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

“Back to town to play a hunch and get some information. I’ll return within the hour.”

She opened the door and stepped out. “Okay. Give it a try, Sherlock.”

He slid over. “Let’s hope that’s the only entrance to wherever Engle’s going.”

“And if he leaves before you get back?”

“Then we’re screwed.”

He gripped the wheel and gunned the accelerator, heading back toward Nohana.

He thought again about the name.

Allesverloren.

Everything lost.

Fascinating.

Engle drove to the end of a willow-lined lane. Before him a one-story house sprawled out under a bower of bushy trees. The ground beyond fell sharply toward a rock-strewn stream, and he watched a squadron of swallows dip under a wooden bridge that crossed the swift-moving water. To the west spread a plain that never varied, a low kopje, kilometers of grass, the Free State stretching toward a horizon dotted with blue shadowed ridges that, in the clear air, appeared to be within walking distance but were surely many kilometers away. Cherry trees filled an orchard toward the south. In a fenced meadow, ostriches meandered in an awkward gait.

He parked and stepped out into cool air.

He’d definitely risen in elevation, his breath thin, a challenge to savor. He was impressed with both the house and the view.

Quite an estate.

The obligatory covered stoep, which seemed a part of every Free State house, was especially spacious and dotted with rocking chairs, some facing west toward the spectacular view, others overlooking the fields and mountains.

Through the front door a soggily built man with a pale face and heavy hands stormed across the stoep’s wooden planks. He was nearly bald and bespectacled, his features projecting a note of taut command. Engle instantly assessed a hot mind and a cold heart, a smile coming perhaps as often as an oyster cracks its shell.

“Goeinaand,” the man said.

“I’m sorry. I do not speak Afrikaans,” he replied in German, testing the waters a bit.

“ Guten abend, then.”

“You are fluent in my native tongue?” He stayed with German.

The man shrugged and gestured with his hands. “It’s a language I took time to learn.”

He stopped at the base of wooden steps, coated, like the rockers, with a thick layer of gray paint. A rottweiler slept against the stoep’s far railing and commanded part of his attention. His host seemed to notice his interest.

“Not to worry. She’s quite docile.” The man paused. “Most of the time.”

He decided to get to the point. “Are you related to Gerhard Schüb?”

The man gave him a curious look of appraisal. “Now, that is an odd way to introduce oneself.”

“My name is Josef Engle. I have come on behalf of Theodor Pohl.”

Crickets trilled in the distance as a moment of silence gestated into something that suggested suspicion. Concern laced the other man’s rotund face. “That is a name I have not heard in a while.”

“I need to speak with you. In private.”

The big man chuckled and gestured with his thick hands. “Then come inside, Herr Engle. We will talk and maybe you might learn what I know. Then again, maybe not.”

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Cotton drove straight to The Boer’s House. He was going to see if the tight-lipped proprietor could offer any information about the owner of Allesverloren. He hoped the museum stayed open past 5:00 and was pleased to see that it did not close until 6:00.

“Remember me?” he asked when he entered.

No one else was inside.

“My inquisitive visitor from earlier. Did you find Gerhard Schüb?”

Interesting he recalled that specific inquiry.

Maybe his hunch was right.

“Let’s cut through the crap, okay?” He explained who he was, why he was there, then produced seven hundred rand, part of what he’d received from the ATM. “This is surely more than you earned here today. Certainly more than enough for you to help me out.”

“Do all Americans think everyone is for sale?”

“Not all, just me. Usually I’d be more subtle, but I’m in a hurry and I sense you’re a man who knows things.”

He dropped the crisp bills on the counter. The man raked them toward him with pudgy fingers laced with grime. “What is it you desire?”

“Who lives at Allesverloren?”

“My, my, you have been busy. That’s fifteen kilometers out of town.”

“I know the geography. Answer the question.”

“That estate is titled to Jan Bruin. A Boer patriot. His family has owned the land for a long while.”

“Since the last world war?”

“After that time.”

“Strange name for a place. Everything lost.”

“I did not realize you were fluent in Afrikaans. So few bother with our language. Especially Americans.”

“Call it a hobby. And it’s more German than Afrikaans. Now answer my question. What’s in the name?”

“That I cannot answer. I assume the meaning is something special to the family. Most of the large farms are named, and all are quite personal.”

“Tell me about Jan Bruin.”

“His mother was of old voortrekker stock. Dutch. A kind, gentle woman who played a lovely violin. His father was German.”

That information grabbed his attention. “What was his name?”

“Thomas.”

“Thomas Bruin does not sound like a German name.”

“Now, that is rather stereotypical, don’t you think? All Germans don’t have to be called Hans and Dieter.”

He brushed away the criticism with a question. “What do you know of the father?”

“Why is this so important?”

He was becoming impatient. “Was he an immigrant?”

“Now I see. Perhaps from the former Reich? That’s a tired premise, wouldn’t you say?”

“Humor me.”

“I truly know little of the father. He died two years ago. The mother passed a few years before that. The son is another matter. He is a patron of this museum, and makes a generous contribution each year in his mother’s name. A gentleman for whom I have only praise.”

“Then tell me more about the son.”

The man gave a noise that ranked somewhere between a cough and a laugh. He appeared annoyed. But the message was clear.

Hand over more rands.

He did.

“Jan was born here, in the Free State, educated in England. He started in the diamond business as an office boy at Dunkelsbuhler and Company. It is a large London merchant house. He returned here to run the fields for the company and eventually bought a couple of mines himself. He was our mayor for a time, and now represents the Free State in the national assembly.”

“How old is he?”

“My age. Mid-forties.” The man motioned across the room. “Come, let me show you something.”

He followed him to one of the photographic displays, where his informant pointed to a photograph of a brilliant blue-white stone. “Forty-six carats. There are only three blue diamonds that size in the world. It was found in one of Bruin’s mines. Incredible, isn’t it?”

He studied the picture, a full shot of the sparkling stone under what was surely brilliant light. The steel-like blueness seemed faintly sinister, even menacing. Perhaps like its owner. He turned to the proprietor. “I asked you before. Ever heard the names Gerhard Schüb or Luis Soreno?”

“I was not being coy. Neither is familiar.”

“They supposedly lived in this area in the 1950s and ’60s.”

“Before my time. But even so, I have lived here all my life and neither name is one I recognize.”

He sensed that he’d gained all the information he could. He needed to get back to Cassiopeia. “I appreciate your time.”

He meant it, though he’d paid for the privilege.