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

The great room was empty, but the dining room told a different story. The two carabineros lay sprawled in chairs, Vergara on the floor.

All of the bodies bore bullet holes.

“You think it was Ada?” Cassiopeia asked. “Or Pohl’s guy Engle?”

“My money is on the latter. Tidying up loose ends.”

They entered through unlocked French doors.

A radio receiver sat on the table.

“That wasn’t there earlier,” she said.

No, it wasn’t. Then he noticed. Ada’s letters were gone.

Cassiopeia saw it, too.

“That definitely means Pohl’s man, Engle, handled this hit,” she said. “Ada wanted us to have those. He didn’t.”

Right on.

Thankfully, in his eidetic mind he could hear the words of the carabinero as each one was translated for him. Dates flashed in rapid succession: 1949, 1951, 1962. Places. Names. And they still had the other letters, scrapbook, and photographs.

He glanced at his watch: 2:35 P.M.

“The good part is we’re dead,” she said. “Just not as permanently as these three.”

“But the $64,000 question is, do we go to Africa?”

She nodded. “We’ve come this far.”

He agreed.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

GERMANY

3:30 P.M.

Marie dreaded summer. When she was younger June always meant a welcome relief from the dreary cold, a time of warm days, inviting evenings, and a sun that lingered long into the night.

But all that changed nearly fifty years ago.

On June 14.

The day her parents died.

A Boeing 707, from Athens to Rome, crashed into the Ionian Sea. All eighty-eight people aboard were killed, thanks to a bomb hidden in the cargo hold that sent the plane into the ocean.

All because of the Middle East.

The Palestinian Liberation Organization had been ousted from Jordan, so it relocated its headquarters to southern Lebanon, where it easily enlisted militants from the nearby refugee camps. At the time south Lebanon was known as Fatahland, thanks to the dominance of militant organizations that used the region to stage attacks against Israel. Fatah was the most ruthless of the Palestinian liberation groups and, eventually, was linked to the bomb that killed her parents, though nothing was ever proven.

But eighty-eight people were gone.

Two of them the most important in her life.

Especially her father.

She’d worshiped him.

Before the campaign started she’d informed her staff to keep the afternoon and evening of June 14 free. She offered no explanation, nor was one requested. Each year she made a pilgrimage to the cemetery. It sat beside the ancient Kloster Egern, a great abbey founded by Holy Roman Emperors and still home to a contingent of Benedictine monks. For the past forty-six years she’d come and lit a candle in the small church. After, she would walk to the graves and leave yellow roses as her way of honoring two people, stolen from her far too soon. For years, Kurt had accompanied her. But not so much for the past decade.

She struck a match and maneuvered the flickering flame toward the candle. The wick took a moment to catch. The candle’s fragile light barely pierced the semi-darkness that surrounded her. The church itself was a statement in simplicity. Red stone with dignified decoration, a quiet place to come once a year and question heaven on what purpose was served by two such early deaths.

She knelt in one of the pews.

The monks were kind enough to close the building for the afternoon and afford her privacy. Only two security men had accompanied her, both outside guarding the doors. It was not often that she prayed. Though both her parents had been devout Catholics, religion had never been an overpowering force in her life.

But neither was it a stranger.

The rear doors creaked open, and she wondered about the interruption. She lifted her head and turned to see her husband standing at the gate to the main vestibule.

He stepped into the chapel. “With the campaign, I thought maybe this year you might not come.”

“The better question is, why are you here?”

“I wonder if these yearly reminders of grief are healthy?” he asked.

“I appreciate your concern, but they were my parents.”

“I meant no negativity. It’s just been a long time since they left us.”

She understood what he meant. At some point the living must let go of the dead. “I may never be able to let them go. They were murdered for nothing.”

And she made no attempt to mask the bitter resignation in her voice.

“I agree. I mourn them, too.”

At these moments Kurt was most like the man she remembered from so long ago. Dashing. Handsome. Adventurous. They’d married young. Two offspring from wealthy families. A merger of old money and power. Their life had been one of constant privilege, which she’d managed to convert into a successful career of public service. But Kurt had matured into someone she simply no longer knew. Where she developed compassion and a global view, he cultivated prejudice and nationalism. Instead of trying to understand his odd metamorphosis, she withdrew, which allowed them to drift farther in opposite directions. They became like poles on a magnet, bound together but forever separated by forces neither of them could affect. At this moment, though, staring at him through the pale light of the church, the good memories urged her to take his hand and comfort him. But the bad ones screamed that was no longer possible.

So she simply said, “They died because of hate. Thankfully, the Middle East is a different place today than it was fifty years ago. Progress has been made.”

“Marie, Jews and Arabs have been killing each other for five thousand years. It’s never going to stop. That hate has spilled out to the entire world, and that’s not going to stop, either. I wonder, what would your father think of your tenure in office?”

Being this close to her parents’ bones always seemed to give her an added measure of strength. It was, perhaps, another reason why she came each year. A rejuvenation. One she needed. Even at her advanced age.

“They would have been proud,” she declared.

“You can’t really believe that. I doubt your father would have endorsed an open-border policy that allows anyone to come into this country. I seriously doubt he would have bent to the will of the United States or placated Russia. He hated NATO and thought it horrible that Germany was entirely dependent on foreign powers for its external protection. He and I discussed all those subjects on more than one occasion.”

“My father lived in a different time, with different views. Above all else, though, he was a German patriot, as am I.”

“One who is fighting for her political life. That stunt at Dachau backfired. You insulted half of Bavaria. What were you thinking, labeling people uncaring racists. Is insulting a nation your way of leading? You made it easy for Pohl to pivot away.”

“Then perhaps he’s finally earned your vote?”

He shook his head. “There it is. If I don’t agree with you, I’m immediately your enemy.”

Anger flushed through her. “This is not the time, or the place, for a political discussion. We should stop.”

“Perhaps your father wants to hear what you have to say.”

She resented his pressing, so she said again, “My parents would have approved of whatever I did.”

“Can you say that with clear impunity?”

She wasn’t going to debate him here, in this sacred place, on this solemn day. So she stepped toward the gate, but he blocked the way.

“Will you flee the Bundestag when your policies are questioned? Is dissent that repugnant to you?”

A wave of uneasiness swept through her. “Move out of my way.”

“Do you have any idea what you are doing?”