Jeffery Deaver - Garden Of Beasts

Sometimes it was next to impossible to make up one’s mind.

Reggie Morgan was troubled. “I don’t have the authority to approve a thousand dollars. Jesus Lord. A thousand? ”

They were walking through the Tiergarten, past a Stormtrooper on a soapbox sweating fiercely as he hoarsely lectured a small group of people. Some clearly wished to be elsewhere, some looked back with disdain in their eyes. But some were mesmerized. Paul was reminded of Heinsler on the ship.

I love the Führer and I’d do anything for him and the Party…

“The threat worked?” Morgan asked.

“Oh, yes. In fact, I think he respected me more for it.”

“And he can actually get us useful information?”

“If anybody can, he’s the one. I know his sort. It’s astonishing how resourceful some people can be when you wave money toward them.”

“Then let’s see if we can come up with some.”

They left the park and turned south at the Brandenburg Gate. Several blocks farther on they passed the ornate palace that would, when the repairs after the fire were finished, become the U.S. embassy.

“Look at it,” Morgan said. “Magnificent, isn’t it? Or it will be.”

Even though the building wasn’t officially the U.S. embassy yet, an American flag hung from the front. The sight stirred Paul, made him feel good, more at ease.

He thought of the Hitler Youth back at the Olympic Village.

And the black… the hooked cross. You would say swastika… Ach, surely you know… Surely you know…

Morgan turned down an alleyway and then another and, with a look behind them, unlocked the door. They entered the quiet, dark building and walked down several corridors until they came to a small door beside the kitchen. They stepped inside. The dim room was sparse: a desk, several chairs and a large radio, bigger than any Paul had ever seen. Morgan flipped on the unit and as the tubes warmed up it began to hum.

“They listen to all the overseas shortwave,” Morgan said, “so we’re going to transmit via relays to Amsterdam and then London and then be routed through a phone line to the States. It’ll take the Nazis a while to get the frequency,” the man said, pulling on earphones, “but they could get lucky so you have to assume they’re listening. Everything you say, keep that in mind.”

“Sure.”

“We’ll have to go fast. Ready?”

Paul nodded and took the set of headphones Morgan offered him, then plugged the thick jack into the socket he pointed to. A green light finally came to life on the front of the unit. Morgan stepped to a window, glanced out into the alleyway, let the curtain fall back. He pulled the microphone close to his mouth and pushed the button on the shaft. “I need a transatlantic connection to our friend in the south.” He repeated this then released the transmit button and said to Paul, “Bull Gordon’s ‘our friend in the south.’ Washington, you know. ‘Our friend in the north’ is the Senator.”

“Roger that,” said a young voice. It was Avery’s. “Be a minute. Hold on. Placing the call.”

“Howdy,” Paul said.

A pause. “Hey there,” Avery responded. “How’s life treating you?”

“Oh, just swell. Good to hear your voice.” Paul couldn’t believe that he’d said good-bye to him just yesterday. It seemed like months. “How’s your other half?”

“Staying out of trouble.”

“That’s hard to believe.” Paul wondered if Manielli had been mouthing off to any Dutch soldiers the same way he wisecracked in America.

“You’re on a speaker here,” came Manielli’s irritated voice. “Just to let you know.”

Paul laughed.

Then staticky silence.

“What time is it in Washington?” Paul asked Morgan.

“Lunchtime.”

“It’s Saturday. Where’s Gordon?”

“We don’t have to worry about that. They’ll find him.”

Through the headset a woman’s voice said, “One moment, please. Placing your call.”

A moment later Paul heard a phone ring. Then another woman’s voice answered, “Yes?”

Morgan said, “Your husband, please. Sorry to trouble you.”

“Hold the line.” As if she knew not to ask who was calling.

A moment later Gordon asked, “Hello?”

“It’s us, sir,” Morgan said.

“Go ahead.”

“Setback in the arrangements. We’ve had to approach somebody local for information.”

Gordon was silent for a moment. “Who is he? General terms.”

Morgan gestured to Paul, who said, “He knows somebody who can get us close to our customer.”

Morgan nodded at his choice of words and added, “My supplier has run out of product.”

The commander asked, “This man, he works for the other company?”

“No. Works for himself.”

“What other options do we have?”

Morgan said, “The only other choice is to sit and wait, hope for the best.”

“You trust him?”

After a moment Paul said, “Yes. He’s one of us.”

“Us?”

“Me,” Paul explained. “He’s in my line of work. We’ve, uhm, arranged for a certain level of trust.”

“There’s money involved?”

Morgan said, “That’s why we’re calling. He wants a lot. Immediately.”

“What’s a lot?”

“A thousand. Your currency.”

A pause. “That could be a problem.”

“We don’t have any choice,” Paul said. “You’ve got to make it work.”

“We could bring you back from your trip early.”

“No, you don’t want to do that,” Paul said emphatically.

The sound from the radio could have been a wave of static or could have been Bull Gordon’s sigh.

“Sit tight. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

“So what would we get for my money?”

“I don’t know the details,” Bull Gordon said to Cyrus Adam Clayborn, who was in New York on the other end of the phone. “They couldn’t go into it. Worried about eavesdropping, you know. But apparently the Nazis have cut off access to information Schumann needs to find Ernst. That’s my take.”

Clayborn grunted.

Gordon found himself surprisingly at ease, considering that the man he was speaking to was the fourth-or fifth-richest human being in the country. (He had ranked number two but the stock market crash had pulled him down a couple of notches.) They were very different men but they shared two vital characteristics: they had military in their blood and they were both patriots. That made up for a lot of distance in income and station.

“A thousand? Cash?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I like that Schumann. That was pretty sharp, his reelection comment. FDR’s scared as a rabbit.” Clayborn chuckled. “Thought the Senator was going to crap right there.”

“Looked like it.”

“Okay. I’ll arrange the funds.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Clayborn preempted Gordon’s next question. “’Course, it’s late Saturday in Hun-ville. And he needs the money now, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Hold on.”

Three long minutes later the magnate came back on the line.

“Have ’em go to the clerk at the usual pickup spot in Berlin. Morgan’ll know it. The Maritime Bank of the Americas. Number eighty-eight Udder den Linden Street, or however the hell you say it. I can never get it right.”

“ Unter den Linden. It means ‘Under the Linden Trees.’”

“Fine, fine. The guard’ll have the package.”

“Thanks, sir.”

“Bull?”

“Yes, sir?”

“We don’t have enough heroes in this country. I want that boy to come home in one piece. Considering our resources…” Men like Clayborn would never say, “my money.” The businessman continued. “Considering our resources, what can we do to improve the odds?”