Jeffery Deaver - Garden Of Beasts

It appeared that one could drive right up to the front plaza of the stadium. But for an SS lieutenant (the commission was courtesy of Otto Webber, no extra cost) to climb out of a private van would be suspicious, of course. So they decided to skirt the stadium. Morgan would drop Paul off in some trees near a parking lot, which he would “patrol,” examining trucks and workmen as he slowly made his way to the shed overlooking the press office on the south side of the stadium.

The van now pulled off the road onto a grassy patch and rocked to a stop, invisible from the stadium. Paul climbed out and assembled the Mauser. He took the telescopic sight off the rifle – it was not the sort of accessory a guard would have – and slipped it into his pocket. He slung the gun over his shoulder and put his black helmet on his head.

“How do I look?” Paul asked.

“Authentic enough to scare me. Good luck to you.”

I’ll need it, Paul thought grimly, peering through the trees at the scores of workmen on the grounds, ready and able to point out an intruder, and at the hundreds of guards who’d be happy to gun him down.

Six to five against…

Brother. He glanced at Morgan and felt an impulse to lift his hand in an American salute, one veteran to another, but of course Paul Schumann was fully aware of his role. “Hail.” And lifted his arm. Morgan repressed a smile and reciprocated.

As Paul turned to leave, Morgan said softly, “Oh, wait, Paul. When I spoke to Bull Gordon and the Senator this morning, they wished you luck. And the commander said to tell you you can print his daughter’s wedding invitations as your first job. You know what he means?”

Paul gave a nod and, gripping the sling of the Mauser, started toward the stadium. He stepped through the line of trees and into a huge parking lot, which must have had room for twenty thousand cars. He strode with authority and determination, glancing sharply toward the vehicles parked here, every inch the diligent guard.

Ten minutes later Paul had made his way through the lot and was at the soaring entrance to the stadium. There were soldiers on duty here, carefully checking papers and searching anyone who wanted to enter, but on the surrounding grounds, Paul was merely another soldier and no one paid him any attention. With an occasional “Hail Hitler” and nods, he skirted the building, heading toward the shed. He passed a huge iron bell, on the side of which was an inscription: “I Summon the Youth of the World.”

As he approached the shed he noticed that it had no windows. There was no back door; the escape after the shooting would be difficult. He’d have to exit by the front, in full view of the entire stadium. But he suspected the acoustics would make it very difficult to tell where the shot had come from. And there were many sounds of construction – pile drivers, saws, riveting machines and the like – to obscure the report of the rifle. Paul would walk slowly from the shed after firing, pause and look around, even call for help if he could do so without raising suspicion.

The time was one-thirty. Otto Webber, who was in the Potsdam Plaza post office, would place his call around two-fifteen. Plenty of time.

He strolled on slowly, examining the grounds, looking in parked vehicles.

“Hail Hitler,” he said to some laborers, who were stripped to the waist and painting a fence. “It is a hot day for work like that.”

“Ach, it’s nothing,” one replied. “And if it were, so what? We work for the good of the fatherland.”

Paul said, “The Leader is proud of you.” And continued on to his hunting blind.

He glanced at the shed curiously as if wondering if it posed any security threat. Pulling on the black leather gloves that were part of the uniform, he opened the door and stepped inside. The place was filled with cardboard cartons tied with twine. Paul recognized the smell immediately from his days as a printer: the bitter scent of paper, the sweet scent of ink. The shed was being used to store programs or souvenir booklets of the Games. He arranged some cartons to make a shooting position in the front of the shed. He then laid his open jacket to the right of where he’d be lying, to catch the ejected shells when he worked the bolt of the gun. These details – retrieving the casings and minding fingerprints – probably didn’t matter. He had no record here and would be out of the country by nightfall. But nonetheless he went to the trouble simply because this was his craft.

You make sure nothing is out of kilter.

You check your p ’s and q ’s.

Standing well inside the small building, he scanned the stadium with the rifle’s telescopic sight. He noted the open corridor behind the pressroom, which Ernst would take to reach the stairway and walk down to meet the messenger or driver that Webber would tell him about. He’d have a perfect shot as soon as the colonel stepped out of the doorway. There were large windows too, which he might shoot through if the man paused in front of one.

The time was one-fifty.

Paul sat back, legs crossed, and cradled the rifle in his lap. Sweat was dripping down his forehead in tickling rivulets. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt then began to mount the telescopic sight onto the rifle.

“What do you think, Rudy?”

But Reinhard Ernst did not expect his grandson to answer. The boy wasstaring with smiling awe over the expanse of the Olympic stadium. They were in the long press facility on the south side of the building, above the Leader’s reviewing stand. Ernst held him up so that he could look through the window. Rudy was virtually dancing with excitement.

“Ah, who is this?” a voice asked.

Ernst turned to see Adolf Hitler and two of his SS guards enter the room.

“My Leader.”

Hitler walked forward and smiled at the boy.

Ernst said, “This is Rudy, my son’s boy.”

A faint look of sympathy on the Leader’s face told Ernst that he was thinking of Mark’s death in the war maneuvers accident. Ernst was momentarily surprised that the man remembered but realized that he should not have been; Hitler’s mind was as expansive as the Olympic field, frighteningly quick, and it retained everything he wished to retain.

“Say hello to our Leader, Rudy. Salute as I taught you.”

The boy gave a smart National Socialist salute and Hitler laughed in delight and tousled Rudy’s hair. The Leader stepped closer to the window and pointed out some of the features of the stadium, talking in an enthusiastic voice. Hitler asked the boy about his studies and what subjects he liked, which sports he enjoyed.

More voices in the hallway. The two rivals Goebbels and Göring arrived together. What a drive that must have been, thought Ernst, smiling to himself.

After his defeat at the Chancellory that morning Göring remained desultory. Ernst could see it clearly, despite the smile. What a difference between the two most powerful men in Germany… Hitler’s tantrums, admittedly extreme, were rarely about personal matters; if his favorite chocolate was not available or he knocked his shin on a table he would shrug the matter off without anger. And as to reversals on issues of state, yes, he had a temper that could terrify his closest of friends, but once the problem was solved he was on to other matters. Göring, on the other hand, was like a greedy child. Anything that went against his wishes would infuriate him and fester until he found suitable revenge.

Hitler was explaining to the boy what sporting events would be played in which areas of the stadium. Ernst was amused to see that beneath his broad smile Göring was growing all the more angry that the Leader was paying such attention to his rival’s grandson.