Jeffery Deaver - Garden Of Beasts

Over the next ten minutes other officials began arriving: Von Blomberg, the state defense minister, and Hjalmar Schacht, head of the state bank, with whom Ernst had developed a complicated system of financing rearmament projects using untraceable funds known as “Mefo bills.” Schacht’s middle name was Horace Greeley, after the American, and Ernst would joke with the brilliant economist about having cowboy roots. Here too were Himmler, block-faced Rudolf Hess and serpent-eyed Reinhard Heydrich, who greeted Ernst in a distracted way, which was how he greeted everyone.

The photographer meticulously set up his Leica and other equipment so that he could get both the subject in the foreground and the stadium in the back, yet the lights would not flare in the windows. Ernst had developed an interest in photography. He himself owned several Leicas and he’d planned to buy Rudy a Kodak, which was imported from America and easier to use than the German precision cameras. The colonel had recorded some of the trips he and his family had taken. Paris and Budapest in particular had been well documented, as had a hiking sojourn in the Black Forest and a boat trip down the Danube.

“Good, good,” the photographer now called. “We can begin.”

Hitler first insisted on taking a picture with Rudy and lifted the boy onto his knee, laughing and chatting with him like a good uncle. After this the planned pictures began.

Though he was pleased that Rudy was enjoying himself, Ernst was growing impatient. He found publicity absurd. Moreover, it was a bad tactical error – as was the whole idea of holding the Olympics in Germany, for that matter. There were far too many aspects of the rearmament that should have been kept secret. How could a foreign visitor not see that this was a military nation and becoming more so every day?

The flashes went off, as the celebrities of the Third Empire looked cheerful or thoughtful or ominous for the lens. When Ernst was not being photographed he talked with Rudy or stood by himself and, in his mind, composed his letter to the Leader about the Waltham Study, considering what to say and what not to.

Sometimes you couldn’t share all…

An SS guard appeared in the doorway. He spotted Ernst and called, “Mr. Minister.”

A number of heads turned.

“Mr. Minister Ernst.”

The colonel was as amused as Göring was irritated; Ernst was not officially a minister of state.

“Yes?”

“Sir, there is a phone call for you from the secretary of Gustav Krupp von Bohlen. There is a matter he needs to inform you of immediately. Something most important. Regarding your latest meeting.”

What had they discussed then that was so urgent? Armor for the warships had been one topic. It hadn’t seemed so critical. But now that England had accepted the new German shipbuilding figures, perhaps Krupp would have a problem meeting the production quotas. But then he reflected that, no, the baron had not been informed of the victory regarding the treaty. Krupp was as brilliant a capitalist as he was a technician. But he was also a coward, who’d shunned the Party until Hitler came to power then had become a rabid convert. Ernst suspected the crisis was minor at worst. But Krupp and his son were so important to the rearmament plans that they could not be ignored.

“You may take the call on one of those phones there. I will have it put through.”

“Excuse me for one moment, my Leader.”

Hitler nodded and returned to discussing the angle of the camera with the photographer.

A moment later one of the many phones against the wall buzzed. A glowing light indicated which it was and Ernst picked it up.

“Yes? This is Colonel Ernst.”

“Colonel. I am Stroud, an aide to Baron von Bohlen. I apologize for the disturbance. He’s sent some documents for you to examine. A driver has them at the stadium where you are now.”

“What are these about?”

A pause. “I was instructed by the baron not to mention the subject over this telephone.”

“Yes, yes, fine. Where is the driver?”

“In the driveway on the south side of the stadium. He will meet you there. It’s better to be discreet. Alone, I am saying, sir. Those are my instructions.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Hail Hitler.”

“Hail.”

Ernst hung the phone in the cradle. Göring had been watching him like an obese falcon. “A problem, Minister?”

The colonel decided both to ignore the feigned sympathy and the irony in the title. Rather than lie, he admitted, “Some problem that Krupp’s having. He’s sent me a message about it.”

As a maker primarily of armor, artillery and munitions, Krupp dealt more with Ernst and the naval and army commanders than with Göring, whose province was the air.

“Ach.” The huge man turned back to the mirror the photographer had provided. He began moving a finger around his face, smoothing his makeup.

Ernst started for the door.

“Opa, may I come with you?”

“Of course, Rudy. This way.”

The boy scurried after his grandfather and they stepped into the interior corridor that connected all the pressrooms. Ernst put his arm around the boy’s shoulder. He oriented himself and noticed a doorway that would lead to one of the south stairways. They started toward it. He’d downplayed the concern at first but in fact he was growing troubled. Krupp steel was recognized as the best in the world; the spire of New York City’s magnificent Chrysler building was made of his company’s famed Enduro KA-2. But this meant too that foreign military planners were looking very carefully at Krupp’s products and output. He wondered if the British or French had learned how much of his steel was going not to rails or washing machines or automobiles but to armor.

Grandfather and grandson made their way through a crowd of workers and foremen energetically finishing the construction here on the press-booth floor, cutting doors to size, mounting hardware, sanding and painting walls. As they dodged around a carpentry station, Ernst glanced down at the arm of his suit and grimaced.

“What’s wrong, Opa?” Rudy shouted over the scream of a saw.

“Oh, look at this. Look at what I’ve gotten on me.” There was a sprinkling of plaster on it.

He brushed the dust away as best he could but some remained. He wondered if he should wet his fingers to clean it. But this might cause the plaster to set permanently in the cloth. Gertrud would not be pleased if that happened. He’d leave it for now. He put his hand on the door handle to step onto the outer walkway that led to the stairs.

“Colonel!” a voice called in his ear.

Ernst turned.

The SS guard had run up behind him. He shouted over the whine of the saw, “Sir, the Leader’s dogs are here. He wonders if your grandson would like to pose with them.”

“Dogs?” Rudy asked excitedly.

Hitler liked German shepherds and had several of them. They were genial animals, house pets.

“Would you like that?” Ernst asked.

“Oh, yes, please, Opa.”

“Don’t play roughly with them.”

“No, I won’t.”

Ernst escorted the boy back down the hall and watched him run to the dogs, which were sniffing around the room, exploring. Hitler laughed, seeing the youngster hug the larger one and kiss him on top of the head. The animal licked Rudy with his huge tongue. With some difficulty, Göring bent down and petted the animals too, a childlike smile on his round face. Though he was heartless in many ways, the minister loved animals devoutly.

The colonel then returned to the corridor and walked toward the outer door once again. He blew again at the plaster dust on his sleeve then paused in front of one of the large, south-facing windows and looked outside. The sun fell on him fiercely. He’d left his hat back in the press booth. Should he get it?