Jeffery Deaver - Garden Of Beasts

The car pulled up in front of his house. Ernst thanked the driver and stepped out. The SS troops in the car behind his leapt out as well and joined the others already guarding his residence. The commander told him that the men would remain until the assassin was caught or it could be verified that he’d been killed or fled the country. Ernst politely thanked him as well and walked inside. He greeted Gertrud with a kiss. She glanced at the grass and mud stains on his pants.

“Ach, you are hopeless, Reinie!”

Without explaining, he smiled wanly. She returned to the kitchen, where she was cooking something fragrant with vinegar and garlic. Ernst climbed the stairs to wash and change his clothes. He saw his grandson in his room, drawing on a tablet of paper.

“Opa!” the boy cried and ran to him.

“Hello, Mark. Are we going to work on our boat tonight?”

He didn’t respond and Ernst realized the little boy was frowning.

“What is the matter?”

“Opa, you called me Mark. That was Papa’s name.”

Had he? “I’m sorry, Rudy. I was not thinking clearly. I’m very tired today. I believe I need a nap.”

“Yes, I take naps too,” the boy said eagerly, happy to please his grandfather with his knowledge. “In the afternoon sometimes I get tired. Mutti gives me hot milk, cocoa sometimes, and then I have a nap.”

“Exactly. That’s how your foolish grandfather feels. It’s been a long day and he needs a nap. Now you get the wood and knives ready. After supper we will work on our boat.”

“Yes, Opa, I’ll do it now.”

Close to 3 P.M. Bull Gordon walked up the steps to The Room in Manhattan. The city was busy and vibrant in other neighborhoods, even on Sunday, but here the cross street was still.

The blinds were closed and the town house appeared deserted but as Gordon, wearing civvies today, approached, the front door opened before he even took the key from his pocket. “Afternoon, sir,” the uniformed naval officer said in a soft voice.

Gordon nodded.

“The Senator’s in the parlor, sir.”

“Alone?”

“That’s right.”

Gordon walked inside, hung his topcoat on a rack in the hallway. He felt the weapon in his pocket. He wouldn’t need it, probably, but he was glad it was there. He drew a deep breath and walked into the small room.

The Senator was sitting in an armchair beside a Tiffany floor lamp. He was listening to the Philco radio. When he saw Gordon he shut it off and asked, “Tiring flight?”

“They’re always tiring. Seems that way.”

Gordon walked to the bar and poured himself a scotch. Maybe not a good idea, what with the gun. But to hell with it. He added another finger to the glass. He offered a querying glance to the Senator.

“Sure. Only double that.” He nodded at Gordon’s glass.

The commander poured smoky liquid into another glass and handed it to the older man. He sat down heavily. His head still throbbed from the flight in the R2D-1, the naval version of the DC-2. It was just as fast but lacked the comfortable wicker chairs and soundproofing of the Douglas Commercial line.

The Senator was wearing a suit, waistcoat and stiff-collared shirt with a silk tie. Gordon wondered if it had been what he’d worn to church that morning. He’d once told the commander that whatever a politician personally believed, even if he was an atheist, he had to go to church. Image. It counts.

The Senator said gruffly, “So. You may as well tell me what you know. Get it over with.”

The commander took a deep sip of whisky and did just what the old man asked.

Berlin sat under a veil of night.

The city was a huge expanse, flat except for the few cloud-catchers of the skyline and the Tempelhof airport beacon to the south. This view vanished as the driver piloted his vehicle over the crest of the hill and plunged into the ordered northwestern neighborhoods of the city, among cars apparently returning from their weekends at nearby Prussian lakes and mountains.

All of which made driving particularly difficult. And Paul Schumann wanted to make certain he was not stopped by the traffic police. No identification, a stolen truck… No, it was vital to be inconspicuous.

He turned down a street that led to a bridge across the Spree and worked his way south. Finally he found what he sought, an open lot in which dozens of delivery vehicles and vans were parked. He’d noticed this as he’d walked from Lützow Plaza to Käthe Richter’s boardinghouse along the canal when he’d first arrived in the city.

Could that only have been yesterday?

He thought again about her. And about Otto Webber too.

As hard as it was to picture them, though, those images were better than dwelling on his pitiful decision at Waltham.

On the best day, on the worst day, the sun finally sets…

But it would be a long, long time before the sun set on his failure today. Maybe it never would.

He parked between two large vans, killed the engine. He sat back, wondering if it was crazy to return here. But he concluded that it was probably a wise move. He wouldn’t have to stay long. Smooth-faced Avery and bucking-for-a-fight Manielli would make sure the pilot took off promptly for the rendezvous at the aerodrome. Besides, he sensed instinctively he was safer here than anywhere outside the city. Beasts as arrogant as the National Socialists would never suspect that their prey was hiding squarely in the middle of their garden.

The door opened and the orderly let another man into The Room, where Bull Gordon and the Senator sat.

In his trademark white suit, looking every inch a plantation owner from a hundred years ago, Cyrus Clayborn walked inside and nodded to the two men with a casual smile on his ruddy face. Then he squinted and nodded once more. He glanced at the liquor cabinet but didn’t make a move toward it; he was an abstainer, Bull Gordon knew.

“They have any coffee here?” Clayborn asked.

“No.”

“Ah.” Clayborn set his walking stick against the wall near the door and said, “You only ask me here when you need money, and I suspect you’re not after alms today.” He sat heavily. “It’s the other thing, huh?”

“It’s the other thing,” Gordon echoed. “Where’s your man?”

“My bodyguard?” Clayborn cocked his head.

“Right.”

“Outside in the car.”

Relieved that he wouldn’t need his pistol after all – Clayborn’s minder was notoriously dangerous – Gordon called one of the three navy men in an office near the front door and told him to make sure the fellow stayed inside the limo, not to let him into the town house. “Use any force you need to.”

“Yes, sir. With pleasure, sir.”

Gordon hung up and saw the financier chuckling. “Don’t tell me you were thinkin’ it’d come to six-guns, Commander.” When the officer said nothing Clayborn asked, “So. How’d you tip to it?”

“Fellow named Albert Heinsler,” Gordon replied.

“Who?”

“You oughta know,” grumbled the Senator. “He was on the Manhattan because of you.”

Gordon continued. “The Nazis’re smart, sure, but we thought – why would they have a spy on the ship? That seemed bum to me. We knew Heinsler was with the Jersey division of the German-American Bund, so we had Hoover put some pressure on them.”

“Doesn’t that faggot have anything better to do with his time?” Clayborn grumbled.

“We found out you’re a big contributor to the bund.”

“Man’s gotta put his money to work somehow,” he said glibly, making Gordon detest him all the more. The magnate nodded. “Heinsler was his name, huh? Never knew it. He was just on board to keep an eye on Schumann and get a message to Berlin about a Russian being in town. Needed to keep the Huns on alert. Make our little play more credible, you know. All part of the act.”