Garden of Beasts

by Jeffery Deaver

  Paul slipped back behind cover. But not before he caught a glimpse of Otto Webber lying on the floor, writhing slowly as he gripped his belly, which was stained with blood.

  No...

  "You Jew!" the young trooper raged. "You will throw down your gun at once. There will soon be a hundred men here."

  Paul made his way to the front of the building, where he could cover both the front and back doors. He glanced quickly out the window and saw a lone motorcycle parked in front. He knew the young man was merely making a routine check of the warehouse and there would be no others coming. But someone might have heard the shot. And the SS man could simply stay where he was, keeping Paul pinned down, until his superior realized he hadn't reported back and sent more troops to the warehouse.

  He looked out from his end of the stack of crates. He had no idea where the soldier was. He--

  Another gunshot echoed. Glass splintered the front window, nowhere near Paul.

  The SS guard had fired through the glass to draw attention; he'd shot directly into the street, not caring if he hit anyone.

  "You Jew pig!" the man raged. "Stand up and raise your hands or you'll die screaming in Columbia House!" The voice came from a different place this time, closer to the front of the warehouse. He'd crawled forward to put more crates between himself and his enemy.

  Another shot through the window. Outside a car horn blared.

  Paul moved into the next row, swinging the gun before him, finger on the trigger. The Mauser was ungainly--good for distance, bad for this. He looked fast. The aisle was empty. He jumped as another shot shattered a window. Someone must have heard by now. Or seen a bullet strike a wall or house across the street. Maybe a car or passerby had been hit.

  He started for the next aisle. Fast, swinging the gun before him.

  A glimpse of the man's black uniform, disappearing. The SS man had heard Paul, or anticipated him, and slipped behind another stack of crates.

  Paul decided he couldn't wait any longer. He'd have to stop the guard. There was nothing to do but charge over the center row of crates, just like he'd gone over the top of the trenches in an assault during the War, and hope he could get off a fatal shot before the man sprayed bullets at him from the semiautomatic pistol.

  Okay, Paul said to himself. He took a deep breath.

  Another...

  Go!

  He leapt to his feet and climbed onto the crate in front of him, lifting the gun. His foot just touched the second crate when he heard a sound behind him and to his right. The soldier had flanked him! But as he turned, the grimy windows shook again from a gunshot. Paul froze.

  The SS soldier stepped directly in front of him, twenty feet away. Paul frantically raised the Mauser but just before he fired, the soldier coughed. Blood sprayed from his mouth, and the Luger dropped to the floor. He shook his head. He fell heavily and lay still, blood turning his uniform ruddy.

  To his right, Paul could see Otto Webber on the floor. He clutched his bloody gut with one hand. In his other was a Mauser. He'd managed to crawl to a rack of guns, load one and fire. The rifle slid to the floor.

  "Are you crazy?" Paul whispered angrily. "Why did you go toward him like that? Didn't you think he'd shoot?"

  "No," the white-faced, sweating man said, laughing. "I didn't think he'd do that." The man sighed in pain. "Go see if anybody has responded to his subtle call for help."

  Paul ran to the front and noted the area was still deserted. Across the street was a tall, windowless building, a factory or warehouse, closed today. It was likely that the bullets had struck the wall unnoticed.

  "It's clear," he said, returning to Webber, who had sat up and was looking down at the mass of blood on his belly. "Ach."

  "We have to find a doctor." Paul slung the rifle over his shoulder. He helped Webber to his feet and they made their way out the back doorway and into the boat. Pale and sweating, the German lay back with his head against the bow as Paul rowed frantically to the dock near the truck.

  "Where can I take you? For a doctor?"

  "Doctor?" Webber laughed. "It's too late for that, Mr. John Dillinger. Leave me. Go on. I can tell. It's too late."

  "No, I'm taking you for help," Paul repeated firmly. "Tell me where to find somebody who won't go running to the SS or Gestapo." He pulled the boat to the dock, tied it up and climbed out. He set the Mauser in a patch of grass nearby and turned back to help Webber out of the boat.

  "No!" Paul whispered.

  Webber had untied the rope and with his remaining strength pushed off from the dock. The dinghy was now ten feet away, drifting into the current.

  "Otto! No!"

  "As I say, too late," Webber called, gasping. Then he gave a sour laugh. "Look at me, a Viking's funeral! Ach, when you return home play some John Philip Sousa and think of me.... Though I still say he's English. You Americans take credit for far too much. Now, go on, Mr. John Dillinger. Do what you have come here for."

  The last glimpse Paul Schumann had of his friend were the man's eyes closing as he slumped to the bottom of the boat, which gathered speed, drawn into the murky water of the Spree.

  A dozen of them, all young men, who had chosen life and freedom over honor. Was it cowardice or intelligence that had motivated them to do this?

  Kurt Fischer wondered if he was the only one among them plagued by this question.

  They were being driven through the countryside northwest of Berlin in the same sort of bus that used to take them on outings as young students. The round driver piloted his vehicle smoothly over the winding road and tried, unsuccessfully, to get them to sing hunting and hiking songs.

  Kurt sat next to his brother, as they shared stories with the others. Little by little he learned something about them. Mostly Aryan, all from middle-class families, all with degrees, attending universities or planning to do so after their Labor Service. Half were, like Kurt and Hans, marginally anti-Party for political and intellectual reasons: Socialists, pacifists, protestors. The other half were "swing kids," richer, rebellious too but not as political; their main complaint with the National Socialists was cultural: the censoring of movies, dance and music.

  There were no Jews, Slavs or Roma gypsies among this crowd, of course. Nor any Kosis, either. Despite Colonel Ernst's enlightenment, Kurt knew that it would be many years before such ethnic and political groups would find a home in the military or German officialdom. Kurt's personal belief was that it would never happen as long as the triumvirate of Hitler, Goring and Goebbels was in power.

  So here they were, he was thinking, these young men, brought together by the predicament of having to choose between a concentration camp and possible death or an organization they found morally wrong.

  Am I a coward, Kurt wondered again, choosing as I did? He remembered Goebbels's call for the nationwide boycott of Jewish stores in April of '33. The National Socialists thought it would receive an overwhelming show of support. In fact, the event went badly for the Party, with many Germans--his parents among them--openly defying the boycott. Thousands, in fact, sought out stores they hadn't previously been to, just to show support for their Jewish fellow citizens.

  That was courage. Did he not have this bravery within him?

  "Kurt?"

  He looked up. His brother had been speaking to him. "You're not listening."

  "What did you say?"

  "When will we eat supper? I'm hungry."

  "I don't have any clue. How would I know?"

  "Is army food any good? I heard you eat well. I suppose it depends, though. If you're in the field, it'll be different than at a base. I wonder what it's like."

  "What, the food?"

  "No. Being in the trenches. Being--"

  "We won't be in the trenches. There won't be another war. And if there is, you heard Colonel Ernst, we won't have to fight. We'll be given different duties."

  His brother didn't look convinced. And more troubling, he didn't look that upset that he might be seeing combat. Why, he even
seemed intrigued by the thought. This was a very new, and disturbing, side to his brother.

  I wonder what it's like....

  Conversation in the bus continued--about sports, about the scenery, about the Olympics, about American movies. And girls, of course.

  Finally they arrived, turning off the highway and easing down a long maple-lined drive that led to the campus of Waltham Military College.

  What their pacifist parents would think to see them in such a place!

  The bus squealed to a halt in front of one of the school's red-brick buildings. Kurt was struck by the incongruity: an institution devoted to the philosophy and practice of warfare, yet set in an idyllic vale with a rich carpet of grass, fluttering ivy crawling up the ancient buildings, forests and hills behind, which formed a gentle frame for the scene.

  The boys gathered their rucksacks and climbed off the bus. A young soldier not much older than they identified himself as their recruitment officer and shook their hands, welcoming them. He explained that Doctor-professor Keitel would be with them shortly. He held up a football that he and another soldier had been kicking around and he tapped it toward Hans, who expertly sent it on its way to another of the recruits.

  And, as always happens when young men and a ball end up together on a grassy field, it was only a matter of minutes before two teams had formed and a game begun.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  At 5:30 P.M. the Labor Service truck eased over a smooth, immaculate highway that wove through tall stands of pine and hemlock. The air was flecked with motes of dust, and lazy insects died on the flat windshield.

  Paul Schumann struggled to think only of Reinhard Ernst, of his target. Groping for the ice.

  Don't think about Otto Wilhelm Friedrich Georg Webber.

  This was, however, impossible. Paul was consumed with memories of the man he'd known only a day. Presently he was thinking that Otto would have fit in perfectly on the West Side of New York. Drinking with Runyon and Jacobs and the boxing crew. Maybe he'd even enjoy sparring a little. But what Webber really would have loved were the opportunities in America: the freedom to run countless scams and grifts.

  Someday I may boast to you of my better cons....

  But then his thoughts faded as he turned around a slow curve and diverted down a side road. A kilometer along the highway he saw a carefully painted sign, Waltham Military College. Three or four young men in hiking outfits lounged on the grass, surrounded by packs, baskets and the remnants of their Sunday afternoon dinner. A sign beside them pointed down the wide drive to the main hall. A second road led to the stadium and gymnasium and Academic Buildings 1 through 4. Farther along was the driveway to Buildings 5 through 8. It was in Building 5 that Ernst would have his meeting in a half hour, Paul had read on his schedule. He continued past the turnoff, though, drove another hundred yards along the road and pulled onto a deserted unpaved byway, overgrown with grass. He nosed the truck into the woods so that it couldn't be seen from the main road.

  A deep breath. Paul rubbed his eyes and wiped the sweat from his face.

  Would Ernst actually show up? he wondered. Or would he be like Dutch Schultz that time in Jersey City, when the mobster had skipped out on a meeting where he'd instinctively--some said psychically--known he was going to be ambushed?

  But what else could Paul do? He had to believe the colonel would go ahead with the meeting. And his assessment was that the man would in fact show up here. Everything he'd learned about him suggested someone who didn't shirk his obligations. The American climbed out of the truck. He stripped off the bulky blue-gray uniform and hat, folded them neatly and rested them on the front seat, beneath which he'd also hidden another suit, in case he needed to change identity yet again to escape. Paul dressed quickly in the working clothes he'd stolen from the warehouse. Then, collecting the rifle and the ammunition, he plunged into the thickest part of the woods, moving as silently as he could.

  He slowly made his way through the quiet, fragrant forest, cautious at first, expecting more guards or troops, especially after the attempt that afternoon on Ernst's life, but he was surprised to find none at all. As he moved closer to the buildings, easing through brush and trees, he saw some people and vehicles near the front of one of the structures, which a sign reported was No. 5, the one he sought. Parked up the drive about one hundred feet from it was a black Mercedes sedan. A man wearing an SS uniform stood beside the car, looking around vigilantly, a machine gun over his shoulder. Was this Ernst's car? He couldn't see through the glare of the windows.

  Paul also noted a small panel van and a bus, near which a dozen young men in civilian clothing and a soldier in a gray uniform were playing soccer. A second soldier leaned against the bus, watching the game and cheering the teams on.

  Why would someone as senior as Ernst meet with this small group of students? Maybe they were a handpicked group of future officers; the boys looked like model National Socialists--fair, blond and in very good shape. Whoever they were, Paul assumed that Ernst would meet with them in the classroom, which would require him to walk the fifty feet or so from the Mercedes to Building 5. Paul would have plenty of time to touch him off. From where he now crouched, though, he had no good shooting angle. The trees and brush waved in the hot wind and not only impaired the sight of his prey but could deflect the bullet.

  The door to the Mercedes opened and a balding man in a brown jacket climbed out. Paul looked past him into the backseat. Yes! Ernst was inside. Then the door slammed and he lost sight of the colonel, who remained in the car. The man in brown carried a large folder to a second car, an Opel, near Paul, where the wooded hill bottomed out. He set the folder in the backseat and returned to the far side of the field.

  Paul's attention was drawn to the Opel; it was unoccupied. The car would give him a good shooting position, provide some cover from the soldiers and offer Paul a head start back into the woods to the truck for his escape afterward.

  Yes, he decided, the car would be his hunting blind. Cradling the Mauser in the crook of his arm, Paul moved slowly forward, hearing the soft buzz of insects, the snap and crunch of the dusty July vegetation beneath his body and the shouts and laughter of young men enjoying their soccer game.

  The faithful set of Auto Union wheels clattered along the highway at a paltry sixty kilometers per hour, rattling madly despite the mirror-smooth surface of the road. A backfire erupted and the engine gulped for air. Willi Kohl adjusted the choke and stomped on the accelerator once again. The car shuddered but finally picked up a bit of speed.

  After he'd left Kripo headquarters through the forbidden back door-- defiantly and, yes, foolishly--the inspector had walked toward the Hotel Metropol. As he'd approached he gradually became aware of music; the notes penned by Mozart so many years ago were dancing from the strings of a chamber quartet in the magnificent lobby.

  He'd looked through the windows at the glittering chandeliers, the murals of scenes from Wagner's Ring, the waiters in perfect black trousers and perfect white jackets balancing silver trays on their palms. And he'd continued past the hotel, not even pausing. The inspector had known all along, of course, that Paul Schumann was lying about coming here. His investigation had revealed that the American was a man who was comfortable not with champagne and limousines and Mozart, but with Pschorr ale and sausages. He was a man with worn shoes and a love of boxing rings. A man with some connection with the fringe neighborhood around November 1923 Square. If a man had no hesitation to take on four Stormtroopers with his fists, he would not be checking into an effete place like the Metropol, nor could he afford it either.

  Yet this place had been the first location Schumann had thought of inresponse to Kohl's question about his new address--which suggested that the American might have seen it recently. And since Miss Richter's boardinghouse was far across town, it was logical that he had seen the hotel on his way to Berlin North, the tough neighborhood that began just a block past the hotel. This was an area that was akin to Paul Schumann's tempe
rament and tastes.

  It was a large district; under most circumstances a half dozen investigators would be needed to canvass the locals and gather information on a suspect. But some evidence Kohl had found might, he believed, help him narrow his search considerably: At the boardinghouse he'd discovered in Schumann's pockets a limp box of cheap matches, tucked into the packet of German cigarettes. Kohl was familiar with these. He often found them in the possession of other suspects, who'd picked them up in establishments in bad areas of the city, like Berlin North.

  Perhaps the American had no connection here, but it was a good place to start his search. Armed with Paul Schumann's passport, Kohl had made the rounds in the southern end of the neighborhood, noting first what kind of matches they gave away and, if they were the same, then showing the American's picture to waiters and bartenders.

  "No, Inspector... I am so sorry. Greet God, Inspector... I have seen no one like that. Hail Hitler. I'll keep on the lookout for him.... Hail Hitler hail Hitler hail Hitler..."

  He tried a restaurant on Dragoner Street. Nothing. Then walked a few doors farther on, to a club on the same street. He'd flashed his ID card to the man at the entrance and walked into the bar. Yes, the matches were the same as Schumann had had. He'd walked through the various rooms, flashing the American's passport, asking if anyone had seen him. The civilians in the audience were typically blind, and the SS typically uncooperative. (One barked, "You're blocking my view, Kripo. Move your ass!")

  But then he'd shown the picture to a waitress. Her eyes had flashed in anger.

  "You know him?" Kohl had asked.

  "Ach, do I know him? Yes, yes."

  "You are?"

  "Liesl. He claimed his name was Hermann but I see that was a lie." She nodded at the passport. "I'm not surprised. He was here not an hour ago. With his toad of a companion, Otto Webber."

  "Who is this Webber?"

  "A toad, as I say."

  "What were they doing here?"

  "What else? Drinking, talking. Ach, and flirting... A man flirts with a girl and then rejects her coldly.... How cruel that is." Liesl's Adam's apple had quivered and Kohl deduced the whole sad story. "Will you arrest him?"