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

“The name of this estate. Allesverloren. Everything lost. How was that chosen?” he asked.

“What relevance could that have?”

“None. Just curious.”

“My father chose the name. He never explained why.”

“You didn’t ask?”

“I was not in the habit of questioning my father.”

He saved the best for last. “One more name. Luis Soreno. That familiar?”

Their host’s jaw tightened a moment with what Cotton briefly perceived as antagonism. But Bruin kept his manner detached, his face cold and deadpan. More deception? Hard to say for sure considering how effortlessly the man had lied a moment before.

“That name, too, is foreign to me. Sounds Spanish, and we have precious few Spaniards in this region.”

He could tell that they were going to learn little. The frontal approach was not working. Time to slip in through the back door.

But not now. Later.

He stood from the rocker.

“We won’t trouble you anymore. We appreciate your time.” Bruin rose, too, along with Cassiopeia. “If Josef Engle appears, I advise caution. He may have killed several people, including a deputy minister of the Chilean police. He’s not a man to toy with.”

“I appreciate your concern. But I’m afraid his trip, like yours, would be a waste of time. I know nothing, and will tell him that if he appears.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

FRANKFURT, GERMANY

7:30 P.M.

Marie found Kurt quicker than she thought possible. She first called the schlöss and was told that no one there had heard from him. A call to Eisenhuth-Industrie’s headquarters revealed that Kurt had not been on-site since early afternoon, but he’d indicated that he intended to stay in town for the next few days. The company maintained an apartment in the Sachsenhausen district amid the pubs, restaurants, and shops of the old town. So she abruptly canceled her evening engagement in Worms, claiming a sore throat, then borrowed an aide’s car and, after dark, had one of her security men drive her north into the city.

She knew the apartment well.

It belonged to her parents. They’d lived there after the war once the building had been resurrected from the bombing. It was not her childhood home—that had been the Alpine schlöss —but a place where her mother and father had lived later in life.

When her father changed.

She recalled how morose and introverted he became, saying precious little, smiling almost never, consumed by something not acknowledged yet always there. Many were just like him. Later, psychologists coined a name for their affliction. Post-traumatic stress disorder. The natural, psychological result of a sudden debilitating trauma. In the chaos of the post–World War II world there were no fancy names for the malady, only a realization that its effects were real and widespread. The eight months her father had spent incarcerated at Nuremberg, awaiting trial as a supposed collaborator, seemed to have exacted an enormous toll on his psyche. He was never the same. Was he ashamed? Humiliated? Was his reaction guilt at the horror that was the Third Reich? If so, he never spoke a word that indicated either recognition or remorse.

Over the past three years she had only rarely visited the apartment. It was used mainly by Kurt when he stayed in Frankfurt. If it was also a love nest for his mistresses she did not want to know. It was another of their unwritten rules, more of their separate privacy that neither voiced but each demanded, a once liquid commandment that had solidified in the past decade.

But the matter now weighing on her mind was far different from a cheating spouse. Hitler’s Bounty. Martin Bormann. South American accounts. Eisenhuth-Industrie. Herzog Concern. Connect the dots and a line joined those seemingly unrelated things into an unspeakable image. She’d called Danny Daniels and learned that she’d been set up, the whole thing a trap to get her to dig deep in Chile, where the financial records were offered up to law enforcement on a silver platter, garnished with the blood of her dead investigator, along with the Chilean inspector who’d requested the inquiry. What a colossal mistake she’d made. But what did Kurt know?

She had to find out.

Her driver let her out on a side street two blocks from the familiar row of adjoining burgher’s houses. The gabled façades reflected a medieval flair that this section of the city exuded. She told her security man not to accompany her upstairs. He did not like it, but obeyed. On the first floor she found the paneled door and rapped lightly.

Not a sound stirred from inside.

She knocked again, this time harder.

Still no answer. Was Kurt inside with someone?

Downstairs she heard the main door open, then close, and footsteps started up the stone-and-brass staircase.

She waited.

An older couple crested the landing, then turned on their way to the second floor. She gave them a glance, then knocked on the door for a third time. Once she had possessed a key, but it had been years since she’d last seen it. The couple stopped their climb and she could feel them staring at her.

She turned and faced them.

“He’s not there, Frau Bundeskanzlerin,” the man said, acknowledging the feminine form of her official title. “He is at the Knoblauch, having dinner. We just came from there.”

A wave of uneasiness passed between them. She wanted to ask if Kurt was alone, but knew better. The man seemed to sense her quandary, almost divining her thoughts with a look reminiscent of her father’s derisive gaze.

“He eats there regularly, when he is here. Always alone, before 8:00 P.M. A creature of habit, your husband.”

The man said nothing more and the old woman never uttered a sound. They simply turned, arm in arm, and began their ascent to the upper floors. She wanted to stop them, ask their names, thank them, play the role of candidate, but instead she simply listened as the footsteps faded away.

The Knoblauch was located three blocks from the apartment. The restaurant filled the cellar of what was once a Carmelite monastery, decorated with hewn-wood tables, wrought-iron lamps, and aromatic candles. The establishment’s name, which meant “garlic,” was immediately apparent upon entering, sharp scents permeating the thick air with an enticing aroma.

Kurt was sitting alone at a far, corner table, reading a newspaper. Only a few of the other tables were occupied. She’d come alone, her minders outside in the car. She ignored the maître d’ and walked straight over. He glanced up, and the lack of surprise on his face worried her.

Had he expected a visit?

She sat. “We need to discuss a matter.”

“I don’t think here is the place to debate our personal life.”

“It’s not about this morning.” She kept her voice low. The melody of a harp from a far corner added background to the muted conversations of the other guests. They should go outside, but she thought remaining in public would prevent him from getting angry and walking away.

“The federal police are investigating our companies’ finances.”

His eyebrow rose in disbelief. The information apparently grabbed his attention. He seemed surprised.

She explained in a low voice what Erwin Brümmer had told her. “The Chilean authorities have made a formal request for information, and subpoenas have been issued. I want to know, Kurt. Is there any truth to this?”

A waiter brought his dinner, but he instructed that it be taken back to the kitchen. He sipped from his water goblet and asked if she wanted anything to drink. She dismissed his offer with another inquiry as to what was happening.

“Marie, we have customers in Chile, Argentina, Paraguay, and Brazil. We also have investors, customers, and banks on that continent. Money coming from there is not unusual. But I have no knowledge of any connection to Hitler’s Bounty or Martin Bormann.”