Free Garden of Beasts by Jeffery Deaver Page B

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. . . . 

III
G ÖRING’S H AT

S ATURDAY, 25 J ULY, 1936

Chapter Five
    The streets of Berlin were immaculate and the people pleasant, many nodding as he walked past. Carting the beat-up old briefcase, Paul Schumann was walking north through the Tiergarten. It was late morning on Saturday and he was on his way to meet Reggie Morgan.
    The park was beautiful, filled with dense trees, walkways and lakes, gardens. In New York’s Central Park, you were forever aware of the city around you; the skyscrapers