Jeffery Deaver - Garden Of Beasts

“Finally,” Goebbels continued suavely, “there is the matter of public display. I am thinking that perhaps we might permit women’s skirts to be shortened somewhat.”

As the head of Germany’s Third Empire and his adjutant debated, in centimeters, the degree to which Berlin women might be allowed to conform to world fashion, the worm of ill ease continued to eat away at Ernst’s heart. Why hadn’t he at least mentioned the name of the Waltham Study some months ago? He could have sent a letter to the Leader, with a glancing reference to it. One had to be savvy about such things nowadays.

The debate continued. Then the Leader said firmly, “Skirts may be raised five centimeters. That settles it. But we will not approve makeup.”

“Yes, my Leader.”

A moment of silence as Hitler’s eyes settled in the corner of the room, as they often did. He then glanced sharply at Ernst. “Colonel.”

“Yes, sir?”

Hitler rose and walked to his desk. He lifted a piece of paper and walked slowly back to the others. Göring and Goebbels kept their eyes on Ernst. Though each believed he had the special ear of the Leader, deep within him was the fear that the grace was temporary or, more frightening, illusory and at any moment he would be sitting here, like Ernst, a tethered badger, though probably without the quiet aplomb of the colonel.

The Leader wiped his mustache. “An important matter.”

“Of course, my Leader. However I may help.” Ernst held the man’s eyes and answered in a steady voice.

“It involves our air force.”

Ernst glanced at Göring, ruddy cheeks framing a faux smile. A daring ace in the War (though dismissed by Baron von Richthofen himself for repeatedly attacking civilians), he was presently both air minister and commander in chief of the German air force – the latter currently being his favorite among the dozen titles he held. It was on the subject of the German air force that Göring and Ernst met most frequently and clashed the most passionately.

Hitler handed the document to Ernst. “You read English?”

“Some.”

“This is a letter from Mr. Charles Lindbergh himself,” Hitler said proudly. “He will be attending the Olympics as our special guest.”

Really? This was exciting information. Both smiling, Göring and Goebbels leaned forward and rapped on the table in front of them, signifying approval of this news. Ernst took the letter in his right hand, the back of which, like his shoulder, was shrapnel scarred.

Lindbergh… Ernst had avidly followed the story of the man’s transatlantic flight, but he’d been far more moved by the terrible account of the death of the aviator’s son. Ernst knew the horror of losing a child. The accidental explosion on a ship’s magazine that had taken Mark was tragic, wrenching, yes; but at least Ernst’s son had been at the helm of a combat ship and had lived to see his own boy, Rudy, born. To lose an infant to the hands of a criminal – that was appalling.

Ernst scanned the document and was able to make out the cordial words, which expressed an interest in seeing Germany’s recent developments in aviation.

The Leader continued. “This is why I have asked for you, Colonel. Some people think that it would be of strategic value to show the world our increasing strength in the air. I am inclined to feel this way myself. What do you think about a small air show in honor of Mr. Lindbergh, in which we demonstrate our new monoplane?”

Ernst was greatly relieved that the summons had not been about the Waltham Study. But the relief lasted only a moment. His concerns rose once again as he considered what he was being asked… and the answer he had to give. The “some people” Hitler was referring to was, of course, Hermann Göring.

“The monoplane, sir, ah…” The Me 109 by Messerschmitt was a superb killing machine, a fighter with a speed of three hundred miles per hour. There were other monowing fighters in the world but this was the fastest. More important, though, the Me 109 was of all-metal construction, which Ernst had long advocated because it allowed easy mass production and field repair and maintenance. Large numbers of the planes were necessary to support the devastating bombing missions that Ernst planned as precursors for any land invasion by the Third Empire’s army.

He cocked his head, as if considering the question, though he’d made his decision the instant he’d heard it. “I would be against that idea, my Leader.”

“Why?” Hitler’s eyes flared, a sign that a tantrum might follow, possibly accompanied by what was nearly as bad: an endless, ranting monologue about military history or politics. “Are we not allowed to protect ourselves? Are we ashamed to let the world know that we reject the third-class role the Allies keep trying to push us into?”

Careful, now, Ernst thought. Careful as a surgeon removing a tumor. “I’m not thinking of the backstabbers’ treaty of 1918,” Ernst answered, filling his voice with contempt for the Versailles accord. “I am thinking of how wise it might be to let others know about this aircraft. It’s constructed in a way that those familiar with aviation would spot as unique. They could deduce that it is being mass produced. Lindbergh could easily recognize this. He himself designed his Spirit of St. Louis, I believe.”

Avoiding eye contact with Ernst, Göring predictably said, “We must begin to let our enemies know our strength.”

“Perhaps,” Ernst said slowly, “a possibility would be to display one of the prototypes of the one-oh-nine at the Olympics. They were constructed more by hand than our production models and have no armament mounted. And they’re equipped with British Rolls-Royce engines. The world could then see our technological achievement yet be disarmed by the fact that we are using our former enemy’s motors. Which would suggest that any offensive use is far from our thoughts.”

Hitler said, “There is something to your point, Reinhard… Yes, we will not put on an air show. And we will display the prototype. Good. That is decided. Thank you for coming, Colonel.”

“My Leader.” Bathed in relief, Ernst rose.

He was nearly to the door when Göring said casually, “Oh, Reinhard, a matter occurs to me. I believe a file of yours was misdirected to my office.”

Ernst turned back to examine the smiling, moonish face. The eyes, however, seethed from Ernst’s victory in the fighter debate. He wanted revenge. Göring squinted. “I believe it had to do with… what was it? The Waltham Study. Yes.”

God in heaven…

Hitler was paying no attention. He unfurled an architectural drawing and studied it closely.

“Misdirected?” Ernst asked. Filched by one of Göring’s spies was the true meaning of this word. “Thank you, Mr. Minister,” he said lightly. “I’ll have someone pick it up immediately. Good day to-”

But the deflection, of course, was ineffectual. Göring continued. “You were fortunate that the file was delivered to me. Imagine what some people might’ve thought to see Jew writing with your name on it.”

Hitler looked up. “What is this?”

Sweating prodigiously, as always, Göring wiped his face and replied, “The Waltham Study that Colonel Ernst has commissioned.” Hitler shook his head and the minister persisted. “Oh, I assumed our Leader knew about it.”

“Tell me,” Hitler demanded.

Göring said, “I know nothing about it. I only received – mistakenly, as I say – several reports written by those Jew mind doctors. One by that Austrian, Freud. Someone named Weiss. Others I can’t recall.” He added with a twist of his lips, “Those psychologists.”

In the hierarchy of Hitler’s hatred, Jews came first, Communists second and intellectuals third. Psychologists were particularly disparaged since they rejected racial science – the belief that race determined behavior, a cornerstone of National Socialist thought.