She was playing him. Okay. He could do the same. “Have you lived here a long time?”
“All my life. But my family is from Heidelberg. My parents came here after the war. My father erected this house. Built with one-third heart, one-third hands, one-third understanding.”
He smiled, trying to place her at ease.
“An old German wisdom,” she noted.
“Was your father a solider?”
“Heavens, no. He worked for the postal service. He felt that Germany would never be the same after the war, so he left. I daresay he was right.”
He decided to return to what he wanted to know. “What did Mr. Combs want with you?”
“He showed me two photographs, a man and a woman, and wanted to know if I knew the faces. I told him they once lived near Lago Todos los Santos, at the Argentina border.”
“Why were those pictures so important to him?”
The corners of her eyebrows turned down. “Why is his business yours?”
He decided honesty might work best. “He and I have a debt to settle.”
“I can see that. You try hard to conceal your thoughts, but in your face, your eyes, your meaning is clear. The Brown Eminence was the same.”
He did not understand.
“In France, centuries ago,” she said, “there was the Red Eminence. Cardinal Richelieu, the king’s chief minister. Richelieu’s assistant, Father Joseph, was known as the Gray Eminence. Like his superior, he was a shadowy figure, both adept at managing power. Red and gray referred to their robes.” She paused. “Brown was the color of Nazi uniforms. Martin Bormann was the Brown Eminence.”
He thought about what he knew of Martin Bormann. Which wasn’t much. Hitler’s private secretary. The gatekeeper to the Führer. Second most powerful man in the Third Reich.
“The man in the photograph Herr Combs showed me. He was the Brown Eminence, though by then he called himself Luis.”
“And the woman?”
“She called herself Rikka, though she was Hitler’s widow.”
That name he knew. Eva Braun. She married Hitler in April 1945, shortly before they both committed suicide in the Führerbunker.
“What are you saying?”
Her watery eyes conveyed a look of annoyance. “Herr Combs was not as surprised as you.”
“What did he say about your information?”
“Did he cheat you?”
This old woman was good. A simple question, out of the blue, intended to elicit an emotional response.
“He’s a liar.”
“I thought the same. He lied to me. But he wanted to know where the two in his photos had lived. His questions actually surprised me. There was a time when men searched for the Brown Eminence. No one cared about the widow, all thought she was dead. Few even knew her face or name. But him. That one many wanted. He was a quetrupillán.”
He did not recognize the term and asked what it meant.
“A local Chilean word,” she said. “Mute devil. A bit like yourself.”
He ignored her jab. “What happened to Bormann and Braun?”
“They eventually went to live where no one could find them.”
He realized that, decades ago, the world had been a different place. No satellites, television, global newspapers, or Internet. Hiding was much simpler, and many war criminals were successful at fading away.
Especially two people most of the world thought dead.
“Where did they go?”
She did not answer him.
“Did you ever speak of this before Combs’ visit?”
“No one has ever asked these questions. Why would anyone? I am an old woman living quietly. Who would even know I exist?”
“Chris Combs.”
“Then you must ask yourself. How was I found?”
He had no idea.
“You do not believe me?” she asked. “I see it in your eyes. You come to my home and ask these questions. I have answered honestly, yet you do not believe.”
What he believed mattered not. “What did Combs say to your answers?”
“He wanted corroboration. As I can see you do, too.” She slowly hinged herself up to her feet. “I’ll show you, as I did him.”
The day of Combs’ appearance Wyatt had waited down the highway, in the woods, where he could watch the driveway. Combs had stayed a little over an hour, then had driven back to Santiago. Wyatt had no idea what had happened during the visit.
Isabel shuffled toward the door. “Strange, though.”
He fixed his eyes on her as she stopped.
“You don’t look like a Nazi hunter.”
“I’m not.”
“But you are a hunter. That much I do know.”
He followed Isabel outside into a barn where farm equipment sat rusting in darkened shadows. Daws had chewed holes through the roof, and swallow nests occupied the crossbeams. From a rotting pile of cordwood a big gray cat greeted them with a long meow.
She shuffled toward an enclosure at the far end. A dirty dress hung from her spare frame like a coat on a nail, and rope-soled sandals covered her feet. She eased open a wooden door while old hinges screamed their resistance. Within a space about eight feet square, three trunks were stacked.
“Those have been here for decades,” she said.
He stepped inside. A mouse scurried away at his approach.
She smiled. “Evi loves the mice.”
He reached for the top trunk and opened the lid.
Dust cascaded off.
Inside lay an assortment of belongings. On top were clothes—a double-breasted windbreaker jacket, a pair of trench boots, and a swastika armband.
“My father’s.”
“I thought he was a civil servant,” Wyatt said as he continued to sift through the trunk.
“You could not expect to rise in the government unless you were a party member.”
He lifted out a heart-shaped silver gorget upon which was affixed a gilded eight-point sunburst. Farther down he came across a bandolier and some ragged gauntlets.
Then it dawned on him. “Your father was SS?”
“Obviously.”