Jeffery Deaver - Garden Of Beasts

“Anywhere, anywhere,” the harried man said.

Paul took a table inside. A casual glance around him. No one paid any attention to him.

Or appeared to.

A waiter sailed past. “You wish to order?”

“A beer for now.”

“Which beer?” He started to name brands Paul had never heard of.

He said, “The first. A large.”

The waiter walked toward the bar and returned a moment later with a tall pilsner glass. Paul drank thirstily but found he disliked the taste. It was almost sweet, fruity. He pushed it aside and lit a cigarette, having shaken the Chesterfield out of the pack below the tabletop so no one could see the American label. He glanced up to see Reginald Morgan strolling casually into the restaurant. Looking around, he noticed Paul and walked up to him, saying in German, “My friend, so good to see you again.”

They shook hands and he sat down across the table.

Morgan’s face was damp and he wiped it with his handkerchief. His eyes were troubled. “It was close. The Schupo pulled up just as I got away.”

“Anyone see you?”

“I don’t think so. I left by the far end of the alley.”

“Is it safe to stay here?” Paul asked, looking around. “Should we leave?”

“No. It would be more suspicious at this time of day to arrive at a restaurant then leave quickly without eating. Not like New York. Berliners won’t be rushed when it comes to meals. Offices close down for two hours so people can have a proper lunch. Of course, they also eat two breakfasts.” He patted his stomach. “Now you can see why I was happy to be posted here.” Looking around casually, Morgan said, “Here.” He pushed a thick book toward Paul. “See, I remembered to return it.” The German words on the cover were Mein Kampf, which Paul translated as “My Struggle.” Hitler’s name was on it. He’d written a book? Paul wondered.

“Thank you. But there was no hurry.”

Paul stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray but, when it was cool, slipped it into his pocket, ever careful not to leave traces that might place him somewhere.

Morgan leaned forward, smiling as if whispering a bawdy joke. “Inside the book’s a hundred marks. And the address of the place you’ll be staying, a boardinghouse. It’s near Lützow Plaza, south of the Tiergarten. I wrote down directions too.”

“Is it on the ground floor?”

“The apartment? I don’t know. I didn’t ask. You’re thinking of escape routes?”

Specifically he was thinking of Malone’s binge-nest with its sealed doors and windows and a welcoming party of armed sailors. “That’s right.”

“Well, have a look at it. Maybe you can swap if there’s a problem. The landlady seems agreeable. Her name is Käthe Richter.”

“Is she a Nazi?”

Morgan said softly, “Don’t use that word here. It will give you away. ‘Nazi’ is Bavarian slang for ‘simpleton.’ The proper abbreviation is ‘Nazo,’ but you don’t hear that much either. Say ‘National Socialist.’ Some people use the initials, NSDAP. Or you can refer to the ‘Party.’ And say it reverently… Regarding Miss Richter, she doesn’t seem to have any sympathies one way or the other.” Nodding at the beer, Morgan asked, “You don’t care for that?”

“Piss water.”

Morgan laughed. “It’s wheat beer. Children drink it. Why did you order it?”

“There were a thousand kinds. I’d never heard of any of them.”

“I’ll order for us.”

When the waiter arrived he said, “Please, bring us two Pschorr ales. And sausage and bread. With cabbage and pickled cucumbers. Butter if you have any today.”

“Yes, sir.” He took away Paul’s glass.

Morgan continued. “In the book there’s also a Russian passport with your picture in it and some rubles, about a hundred dollars’ worth. In an emergency make your way to the Swiss border. The Germans’ll be happy to get another Russian out of their country and they’ll let you pass. They won’t take the rubles because they won’t be allowed to spend them. The Swiss won’t care that you’re a Bolshevik and will be delighted to let you in to spend the money. Go to Zurich and get a message to the U.S. embassy. Gordon will get you out. Now, after Dresden Alley we must be extremely careful. Like I said, something is clearly going on in town. There are far more patrols on the street than usual: Stormtroopers, which is not particularly odd – they have nothing to do with their time but march and patrol – but SS and Gestapo too.”

“They are…?”

“SS… Did you see the two out on the patio? In the black uniforms?”

“Yes.”

“They were originally Hitler’s guard detail. Now they’re another private army. Mostly they wear black but some of the uniforms are gray. The Gestapo is the secret police force, plainclothes. They’re small in number but very dangerous. Their jurisdiction is political crimes mostly. But in Germany now anything can be a political crime. You spit on the sidewalk, it’s an offense to the honor of the Leader so off you go to Moabit Prison or a concentration camp.”

The Pschorr beers and food arrived and Paul drank down half of the brew at once. It was earthy and rich. “Now, that’s good.”

“You like it? After I got here I realized I could never drink American beer again. To be able to brew beer, it takes years of learning. It’s as respected as a university degree. Berlin is the brewing capital of Europe but they make the best in Munich, down in Bavaria.”

Paul ate hungrily. But beer and food were not the first things on his mind. “We have to move fast,” he whispered. In his profession every hour you were near the site of the touch-off increased the risk of getting caught. “I need information and I need a weapon.”

Morgan nodded. “My contact should be here any minute. He has details about… the man you’re here to visit. Then this afternoon we’ll go to a pawnshop. The owner has a good rifle for you.”

“Rifle?” Paul frowned.

Morgan was troubled. “You can’t shoot a rifle?”

“Yes, I can shoot one. I was infantry. But I always work up close.”

“Close? That’s easier for you?”

“It’s not a question of easy. It’s more efficient.”

“Well, believe me, Paul, it may be possible, though very difficult, to get close enough to your target to kill him with a pistol. But there are so many Brownshirts and SS and Gestapo hovering about that you’d without doubt be caught. And I guarantee that your death would be lengthy and unpleasant. But there’s another reason to use a rifle – he has to be killed in public.”

“Why?” Paul asked.

“The Senator said that everybody in the German government and the Party knows how crucial Ernst is to rearming. It’s important to make certain that whoever replaces him knows they’ll be in danger too if they take up where he left off. If Ernst dies in private, Hitler would cover it up, claim he’d been killed in an accident or died of some illness.”

“Then I’ll do it in public,” Paul said. “With a rifle. But I’ll need to sight-in the gun, get a feel for it, find a good killing field, examine it ahead of time, see what the breezes are like, the light, the routes to and from the place.”

“Of course. You’re the expert. Whatever you want.”

Paul finished his meal. “After what happened in the alley, I need to go to ground. I want to get my things from the Olympic Village and move to the boardinghouse as soon as possible. Is the room ready now?”

Morgan told him that it was.

Paul sipped more beer then pulled Hitler’s book toward him, rested it in his lap, flipped through it, found the passport, money and address. He took out the slip of paper on which was jotted the information on the boardinghouse. Dropping the book in his briefcase, he memorized the address and directions, casually wiped the note in beer spilled on the table and kneaded it in his strong hands until it was a wad of pulp. He slipped this into his pocket with the cigarette butts for later disposal.