Garden of Beasts (43 page)

Konrad Janssen’s betrayal and the Waltham Study—both stark emblems of what the government was and where it was going—were reason enough. Yet what truly decided the matter was the American, Paul Schumann.

Standing with the SS officers outside Building 5, aware that he had both Schumann’s real passport and Taggert’s fake ones in his pocket, Kohl had agonized over doing his duty. And in the end he had done so. But the sorrow was that his obligation had dictated he act
against
his country.

As for how he would leave, he knew that too. He would remain ignorant of Janssen’s choice (but would, of course, cease his improvident asides to the young man), he would mouth whatever lines Chief of Inspectors Horcher wished him to, he would stay well clear of the basement of Kripo headquarters with its busy DeHoMag card-sorting machines, he would handle murders like the one in Gatow exactly the way they wished him to— which was, of course, to handle them not at all. He would be the model National Socialist policeman.

And then in February he would take his entire family with him to the International Criminal Police Commission conference in London. And from there they would sail for New York, to which two cousins had emigrated some years ago and had made lives for themselves.

Being a senior official traveling on Kripo business he could easily arrange for exit documents and permission to take a good amount of money out of the country. There would be some tricky maneuvering, of course, in making the arrangements, but who in Germany nowadays did not have some skill at intrigue?

Heidi would welcome the change, of course, finding a haven for her children. Günter would be saved from his Nazi Youth classmates. Hilde could attend school once again and perhaps become the professor she wished to be.

His older daughter had a complication, of course: her fiancé, Heinrich Sachs. But Kohl decided he would convince the man to come with them. Sachs was vehemently anti–National Socialist, had no close relatives and was so completely in love with Charlotte that he would follow her anywhere. The young Sachs was a talented civil servant, spoke English well and, despite some bouts of arthritis, he was a tireless worker; Kohl suspected that he would have a far easier time finding a job in America than would Kohl himself.

As for the inspector—starting over in middle age! What an overwhelming challenge! He thought ironically of the Leader’s nonsensical opus,
My Struggle.
Well, what a struggle he himself would have—a tired man with a family, beginning again at an age when he should be delegating cases to young inspectors and taking half-days off to escort his children to the wave-making pool at Luna Park. Yet, it was not the thought of the effort and uncertainty awaiting him that made him choke quietly and that drew tears from his eyes, which he averted from the young SS troopers.

No, the tears were for what he was now looking at as they swept around a turn en route to Berlin: the plains of Prussia. And, though they were dusty and wan on this dry summer evening, they still exuded a grandeur and palpable significance, for they were the plains of
his
Germany, a great nation at heart, whose truths and ideals had somehow tragically been stolen by thieves.

Kohl reached into his pocket and pulled out his meerschaum pipe. He filled the bowl then searched his jacket but could find no match. He heard a rasp as the SS trooper sitting next to him struck one and held it out for him. “Thank you,” Kohl said and sucked on the stem to ignite the tobacco. He sat back, filling the air around him with the scent of pungent cherries, and stared out the front windshield as the lights of Berlin came into view.

Chapter Forty-Two

The car wove like a dancer along the road to his home in Charlottenburg. Reinhard Ernst sat in the back, bracing himself against the turns, his head resting on the luxurious leather. He had a new driver and guard; Claus, the SS lieutenant with him at Waltham College, had been injured by glass flying from a window of the Mercedes and had been taken to a surgeon. Another SS car, filled with black-helmeted guards, was behind them.

He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Ach, Keitel dead, along with the soldier taking part in the study. “Subject D” was how Ernst thought of him; he’d never even known the man’s name…. What a disaster this day had been.

Yet the one thing that stood out most prominently in Ernst’s thoughts was the choice that the killer had made outside Building 5. If he’d wanted to kill me, the colonel reflected, which was clearly his mission, he could have, easily. Yet he had decided not to; he’d rescued the young men instead. Reflecting on this act, the horror of what Ernst had been doing became clear. Yes, he realized, the Waltham Study
was
abominable. He had looked those young men in the face and told them: Serve in the army for a year and your sins will be absolved—all the while knowing that this was a lie; he’d spun the fiction solely to keep the victims relaxed and unsuspecting, so that the soldier could get to know them before he killed them.

Yes, he’d lied to the Fischer brothers, just as he’d lied to the Polish workers when he’d said they would receive double pay to transplant some trees near Charlottenburg for the Olympics. And he’d lied to the Jewish families in Gatow, telling them to assemble by the riverside, because there were some renegade Stormtroopers nearby and Ernst and his men would protect them.

Ernst didn’t dislike Jews. He’d fought beside some in the War and found them as smart and courageous as everyone else. Indeed, based on the Jews he’d known then and since, he couldn’t find any difference between them and Aryans. As for Poles, well, his reading of history told him they too were not so very different from their Prussian neighbors and indeed had a nobility that few National Socialists possessed.

Repugnant, what he was doing with the study. Horrifying. He felt a twist of razor-sharp shame within him, like the searing pain in his arm when the hot shrapnel had ripped into his shoulder in the War.

The road now straightened and they approached the neighborhood where he lived. Ernst leaned forward and gave the driver directions to his home.

Abominable, yes…

And yet… as he looked around him at the familiar buildings and cafés and parks of this portion of Charlottenburg, the horror began to dull, just as happened on the battlefield after the last Mauser or Enfield was fired, the cannon salvos ceased, the cries of the wounded abated. He recalled tonight watching the “recruitment officer,” Subject D, who had willingly, cavalierly, hooked up the deadly hose to the school, even though he’d been playing soccer with the victims shortly before. Another soldier might have balked altogether. Had he not died, his answers to the doctor-professor’s questionnaire would have been extremely helpful in establishing the criteria they would use to match soldiers and duties.

The weakness he’d felt a moment ago, the contrition prompted by the assassin’s choice to forsake his own duty, vanished suddenly. He was once again convinced he was doing the right thing. Let Hitler have his fling with madness. Some innocents would die, yes, until the storm blew over, but eventually the Leader would be gone, while the army Ernst was creating would outlast him and be the backbone of a new German glory—and ultimately a new European peace.

Sacrifices had to be made.

Tomorrow Ernst would begin searching for another psychologist or doctor-professor who might help him continue the work. And this time he would find one who was more attuned to the spirit of National Socialism than Keitel—and one without Jewish grandparents, for God’s sake. Ernst must be more clever. This was a time in history when one
had
to be clever.

The car pulled up in front of his house. Ernst thanked the driver and stepped out. The SS troops in the car behind his leapt out as well and joined the others already guarding his residence. The commander told him that the men would remain until the assassin was caught or it could be verified that he’d been killed or fled the country. Ernst politely thanked him as well and walked inside. He greeted Gertrud with a kiss. She glanced at the grass and mud stains on his pants.

“Ach, you are hopeless, Reinie!”

Without explaining, he smiled wanly. She returned to the kitchen, where she was cooking something fragrant with vinegar and garlic. Ernst climbed the stairs to wash and change his clothes. He saw his grandson in his room, drawing on a tablet of paper.

“Opa!” the boy cried and ran to him.

“Hello, Mark. Are we going to work on our boat tonight?”

He didn’t respond and Ernst realized the little boy was frowning.

“What is the matter?”

“Opa, you called me Mark. That was Papa’s name.”

Had he? “I’m sorry, Rudy. I was not thinking clearly. I’m very tired today. I believe I need a nap.”

“Yes, I take naps too,” the boy said eagerly, happy to please his grandfather with his knowledge. “In the afternoon sometimes I get tired. Mutti gives me hot milk, cocoa sometimes, and then I have a nap.”

“Exactly. That’s how your foolish grandfather feels. It’s been a long day and he needs a nap. Now you get the wood and knives ready. After supper we will work on our boat.”

“Yes, Opa, I’ll do it now.”

Close to 3
P.M.
Bull Gordon walked up the steps to The Room in Manhattan. The city was busy and vibrant in other neighborhoods, even on Sunday, but here the cross street was still.

The blinds were closed and the town house appeared deserted but as Gordon, wearing civvies today, approached, the front door opened before he even took the key from his pocket. “Afternoon, sir,” the uniformed naval officer said in a soft voice.

Gordon nodded.

“The Senator’s in the parlor, sir.”

“Alone?”

“That’s right.”

Gordon walked inside, hung his topcoat on a rack in the hallway. He felt the weapon in his pocket. He wouldn’t need it, probably, but he was glad it was there. He drew a deep breath and walked into the small room.

The Senator was sitting in an armchair beside a Tiffany floor lamp. He was listening to the Philco radio. When he saw Gordon he shut it off and asked, “Tiring flight?”

“They’re always tiring. Seems that way.”

Gordon walked to the bar and poured himself a scotch. Maybe not a good idea, what with the gun. But to hell with it. He added another finger to the glass. He offered a querying glance to the Senator.

“Sure. Only double that.” He nodded at Gordon’s glass.

The commander poured smoky liquid into another glass and handed it to the older man. He sat down heavily. His head still throbbed from the flight in the R2D-1, the naval version of the DC-2. It was just as fast but lacked the comfortable wicker chairs and soundproofing of the Douglas Commercial line.

The Senator was wearing a suit, waistcoat and stiff-collared shirt with a silk tie. Gordon wondered if it had been what he’d worn to church that morning. He’d once told the commander that whatever a politician personally believed, even if he was an atheist, he had to go to church. Image. It counts.

The Senator said gruffly, “So. You may as well tell me what you know. Get it over with.”

The commander took a deep sip of whisky and did just what the old man asked.

Berlin sat under a veil of night.

The city was a huge expanse, flat except for the few cloud-catchers of the skyline and the Tempelhof airport beacon to the south. This view vanished as the driver piloted his vehicle over the crest of the hill and plunged into the ordered northwestern neighborhoods of the city, among cars apparently returning from their weekends at nearby Prussian lakes and mountains.

All of which made driving particularly difficult. And Paul Schumann wanted to make certain he was not stopped by the traffic police. No identification, a stolen truck… No, it was vital to be inconspicuous.

He turned down a street that led to a bridge across the Spree and worked his way south. Finally he found what he sought, an open lot in which dozens of delivery vehicles and vans were parked. He’d noticed this as he’d walked from Lützow Plaza to Käthe Richter’s boardinghouse along the canal when he’d first arrived in the city.

Could that only have been yesterday?

He thought again about her. And about Otto Webber too.

As hard as it was to picture them, though, those images were better than dwelling on his pitiful decision at Waltham.

On the best day, on the worst day, the sun finally sets….

But it would be a long, long time before the sun set on his failure today. Maybe it never would.

He parked between two large vans, killed the engine. He sat back, wondering if it was crazy to return here. But he concluded that it was probably a wise move. He wouldn’t have to stay long. Smooth-faced Avery and bucking-for-a-fight Manielli would make sure the pilot took off promptly for the rendezvous at the aerodrome. Besides, he sensed instinctively he was safer here than anywhere outside the city. Beasts as arrogant as the National Socialists would never suspect that their prey was hiding squarely in the middle of their garden.

The door opened and the orderly let another man into The Room, where Bull Gordon and the Senator sat.

In his trademark white suit, looking every inch a plantation owner from a hundred years ago, Cyrus Clayborn walked inside and nodded to the two men with a casual smile on his ruddy face. Then he squinted and nodded once more. He glanced at the liquor cabinet but didn’t make a move toward it; he was an abstainer, Bull Gordon knew.

“They have any coffee here?” Clayborn asked.

“No.”

“Ah.” Clayborn set his walking stick against the wall near the door and said, “You only ask me here when you need money, and I suspect you’re not after alms today.” He sat heavily. “It’s the other thing, huh?”

“It’s the other thing,” Gordon echoed. “Where’s your man?”

“My bodyguard?” Clayborn cocked his head.

“Right.”

“Outside in the car.”

Relieved that he wouldn’t need his pistol after all—Clayborn’s minder was notoriously dangerous—Gordon called one of the three navy men in an office near the front door and told him to make sure the fellow stayed inside the limo, not to let him into the town house. “Use any force you need to.”

“Yes, sir. With pleasure, sir.”

Gordon hung up and saw the financier chuckling. “Don’t tell me you were thinkin’ it’d come to six-guns, Commander.” When the officer said nothing Clayborn asked, “So. How’d you tip to it?”

“Fellow named Albert Heinsler,” Gordon replied.

“Who?”

“You oughta know,” grumbled the Senator. “He was on the
Manhattan
because of you.”

Gordon continued. “The Nazis’re smart, sure, but we thought—why would they have a spy on the ship? That seemed bum to me. We knew Heinsler was with the Jersey division of the German-American Bund, so we had Hoover put some pressure on them.”

“Doesn’t that faggot have anything better to do with his time?” Clayborn grumbled.

“We found out you’re a big contributor to the bund.”

“Man’s gotta put his money to work somehow,” he said glibly, making Gordon detest him all the more. The magnate nodded. “Heinsler was his name, huh? Never knew it. He was just on board to keep an eye on Schumann and get a message to Berlin about a Russian being in town. Needed to keep the Huns on alert. Make our little play more credible, you know. All part of the act.”

“How did you know Taggert?”

“Served with me in the War. Promised him some diplomatic postings if he helped me out here.”

The Senator shook his head. “We couldn’t figure out how you got the pass codes.” He laughed and nodded toward Gordon. “At first the commander here thought I was the one sold Schumann out. That’s okay, though. Didn’t ruffle my feathers. But then Bull remembered your companies—you control every telephone and telegraph line on the East Coast. You had somebody listen in when I called the commander and we decided on the codes.”

“That’s baloney. I—”

Gordon said, “One of my men checked your company’s files, Cyrus. You had transcripts of the conversations between the Senator and me. You found out everything.”

Clayborn shrugged, more amused than troubled. Which really rubbed Gordon the wrong way. The commander snapped, “We’ve got it all, Clay-born.” He explained how the original idea to kill Reinhard Ernst had come from the magnate, who suggested it to the Senator. Patriotic duty, he’d said. He’d help fund the assassination. Hell, he’d fund the
whole
thing. The Senator had gone to certain people high in the administration and they’d approved the operation on the sly. But Clayborn had secretly called Robert Taggert and ordered him to kill Morgan, meet Schumann and help him plot to kill Ernst, then save the German colonel at the last minute. When Gordon had gone to him to ask for the extra thousand bucks, Clayborn had kept up the pretense that it was Morgan, not Taggert, whom Gordon was talking to.

“Why’s it so important to you to keep Hitler happy?” Gordon asked.

Clayborn scoffed. “You’re a fool if you’re ignoring the Jew threat. They’re plotting all over the world. Not to mention the Communists. And, for God’s sake, the coloreds? We can’t let our guard down for a minute.”

Disgusted, Gordon snapped, “So that’s what this’s all about? Jews and Negroes?”

Before the old man could answer, though, the Senator said, “Oh, I’ll betcha there’s something else, Bull…. Money, right, Cyrus?”

“Bingo!” the white-haired man whispered. “The Germans owe us billions—all the loans we floated to keep them going over the past fifteen years. We have to keep Hitler and Schacht and the rest of the money boys over there happy so our notes keep getting paid.”

“They’re rearming to start another war,” Gordon growled.

Clayborn said matter-of-factly, “All the better to be on their side then, don’t you think? Bigger market for our arms.” He pointed a finger at the Senator. “Provided you fools in Congress get rid of the Neutrality Act…” Then he frowned. “So what do the Huns think about the Ernst situation?”