Jeffery Deaver - Garden Of Beasts

But before he could sample some local culture he had an errand to complete. He’d been concerned that this chore would eat into his precious time ashore but as it turned out he was wrong. Only a few minutes after leaving the customs hall, he found exactly what he was looking for.

The mate walked up to a middle-aged man in a green uniform and a black-and-green hat. He tried out his German. “Bitte…”

“Ja, mein Herr?”

Squinting, the mate blundered on, “Bitte, du bist ein Polizist, uhm, or a Soldat? ”

The officer smiled and said in English, “Yes, yes, I am a policeman. And I was a soldier. What can I help you for?”

Nodding down the street, the kitchen mate said, “I found this on the ground.” He handed the man a white envelope. “Isn’t that the word for ‘important’?” He pointed to the letters on the front: Bedeutend. “I wanted to make sure it got turned in.”

Staring at the front of the envelope, the policeman didn’t respond for a moment. Then he said, “Yes, yes. ‘Important.’” The other words written on the front were Für Obersturmführer-SS, Hamburg. The mate had no idea what this meant but it seemed to trouble the policeman.

“Where was this falling?” the policeman asked.

“It was on the sidewalk there.”

“Good. You are thanked.” The officer continued to look at the sealed envelope. He turned it over in his hand. “You were seeing perhaps who dropped it?”

“Nope. Just saw it there and thought I’d be a Good Samaritan.”

“Ach, yes, Samaritan.”

“Well, I better scram,” the American said. “So long.”

“Danke,” the policeman said absently.

As he headed back toward one of the more intriguing tourist sites he’d passed, the young man was wondering what exactly the envelope contained. And why the man he’d met on the Manhattan, the porter Al Heinsler, had asked him last night to deliver it to a local policeman or soldier after the ship docked. The fellow was a little nuts, everybody agreed, the way everything in his cabin was perfectly ordered and clean, nothing out of line, his clothes pressed all the time. The way he kept to himself, the way he got all wet-eyed talking about Germany.

“Sure, what is it?” the mate had asked.

“There was a passenger on board who seemed a little fishy. I’m letting the Germans know about him. I’m going to try to send a wireless message but sometimes they don’t go through. I want to make sure the authorities get it.”

“Who’s the passenger? Oh, hold up, I know – that fat guy in the checkered suit, the one who passed out drunk at the captain’s table.”

“No, it was somebody else.”

“Why not go to the sergeant-at-arms on board?”

“It’s a German matter.”

“Oh. And you can’t deliver it?”

Heinsler had folded his pudgy hands together in a creepy way and shook his head. “I don’t know how busy I’ll be. I heard you had leave. It’s real important the Germans get it.”

“Well, I guess, sure.”

Heinsler had added in a soft voice, “One other thing: It’d be better to say you found the letter. Otherwise they might take you into the station and question you. That could take hours. It could use up all your shore leave.”

The young mate had felt a little uneasy at this intrigue.

Heinsler had picked up on that and added quickly, “Here’s a twenty.”

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the man had thought, and told the porter, “You just bought yourself a special delivery.”

Now, as he walked away from the policeman and headed back toward the waterfront, he wondered absently what had happened to Heinsler. The young man hadn’t seen him since last night. But thoughts about the porter vanished quickly as the mate approached the venue he’d spotted, the one that seemed like a perfect choice for his first taste of German culture. He was, however, disappointed to find that Rosa’s Hot Kitten Club – the enticing name conveniently spelled in English – was permanently closed, just like every other such attraction on the waterfront.

So, the mate thought with a sigh, looks like it’ll be churches and museums after all.

He awoke to the sound of a hazel grouse fluttering into the sky from the gooseberry bushes just outside the bedroom window of his home in suburban Charlottenburg. He awoke to the smell of magnolia.

He awoke to the touch of the infamous Berlin wind, which, according to young men and old housewives, was infused with an alkaline dust that aroused earthy desires.

Whether it was the magic air, or being a man of a certain age, Reinhard Ernst found himself picturing his attractive, brunette wife of twenty-eight years, Gertrud. He rolled over to face her. And he found himself looking at the empty indentation in their down bed. He could not help but smile. He was forever exhausted in the evenings, after working sixteen-hour days, and she always rose early because it was her nature. Lately they had rarely even shared so much as a word or two in bed.

He now heard, from downstairs, the clatter of activity in the kitchen. The time was 7 A. M. Ernst had had just over four hours of sleep.

Ernst stretched, lifting his damaged arm as far as he could, massaging it and feeling the triangular piece of metal lodged near the shoulder. There was a familiarity and, curiously, a comfort about the shrapnel. Ernst believed in embracing the past and he appreciated all the emblems of years gone by, even those that had nearly taken his limb and his life.

He climbed from the bed and pulled off his nightshirt. Since Frieda would be in the house by now Ernst tugged on beige jodhpurs and, forgoing a shirt, stepped into the study next to the bedroom. The fifty-six-year-old colonel had a round head, covered with cropped gray hair. Creases circled his mouth. His small nose was Roman and his eyes set close together, making him seem both predatory and savvy. These features had earned him the nickname “Caesar” from his men in the War.

During the summer he and his grandson Rudy would often exercise together in the morning, rolling the medicine ball and lifting Indian clubs, doing press-ups and running in place. On Wednesdays and Fridays, though, the boy had holiday-child-school, which began early, so Ernst was relegated to solo exercise, which was a disappointment to him.

He began his fifteen minutes of arm press-ups and knee bends. Halfway through, he heard: “Opa!”

Breathing hard, Ernst paused and looked into the hallway. “Good morning, Rudy.”

“Look what I’ve drawn.” The seven-year-old, dressed in his uniform, held up a picture. Ernst didn’t have his glasses on and he couldn’t make out the design clearly. But the boy said, “It’s an eagle.”

“Yes, of course it is. I can tell.”

“And it’s flying through a lightning storm.”

“Quite a brave eagle you’ve drawn.”

“Are you coming to breakfast?”

“Yes, tell your grandmother I’ll be down in ten minutes. Did you eat an egg today?”

The boy said, “Yes, I did.”

“Excellent. Eggs are good for you.”

“Tomorrow I’ll draw a hawk.” The slight, blond boy turned and ran back down the stairs.

Ernst returned to his exercising, thinking about the dozens of matters that needed attending to today. He finished his regimen and bathed his body with cold water, wiping away both sweat and alkaline dust. As he was drying, the telephone buzzed. His hands paused. In these days no matter how high one was in the National Socialist government, a telephone call at an odd hour was a matter of concern.

“Reinie,” Gertrud called. “Someone has telephoned for you.”