Garden of Beasts

by Jeffery Deaver

Two Stormtroopers emerged from the store. "Who is this?" one asked.

  "Your card! Now!" Felstedt cried.

  Although he'd boxed all his life, Paul avoided street brawls. His father used to sternly lecture the boy that he should never compete in any event where no one oversaw the rules. He was forbidden to fight in school yards and alleyways. "You listening to me, son?" Paul had dutifully replied, "Sure, Pa, you bet." But sometimes there was nothing to do but meet Jake McGuire or Little Bill Carter and take and give some knuckle. He wasn't sure what made those times different. But somehow you knew without a doubt that you couldn't walk away.

  And sometimes--maybe a lot of times--you could, but you just plain didn't want to.

  He sized up the man; he was like the kid lieutenant, Vincent Manielli, Paul decided. Young and muscled, but mostly talk. The American eased his weight to his toes, balanced himself and struck Felstedt's midsection with a nearly invisible straight right.

  The man's jaw dropped and he backed up, struggling for breath, tapping his chest as if searching for his heart.

  "You swine," one of the others cried in a high voice, shocked, reaching for his pistol. Paul danced forward, grabbed the man's right hand, pulled it from the holster cover, and popped a left hook into his face. In boxing there is no pain worse than a solid blow to the nose and, as the cartilage snapped and the blood flowed onto his camel-brown uniform, the man gave a keening howl and staggered back against the wall, tears pouring from his eyes.

  Hugo Felstedt had by now dropped to his knees and was no longer interested in his heart; he was gripping his belly as he retched pathetically.

  The third trooper went for his gun.

  Paul stepped forward fast, fists closed. "Don't," he warned calmly. The Brownshirt suddenly bolted up the street, crying, "I'll get some help.... I'll get some help...."

  The fourth Stormtrooper stepped outside. Paul moved toward him and he cried, "Please, don't hurt me!"

  Eyes fixed on the Brownshirt, Paul knelt, opened the satchel and began rummaging through the papers inside to find the pistol.

  His eyes dipped for a moment and the Stormtrooper bent suddenly, grabbed some shards of window glass and flung them toward Paul. He ducked but the man launched himself into the American and caught him on the cheek with his brass-knuckled fist. It was a glancing blow but Paul was stunned and fell backward over his briefcase into a small weedy garden next to the store. The Brownshirt leapt after him. They grappled. The man was not particularly strong nor was he a trained fighter but, still, it took Paul a moment to struggle to his feet. Angry that he'd been caught off guard, he grabbed the man's wrist, twisted sharply and heard a snap.

  "Oh," the man whispered. He sagged to the ground and passed out.

  Felstedt was rolling into a sitting position, wiping vomit from his face.

  Paul pulled the man's pistol from his belt and flung it onto the roof of a low building nearby. He turned to the bookseller and the woman. "Leave now. Go."

  Speechless, they stared at him.

  "Now!" he muttered sharply.

  A whistle sounded up the street. Some shouts.

  Paul said, "Run!"

  The bookseller wiped his mouth again and glanced at the remains of their shop one last time. The woman put her arm around his shoulders and they hurried away.

  Looking in the opposite direction down Rosenthaler Street, Paul noted a half dozen Brownshirts running in his direction.

  "You Jew swine," the man with the broken nose muttered. "Oh, you're done for now."

  Paul grabbed the satchel, scooped the scattered contents back inside and began running toward a nearby alley. A glance behind. The clutch of large men was in pursuit. Where the hell had they all come from? Breaking from the alley, he found himself on a street of residential buildings, pushcarts, decrepit restaurants and tawdry shops. He paused, looking around the crowded street.

  He stepped past a vendor selling secondhand clothing and, when the man was looking away, slipped a dark green jacket off a rack of men's garments. He rolled it up and started into another alley to put it on. But he heard shouts from nearby. "There! Is that him?... You! Stop!"

  To his left he saw three more Stormtroopers pointing his way. Word had spread of the incident. He hurried into the alley, longer and darker than the first. More shouts behind him. Then a gunshot. He heard a sharp snap as the bullet hit brick near his head. He glanced back. Another three or four uniformed men had joined his pursuers.

  There are far too many people in this country who will chase you simply because you are running....

  Paul spit hard against the wall and struggled to suck air into his lungs. A moment later he burst out of the alley into another street, more crowded than the first. He inhaled deeply and lost himself in the crowds of Saturday shoppers. Looking up and down the avenue, he saw three or four alleys branching off.

  Which one?

  Shouts behind him as the Stormtroopers poured into the street. No time to wait. He picked the nearest alleyway.

  Wrong choice. The only exits from it were five or six doors. They were all locked.

  He started to run back out of the cul-de-sac but stopped. There were now a dozen Brownshirts prowling through the crowds, moving steadily toward this alley. Most of them held pistols. Boys accompanied them, dressed like the flag-lowering youngsters he'd met yesterday at the Olympic Village.

  Steadying his breathing, he pressed flat against the brick.

  A swell mess this is, he thought angrily.

  He stuffed his hat, tie and suit jacket into the satchel, then pulled on the green jacket.

  Paul set the bag at his feet and took out the pistol. He checked to make certain the gun was loaded and a round chambered. Bracing his arm against the wall, he rested the weapon on his forearm and leaned out slowly, aiming at the man who was in the lead--Felstedt.

  It would be difficult for them to figure out where the shot had come from and Paul hoped they'd scatter for cover, giving him the chance to lam through the rows of nearby pushcarts. Risky... but they'd be at this alley in a few minutes; what other choices did he have?

  Closer, closer...

  Touching the ice...

  Pressure slowly increasing on the trigger as he aimed at the center of the man's chest, the sights floating on the spot where the diagonal leather strap from belt to shoulder covered his heart.

  "No," the voice whispered urgently in his ear.

  Paul spun around, leveling the pistol at the man who'd come up silently behind him. He was in his forties, dressed in a well-worn suit. His thick hair was swept back with oil and he had a bushy mustache. He was some inches shorter than Paul, his belly protruding over his belt. In his hands was a large cardboard carton.

  "You may point that elsewhere," he said calmly, nodding down at the pistol.

  The American didn't move the gun. "Who are you?"

  "Perhaps we may converse later. We have more urgent matters now." He stepped past Paul and looked around the corner. "A dozen of them. You must have done something quite irksome."

  "I beat up three of them."

  The German lifted a surprised eyebrow. "Ach, well, I assure you, sir, if you kill one or two, there will be hundreds more here within minutes. They'll hunt you down and they may kill a dozen innocent people in the process. I can help you escape."

  Paul hesitated.

  "If you don't do as I say they will kill you. Murder and marching are the only things they do well."

  "Put the box down." The man did and Paul lifted his jacket, looked at the waistband then gestured for him to turn in a circle.

  "I have no gun."

  The same gesture, impatient.

  The German turned. Paul patted his pockets and ankles. He was unarmed.

  The man said, "I was watching you. You removed your jacket and hat-- that's good. And you stood out like a virgin on Nollendorf Plaza in that gauche tie. But it is likely you'll be searched. You must discard the clothes." A nod toward the satchel.

  Running foots
teps sounded nearby. Paul stepped back, considering the words. The advice made sense. He dug the items out of the satchel and stepped to a trash bin.

  "No," the man said. "Not there. If you wish to dispose of something in Berlin don't throw it into food bins because people foraging for scraps will find it. And don't throw it into the waste containers or the Gestapo or the V-men or A-men from the SD will find it; they regularly go through garbage. The only safe place is the sewer. No one goes through the sewers. Not yet, in any case."

  Paul glanced down at a nearby grating and reluctantly shoved in the items.

  His luck-of-the-Irish tie...

  "Now I'll add something to your role as an escaper-from-dung-shirts." He reached into his jacket pocket and extracted several hats. He selected a light-colored canvas crush hat. He unfurled and handed it to Paul then replaced the others. "Put it on." The American did so. "Now, the pistol too. You must get rid of it. I know you are hesitant, but in truth it will do you little good. No gun carries enough bullets to stop all the Stormtroopers in the city, let alone a puny Luger."

  Yes or no?

  Instinct again told him the man was right. He crouched down and tossed the gun down the grating as well. He heard a splash far below street level.

  "Now, follow me." The man picked up the carton. When Paul hesitated he whispered, "Ach, you're thinking, how can you possibly trust me? You don't know me at all. But, sir, I would say that under the circumstances the real question is, how can you not trust me? Still, it's your choice. You have about ten seconds to decide." He laughed. "Doesn't that always seem to be the way? The more important the decision, the less the time to make it." He walked to a door, fiddled with a key and unlocked it. He glanced back. Paul followed. They stepped into a storeroom and the German swung the door shut and locked it. Watching through the greasy window, Paul saw the band of Stormtroopers step into the alley, look around, then continue on.

  The room was densely packed with boxes and crates, dusty bottles of wine. The man paused, nodding to a carton. "Take that. It will be a prop for our storytelling. And perhaps a profitable one too."

  Paul looked at the man angrily. "I could have left my clothes and the gun in your warehouse here. I didn't have to throw them out."

  The man jutted out his lower lip. "Ach, yes, except that this isn't exactly my warehouse. Now, that carton. Please, sir, we must hurry." Paul set the satchel on top, hefted the box and followed. They emerged into a dusty front room. The man glanced out the filthy window. He began to open the door.

  "Wait," Paul said. He touched his cheek; the cut from the brass knuckles was bleeding slightly. He ran his hands over some dirty shelves and pat ted his face, covering the wound, and his jacket and slacks. The smudges would draw less attention than the blood.

  "Good," the German said and pushed the door wide. "You are now a sweaty laborer. And I will be your boss. This way." He turned directly toward a cluster of three or four Stormtroopers, speaking to a woman who lounged against a street lamp, holding a tiny poodle on a red leash.

  Paul hesitated.

  "Come on. Don't slow up."

  They were almost past the Brownshirts when one of them called to the two men, "You there, stop. We will see your papers." One of his friends joined him and they stepped in front of Paul and the German. Seething that he'd given up his gun, Paul glanced to his side. The man from the alley frowned. "Ach, our cards, yes, yes. I am very sorry, gentlemen. You must understand we're forced to work today, as you can see." A nod toward the cartons. "It was unplanned. An urgent delivery."

  "You must carry your card with you at all times."

  Paul said, "We are only going a short way."

  "We are looking for a large man in a gray suit and brown hat. He is armed. Have you seen anyone like that?"

  A consulting glance. "No," Paul said.

  The second Brownshirt patted both the German and Paul for weapons then grabbed the satchel and opened it, glanced inside. He lifted out the copy of Mein Kampf. Paul could see the bulge where the Russian passport and rubles were hidden.

  The German from the alley said quickly, "Nothing of interest in there. But now I recall that we do have our identification. Look in my man's carton."

  The Brownshirts glanced at each other. The one holding Hitler's book tossed it back inside, set the satchel down and ripped open the top of the carton that Paul held.

  "As you can see, we are the Bordeaux Brothers."

  A Brownshirt laughed, and the German continued. "But you can never be too sure. Perhaps you should take two of those with you for verification."

  Several bottles of red wine were lifted out. The Stormtroopers waved the men on. Paul picked up the satchel and they continued up the street.

  Two blocks farther on, the German nodded across the street. "In there." The place he indicated appeared to be a nightclub decorated with Nazi flags. A wooden sign read: The Aryan Cafe.

  "Are you mad?" Paul asked.

  "Have I been right so far, my friend? Please, inside. It's the safest place to be. Dung-shirts aren't welcome here, nor can they afford it. As long as you haven't beaten any SS officers or senior Party officials, you'll be safe.... You haven't, have you?"

  Paul shook his head. He reluctantly followed the man inside. He saw immediately what the man meant about the price of admission. A sign said: $20 U.S./40 DM. Jesus, he thought. The ritziest place he went to in New York, the Debonair Club, had a five-buck cover.

  How much dough did he have on him? That was nearly half the money Morgan had given him. But the doorman looked up and recognized the mustachioed German. He nodded the men inside without charging them.

  They pushed through a curtain into a small dark bar, cluttered with antiques and artifacts, movie posters, dusty bottles. "Otto!" the bartender called, shaking the man's hand.

  Otto set his carton on the bar and gestured for Paul to do the same with his.

  "I thought you were delivering one case only."

  "My comrade here helped me carry a second one, ten bottles only in his. So that makes the total seventy marks now, does it not?"

  "I asked for one case. I need only one case. I will pay for only one case."

  As the men dickered, Paul focused on the loud words coming from a large radio behind the bar. "... modern science has found myriad ways to protect the body from disease and yet if you don't apply those simple rules of hygiene, you can fall greatly ill. With our foreign visitors in town, it is likely that there may be new strains of infection, so it is vital to keep in mind rules of sanitation."

  Otto finished the negotiation, apparently to his satisfaction, and glanced out the window. "They're still there, prowling. Let us have a beer. I will let you buy me one." He noticed Paul looking at the radio, which no one in the bar seemed to be paying attention to, despite the high volume. "Ach, you like the deep voice of our propaganda minister? It's dramatic, yes? But to see him, he's a runt. I have contacts all over Wilhelm Street, all the government buildings. They call him 'Mickey Mouse' behind his back. Let us go in the back. I can't stand the droning. Every establishment must have a radio to broadcast the Party leaders' speeches and must turn the sound up when they are transmitting. It's illegal not to. Here they keep the radio up front to satisfy the rules. The real club is in the back rooms. Now, do you like men or women?"

  "What?"

  "Men or women? Which do you prefer?"

  "I'm not interested in--"

  "I understand, but since we must wait for the Brownshirts to grow tired of their pursuit, please tell me: Which would you rather look at while we have the beer you've so generously agreed to buy me? Men dancing as men, men dancing as women or women dancing as themselves?"

  "Women."

  "Ach, me too. It's illegal to be a homosexual in Germany now. But you would be surprised how many National Socialists seem to enjoy one another's company for reasons other than discussing rightist politics. This way." He pushed through a blue velvet curtain.

  The second room was for men who enj
oyed women, it seemed. They sat down at a rickety wicker table in the black-painted room, decorated with Chinese lanterns, paper streamers and animal trophies, as dusty as the Nazi flags hanging from the ceiling.

  Paul handed back the canvas cap; it disappeared into the man's pocket with the others. "Thanks."

  Otto nodded. "Ach, what are friends for?" He looked for a waiter or waitress.

  "I'll be back in a moment." Paul rose and went to the lavatory. He washed the smudges and blood off his face and combed his hair back with lotion, which shortened and darkened it, making him appear somewhat different from the man the Brownshirts were seeking. His cheek was not badly cut but a bruise had formed around it. He stepped out of the washroom and slipped backstage. He found the dressing room for performers. A man sat at the far end, smoking a cigar and reading a newspaper. He didn't pay any attention as Paul dipped his finger into a pot of makeup. Returning to the lavatory he smoothed the cosmetic over the bruise. He had some experience with makeup; all good boxers knew the importance of concealing injuries from their opponents.

  He returned to the table, where he found Otto gesturing toward the waitress, a pretty, dark-haired young woman. But she was busy and the man sighed in irritation. He turned back, regarding Paul closely. "Now, you are obviously not from here because you know nothing of our 'culture.' I'm speaking of the radio. And of the dung-shirts, whom you would not have antagonized by fighting had you been a German. But your language is perfect. The faintest of accents. And not French or Slav or Spanish. What breed of dog are you?"

  "I appreciate the help, Otto. But some matters I'll keep to myself."

  "No matter. I've decided you're American or English. Probably American. I know from your movies--the way you make your sentences... Yes, you are American. Who else would have a troop of dung-shirts after him but a brash American with big balls? You are from the land of heroic cowboys, who take on a tribe of Indians alone. Where is that waitress?" He looked about, smoothing his mustache. "Now, introductions. I am presenting myself to you. Otto Wilhelm Friedrich Georg Webber. And you?... But perhaps you wish to keep your name to yourself."

  "I think that's wiser."

  Webber chuckled. "So you beat up three of them and earned the endless affection of the Brownshirts and the bitch brood?"

  "The what?"

  "Hitler Youth. The boys scurrying among the legs of the Stormtroopers." Webber eyed Paul's red knuckles. "You perhaps enjoy the boxing matches, Mr. Nameless? You look like an athlete. I can get you Olympic tickets. There are none left, as you know. But I can get them. Day seats, good ones."