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

“Where are the owners?”

“They don’t live in Chile. Not good enough for them.”

“If you feel that way, why look after the place?”

The guy shoved the hat from his head. The chin strap held it in place against his shoulders. He ran his fingers through oily sandy-blond hair. Along with a dusting of dandruff, he seemed to have an adequate supply of chips on his shoulders, too. “This was a place for them to come, have picnics, ride horses. Not to take seriously.” The man shrugged. “But I need work.”

“Doesn’t seem like there’s much to watch over. The house is a wreck. The pumas have taken over.”

The man chuckled. “I let them squat here a long time ago. They make excellent guards. You’re right. The house has fallen down, mainly over the past few years. No funds for repairs, not like in the old days.”

“When was it last occupied?”

“Decades back. Germans came and went. Many of them. Stay awhile, move on. I worked here. Tended the cows and horses. Quite a hacienda back then.”

He fished the photographs from his pocket and handed over the one with Bormann and Braun. “Ever see those two here?”

The man studied the images, then shook his head. “Who are they?”

“Just some people I’m looking for.” He estimated the cowboy’s age at no more than fifty. Too young to know anything firsthand about postwar Chile. “Is there anybody nearby who lived here in the 1940s. Someone who might recognize the people in the photos?”

“You police?”

He shook his head. “All I want is information.”

“We get people like you every once in a while. I don’t like them any better than Germans.”

The message was clear. “I’m not a bounty hunter or anything like that. Just looking for information.”

The man remained silent for a moment and he wondered if he really knew anything at all. “Ada was here then.”

Interesting. “Where does she live?”

He pointed south. “Tilcara. It’s down the highway forty kilometers south. She might know the people in the picture.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Ada is old. She knew all the Germans, and they knew her.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Cotton slowed as he entered Tilcara. Lots of shops, cafés, hotels, and tourist agencies. The simple gray buildings lacked the rustic roughness of a village or the tarnished elegance of a city, but they were charming nonetheless. Another volcano loomed in the distance, and the snout of a blue lake intruded to the south. Palms and mimosa cast a feel more of Spain than Chile.

The gaucho had told him where to find Ada, so he drove straight to the Church of Our Lady. It stood solitary just beyond the town limits, a frescoed façade between two bell towers, a long, low wing to one side made of whitewashed bricks. A convent was attached that housed the Good Shepherd Sisters, who ran a home for the elderly next door. He’d been told that Ada was not a nun, but she had for a long time helped them operate the convalescence center.

The facility wasn’t much. One story. Cement-block walls painted a pale blue with a gabled tiled roof. It sat among the trees with flower boxes protruding below every window. Simple, but well maintained. Luckily, his mother would never need to live in such a place. His father had been gone a long time and she’d learned to manage on her own, still running her family’s onion farm in middle Georgia, as she had ever since his grandfather passed. Financially, she was set. Truth be known she was most likely a wealthy woman. They spoke about once a month, and he knew he should call more. But communication was a two-way street, one she seemed equally satisfied traversing only occasionally.

He entered the building and was told Ada could be found in the church. He crossed the street and opened the stout oak doors, the arch above adorned with a half-obliterated Christ and angels with piteous faces. Inside was a single aisle, the nave high and broad, the walls displaying a masquerade of differing styles. A woman knelt in a pew clutching a rosary, a hooded cloak of white enfolding her head, her lips mumbling as if muttering a spell.

He sat in another of the wooden pews and waited.

“ Buenas tardes, Senor Malone.”

The greeting momentarily startled him.

“I received a call from a friend,” the old woman said in deep, gritty Spanish-accented English. “I was told to expect your visit.”

No surprise. “That gaucho was there on purpose, wasn’t he?”

She stood from the pew with some effort and turned to face him. “I wanted to speak with you. Alone. Thankfully, you reappeared today without your escorts and made this invitation easy to extend.”

He had to admit, the guy’s spiel had been delivered with the aplomb of a first-rate actor who knew his lines. “You’re not a fan of the police?”

“On the contrary, I am a firm supporter of law enforcement.”

She stepped closer and pushed back the veil. She was thin faced, cheeks sunken, the skin around the blue eyes crinkly with advanced age. She had a low forehead and crooked shoulders poorly concealed beneath a loose-fitting black dress. Her gray hair was tied back with a silver scarf into a ponytail.

He stayed seated as she approached closer down the aisle. “What do you do here?”

“I spend time with the residents. Go on walks. Participate in activities. Work in the kitchen. Support the staff. Visit residents who end up in the hospital. It is a rewarding life for a widow.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Over seventy years. My parents arrived just after the war.”

As long as his presence had been anticipated, he produced the photographs found at the hacienda and showed them to her.

“I see you found what I left,” she said.

Her admission did not surprise him.

She motioned with the images. “Those two lived near Lago Todos los Santos, at the Argentine border.”

“What were their names?”

“He was the Brown Eminence.”

He made the connection. The term was one attached to Martin Bormann during the war because of his influence over Hitler. A derivation from the Red Eminence, Cardinal Richelieu, King Louis XIII’s chief minister, who dominated the monarchy and effectively ruled France. Richelieu’s assistant, Father Joseph, dubbed the Gray Eminence, was, like his superior, a shadowy figure adept in quiet diplomacy and covert power. Red and gray referred to those prelates’ robes. Brown was the color of Nazi uniforms.

“They lived on a remote farm and kept to themselves. He called himself Luis Soreno. But my father knew his real identity. He handled all of the Brown Eminence’s business matters.”

“And the woman?”

“Rikka was the name she used. But we all knew she was Hitler’s widow. Eva Braun.”

He pointed to the photos. “Was the child born here?”

She shook her head. “That’s where the truth deviates from the story in the pictures. No child existed here. There was a child, but not born here.”

“Where then?”

She hesitated, sat silent for a moment, then said, “Africa.”

“You weren’t supposed to tell me that?”

“I’m supposed to tell you that the child, a boy, died here.”

“So that there would be no son of Martin Bormann still alive to search for?”

Ada nodded. “That was part of the purpose of the Kaiser’s web. To throw you off that trail.”

“You know Theodor Pohl?”

“Unfortunately, I do.”

“Not a fan?”

“Hardly. He is an evil man.”

He’d circle back to that topic. Right now, he wanted to know the rest of her story. “What happened to Bormann and Braun?”

“They stayed here awhile, then moved on. The Brown Eminence was constantly paranoid, afraid someone would recognize him. No one cared about the widow. Few even knew her face or name. But him. That one people would have wanted. A quetrupillán. ”