Jeffery Deaver - Garden Of Beasts

“Too far. A little breeze, the distortion of the window… No. I couldn’t guarantee a fatal shot. And I might hit someone else.”

“So?” Webber asked lethargically. “Maybe you could shoot Hitler. Or Göring… why, he’s as big a target as a dirigible. A blind man could hit him.” He looked over the map again. “You could get Ernst when he got out of the car. What do you think of that, Mr. Morgan?” The fact that Webber had gotten Paul into and out of the Chancellory safely had given the gang leader sufficient credibility to be trusted with Morgan’s name.

“But we don’t know exactly when and where he’ll be arriving,” Morgan pointed out. There were a dozen walks and passages he could take. “They might not use the main entrance. We couldn’t anticipate that and you should be in hiding before he gets there. The entire National Socialist pantheon will be assembled; security is going to be massive.”

Paul continued to peruse the map. Morgan was right. And he noticed from the map that there was an underground driveway that seemed to circle the entire stadium, probably for the leaders to use for protected entrances and exits. Ernst might never be outside at all.

They stared silently for a time. An idea occurred to Paul and, touching the photos, he explained it: The back walkways of the stadium were open. Leaving the pressroom, one would walk either east or west along this corridor then down several flights of stairs to the ground level, where there was a parking area, a wide drive and sidewalks that led to the railway station. About a hundred feet from the stadium, overlooking the parking lot and drive, was a cluster of small buildings, labeled on the map Storage Facilities.

“If Ernst came out onto that walkway and down the stairs I could shoot from that shed. The one there.”

“You could make the shot?”

Paul nodded. “Yes, easily.”

“But, as we were saying, we don’t know that Ernst will arrive or leave that way.”

“Maybe we can force him outside. Flush him out like a bird.”

“And how?” Morgan asked.

Paul said, “We ask him.”

“Ask him?” Morgan frowned.

“We get a message to him in the pressroom that he’s urgently needed. There’s someone who needs to see him in private about something important. He walks out the corridor onto the porch, into my sights.”

Webber lit one of his cabbage cigars. “But would any message be so urgent that he’d interrupt a meeting with the Leader, Göring and Goebbels?”

“From what I’ve learned about him he’s obsessed with his job. We tell him that there’s a problem having to do with the army or navy. I know that’ll get his attention. What about this Krupp, the armorer that Max told us about. Could a message from Krupp be urgent?”

Morgan nodded. “Krupp. Yes, I’d think so. But how do we get the message to Ernst while he’s in the photography session?”

“Ach, easy,” Webber said. “I’ll telephone him.”

“How?”

The man drew on his ersatz cigar. “I will find out the number of one of the telephones in the pressroom and place a call. I will do this myself. I will ask for Ernst and tell him that there is a driver downstairs with a message. Only for him to see. From Gustav Krupp von Bohlen himself. I will call from a post office so when the Gestapo dials seven afterward to find the source of the call, there’ll be no lead to me.”

“How can you get the number?” Morgan asked.

“Contacts.”

Paul asked cynically, “Do you really have to bribe someone to find the number, Otto? I would suspect that half the sports journalists in Berlin have them.”

“Ach,” Webber said, smiling in delight. He tried English. “You are hitting the head on the nail.” Back to his native tongue: “Of course that’s true. But the most important aspect of any venture is knowing which individual to approach and what his price is.”

“All right,” Morgan said, exasperated. “How much? And remember, we are not a bottomless well.”

“Another two hundred. Marks will be fine. And for that I will add, for no extra charge, a way to get into and out of the stadium, Mr. John Dillinger. A full SS uniform. You can sling your rifle over your shoulder and walk straight into the stadium like Himmler himself and no one will stop you. Practice your ‘Hail’s and your Hitler salute, flapping your limp arm in the air like our goat-peeing Leader.”

Morgan frowned. “But if they catch him masquerading as a soldier they’ll shoot him for a spy.”

Paul glanced at Webber and they both broke into laughter. It was the gang leader who said, “Please, Mr. Morgan. Our friend is about to kill the national military tzar. If he is caught he could be dressed like George Washington and whistling ‘Stars and Stripes Forever’ and they would still shoot him quite dead, do you not think?”

“I was only considering ways to make it less obvious,” Morgan grumbled.

“No, it’s a good plan, Reggie,” Paul said. “After the shot they’ll get all the officials back to Berlin as fast as possible. I’ll ride with the guards protecting them. Once we’re in town, I’ll get lost in the crowd.” Afterward he’d slip into the embassy building near the Brandenburg Gate and radio Andrew Avery and Vince Manielli in Amsterdam, who’d send the plane out to the aerodrome for him.

As their eyes returned to the maps of the stadium Paul decided it was time. He said, “I want to tell you. There’s someone coming with me.”

Morgan glanced at Webber, who laughed. “Ach, what are you thinking? That I could possibly live anywhere but this Prussian Garden of Eden? No, no, I will leave Germany only for heaven.”

Paul said, “A woman.”

Morgan’s mouth tightened. “The one here.” Nodding toward the hallway of the boardinghouse.

“That’s right. Käthe.” Paul added, “You looked into her. You know she’s legitimate.”

“What have you told her?” asked the troubled American.

“The Gestapo has her passport and it’s only a matter of time until they arrest her.”

“It’s a matter of time until they arrest a lot of people here. What have you told her, Paul?” Morgan repeated.

“Just our cover story about sportswriting. That’s all.”

“But-”

“She’s coming with me,” he said.

“I should call Washington, or the Senator.”

“Call who you like. She’s coming.”

Morgan looked at Webber.

“Ach, I have been married three times, possibly four,” the German said. “And I now have a… complicated arrangement. Expect no advice from me on matters of the heart.”

Morgan shook his head. “Jesus, we’re running an airways service.”

Paul fixed his fellow American with a gaze. “One other thing: At the stadium I’ll only have the Russian passport for ID. If I don’t make it she’ll never hear what happened. Will you tell her something – about me having to leave? I don’t want her thinking that I ditched her. And do what you can to get her out.”

“Of course.”

“Ach, you’ll make it, Mr. John Dillinger. You’re the American cowboy with big balls, right?” Webber wiped his sweating forehead. He rose and found three glasses in the cupboard. From a flask he poured some clear liquid into them and passed them around. “Austrian obstler. You have heard of it? It is the best of all liquors, good for the blood and good for the soul. Now, drink up, gentlemen, then let us go out and change the fate of my poor nation.”

“I will need as many of them as you can find,” Willi Kohl said.

The man nodded cautiously. “It isn’t really a question of finding them. They are always quite findable. It’s a question of how out-of-the-ordinary this matter is. There is really no precedent for it.”