Free Three Tales From the World of Cotton Malone by Steve Berry Page A

on the planet. As I said, my brother loved his heritage.”
    Wyatt’s attention drifted ahead, where he spied more memorabilia. Schüb stopped at a headless mannequin, one of many that displayed a variety of 1930s-period clothing.
    â€œThis was the summer dress of a Sturmbannführer. A handsome white coat dotted with silver buttons, an Iron Cross, a scarlet armband, and a gold Horseman’s Badge affixed to the left breast pocket. By Hitler’s order the coat was worn only between April 1 and September 30, adorning the highest-ranking officers during ceremonial occasions at Berchtesgaden. To wear it any other time or place was unthinkable. Impressive, isn’t it? The Nazis were good at coating the rotten with a handsome veneer.”
    He’d entered a macabre world, his mind reeling at the spectacle. And though he’d seen worse, he’d never seen stranger.
    â€œWhen I see all this,” Schüb said, “I think of my childhood. Men, in secret, wearing armbands adorned with swastikas. Gorgets. Bandoliers. Gauntlets.” The older man pointed to a porcelain basset hound on display. “Prisoners at Dachau made those for the SS.”
    He stared at the shiny white dog.
    The subterranean labyrinth ended, ahead, at a solitary wooden door.
    Schüb faced him. “Before we go in there, there’s something you must know.”

    Bormann watched as Eva Braun writhed and screamed in agony. She was fighting the birth, though the midwife had cautioned her to relax. Her legs stiffened as another contraction racked her. She’d been nothing but difficult for the past few months. But their constant movement had clearly complicated things. They’d met up finally in Barcelona. He’d left Germany from the north, through Denmark and the Netherlands. She arrived from the south, starting in Switzerland and moving by rail into Italy, then across France. The Barcelona house had been used during the war as a secure location. Not taking any chances, he’d moved them farther into Spain, to an anonymous spot that he alone chose. The Führer was dead. He was in charge now.
    And things were going to be different.
    Braun screamed again.
    He was tired of listening to her weakness.
    She screamed again.
    â€œWhen will this end?” he asked the midwife. She was a Spaniard who thankfully spoke German.
    â€œThe baby is coming now.”
    Bormann stood behind the woman, whose head was plunged between Braun’s spread legs, each ankle tied to a post of the bed. Braun stretched the bindings, but the thick posts held firm.
    â€œHurry it,” he said.
    â€œTalk to God about that,” the midwife said, never turning her head.
    Another scream pierced the room. Thankfully, the farmhouse was isolated.
    The midwife reached out as Braun gritted her teeth. “Now. Push with all you can muster.”
    Braun’s head came up from the bed. For a moment Bormann’s gaze locked with hers. He wanted to tell her to shut up and finish, but it seemed that the end was at hand. Braun’s teeth were clenched tight, her face contorted, all her focus seemingly on expelling the baby from her womb.
    â€œYes,” the midwife said. “Yes.”
    Braun pushed harder. Her breaths came short and shallow. Sweat soaked her. The woman grappled between Braun’s legs and Bormann watched as a head came into view, then shoulders, arms, chest, and finally legs as the fetus emerged.
    â€œWhat is the sex?” he asked.
    The midwife ignored him. Her attention remained on the infant now cradled in her arms, the umbilical cord tracing a path back inside the womb. Braun had relaxed and appeared unconscious.
    He could not see the baby clearly, so he moved closer.
    â€œThe sex. Tell me,” he demanded.
    â€œA boy.”
    Had he heard right? “Truly?”
    â€œYou sound amazed.”
    He recovered his emotions. No one must know what he thought. “I only speak of the joy he will bring