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

Still no Cassiopeia.

Strange.

Then he saw a man leave the café and step toward a Ford compact. Affixed to the front windshield was the same orange sticker that appeared on the Range Rover, designating the vehicle a rental. The beige exterior was powdered with road dust. The man climbed inside, then U-turned the car so he was headed west, back toward the main highway.

He knew the face.

Josef Engle.

Cassiopeia raced across the street to the Range Rover.

He followed her.

She slipped behind the wheel and was cranking the engine as he flung open the other door and jumped in. She gunned the accelerator and U-turned the utility vehicle.

“This just keeps getting better and better,” he said.

Engle followed the directions Theodor Pohl provided yesterday on the telephone. He motored west for six kilometers, then turned north, the highway in surprisingly excellent condition, each side lined with gum trees, wattle, and clusters of dense jacaranda.

The elevation steadily rose as he headed deeper into the mountains, nearer the border with independent Lesotho. He imagined what life must have been like here after the war, when South Africa was a fragile union held together by little more than hate. He’d read about some of the history. Where the Nazis and communists failed, the South African Nationalists succeeded, creating for nearly a century a split of the country into one for blacks, the other for whites.

Such a shame that endeavor had not worked.

He wondered, gazing out the car windows at the rich farms, what the current black majority government would do with all of this. He’d listened to Pohl talk of such matters and knew how his employer felt about white supremacy. How did he feel?

Hard to say.

But being here, feeling what was surely a salient pull white men had felt for centuries about this land, he could see that it was something worth fighting for.

Cotton kept his eyes ahead, out the windshield.

“I spotted him going into the café. He was casual and open,” she said.

He told her about the The Boer’s House and the photo of Albert Herzog. “Add one more in the negative column for Marie Eisenhuth.”

“So why is Engle here? To find Gerhard Schüb? For what? We don’t even know if he’s still alive.”

“Ada was quite obtuse on that.” He pointed. “Ease a little toward the shoulder so I can look around ahead.”

They were following a large truck on the main highway. She allowed the Range Rover to drift right, and he spied Engle’s car still moving at a leisurely pace two cars forward.

She angled back into the middle of the lane.

“We’re headed north,” he said. “Into the mountains.”

In the distance he studied the terrain, which seemed a mixture of Wales and Switzerland. Patches of Europe sprouted everywhere. Waterwheels, homesteads, attractive farm buildings, even a rose garden adjacent to one house.

“I think he’s here to mop up,” she said. “If Schüb is alive, he may want him eliminated. If dead, then he’s after any lingering reminders of his life. Ada wasn’t supposed to tell us about Africa. So he’s here to make sure all is quiet on this front.”

Which made sense.

They crossed a long girder bridge that cast a reticulated shadow across muddy water hundreds of feet below. The trees on either side of the highway thickened to a dense forest that hugged the slopes of rapidly rising ridges. Cotton found a South African road map in the glove compartment and determined that the highway led northeast, over the border, into Lesotho, toward the Highland Water Scheme, which explained what a heavy transport was doing on the road ahead of them.

Cassiopeia again eased the Rover toward the center. “Engle seems to know where he’s going.”

“I’m glad one of us does. We’re nearing Lesotho.”

He’d been there before. A mountain kingdom. Fiercely independent and brutal. Even the old South African Nationalists left them alone. On assignment a few years back he’d gotten into a nasty scrap with their national police, whom he found both cruel and corruptible. Two of their officers were killed, and it had taken State Department intervention to calm the matter.

“It’s not a place I want to visit,” he muttered.

“We may not have a choice.”

She was right.

They would have to go wherever Engle led.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Engle slowed the car and swept around a sharp turn at a controlled pace. The road was a twisting path up a steep incline, one side lined with stones, the other with trees and loose rock. The transmission whined and rattled like metal to a grinder stone. He was looking for the dirt lane that, by Pohl’s directions, should appear at any time.

His instructions were clear.

Ascertain the situation, assess the risk, and report.

He’d entered the country unarmed, but there should be no need for guns. All of the African participants were dead. That included Gerhard Schüb, who supposedly died two years ago. Which was why they’d used Schüb’s name in the contacts with Eisenhuth. Yet Ada had directed Malone and Vitt here. Why? Pohl knew that Ada and Schüb were siblings. So what did she know that they didn’t? If anything? It could all be a ploy. Simply a way for Pohl to waste time chasing ghosts. Perhaps even to make a mistake. The situation required investigation, but the history into which he was delving involved people possessed of a volatile combination of fanaticism and cleverness. As with positive and negative charges, the resulting merger created nothing but sparks.

So he told himself to stay alert.

Be ready for anything.

He’d already decided that once he made an initial assessment, he’d find a comfortable inn. The proprietor at the café mentioned a lovely lodge in a nearby valley with thatched rondavels set amid a peach orchard, the food supposedly excellent. A night of relaxation would be welcome. Usually his trips were laced with apprehension and fraught with anxiety.

Perfectionism was indeed a stern master.

Once he returned to Germany the weeks ahead were going to be especially hectic. Pohl would have him scurrying from one person to another determining their loyalties. He was actually quite good at persuasion, even better at ensuring that he meant what he said.

Ahead he spotted a graveled road framed on either side by a stone wall that flared at each end, forming a distinctive entrance, one that matched the description Pohl provided.

He slowed.

Cotton motioned. “He’s turning.”

Cassiopeia’s foot came off the accelerator.

“No. Go past. Keep going.”

She gained speed and continued to follow the truck ahead of them. He watched as Engle’s vehicle veered left. He peered carefully past Cassiopeia, out the driver’s-side window, as they passed the turnoff. The rear of Engle’s car was obscured by a cloud of dust that whipped up in his wake.

Cassiopeia drove another half mile down the road, then U-turned on the highway. They reapproached the lane and stopped. Affixed to the elegant stonework that outlined the entrance was a carved wooden sign that read ALLESVERLOREN.

“What does it mean?” she asked.

“I assume it’s the estate’s name.” He found his phone and typed in the word, asking Google for help. “Everything lost.” He stared at her. “What an odd name for a house.”

“Perhaps someone is trying to send a message?”

“We need to know who lives here.”

She was right. He glanced at his watch. Nearly 5:00 P.M. He motioned ahead. “Pull up into those trees.”

She drove the car a quarter mile farther up the road then eased to the opposite shoulder.

“You stay here and keep an eye on that entrance.”

“Where are you going?”