"No. There's nothing to report at this time. As the name suggests it's merely a study being conducted through Waltham Military College. To gather information. That's all. Nothing may come of it." Ashamed to be playing this game, he added, putting some of Goebbels's sycophantic shine in his eyes, "But it is possible that the results will show us ways in which to create a much stronger, more efficient army to achieve the glorious goals you've established for our fatherland."
Ernst could not tell if this bootlicking had any effect. Hitler rose and paced. He walked to an elaborate model of the Olympic stadium grounds and stared at it for a long moment. Ernst could feel his heartbeat thudding all the way to his teeth.
The Leader turned and shouted, "I wish to see my architect. Immediately."
"Yes, sir," his aide said and hurried to the ante-office.
A moment later a man entered the room, though it was not Albert Speer, but black-uniformed Heinrich Himmler, whose weak chin, diminutive physique and round black-rimmed glasses nearly made you forget that he was the absolute ruler of the SS, Gestapo and every other police force in the country.
Himmler gave his typical stiff salute and turned his adoring, blue-gray eyes toward Hitler, who responded with his own standard greeting, a limp over-the-shoulder flap.
The SS leader glanced around the room and concluded that he could share whatever news had brought him here.
Hitler gestured absently toward the coffee and chocolate service. Himmler shook his head. Usually in utter control--aside from the fawning looks sent the Leader's way--the police chief today had an edginess about him, Ernst observed. "I have a security matter to report. An SS commander in Hamburg received a letter this morning, dated today. It was addressed to him by title, but not name. It claimed that some Russian was going to cause some 'damage' in Berlin in the next few days. At 'high levels,' it said."
"Written by whom?"
"He described himself as a loyal National Socialist. But gave no name. It was found in the street. We don't know any more about its origin." Revealing perfectly white, even teeth, the man gave a wince, like a child disappointing his parent. He removed his glasses, wiped the lenses and replaced them. "Whoever sent it said that he was continuing to investigate and would send the man's identity when he learned it. But we never heard anything further. Finding the note in the street suggests the sender was intercepted and perhaps killed. We might never learn more."
Hitler asked, "The language? German?"
"Yes, my Leader."
"'Damage.' What sort of damage?"
"We don't know."
"Ach, the Bolsheviks would love to disrupt our Games." Hitler's face was a mask of fury.
Goring asked, "You think it's legitimate?"
Himmler replied, "It may be nothing. But tens of thousands of foreigners are passing through Hamburg these days. It's possible someone learned of a plot and didn't want to get involved so he wrote an anonymous note. I would urge everyone here to exercise particular caution. I will contact military commanders too and the other ministers. I've told all our security forces to look into the matter."
His voice raw with anger, Hitler raged, "Do what you must! Everything! There will be no taint on our Games." And, unnervingly, a fraction of a second later, his voice was calm and his blue eyes bright. He leaned forward to refill his cup with chocolate and place two zwieback biscuits on the saucer. "Please, now, you may all leave. Thank you. I need to consider some building matters." He called to the aide in the doorway, "Where is Speer?"
"He will be here momentarily, my Leader."
The men walked to the door. Ernst's heart had resumed its normal, slow beat. What had just happened was typical of the way the inner circle of the National Socialist government worked. Intrigue, which could have disastrous results, simply vanished like crumbs swept over the door stoop. As for Goring's plotting, well, he--
"Colonel?" Hitler's voice called.
Ernst stopped immediately and looked back.
The Leader was staring at the mock-up of the stadium, examining the newly constructed train station. He said, "You will prepare a report on this Waltham Study of yours. In detail. I will receive it on Monday."
"Yes, of course, my Leader."
At the door Goring held his arm out, palm upward, letting Ernst exit first. "I will see that you receive those misdirected documents, Reinhard. And I do hope you and Gertrud will attend my Olympic party."
"Thank you, Mr. Minister. I will make a point of being there."
Friday evening, misty and warm, fragrant with the scent of cut grass, overturned earth and sweet, fresh paint.
Paul Schumann strolled by himself through the Olympic Village, a half hour west of Berlin.
He'd arrived not long before, after the complicated journey from Hamburg. It had been an exhausting day, yes. But invigorating too and he was stoked by the excitement of being in a foreign land--his ancestral home-- and the anticipation of his mission. He had shown his press pass and been admitted to the American portion of the village--dozens of buildings housing fifty or sixty people each. He'd left his suitcase and satchel in one of the small guestrooms in the back, where he'd stay for a few nights, and was now walking through the spotless grounds. As he looked around the village he was amused. Paul Schumann was used to a lot rougher venues for sports-- his own gym, for instance, which hadn't been painted in five years and smelled of sweat and rotten leather and beer, no matter how energetically Sorry Williams scrubbed and mopped. The village was, however, just what the name suggested: a quaint town all its own. Set in a birch forest, the place was beautifully laid out in sweeping arcs of low, immaculate buildings, with a lake and curved paths and trails for running and walking, training fields and even its own sports arena.
According to the guidebook Andrew Avery had included in his satchel, the village had a customs office, stores, pressroom, a post office and bank, gas station, sporting goods store, souvenir stands, food shops and travel office.
The athletes were presently at the welcoming ceremony, which he'd been urged to attend by Jesse Owens, Ralph Metcalfe and the young boxer he'd sparred with. But now that he was in the locale of the touch-off, he needed to lay low. He'd begged off, saying he had to get some work done for interviews the next morning. He'd eaten in the dining hall--had one of the best steaks of his life--and after a coffee and a Chesterfield was now finishing his walk through the village.
The only thing troubling to him, considering the reason he was in the country, was that each nation's dorm complex was assigned a German soldier, a "liaison officer." In the U.S. facility this was a stern, young, brown-haired man in a gray uniform that seemed unbearably uncomfortable in the heat. Paul stayed as clear of him as possible; the contact here, Reginald Morgan, had warned Avery that Paul should be wary of anyone in uniform. He used only the back door to his dorm and made sure the guard never got a close look at him.
As he strolled along the swept sidewalk he saw one of the American track athletes with a young woman and baby; several team members had brought wives and other relatives with them. This put Paul in mind of the conversation with his brother last week, just before the Manhattan had sailed.
Paul had distanced himself from his brother and sister and their families for the past decade; he didn't want to visit the violence and danger tainting his own life on theirs. His sister lived in Chicago and he got there rarely but he did see Hank sometimes. He lived on Long Island and ran the printing plant that was the descendant of their grandfather's. He was a solid husband and father, who didn't know for sure what his brother did for a living, except that he associated with tough guys and criminals.
Although Paul hadn't shared any personal information with Bull Gordon or the others in The Room, the main reason he'd decided to agree to come to Germany for this job was that wiping his record clean and getting all that scratch might let him reconnect with the family, which he'd dreamed about doing for years.
He'd had a shot of whisky, then another, and finally picked up the
phone and called his brother at home. After ten minutes of nervous small talk about the heat wave and the Yankees and Hank's two boys, Paul had taken the plunge and asked if Hank might be interested in having a partner at Schumann Printing. He quickly reassured, "I'm not having anything to do with my old crowd anymore." Then he added that he could bring $10,000 into the business. "Legit dough. One hundred percent."
"Mother of pearl," Hank said. And they'd both laughed at the expression, a favorite of their father's.
"There's one problem," Hank added gravely.
Paul understood that the man was about to say no, thinking of his brother's shady career.
But the elder Schumann added, "We'll have to buy a new sign. There's not enough room for 'Schumann Brothers Printing' on the one I got."
The ice broken, they talked about the plan some more. Paul was surprised that Hank sounded almost tearfully touched at this overture. Family was key to Hank and he couldn't understand Paul's distance in the past ten years.
Tall, beautiful Marion, Paul had decided, would like that life too. Oh, she played at being bad, but it was an act, and Paul knew enough to give her only a small taste of the seamy life. He'd introduced her to Damon Runyon, served her beer in a bottle at the gym, taken her to the bar in Hell's Kitchen where Owney Madden used to charm ladies with his British accent and show off his pearl-handled pistols. But he knew that like a lot of renegade college girls, Marion would get tired of the tough life if she actually had to live it. Dime-dancing would wear thin as well, and she'd want something more stable. Being the wife of a well-off printer would be aces.
Hank had said he was going to talk to his lawyer and have a partnership agreement drawn up for Paul to sign as soon as he got back from his "business trip."
Now, returning to his room at the dorm, Paul noticed three boys in shorts, brown shirts and black ties, wearing brown, military-style hats. He'd seen dozens of such youngsters here, assisting the teams. The trio marched toward a tall pole, at the top of which flew the Nazi flag. Paul had seen the banner in newsreels and in the papers but the images had always been in black and white. Even now, at dusk, the flag's crimson was striking, brilliant as fresh blood.
One boy noticed him watching and asked in German, "You are an athlete, sir? Yet you're not at the ceremony we are hosting?"
Paul thought it better not to give away his linguistic skills, even to Boy Scouts, so he said in English, "Sorry, I don't speak German so well."
The boy switched to Paul's language. "You are an athlete?"
"No, I'm a journalist."
"You are English or American?"
"American."
"Ach," the cheerful youngster said in a thick accent, "welcome to Berlin, mein Herr. "
"Thank you."
The second boy noted Paul's gaze and said, "You are liking our Party's flag? It is, would you say, impressing, yes?"
"Yeah, it is." The Stars and Stripes was somehow softer. This flag sort of punched you.
The first boy said, "Please, each parts is having a meaning, an important meaning. Do you know what are those?"
"No. Tell me." Paul looked up at the banner.
Happy to explain, he said enthusiastically, "Red, that is socialism. The white is, no doubt, for nationalism. And the black... the hooked cross. You would say swastika...." He looked at Paul with a raised eyebrow and said nothing more.
"Yes," Paul said. "Go on. What does that mean?"
The boy glanced at his companions then back to Paul with a curious smile. He said, "Ach, surely you know."
To his friends he said in German, "I will lower the flag now." Smiling, he repeated to Paul, "Surely you know." And frowning in concentration, he brought the flag down as the other two extended their hands in one of those stiff-armed salutes you saw everywhere.
As Paul walked toward the dorm, the boys broke into a song, which they sang with uneven, energetic voices. He heard snatches of it rising and falling on the hot air as he strolled away: "Hold high the banner, close the ranks. The SA marches on with firm steps.... Give way, give way to the brown battalions, as the Stormtroopers clear the land.... The trumpet calls its final blast. For battle we stand ready. Soon all streets will see Hitler's flag and our slavery will be over...."
Paul looked back to see them fold the flag reverently and march off with it. He slipped through the back entrance of his dorm and returned to his room, where he washed, cleaned his teeth then stripped and dropped onto his bed. He stared at the ceiling for a long time, waiting for sleep as he thought about Heinsler--the man who'd killed himself that morning on the ship, making such a passionate, foolish sacrifice.
Thinking too of Reinhard Ernst.
And finally, as he began to doze, thinking of the boy in the brown uniform. Seeing his mysterious smile. Hearing his voice over and over: Surely you know... surely you know....
III
GORING'S HAT
SATURDAY, 25 JULY, 1936
Chapter Five
The streets of Berlin were immaculate and the people pleasant, many nodding as he walked past. Carting the beat-up old briefcase, Paul Schumann was walking north through the Tiergarten. It was late morning on Saturday and he was on his way to meet Reggie Morgan.
The park was beautiful, filled with dense trees, walkways and lakes, gardens. In New York's Central Park, you were forever aware of the city around you; the skyscrapers were visible everywhere. But Berlin was a low city, very few tall buildings here, "cloud catchers," he overheard a woman say to a young child on the bus. On his walk through the park with its black trees and thick vegetation he lost any sense that he was in the city at all. It reminded Paul of the dense woods in upstate New York where his grandfather had taken him hunting every summer until the old man's failing health had prevented them from making the trips.
An uneasiness crept over him. This was a familiar feeling: the heightened senses at the beginning of a job, when he was looking over the touch-off's office or apartment, following him, learning what he could about the man. Instinctively he paused from time to time and would glance casually behind him, as if orienting himself. No one seemed to be following. But he couldn't tell for sure. The forest was very dim in places and someone might easily have been eyeing him. Several scruffy men looked his way suspiciously and then slipped into the trees or bushes. Probably hoboes or bums but he took no chances and changed direction a number of times to throw off anyone who might be tailing him.
He crossed the murky Spree River and found Spener Street then continued north, away from the park, noting that, curiously, the homes were in vastly different states of repair. Some were grand while right next door might be others that were abandoned and derelict. He passed one in which brown weeds filled the front yard. At one point the house had clearly been very luxurious. Now, most of the windows were broken and someone, young punks, he assumed, had splashed yellow paint on it. A sign announced that a sale of the contents would be taking place on Saturday. Tax problems, maybe, Paul thought. What had happened to the family? Where had they gone? Hard times, he sensed. Changed circumstances.
The sun finally sets...
He found the restaurant easily. He saw the sign but didn't even notice the word "Bierhaus." To him it was "Beer House." He was already thinking in German. His upbringing and the hours of typesetting at his grandfather's plant made the translations automatic. He looked over the place. A half dozen lunchers sat on the patio, men and women, solitary for the most part, lost in their food or newspapers. Nothing out of kilter that he could see.
Paul crossed the street to the passageway Avery had told him about, Dresden Alley. He walked into the dark, cool canyon. The time was a few minutes before noon.
A moment later he heard footsteps. Then a heavyset man in a brown suit and waistcoat strode up behind him, working a toothpick in his teeth.
"Good day," the man said cheerfully in German. He glanced at the brown leather briefcase.
Paul nodded. He was the way Avery'd described Morgan, though he was heavier
than Paul had expected.
"This is a good shortcut, don't you think? I use it often."
"It certainly is." Paul glanced at him. "Maybe you can help me. What's the best tram to take to get to Alexander Plaza?"
But the man frowned. "The tram? Do you mean from here?"
Paul grew more alert. "Yes. To Alexander Plaza."
"Why would you take the tram? The underground is much faster."
Okay, Paul thought; he's the wrong one. Get away. Now. Just walk slowly. "Thank you. That's most helpful. Good day to you."
But Paul's eyes must have revealed something. The man's hand strayed to his side, a gesture Paul knew well, and he thought: pistol!
Goddamn them for sending him out here without his Colt.
Paul's fists clenched and he started forward but, for a fat man, his adversary was surprisingly quick and leapt back, out of Paul's reach, deftly pulling a black pistol from his belt. Paul could only turn and flee. He sprinted around a corner into a short offshoot of the alley.
He stopped fast. It was a dead end.
A scrape of shoe behind him and he felt the man's weapon against his back, level with his heart....
"Don't move," the man announced in guttural German. "Drop the bag."
He dropped the briefcase on the cobblestones, feeling the gun leave his back and touch his head, just below the sweatband of his hat.
Father, he thought--not to the deity but to his own parent, gone from this earth twelve years.
He closed his eyes.
The sun finally sets...
The shot was abrupt. It echoed briefly off the walls of the alley and then was smothered by the brick.
Cringing, Paul felt the muzzle of the gun press harder into his skull and then the weapon fell away; he heard it clatter on the cobblestones. He stepped away fast, crouching, and turned to see the man who'd been about to kill him crumpling to the ground. His eyes were open but glazed. A bullet had struck him in the side of the head. Blood spattered the ground and brick wall.
He looked up and saw another man, in a charcoal-gray flannel suit, approaching him. Instinct took over and Paul swept up the dead man's pistol. It was an automatic of some sort with a toggle on the top, a Luger, he believed. Aiming at the man's chest, Paul squinted. He recognized the fellow from the Beer House. He'd been sitting on the patio, lost in his newspaper--Paul had assumed. He held a pistol, a large automatic of some kind, but it wasn't pointed at Paul; he was still aiming at the man on the ground.
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