The Devil's Gold Read Free Page A

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 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