda you just visited has long been associated with Germans. It is why we still, periodically, check on it.”

“Nazis are still hunted here?”

The policeman shook his head. “Not much anymore. They are all dead by now. But as I said, from time to time we cooperate with foreign governments who do still hunt. As I am doing right now.”

“Was there ever any serious effort made to verify Bormann’s presence in Chile?” Cassiopeia asked.

“I have no idea. That I would have to make inquiries about.”

“Which would be welcomed,” Cotton said.

Vergara shrugged. “I would be glad to do it. There exists no sound reason to harbor secrets any longer.”

Maybe not. But that did not explain the murder of a woman inside a Bavarian police station. Information delivered to the German chancellor that revealed a pregnant Eva Braun and a son for Martin Bormann. And the photographs, books, and other memorabilia that they’d been directly led to find.