Garden Of Beasts

“I read about that.”

“They’re building submarines at Helgoland and’re taking back control of the Wilhelm Canal to move warships from the North Sea to the Baltic. The man ru

“You want me… you want a button man to kill Hitler?”

“Lord, no,” the Senator said. “Hitler’s just a crank. Fu

“And this man you’re talking about does?”

“Oh, you bet he does,” the Senator offered. “His name’s Reinhard Ernst. He was a colonel during the War but he’s civilian now. Title’s a mouthful: plenipotentiary for domestic stability. But that’s hooey. He’s the brains behind rearmament. He’s got his finger in everything: financing with Schacht, army with Blomberg, navy with Raeder, air force with Göring, munitions with Krupp.”

“What about the treaty? Versailles? They can’t have an army, I thought.”

“Not a big one. Same with the navy… and no air force at all,” the Senator said. “But our man tells us that soldiers and sailors’re popping up all over Germany like wine at Cana ’s wedding.”

“So can’t the Allies just stop them? I mean, we won the War.”

“Nobody in Europe ’s doing a thing. The French could’ve stopped Hitler cold last March, at the Rhineland. But they didn’t. The Brits? All they did was scold a dog that’d pissed on the carpet.”

After a moment Paul asked, “And what’ve we done to stop them?”

Gordon’s subtle glance was one of deference. The Senator shrugged. “In America all we want is peace. The isolationists’re ru

“And the president wants to get elected again this November,” Paul said, feeling FDR’s eyes peering down on him from above the ornate mantelpiece.

Awkward silence for a moment. Gordon laughed. The Senator did not.

Paul stubbed out his cigarette. “Okay. Sure. It’s making sense now. If I get caught there’s nothing to lead them back to you. Or to him. ” A nod toward Roosevelt ’s picture. “Hell, I’m just a crazy civilian, not a soldier like these kids here.” A glance at the two junior officers. Avery smiled; Manielli did too but his was a very different smile.

The Senator said, “That’s right, Paul. That’s exactly right.”

“And I speak German.”

“We heard you’re fluent.”

Paul’s grandfather was proud of his country of ancestry, as was Paul’s father, who insisted the children study German and speak their native language in the house. He recalled absurd moments when his mother would shout in Gaelic and his father in German when they fought. Paul had also worked in his grandfather’s plant, setting type and proofreading German-language printing jobs during the summers when he was in high school.

“How would it work? I’m not saying yes. I’m just curious. How would it work?”

“There’s a ship taking the Olympic team, families and press over to Germany. It leaves day after tomorrow. You’d be on it.”

“The Olympic team?”

“We’ve decided it’s the best way. There’ll be thousands of foreigners in town. Berlin ’ll be packed. Their army and police’ll have their hands full.”

Avery said, “You won’t have anything to do with the Olympics officially – the games don’t start till August first. The Olympic Committee only knows you’re a writer.”

“A sports journalist,” Gordon added. “That’s your cover. But basically you just play dumb and make yourself invisible. Go to the Olympic Village with everybody else and spend a day or two there then slip into the city. A hotel’s no good; the Nazis monitor all the guests and record passports. Our man’s getting a room in a private boardinghouse for you.”

Like any craftsman, certain questions about the job slipped into his mind. “Would I use my name?”

“Yes, you’ll be yourself. But we’ll also get you an escape passport – with your picture but a different name. Issued by some other country.”

The Senator said, “You look Russian. You’re big and solid.” He nodded. “Sure, you’ll be the ‘man from Russia.’”

“I don’t speak Russian.”

“Nobody there does either. Besides, you’ll probably never need the passport. It’s just to get you out of the country in an emergency.”

“And,” Paul added quickly, “to make sure nobody traces me to you if I don’t make it out, right?”

The Senator’s hesitation, followed by a glance at Gordon, said he was on the money.

Paul continued. “Who’m I supposed to be working for? All the papers’ll have stringers there. They’d know I wasn’t a reporter.”

“We thought of that. You’ll be writing freelance stories and trying to sell ’em to some of the sports rags when you get back.”

Paul asked, “Who’s your man over there?”

Gordon said, “No names just now.”

“I don’t need a name. Do you trust him? And why?”

The Senator said, “He’s been living there for a couple of years and getting us quality information. He served under me in the War. I know him personally.”

“What’s his cover there?”

“Businessman, facilitator, that sort of thing. Works for himself.”

Gordon continued. “He’ll get you a weapon and whatever you need to know about your target.”

“I don’t have a real passport. In my name, I mean.”

“We know, Paul. We’ll get you one.”

“Can I have my guns back?”

“No,” Gordon said and that was the end of the matter. “So that’s our general plan, my friend. And, I should tell you, if you’re thinking of hopping a freight and laying low in some Hooverville out west?…”

Paul sure as hell had been. But he frowned and shook his head.

“Well, these fine young men’ll be sticking to you like limpets until the ship docks in Hamburg. And if you should get the same hankering to slip out of Berlin, our contact’s going to be keeping an eye on you. If you disappear, he calls us and we call the Nazis to tell them an escaped American killer’s at large in Berlin. And we’ll give them your name and picture.” Gordon held his eye. “If you think we were good at tracking you down, Paul, you ain’t seen nothing like the Nazis. And from what we hear they don’t bother with trials and writs of execution. Now, we clear on that?”

“As a bell.”

“Good.” The commander glanced at Avery. “Now, tell him what happens after he finishes the job.”

The lieutenant said, “We’ll have a plane and a crew waiting in Holland. There’s an old aerodrome outside of Berlin. After you’ve finished we’ll fly you out from there.”

“Fly me out?” Paul asked, intrigued. Flying fascinated him. When he was nine he broke his arm – the first of more times than he wanted to count – when he built a glider and launched himself off the roof of his father’s printing plant, crash-landing on the filthy cobblestones two stories below.

“That’s right, Paul,” Gordon said.

Avery offered, “You like airplanes, don’t you? You’ve got all those airplane magazines in your apartment. Books too. And pictures of planes. Some models too. You make those yourself?”

Paul felt embarrassed. It made him angry that they’d found his toys.

“You a pilot?” the Senator asked.

“Never even been in a plane before.” Then he shook his head. “I don’t know.” This whole thing was absolutely nuts. Silence filled the room.

It was broken by the man in the wrinkled white suit. “I was a colonel in the War too. Just like Reinhard Ernst. And I was at Argo

Paul nodded.

“You know the total?”

“Of what?”

“How many we lost?”

Paul remembered a sea of bodies, American, French and German. The wounded were in some ways more horrible. They cried and wailed and moaned and called for their mothers and fathers and you never forgot that sound. Ever.