Jeffery Deaver - Garden Of Beasts

“Do they…”

“Know of each other?” Webber shrugged. “Perhaps, perhaps not. They don’t ask, I don’t say.” He leaned forward. “Now, Mr. John Dillinger. What can I do for you?”

“I am going to say something to you, Otto. And you may choose to stand up and leave. I’ll understand if you do. Or you can stay and hear me out. If so, and if you can help me, there will be some very good money in it for you.”

“I’m intrigued. Keep talking.”

“I have an associate in Berlin. He just had a contact of his do some research on you.”

“On me? I’m flattered.” And he truly seemed to be.

“You were born in Berlin in 1886, moved to Cologne when you were twelve and back here three years later after your school expelled you.”

Now Webber frowned. “I left voluntarily. The story is often misre-ported.”

“For theft of kitchen goods and a liaison with a chambermaid.”

“ She was the seductress and-”

“You have been arrested seven times and served a total of thirteen months in Moabit.”

Webber beamed. “So many arrests, such short sentences. Which attests to the quality of my connections in high places.”

Paul concluded: “And the British are none too happy with you because of that rancid oil you sold their embassy cook last year. The French, as well, because of the horsemeat you passed off as lamb. They have a notice posted not to deal with you anymore.”

“Ach, the French,” he sneered. “So you are telling me that you wish to make sure you can trust me and that I am the clever criminal I purport to be, not a stupid criminal like a National Socialist spy. You are merely being prudent. Why would I be insulted at this?”

“No, what you may be insulted about is that my associate has arranged to make some people in Berlin aware of you, some people in our government. Now, you’re free to choose to have nothing more to do with me. A disap pointment but understandable. But if you do decide to help us, and you betray me, these people will find you. And the consequences will be unpleasant. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Bribery and threat, the cornerstones of trust in Berlin, as Reggie Morgan had said.

Webber wiped his face, lowered his gaze and muttered, “I save your life and this is how you treat me?”

Paul sighed. Not only did he like this improbable man but he saw no other way to get any wire on Ernst’s whereabouts. But he’d had no choice in having Morgan’s contacts look into Webber’s background and to make arrangements to ensure he didn’t betray them. These were precautions that were vital in this dangerous city. “So, I suppose we finish our beers in silence and go our separate ways.”

After a moment, though, Webber’s face broke into a smile. “But I will admit I am not as insulted as I ought to be, Mr. Schumann.”

Paul blinked. He’d never told Webber his name.

“You see, I had my doubts about you too. At the Aryan Café, our first meeting, when you walked past me to refresh your makeup, as my girls would say, I palmed your passport and had a look. Ach, you didn’t smell like a National Socialist but, as you suggest, one can never be too careful in this mad town of ours. So I made inquiries about you. You have no connection with Wilhelm Street that my contact was able to uncover. How was my skill, by the way? You felt nothing, did you, when I took your passport?”

“No,” Paul said, smiling ruefully.

“So I think we have achieved enough mutual respect ” – he laughed wryly – “to be able to consider a business proposition. Please continue, Mr. John Dillinger. Tell me what you have in mind.”

Paul counted out a hundred of the marks Morgan had given him and passed them to Webber, whose eyebrow rose.

“What do you wish to buy?”

“I need some information.”

“Ach, information. Yes, yes. That could cost one hundred marks. Or it could cost much more. Information about what or whom?”

He regarded the dark eyes of the man sitting across from him. “Reinhard Ernst.”

Webber’s lower lip jutted out and he cocked his head. “So at last the pieces fall into place. You are here for a very interesting new Olympic event. Big-game hunting. And you have made a good choice, my friend.”

“Good?” Paul asked.

“Yes, yes. The colonel is making many changes here. And not for the country’s benefit. He’s getting us ready for mischief. The Little Man’s a fool but he gathers smart people around him and Ernst is one of the smartest.” Webber lit up one of his foul cigars. Paul, a Chesterfield, breaking only two matches from the cheap box to get a flame this time.

Webber’s eyes were distant. “I served the Kaiser for three years. Until the surrender. Oh, I did some brave things, I’ll tell you. My company once advanced over a hundred meters against the British and it only took us two months to do it. Earned us some medals, that one did. Those of us who survived. There are plaques in some villages that say only, To the fallen. The towns couldn’t afford enough bronze to put all the names of the dead on them.” He shook his head. “You Yankees had the Maxims. We had our Machine-Gun. Same as the Maxims. We stole the design from you, or you stole it from us. I don’t recall which. But the Britons, ach, they had the Vickers. Water-cooled. Now, that was a snuff grinder, for you. That was quite a piece of metalwork… No, no, we don’t want another war, what ever the Little Man says, none of us do. That would be the end of everything. And that’s what the colonel is up to.” Webber slipped the hundred marks into his pocket and puffed on his vile ersatz cigar. “What do you need to know?”

“His schedule at Wilhelm Street. When he arrives for work, when he leaves, what kind of car he drives, where he parks, will he be there tomorrow, Monday or Tuesday, what routes he takes, any cafés he favors in the area.”

“One can find out anything, given enough time. And egg.”

“Egg?”

He tapped his pocket. “Money. I must be honest, Mr. John Dillinger. We are not talking about palming off three-day-old canal trout from the Landwehr as fresh from the Havel. This is a matter that will require me to retire for a time. There will be serious repercussions and I will have to go underground. There will be-”

“Otto, just give me a number.”

“Very dangerous… Besides, what is money to you Americans? You have your FDR.” In English he said, “You’re rolling on dough.”

“ In dough,” Paul corrected. “A number?”

“A thousand U.S. dollars.”

“What?”

“Not marks. They say the Inflation’s over but nobody who’s lived through that time believes it. Why, in 1928 a liter of petrol cost five hundred thousand marks. And in-”

Paul shook his head. “That’s a lot of money.”

“But it’s really not – if I get you your information. And I guarantee I will. You pay me only half up front.”

Paul pointed to Webber’s pocket, where the marks resided. “ That’s your down payment.”

“But-”

“You get paid the rest when and if the information pans out. And if I get approval.”

“I’ll have expenses.”

Paul slipped him the remaining hundred. “There.”

“Hardly enough but I’ll make do.” Then Webber looked over Paul closely. “I’m curious.”

“About what?”

“About you, Mr. John Dillinger. What’s your tale?”

“There is no tale.”

“Ach, there’s always a tale. Go ahead, tell Otto your story. We’re in business together now. That’s closer than being in bed. And remember, he sees all, the truth and the lies. You seem an unlikely candidate for this job. Though perhaps that is why you were chosen to visit our fair city. Because you seem unlikely. How did you get into this noble profession of yours?”