The old man aimed directly at Combs and fired three times.
Bullets sent Combs staggering back toward the wall of journals. Schüb then planted two more rounds into the skull. Combs said nothing, the attack coming too quickly for him to react. His eyes simply went blank as the life left him, and he dropped to the floor.
Schüb tossed the gun onto the body. “That is the second man I’ve killed today.”
A flick of his hand and the two men who’d brought Combs left.
Wyatt stood silent.
“When it came to the moment,” Schüb said, “I sensed that you may not have killed him. You speak of revenge, but your anger is more subtle. More private.”
“I’ve killed.”
“In the heat of battle, of course. But this battle is eight years cold. Could you have done what I just did?”
He thought about the question.
True, he’d killed, but not in cold blood.
Could he have done it?
“It’s time for you to go,” Schüb said. “Somebody has to know about all of this. Somebody has to know the truth. I chose you. But please know that I was no Nazi. I did not ask to have Hitler’s blood course through me. My brother longed to be me. He told me that many times. I longed to be someone else. That is why I assumed Gerhard’s name. My feeble attempt at salvation.” He went silent for a moment. “This Christopher Combs forced a final confrontation between brothers. Someone had finally found us, after all these years. My brother dreamed of glory. I hoped for anonymity. It is true that the world has changed, but in many ways it remains the same as seventy years ago. Hate still exists. Bigotry can be manipulated. The masses are gullible.”
The comments were colored by sadness and regret.
He understood. “It’s over for you, too.”
Schüb’s hands gripped the marble of Eva Braun’s tomb in a tight embrace. “It has been for a long time. I am the son of Adolf Hitler. Do you know how many would relish that fact? I would be their idol.” Schüb surveyed him with an insolent look. “Even you, Wyatt. When you look at me, you think of him, don’t you?”
He could not lie. “I do. But you’re not him.”
“Few will make that distinction. I will forever be his son. A product of Eva Braun, the disgusting whore who resides right here, beneath this marble. And make no mistake, that was what she was. A whore, pure and simple. She profited from the blood of millions, all the while professing love for a maniac. I have no desire to harbor her genes, either.”
Schüb still held the gun, his face a shifting kaleidoscope of intense emotion.
He could sympathize.
There comes a time when everything must end. Eight years ago it had been his career. Ever since, he’d harbored a bitterness for Chris Combs.
Now that was gone.
It was Schüb’s time to purge.
“Good luck to you,” he said.
“You, too. My men have been told not to disturb you. They will deal with all of this. The house will be burned. I’m assuming they will keep the gold, which seems appropriate. With all that was done to amass this wealth, it ends up meaning nothing, carried off by insignificant souls.”
Wyatt left and walked through the twisting galleries to the base of the spiral staircase leading up.
The past few hours had certainly been eye opening.
A shot thudded, like a balloon popping beneath a blanket.
He envisioned the scene. Gerhard Schüb had done exactly as had his natural father. He’d ended his life with his own hand. But where Hitler died a coward to avoid the repercussions from what he’d wrought, the son took his life in an act of desperation. Normally suicide would be deemed a weakness, the result of a sick mind or an abandoned heart.
Here, it was the only means to stop it all.
Everything had a conclusion.
Which brought him to the question Chris Combs had posed. Why not Cotton Malone? Why aren’t you pissed at him? Combs was right. Malone had brought the charges.
Could he have killed Combs?
Definitely. Schüb simply saved him the trouble.
Then the old man had done what needed to be done.
Just as he must.
Cotton Malone?
A job waiting for him back home might well provide the means to finally repay that debt. Another director, Andrea Carbonell of the National Intelligence Agency, had called, wanting to hire him. She’d offered big money and told him enough about the assignment for him to sense an opportunity.
Chris Combs.
One down.
Cotton Malone.
One to go.
Read on for an excerpt from Steve Berry’s
The Jefferson Key
ONE
NEW YORK CITY
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, THE PRESENT
6:13 PM
ONE MISTAKE WAS NOT ENOUGH FOR COTTON MALONE.
He made two.
Error number one was being on the fifteenth floor of the Grand Hyatt hotel. The request had come from his old boss Stephanie Nelle, through an email sent two days ago. She needed to see him, in New York, on Saturday. Apparently, the subject matter was something they could discuss only in person. And apparently, it was important. He’d tried to call anyway, phoning Magellan Billet headquarters in Atlanta, but was told by her assistant, “She’s been out of the office for six days now on DNC.”
He knew better than to ask where.
DNC. Do Not Contact.
That meant don’t call me, I’ll call you.