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

“When?” he asked.

“Nineteen fifty-two.”

The year Theodor Pohl was supposedly born.

“And afterward? What happened?”

“There was no afterward.”

He waited for more.

“Braun died during that childbirth. She was far too old to be giving birth. She bled to death in a house not far from here.”

He thought back to the correspondence from Eva Braun to Ada and the dates and recalled none past 1952, which was some corroboration of what he was hearing.

“What happened to Hitler’s child?” Cassiopeia asked.

He wanted to know that, too.

“She gave birth in January 1946. The baby was robust and healthy. That occurred in Spain. Braun did not arrive in Chile until early 1947. The child never made the journey.”

He was puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Bormann took the baby at birth. Braun never saw the newborn.”

“Why?” Cassiopeia asked.

“He wanted no part of Hitler’s offspring.”

“I assume,” Cassiopeia said, “that was not what Hitler wanted.”

“Quite correct. Bormann was to take care of Braun and the child. But Hitler’s mistake was thinking Bormann could be trusted.”

He understood. “Once Hitler was dead, Bormann made his own rules.”

“And Braun had to accept,” Cassiopeia added.

Schüb nodded. “She was told the child died at birth. No one knew anything to the contrary, save for Bormann and the midwife who handled the delivery.”

“And you,” Cotton said.

“That is correct. And me.”

“What happened to Hitler’s child?” Cassiopeia asked.

“Bormann never said. Knowing him, though, he probably killed it.”

“You don’t even know the sex?”

The old man shook his head.

Doubt began to cross into Cotton’s mind. “We have a picture of Braun holding an infant in Chile.”

The old man showed his first sign of annoyance. “Just a piece of misdirection. No children of Eva Braun’s were ever present in Chile, and she never saw any of the babies she birthed.”

A muffled sound filled the air overhead, like a breeze. He glanced up to see birds, not a hurried or confused flight, but a calm pilgrimage, their shadows flitting across the moon.

“Flamingos,” Schüb whispered.

“Where do they go?” he asked.

“The night is their refuge. They will return at dawn.”

Cotton continued to watch until the last of the shadows faded into the blackness. Then he faced Schüb and said, “We also have a picture of Bormann and a boy. The child was three or four.”

“He rarely allowed himself to be photographed. Images were taken only for specific purposes. I took that one myself, here in Africa, long ago, and sent it to Ada a few years back for her use. I’m assuming she made sure you found it in an appropriate way.”

“You and she communicate?” Cassiopeia asked.

The old man nodded. “Constantly. Once, only by phone or letter. But now, with modern technology, we can even see each other when we talk.”

“An old dog learning new tricks?” Cotton asked.

Schüb smiled. “Something like that. I told her yesterday to send you my way. It was time for me to come back from the dead.”

“Does Pohl know of the connection?” Cassiopeia asked.

The old man nodded. “He does. But he firmly believes I am dead.”

“So how is Pohl connected to you?” Cotton asked.

“I never said he was.”

“You didn’t have to. He didn’t send his bird dog here out of the blue. That guy Engle came straight to your house.”

There was a hesitation while the old man caught his breath. The thin chest barely moved with each breath. “It is a long tale.”

“We’re listening.”

Schüb swiveled his head like an owl and seemed to be looking around for something.

Finally, the old man said, “Be patient, and I will tell you everything.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Engle crossed the open prairie, the grass short and thick, and used the cloak of night to reenter Allesverloren. He took in the unusual surroundings. The fitful drone of a beetle’s wing, the chatter of a bat, the trill of crickets that masked all sound of his approaching steps. He recalled the rottweiler and assumed there were more dogs, yet so far he’d not encountered any four-legged sentinels.

He kept close to the trees that dotted the plain in patches, always maintaining a course to the shadow of a house that loomed ahead. It was a little past 10:00 P.M. and his assumption about Jan Bruin was proving correct. He was apparently an early sleeper, as not a light shone from any of the windows. He did not agree with his employer’s decision to eliminate the South African, but he was not in the habit of questioning his superior, so he resolved himself to handle the task with his usual efficiency, and the dogs be damned.

He made his way through a cherry orchard and found the steps leading up to the front stoep.

An owl unburdened its soul.

He climbed the steps.

Not a sound betrayed his presence.

He’d noticed something earlier during his first visit. While saying goodbye to Bruin, as his host had explained about the motto rest and glad ness, he’d noted that the front door possessed no dead bolt, no latch, no chain. He’d thought it strange, but purposefully drew no attention to the fact. He simply assumed that a man such as Jan Bruin required no locks for protection. It appeared to be a salient declaration that safeguarding Allesverloren involved much more than a chunk of metal. Come if you want. Trespass if you dare. The risks were all yours.

And that concerned him.

A man such as Jan Bruin knew the ways of his world. Pohl had been right on the phone. South Africa, if nothing else, was a brutal place. Its history was one of senseless violence. Only recently had some measure of sanity asserted itself. Bruin would be thoroughly schooled in the nature of his land, but orders were orders and Engle’s were clear, so he crept close to the front door and turned the knob.

It opened.

He entered the darkened foyer and eased the door shut.

The air inside was warm and laced with the scents of boiled tomatoes and a lingering cigar. He stepped across smooth flagstones to the hardwood floor of a nearby corridor and followed a wide hall, past the conservatory and billiard parlor, to the game room where he and Bruin had talked earlier. Everything reeked of ancestry and old money. He noticed more Rouen platters, bits of Delft, and Limoges porcelain.

The trophies on the walls and the aquariums loomed silent in the pitch dark, the only light courtesy of a three-quarter moon. His eyes were fully adjusted and he easily threaded his way through the furniture to the elaborate gun cabinet he recalled from earlier. It was fashioned of the same rich wood, maple he believed, that encased the rest of the salon. He remembered seeing at least a dozen assorted rifles, along with several handguns and a crossbow.

He approached the cabinet and opened the glass door.

Again, no lock and no surprise.

He reached for one pistol in particular. A Webley target revolver—blue finish, six-inch barrel, light, maybe a kilo or so, vulcanite stock. He knew the weapon well. None had been made since 1945.

Perhaps it was an heirloom, he thought.

He brought the gun close and savored a bitter scent of oil, which was confirmation that Jan Bruin cared for his guns. He checked the cylinder. Just as he thought. Six shots. Fully loaded. A man like Bruin would never display an empty weapon.

He gripped the stock and left the room through the nearest doorway. He knew nothing of the house’s geography, so he just followed another corridor until he came to an intersection. Doors framed with elaborate molding lined both sides of the hall, each spaced sufficiently apart to indicate that the rooms beyond were spacious. At the far end was a pedimented paneled door, much larger than the other entrances.