Jeffery Deaver - Garden Of Beasts

Paul had distanced himself from his brother and sister and their families for the past decade; he didn’t want to visit the violence and danger tainting his own life on theirs. His sister lived in Chicago and he got there rarely but he did see Hank sometimes. He lived on Long Island and ran the printing plant that was the descendant of their grandfather’s. He was a solid husband and father, who didn’t know for sure what his brother did for a living, except that he associated with tough guys and criminals.

Although Paul hadn’t shared any personal information with Bull Gordon or the others in The Room, the main reason he’d decided to agree to come to Germany for this job was that wiping his record clean and getting all that scratch might let him reconnect with the family, which he’d dreamed about doing for years.

He’d had a shot of whisky, then another, and finally picked up the phone and called his brother at home. After ten minutes of nervous small talk about the heat wave and the Yankees and Hank’s two boys, Paul had taken the plunge and asked if Hank might be interested in having a partner at Schumann Printing. He quickly reassured, “I’m not having anything to do with my old crowd anymore.” Then he added that he could bring $10,000 into the business. “Legit dough. One hundred percent.”

“Mother of pearl,” Hank said. And they’d both laughed at the expression, a favorite of their father’s.

“There’s one problem,” Hank added gravely.

Paul understood that the man was about to say no, thinking of his brother’s shady career.

But the elder Schumann added, “We’ll have to buy a new sign. There’s not enough room for ‘Schumann Brothers Printing’ on the one I got.”

The ice broken, they talked about the plan some more. Paul was surprised that Hank sounded almost tearfully touched at this overture. Family was key to Hank and he couldn’t understand Paul’s distance in the past ten years.

Tall, beautiful Marion, Paul had decided, would like that life too. Oh, she played at being bad, but it was an act, and Paul knew enough to give her only a small taste of the seamy life. He’d introduced her to Damon Runyon, served her beer in a bottle at the gym, taken her to the bar in Hell’s Kitchen where Owney Madden used to charm ladies with his British accent and show off his pearl-handled pistols. But he knew that like a lot of renegade college girls, Marion would get tired of the tough life if she actually had to live it. Dime-dancing would wear thin as well, and she’d want something more stable. Being the wife of a well-off printer would be aces.

Hank had said he was going to talk to his lawyer and have a partnership agreement drawn up for Paul to sign as soon as he got back from his “business trip.”

Now, returning to his room at the dorm, Paul noticed three boys in shorts, brown shirts and black ties, wearing brown, military-style hats. He’d seen dozens of such youngsters here, assisting the teams. The trio marched toward a tall pole, at the top of which flew the Nazi flag. Paul had seen the banner in newsreels and in the papers but the images had always been in black and white. Even now, at dusk, the flag’s crimson was striking, brilliant as fresh blood.

One boy noticed him watching and asked in German, “You are an athlete, sir? Yet you’re not at the ceremony we are hosting?”

Paul thought it better not to give away his linguistic skills, even to Boy Scouts, so he said in English, “Sorry, I don’t speak German so well.”

The boy switched to Paul’s language. “You are an athlete?”

“No, I’m a journalist.”

“You are English or American?”

“American.”

“Ach,” the cheerful youngster said in a thick accent, “welcome to Berlin, mein Herr. ”

“Thank you.”

The second boy noted Paul’s gaze and said, “You are liking our Party’s flag? It is, would you say, impressing, yes?”

“Yeah, it is.” The Stars and Stripes was somehow softer. This flag sort of punched you.

The first boy said, “Please, each parts is having a meaning, an important meaning. Do you know what are those?”

“No. Tell me.” Paul looked up at the banner.

Happy to explain, he said enthusiastically, “Red, that is socialism. The white is, no doubt, for nationalism. And the black… the hooked cross. You would say swastika…” He looked at Paul with a raised eyebrow and said nothing more.

“Yes,” Paul said. “Go on. What does that mean?”

The boy glanced at his companions then back to Paul with a curious smile. He said, “Ach, surely you know.”

To his friends he said in German, “I will lower the flag now.” Smiling, he repeated to Paul, “Surely you know.” And frowning in concentration, he brought the flag down as the other two extended their hands in one of those stiff-armed salutes you saw everywhere.

As Paul walked toward the dorm, the boys broke into a song, which they sang with uneven, energetic voices. He heard snatches of it rising and falling on the hot air as he strolled away: “Hold high the banner, close the ranks. The SA marches on with firm steps… Give way, give way to the brown battalions, as the Stormtroopers clear the land… The trumpet calls its final blast. For battle we stand ready. Soon all streets will see Hitler’s flag and our slavery will be over…”

Paul looked back to see them fold the flag reverently and march off with it. He slipped through the back entrance of his dorm and returned to his room, where he washed, cleaned his teeth then stripped and dropped onto his bed. He stared at the ceiling for a long time, waiting for sleep as he thought about Heinsler – the man who’d killed himself that morning on the ship, making such a passionate, foolish sacrifice.

Thinking too of Reinhard Ernst.

And finally, as he began to doze, thinking of the boy in the brown uniform. Seeing his mysterious smile. Hearing his voice over and over: Surely you know… surely you know…

The streets of Berlin were immaculate and the people pleasant, many nodding as he walked past. Carting the beat-up old briefcase, Paul Schumann was walking north through the Tiergarten. It was late morning on Saturday and he was on his way to meet Reggie Morgan.

The park was beautiful, filled with dense trees, walkways and lakes, gardens. In New York’s Central Park, you were forever aware of the city around you; the skyscrapers were visible everywhere. But Berlin was a low city, very few tall buildings here, “cloud catchers,” he overheard a woman say to a young child on the bus. On his walk through the park with its black trees and thick vegetation he lost any sense that he was in the city at all. It reminded Paul of the dense woods in upstate New York where his grandfather had taken him hunting every summer until the old man’s failing health had prevented them from making the trips.

An uneasiness crept over him. This was a familiar feeling: the heightened senses at the beginning of a job, when he was looking over the touch-off’s office or apartment, following him, learning what he could about the man. Instinctively he paused from time to time and would glance casually behind him, as if orienting himself. No one seemed to be following. But he couldn’t tell for sure. The forest was very dim in places and someone might easily have been eyeing him. Several scruffy men looked his way suspiciously and then slipped into the trees or bushes. Probably hoboes or bums but he took no chances and changed direction a number of times to throw off anyone who might be tailing him.

He crossed the murky Spree River and found Spener Street then continued north, away from the park, noting that, curiously, the homes were in vastly different states of repair. Some were grand while right next door might be others that were abandoned and derelict. He passed one in which brown weeds filled the front yard. At one point the house had clearly been very luxurious. Now, most of the windows were broken and someone, young punks, he assumed, had splashed yellow paint on it. A sign announced that a sale of the contents would be taking place on Saturday. Tax problems, maybe, Paul thought. What had happened to the family? Where had they gone? Hard times, he sensed. Changed circumstances.