Three Tales From the World of Cotton Malone (6 page)

Several websites proposed the possibility that one or both of them had survived the war, along with Hitler, but Wyatt could locate no reference where any serious historian ever considered that a reality.

Yet Isabel did.

He decided to continue mimicking what Combs had done days ago and drove back to Santiago, finding the same tree-lined boulevard and the bookstore. The shop was located near the Plaza de Armas, in the heart of the city, about midway into an arcade of picturesque boutiques. Next door sat a café that displayed an assortment of lovely Camembert and cheddar cheeses. He'd dined there on the first visit, while waiting on Combs, enjoying some spicy sausage and salami.

From a cathedral at the far end of the boulevard bells signaled half past three. Storm clouds were rolling in off the volcanoes rising to the west, and the afternoon sun was gradually fading behind a bank of thick cumulus. Rain would arrive by nightfall.

But by then he'd be somewhere else.

He entered the shop. The tinkle of a bell announced his presence.

“Buenas tardes,” he said to the proprietor, a squat, overweight man with a bushy black mustache.

The man acknowledged the greeting and introduced himself as the owner, Gamero, using English. The proprietor wore the same bow
tie and cloth suspenders that had adorned his rotund frame during Combs' visit.

“I need a moment of your time.”

He displayed five one-hundred-dollar American bills to emphasize the importance of his request.

“You are fortunate. The day has been slow. No customers at the moment.” Gamero plucked the money from his grasp. “I'll lock up early.” The owner waddled to the door and twisted the lock. Then a smile formed on the man's fleshy lips. “How may I help you?”

“Tell me what you told Christopher Combs.”

A puzzled look came to the man's face. “Two of you? After the same thing?”

“Which is?”

Gamero shook his head, then motioned and led him through a ragged curtain into the back of the shop. The building had apparently once housed a bank, since left over from that time was an iron vault. He watched while Gamero spun the bronze dial, released the tumblers, then eased open a heavy black door.

“See for yourself. Just as Combs did. I will be out front.”

He entered the vault and yanked the chain on a bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. Eight filing cabinets were arranged against one wall. One door led out, but it was secured by a hasp lock. He
studied the cabinets, noted their rust and decay, and concluded that time probably had not been kind to their contents.

He slid open one of the drawers.

Tattered folders and yellowed paper were packed tight inside. He removed a few samples and noted the writing, mostly in faded type.

German.

He could not read any of it.

He examined the other drawers. Each was similarly stuffed.

Apparently this was some sort of German records cache. Swastikas adorned many of the pages as part of the letterhead.

He heard the bell from the front of the store.

Then two pops, like balloons bursting.

Then, the bell again.

He left the vault and walked back toward the front. The shop was quiet. No one in sight. People milled back and forth outside the front windows on the sidewalk. Cars whizzed by on the boulevard beyond. Gamero, though, lay facedown on the floor in a pool of his own blood.

The pops had been from a sound-suppressed weapon, two exit wounds dotting the man's skull.

He checked for a pulse.

None.

He stepped to the front door, locking it from the inside. He then dragged Gamero behind the counter, out of view of the windows.

He needed to finish what he'd started.

Remembering the locked door inside the vault, he frisked the corpse, finding a set of keys. He retreated behind the curtain, back into the vault, and opened the hasp lock that secured the door.

He yanked the chain for another bare bulb.

The room was little more than a walk-in closet, its stone walls lined with wooden shelves sagging from an assortment of memorabilia.

Uniforms, busts, swords, pistols, all adorned with sig-runes and swastikas. He counted twenty tattered copies of Mein Kampf. Ceramics, too, mostly animals and statuettes. One, a storm trooper doll, had its arm raised in a salute. There were also beer steins, helmets, and a music box that still chimed.

Was Gamero a collector? Or a dealer?

Had this drawn Combs' attention?

He heard a noise from the front of the shop. In the store's silence, everything seemed amplified. He stepped back to the curtain and peered past. Two men were outside. One was jimmying the door lock while the other stood in front, trying to block the view of passersby.

He decided that he wanted to know what these two were doing, so he retreated into the bowels of the building and slipped behind a ceiling-to-floor stack of cardboard boxes, each container overflowing with books. He was able to squeeze behind them just as the bell sounded, and he used the spaces between the stacks to watch as the two men pushed through the curtain and found the vault. Each carried a small briefcase, which was laid on the floor as they disappeared inside. He heard the metal drawers shriek open and the sound of paper fluttering, then more objects slamming the floor.

They were apparently emptying the memorabilia closet, too.

One of the men returned and retrieved a briefcase.

A couple of minutes went by, then they both exited the vault.

The second briefcase was opened, and Wyatt spotted four bundles of a gray material wrapped in clear plastic. Each was laid on the floor, down the hall, two on one side, two on the other. Protruding from each was a small black rectangle.

He knew exactly what he was looking at.

Plastic explosives with radio-controlled detonators.

The resulting fire would be hot and volatile, and little would remain afterward. Sure, it would clearly be arson, but it would be untraceable. If they were smart, the detonators were constructed of
materials that would vaporize in the explosion. That was the kind he'd always used when he was a valued American intelligence agent.

Now he wasn't sure what he was anymore.

A whore, hired only when no one else was available.

That's what he felt like.

The men exited through the front door, the bell announcing their departure. He assumed they would move away from the building before detonating.

That meant he had maybe a minute or so.

He fled his hiding place and raced down the dim, narrow hall until he found a wooden door in the rear wall. He released the latch, opened it, and darted into an alleyway that stretched behind a row of buildings. Finding the street, he slowed his pace, turned, and calmly walked down the sidewalk, blending with the people one block beyond the bookshop's main entrance.

An explosion rocked the afternoon.

But he kept going, toward where his car waited.

He left Santiago and drove back toward Turingia, a forty-minute ride across mountain roads sparse with traffic. He had to make it to Isabel.
If those men had killed Gamero, she could well be a target, too. He wasn't sure why he cared, but he was concerned for the old woman.

What had Combs become involved with?

Certainly not what he had expected.

Not even close.

He entered Turingia, eased the car past shops settling down for the day, then sped out of town. He spied the farmhouse. All quiet. He motored the car down the dirt lane and parked near the barn.

The front door to the house hung open.

He slipped from the car and scooted to the entrance, stopping short, listening for movement.

No wind disturbed the trees. Frogs croaked out a distant concert.

He peered past the jamb.

Still and quiet.

He stepped inside and saw, to his right, Isabel's wizened body slouched in a rocker beside the hearth, a bullet hole in the head.

A sour presence of death laced the warm air.

Too late.

They'd apparently visited here first.

He closed the old woman's eyes, their barren stare disconcerting. Through the front door Evi scrambled inside and nestled
close to Isabel's lifeless legs. The big gray cat seemed annoyed by her master's lack of interest and retreated to an empty chair.

He should look around.

But for what?

Hell if he knew.

The house was about a thousand square feet. In the bedroom he found a blond-wood table, its glossy surface supporting an oversized candle wrapped in fresh araucaria branches. Above the candle hung a portrait of Adolf Hitler, his fanatical gaze off to the heavens. Incredible. Here was this woman, seventy years after the fact, worshiping a maniac.

He studied the remainder of the sparsely furnished room, gazing at the sad debris of an old woman's life. A stove covered in glazed tiles filled one corner. A cabinet with center-opening doors, richly painted in the Bavarian style, contained clothes. A maple dresser sat opposite the narrow bed. Atop the dresser were three black-and-white photographs, each outlined by a tarnished silver frame. One was of a man wearing an SS uniform. No emotion showed on his face, just a blank stare, as if a smile would almost be painful. The shore of a lake loomed in the background, tall evergreen trees surrounding.

He searched the dresser drawers, then snuck a peek beneath the bed. Bundles of envelopes lay on the dusty planks.

He slid them out.

They all showed South African postmarks and a masculine handwriting, each addressed to Isabel in Turingia. He opened one of the envelopes. The letter, written in English, was signed by a Gerhard Schüb. He shuffled through the other envelopes. Their dates ranged from the 1960s to the 1980s. He decided to take them with him.

He returned his attention to the dresser and the other two photographs on display. One was of children, each around seven or eight. Two boys and three girls, dressed as if going to church in suits and skirts, posing together, a happy gathering. The final picture depicted two men. One was the same man from the other photo, this time minus his SS uniform. He wore lederhosen, the leather shorts supported by suspenders joined by an ornamented breast band that displayed a shiny swastika. A light-colored shirt covered his chest, knee-high stockings embraced his legs, a woolen cape draped his shoulders. The other man in the photo was short and heavy-chested with sparse black hair. He wore a double-breasted suit with a Nazi armband. He studied the older face closely, noting a contrived smile that showed no teeth, a tight jaw, and a cagey gaze.

He decided to take the photos, too.

True, this wasn't his fight, but before he killed Combs he wanted to know what had led to these two murders.

He made his way back out of the house, careful to keep a close watch, but nothing generated any alarm.

Letters and photos in hand, he found his car and left.

He drove for half an hour, finally entering a town identified as Los Arana. The highway bisected a quiet residential section to the south and shops to the north. A grassy plaza filled the town center, dotted with lime trees. Between the twin towers of an oyster-colored church, framed like an architectural adornment, loomed the cone of a distant volcano. The streets were largely deserted. The lateness of the afternoon, he assumed.

He parked the car near an open café.

Inside, the tables were filled with black-browed, shaggy-haired men. A strong odor of toil filled the air. The thick ham sandwiches most of them enjoyed looked good, so he ordered one along with a carafe of wine.

While eating, he studied the letters.