“A fair point. And yes, I want to end Pohl’s career. By whatever means. With all of the immigration issues, high unemployment, and inflation sapping the economy, the German populace is vulnerable.”
“So you’re taking the easy way to victory? Just smear the opponent out.”
A flush of anger finally rose in Eisenhuth’s face, then quickly faded as she regained control. “Nein, Herr Malone. I am trying to learn the truth, which the people of this nation deserve. Would you not agree?”
“I do. Which is another reason I’m still sitting here. What do you want us to do?”
“I need independent corroboration of all this information, and it seems that might exist in Chile. After the first contact, I hired an individual, with my own funds, to investigate.” She paused. “He is in Chile, but not making the best progress. I want you to go there and take over that investigation. I need to determine if the information we have is true or false. An unsubstantiated allegation would be disastrous … for all concerned.”
“And if we find out that it’s true?” Cassiopeia asked.
“Then we will let the German people decide if they want the son of Martin Bormann as their chancellor.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Cotton stared at Marie Eisenhuth as the room went silent for a moment. Beyond the windows, the cuckoo from earlier called again in the distance.
“I realize how this must seem,” Eisenhuth said. “It all sounds quite fantastical. But we know that, thanks to Project Land of Fire, thousands of Nazis made their way to Argentina after the war. Why could Bormann and Braun, or even Hitler himself, have not done the same thing? And please know that I was ready to dismiss this all as fiction, until that murder. Hanna Cress was killed for a reason and, at a minimum, I want to know what that was.”
“That’s the first thing I’ve heard,” he said, “that makes good sense.”
His gaze drifted to the windows and the lake beyond.
Eisenhuth rose from her chair and approached a table on the far side of the room. Framed photographs angled from the lacquered top.
“Please,” she said, motioning for them.
They stood and approached her.
She pointed to an aged black-and-white image of a young girl and an older man. “That is my father. Though acquitted at Nuremberg, he never forgot that humiliation. The cowards who ruled this country and caused all of his misery either killed themselves, were hanged, or fled. Other men, the ones who were simply compelled to participate, like my father, had to stay and endure their punishment.”
He stared down at the photo.
Albert Herzog was smiling at his young daughter. He was a tall, thin man, the face weather beaten, the hair sparse and black. With a diffident and unassuming gaze, his right arm wrapped around the little girl’s shoulder, he stared at the camera with the look of a loving father. The tiniest smile creased his thin lips. How many German industrialists had succumbed to the lure of free labor and ready markets? Hitler offered both slaves to run their factories and a war machine to consume their goods. The profits had been too lucrative and too easy to resist. Car companies, steel mills, armament shops, banks, building contractors, clothiers, research laboratories, and countless other concerns simply could not refuse what the Third Reich offered. And none, to his knowledge, willingly returned a mark in compensation after the war. Whether Albert Herzog was different, he’d never know. The only important point, at the moment, was that his daughter believed him a victim.
Marie Eisenhuth’s face seemed set for combat, and he saw the will of a woman who fought to the end for what she believed.
That he admired.
“I want to know if Martin Bormann survived the war,” Eisenhuth said. “It galls me to think that he may have lived to an old age. It further galls me that his and others’ lifestyles may have been financed with assets stolen from plundered countries and countless victims. I hope none of that is the case. But I want to know, even if there is just a shred of truth here.”
“Do you seriously think that Eva Braun was pregnant, married Hitler in the bunker, then left with Martin Bormann to have a child?” Cotton asked.
“I do not know, Herr Malone. The information we have is quite sketchy on that point. But I do believe she and Bormann may have escaped, as the documents indicate. We simply have no idea what happened in the bunker. All we know is what we have been told happened.”
“Even if Bormann survived, he’d be over a hundred years old,” Cotton said. “Long dead.”
“But his son may still live.” Eisenhuth drew a breath. “In the information you have read, Bormann’s son was born in 1952. So was Theodor Pohl. Did you know that Martin Bormann’s father was named Theodor? And the woman who died yesterday. Her last word to Danny was Kaiser. Did you know that many in Pohl’s inner circle call him the same thing? Kaiser. Emperor. Some sort of term of respect, I am told. Also, as I am sure Danny has told you, is it not odd that much of this same information surfaced a few years ago in Chile, with another American agent? Even the same source. Gerhard Schüb.”
That was curious. And puzzling.
“I assume Pohl’s past has been fully checked out?” he asked.
“It was the first thing we did. Records show that he was born in Hesse to long-standing citizens but, as you have been told, those records may not be accurate. There are questions. Our wartime and postwar documents are replete with discrepancies. Missing data, incomplete files, forgeries, little in the way of verification. As an adult, Pohl has led a fairly public life. Went to university in Heidelberg, and into business thereafter. All self-made ventures that became quite profitable.”
“I assume he has money?”
She nodded. “Quite a bit. He bought several German publishing houses at a time when the industry slumped. He held on to them, consolidated, and created one of the largest publishers in the country. He’s also heavily invested in banking and serves on several corporate directorships. I can supply you with a full dossier.”
“Does he pay his taxes?” Cassiopeia asked.
He knew that was the Achilles’ heel of most successful people.
“He does, with no issues our auditors could determine,” the chancellor said. “Everything is in order. His only excess seems to be his politics. But he is a populist, and they tend to lean toward the extreme. I am sure you can see how, at a minimum, all of this has piqued my curiosity.”
He had to admit, he was intrigued, too.
Not your ordinary run-of-the-mill mystery.
“The past three-quarters of a century, since the war, has been tough on Germany,” the chancellor said. “First the Nazis, then the communists separated and brutalized us. Currently, both legacies seem to have merged in the anger of new-right extremists. When we were divided, West Germany openly discouraged fanaticism. East Germany, though, took a different tack. The communists merely suppressed everything, thinking hate would no longer exist simply because they would not allow it to be there. After reunification, when that suppression ceased, hate groups from the old East Germany blossomed. Opportunists like Theodor Pohl now exploit that collective frustration.”
He sensed her sincerity. This woman of obvious privilege, owner of a secluded estate beside an Alpine lake, seemed in tune with what ailed Germany.