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

A player in a global game.

The Magellan Billet had been his firm. Stephanie Nelle the senior partner. His assignments had been some of the most important the Billet were delegated.

And for good reason.

Stephanie had trusted his abilities.

And now so did the chancellor of Germany.

He pushed back the soft vicuña-skin comforter and rose from the bed. The only light that illuminated the room leaked in from beneath the door leading to the hall.

Something had stirred him.

A sound.

He reached for his gun on the bedside table and crept to the door, slowly turning the handle. The corridor beyond was lit with wall sconces splashing amber light toward the ceiling. He stuck his head past the doorframe and peered both ways.

There was no one in sight.

A railing overlooked the ground-floor great room.

The chalet was designed in the Alpine style of pitched ceilings, with lots of windows and plenty of space. In his boxers and undershirt, he tiptoed across the carpet to the wooden railing, keeping back from the edge, glancing downward, the gun at his side.

The two carabineros were sprawled on the sofas, fast asleep. Light splashed into the great room from the dining room where Vergara sat at the table, engrossed in reading Eva Braun’s letters.

A cell phone on the tabletop suddenly began to vibrate.

The unit jiggled across the wood with a rat-tat-tat he recognized as the sound that had disturbed his sleep.

“ Ja. What is happening?” Vergara asked in German, answering the call.

Interesting. Cassiopeia had said that the man was not familiar with the language.

There was a pause as the caller spoke.

Vergara kept talking in German, the words coming in a hushed whisper, fast and furious. Cotton caught only bits and pieces of the conversation.

“A … made sure … take me … necessary … if not for happening in my country…”

Another pause.

“My responsibility … gratitude … Plane … all will be…”

Vergara ended the call and went back to his reading.

They’d told Vergara about Lago Girasol, showing him Ada’s note. The deputy minister had said he was familiar with the lake, but had no idea if any house sat on the north shore. He noted the area was sparsely populated and abutted one of the many national parks that dotted the lake district, near the Argentine border. He’d offered to dispatch a team to investigate, but they’d declined, preferring to go themselves. They did accept his offer of transportation and any additional information about the site.

New alarm bells rang in his brain.

He watched a few more minutes, then retreated to the bedroom and gently closed the door.

“What is it?” Cassiopeia whispered, awake and waiting for him.

“More trouble.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

FRIDAY, JUNE 14

6:45 A.M.

Cotton finished another muffin lathered with palm honey and washed his breakfast down with some tart orange juice. He’d woken half an hour ago to songbirds perched in a nearby mimosa tree. The tranquility of the setting belied the fact that he was surrounded by enemies. Vergara was certainly suspect. If Ada was to be believed, nearly every move he and Cassiopeia were making had been anticipated. And the local deputy minister of investigations could certainly be part of that. Unfortunately, to shift the situation into reverse gear he had to play out today’s trip to Lago Girasol, if for nothing else than simply to confirm what he believed about Juan Vergara.

“Ready to go?” he asked Cassiopeia, who was also having a second muffin.

The plastic container Ada had provided still lay on the floor, the letters stacked on the table.

“What do we do about those?” Cassiopeia asked.

“Leave ’em.”

“You think they will be okay?”

“I imagine that if anything was going to happen to them, it would have already.” He wished he could say the same for them. “Have you seen our host this morning?”

They were in the downstairs dining room, the two ever-present carabineros relaxing nearby in the main salon. Food and drink had been waiting on the table.

“I heard him leave about an hour ago,” she said. “We need to stay sharp. Traps are never a good place.”

He smiled. “Especially for the prey.”

A soft chime came from the front room. A phone. A few moments later a beep, then footsteps. The taller of the two carabineros strolled into the dining room. “Senor Vergara is ready for you at the lake. The plane is there.”

“Good,” he said. “Lead the way.”

The drive from the chalet took less than fifteen minutes. The lake lay just north of Los Arana’s main plaza. A light fog steamed from the still water and filtered a rising sun, casting the normally cobalt-blue water in a tinge of pewter gray. Far off to the west, above the fog, sunshine splashed the cone of a flat-topped volcano, its crimson flanks seemingly smeared with blood. Oyster-colored clouds dotted the sky above.

The plane was an up-wing, twin-engine amphibian, one of the old Twin Bees, built like a tank with long lines of rivets, hefty struts, and thick walls of sheet metal. The hull rested in the water like a boat, the lake gently lapping its sides, sunlight gleaming off its shiny façade.

“Now, that brings back memories,” Cassiopeia said.

He agreed. They’d flown one in China a few years ago.

“I’ve already been blown out of the sky once this week,” she noted.

He smiled. “I’ll try to be more careful.”

Vergara waited at the foot of a short gangplank that led to a rubber-covered dock. “I am told the fog is low level and will be gone by 9:00 A.M. There should be no problem landing once you reach Lago Girasol. It is high in the mountains. The air there is thinner. Are you positive you will not require a pilot?”

“I can handle the controls,” he said. The last thing he needed was more babysitters. “What about the body from last night at Ada’s house?”

“He’s been identified as a local man. We are still working on his connection to the old woman. She’s now missing, too.”

He wasn’t worried about Ada. Clearly she could handle herself. His problem was standing right here.

“Lago Girasol is 120 kilometers to the northeast,” Vergara said. “There is a chart in the plane, which I have marked. I assume you can navigate as well?”

“They had a course or two on that at the Naval Academy.”

And he added a grin.

“Of course, how silly of me not to realize. There is, indeed, a house in an inlet on the north shore of the lake. No roads lead to it, the only approach is from the water. It is isolated. I left some information on it, along with images from Google Maps, in the plane.”

“Is she fully gassed?”

“I personally ensured the tanks were topped.”

He was not comforted by that assurance.

“Have a good flight,” Vergara said. “I will be interested to hear your report.”

Cotton followed Cassiopeia onto the pier. She toted the canvas knapsack that held the scrapbook, the letters left for them, and the photos from the hacienda.

They climbed into the cabin.

Two leather seats sat side by side with a bench behind. The instrument panel did not extend to the passenger side, which gave them a wide view ahead through the forward windows. He strapped himself in and studied the controls then reached overhead and adjusted the throttle controls, props, and fuel mixture. He glanced down at the keel plugs and noticed the compartment seemed watertight. He fired up the twin engines, adjusting the fuel mixture until the props spun firm. He twisted the elevator and rudder trims and adjusted their angles.

The plane glided from the pier.

He grasped the yoke with both hands and maneuvered out onto open water. There was plenty of space, the lake several miles long, the fog light. The Twin Bee glided across the surface and the controls tightened. As the wings caught air the plane lifted, smooth and steady.