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

“It is of no matter to me any longer. I was to do as I have done, then leave it to you.”

That was a lie. He was supposed to raise the child himself. But he possessed other ideas, ones that did not involve Adolf Hitler. He should have simply killed the infant. That would have ended any future problems. But nothing would be gained by that. Let the girl live. No one would ever know her parentage.

The man rose from his chair.

“Live long, old friend,” he told him.

“You too.”

As his visitor headed for a car parked under the shade of sprawling elm, he called out, “What will you name her?”

Albert Herzog turned back.

“She will be Marie, after my great-grandmother.”

“Who told you?” Pohl asked.

He’d listened to Kurt Eisenhuth recount what he knew and had added some of the missing pieces to form a complete picture of what happened in northern Spain in January 1946.

“Albert related everything to me before he died,” Kurt said.

“The old man kept his secret well.”

“He considered it an honor to raise Hitler’s daughter.”

“And you, is it an honor to be married to her?”

“It is. She has been a good wife.” Kurt’s face softened. “She seems to have inherited her mother’s temperament. But she became a leader thanks to her natural father.”

“Do not despair,” Pohl said. “I will lead this nation with all the strength required.”

Kurt motioned to the tombs. “Why are they here?”

“To remind us.”

A puzzled look came to Kurt Eisenhuth’s face. “Of what?”

Marie stood frozen. Her husband’s words, combined with Pohl’s interjections, had made clear the unthinkable.

The unfathomable.

She was the daughter of Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun.

She stared down at her hands and arms, her chest and legs. Was every fiber of her being genetically linked to an unspeakable evil? Her entire adult life had been spent repudiating what the Third Reich stood for. She’d never said anything but the worst about Hitler and every single one of his henchmen. Her political philosophy abhorred all that had been National Socialism. Where some in the country preached the good in Nazism while rejecting the bad, she despised it all and made no secret of her complete revulsion. That was why it had been easy for her to appear at Dachau. So what if the truth angered voters. They needed to hear it and, more important, they needed to never forget.

But now.

Albert Herzog was not her natural father. She was adopted. Or more accurately, she was abandoned.

Given away.

She willed her feet to move, trying to muster enough courage to step forward. She needed to confront the two men in the other room. Her muscles seemed atrophied with anxiety from her husband’s stunning admission.

Another step toward the doorway.

She must be strong. Show no weakness.

A few more steps.

She entered.

Kurt stood in the center of the windowless space, his back to her, beside three raised marble tombs. Pohl was across on the far side, facing her, before lighted shelves brimming with leather-bound books.

Pohl saw her immediately.

Try as she might, her face betrayed the fact that she’d heard every word.

“Ah, finally,” Pohl said. “You are here.”

Kurt whirled around and muttered, “Oh, my God.”

Pohl seemed pleased with himself. “Do come in, Frau Bundeskanzlerin. After all, you and I are family, and it is past time you paid respects to our mother.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

Cassiopeia huddled on the floor beside the display case. She harbored no illusions that she was safe. Apparently Engle wanted her precisely where she now found herself. She still gripped her gun, but it was of little use since Engle commanded the high ground. She’d managed to see the barrel flash in the darkness, which confirmed that he stood in a darkened gallery above her, possessed of a clear view of the entire hall.

“Come and get me,” Engle said.

The bastard seemed to be everywhere thanks to the lousy acoustics.

“I plan to,” she called out.

Engle laughed. “I like you, Fräulein.”

Cotton heard the shot and drew out the automatic pistol he’d taken from the assailant in Austria. He then approached an open doorway, listening as Cassiopeia and another man spoke, their voices hollow in what was apparently a cavernous space. The corridor he was traversing was well lit, and its yellow light spilled on into the semi-darkness beyond the entrance. He did not want to announce his presence, so he stopped and used a tall cabinet full of swords for cover as he assessed the situation.

The far side of the corridor was cast in shadow as the nearest incandescent fixture burned ten feet back from where he stood. A couple of Claude Lorrain and Lucas Cranach canvases dotted the stone wall leading into the room beyond, their images blackened in the dim illumination.

He stepped across the corridor to the far side. Nothing betrayed his movement. He hugged the wall and eased past the paintings. He was now wedged in a corner directly adjacent to the doorway. Through the darkness he saw Cassiopeia, huddled beside one of several tall glass cases, each displaying suits of armor. She saw him, too, and used hand signals to alert him that trouble lurked above. He glanced upward and caught movement in the upper gallery.

Josef Engle?

Who else?

He decided to not announce his presence and signaled he was going up. She nodded her understanding. That was one of the things he really respected about her. No nonsense. Cool under pressure. Team player.

He slipped inside and moved toward a staircase to his right that led up to the second floor. He stayed close to the wall and made his way toward the first step.

Niches were everywhere.

Dark voids where trouble could lurk.

Engle possessed all the advantage. He towered over Cassiopeia Vitt, and his view of the hall was unobstructed. Only the lower galleries remained shielded, but the staff was down for the night and would not return until morning so he should not be disturbed. He knew every square centimeter of the hall below, and he could maneuver Vitt at will.

Which was fine. That was the whole idea.

To amuse her.

Keep her occupied so his employer could accomplish whatever it was he had in mind. But the chancellor had changed things with the order to “apprehend him,” and apparently Vitt was taking the command to heart. He’d chosen the knights’ hall specifically for its darkness and spaciousness. He stood in the recesses of the upper gallery, near the far end of the displays below, and wondered about the whole endeavor.

Marie Eisenhuth, here, in Löwenberg, was never in the plan.

But he had to trust that Pohl knew what he was doing.

And considering his failures of late, he decided to do his part.

He crept down the gallery, staying a couple of meters back from the balustrade, and selected a new vantage point.

Below was quiet. That was okay.

Passing the time was the whole idea.

Cassiopeia knew the bastard was above her. She felt like a rat in a maze with nowhere to go. But she had to give Cotton time to get into position. She had no intention, though, of crouching behind a glass case waiting for Engle to make a move. What was he going to do, shoot her? With the chancellor of Germany here? Hardly. How would Pohl ever explain her death? He couldn’t. No. She was being played. Apparently her presence was not required wherever Pohl and Kurt Eisenhuth were located.

But she agreed with the chancellor.

Engle needed to be dealt with.

Might as well challenge him now and see just how far this game was going to go. So she pivoted back on her butt, still gripping the gun in one hand, and rolled to her right, firing once up into the upper gallery, which allowed her the moment needed to roll farther toward the next display case.