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

The lake ended and forest raced past below.

They cleared the fog and found sunny sky at six hundred feet. Distant volcanoes, rising like boils on the landscape, vanished as the windshield filled with a salmon sky rapidly deepening to blue. He banked right and adjusted course toward the northeast.

Cassiopeia studied the map, seemingly comfortable with his piloting. “There are several lakes and two towns along the way.”

Below, fetid forest stretched forever. Any mist seemed confined to only where there was water. “We should be able to ground-track there and back.”

“Assuming this chart is correct.”

He saw her point.

“Vergara’s assurances were not that reassuring,” she said.

He motioned to the gauge on the control panel. “Unless he tampered with that, we have eighty gallons in the main and sixteen in the auxiliary. A full load. Besides, there’s water everywhere down there. Plenty of places to land.”

He liked being back in the air.

“Let’s forget about all this gloom and doom for a while,” he said. “Read me a few of Gerhard Schüb’s letters.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Engle watched Vergara as the minister spoke on a cell phone. A radio receiver rested on the dining room table amid stacks of Ada’s letters. The two other policemen had brought the unit inside the chalet a few minutes ago and were now busy connecting an antenna and finding an extension cord. He’d passed the time by reading some of the letters Ada had first supplied to Malone and Vitt.

He recognized the name Rikka Soreno and the South African location. But in all of the briefings that Pohl had provided, no mention had ever been made that Eva Braun maintained such extensive contact with South America. No long-lasting friendship with Ada was ever noted, either. But he should not be surprised. Too many players. Too much time had elapsed. Too little information. Anything was possible.

And usually was.

The body found in Ada’s house had been the man he’d stationed to watch her. The old woman had killed him and let her feelings be known.

FOR ISABEL.

Another old woman whom he’d eliminated a few years ago to chill another trail that two American agents had tried to follow. He’d never realized that death had been such a problem. No mention of dissent had been made from anyone here in Chile about what happened then. But Ada definitely held a grudge. He had to find her.

Fast.

Also, he could not allow Vitt or Malone to leave Chile alive. Pohl had told him to deal with them once their usefulness had waned.

And that time had come.

He turned his attention back to the telephone conversation.

“This is Minister Vergara. I have information of a drug flight presently ongoing toward the Argentine border. An attempt was made to stop the plane on the ground, but failed. I have the course coordinates and description of the plane. I need an intercept scrambled immediately.” A pause while Vergara listened. “Bueno. Gracias.” A pause. “Excellent. I will monitor communications. You have my phone number. I will keep the line clear. You do the same.” The Chilean hung up the phone and turned to him. “A fighter is on the way.”

“What is the procedure?” He needed to know the details.

“We have radar agreements with the Argentines. There are many unauthorized flights along the border. The Americans even assist in our endeavors with a mobile radar platform.”

“Have you involved them?”

He shook his head. “No need. This is being done on my order, with local resources.”

“What about radio contact with the amphibian?”

“Commander Malone and Senorita Vitt will discover their unit receives quite well, but is deficient in transmitting.”

“I assume it is not unusual for drug traffickers not to respond by radio?”

“Quite common. They try to avoid interception. Some are good at navigating the mountains. Others are not as skillful.”

“Does the interceptor understand what to do?”

A sly smile came to the man’s thin lips. “His superior does.”

Cotton listened as Cassiopeia read a few of the letters aloud. Each was a fascinating account of a man thrust half a world away, serving a cause he only vaguely understood, far from his sister.

February 7, 1949

… our arrival in Bloemfontein was uneventful. This is a strange place. Nearly five thousand feet above sea level, the air clear and light. Patches of Europe are everywhere. Waterwheels, homesteads, rose gardens, stout buildings. There is a nearly perpetual battle with drought, pests, and bankers. Luis complains incessantly. He does not particularly like the choice of location. This Union of South Africa is a strange nation. It possesses two capitals. Johannesburg, to the north, is the political center. Bloemfontein here in the Free State is the judicial center. Why this is so no one can adequately explain, though there is talk of merging both here in Bloemfontein. The Free State is replete with Dutch influence. They, in the form of Boers, settled here. Many still talk of the Anglo-Boer War, which only ended less than fifty years ago. They still remember the concentration camps. Luis likes to tell me that the British invented the concept right here when they slaughtered thousands of women and children during the war. All things British are still hated with a deep passion, which pleases Luis greatly.

I wish you could see this country. It is truly beautiful. Grayish-brown plains dotted with what the locals call peppercorn bushes, the flatness broken by iron-colored kopjes. Mountains line the edge of the sky, their tops shaved level. Storms settle over the land for hours, the rain falling in thick sheets. But by morning the sky is wiped clear by a warm sun. We have taken a house on the outskirts of town. It stands in the shade of fir and gum trees. You would love the bougainvillea that climb its walls. Behind is a barn and stable. Water mills revolve over springs and fill tanks and make life possible. Without water there would be nothing but barren veld for hundreds of miles. Nighttime is the best of all. The veld goes silent and silver in the moonlight. Darkness is absolute, the trees like cardboard cutouts. Our dogs congregate beneath the open windows. It is good they are there. They keep the lions away. The dogs are fearless and I envy their courage.

May 23, 1949

Time is nearly irrelevant here. This forgotten land is truly a paradise in many ways. The whites control everything while the Africans toil the land. I witnessed a curious sight a few days back. Luis and I drove to a town a few miles west of our farm. Not much there besides a red-roofed store, a Dutch Reformed church, and a petrol station. A small farm was for sale and Luis wanted to be present when the mortgage was called. What a strange sight. Furniture piled in the sunlight, the money lender leading the auction, the mortgagor in shabby clothes, his wife and children in tears, their house and possessions all gone. I noticed that only a fence of prickly pear would soon separate them from the Africans beyond. I asked Luis about the matter. His bid was deemed too low and he failed to secure the property, so he was not in a good humor. He lectured me that there is no place in this world for the weak. They clutter the strong with the vice of sympathy and for that they must be eliminated. He felt nothing for the family that would sleep on the earth that night without the protection of shelter. I felt for them, though. How could one not? But Luis seemed filled only with contempt. He is a hard man, fueled by hate and even more by regret. Rikka is having a difficult time. He will not take her swimming at the Mazelspoort or for a boat trip down the river, or simply sit beneath the trees and enjoy the day. She tries to make life bearable, if not for him certainly for herself. He tries to please her with luxury. Their house is full of silver, mahogany, and books. No one comes to visit, though. He will not allow visitors. His suspicions have increased since we arrived, a phobia of doubt that consumes his every day. He is so dependent on me. Odd, actually. This man of power and wealth so needing me. I am his eyes, ears, and legs. Doing, saying, seeing all things he cannot. He is paralyzed by fear and part of me is glad.