"Thank you. But there was no hurry."
Paul stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray but, when it was cool, slipped it into his pocket, ever careful not to leave traces that might place him somewhere.
Morgan leaned forward, smiling as if whispering a bawdy joke. "Inside the book's a hundred marks. And the address of the place you'll be staying, a boardinghouse. It's near Lutzow Plaza, south of the Tiergarten. I wrote down directions too."
"Is it on the ground floor?"
"The apartment? I don't know. I didn't ask. You're thinking of escape routes?"
Specifically he was thinking of Malone's binge-nest with its sealed doors and windows and a welcoming party of armed sailors. "That's right."
"Well, have a look at it. Maybe you can swap if there's a problem. The landlady seems agreeable. Her name is Kathe Richter."
"Is she a Nazi?"
Morgan said softly, "Don't use that word here. It will give you away. 'Nazi' is Bavarian slang for 'simpleton.' The proper abbreviation is 'Nazo,' but you don't hear that much either. Say 'National Socialist.' Some people use the initials, NSDAP. Or you can refer to the 'Party.' And say it reverently.... Regarding Miss Richter, she doesn't seem to have any sympathies one way or the other." Nodding at the beer, Morgan asked, "You don't care for that?"
"Piss water."
Morgan laughed. "It's wheat beer. Children drink it. Why did you order it?"
"There were a thousand kinds. I'd never heard of any of them."
"I'll order for us."
When the waiter arrived he said, "Please, bring us two Pschorr ales. And sausage and bread. With cabbage and pickled cucumbers. Butter if you have any today."
"Yes, sir." He took away Paul's glass.
Morgan continued. "In the book there's also a Russian passport with your picture in it and some rubles, about a hundred dollars' worth. In an emergency make your way to the Swiss border. The Germans'll be happy to get another Russian out of their country and they'll let you pass. They won't take the rubles because they won't be allowed to spend them. The Swiss won't care that you're a Bolshevik and will be delighted to let you in to spend the money. Go to Zurich and get a message to the U.S. embassy. Gordon will get you out. Now, after Dresden Alley we must be extremely careful. Like I said, something is clearly going on in town. There are far more patrols on the street than usual: Stormtroopers, which is not particularly odd--they have nothing to do with their time but march and patrol--but SS and Gestapo too."
"They are... ?"
"SS... Did you see the two out on the patio? In the black uniforms?"
"Yes."
"They were originally Hitler's guard detail. Now they're another private army. Mostly they wear black but some of the uniforms are gray. The Gestapo is the secret police force, plainclothes. They're small in number but very dangerous. Their jurisdiction is political crimes mostly. But in Germany now anything can be a political crime. You spit on the sidewalk, it's an offense to the honor of the Leader so off you go to Moabit Prison or a concentration camp."
The Pschorr beers and food arrived and Paul drank down half of the brew at once. It was earthy and rich. "Now, that's good."
"You like it? After I got here I realized I could never drink American beer again. To be able to brew beer, it takes years of learning. It's as respected as a university degree. Berlin is the brewing capital of Europe but they make the best in Munich, down in Bavaria."
Paul ate hungrily. But beer and food were not the first things on his mind. "We have to move fast," he whispered. In his profession every hour you were near the site of the touch-off increased the risk of getting caught. "I need information and I need a weapon."
Morgan nodded. "My contact should be here any minute. He has details about... the man you're here to visit. Then this afternoon we'll go to a pawnshop. The owner has a good rifle for you."
"Rifle?" Paul frowned.
Morgan was troubled. "You can't shoot a rifle?"
"Yes, I can shoot one. I was infantry. But I always work up close."
"Close? That's easier for you?"
"It's not a question of easy. It's more efficient."
"Well, believe me, Paul, it may be possible, though very difficult, to get close enough to your target to kill him with a pistol. But there are so many Brownshirts and SS and Gestapo hovering about that you'd without doubt be caught. And I guarantee that your death would be lengthy and unpleasant. But there's another reason to use a rifle--he has to be killed in public."
"Why?" Paul asked.
"The Senator said that everybody in the German government and the Party knows how crucial Ernst is to rearming. It's important to make certain that whoever replaces him knows they'll be in danger too if they take up where he left off. If Ernst dies in private, Hitler would cover it up, claim he'd been killed in an accident or died of some illness."
"Then I'll do it in public," Paul said. "With a rifle. But I'll need to sight-in the gun, get a feel for it, find a good killing field, examine it ahead of time, see what the breezes are like, the light, the routes to and from the place."
"Of course. You're the expert. Whatever you want."
Paul finished his meal. "After what happened in the alley, I need to go to ground. I want to get my things from the Olympic Village and move to the boardinghouse as soon as possible. Is the room ready now?"
Morgan told him that it was.
Paul sipped more beer then pulled Hitler's book toward him, rested it in his lap, flipped through it, found the passport, money and address. He took out the slip of paper on which was jotted the information on the boardinghouse. Dropping the book in his briefcase, he memorized the address and directions, casually wiped the note in beer spilled on the table and kneaded it in his strong hands until it was a wad of pulp. He slipped this into his pocket with the cigarette butts for later disposal.
Morgan lifted an eyebrow.
They told me you were good.
Paul nodded toward his satchel, whispering, " My Struggle. Hitler's book. What exactly is it?"
"Somebody called it a collection of 160,000 grammatical errors. It's supposedly Hitler's philosophy but basically it's impenetrable nonsense. But you might want to keep it." Morgan smiled. "Berlin is a city of shortages and at the moment toilet tissue is hard to find."
A brief laugh. Then Paul asked, "This man we're about to meet... why can we trust him?"
"In Germany now trust is a curious thing. The risk is so grave and so prevalent that it's not enough to trust someone just because they believe in your cause. In my contact's case, his brother was a union organizer murdered by Stormtroopers, so he sympathizes with us. But I am not willing to risk my life on that alone. So I have paid him a great deal of money. There is an expression here: 'Whose bread I eat is whose song I sing.' Well, Max eats a great deal of my bread. And he's in the precarious position of having already sold me some very helpful and, for him, compromising material. This is a perfect example of how trust works here: You must either bribe someone or threaten him, and I prefer to do both simultaneously."
The door opened and Morgan squinted in recognition. "Ah, that's he," he whispered. A thin man in worker's coveralls entered the restaurant, a small rucksack slung over his shoulder. He looked around, blinking to acclimate his vision to the dimness. Morgan waved his hand and the man joined them. He was clearly nervous, eyes darting from Paul to the other patrons to the waiters to the shadows in the corridors that led to the lavatory and the kitchen, then back to Paul.
"They" is everybody in Germany now....
He sat at the table, first with his back to the door, then switched seats so that he could see the rest of the restaurant.
"Good afternoon," Morgan said.
"Hail Hitler."
"Hail," Paul replied.
"My friend here has asked that he be called Max. He has done work for the man you've come to see. Around his house. He delivers goods there and knows the housekeeper and gardener. He lives in the same town, Charlottenburg, west of h
ere."
Max declined food or beer and had only coffee, into which he poured sugar that left a dusty scum on the surface. He stirred vigorously.
"I need to know everything you can tell me about him," Paul whispered.
"Yes, yes, I will." But he fell silent and looked around again. He wore his suspicion like the lotion that plastered down his thinning hair. Paul found the uneasiness irritating, not to mention dangerous. Max opened the rucksack and offered a dark green folder to Paul. Sitting back so no one could see the contents, he opened it and found himself looking at a half dozen wrinkled photographs. They depicted a man in a business suit, which was tailored, the clothing of a meticulous, conscientious man. He was in his fifties and had a round head and short gray or white hair. He wore wire-rimmed glasses.
Paul asked, "These are definitely of him? What about doubles?"
"He doesn't use doubles." The man took a sip of coffee with shaking hands and looked around the restaurant again.
Paul finished studying them. He was going to tell Max to keep the photos and destroy them when he got home but the man seemed too nervous and the American imagined him panicking and leaving them on the tram or subway. He slipped the folder into his satchel, next to Hitler's book; he'd dispose of them later.
"Now," Paul said, leaning forward, "tell me about him. Everything you know."
Max relayed what he knew about Reinhard Ernst: The colonel retained the discipline and air of a military man though he'd been out of the service for some years. He would rise early and work long, long hours, six or seven days a week. He exercised regularly and was an expert shot. He often carried a small automatic pistol. His office was on Wilhelm Street, in the Chancellory building, and he drove himself to and from the office, rarely accompanied by a guard. His car was an open-air Mercedes.
Paul was considering what the man had said. "This Chancellory? He's there every day?"
"Usually, yes. Though sometimes he travels to shipyards or, recently, to Krupp's works."
"Who's Krupp?"
"His companies make munitions and armor."
"At the Chancellory, where would he park?"
"I don't know, sir. I've never been there."
"Can you find out where he'll be in the next few days? When he might go to the office?"
"Yes, I'll try." A pause. "I don't know if..." Max's voice faded.
"What?" Paul asked.
"I know some things about his personal life too. About his wife, daughter-in-law, his grandson. Do you want to know that side of his life? Or would you rather not?"
Touching the ice...
"No," Paul said in a whisper. "Tell me everything."
They drove down Rosenthaler Street, as quickly as the tiny engine could carry them, toward the Summer Garden restaurant.
Konrad Janssen asked his boss, "Sir, a question?"
"Yes?"
"Inspector Krauss was hoping to find that a foreigner was the killer and we have evidence that the suspect is one. Why didn't you tell him that?"
"Evidence that suggests that he might be one. And not very strongly. Merely that he might have had an accent and that he whistled for a taxi."
"Yes, sir. But shouldn't we have mentioned it? We could use the Gestapo's resources."
Heavyset Kohl was breathing hard and sweating furiously in the heat. He liked the summer because the family could enjoy the Tiergarten and Luna Park or drive to Wannsee or the Havel River for picnics. But for climate he was an autumn person at heart. He wiped his forehead and replied, "No, Janssen, we should not have mentioned it nor should we have sought the Gestapo's help. And this is why: First, since the consolidation last month, the Gestapo and SS are doing whatever they can to strip the Kripo of its independence. We must retain as much as we can and that means we need to do our job alone. And second, and much, much more important: The Gestapo's 'resources' are often simply arresting anyone who seems in the least guilty--of anything. And sometimes arresting those who are clearly innocent but whose arrests might be convenient. "
Kripo headquarters contained six hundred holding cells, whose purpose had once been like those in police stations everywhere: to detain criminal arrestees until they were released or tried. Presently these cells--filled to overflowing--held those accused of vague political crimes and were over-seen by Stormtroopers, brutal young men in brown uniforms and white armbands. The cells were merely temporary stops on the way to a concentration camp or Gestapo headquarters on Prince Albrecht Street. Sometimes to the cemetery.
Kohl continued. "No, Janssen, we're craftsmen practicing the refined art of police work, not Saxon farmers armed with sickles to mow down dozens of citizens in the pursuit of a single guilty man."
"Yes, sir."
"Never forget that." He shook his head. "Ach, how much harder it is to do our job in this moral quicksand around us." As he pulled the car to the curb he glanced at his assistant. "Janssen, you could have me arrested, you know, and sent to Oranienburg for a year for saying what I just did."
"I wouldn't say anything, sir."
Kohl killed the ignition. They climbed out, then trotted quickly up the broad sidewalk toward the Summer Garden. As they got closer Willi Kohl detected the scent of well-marinated sauerbraten, for which this place was known. His stomach growled.
Janssen was carrying a copy of the National Socialist newspaper, The People's Observer, which featured Goring prominently on the front page, wearing a jaunty hat of a cut that wasn't common in Berlin. Thinking of these particular accessories, Kohl glanced at his assistant; the inspector candidate's fair face was growing red from the July sun. Did today's young people not realize that hats had been created for a purpose?
As they approached the restaurant Kohl motioned Janssen to slow. They paused beside a lamppost and studied the Summer Garden. There were not many diners remaining at this hour. Two SS officers were paying and leaving, which was just as well, since, for the reasons he'd just explained to Janssen, he preferred to say nothing about the case. The only men remaining were a middle-aged fellow in lederhosen and a pensioner.
Kohl noted the thick curtains, protecting them from surveillance from inside. He nodded to Janssen and they stepped onto the deck, the inspector asking each diner if he'd seen a large man in a brown hat enter the restaurant.
The pensioner nodded. "A big man? Indeed, Detective. I didn't look clearly but I believe he walked inside about twenty minutes ago."
"He's still there?"
"He hasn't come out, not that I saw."
Janssen stiffened like a beagle on a scent. "Sir, shall we call the Orpo?"
These were the uniformed Order Police, housed in barracks, ready, as the name suggested, to keep order by use of rifles, machine pistols and truncheons. But Kohl thought again of the mayhem that could erupt if they were summoned, especially against an armed suspect in a restaurant filled with patrons. "No, I think we won't, Janssen. We'll be more subtle. You go around the back of the restaurant and wait at the door. If anyone comes out, whether in a hat or not, detain him. Remember--our suspect is armed. Now move surreptitiously."
"Yes, sir."
The young man stopped at the alley and, with an extremely unsurreptitious wave, turned the corner and vanished.
Kohl casually started forward and paused, as if perusing the posted menu. Then he moved closer, feeling uneasiness, feeling too the weight of his revolver in his pocket. Until the National Socialists came to power few Kripo detectives carried weapons. But several years ago, when then Interior Minister Goring had expanded the many police forces in the country, he'd ordered every policeman to carry a weapon and, to the shock of Kohl and his colleagues in the Kripo, to use them liberally. He'd actually issued an edict saying that a policeman would be reprimanded for failing to shoot a suspect, but not for shooting someone who turned out to be innocent.
Willi Kohl hadn't fired a weapon since 1918.
Yet, picturing the shattered skull of the victim in Dresden Alley, he now was pleased that he had the gun with him. K
ohl adjusted his jacket, made sure he could grab the gun quickly if he needed to and took a deep breath. He pushed through the doorway.
And froze like a statue, panicked. The interior of the Summer Garden was quite dark and his eyes were used to the brilliant sunlight outside; he was momentarily blinded. Foolish, he thought angrily to himself. He should have considered this. Here he stood with "Kripo" written all over him, a clear target for an armed suspect.
He stepped further inside and closed the door behind him. In his cottony vision, people moved throughout the restaurant. Some men, he believed, were standing. Someone was moving toward him.
Kohl stepped back, alarmed. His hand went toward the pocket containing his revolver.
"Sir, a table? Sit where you like."
He squinted and slowly his vision began returning.
"Sir?" the waiter repeated.
"No," he said. "I'm looking for someone."
Finally the inspector was able to see normally again.
The restaurant contained only a dozen patrons. None was a large man with a brown hat and light suit. He started into the kitchen.
"Sir, you can't--"
Kohl displayed his identification card to the waiter.
"Yes, sir," the man said timidly.
Kohl walked through the stupefyingly hot kitchen and to the back door. He opened it. "Janssen?"
"No one came through the door, sir."
The inspector candidate joined his boss and they returned to the dining room.
Kohl motioned the waiter over to them.
"Sir, what is your name?"
"Johann."
"Well, Johann, have you seen a man in here, within the past twenty minutes, wearing a hat like this?" Kohl nodded at Janssen, who displayed the picture of Goring.
"Why, yes, I have. He and his companions just left moments ago. It seemed rather suspicious. They left by the side door."
He pointed to the empty table. Kohl sighed with disgust. It was one of the two tables next to the windows. Yes, the curtain was thick but he noted a tiny gap at the side; their suspect had undoubtedly seen them canvassing the patrons on the patio.
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