Garden of Beasts

by Jeffery Deaver

  "This is a matter of certain urgency."

  "I'm sure it is. But, hey, it might be better for you too. We sure don't want to ruffle any feathers. Diplomatically. 'Ruffle feathers,' you know what I mean?"

  "I am understanding the words."

  "So how 'bout if your boss called the embassy or the Olympic Committee. They give me the okay, then whatever you want, I'll hand it to you on a silver platter."

  "The okay. Yes, yes." The U.S. embassy probably would agree, Kohl reflected, if he handled the request properly. The Americans would not want the story to circulate that a killer had gotten into Germany with their Olympic team.

  "Very good, sir," Kohl said politely. "I am be contacting the embassy and the committee as you suggest."

  "Good. You take care now. Hey, and good luck at the Games. Your boys're going to give us a run for our money."

  "I will be in attendance," Kohl said. "I am having my tickets for more than a whole year."

  They said good-bye and Kohl and the inspector candidate stepped outside. "We will call Horcher from the radio in the car, Janssen. He can contact the American embassy, I am sure. This could be--" Kohl stopped speaking. He'd detected a pungent smell. Something familiar, yet out of place. "Something's wrong."

  "What do--?"

  "This way. Quickly!" Kohl began walking fast, around the back of the main American building. The smell was of smoke, not cooking smoke, which one detected often in the summer from grilling braziers, but wood smoke from a stove, rare in July.

  "What is that word, Janssen? On the sign? I cannot make out the English."

  "It says Showers/steam room. "

  "No!"

  "What's the matter, sir?"

  Kohl ran through the door into a large tiled area. The lavatory was to the left, showers to the right, and a separate door led to the steam room. It was this door that Kohl ran to. He flung it open. Inside was a stove on top of which was a large tray filled with rocks. Nearby were buckets of water, which could be ladled onto the hot rocks to produce steam. Two young Negroes in navy blue cotton exercising outfits stood at the stove, in which a fire was blazing. One, bending down to the door, had a round, handsome face with a high hairline, the other was leaner and had thicker hair that came down farther on his forehead. The round-faced one stood and closed the metal stove door. He turned around, cocking his eyebrow toward the inspector with a pleasant smile.

  "Good afternoon, sirs," Kohl said, once again in dreaded English. "I am being--"

  "We heard. How are you doing, Inspector? Grand place you fellows made for us here. The village, I mean."

  "I smelled smoke and was grown concerned."

  "Just getting the fire going."

  "Nothing like steam for achin' muscles," added his friend.

  Kohl stared through the glass door of the stove. The damper was wide open and the flames raged. He saw some sheets of white paper curling to ash inside.

  "Sir," Janssen began sharply in German, "what are they--?" But Kohl cut him off with a shake of his head and glanced at the first man who'd spoken. "You are... ?" Kohl squinted and his eyes went wide. "Yes, yes, you are Jesse Owens, the great runner." In Kohl's German-accented English, the name came out "Yessa Ovens."

  The surprised man extended his sweaty hand. Shaking the firm grip, Kohl glanced to the other Negro.

  "Ralph Metcalfe," the athlete said, introducing himself. A second handshake.

  "He's on the team too," Owens said.

  "Yes, yes, I have heard of you, as well. You won in Los Angeles in the California state at the last Games. Welcome to you too." Kohl's eyes dipped to the fire. "You take the steam bath before you exercise?"

  "Sometimes before, sometimes after," Owens said.

  "You a steam man, Inspector?" Metcalfe asked.

  "Yes, yes, from time to time. Mostly now I soak my feet."

  "Sore feet," Owens said, wincing. "I know all about that. Say, why don't we get outa here, Inspector? It's a heck of a lot cooler outside."

  He held the door open for Kohl and Janssen. The Kripo men hesitated then followed Metcalfe into the grassy area behind the dorm.

  "You've got a beautiful country, Inspector," Metcalfe said.

  "Yes, yes. That is true." Kohl watched the smoke rise from the metal duct above the steam room.

  "Hope you have luck finding that fellow you're looking for," Owens said.

  "Yes, yes. I am supposed it is not useful to ask if you know of anyone who weared a Stetson hat and a green tie. A man of large size?"

  "Sorry, I don't know anyone like that." He glanced at Metcalfe, who shook his head.

  Janssen asked, "Would you know anyone who came here with the team and perhaps left soon? Went on to Berlin or somewhere else?"

  The men glanced at each other. "Nope, afraid not," Owens replied.

  "I sure don't either," Metcalfe added.

  "Ach, well, it is being an honor to meet you both."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "I was followed news of your races in, was it the Michigan state? Last year--the trials?"

  "Ann Arbor. You heard about that?" Owens laughed, again surprised.

  "Yes, yes. World records. Sadly, now we are not getting much news from America. Still, I look forward to the Games. But I am having four tickets and five children and my wife and future son-in-law. We will be present and attending in... shifts, you would say? The heat will not be bothering you?"

  "I grew up running in the Midwest. Pretty much the same weather there."

  With sudden seriousness Janssen said, "You know, there are a lot of people in Germany who hope you don't win."

  Metcalfe frowned and said, "Because of that bull--what Hitler thinks about the coloreds?"

  "No," the young assistant said. Then his face broke into a smile. "Because our bookmakers will be arrested if they accept bets on foreigners. We can only bet on German athletes."

  Owens was amused. "So you're betting against us?"

  "Oh, we would bet in favor of you," Kohl said. "But, alas, we can't."

  "Because it's illegal?"

  "No, because we are only poor policemans with no money. So run like the Luft, the wind, you Americans say, right? Run like the wind, Herr Owens and Herr Metcalfe. I will be in the stands. And cheering you on, though perhaps silently.... Come, Janssen." Kohl got several feet then stopped and turned back. "I must ask again: You are being certain no one has worn the brown Stetson hat?... No, no, of course not, or you would have telled me. Good day."

  They walked around to the front of the dormitory and then toward the exit to the village.

  "Was that the ship's manifest with the name of our killer on it, sir? What the Negroes burned in the stove?"

  "It is possible. But say 'suspect,' remember. Not 'killer.'"

  The smell of the burning paper wafted through the hot air and stung Kohl's nose, taunting him and adding to the frustration.

  "What can we do about it?"

  "Nothing," Kohl said simply, sighing angrily. "We can do nothing. And it was my fault."

  "Your fault, sir?"

  "Ach, the subtleties of our job, Janssen... I wished to give nothing away about our purpose and so I said we wished to see this man about a matter of 'state security,' which we say far too readily nowadays. My words suggested that the crime wasn't the murder of an innocent victim but perhaps an offense against the government--which, of course, was at war with their country less than twenty years ago. Many of those athletes undoubtedly lost relatives, even fathers, to the Kaiser's army, and might feel a patriotic interest in protecting such a man. And now it is too late to retract what I so carelessly said."

  When they reached the street in front of the village, Janssen turned toward where they had parked the DKW. But Kohl asked, "Where are you going?"

  "Aren't we returning to Berlin?"

  "Not yet. We've been denied our passenger manifest. But destruction of evidence implies a reason to destroy it, and that reason might logically be found near the point of its loss. So we'll
make some inquiries. We must continue our trail the hard way, by using our poor feet.... Ach, that food smells good, doesn't it? They're cooking well for the athletes. I remember when I used to swim daily. Years ago. Why, then I could eat whatever I wanted and never gain a gram. Those days are long behind me, I'm afraid. To the right here, Janssen, to the right."

  Reinhard Ernst dropped his phone into its cradle and closed his eyes. He leaned back in the heavy chair in his Chancellory office. For the first time in several days he felt content--no, he felt joyous. A sense of victory swept through him, as keen as when he and his sixty-seven surviving men successfully defended the northwestern redoubt against three hundred Allied troops near Verdun. That had earned him the Iron Cross, first-class--and an admiring look from Wilhelm II (only the Kaiser's withered arm had prevented him from pinning the decoration on Ernst's chest himself)--but this success today, which would be greeted with no public accolades, of course, was far sweeter.

  One of the greatest problems he'd faced in rebuilding the German navy was the section in the Versailles treaty that forbade Germany to have submarines and limited the number of warships to six battleships, six light cruisers, twelve destroyers and twelve torpedo boats.

  Absurd, of course, even for basic defense.

  But last year Ernst had engineered a coup. He and brash Ambassador-at-Large Joachim von Ribbentrop had negotiated the Anglo-German Naval Treaty, which allowed submarine construction and lifted the limitation on Germany's surface navy to 35 percent of the size of England's. But the most important part of the pact had never been tested until now. It had been Ernst's brainstorm to have Ribbentrop negotiate the percentage not in terms of number of ships, as had been the measure at Versailles, but in tonnage.

  Germany now had the legal right to build even more ships than Britain had, as long as the total tonnage never exceeded the magic 35 percent. Moreover, it had been the goal all along of Ernst and Erich Raeder, commander in chief of the navy, to create lighter, more mobile and deadlier fighting vessels, rather than behemoth battleships that made up the bulk of the British war fleet--ships that were vulnerable to attack by aircraft and submarines.

  The only question had been: Would England claim a foul when they reviewed the shipyard construction reports and realized that the German navy would be far bigger than expected?

  The caller on the other end of the line, though, a German diplomatic aide in London, had just reported that the British government had reviewed the figures and approved them without a second thought.

  What a success this was!

  He drafted a note to the Leader to give him the good news and had a runner deliver it in person.

  Just as the clock on the wall was striking four, a bald, middle-aged man wearing a brown tweed jacket and ribbed slacks stepped into Ernst's office. "Colonel, I just--"

  Ernst shook his head and touched his lips, silencing Doctor-professor Ludwig Keitel. The colonel spun around and glanced out the window. "What a delightful afternoon it is."

  Keitel frowned; it was one of the hottest days of the year, close to thirty-four degrees, and the wind was filled with grit. But he remained silent, an eyebrow raised.

  Ernst pointed toward the door. Keitel nodded and together they stepped into the hallway outside and then left the Chancellory. Turning north on Wilhelm Street they continued to Under the Lindens and turned west, chatting only of the weather, the Olympics, a new American movie that was supposed to open soon. Like the Leader, both men admired the American actress Greta Garbo. Her film Anna Karenina had just been approved for release in Germany, despite its Russian setting and questionable morality. Discussing her recent films, they entered the Tiergarten just past the Brandenburg Gate.

  Finally, looking around for tails or surveillance, Keitel spoke. "What is this about, Reinhard?"

  "There is madness among us, Doctor." Ernst sighed.

  "No, are you making a joke?" asked the professor sardonically.

  "Yesterday the Leader asked me for a report on the Waltham Study."

  Keitel took a moment to digest this information. "The Leader? Himself?"

  "I was hoping he would forget it. He has been wholly preoccupied with the Olympics. But apparently not." He showed Keitel Hitler's note and then related the story of how the Leader had learned of the study. "Thanks to the man of many titles and more kilos."

  "Fat Hermann," Keitel said loudly, sighing angrily.

  "Sssh," Ernst said. "Speak through flowers." A common expression nowadays, meaning: Say only good things when mentioning Party officials by name in public.

  Keitel shrugged. In a softer voice he continued, "Why should he care about us?"

  Ernst had neither the time nor the energy to discuss the machinations of the National Socialist government to a man whose life was essentially academic.

  "Well, my friend," Keitel said, "what are we going to do?"

  "I've decided that we go on the offensive. We hit back hard. We'll give him a report--by Monday. A detailed report."

  "Two days?" Keitel scoffed. "We have only raw data and even that's very limited. Can't you tell him that in a few months we'll have better analysis? We could--"

  "No, Doctor," Ernst said, laughing. If one could not speak through flowers, a whisper would do. "One does not tell the Leader to wait a few months. Or a few days or minutes. No, it's best for us to do this now. A lightning strike. That's what we must do. Goring will continue his intriguing and may meddle enough so that the Leader digs deeper, doesn't like what be sees and stops the study altogether. The file he stole was some of Freud's writings. That's what he mentioned in the meeting yesterday. I think the phrase was 'Jew mind-doctor.' You should have seen the Leader's face. I thought I was on my way to Oranienburg."

  "Freud was brilliant," Keitel whispered. "The ideas are important."

  "We can use his ideas. And those of the other psychologists. But--"

  "Freud is a psycho analyst."

  Ach, academics, Ernst thought. Worse than politicians. "But we won't attribute them in our study."

  "That's intellectually dishonest," Keitel said sullenly. "Moral integrity is important."

  "Under these circumstances, no, it's not" was Ernst's firm response. "We're not going to publish the work in some university journal. That's not what this is about."

  "Fine, fine," Keitel said impatiently. "That still doesn't address my concern. Not enough data."

  "I know. I've decided we must find more volunteers. A dozen. It will be the biggest group yet--to impress the Leader and make him ignore Goring."

  The doctor-professor scoffed. "We won't have time. By Monday morning? No, no, we can't."

  "Yes, we can. We have to. Our work is too important to lose in this skir mish. We'll have another session at the college tomorrow afternoon. I'll write up our magnificent vision of the new German army for the Leader. In my best diplomatic prose. I know the right turn of phrase." He looked around. Another whisper: "We'll cut the air minister's fat legs out from underneath him."

  "I suppose we can try," Keitel said uncertainly.

  "No, we will do it," Ernst said. "There is no such thing as 'trying.' Either one succeeds or one does not." He realized he was sounding like an officer lecturing a subordinate. He smiled wistfully and added, "I'm no happier about it than you, Ludwig. This weekend I had hoped to relax. Spend some time with my grandson. We were going to carve a boat together. But there'll be time for recreation later." The colonel added, "After we're dead."

  Keitel said nothing but Ernst felt the doctor-professor's head turn uncertainly toward him.

  "I am joking, my friend," the colonel said. "I am joking. Now, let me tell you some marvelous news about our new navy."

  Chapter Thirteen

  The greened bronze of Hitler, standing tall above fallen but noble troops, in November 1923 Square, was impressive but it was located in a neighborhood very different from the others Paul Schumann had seen in Berlin. Papers blew in the dusty wind and there was a sour smell of garbage in the air.
Hawkers sold cheap merchandise and fruit, and an artist at a rickety cart would draw your portrait for a few pfennigs. Aging unlicensed prostitutes and young pimps lounged in doorways. Men missing limbs and rigged with bizarre leather and metal prosthetic braces limped or wheeled up and down the sidewalks, begging. One had a sign pinned to his chest: I gave my legs for my country. What can you give me?

  It was as if he'd stepped through the curtain behind which Hitler had swept all the trash and undesirables of Berlin.

  Paul walked through a rusty iron gate and sat facing the statue of Hitler on one of the benches, a half dozen of which were occupied.

  He noticed a bronze plaque and read it, learning that the monument was dedicated to the Beer Hall Putsch, in the fall of 1923, when, according to the turgid prose set in metal, the noble visionaries of National Socialism heroically took on the corrupt Weimar state and tried to wrest the country out of the hands of the stabbers-in-the-back (the German language, Paul knew, was very keen on combining as many words as possible into one).

  He soon grew bored with the lengthy, breathless accolades for Hitler and Goring and sat back, wiped his face. The sun was lowering but it was still bright and mercilessly hot. He'd been sitting for only a minute or two when Reggie Morgan crossed the street, stepped through the gate and joined Paul.

  "You found the place all right, I see." Again speaking his flawless German. He laughed, nodding at the statue, and lowered his voice. "Glorious, hmm? The truth is a bunch of drunks tried to take over Munich and got swatted like flies. At the first gunshot Hitler dove to the ground and he only survived because he pulled a body of a 'comrade' on top of him." Then he looked Paul over. "You look different. Your hair. Clothes." Then he focused on the sticking plaster. "What happened to you?"

  He explained about the fight with the Stormtroopers.

  Morgan frowned. "Was it about Dresden Alley? Were they looking for you?"

  "No. They were beating these people who ran a bookshop. I didn't want to get involved but I couldn't let them die. I've changed clothes. My hair too. But I'll need to steer clear of Brownshirts."

  Morgan nodded. "I don't think there's a huge danger. They won't go to the SS or Gestapo about the matter--they prefer to mete out revenge by themselves. But the ones you tangled with will stay close to Rosenthaler Street. They never go far afield. You're not hurt otherwise? Your shooting hand is all right?"