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

“I could get used to this,” he said.

“What? Sharing a room?”

“Sharing everything.”

“Careful. You’re approaching that dreaded M-word.”

That he was.

Her face softened. “I could get used to it, too.”

And they both seemed fine to let it go at that.

For now.

“You haven’t said a word about Jan Bruin lying to us,” she said.

He hadn’t broached it, because he was still mulling over what to do. “Clearly he’s involved with whatever is happening here, or he wouldn’t have lied.”

“But we don’t know which side he’s on. He could tell Engle all about us, and there goes our advantage.”

“We knew that risk when we approached him. We’re in Bruin’s sandbox. This could get rough.”

She reached for the towel and finished drying her hair, then stepped to the mirror and lightly combed the damp strands into place. “How about we get some food, then some rest. With Engle and Bruin around we’re going to have to be cautious. I’ll take the first watch, you can have the second.”

“And I thought we were going to have a lovely walk on the veld in the moonlight then … later—”

She tossed him a mischievous grin. “Who knows, be a good boy and you might just get that walk.”

Dinner was excellent, a mixture of African and European delights. And reasonably priced, too. Cassiopeia shunned wine, recognizing the need for a clear head. He didn’t drink at all, having never acquired a taste for alcohol.

He still did not know what to do next.

They were at a crossroads.

Perhaps it was time to involve official channels. Danny could brief the State Department and request intervention. The Justice Department still maintained a prosecutorial unit devoted to war criminals, and there were treaties among nations, South Africa included, that would allow extradition. Engle and Bruin both could be questioned, the press alerted, a lot of attention thrown on the situation, perhaps enough to flesh out what was really happening and implicate Pohl.

Thankfully, they had some proof.

The photos. Scrapbook. Schüb’s letters. All were safely locked in the lodge’s house safe. The other letters Ada had provided from Eva Braun were gone, but he recalled every word read to him by the carabinero. Unfortunately an eidetic memory would not be enough evidence to convince the court of public opinion, and it would be that jury’s decision alone, in the end, that would matter.

They left the restaurant and headed back toward their cottage. Stars blinked and fluttered in a brilliant night sky, while a wind disturbed the branches with the soothing softness of a lullaby. The path was lit by a string of lanterns suspended from trees, which cast the way in swaying shadows. Lights from the adjacent cottages dissolved more of the darkness. A dog bayed in the distance, and the harsh discordant wail of a hyena announced the animal was hungry.

“Tomorrow we’ll see what more we can learn on Jan Bruin,” he said. “He’s our best lead at this point.”

“What about Engle?”

He wanted him, too. But he did not want the trail to stop there. The prize remained Theodor Pohl, who’d been jerking everyone’s chain from the start.

His cell phone vibrated.

Danny was calling.

Directly. No encrypted text. Not good.

He answered.

“All hell has broken out,” Danny said. “The BND is actively investigating the chancellor on those money transfers. She’s in a vise. A bad one. Can anything be salvaged on your end?”

“That remains to be seen. We were sent here to Africa for a reason. I’m just not sure what it is.”

“Keep digging until you hit bedrock. It’s all we have left.”

“That’s the plan.”

The call ended.

“He’s not happy,” he told Cassiopeia.

“There’s not much to be happy about. We handed Pohl exactly what he wanted.”

They kept walking, the path lit by more lanterns. Ahead he saw their cottage, the entrance lit by an amber wall fixture. A man stood beside the bench just before the front door on the brick path. He was short, thin, and old, dressed casually.

They approached.

“Good evening, I am Gerhard Schüb. I understand that you want to speak with me.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Engle settled into the chair beside the bed and tapped in the number for an overseas call to Germany. He’d taken the café proprietor’s advice and reserved one of the thatched rondavels, set amid a peach orchard, about twenty kilometers from Nohana, near the Lesotho border. The food was, as promised, superb. He’d enjoyed the oxtail in red wine sauce, washing it down with a heavy lager that reminded him of home. He’d delayed making contact until after dinner since he was reasonably sure what Theodor Pohl would say.

The private line in the Hessian bedchamber at Löwenberg was answered on the second ring.

“I have been waiting,” Pohl said.

“I needed to know the situation before calling. I did not think a partial report was what you wanted.”

“I’m listening.”

He told his employer precisely what had occurred since his arrival in South Africa.

“Do you think he was lying, that he may have been in contact with Ada?”

“Impossible to say. He strongly denied even knowing she existed. Perhaps he is being truthful. Perhaps Herr Schüb kept that information to himself?”

“It’s possible. The old man was tight-lipped. But I can’t take that chance. It’s too great. I want the situation there handled.”

He knew what Pohl meant. Kill Jan Bruin. “That could pose a problem. He is a public figure, a member of the national assembly.”

“The Free State is a violent place. The entire country is a hotbed. Bad things happen. Besides, there is little choice. He knows far too much. He and Ada are communicating. I can feel it. His father is gone. The others are gone. This son and his aunt are all that is left out there.”

“What if documents survive? As with Ada?”

“I never met Bruin, but I agree with his assessment. Schüb was not a man to keep incriminating things. Besides, without anyone to authenticate them they fall into the realm of pure speculation. That’s nothing to worry about. Perhaps an author will write another one of those conspiracy books and one of my houses can publish it. Probably would sell quite a few copies.”

Killing Ada? Yes, that he would do. But he disagreed with harming Jan Bruin. The man was the son of Gerhard Schüb, a man who’d loyally served both the Third Reich and Martin Bormann. There was good stock there. They’d done their duties for decades. No reason to think he’d be disloyal now.

“Is that the course you desire?” he finally asked.

“Why the hesitation?”

“Perhaps well enough should be left alone.”

“If you had not failed in Chile, Africa would have never been in play. This whole endeavor has become fraught with unacceptable risk. I am tired of evidence and witnesses appearing. So we shall do this my way. The investigation into the chancellor has started. It’s only a matter of time before the press learns and her troubles start. Make sure all is good there. Finish your task. Tonight. Then return here tomorrow. We will deal with Ada when this is over and I am chancellor.”

The phone call ended.

Cotton stared at the man who said his name was Gerhard Schüb, picturing clearly in his mind the image of the virile soldier, wearing an SS uniform, that he’d seen on Ada’s dresser.

Age had taken a toll. The gray-white patina bore a bluish tint, the gnarled tracing of veins clearly visible. The face had drawn into itself pinched and tight, but the pale-blue eyes still seemed alive. Faint strands of silver hair streaked the domed forehead. A steady tremor shook the hands. Sixty years had passed between the photograph and the reality standing across from him, yet he was certain the two men were one and the same.