Garden of Beasts

by Jeffery Deaver

  "I am Kathe Richter. Welcome to Berlin." She thrust a red, bony hand forward and shook his firmly. "I didn't know when you'd be arriving. Mr. Morgan said sometime this weekend. In any case, your quarters are ready. Please, come in."

  He stepped into the foyer, smelling naphtha from moth repellent and cinnamon and just a hint of lilac, perhaps her perfume. After she closed and locked the door she looked through the curtained side window once again and examined the street for a moment. Then she took the suitcase and the leather satchel from him.

  "No, I--"

  "I will carry them," she said briskly. "Come this way."

  She led him to a door halfway down the dim corridor, which still had the original gas lamps installed next to the newer electric fixtures. A few faded oil paintings of pastoral scenes were on the walls. Kathe opened the door and motioned him inside. The apartment was large, clean and sparsely furnished. The front door opened onto the living room, a bedroom was in the back, to the left, and along the wall was a small kitchen, separated from the rest of the living area by a stained Japanese screen. Tables were covered with figurines of animals and dolls, chipped, lacquered boxes and cheap paper fans. There were two unsteady electric lamps. A gramophone was in the corner, next to a large console radio, which she walked to and turned on.

  "The smoking room is in the front of the building. I am sure you are used to a men-only smoking room but here everyone may use it. I insist on that."

  He wasn't used to smoking rooms at all. He nodded.

  "Now, tell me if you like the rooms. I have others if you do not."

  Glancing quickly at the place, he said, "It will suit me fine."

  "You don't wish to see more? The closets, run the water, examine the view?"

  Paul had noted that the place was on the ground floor, the windows were not barred and he could make a quick exit from the bedroom window, the living room window or the hallway door, which would lead to other apartments and other means of escape. He said to her, "Provided the water doesn't come out of that canal I passed, I'm sure it will be fine. As for the view I'll be working too hard to enjoy it."

  The radio tubes warmed up and a man's voice filled the room. Brother! The health lecture was still going on, more talk of draining swamps and spraying to kill mosquitoes. At least FDR's fireside chats were short and sweet. He walked over to the set and turned the dial, looking for music. There was none. He shut it off.

  "You don't mind, do you?"

  "It's your room. Do as you wish." She glanced at the silent radio uncertainly then said, "Mr. Morgan said you're an American. But your German is very good."

  "Thanks to my parents and grandparents." He took the suitcase from her, walked into the bedroom and set it on the bed. The bag sank deep into the mattress, and he wondered if it was filled with down. His grandmother had told him that she'd had a down bed in Nuremberg before they immigrated to New York, and as a boy Paul had been fascinated at the thought of sleeping on bird feathers.

  When he returned to the living room Kathe said, "I serve a light breakfast, across the hall, from seven to eight A.M. Please let me know the night before when you'd like to be served. And there is coffee in the afternoon, of course. You'll find a basin in the bedroom. The bathroom is up the hall, to be shared, but for now you are our only guest. Closer to the Olympics it will be much more crowded. Today you are the king of number twenty-six Magdeburger Alley. The castle is yours." She walked to the door. "I will get afternoon coffee now."

  "You don't have to. I actually--"

  "Yes, yes, I will. It's part of the price."

  When she stepped into the hall Paul went into the bedroom, where a dozen black beetles roamed the floor. He opened his briefcase and placed the copy of Hitler's Mein Kampf, containing the fake passport and rubles, on the bookcase. Removing his sweater, he rolled up the sleeves of his tennis shirt, washed his hands then dried them on a threadbare towel.

  Kathe returned a moment later with a tray containing a dented silver coffeepot, a cup and a small plate covered with a lace doily. She set this on the table in front of a well-worn couch.

  "Please, you will sit."

  He did, rebuttoning his sleeves. He asked, "Do you know Reggie Morgan well?"

  "No, he just answered an advertisement for the room and paid in advance."

  This was the answer Paul had been hoping for. He was relieved to learn that she had not contacted Morgan, which would have made her suspect. From the corner of his eye he felt her glance at his cheek. "You are hurt?"

  "I'm tall. I'm always banging my head." Paul touched his face lightly, as if he were hitting himself, to illustrate his words. The pantomime made him feel foolish and he lowered his hand.

  She rose. "Please, wait." A few minutes later she'd returned with a sticking plaster, which she offered him.

  "Thanks."

  "I have no iodine, I'm afraid. I looked."

  He went into the bedroom, where he stood in front of the mirror behind the washstand and pressed the plaster to his face.

  She called, "We have no low ceilings here. You will be safe."

  "Is this your building?" he asked, returning.

  "No. It is owned by a man who is presently in Holland," Kathe replied. "I manage the house in exchange for room and board."

  "Is he connected to the Olympics?"

  "Olympics? No, why?"

  "Most of the flags on the street are the Nazi--National Socialist, I mean. But you have an Olympic flag here."

  "Yes, yes." She smiled. "We are in the spirit of the Games, aren't we?"

  Her German grammar was flawless and she was articulate; she'd had a different, and much better, career in the past, he could tell, but the ragged hands and cracked nails and such tired, tired eyes told a story of recent difficulties. But he could also sense an energy within her, a determination to see life through to better times. This, he decided, was part of the attraction he felt.

  She poured him coffee. "There is no sugar at the moment. The stores have run out."

  "I don't take sugar."

  "But I have strudel. I made it before the supplies ran short." She took the doily off the plate, on which sat four small pieces of pastry. "Do you know what strudel is?"

  "My mother made it. Every Saturday. My brother and sister would help her. They'd pull the dough so thin that you could read through it."

  "Yes, yes," she said enthusiastically, "that is how I make it too. You did not help them stretch the dough?"

  "No, I never did. I'm not so talented in the kitchen." He took a bite and said, "But I ate plenty of it.... This is very good." He nodded toward the pot. "Would you like coffee? I'll pour you some."

  "Me?" She blinked. "Oh, no."

  He sipped the brew, which was weak. It had been made from used grounds.

  "We will speak your language," Kathe announced. And launched into: "I have never been over to your country but I want very much to go."

  He could detect only a slight v 'ing of her w 's, which is the hardest English sound for Germans to form.

  "Your English is good," Paul said.

  "You mean 'well,'" she blurted, smiling to have caught him in a mistake.

  Paul said, "No. Your English is good. You speak English well. 'Good' is an adjective. 'Well' is an adverb--most of the time."

  She frowned. "Let me think.... Yes, yes, you are right. I am blushing now. Mr. Morgan said you are a writer. And you've been to university, of course."

  Two years at a small college in Brooklyn before he dropped out to enlist and go fight in France. He'd never gotten around to finishing his studies. When he'd returned, that was when life got complicated, and college fell by the wayside. In fact, though, he'd learned more about words and books working for his grandfather and father in the printing plant than he figured he'd ever learn in college. But he told her none of this.

  "I am a teacher. That is to say, I was a teacher. I taught literature to youngsters. As well as the difference between 'will' and 'shall' and 'may' and 'can.' Oh, a
nd 'good' and 'well.' Which I am now embarrassed about."

  "English literature?"

  "No, German. Though I love many English books."

  There was silence for a moment. Paul reached into his pocket, took out his passport, handed it to her.

  She frowned, turning it over in his hand.

  "I'm really who I say I am."

  "I don't understand."

  "The language... You asked me about speaking English to see if I'm really an American. Not a National Socialist informer. Am I right?"

  "I..." Her brown eyes quickly examined the floor. She was embarrassed.

  "It's all right." He nodded. "Look at it. The picture."

  She started to return it. But then she paused, opened it up and compared the picture to his face. He took the booklet back.

  "Yes, you are right. I hope you will forgive me, Mr. Schumann."

  "Paul."

  Then a smile. "You must be quite a successful journalist to be so... 'perceptive' is the word?"

  "Yes, that's the word."

  "The Party is not so diligent, nor so wealthy, as to hire Americans to spy on little people like me, I am thinking. So I can tell you that I am not in favor." A sigh. "It was my fault. I was not thinking. I was teaching Goethe, the poet, to my students and I mentioned simply that I respected his courage when he forbade his son to fight in the German war of independence. Pacifism is a crime in Germany now. I was fired for saying that, and all my books were confiscated." She tossed her hand. "Forgive me. I am complaining. Have you read him? Goethe?"

  "I don't think so."

  "You would like him. He is brilliant. He spins colors out of words. Of all the books taken from me, his are the ones I miss the most." Kathe glanced hungrily at the plate of strudel. She hadn't eaten any. Paul held the plate out to her. She said, "No, no, thank you."

  "If you don't eat one, then I'll think that you 're the National Socialist agent trying to poison me."

  She eyed the pastry and took one. She ate it quickly. When Paul looked down to reach for his coffee cup he noted from the corner of his eye that she touched up pastry flakes from the tabletop on her fingertips and lifted them to her mouth, staring at him to make sure he wasn't looking.

  When he turned back, she said, "Ah, but now, we have been careless, you and I, as often happens on first meetings. We must be more cautious. This reminds me." She pointed toward the telephone. "Always keep it unplugged. You must be aware of listening devices. And if you do make a call, assume that you are sharing your conversation with a National Socialist lackey. That is true especially for any long-distance calls you make from the post office, though phone kiosks on the street are, I'm told, relatively private."

  "Thanks," Paul said. "But if anybody listened to my conversations all they'd hear is pretty boring talk: What's the population of Berlin, how many steaks will the athletes eat, how long did it take to build the stadium? Things like that."

  "Ach," Kathe said softly, rising to leave, "what we have said this afternoon, you and I, would be considered boring by many but would easily merit a visit from the Gestapo. If not worse."

  Chapter Twelve

  Willi Kohl's battered Auto Union DKW managed the twenty kilometers to the Olympic Village west of the city without overheating, despite the relentless sunlight that forced both officers to shed their jackets--contrary both to their natures and to Kripo regulations.

  The route had taken them through Charlottenburg and, had they continued southwest, would have led them toward Gatow, the two towns near which the Polish workers and the Jewish families had died. The terrible pictures of the murders continued to toss about in Kohl's memory like bad fish in his gut.

  They arrived at the main entrance of the village, which was bustling. Private cars, taxis and buses were dropping off athletes and other personnel; trucks were delivering crates, luggage and equipment. Jacketed once more, they walked to the gate, showed their ID cards to the guards--who were regular army--and were let inside the spacious, trimmed grounds. Around them men carted suitcases and trunks along the wide sidewalks. Others, in shorts and sleeveless shirts, exercised or ran.

  "Look," Janssen said enthusiastically, nodding toward a cluster of Japanese or Chinese men. Kohl was surprised to see them in white shirts and flannel trousers and not... well, he didn't know what. Loincloths, perhaps, or embroidered silk robes. Nearby several dark, Middle Eastern men walked together, two of them laughing at what the third had said. Willi Kohl stared like a schoolboy. He would certainly enjoy watching the Games themselves when they began next week but he was also looking forward to seeing people from nearly every country on earth, the only major nations not represented being Spain and Russia.

  The policemen located the American dormitories. In the main building was a reception area. They approached the German army liaison officer. "Lieutenant," Kohl said, noting the rank on the man's uniform. He stood immediately and then grew even more attentive when Kohl identified himself and his assistant. "Hail Hitler. You are here on business, sir?"

  "That's right." He described the suspect and asked if the officer had seen such a man.

  "No, sir, but there are many hundreds of people in the American dormitories alone. As you can see, the facility is quite large."

  Kohl nodded. "I need to speak to someone who is with the American team. Some official."

  "Yes, sir. I will arrange it."

  Five minutes later he returned with a lanky man in his forties, who identified himself in English as one of the head coaches. He wore white slacks and, although the day was very hot, a white chain-knit sweater vest over his white shirt. Kohl realized that while the reception area had been nearly empty a short time before, now a dozen athletes and others had eased into the room, pretending to have some business there. As he remembered from the army, nothing spread faster than news among men housed together.

  The German officer was willing to interpret but Kohl preferred to speak directly to those he was interviewing and said in halting English, "Sir, I am being a police inspector with the German criminal police." He displayed his ID.

  "Is there some problem?"

  "We are not certain yet. But, uhm, we try to find a man we would like to speak to. Perhaps you are knowing him."

  "It's quite a serious matter," Janssen offered with perfect English pronunciation. Kohl had not known he spoke the language so well.

  "Yes, yes," the inspector continued. "He had seemingly this book he lost." He held up the guidebook, unfurled the handkerchief around it. "It is given to persons with the Olympic Games, is it?"

  "That's right. Not just athletes, though, everybody. We've given out maybe a thousand or so. And a lot of the other countries give out the English version too, you know."

  "Yes, but we have located too his hat and it was purchased in New York, New York. So, mostly likely, he is Americaner."

  "Really?" the coach asked cautiously. "His hat?"

  Kohl continued. "He is being a large man, we are believing, with red, black brown hair."

  "Black brown?"

  Frustrated at his own lack of foreign vocabulary, Kohl glanced at Janssen, who said, "His hair is dark brown, straight. A reddish tint."

  "He wears a light gray suit and this hat and tie." Kohl nodded toward Janssen, who produced the evidence from his case.

  The coach looked at them noncommittally and shrugged. "Maybe it would help if you told us what this was about."

  Kohl thought again how different life was in America. No German would dare ask why a policeman wished to know something.

  "It is a matter of state security."

  "State security. Uh-huh. Well, I'd like to help. I sure would. But unless you've got something more specific..."

  Kohl looked around. "Perhaps some person here might be knowing this man."

  The coach called, "Any of you boys know who these belong to?"

  They shook their heads or muttered "No" or "Nope."

  "Perhaps then I am in hopes you are having a... yes, yes, a list
of peoples who came with you here. And addresses. To see who would be living in New York."

  "We do but only the members of the team and the coaches. And you're not suggesting--"

  "No, no." Kohl believed that the killer was not on the team. The athletes were in the spotlight; it would be unlikely for one of them to slip away from the village unseen on his first full day in Berlin, murder a man, visit several different places in the city on a mission of some sort, then return without arousing suspicion. "I am doubting this man is an athlete."

  "So. I can't be much help, I'm afraid." The coach crossed his arms. "You know, Officer, I'll bet your immigration department has information on visitors' addresses. They keep track of everybody entering and leaving the country, don't they? I heard you fellows in Germany are real good at that."

  "Yes, yes, I was considered that. But, unfortunate, the information does not present a person's address in his home. Only his nationality."

  "Oh, tough break."

  Kohl persisted. "What I am also been hoping: perhaps a manifest of the ship, the Manhattan passenger list? Often it is giving addresses."

  "Ah, yeah. That I'll bet we do have. Although you realize there were close to a thousand people on board."

  "Please, I am understanding. But still I would most hopefully like to see it."

  "You bet. Only... I sure hate to be difficult, Officer, but I think this dorm... you know, I think we might have diplomatic status. Sovereign territory. So, I think you'd need a search warrant."

  Kohl remembered when a judge needed to approve the search of a suspect's house or the demand to turn over evidence. The Weimar Constitution, creating the Republic of Germany after the War, had many such protections, most borrowed from the American. (It contained a single, rather significant flaw, though, one that Hitler seized upon immediately: the right of the president to indefinitely suspend all civil rights.)

  "Oh, I'm merely looking at a few matters here. I am having no warrant."

  "I'd really feel better if you got one."