Jeffery Deaver - Garden Of Beasts

“How did you know Taggert?”

“Served with me in the War. Promised him some diplomatic postings if he helped me out here.”

The Senator shook his head. “We couldn’t figure out how you got the pass codes.” He laughed and nodded toward Gordon. “At first the commander here thought I was the one sold Schumann out. That’s okay, though. Didn’t ruffle my feathers. But then Bull remembered your companies – you control every telephone and telegraph line on the East Coast. You had somebody listen in when I called the commander and we decided on the codes.”

“That’s baloney. I-”

Gordon said, “One of my men checked your company’s files, Cyrus. You had transcripts of the conversations between the Senator and me. You found out everything.”

Clayborn shrugged, more amused than troubled. Which really rubbed Gordon the wrong way. The commander snapped, “We’ve got it all, Clay-born.” He explained how the original idea to kill Reinhard Ernst had come from the magnate, who suggested it to the Senator. Patriotic duty, he’d said. He’d help fund the assassination. Hell, he’d fund the whole thing. The Senator had gone to certain people high in the administration and they’d approved the operation on the sly. But Clayborn had secretly called Robert Taggert and ordered him to kill Morgan, meet Schumann and help him plot to kill Ernst, then save the German colonel at the last minute. When Gordon had gone to him to ask for the extra thousand bucks, Clayborn had kept up the pretense that it was Morgan, not Taggert, whom Gordon was talking to.

“Why’s it so important to you to keep Hitler happy?” Gordon asked.

Clayborn scoffed. “You’re a fool if you’re ignoring the Jew threat. They’re plotting all over the world. Not to mention the Communists. And, for God’s sake, the coloreds? We can’t let our guard down for a minute.”

Disgusted, Gordon snapped, “So that’s what this’s all about? Jews and Negroes?”

Before the old man could answer, though, the Senator said, “Oh, I’ll betcha there’s something else, Bull… Money, right, Cyrus?”

“Bingo!” the white-haired man whispered. “The Germans owe us billions – all the loans we floated to keep them going over the past fifteen years. We have to keep Hitler and Schacht and the rest of the money boys over there happy so our notes keep getting paid.”

“They’re rearming to start another war,” Gordon growled.

Clayborn said matter-of-factly, “All the better to be on their side then, don’t you think? Bigger market for our arms.” He pointed a finger at the Senator. “Provided you fools in Congress get rid of the Neutrality Act…” Then he frowned. “So what do the Huns think about the Ernst situation?”

“Oh, well, it’s a goddamn mess,” the Senator raged. “Taggert tells them about an assassination but the killer escapes and tries again. Then Taggert disappears. Publicly they’re talking about the Russians hiring an American assassin. But in private they’re wondering if we weren’t behind the whole thing.”

Clayborn grimaced in disgust. “And Taggert?” Then he nodded. “Dead. Sure. And Schumann did it. Well, that’s the way it goes… So, gentlemen, I suppose this is the end of our fine working relationship.”

“Reggie Morgan’s dead because of you… You’re guilty of some pretty bad crimes here, Cyrus.”

The man brushed a white eyebrow. “How ’bout you funding this little outing with private money? Oh, that’d make a nice topic for a congressional hearing, don’tcha think? We have ourselves a standoff here, looks like. So I’m thinking it’s best we both go our separate ways and keep mum. Good night now. Oh, and keep buying stock in my company if you civil servants can afford any. It’s only going to go up.” Clayborn stood slowly. He picked up his cane and headed for the door.

Gordon decided that, whatever the consequences, whatever happened to his own career, he’d make sure Clayborn get didn’t away with this, not after the man had murdered Reginald Morgan and nearly killed Schumann. But larger justice would have to wait. There was only one matter that needed attention at the moment. “I want Schumann’s money,” the commander said.

“What money?”

“The ten thousand you promised him.”

“Oh. He didn’t produce. The Huns suspect us and my man’s dead. Schumann’s outa luck. No dough.”

“You’re not going to chisel him.”

“Sorry,” the businessman said, not looking the least contrite.

“Well, in that case, Cyrus,” the Senator called, “good luck.”

“We’ll keep our fingers crossed for you,” Gordon added.

The businessman stopped, looked back.

“I’m just thinking what might happen if Schumann finds out you not only tried to kill him but you stiffed him too.”

“Knowing his line of work and all,” Gordon chimed in again.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“He’ll be back here in a week, ten days.”

The industrialist sighed. “All right, all right.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a booklet of bank drafts. He tore one out and started to write.

Gordon shook his head. “Nope. You’re going to go dig up some good, old-fashioned scratch right now. Now. Not next week.”

“Sunday night? Ten thousand?”

“Now,” the Senator echoed. “If Paul Schumann wants greenbacks, greenbacks’re what we’re going to give him.”

They were sick of waiting.

During their weekend in Amsterdam, Lieutenants Andrew Avery and Vincent Manielli had seen tulips in every color imaginable and looked at plenty of fine paintings and flirted with page-boyed blondes who had round, rosy faces (Manielli, at least; Avery being contentedly married). They’d enjoyed the company of a dashing Royal Air Force flier named Len Aarons, who was in the country on his own intrigues (about which he was as evasive as the Americans). They’d drunk quarts of Amstel beer and cloying Genever gin.

But life on a foreign army base wears thin fast. And, in truth, they were also tired of hanging from tenterhooks, worrying about Paul Schumann.

Now, though, the waiting was over. At 10 A. M. Monday morning the twin-engine plane, streamlined as a gull, flared for a moment and then touched down on the grass field at Machteldt Aerodrome outside of Amsterdam. It settled onto its tail wheel and slowed, then taxied toward the hangar, weaving in a zigzag since the pilot couldn’t see over the raised nose when the plane was on the ground.

Avery waved as the sleek, silver plane eased toward them.

“I think I’ll go a few rounds with him,” Manielli shouted over the sound of the engines and prop wash.

“Who?” Avery asked.

“Schumann. Do some sparring. I watched him; he’s not as good as he thinks he is.”

The lieutenant looked his colleague over and laughed.

“What?”

“He’d eat you like a box of Cracker Jack and spit out the prize.”

“I’m younger, I’m faster.”

“You’re stupider.”

The plane eased up to a parking strip and the pilot cut the engines. The props coughed to a stop and the ground crew ran out to chock the wheels under the big Pratt & Whitneys.

The lieutenants walked up to the door. They’d tried to think of something to get Schumann, a present, but couldn’t figure out what. Manielli had said, “We’ll tell him we gave him his first airplane ride. That’ll be his present.”

But Avery had said, “No. You can’t tell somebody that something you’ve already done for them is a present.”

Manielli figured the lieutenant would know this; married men knew all about the protocols of giving presents. So they bought him a carton of Packs o’ Pleasure – Chesterfields – which had taken them some effort, and expense, to find in Holland. Manielli now held it under his arm.