Three Tales From the World of Cotton Malone Read online

  “Who is we?”

  “Those of us who believe.” Her eyes were hard with indignation.

  “That was a long time ago. It’s over.”

  “Yet you and Herr Combs are both still interested. Herr Combs knew that my father worked for the Führer. That’s why he came. He also knew it was Hitler’s wish that Bormann survive the war. A letter from Hitler himself directed my father to do whatever the Brown Eminence desired. So my father spent his life hiding Martin Bormann.”

  He waited for more.

  “Bormanns appeared everywhere. Those who searched had plenty to look for, but never the actual man.”

  He vaguely recalled reading about Bormann sightings throughout Brazil, Argentina, Bolivia, and Paraguay. A few Bormanns even turned themselves in to the authorities, claiming a need for justice in their old age, but all were eventually confirmed as either deranged or delirious.

  “What does any of that matter anymore?”

  “What you mean is, why did it matter to Herr Combs.”

  That’s exactly what he meant.

  “Bormann was no Hitler. The Führer was special. Politicians before him talked down. Bormann talked down. Hitler talked to us.”

  It seemed she wanted to speak her mind, so he let her.

  “I’ve watched Hitler speak many times on film. He would parade into a hall to some lively military tune. Oh, I loved that music. He always wore his brownshirt uniform and had the shiniest boots. Such a sight. People stood while he spoke, as they should. He loved them, and they loved him.”

  She was clinging to a vicious fantasy. But if the memory loosened her tongue, he was willing to allow her the luxury.

  “What happened to Bormann?” he asked again.

  She spat on the floor. “He was a sloven bastard. The Führer made a horrible mistake trusting that one.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?”

  She shrugged. “Why not? As you say, it was a long time ago.”

  “Could you—”

  “I’m through talking to you.”

  She started to leave the barn, the cat nipping at her heels.

  He tried, “You speak of the past with reverence. Are you a Nazi?”

  She stopped, turned back, and surveyed him with an insolent air of triumph.

  “I am a faithful follower of my Führer.”

  And she ambled off.

  His visit with the old woman disturbed him. It was not at all what he’d expected. Never had he thought Martin Bormann, Eva Braun, and Adolf Hitler would be the subjects of their conversation.

  Before leaving Turingia he parked the car under some shade trees and used his smartphone to access the Internet. There he found a concise summary of Martin Bormann’s life.

  Born in Halberstadt on June 17, 1900, the son of a former Prussian regimental sergeant major, Bormann dropped out of school to work on a farming estate in Mecklenburg. After serving briefly as a cannoneer in a field artillery regiment at the end of World War I, he joined the rightist Rossbach Freikorps. He eventually entered the National Socialist Party, becoming its regional press officer in Thuringia and then business manager in 1928. From 1928 to 1930 he was attached to the SA Supreme Command and in October 1933 he became a Reichsleiter of the party. A month later he was elected as a Nazi delegate to the Reichstag. From July 1933 until 1941 he was the chief of cabinet in the office of the deputy Führer, Rudolf Hess, acting as his personal secretary.

  There he began his imperceptible rise to the center of power, slowly acquiring mastery over the Nazi bureaucratic mechanism and gaining Hitler’s personal trust. In addition to administering Hitler’s personal finances, he controlled the Gauleiters and Reichsleiters, the men who administered the various lands in the Reich. His brutality, coarseness, lack of culture, and apparent insignificance led top Nazis to underestimate his abilities. His mentor Rudolf Hess’ flight to Britain opened the way for him to step into Hess’ shoes.

  In May 1941 he became head of the party. Until the end of the war, Bormann was the fierce guardian of Nazi orthodoxy. He was an archfanatic when it came to racial policy, anti-Semitism, and the Kirchenkampf, the war between the churches. By the end of 1942 he was Hitler’s private secretary, taking care of tiresome administrative details and steering Hitler into approval of his own schemes. Ordered by Hitler “to put the interests of the nation before his own feelings and to save himself,” Bormann fled the Führerbunker on April 30, 1945, after Hitler was dead. Accounts of what happened afterward vary widely. According to some, Bormann was killed trying to cross Russian lines by an anti-tank shell. Doubts, however, have persisted and numerous sightings of Bormann have been reported, beginning in 1946. Having been sentenced to death in absentia at Nuremberg in October 1946, his true fate remains unknown.

  All of the other sites he found confirmed the same information. Nobody really knew what happened. He then located what he could about Eva Braun.

  Born in Munich in 1912 to a middle-class Catholic family, the daughter of a schoolteacher, Braun first met Hitler in the studio of his photographer friend Heinrich Hoffmann in 1929. She worked as Hoffmann’s office assistant, later becoming a photo lab worker, helping to process pictures of Hitler. Blond, fresh-faced, and athletic, she was fond of skiing, mountain climbing, gymnastics, and dancing.

  After the death of Geli Raubal, Hitler’s niece with whom he maintained a long love affair, Braun became his mistress, living in his Munich flat. In 1935, after an abortive suicide attempt, Hitler brought her to a Munich villa, near his home. In 1936 she moved to Berchtesgaden where she acted as Hitler’s hostess. Every effort was made to conceal her relationship with Hitler, since the Führer was supposedly devoted solely to the nation. Few Germans knew of her existence. Even Hitler’s closest associates were not certain of the relationship, since Hitler avoided suggestions of intimacy and would often degrade and belittle her intelligence. She spent most of her time exercising, brooding, reading cheap novelettes, and watching romantic films. Her loyalty to Hitler, though, never wavered. In April 1945 she joined Hitler in the Führerbunker, and eventually died with him as part of a suicide pact.

  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 s
ame 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 t
o 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.

  February 7, 1969

  Our arrival in Bloemfontein was uneventful. This is a strange place, Issie. Nearly five thousand feet above sea level, the air clear and light. Pieces of Europe are everywhere. Waterwheels, homesteads, rose gardens. There is a nearly perpetual battle with drought, pests, and bankers. Luis complains incessantly. He does not like this location. The Union of South Africa is a conflicted nation. It possesses two capitals. Johannesburg to the north is the political center. Bloemfontein here in the Free State is the judicial center. Why this is so no one can explain, though there is talk of merging both in Bloemfontein. The Free State is full of Dutch influence. Many still talk of the Anglo-Boer War, which ended only a hundred years ago. They still remember the concentration camps. Luis likes to tell me that the British invented the concept here when they slaughtered thirty thousand women and children during the war. All things British are still hated here with a deep passion, which pleases Luis.