Jeffery Deaver - Garden Of Beasts

Running for his life.

Unlike poor Max, gunned down in the street as he sprinted away from the SS guards, Paul attracted little notice; he was wearing gymnasium clothes and shoes he’d stolen from the locker room of the Olympic stadium’s swimming complex and he looked like any one of the thousands of athletes in and around Charlottenburg, in training for the Games. He was about three miles east of the stadium now, heading back to Berlin, pumping hard, putting distance between himself and the betrayal, which he had yet to figure out.

He was surprised that Reggie Morgan – if it was Morgan – had made a careless mistake after going to such elaborate efforts to set him up. There were certainly button men who didn’t look over their tools every time they were going on a job. But that was nuts. When you were up against ruthless men, always armed, you made sure that your own weapons were in perfect shape, that nothing was out of kilter.

In the baking-hot shed Paul had mounted the telescopic sight and made sure the calibrations were set to the same numbers as at the pawnshop shooting range. Then, as a final check he’d slipped the bolt out of the Mauser and sighted up the bore. It was blocked. He thought at first this was some dirt or creosote from the fiberboard carrying case. But Paul had found a length of wire and dug inside. He looked closely at what he scraped off. Somebody had poured molten lead down the muzzle. If he’d fired, the barrel might have exploded or the bolt shot backward through Paul’s cheek.

The gun had been in Morgan’s possession overnight and was the same weapon; Paul had noted a unique configuration in the grain when he was sighting it in yesterday. So Morgan, or whoever he might be, had clearly sabotaged the gun.

Moving fast, he’d ripped twine from the cartons in the shed and hung the rifle from the ceiling to make it appear he was still there then slipped outside, joining a group of other troopers walking north. He’d split off from them at the swimming complex, found a change of clothing and shoes, thrown away the SS uniform and torn up and flushed the Russian passport down a toilet.

Now, a half hour from the stadium, running, running…

Sweating fiercely through the thick cloth, Paul turned off the highway and trotted into a small village center. He found a fountain made from an old horse trough and bent to the spigot, drinking a quart of the hot, rusty water. Then he bathed his face.

How far from the city was he? Probably four miles or so, he guessed. He saw two officers in green uniforms and tall green-and-black hats stopping a large man, demanding his papers.

He turned casually away from them and walked down side streets, deciding it was too risky to continue into Berlin on foot. He noticed a parking lot – rows of cars around a train station. Paul found an open-air DKW and, making sure he was out of sight, used a rock and a broken branch to knock the key lock into the dashboard. He fished underneath for the wires. Using his teeth, he cut through the cloth insulation and twined the copper strands together. He pushed the starter button. The engine ground for a moment but didn’t catch. Grimacing, he realized he’d forgotten to set the choke. He adjusted it to rich and tried again. The engine fired to life and sputtered and he adjusted the knob until it was running smoothly. It took a moment to figure out the gears but soon he was easing east through the narrow streets of the town, wondering who’d sold him out.

And why? Had it been money? Politics? Some other reason?

But at the moment he could find no hint of the answers to those questions. Escaping occupied all his thoughts.

He shoved the accelerator to the floor and turned onto a broad, immaculate highway, passing a sign that assured him that the city center of Berlin was six kilometers away.

Modest quarters, off Bremer Street in the northwest portion of town. Typical of many dwellings in this neighborhood, Reginald Morgan’s was in a gloomy stone four-flat that dated from the Second Empire, though this particular structure summoned up no Prussian glory whatsoever.

Willi Kohl and his inspector candidate climbed from the DKW. They heard more sirens and glanced up to see a truck of SS troops speeding along the roads – yet another installment of the secret security alert, even more extensive than earlier, it seemed, with random roadblocks now being set up throughout the city. Kohl and Janssen themselves were stopped. The SS guard glanced with disdain at the Kripo ID and waved them through. He didn’t respond to the inspector’s query about what was happening and merely snapped, “Move along.”

Kohl now rang the bell beside the thick front door. The inspector tapped his foot with impatience as they waited. Two lengthy rings later a stocky landlady in a dark dress and apron opened the door, eyes wide at the sight of two stern men in suits.

“Hail Hitler. I’m sorry, sirs, that I didn’t get here sooner but my legs aren’t-”

“Inspector Kohl, with the Kripo.” He showed his identity card so the woman would relax somewhat; at least they were not Gestapo.

“Do you know this man?” Janssen displayed the photo taken in Dresden Alley.

“Ach, that’s Mr. Morgan, who lives here! He doesn’t look… Is he dead?”

“Yes, he is.”

“God in heav-” The politically questionable phrase died in her mouth.

“We’d like to see his rooms.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Follow me.” They walked into a courtyard so overwhelmingly bleak, Kohl thought, that it would sadden even Mozart’s irrepressible Papageno. The woman rocked back and forth as she walked. She said breathlessly, “I always thought him a little strange, to tell the truth, sirs.” This was served up with careful glances at Kohl, to make it clear that she was no confederate of Morgan’s, in case he’d been killed by the National Socialists themselves, and yet that his behavior wasn’t so suspicious that she should have denounced him herself.

“We haven’t seen him for a whole day. He went out just before lunch yesterday and he never returned.”

They went through another locked door at the end of the courtyard and up two flights of stairs, which reeked of onion and pickle.

“How long had he lived here?” Kohl asked.

“Three months. He paid for six in advance. And tipped me…” Her voice faded. “But not much.”

“The rooms were furnished?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any visitors you recall?”

“None that I knew of. None that I let into the building.”

“Show her the drawing, Janssen.”

He displayed the picture of Paul Schumann. “Have you seen this man?”

“No, sir. Is he dead too?” She added abruptly, “I mean, sir, no, I’ve never seen him.”

Kohl looked into her eyes. They were evasive, but with fear, not deception, and he believed her. Under questioning, she told him that Morgan was a businessman, he took no phone calls here and picked up his mail at the post office. She didn’t know if he had an office elsewhere. He never said anything specific about his job.

“Leave us now.”

“Hail Hitler,” she replied and scurried off like a mouse.

Kohl looked around the room. “So you see how I made an incorrect deduction, Janssen?”

“How is that, sir?”

“I assumed Mr. Morgan was German because he wore clothes made of Hitler cloth. But not all foreigners are wealthy enough to live on Under the Lindens and to buy top-of-the-line at KaDeWe, though that is our impression.”

Janssen thought for a moment. “That’s true, sir. But there could be another reason he wore ersatz clothes.”

“That he wished to masquerade as a German?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, Janssen. Though perhaps he wanted not so much to masquerade as one of us but more to not draw attention to himself. But either makes him suspicious. Now let’s see if we can make our mystery less mysterious. Start with the closets.”