Garden Of Beasts

Chapter Three

Finally, the man could do what he’d come here for.

It was six in the morning and the ship in whose pungent third-class corridor he now stood, the S.S. Manhattan, was nosing toward Hamburg harbor, ten days after leaving New York.

The vessel was, literally, the flagship of the United States Lines – the first in the company’s fleet constructed exclusively for passengers. It was huge – over two football fields in length – but this voyage had been especially crowded. Typical transatlantic crossings found the ship carrying six hundred or so passengers and a crew of five hundred. On this trip, though, nearly four hundred Olympic athletes, managers and coaches and another 850 passengers, mostly family, friends, the press and members of the AOC, filled the three classes of accommodations.

The number of passengers and the unusual requirements of the athletes and reporters on board the Manhattan had made life hectic for the diligent, polite crew, but particularly so for this round, bald man, whose name was Albert Heinsler. Certainly his job as a porter meant long and strenuous hours. But the most arduous aspect of his day was due to his true role on board the ship, one that not a single soul here knew anything about. Heinsler called himself an A-man, which is how the Nazi intelligence service referred to their trusted operatives in Germany – their Agenten.

In fact, this reclusive thirty-four-year-old bachelor was merely a member of the German-American Bund, a group of ragtag, pro-Hitler Americans loosely allied with the Christian Front in their stand against Jews, Communists and Negroes. Heinsler didn’t hate America but he could never forget the terrible days as a teenager when his family had been driven to poverty during the War because of anti-German prejudice; he himself had been relentlessly taunted – “Heinie, Heinie, Heinie the Hun” – and beaten up countless times in school yards and alleys.

No, he didn’t hate his country. But he loved Nazi Germany with all his heart and was enraptured with the messiah Adolf Hitler. He’d make any sacrifice for the man – prison or even death if necessary.

Heinsler had hardly believed his good fortune when the commanding Stormtrooper at the New Jersey headquarters of the bund had noted the loyal comrade’s past employment as a bookkeeper on board some passenger liners and had arranged to get him a job on the Manhattan . The brown-uniformed commandant had met him on the boardwalk at Atlantic City and explained that while the Nazis were magnanimously welcoming people from around the world they were worried about security breaches that the influx of athletes and visitors might allow. Heinsler’s duty was to be the Nazis’ clandestine representative on this ship. He wouldn’t be doing his past job, though – keeping ledgers. It was important that he be free to roam the ship without suspicion; he’d be a porter.

Why, this was the thrill of his life! He immediately quit his job working in the back room of a certified public accountant on lower Broadway. He spent the next few days, until the ship sailed, being his typically obsessed self, preparing for his mission as he worked through the night to study diagrams of the ship, practice his role as a porter, brush up on his German and learn a variation of Morse code, called continental code, which was used when telegraphing messages to and within Europe.

Once the ship left port he kept to himself, observed and listened and was the perfect A-man. But when the Manhattan was at sea, he’d been unable to communicate with Germany; the signal of his portable wireless was too weak. The ship itself had a powerful radiogram system, of course, as well as short-and long-wave wireless, but he could hardly transmit his message those ways; a crew radio operator would be involved, and it was vital that nobody heard or saw what he had to say.

Heinsler now glanced out the porthole at the gray strip of Germany. Yes, he believed he was close enough to shore to transmit. He stepped into his minuscule cabin and retrieved the Allocchio Bacchini wireless-telegraph set from under his cot. Then he started toward the stairs that would take him to the highest deck, where he hoped the puny signal would make it to shore.

As he walked down the narrow corridor, he mentally reviewed his message once again. One thing he regretted was that, although he wanted to include his name and affiliation, he couldn’t do so. Even though Hitler pri vately admired what the German-American Bund was doing, the group was so rabidly – and loudly – anti-Semitic that the Führer had been forced to publicly disavow it. Heinsler’s words would be ignored if he included any reference to the American group.

And this particular message could most certainly not be ignored.

For the Obersturmführer-SS, Hamburg: I am a devoted National Socialist. Have overheard that a man with a Russian connection intends to cause some damage at high levels in Berlin in the next few days. Have not learned his identity yet but will continue to look into this matter and hope to send that information soon.

He was alive when he sparred.

There was no feeling like this. Dancing in the snug leather shoes, muscles warm, skin both cool from sweat and hot from blood, the dynamo hum of your body in constant motion. The pain too. Paul Schumann believed you could learn a lot from pain. That really was the whole point of it, after all.

But mostly he liked sparring because, like boxing itself, success or failure rested solely on his own broad and slightly scarred shoulders and was due to his deft feet and powerful hands and his mind. In boxing, it’s only you against the other guy, no teammates. If you get beat, it’s because he’s better than you. Plain and simple. And the credit’s yours if you win – because you did the jump rope, you laid off the booze and cigarettes, you thought for hours and hours and hours about how to get under his guard, about what his weaknesses were. There’s luck at Ebbets Field and Yankee Stadium. But there’s no luck in the boxing ring.

He was now dancing over the ring that had been set up on the main deck of the Manhattan; the whole ship had been turned into a floating gymnasium for training. One of the Olympic boxers had seen him working out at the punching bag last night and asked if he wanted to do some sparring this morning before the ship docked. Paul had immediately agreed.

He now dodged a few left jabs and connected with his signature right, drawing a surprised blink from his opponent. Then Paul took a hard blow to the gut before getting his guard up again. He was a little stiff at first – he hadn’t been in a ring for a while – but he’d had this smart, young sports doctor on board, a fellow named Joel Koslow, look him over and tell him he could go head-to-head with a boxer half his age. “I’d keep it to two or three rounds, though,” the doc had added with a smile. “These youngsters’re strong. They pack a wallop.”

Which was sure true. But Paul didn’t mind. The harder the workout the better, in fact, because – like the shadowboxing and jump rope he’d done every day on board – this session was helping him stay in shape for what lay ahead in Berlin.

Paul sparred two or three times a week. He was in some demand as a sparring partner even though he was forty-one, because he was a walking lesson book of boxing techniques. He’d spar anywhere, in Brooklyn gyms, in outdoor rings at Coney Island, even in serious venues. Damon Runyon was one of the founders of the Twentieth Century Sporting Club – along with the legendary promoter Mike Jacobs and a few other newspaper-men – and he’d gotten Paul into New York’s Hippodrome itself to work out. Once or twice he’d actually gone glove to glove with some of the greats. He’d spar at his own gym too, in the little building near the West Side docks. Yeah, Avery, it’s not so swank, but the dingy, musty place was a sanctuary, as far as Paul was concerned, and Sorry Williams, who lived in the back room, always kept the place neat and had ice, towels and beer handy.

The kid now feinted but Paul knew immediately where the jab was coming from and blocked it then laid a solid blow on the chest. He missed the next block, though, and felt the leather take him solidly on the jaw. He danced out of the man’s reach before the follow-through connected and they circled once more.

As they moved over the canvas Paul noted that the boy was strong and fast, but he couldn’t detach himself from his opponent. He’d get overwhelmed with a lust to win. Well, you needed desire, of course, but more important was calmly observing how the other guy moved, looking for clues as to what he was going to do next. This detachment was absolutely vital in being a great boxer.

And it was vital for a button man too.

He called it touching the ice.

Several years ago, sitting in Hanrahan’s gin mill on Forty-eighth Street, Paul was nursing a painful shiner, courtesy of Beavo Wayne, who couldn’t hit a midsection to save his soul but, Lord above, could he open eyebrows. As Paul pressed a piece of cheap beefsteak to his face, a huge Negro pushed through the door, making the daily delivery of ice. Most icemen used tongs and carried the blocks on their back. But this guy carried it in his hands. No gloves even. Paul watched him walk behind the bar and set the block in the trough.

“Hey,” Paul’d asked him. “You chip me off some of that?”

The man looked at the purple blotch around Paul’s eye and laughed. He pulled an ice pick out of a holster and chipped off a piece, which Paul wrapped in a napkin and held to his face. He slid a dime to the deliveryman, who said, “Thanks fo’ that.”

“Let me ask,” Paul said. “How come you can carry that ice? Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Oh, look here.” He held up his large hands. The palms were scar tissue, as smooth and pale as the parchment paper that Paul’s father had used when printing fancy invitations.

The Negro explained, “Ice can burn you too, juss like fire. Like leavin’ a scar. I been touchin’ ice fo’ so long I ain’t got no feelin’ left.”

Touching the ice…

That phrase stuck with Paul. It was, he realized, exactly what happened when he was on a job. There’s ice within all of us, he believed. We can choose to grip it or not.

Now, in this improbable gymnasium, thousands of miles from home, Paul felt some of this same numbness as he lost himself in the choreography of the sparring match. Leather met leather and leather met skin, and even in the cool air of dawn at sea these two men sweated hard as they circled, looking for weaknesses, sensing strengths. Sometimes connecting, sometimes not. But always vigilant.

There’s no luck in the boxing ring…

Albert Heinsler perched beside a smokestack on one of the high decks of the Manhattan and hooked the battery to the wireless set. He took out the tiny black-and-brown telegraph key and mounted it to the top of the unit.

He was slightly troubled to be using an Italian transmitter – he thought Mussolini treated the Führer with disrespect – but this was mere sentiment; he knew that the Allocchio Bacchini was one of the best portable transmitters in the world.

As the tubes warmed up he tried the key, dot dash, dot dash. His compulsive nature had driven him to practice for hours on end. He’d timed himself just before the ship sailed; he could send a message of this length in under two minutes.

Staring at the nearing shore, Heinsler inhaled deeply. It felt good to be up here, on the higher deck. While he hadn’t been condemned to his cabin, retching and moaning like hundreds of the passengers and even some crew, he hated the claustrophobia of being below. His past career as shipboard bookkeeper had had more status than the job of porter and he’d had a larger cabin on a high deck. But no matter – the honor of helping his surrogate country outweighed any discomfort.

Finally a light glowed on the face plate of the radio unit. He bent forward, adjusted two of the dials and slipped his finger onto the tiny Bakelite key. He began transmitting the message, which he translated into German as he keyed.

Dot dot dash dot… dot dot dash… dot dash dot… dash dash dash… dash dot dot dot… dot… dot dash dot…

Für Ober -

He got no further than this.

Heinsler gasped as a hand grabbed his collar from behind and pulled him backward. Off balance, he cried out and fell to the smooth oak deck.

“No, no, don’t hurt me!” He started to rise to his feet but the large, grimfaced man, wearing a boxing outfit, drew back a huge fist and shook his head.

“Don’t move.”

Heinsler sank back to the deck, shivering.

Heinie, Heinie, Heinie the Hun…

The boxer reached forward and ripped the battery wires off the unit. “Downstairs,” he said, gathering up the transmitter. “Now.” And he yanked the A-man to his feet.

“What’re you up to?”

“Go to hell,” the balding man said, though with a quavering voice that belied his words.

They were in Paul’s cabin. The transmitter, battery and the contents of the man’s pockets were strewn on the narrow cot. Paul repeated his question, adding an ominous growl this time. “Tell me-”

A pounding on the cabin door. Paul stepped forward, cocked his fist and opened the door. Vince Manielli pushed inside.

“I got your message. What the hell is-?” He fell silent, staring at their prisoner.

Paul handed him the wallet. “Albert Heinsler, German-American Bund.”

“Oh, Christ… Not the bund.”

“He had that.” A nod at the wireless telegraph.

“He was spying on us? ”

“I don’t know. But he was just about to transmit something.”

“How’d you tip to him?”

“Call it a hunch.”

Paul didn’t tell Manielli that, while he trusted Gordon and his boys up to a point, he didn’t know how careless they might be at this sort of game; they could’ve been leaving behind a trail of clues a mile wide – notes about the ship, careless words about Malone or another touch-off, even references to Paul himself. He hadn’t thought there was much of a risk from the Nazis; he was more concerned that word might get to some of his old enemies in Brooklyn or Jersey that he was on the ship, and he wanted to be prepared. So he’d dipped into his own pocket just after they’d left port and slipped a senior mate a C-note, asking him to find out about any crew members who were strangers to the regular crew, kept to themselves, were asking unusual questions. Any passengers too who seemed suspicious.

A hundred dollars buys a hell of a lot of detective work but throughout the voyage the mate had heard of nothing – until this morning, when he’d interrupted Paul’s sparring match with the Olympian to tell him that some of the crew had been talking about this porter, Heinsler. He was always skulking around, never spent time with fellow crew members and – weirdest of all – would start spouting hooey about the Nazis and Hitler at the drop of a hat.

Alarmed, Paul tracked down Heinsler and found him on the top deck, hunched over his radio.

“Did he send anything?” Manielli now asked.

“Not this morning. I came up the stairs behind him and saw him setting the radio up. He didn’t have time to send more than a few letters. But he might’ve been transmitting all week.”

Manielli glanced down at the radio. “Probably not with that. The range is only a few miles… What does he know?”

“Ask him, ” Paul said.

“So, fella, what’s your game?”

The bald man remained silent.

Paul leaned forward. “Spill.”

Heinsler gave an eerie smile. He turned to Manielli. “I heard you talking. I know what you’re up to. But they’ll stop you.”

“Who put you up to this? The bund?”

Heinsler scoffed. “Nobody put me up to anything.” He was no longer cringing. He said with breathless devotion, “I’m loyal to the New Germany. I love the Führer and I’d do anything for him and the Party. And people like you-”

“Oh, can it,” Manielli muttered. “What do you mean, you heard us?”

Heinsler didn’t answer. He smiled smugly and looked out the porthole.

Paul said, “He heard you and Avery? What were you saying?”

The lieutenant looked down at the floor. “I don’t know. We went over the plan a couple of times. Just talking it through. I don’t remember exactly.”

“Brother, not in your cabin?” Paul snapped. “You should’ve been up on deck where you could see if anybody was around.”

“I didn’t think anybody’d be listening,” the lieutenant said defensively.

A trail of clues a mile wide…

“What’re you going to do with him?”

“I’ll talk to Avery. There’s a brig on board. I guess we’ll stow him there until we figure something out.”

“Could we get him to the consulate in Hamburg?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. But…” He fell silent, frowning. “What’s that smell?”

Paul too frowned. A sudden, bittersweet scent filled the cabin.

“No!”

Heinsler was falling back on the pillow, eyes rolling up in his sockets, bits of white foam filling the corner of his mouth. His body was convulsing horribly.

The scent was of almond.

“Cyanide,” Manielli whispered. He ran to the porthole and opened it wide.

Paul took a pillowcase and carefully wiped the man’s mouth, fished inside for the capsule. But he pulled out only a few shards of glass. It had shattered completely. He was dead by the time Paul turned back from the basin with a glass of water to wash the poison out of his mouth.

“He killed himself,” Manielli whispered manically, staring with wide eyes. “Just… Right there. He killed himself.”

Paul thought angrily: And there goes a chance to find out anything more.

The lieutenant stared at the body, shaken. “This’s a jam all right. Oh, brother…”

“Go tell Avery.”

But Manielli seemed paralyzed.

Paul took him firmly by the arm. “Vince… tell Avery. You listening to me?”

“What?… Oh, sure. Andy. I’ll tell him. Yeah.” The lieutenant stepped outside.

A few dumbbells from the gymnasium tied to the waist would be heavy enough to sink the body in the ocean but the porthole here was only eight inches across. And the Manhattan ’s corridors were now filling with passengers getting ready to disembark; there was no way to get him out through the interior of the ship. They’d have to wait. Paul tucked the body under the blankets and turned its head aside, as if Heinsler were asleep, then washed his own hands carefully in the tiny basin to make sure all the traces of poison were off.

Ten minutes later there was a knock on the door and Paul let Manielli back inside.

“Andy’s contacting Gordon. It’s midnight in D.C. but he’ll track him down.” He couldn’t stop staring at the body. Finally the lieutenant asked Paul, “You’re packed? Ready to go?”

“Will be, after I change.” He glanced down at his athletic shirt and shorts.

“Do that. Then go up top. Andy said we don’t want things to look bum, you disappearing and this guy too, then his supervisor can’t find him. We’ll meet you on the port side, main deck, in a half hour.”

With a last glance toward Heinsler’s body, Paul picked up his suitcase and shaving kit and headed down to the shower room.

After washing and shaving he dressed in a white shirt and gray flannel slacks, forgoing his short-brimmed brown Stetson; three or four landlubbers had already lost their straw boaters or trilbies overboard. Ten minutes later he was strolling along the solid oak decks in the pale early morning light. Paul stopped, leaned on the rail and smoked a Chesterfield.

He thought about the man who’d just killed himself. He’d never understood that, suicide. The look in the man’s eyes gave a clue, Paul supposed. That fanatic’s shine. Heinsler reminded him of something he’d read recently, and after a moment he recalled: the people suckered in by the revivalist minister in Elmer Gantry, that popular Sinclair Lewis book.

I love the Führer and I’d do anything for him and the Party…

Sure, it was nuts that a man would just take his own life like that. But what was more unsettling was what it told Paul about the gray strip of land he was now gazing at. How many people there had this same deadly passion? People like Dutch Schultz and Siegel were dangerous, but you could understand them. What this man had done, that look in his eyes, the breathless devotion… well, they were nuts, way out of kilter. Paul’d never been up against anyone like that.

His thoughts were interrupted as he looked to his side and noticed a well-built young Negro walking toward him. He wore a thin blue Olympic team jacket and shorts, revealing powerful legs.

They nodded greetings.

“Excuse me, sir,” the man said softly. “How you doing there?”

“Fine,” Paul answered. “Yourself?”

“Love the morning air. Lot cleaner than in Cleveland or New York.” They looked over the water. “Saw you sparring earlier. You pro?”

“An old man like me? Just do it for the exercise.”

“I’m Jesse.”

“Oh, yes, sir, I know who you are,” Paul said. “The Buckeye Bullet from Ohio State.” They shook hands. Paul introduced himself. Despite the shock of what had happened in his cabin, he couldn’t stop grinning. “I saw the newsreels of the Western Conference Meet last year. Ann Arbor. You beat three world records. And tied another one, right? Must’ve seen that film a dozen times. But I’ll bet you’re tired of hearing people tell you that.”

“I don’t mind it one bit, no, sir,” Jesse Owens said. “Just, I’m always surprised people keep up so close with what I do. Just running and jumping. Haven’t seen much of you on the trip, Paul.”

“I’ve been around,” Paul said evasively. He wondered if Owens knew something about what’d happened to Heinsler. Had he overheard them? Or seen Paul grab the man on the top deck by the smokestack? But he decided the athlete would’ve been more troubled if that had been the case. It seemed he had something else in mind. Paul nodded toward the deck behind them. “This is the biggest damn gym I’ve ever seen. You like it?”

“I’m glad for the chance to train but a track shouldn’t move. And it definitely shouldn’t rock up and down like we were doing a few days ago. Give me dirt or cinders any day.”

Paul said, “So. That’s our boxer I was up against.”

“That’s right. Nice fellow. I spoke to him some.”

“He’s good,” Paul said without much enthusiasm.

“Seems to be,” the runner said. It was clear he too knew boxing wasn’t the strong suit of the American team but Owens wasn’t inclined to criticize a fellow athlete. Paul had heard that the Negro was among the most genial of the Americans; he’d come in second in the most-popular-athlete-on-board contest last night, after Glenn Cunningham.

“I’d offer you a ciggie…”

Owens laughed. “Not for me.”

“I’ve pretty much given up offering butts and hits from my flask. You folks’re too damn healthy.”

Another laugh. Then silence for a moment as the solid Negro looked out to sea. “Say, Paul. I got a question. You here officially?”

“Officially?”

“With the committee, I mean? Maybe like a guard?”

“Me? Why do you say that?”

“You sort of seemed like a, well, soldier or something. And then, the way you were fighting. You knew what you were doing.”

“I was in the War. That’s probably what you noticed.”

“Maybe.” Then Owens added, “Course that was twenty years ago. And those two fellows I’ve seen you talking with. They’re navy. We heard ’em talking to one of the crew.”

Brother, another trail of clues.

“Those two guys? Just bumped into ’em on board. I’m bumming a ride with you folks… Doing some stories about sports, boxing in Berlin, the Games. I’m a writer.”

“Oh, sure.” Owens nodded slowly. He seemed to debate for a moment. “Well, if you’re a reporter, you still might know something ’bout what I was going to ask you. Just wondering if you heard anything about those two fellows?” He nodded at some men on the deck nearby, running in tandem, passing the relay baton. They were lightning fast.

“Who’re they?” Paul asked.

“Sam Stoller and Marty Glickman. They’re good runners, some of the best we’ve got. But I heard a rumor they might not run. Wondered if you knew anything about that.”

“Nope, nothing. You mean some qualification problem? Injury?”

“I mean because they’re Jewish.”

Paul shook his head. He recalled there was a controversy about Hitler not liking Jews. There was some protest and talk about moving the Olympics. Some people even wanted the U.S. team to boycott the Games. Damon Runyon had been all hot under the collar about the country even participating. But why would the American committee pull some athletes because they were Jewish? “That’d be a bum deal. Doesn’t seem right by a long shot.”

“No, sir. Anyway, I was just thinking maybe you’d heard something.”

“Sorry, can’t help you, friend,” Paul said.

They were joined by another Negro. Ralph Metcalfe introduced himself. Paul knew about him too. He’d won medals in the Los Angeles Olympics in ’32.

Owens noticed Vince Manielli looking down at them from an upper deck. The lieutenant nodded and started for the stairs.

“Here comes your buddy. That you just met on board.” Owens had a sly grin on his face, not completely convinced that Paul’d been on the level. The Negro’s eyes looked forward, at the growing strip of land. “Imagine that. We’re almost in Germany. Never thought I’d be traveling like this. Life can be a pretty amazing thing, don’t you think?”

“That it can,” Paul agreed.

The runners said good-bye and jogged off.

“Was that Owens?” Manielli asked, walking up and leaning against the railing. He turned his back to the wind and rolled a cigarette.

“Yep.” Paul pulled a Chesterfield out of a pack, lit it in cupped hands and offered the matches to the lieutenant. He too lit up. “Nice man.”

Though a little too sharp, Paul thought.

“Damn, that man can run. What’d he say?”

“We were just shooting the breeze.” In a whisper: “What’s the situation with our friend down below?”

“Avery’s handling it,” Manielli said ambiguously. “He’s in the radio room. Be here in a minute.” A plane flew overhead, low. They watched it for several minutes in silence.

The kid still seemed shaken by the suicide. Not in the same way Paul was, though: because the death told him something troubling about the people he was going up against. No, the sailor was upset because he’d just seen death up close – and for the first time, it was pretty clear. Paul knew there were two kinds of punks. They both talked loud and they both blustered and they both had strong arms and big fists. But one kind would leap for the chance to give knuckle and take it – touching the ice – and the other wouldn’t. It was the second category that Vince Manielli fell into. He was really just a good boy from the neighborhood. He liked to sling out words like “button man” and “knock off” to show he knew what they meant, but he was as far from Paul’s world, though, as Marion was – Marion, the good girl who flirted with bad.

But, like the mob boss Lucky Luciano had once told him, “Flirting ain’t fucking.”

Manielli seemed to be waiting for Paul to comment on the dead sap, Heinsler. Something about the guy deserving to die. Or that he was nuts in the head. People always wanted to hear that about somebody who died. That it was their own fault or they deserved it or it was inevitable. But death is never symmetrical and tidy, and the button man had nothing to say. A thick silence filled the space between them and a moment later Andrew Avery joined them. He was carrying a folder of papers and an old battered leather briefcase. He looked around. There was no one within earshot. “Pull up a chair.”

Paul found a heavy wooden white deck chair and carried it over to the sailors. He didn’t need to carry it in one hand, would’ve been easier in two, but he liked seeing Manielli’s blink when he hefted the furniture and swung it over without a grunt. Paul sat down.

“Here’s the wire,” the lieutenant whispered. “The commander’s not so worried about this Heinsler guy. The Allocchio Bacchini’s a small wireless; it’s made for fieldwork and airplanes, short range. And even if he got a message off, Berlin probably wouldn’t pay it much attention. The bund’s an embarrassment to them. But Gordon said it’s up to you. If you want out, that’s okay.”

“But no get-out-of-jail card,” Paul said.

“No card,” Avery said.

“This deal just keeps getting sweeter and sweeter.” The button man gave a sour laugh.

“You’re still in?”

“I’m in, yeah.” A nod toward the deck below. “What’ll happen to the body?”

“After everybody disembarks, some marines from the Hamburg consulate’ll come on board and take care of it.” Then Avery leaned forward and said in a low voice, “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen about your mission, Paul. After we dock, you get off and Vince and I’ll take care of the situation with Heinsler. Then we’re going on to Amsterdam. You stay with the team. There’ll be a brief ceremony in Hamburg and then everybody takes the train to Berlin. The athletes’ll have another ceremony tonight but you go straight to the Olympic Village and stay out of sight. Tomorrow morning take a bus to the Tiergarten – that’s the Central Park of Berlin.” He handed the briefcase to Paul. “Take this with you.”

“What is it?”

“It’s part of your cover. Press pass. Paper, pencils. A lot of background about the Games and the city. A guide to the Olympic Village. Articles, clippings, sports statistics. The sort of stuff a writer’d have. You don’t need to look at it now.”

But Paul opened the case and spent some minutes looking carefully, going through the contents. The pass, Avery assured him, was authentic and he could spot nothing suspicious about the other materials.

“You don’t trust anybody, do you?” Manielli asked.

Thinking it’d be fun to sock the punk once, really hard, Paul clicked the briefcase closed and looked up. “What about my other passport, the Russian one?”

“Our man’ll give that to you there. He’s got a forger who’s an expert with European documents. Now, tomorrow, make sure you have the satchel with you. It’s how he’ll recognize you.” He unfurled a colorful map of Berlin and traced a route. “Get off here and go this way. Make your way to a café called the Bierhaus.”

Avery looked at Paul, who was staring at the map. “You can take it with you. You don’t have to memorize it.”

But Paul shook his head. “Maps tell people where you’ve been or where you’re going. And looking at one on the street draws everybody’s attention to you. If you’re lost, better just to ask directions. That way only one person knows you’re a stranger, not a whole crowd.”

Avery lifted an eyebrow, and even Manielli couldn’t find anything to razz him about on this point.

“Near the café there’s an alley. Dresden Alley.”

“It’ll have a name?”

“In Germany the alleys have names. Some of them do. It’s a shortcut. Doesn’t matter where to. At noon walk into it and stop, like you’re lost. Our man’ll come up to you. He’s the guy the Senator was telling you about. Reginald Morgan. Reggie.”

“Describe him.”

“Short. Mustache. Darkish hair. He’ll be speaking German. He’ll strike up a conversation. At some point you ask, ‘What’s the best tram to take to get to Alexanderplatz?’ And he’ll say, ‘The number one thirty-eight tram.’ Then he’ll pause and correct himself and say, ‘No, the two fifty-four is better.’ You’ll know it’s him because those aren’t real tram numbers.”

“You look like this’s funny,” Manielli added.

“It’s right out of Dashiell Hammett. The Continental Op. ”

“This ain’t a game.”

No, it wasn’t, and he didn’t think the passwords were funny. But it was unsettling, all this intrigue stuff. And he knew why: because it meant he was relying on other people. Paul Schumann hated to do that.

“All right. Alexanderplatz. Trams one thirty-eight, two fifty-four. What if he flubs the tram story? It’s not him?”

“I’m getting to that. If something seems fishy, what you do is you don’t hit him, you don’t make a scene. Just smile and walk away as casually as you can and go to this address.”

Avery gave him a slip of paper with a street name and number on it. Paul memorized it and handed the paper back. The lieutenant gave him a key, which he pocketed. “There’s an old palace just south of Brandenburg Gate. It was going to be the new U.S. embassy but there was a bad fire about five years ago and they’re still repairing it; the diplomats haven’t moved in. So the French, Germans and British don’t bother to snoop around the place. But we’ve got a couple of rooms there we use from time to time. There’s a wireless in the storeroom next to the kitchen. You can radio us in Amsterdam and we’ll place a call to Commander Gordon. He and the Senator’ll decide what to do next. But if everything’s silk, Morgan’ll take care of you. Get you into the boardinghouse, find you a weapon and get all the information you need on the… the man you’re going to visit.”

We people say touch-off…

“And remember,” Manielli was pleased to announce, “you don’t show up in Dresden Alley tomorrow or you give Morgan the slip later, he calls us and we make sure the police come down on you like a ton of bricks.”

Paul said nothing and let the boy have his bluster. He could tell Manielli was embarrassed about his reaction to Heinsler’s suicide and he needed to jerk some leash. But in fact there was no possibility that Paul was going to lam off. Bull Gordon was right; button men never got a second chance like he was being given – and a pile of dough that would let him make the most of it.

Then the men fell silent. There was nothing more to say. Sounds filled the damp, pungent air around them: the wind, the shusssh of the waves, the baritone grind of the Manhattan ’s engines – a blend of tones that he found oddly comforting, despite Heinsler’s suicide and the arduous mission that lay ahead. Finally the sailors went below.

Paul rose, lit another cigarette and leaned against the railing once more as the huge ship eased into the harbor in Hamburg, his thoughts wholly focused on Colonel Reinhard Ernst, a man whose ultimate importance, to Paul Schumann, had little to do with his potential threat to peace in Europe and to so many innocent lives but could be found in the fact that he was the last person that the button man would ever kill.

Several hours after the Manhattan docked and the athletes and their entourage had disembarked, a young crewman from the ship exited German passport control and began wandering through the streets of Hamburg.

He wouldn’t have much time ashore – being so junior, he had a leave of only six hours – but he’d spent all his life on American soil and was bound and determined to enjoy his first visit to a foreign country.

The scrubbed, rosy-cheeked assistant kitchen mate supposed there were probably some swell museums in town. Maybe some all-right churches too. He had his Kodak with him and was planning to ask locals to take some snapshots of him in front of them for his ma and pa. (“Bitte, das Foto?” he’d been rehearsing.) Not to mention beer halls and taverns… and who knew what else he might find for diversion in an exotic port city?

But before he could sample some local culture he had an errand to complete. He’d been concerned that this chore would eat into his precious time ashore but as it turned out he was wrong. Only a few minutes after leaving the customs hall, he found exactly what he was looking for.

The mate walked up to a middle-aged man in a green uniform and a black-and-green hat. He tried out his German. “Bitte…”

“Ja, mein Herr?”

Squinting, the mate blundered on, “Bitte, du bist ein Polizist, uhm, or a Soldat? ”

The officer smiled and said in English, “Yes, yes, I am a policeman. And I was a soldier. What can I help you for?”

Nodding down the street, the kitchen mate said, “I found this on the ground.” He handed the man a white envelope. “Isn’t that the word for ‘important’?” He pointed to the letters on the front: Bedeutend. “I wanted to make sure it got turned in.”

Staring at the front of the envelope, the policeman didn’t respond for a moment. Then he said, “Yes, yes. ‘Important.’” The other words written on the front were Für Obersturmführer-SS, Hamburg. The mate had no idea what this meant but it seemed to trouble the policeman.

“Where was this falling?” the policeman asked.

“It was on the sidewalk there.”

“Good. You are thanked.” The officer continued to look at the sealed envelope. He turned it over in his hand. “You were seeing perhaps who dropped it?”

“Nope. Just saw it there and thought I’d be a Good Samaritan.”

“Ach, yes, Samaritan.”

“Well, I better scram,” the American said. “So long.”

“Danke,” the policeman said absently.

As he headed back toward one of the more intriguing tourist sites he’d passed, the young man was wondering what exactly the envelope contained. And why the man he’d met on the Manhattan, the porter Al Heinsler, had asked him last night to deliver it to a local policeman or soldier after the ship docked. The fellow was a little nuts, everybody agreed, the way everything in his cabin was perfectly ordered and clean, nothing out of line, his clothes pressed all the time. The way he kept to himself, the way he got all wet-eyed talking about Germany.

“Sure, what is it?” the mate had asked.

“There was a passenger on board who seemed a little fishy. I’m letting the Germans know about him. I’m going to try to send a wireless message but sometimes they don’t go through. I want to make sure the authorities get it.”

“Who’s the passenger? Oh, hold up, I know – that fat guy in the checkered suit, the one who passed out drunk at the captain’s table.”

“No, it was somebody else.”

“Why not go to the sergeant-at-arms on board?”

“It’s a German matter.”

“Oh. And you can’t deliver it?”

Heinsler had folded his pudgy hands together in a creepy way and shook his head. “I don’t know how busy I’ll be. I heard you had leave. It’s real important the Germans get it.”

“Well, I guess, sure.”

Heinsler had added in a soft voice, “One other thing: It’d be better to say you found the letter. Otherwise they might take you into the station and question you. That could take hours. It could use up all your shore leave.”

The young mate had felt a little uneasy at this intrigue.

Heinsler had picked up on that and added quickly, “Here’s a twenty.”

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the man had thought, and told the porter, “You just bought yourself a special delivery.”

Now, as he walked away from the policeman and headed back toward the waterfront, he wondered absently what had happened to Heinsler. The young man hadn’t seen him since last night. But thoughts about the porter vanished quickly as the mate approached the venue he’d spotted, the one that seemed like a perfect choice for his first taste of German culture. He was, however, disappointed to find that Rosa’s Hot Kitten Club – the enticing name conveniently spelled in English – was permanently closed, just like every other such attraction on the waterfront.

So, the mate thought with a sigh, looks like it’ll be churches and museums after all.

Chapter Four

He awoke to the sound of a hazel grouse fluttering into the sky from the gooseberry bushes just outside the bedroom window of his home in suburban Charlottenburg. He awoke to the smell of magnolia.

He awoke to the touch of the infamous Berlin wind, which, according to young men and old housewives, was infused with an alkaline dust that aroused earthy desires.

Whether it was the magic air, or being a man of a certain age, Reinhard Ernst found himself picturing his attractive, brunette wife of twenty-eight years, Gertrud. He rolled over to face her. And he found himself looking at the empty indentation in their down bed. He could not help but smile. He was forever exhausted in the evenings, after working sixteen-hour days, and she always rose early because it was her nature. Lately they had rarely even shared so much as a word or two in bed.

He now heard, from downstairs, the clatter of activity in the kitchen. The time was 7 A. M. Ernst had had just over four hours of sleep.

Ernst stretched, lifting his damaged arm as far as he could, massaging it and feeling the triangular piece of metal lodged near the shoulder. There was a familiarity and, curiously, a comfort about the shrapnel. Ernst believed in embracing the past and he appreciated all the emblems of years gone by, even those that had nearly taken his limb and his life.

He climbed from the bed and pulled off his nightshirt. Since Frieda would be in the house by now Ernst tugged on beige jodhpurs and, forgoing a shirt, stepped into the study next to the bedroom. The fifty-six-year-old colonel had a round head, covered with cropped gray hair. Creases circled his mouth. His small nose was Roman and his eyes set close together, making him seem both predatory and savvy. These features had earned him the nickname “Caesar” from his men in the War.

During the summer he and his grandson Rudy would often exercise together in the morning, rolling the medicine ball and lifting Indian clubs, doing press-ups and running in place. On Wednesdays and Fridays, though, the boy had holiday-child-school, which began early, so Ernst was relegated to solo exercise, which was a disappointment to him.

He began his fifteen minutes of arm press-ups and knee bends. Halfway through, he heard: “Opa!”

Breathing hard, Ernst paused and looked into the hallway. “Good morning, Rudy.”

“Look what I’ve drawn.” The seven-year-old, dressed in his uniform, held up a picture. Ernst didn’t have his glasses on and he couldn’t make out the design clearly. But the boy said, “It’s an eagle.”

“Yes, of course it is. I can tell.”

“And it’s flying through a lightning storm.”

“Quite a brave eagle you’ve drawn.”

“Are you coming to breakfast?”

“Yes, tell your grandmother I’ll be down in ten minutes. Did you eat an egg today?”

The boy said, “Yes, I did.”

“Excellent. Eggs are good for you.”

“Tomorrow I’ll draw a hawk.” The slight, blond boy turned and ran back down the stairs.

Ernst returned to his exercising, thinking about the dozens of matters that needed attending to today. He finished his regimen and bathed his body with cold water, wiping away both sweat and alkaline dust. As he was drying, the telephone buzzed. His hands paused. In these days no matter how high one was in the National Socialist government, a telephone call at an odd hour was a matter of concern.

“Reinie,” Gertrud called. “Someone has telephoned for you.”

He pulled on his shirt and, not bothering with stockings or shoes, walked down the stairs. He took the receiver from his wife.

“Yes? This is Ernst.”

“Colonel.”

He recognized the voice of one of Hitler’s secretaries. “Miss Lauer. Good morning.”

“And to you. I am asked to tell you that your presence is required by the Leader at the chancellory immediately. If you have any other plans I’m asked to tell you to alter them.”

“Please tell Chancellor Hitler that I will leave at once. In his office?”

“That is correct.”

“Who else will be attending?”

There was a moment’s hesitation then she said, “That’s all the information I have, Colonel. Hail Hitler.”

“Hail Hitler.”

He hung up and stared at the phone, his hand on the receiver.

“Opa, you have no shoes on!” Rudy had come up beside Ernst, still clutching his drawing. He laughed, looking at his grandfather’s bare feet.

“I know, Rudy. I must finish dressing.” He looked for a long moment at the telephone.

“What is it, Opa? Something is wrong?”

“Nothing, Rudy.”

“Mutti says your breakfast is getting cold.”

“You ate all your egg, did you?”

“Yes, Opa.”

“Good fellow. Tell your grandmother and your mutti that I’ll be downstairs in a few moments. But tell them to begin their breakfast without me.”

Ernst started up the stairs to shave, observing that his desire for his wife and his hunger for the breakfast awaiting him had both vanished completely.

Forty minutes later Reinhard Ernst was walking through the corridors of the State Chancellory building on Wilhelm Street at Voss Street in central Berlin, dodging construction workers. The building was old – parts of it dated to the eighteenth century – and had been the home of German leaders since Bismarck. Hitler would fly into tirades occasionally about the shabbiness of the structure and – since the new chancellory was not close to being finished – was constantly ordering renovations to the old one.

But construction and architecture were of no interest to Ernst at the moment. The one thought in his mind was this: What will the consequences of my mistake be? How bad was my miscalculation?

He lifted his arm and gave a perfunctory “Hail Hitler” to a guard, who had enthusiastically saluted the plenipotentiary for domestic stability, a title as heavy and embarrassing to wear as a wet, threadbare coat. Ernst continued down the corridor, his face emotionless, revealing nothing of the turbulent thoughts about the crime he had committed.

And what was that crime?

The infraction of not sharing all with the Leader.

This would be a minor matter in other countries, perhaps, but here it could be a capital offense. Yet sometimes you couldn’t share all. If you did give Hitler all the details of an idea, his mind might snag on its most insignificant aspect and that would be the end of it, shot dead with one word. Never mind that you had no personal gain at stake and were thinking only of the good of the fatherland.

But if you didn’t tell him… Ach, that could be far worse. In his paranoia he might decide that you were withholding information for a reason. And then the great piercing eye of the Party’s security mechanism would turn toward you and your loved ones… sometimes with deadly consequences. As, Reinhard Ernst was convinced, had now occurred, given the mysterious and peremptory summons to an early, unscheduled meeting. The Third Empire was order and structure and regularity personified. Anything out of the ordinary was cause for alarm.

Ach, he should have told the man something about the Waltham Study when Ernst had first conceived it this past March. Yet the Leader, Defense Minister von Blomberg, and Ernst himself had been so occupied with retaking the Rhineland that the study had paled beside the monumental risk of reclaiming a portion of their country stolen away by the Allies at Versailles. And, truth be told, much of the study was based on academic work that Hitler would find suspect, if not inflammatory; Ernst simply hadn’t wanted to bring the matter up.

And now he was going to pay for that oversight.

He announced himself to Hitler’s secretary and was admitted.

Ernst walked inside the large ante-office and found himself standing before Adolf Hitler – leader, chancellor and president of the Third Empire and ultimate commander of the armed forces. Thinking as he often did: If charisma, energy and canniness are the prime ingredients of power, then here is the most powerful man in the world.

Wearing a brown uniform and glossy black knee boots, Hitler was bending over a desk, leafing through papers.

“My Leader,” Ernst said, nodding respectfully and offering a gentle heel tap, a throwback to the days of the Second Empire, which had ended eighteen years before, with Germany’s surrender and the flight of Kaiser Wilhelm to Holland. Though giving the Party salute with “Hail Hitler” or “Hail victory” was expected from citizens, the formality was rarely seen among the higher echelon of officials, except from the drippier sycophants.

“Colonel.” Hitler glanced up at Ernst with his pale blue eyes beneath drooping lids – eyes that for some reason left the impression that the man was considering a dozen things at once. His mood was forever unreadable. Hitler found the document he sought and turned and walked into his large but modestly decorated office. “Please join us.” Ernst followed. His still, soldier’s face gave no reaction but his heart sank when he saw who else was present.

Sweating and massive, Hermann Göring lounged on a couch that creaked under his weight. Claiming he was always in pain, the round-faced man was continually adjusting himself in ways that made one want to cringe. His excessive cologne filled the room. The air minister nodded a greeting to Ernst, who reciprocated.

Another man sat in an ornate chair, sipping coffee, his legs crossed like a woman’s: the clubfooted scarecrow Paul Joseph Goebbels, the state propaganda minister. Ernst didn’t doubt his skill; he was largely responsible for the Party’s early, vital foothold in Berlin and Prussia. Still, Ernst despised the man, who couldn’t stop gazing at the Leader with adoring eyes and smugly dishing up damning gossip about prominent Jews and Socis one moment then dropping the names of famous German actors and actresses from UFA Studios the next. Ernst said good morning to him and then sat, recalling a recent joke that had made the rounds: Describe the ideal Aryan. Why, he’s as blond as Hitler, as slim as Göring and as tall as Goebbels.

Hitler offered the document to puffy-eyed Göring, who read it, nodded and then put it into his sumptuous leather folder without comment. The Leader sat and poured himself chocolate. He lifted an eyebrow toward Goebbels, meaning he should continue with whatever he had been discussing, and Ernst realized his fate regarding the Waltham Study would have to remain in limbo for sometime longer.

“As I was saying, my Leader, many of the visitors to the Olympics will be interested in entertainment.”

“We have cafés and theater. We have museums, parks, movie theaters. They can see our Babelsberg films, they can see Greta Garbo and Jean Harlow. And Charles Laughton and Mickey Mouse.” The impatient tone in Hitler’s voice told Ernst he knew exactly what kind of entertainment Goebbels had meant. There followed an excruciatingly long and edgy debate about letting legal prostitutes – licensed “control girls” – out on the streets again. Hitler was against this idea at first but Goebbels had thought through the matter and argued persuasively; the Leader relented eventually, on the condition that there be no more than seven thousand women throughout the metropolitan area. Similarly, the penal code provision banning homosexuality, Article 175, would be relaxed temporarily. Rumors abounded about Hitler’s own preferences – from incest to boys to animals to human waste. Ernst had come to believe, though, that the man simply had no interest in sex; the only lover he desired was the nation of Germany.

“Finally,” Goebbels continued suavely, “there is the matter of public display. I am thinking that perhaps we might permit women’s skirts to be shortened somewhat.”

As the head of Germany’s Third Empire and his adjutant debated, in centimeters, the degree to which Berlin women might be allowed to conform to world fashion, the worm of ill ease continued to eat away at Ernst’s heart. Why hadn’t he at least mentioned the name of the Waltham Study some months ago? He could have sent a letter to the Leader, with a glancing reference to it. One had to be savvy about such things nowadays.

The debate continued. Then the Leader said firmly, “Skirts may be raised five centimeters. That settles it. But we will not approve makeup.”

“Yes, my Leader.”

A moment of silence as Hitler’s eyes settled in the corner of the room, as they often did. He then glanced sharply at Ernst. “Colonel.”

“Yes, sir?”

Hitler rose and walked to his desk. He lifted a piece of paper and walked slowly back to the others. Göring and Goebbels kept their eyes on Ernst. Though each believed he had the special ear of the Leader, deep within him was the fear that the grace was temporary or, more frightening, illusory and at any moment he would be sitting here, like Ernst, a tethered badger, though probably without the quiet aplomb of the colonel.

The Leader wiped his mustache. “An important matter.”

“Of course, my Leader. However I may help.” Ernst held the man’s eyes and answered in a steady voice.

“It involves our air force.”

Ernst glanced at Göring, ruddy cheeks framing a faux smile. A daring ace in the War (though dismissed by Baron von Richthofen himself for repeatedly attacking civilians), he was presently both air minister and commander in chief of the German air force – the latter currently being his favorite among the dozen titles he held. It was on the subject of the German air force that Göring and Ernst met most frequently and clashed the most passionately.

Hitler handed the document to Ernst. “You read English?”

“Some.”

“This is a letter from Mr. Charles Lindbergh himself,” Hitler said proudly. “He will be attending the Olympics as our special guest.”

Really? This was exciting information. Both smiling, Göring and Goebbels leaned forward and rapped on the table in front of them, signifying approval of this news. Ernst took the letter in his right hand, the back of which, like his shoulder, was shrapnel scarred.

Lindbergh… Ernst had avidly followed the story of the man’s transatlantic flight, but he’d been far more moved by the terrible account of the death of the aviator’s son. Ernst knew the horror of losing a child. The accidental explosion on a ship’s magazine that had taken Mark was tragic, wrenching, yes; but at least Ernst’s son had been at the helm of a combat ship and had lived to see his own boy, Rudy, born. To lose an infant to the hands of a criminal – that was appalling.

Ernst scanned the document and was able to make out the cordial words, which expressed an interest in seeing Germany’s recent developments in aviation.

The Leader continued. “This is why I have asked for you, Colonel. Some people think that it would be of strategic value to show the world our increasing strength in the air. I am inclined to feel this way myself. What do you think about a small air show in honor of Mr. Lindbergh, in which we demonstrate our new monoplane?”

Ernst was greatly relieved that the summons had not been about the Waltham Study. But the relief lasted only a moment. His concerns rose once again as he considered what he was being asked… and the answer he had to give. The “some people” Hitler was referring to was, of course, Hermann Göring.

“The monoplane, sir, ah…” The Me 109 by Messerschmitt was a superb killing machine, a fighter with a speed of three hundred miles per hour. There were other monowing fighters in the world but this was the fastest. More important, though, the Me 109 was of all-metal construction, which Ernst had long advocated because it allowed easy mass production and field repair and maintenance. Large numbers of the planes were necessary to support the devastating bombing missions that Ernst planned as precursors for any land invasion by the Third Empire’s army.

He cocked his head, as if considering the question, though he’d made his decision the instant he’d heard it. “I would be against that idea, my Leader.”

“Why?” Hitler’s eyes flared, a sign that a tantrum might follow, possibly accompanied by what was nearly as bad: an endless, ranting monologue about military history or politics. “Are we not allowed to protect ourselves? Are we ashamed to let the world know that we reject the third-class role the Allies keep trying to push us into?”

Careful, now, Ernst thought. Careful as a surgeon removing a tumor. “I’m not thinking of the backstabbers’ treaty of 1918,” Ernst answered, filling his voice with contempt for the Versailles accord. “I am thinking of how wise it might be to let others know about this aircraft. It’s constructed in a way that those familiar with aviation would spot as unique. They could deduce that it is being mass produced. Lindbergh could easily recognize this. He himself designed his Spirit of St. Louis, I believe.”

Avoiding eye contact with Ernst, Göring predictably said, “We must begin to let our enemies know our strength.”

“Perhaps,” Ernst said slowly, “a possibility would be to display one of the prototypes of the one-oh-nine at the Olympics. They were constructed more by hand than our production models and have no armament mounted. And they’re equipped with British Rolls-Royce engines. The world could then see our technological achievement yet be disarmed by the fact that we are using our former enemy’s motors. Which would suggest that any offensive use is far from our thoughts.”

Hitler said, “There is something to your point, Reinhard… Yes, we will not put on an air show. And we will display the prototype. Good. That is decided. Thank you for coming, Colonel.”

“My Leader.” Bathed in relief, Ernst rose.

He was nearly to the door when Göring said casually, “Oh, Reinhard, a matter occurs to me. I believe a file of yours was misdirected to my office.”

Ernst turned back to examine the smiling, moonish face. The eyes, however, seethed from Ernst’s victory in the fighter debate. He wanted revenge. Göring squinted. “I believe it had to do with… what was it? The Waltham Study. Yes.”

God in heaven…

Hitler was paying no attention. He unfurled an architectural drawing and studied it closely.

“Misdirected?” Ernst asked. Filched by one of Göring’s spies was the true meaning of this word. “Thank you, Mr. Minister,” he said lightly. “I’ll have someone pick it up immediately. Good day to-”

But the deflection, of course, was ineffectual. Göring continued. “You were fortunate that the file was delivered to me. Imagine what some people might’ve thought to see Jew writing with your name on it.”

Hitler looked up. “What is this?”

Sweating prodigiously, as always, Göring wiped his face and replied, “The Waltham Study that Colonel Ernst has commissioned.” Hitler shook his head and the minister persisted. “Oh, I assumed our Leader knew about it.”

“Tell me,” Hitler demanded.

Göring said, “I know nothing about it. I only received – mistakenly, as I say – several reports written by those Jew mind doctors. One by that Austrian, Freud. Someone named Weiss. Others I can’t recall.” He added with a twist of his lips, “Those psychologists.”

In the hierarchy of Hitler’s hatred, Jews came first, Communists second and intellectuals third. Psychologists were particularly disparaged since they rejected racial science – the belief that race determined behavior, a cornerstone of National Socialist thought.

“Is this true, Reinhard?”

Ernst said casually, “As part of my job I read many documents on aggression and conflict. That’s what these writings deal with.”

“You’ve never mentioned this to me.” And with his characteristic instinct for sniffing out the merest hint of conspiracy Hitler asked quickly, “Defense Minister von Blomberg? Is he familiar with this study of yours?”

“No. There’s nothing to report at this time. As the name suggests it’s merely a study being conducted through Waltham Military College. To gather information. That’s all. Nothing may come of it.” Ashamed to be playing this game, he added, putting some of Goebbels’s sycophantic shine in his eyes, “But it is possible that the results will show us ways in which to create a much stronger, more efficient army to achieve the glorious goals you’ve established for our fatherland.”

Ernst could not tell if this bootlicking had any effect. Hitler rose and paced. He walked to an elaborate model of the Olympic stadium grounds and stared at it for a long moment. Ernst could feel his heartbeat thudding all the way to his teeth.

The Leader turned and shouted, “I wish to see my architect. Immediately.”

“Yes, sir,” his aide said and hurried to the ante-office.

A moment later a man entered the room, though it was not Albert Speer, but black-uniformed Heinrich Himmler, whose weak chin, diminutive physique and round black-rimmed glasses nearly made you forget that he was the absolute ruler of the SS, Gestapo and every other police force in the country.

Himmler gave his typical stiff salute and turned his adoring, blue-gray eyes toward Hitler, who responded with his own standard greeting, a limp over-the-shoulder flap.

The SS leader glanced around the room and concluded that he could share whatever news had brought him here.

Hitler gestured absently toward the coffee and chocolate service. Himmler shook his head. Usually in utter control – aside from the fawning looks sent the Leader’s way – the police chief today had an edginess about him, Ernst observed. “I have a security matter to report. An SS commander in Hamburg received a letter this morning, dated today. It was addressed to him by title, but not name. It claimed that some Russian was going to cause some ‘damage’ in Berlin in the next few days. At ‘high levels,’ it said.”

“Written by whom?”

“He described himself as a loyal National Socialist. But gave no name. It was found in the street. We don’t know any more about its origin.” Revealing perfectly white, even teeth, the man gave a wince, like a child disappointing his parent. He removed his glasses, wiped the lenses and replaced them. “Whoever sent it said that he was continuing to investigate and would send the man’s identity when he learned it. But we never heard anything further. Finding the note in the street suggests the sender was intercepted and perhaps killed. We might never learn more.”

Hitler asked, “The language? German?”

“Yes, my Leader.”

“‘Damage.’ What sort of damage?”

“We don’t know.”

“Ach, the Bolsheviks would love to disrupt our Games.” Hitler’s face was a mask of fury.

Göring asked, “You think it’s legitimate?”

Himmler replied, “It may be nothing. But tens of thousands of foreigners are passing through Hamburg these days. It’s possible someone learned of a plot and didn’t want to get involved so he wrote an anonymous note. I would urge everyone here to exercise particular caution. I will contact military commanders too and the other ministers. I’ve told all our security forces to look into the matter.”

His voice raw with anger, Hitler raged, “Do what you must! Everything! There will be no taint on our Games.” And, unnervingly, a fraction of a second later, his voice was calm and his blue eyes bright. He leaned forward to refill his cup with chocolate and place two zwieback biscuits on the saucer. “Please, now, you may all leave. Thank you. I need to consider some building matters.” He called to the aide in the doorway, “Where is Speer?”

“He will be here momentarily, my Leader.”

The men walked to the door. Ernst’s heart had resumed its normal, slow beat. What had just happened was typical of the way the inner circle of the National Socialist government worked. Intrigue, which could have disastrous results, simply vanished like crumbs swept over the door stoop. As for Göring’s plotting, well, he -

“Colonel?” Hitler’s voice called.

Ernst stopped immediately and looked back.

The Leader was staring at the mock-up of the stadium, examining the newly constructed train station. He said, “You will prepare a report on this Waltham Study of yours. In detail. I will receive it on Monday.”

“Yes, of course, my Leader.”

At the door Göring held his arm out, palm upward, letting Ernst exit first. “I will see that you receive those misdirected documents, Reinhard. And I do hope you and Gertrud will attend my Olympic party.”

“Thank you, Mr. Minister. I will make a point of being there.”

Friday evening, misty and warm, fragrant with the scent of cut grass, overturned earth and sweet, fresh paint.

Paul Schumann strolled by himself through the Olympic Village, a half hour west of Berlin.

He’d arrived not long before, after the complicated journey from Hamburg. It had been an exhausting day, yes. But invigorating too and he was stoked by the excitement of being in a foreign land – his ancestral home – and the anticipation of his mission. He had shown his press pass and been admitted to the American portion of the village – dozens of buildings housing fifty or sixty people each. He’d left his suitcase and satchel in one of the small guestrooms in the back, where he’d stay for a few nights, and was now walking through the spotless grounds. As he looked around the village he was amused. Paul Schumann was used to a lot rougher venues for sports – his own gym, for instance, which hadn’t been painted in five years and smelled of sweat and rotten leather and beer, no matter how energetically Sorry Williams scrubbed and mopped. The village was, however, just what the name suggested: a quaint town all its own. Set in a birch forest, the place was beautifully laid out in sweeping arcs of low, immaculate buildings, with a lake and curved paths and trails for running and walking, training fields and even its own sports arena.

According to the guidebook Andrew Avery had included in his satchel, the village had a customs office, stores, pressroom, a post office and bank, gas station, sporting goods store, souvenir stands, food shops and travel office.

The athletes were presently at the welcoming ceremony, which he’d been urged to attend by Jesse Owens, Ralph Metcalfe and the young boxer he’d sparred with. But now that he was in the locale of the touch-off, he needed to lay low. He’d begged off, saying he had to get some work done for interviews the next morning. He’d eaten in the dining hall – had one of the best steaks of his life – and after a coffee and a Chesterfield was now finishing his walk through the village.

The only thing troubling to him, considering the reason he was in the country, was that each nation’s dorm complex was assigned a German soldier, a “liaison officer.” In the U.S. facility this was a stern, young, brown-haired man in a gray uniform that seemed unbearably uncomfortable in the heat. Paul stayed as clear of him as possible; the contact here, Reginald Morgan, had warned Avery that Paul should be wary of anyone in uniform. He used only the back door to his dorm and made sure the guard never got a close look at him.

As he strolled along the swept sidewalk he saw one of the American track athletes with a young woman and baby; several team members had brought wives and other relatives with them. This put Paul in mind of the conversation with his brother last week, just before the Manhattan had sailed.

Paul had distanced himself from his brother and sister and their families for the past decade; he didn’t want to visit the violence and danger tainting his own life on theirs. His sister lived in Chicago and he got there rarely but he did see Hank sometimes. He lived on Long Island and ran the printing plant that was the descendant of their grandfather’s. He was a solid husband and father, who didn’t know for sure what his brother did for a living, except that he associated with tough guys and criminals.

Although Paul hadn’t shared any personal information with Bull Gordon or the others in The Room, the main reason he’d decided to agree to come to Germany for this job was that wiping his record clean and getting all that scratch might let him reconnect with the family, which he’d dreamed about doing for years.

He’d had a shot of whisky, then another, and finally picked up the phone and called his brother at home. After ten minutes of nervous small talk about the heat wave and the Yankees and Hank’s two boys, Paul had taken the plunge and asked if Hank might be interested in having a partner at Schumann Printing. He quickly reassured, “I’m not having anything to do with my old crowd anymore.” Then he added that he could bring $10,000 into the business. “Legit dough. One hundred percent.”

“Mother of pearl,” Hank said. And they’d both laughed at the expression, a favorite of their father’s.

“There’s one problem,” Hank added gravely.

Paul understood that the man was about to say no, thinking of his brother’s shady career.

But the elder Schumann added, “We’ll have to buy a new sign. There’s not enough room for ‘Schumann Brothers Printing’ on the one I got.”

The ice broken, they talked about the plan some more. Paul was surprised that Hank sounded almost tearfully touched at this overture. Family was key to Hank and he couldn’t understand Paul’s distance in the past ten years.

Tall, beautiful Marion, Paul had decided, would like that life too. Oh, she played at being bad, but it was an act, and Paul knew enough to give her only a small taste of the seamy life. He’d introduced her to Damon Runyon, served her beer in a bottle at the gym, taken her to the bar in Hell’s Kitchen where Owney Madden used to charm ladies with his British accent and show off his pearl-handled pistols. But he knew that like a lot of renegade college girls, Marion would get tired of the tough life if she actually had to live it. Dime-dancing would wear thin as well, and she’d want something more stable. Being the wife of a well-off printer would be aces.

Hank had said he was going to talk to his lawyer and have a partnership agreement drawn up for Paul to sign as soon as he got back from his “business trip.”

Now, returning to his room at the dorm, Paul noticed three boys in shorts, brown shirts and black ties, wearing brown, military-style hats. He’d seen dozens of such youngsters here, assisting the teams. The trio marched toward a tall pole, at the top of which flew the Nazi flag. Paul had seen the banner in newsreels and in the papers but the images had always been in black and white. Even now, at dusk, the flag’s crimson was striking, brilliant as fresh blood.

One boy noticed him watching and asked in German, “You are an athlete, sir? Yet you’re not at the ceremony we are hosting?”

Paul thought it better not to give away his linguistic skills, even to Boy Scouts, so he said in English, “Sorry, I don’t speak German so well.”

The boy switched to Paul’s language. “You are an athlete?”

“No, I’m a journalist.”

“You are English or American?”

“American.”

“Ach,” the cheerful youngster said in a thick accent, “welcome to Berlin, mein Herr. ”

“Thank you.”

The second boy noted Paul’s gaze and said, “You are liking our Party’s flag? It is, would you say, impressing, yes?”

“Yeah, it is.” The Stars and Stripes was somehow softer. This flag sort of punched you.

The first boy said, “Please, each parts is having a meaning, an important meaning. Do you know what are those?”

“No. Tell me.” Paul looked up at the banner.

Happy to explain, he said enthusiastically, “Red, that is socialism. The white is, no doubt, for nationalism. And the black… the hooked cross. You would say swastika…” He looked at Paul with a raised eyebrow and said nothing more.

“Yes,” Paul said. “Go on. What does that mean?”

The boy glanced at his companions then back to Paul with a curious smile. He said, “Ach, surely you know.”

To his friends he said in German, “I will lower the flag now.” Smiling, he repeated to Paul, “Surely you know.” And frowning in concentration, he brought the flag down as the other two extended their hands in one of those stiff-armed salutes you saw everywhere.

As Paul walked toward the dorm, the boys broke into a song, which they sang with uneven, energetic voices. He heard snatches of it rising and falling on the hot air as he strolled away: “Hold high the banner, close the ranks. The SA marches on with firm steps… Give way, give way to the brown battalions, as the Stormtroopers clear the land… The trumpet calls its final blast. For battle we stand ready. Soon all streets will see Hitler’s flag and our slavery will be over…”

Paul looked back to see them fold the flag reverently and march off with it. He slipped through the back entrance of his dorm and returned to his room, where he washed, cleaned his teeth then stripped and dropped onto his bed. He stared at the ceiling for a long time, waiting for sleep as he thought about Heinsler – the man who’d killed himself that morning on the ship, making such a passionate, foolish sacrifice.

Thinking too of Reinhard Ernst.

And finally, as he began to doze, thinking of the boy in the brown uniform. Seeing his mysterious smile. Hearing his voice over and over: Surely you know… surely you know…