Garden of Beasts (33 page)

Now able to discard the placid demeanor of Reggie Morgan, Taggert spoke with an edge to his voice. “You don’t always get the full story. Jews talk loudly—in your country and in mine—and the leftist element are forever whining, the press, the Communists, the Socialists. But they’re a small fraction of the population. No, our government and the majority of Americans are firmly committed to being your ally and seeing you get out from under the yoke of the Versailles. It’s the Russians who are concerned about your rearming. However, please, sir, we have only minutes. The assassin.”

The SS guard returned just then. “It’s as he said, sir. There are some sheds beside the parking plaza. The door to one is open and, yes, there’s a rifle barrel protruding, scanning for a target at the stadium here.”

Several of the men in the room gasped and muttered indignation. Joseph Goebbels picked at his ear nervously. Göring had unholstered his Luger and was waving it around comically like a child with a wooden pistol.

Hitler’s voice shook and his hands quivered in rage. “Communist Jew animals! They come to my country and do this to me! Backstabbers… And with our Olympics about to start! They…” He was unable to continue his diatribe, he was so furious.

To Himmler, Taggert said, “I speak Russian. Surround the shed and let me try to convince him to surrender. I’m sure the Gestapo or the SS can persuade him to tell us who and where the other conspirators are.”

Himmler nodded then turned to Hitler. “My Leader, it is important that you and the others leave at once. By the underground route. Perhaps there is only the one assassin but perhaps too there are others that this American doesn’t know about.”

Like everyone who’d read the intelligence reports on Himmler, Taggert considered the former fertilizer salesman half insane and an incurable sycophant. But the American’s role here was clear and he said submissively, “Police Chief Himmler is correct. I’m not sure how complete our information is. Go to safety. I will help your troops capture the man.”

Ernst shook Taggert’s hand. “My thanks to you.”

Taggert nodded. He watched Ernst collect his grandson from the corridor and then join the others, who took an internal stairway down to the underground driveway, surrounded by a squad of guards.

Only when Hitler and the others were gone did Himmler return Taggert’s pistol. The police chief then called to the SS officer who had arranged the detachment downstairs, “Where are your men?”

The guard explained that two dozen were deployed to the east, out of view of the shed.

Himmler said, “SD Leader Heydrich and I will remain here and call a general alert for the area. Bring us that Russian.”

“Hail Hitler.” The guard turned on his heels and hurried down the staircase, Taggert behind him. They jogged to the east side of the stadium, joined the troops there and, in a wide arc to the south, approached the shed.

The men ran quickly, surrounded by the emotionless SS troops, amid the sound of gun bolts and toggles, snapping bullets into place. But despite the apparent tension and drama, Robert Taggert was at ease for the first time in days. Like the man he’d killed in Dresden Alley—Reggie Morgan— Taggert was one of those people who exist in the shadows of government and diplomacy and business, doing the bidding for their principals in ways sometimes legal and often not. One of the few truthful things he’d told Schumann was his passion for a diplomatic posting either in Germany or elsewhere (Spain would indeed be nice). But such plums were not easy to come by and had to be earned, often in mad and risky situations. Such as the plan involving the poor sap Paul Schumann.

His instructions from the United States had been simple: Reggie Morgan would have to be sacrificed. Taggert would kill him and take over his identity. He would help Paul Schumann plan Reinhard Ernst’s death and then, at the last moment, Taggert would dramatically “rescue” the German colonel, proof of how firmly the U.S. supported the National Socialists. Word of the rescue and Taggert’s comments about that support would trickle up to Hitler. But as it turned out, the results were far, far better: Taggert had actually performed his routine for Hitler and Göring themselves.

What happened to Schumann was irrelevant, whether he died now, which would be cleaner and more convenient, or was caught and tortured. In the latter case, Schumann would eventually talk… and tell an unlikely tale of being hired by the American Office of Naval Intelligence to kill Ernst, which the Germans would instantly dismiss since it was Taggert and the Americans who turned him in. And if he turned out to be a German-American gangster and not a Russian? Ah, well, he must’ve been
recruited
by the Russians.

A simple plan.

But there had been setbacks from the beginning. He’d planned to kill Morgan several days ago and impersonate him at the first meeting with Schumann yesterday. But Morgan had been a very cautious man and talented at leading a covert life. Taggert had had no chance to murder him before Dresden Alley. And how tense
that
had been….

Reggie Morgan had had only the old pass phrase—not the lines about the tram to Alexanderplatz—so when he’d met Schumann in the alley, they’d each believed the other was an enemy. Taggert had managed to kill Morgan just in time and convince Schumann that he was in fact the American agent—thanks to the right pass phrase, the forged passport, and the accurate description of the Senator. Taggert had also made sure he was the first to go through the dead man’s pockets. He’d pretended to find proof that Morgan was a Stormtrooper, though the document he’d showed Schumann was, in fact, simply a card attesting that the bearer had donated a sum to a War veterans’ relief fund. Half the people in Berlin had such cards since the Brownshirts were very adept at soliciting “contributions.”

Schumann himself had also proved to be a source of concern. Oh, the man was smart, far smarter than the thug whom Taggert had expected. He had a suspicious nature and didn’t tip off what he was really thinking. Taggert had had to watch what he said and did, constantly remind himself to be Reginald Morgan, the dogged, nondescript civil servant. When Schumann, for instance, had insisted they check Morgan’s body for tattoos, Taggert was horrified. The most likely tattoo they’d find would have said “U.S. Navy.” Or maybe the name of the ship he’d served on in the War. But fate had smiled; the man had never been under the needle.

Now, Taggert and the black-uniformed troops arrived at the shed. He could just see the barrel of the Mauser protruding, as Paul Schumann searched for his target. The men deployed quietly, the senior SS officer directing his soldiers with hand signals. Taggert was as impressed as ever with the brilliance of German tactical skills.

Closer now, closer.

Schumann was preoccupied, continuing to scan the balcony behind the press box. He would be wondering what had happened. Why the delay in getting Ernst outside? Had the phone call from Webber gone through properly?

As the SS men circled the shed, cutting off any chance of Schumann’s escape, Taggert reminded himself that after he was finished here, he would have to return to Berlin and find Otto Webber and kill him. Käthe Richter too.

When the young soldiers were in position around the shed, Taggert whispered, “I will go speak to him in Russian and get him to surrender.” The SS commander nodded. The American took his pistol from his pocket. He was in no danger, of course, because of the Mauser’s plugged barrel. Still, he moved slowly, pretending to be cautious and uneasy.

“Keep back,” he whispered. “I’ll go in first.”

The SS nodded, eyebrows raised, impressed at the American’s courage.

Taggert lifted his pistol and stepped toward the doorway. The rifle muzzle still eased back and forth. Schumann’s frustration at not finding a target was palpable.

In a swift motion, Taggert flung one of the doors open and lifted his pistol, applying pressure on the trigger.

He stepped inside.

Robert Taggert gasped. A chill ran through him.

The Mauser continued its scan of the stadium, moving back and forth slowly. The deadly rifle, though, was gripped not by a would-be assassin’s hands but by lengths of twine torn from packing cartons and tethered to a roof beam.

Paul Schumann was gone.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Running.

Not his favorite form of exercise by any means, though Paul often ran laps or jogged in place, to get the legs in shape and to work the tobacco and beer and corn whisky out of his system. And now he was running like Jesse Owens.

Running for his life.

Unlike poor Max, gunned down in the street as he sprinted away from the SS guards, Paul attracted little notice; he was wearing gymnasium clothes and shoes he’d stolen from the locker room of the Olympic stadium’s swimming complex and he looked like any one of the thousands of athletes in and around Charlottenburg, in training for the Games. He was about three miles east of the stadium now, heading back to Berlin, pumping hard, putting distance between himself and the betrayal, which he had yet to figure out.

He was surprised that Reggie Morgan—if it
was
Morgan—had made a careless mistake after going to such elaborate efforts to set him up. There were certainly button men who didn’t look over their tools every time they were going on a job. But that was nuts. When you were up against ruthless men, always armed, you made sure that your own weapons were in perfect shape, that nothing was out of kilter.

In the baking-hot shed Paul had mounted the telescopic sight and made sure the calibrations were set to the same numbers as at the pawnshop shooting range. Then, as a final check he’d slipped the bolt out of the Mauser and sighted up the bore. It was blocked. He thought at first this was some dirt or creosote from the fiberboard carrying case. But Paul had found a length of wire and dug inside. He looked closely at what he scraped off. Somebody had poured molten lead down the muzzle. If he’d fired, the barrel might have exploded or the bolt shot backward through Paul’s cheek.

The gun had been in Morgan’s possession overnight and was the same weapon; Paul had noted a unique configuration in the grain when he was sighting it in yesterday. So Morgan, or whoever he might be, had clearly sabotaged the gun.

Moving fast, he’d ripped twine from the cartons in the shed and hung the rifle from the ceiling to make it appear he was still there then slipped outside, joining a group of other troopers walking north. He’d split off from them at the swimming complex, found a change of clothing and shoes, thrown away the SS uniform and torn up and flushed the Russian passport down a toilet.

Now, a half hour from the stadium, running, running…

Sweating fiercely through the thick cloth, Paul turned off the highway and trotted into a small village center. He found a fountain made from an old horse trough and bent to the spigot, drinking a quart of the hot, rusty water. Then he bathed his face.

How far from the city was he? Probably four miles or so, he guessed. He saw two officers in green uniforms and tall green-and-black hats stopping a large man, demanding his papers.

He turned casually away from them and walked down side streets, deciding it was too risky to continue into Berlin on foot. He noticed a parking lot—rows of cars around a train station. Paul found an open-air DKW and, making sure he was out of sight, used a rock and a broken branch to knock the key lock into the dashboard. He fished underneath for the wires. Using his teeth, he cut through the cloth insulation and twined the copper strands together. He pushed the starter button. The engine ground for a moment but didn’t catch. Grimacing, he realized he’d forgotten to set the choke. He adjusted it to rich and tried again. The engine fired to life and sputtered and he adjusted the knob until it was running smoothly. It took a moment to figure out the gears but soon he was easing east through the narrow streets of the town, wondering who’d sold him out.

And why? Had it been money? Politics? Some other reason?

But at the moment he could find no hint of the answers to those questions. Escaping occupied all his thoughts.

He shoved the accelerator to the floor and turned onto a broad, immaculate highway, passing a sign that assured him that the city center of Berlin was six kilometers away.

Modest quarters, off Bremer Street in the northwest portion of town. Typical of many dwellings in this neighborhood, Reginald Morgan’s was in a gloomy stone four-flat that dated from the Second Empire, though this particular structure summoned up no Prussian glory whatsoever.

Willi Kohl and his inspector candidate climbed from the DKW. They heard more sirens and glanced up to see a truck of SS troops speeding along the roads—yet another installment of the secret security alert, even more extensive than earlier, it seemed, with random roadblocks now being set up throughout the city. Kohl and Janssen themselves were stopped. The SS guard glanced with disdain at the Kripo ID and waved them through. He didn’t respond to the inspector’s query about what was happening and merely snapped, “Move along.”

Kohl now rang the bell beside the thick front door. The inspector tapped his foot with impatience as they waited. Two lengthy rings later a stocky landlady in a dark dress and apron opened the door, eyes wide at the sight of two stern men in suits.

“Hail Hitler. I’m sorry, sirs, that I didn’t get here sooner but my legs aren’t—”

“Inspector Kohl, with the Kripo.” He showed his identity card so the woman would relax somewhat; at least they were not Gestapo.

“Do you know this man?” Janssen displayed the photo taken in Dresden Alley.

“Ach, that’s Mr. Morgan, who lives here! He doesn’t look… Is he dead?”

“Yes, he is.”

“God in heav—” The politically questionable phrase died in her mouth.

“We’d like to see his rooms.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Follow me.” They walked into a courtyard so overwhelmingly bleak, Kohl thought, that it would sadden even Mozart’s irrepressible Papageno. The woman rocked back and forth as she walked. She said breathlessly, “I always thought him a little strange, to tell the truth, sirs.” This was served up with careful glances at Kohl, to make it clear that she was no confederate of Morgan’s, in case he’d been killed by the National Socialists themselves, and yet that his behavior wasn’t
so
suspicious that she should have denounced him herself.

“We haven’t seen him for a whole day. He went out just before lunch yesterday and he never returned.”

They went through another locked door at the end of the courtyard and up two flights of stairs, which reeked of onion and pickle.

“How long had he lived here?” Kohl asked.

“Three months. He paid for six in advance. And tipped me…” Her voice faded. “But not much.”

“The rooms were furnished?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any visitors you recall?”

“None that I knew of. None that I let into the building.”

“Show her the drawing, Janssen.”

He displayed the picture of Paul Schumann. “Have you seen this man?”

“No, sir. Is he dead too?” She added abruptly, “I mean, sir, no, I’ve never seen him.”

Kohl looked into her eyes. They were evasive, but with fear, not deception, and he believed her. Under questioning, she told him that Morgan was a businessman, he took no phone calls here and picked up his mail at the post office. She didn’t know if he had an office elsewhere. He never said anything specific about his job.

“Leave us now.”

“Hail Hitler,” she replied and scurried off like a mouse.

Kohl looked around the room. “So you see how I made an incorrect deduction, Janssen?”

“How is that, sir?”

“I assumed Mr. Morgan was German because he wore clothes made of Hitler cloth. But not all foreigners are wealthy enough to live on Under the Lindens and to buy top-of-the-line at KaDeWe, though that is our impression.”

Janssen thought for a moment. “That’s true, sir. But there could be another reason he wore ersatz clothes.”

“That he wished to masquerade as a German?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, Janssen. Though perhaps he wanted not so much to masquerade as one of us but more to not draw attention to himself. But either makes him suspicious. Now let’s see if we can make our mystery less mysterious. Start with the closets.”

The inspector candidate opened a door and began his examination of the contents.

Kohl himself chose the less demanding search and eased into a creaking chair to look through the documents on Morgan’s desk. The American had been, it seemed, a middleman of sorts, providing services for a number of U.S. companies in Germany. For a commission he would match an American buyer with a German seller and vice versa. When American businessmen came to town Morgan would be hired to entertain them and arrange meetings with German representatives from Borsig, Bata Shoes, Siemens, I.G. Farben, Opel, dozens of others.

There were several pictures of Morgan and documents confirming his identity. But it was curious, Kohl thought, that there were no truly personal effects. No family photographs, no mementos.

…perhaps he was somebody’s brother. And maybe somebody’s husband or lover. And, if he was lucky, he was a father of sons and daughters. I would hope too that there are past lovers who think of him occasionally….

Kohl considered the implications of this absence of personal information. Did it mean he was a loner? Or was there another reason for keeping his personal life secret?

Janssen dug through the closet. “And is there anything in particular I ought to be looking for, sir?”

Embezzled money, a married mistress’s handkerchief, a letter of extortion, a note from a pregnant teenager… any of the indicia of motive that might explain why poor Mr. Morgan had died brutally on the immaculate cobblestones of Dresden Alley.

“Look for anything that enlightens us, in any way, regarding the case. I can describe it no better than that. It is the hardest part of being a detective. Use your instinct, use your imagination.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kohl continued his own examination of the desk.

A moment later Janssen called, “Look at this, sir. Mr. Morgan has some pictures of naked women. They were in a box here.”

“Are they commercially made? Or did he take them himself?”

“No, they are postcards, sir. He bought them somewhere.”

“Yes, yes, then they do not interest us, Janssen. You must discern between the times that a man’s vices are relevant and when they are not. And, I promise you, voluptuous postcards are not presently important. Please, continue your search.”

Some men grow calm in direct proportion to their desperation. Such men are rare, and they are particularly dangerous, because, while their ruthlessness is not diminished, they are never careless.

Robert Taggert was one such man. He was livid that some goddamn button man from Brooklyn had out-thought him, had jeopardized his future, but he was not going to let emotion cloud his judgment.

He knew how Schumann had figured things out. There was a piece of wire on the floor of the shed and bits of lead next to it. Of course, he’d checked the bore of the gun and found it plugged. Taggert thought angrily, Why the hell didn’t I empty the powder out of his shells and recrimp the bullets back into the brass casing? There’d have been no danger to Ernst that way and Schumann never would have figured out the betrayal until it was too late and the SS troops were around the shed.

But, he reflected, the matter wasn’t hopeless.

After a second brief meeting in the Olympic pressroom with Himmler and Heydrich, during which he told them he knew little more of the plot than what he’d already explained, he left the stadium, telling the Germans that he would contact Washington at once and see if they had more details. Taggert left them both, muttering about Jewish and Russian conspiracies. He was surprised he’d been allowed out of the stadium without being detained—his arrest would not have been logical but was certainly a risk in a country top-heavy with suspicion and paranoia.

Taggert now considered his quarry. Paul Schumann was not stupid, of course. He’d been set up to be a Russian and he’d know that was whom the Germans would be looking for. He’d have ditched his fake identity by now and be an American again. But Taggert preferred not to tell the Germans that; it would be better to produce the dead “Russian,” along with his confederates, a gang-ring criminal and a woman dissident—Käthe Richter undoubtedly had some Kosi-sympathizing friends, adding to the credibility of the Russian assassin scenario.

Desperate, yes.

But, as he steered the white van south over the Stormtrooper-brown canal then east, he remained calm as stone. He parked on a busy street and climbed out. There was no doubt that Schumann would return to the boardinghouse for Käthe Richter. He’d adamantly insisted on taking the woman with him back to America. Which meant that, even now, he wasn’t going to leave her behind. Taggert also knew that he’d come in person, not call her; Schumann knew the dangers of tapped phones in Germany.

Continuing quickly through the streets, feeling the comforting bump of the pistol against his hip, he turned the corner and proceeded into Magdeburger Alley. He paused and examined the short street carefully. It seemed deserted, dusty in the afternoon heat. He casually walked past Käthe Richter’s boardinghouse and then, sensing no threat, returned quickly and descended to the basement entrance. He shouldered open the door then slipped into the dank cellar.

Taggert climbed the wooden stairs, keeping to the sides of the steps to minimize the creaks. He came to the top, eased the doorway open and, pulling the pistol from his pocket, stepped out into the ground-floor hallway. Empty. No sounds, no movement other than the frantic buzzing of a huge fly trapped between two panes of glass.

He walked the length of the corridor, listening at each door, hearing nothing. Finally he returned to the door on which hung a crudely painted sign that read,
Landlady.

He knocked. “Miss Richter?” He wondered what she looked like. It had been the real Reginald Morgan who’d arranged for these rooms for Schumann, and apparently they’d never met; she and Morgan had spoken on the phone and exchanged a letter of agreement and cash through the pneumatic delivery system that crisscrossed Berlin.

Another rap on the door. “I’ve come about a room. The front door was open.”