Jeffery Deaver - Garden Of Beasts

Ernst spun around in his chair and stared out the window. He felt just like an army commander who knew that the enemy was approaching, about to attack, but not knowing when he would strike, what his tactics would be, how strong was his force, where he would establish the lines of assault, where the flanking maneuver would come.

Aware too that the battle would be decisive and the fate of his army – indeed, of the whole nation – was at stake.

He wasn’t exaggerating the gravity of his dilemma. Because Ernst knew something about Germany that few others sensed or would admit out loud: that Hitler would not be in power long.

The Leader’s enemies, both within the country and without, were too many. He was Caesar, he was Macbeth, he was Richard. As his madness played itself out he would be ousted, murdered, or even die by his own hand (so astonishingly manic were his rages), and others would step into the immense vacuum after his demise. And not Göring either; greed of soul and greed of body were in a footrace to bring him down. Ernst’s own feeling was that, with the two leaders gone (and Goebbels pining away for his lost love, Hitler), the National Socialists would wither, and a centrist Prussian statesman would emerge – another Bismarck, imperial perhaps but reasonable and a brilliant statesman.

And Ernst might even have a hand in that transformation. For, short of a bullet or bomb, the only sure threat to Adolf Hitler and the Party was the German army.

In June of ’34, Hitler and Göring murdered or arrested much of the Stormtrooper leadership during the so-called Night of the Long Knives. The purge was felt necessary largely to appease the regular army, which had become jealous of the huge Brownshirt militia. Hitler had regarded the horde of thugs on one side and the German military – the direct heirs of the nineteenth century’s Hohenzollern battalions – on the other, and without a moment’s hesitation chose the latter. Two months later, upon President Hindenburg’s death, Hitler took two steps to solidify his position. First, he declared himself the unrestricted leader of the nation. Second – and far more important – he required the German armed forces to pledge a personal oath of loyalty to him.

De Tocqueville had said that there would never be a revolution in Germany for the police would not allow it. No, Hitler wasn’t concerned about a popular uprising; his only fear was the army.

And it was a new, enlightened military that Ernst had devoted his life to since the end of the War. An army that would protect Germany and its citizens from all threats, perhaps ultimately even from Hitler himself.

Yet, he reflected, Hitler was not gone yet, and Ernst couldn’t afford to ignore the author of this note, which was as troubling to him as the distant rumble of armor approaching through the night.

Col. Ernst: I await the report…

He had hoped that the intrigue Göring set in motion would fade away, but this piece of onionskin paper meant that it would not. He understood that he had to act quickly to prepare for and repel the attack.

After a difficult debate, the colonel came to a decision. He pocketed the letter, rose from his desk and left his office, telling his secretary that he would return within a half hour.

Down one hall, down another, past the ubiquitous construction work in the old, dusty building. Workers, busy even on the weekend, were everywhere. Building was the metaphor for the new Germany – a nation rising from the ashes of Versailles, being reconstructed according to Hitler’s often-quoted philosophy of “bringing-into-line” with National Socialism every citizen and institution in the country.

Down another hallway, under a stern portrait of the Leader in three-quarter view, looking slightly upward, as if at his vision for the nation.

Ernst stepped outside into the gritty wind, hot from the broiling afternoon sun.

“Hail, Colonel.”

Ernst nodded to the two guards, armed with bayonet-mounted Mausers. He was amused at their greeting. It was customary for anyone near cabinet rank to be addressed by his full title. But “Mr. Plenipotentiary” was laughably cumbersome.

Down Wilhelm Street, past Voss Street then Prince Albrecht Street, with a glance to his right at No. 8 – Gestapo headquarters in the old hotel and arts-and-crafts school. Continuing south to his favorite café, he ordered a coffee. He sat for only a moment and then walked to the phone kiosk. He called a number, dropped some pfennigs into the slot and was connected.

A woman’s voice answered. “Good day.”

“Please, Dame Keitel?”

“No, sir. I am the housekeeper.”

“Is Doctor-professor Keitel available? This is Reinhard Ernst.”

“One moment, please.”

A moment later a man’s soft voice came through the line. “Good day, Colonel. Though a hot one.”

“Indeed, Ludwig… We need to meet. Today. An urgent matter has come up about the study. You can make yourself available?”

“Urgent?”

“Extremely so. Can you come to my office? I’m awaiting word on some matters from England. So I must be at my desk. Four P.M. would be convenient?”

“Yes, of course.”

They rang off and Ernst returned to his coffee.

What ridiculous measures he needed to resort to simply to find a phone not monitored by Göring’s minions. I have seen war from the inside and from the out, he thought. The battlefield is horrible, yes, inconceivably horrible. But how much purer and cleaner, even angelic, is war, compared with a struggle where your enemies are beside, not facing, you.

On the fifteen-mile ride from downtown Berlin to the Olympic Village, along a wide, perfectly smooth highway, the taxi driver whistled happily and told Paul Schumann that he was anticipating many well-paying fares during the Olympics.

Suddenly the man grew silent as some ponderous classical music poured from a radio; the Opel was equipped with two, one to dispatch the driver and one for public transmissions. “Beethoven,” the driver commented. “It precedes all official broadcasts. We will listen.” A moment later the music faded and a raw, passionate voice began speaking.

“In the first place, it is not acceptable to treat this question of infection frivolously; it must be understood that good health would depend and does depend on finding ways to treat not only the symptoms of the disease, but the source of the illness, as well. Look at the tainted waters of a stagnant pond, a breeding ground for germs. But a fast-moving river does not offer the same climate for such danger. Our campaign will continue to locate and drain these stagnant pools, thereby offering germs and the mosquitoes and flies that carry them no place to multiply. Moreover-”

Paul listened for a moment longer but the repetitious rambling bored him. He tuned out the meaningless sound and looked at the sun-baked landscape, the houses, the inns, as the pretty suburbs west of the city gave way to more sparse areas. The driver turned off the Hamburg highway and pulled up in front of the Olympic Village’s main entrance. Paul paid the man, who thanked him by lifting an eyebrow but said nothing, remaining fixed on the words streaming from the radio. He considered asking the driver to wait but decided it would be wiser to find someone else to take him back to town.

The village was hot in the afternoon sun. The wind smelled salty, like ocean air, but it was dry as alum and carried a fine grit. Paul displayed his pass and continued down the perfectly laid sidewalk, past rows of narrow trees perfectly spaced, rising straight from round disks of mulch in the perfect, green grass. The German flag snapped smartly in the hot wind: red and white and black.

Ach, surely you know…