Garden of Beasts

reminded, “And remember your G ’s. Soften them. Speak as a Berliner. Lull suspicions before they arise.”
    In the back of the sweltering van Paul stripped off his clothes and pulled on the coveralls Webber had provided. “Good fit,” the German said. “I can sell them to you if you wish to keep them.”
    “Otto,” Paul said, sighing. He examined the battered identity card, which contained a picture of a man resembling himself. “Who’s this?”
    “There is a warehouse, not much used, where the Weimar stored files of soldiers who fought in the War. There are millions of them, of course. I use them from time to time for forging passes and other documents. I locate a picture that resembles the person buying the documents. The photographs are older and worn but so are our identity cards because we must keep them with us at all times.” He looked at the picture then up at Paul. “This is a man who was killed at Argonne-Meuse. His file notes that he won several medals before he died. They wereconsidering an Iron Cross. You look good for a dead man.”
    Webber then handed him the two work permits that would allow him access to the Chancellory. Paul had left his own passport and the fake Russian one at the boardinghouse, had bought a pack of German cigarettes and carried the cheap, unmarked matches from the Aryan Café; Webber had assured him he’d be searched carefully at the front of the building. “Here.” Webber handed him a notebook and pencil and a battered meter stick. He also gave him a short steel rule, which he could use as a jimmy on the lock in Ernst’s office door if need be.
    Paul looked these items over. He asked Webber, “They’re really going to fall for this?”
    “Ach, Mr. John Dillinger, if you want certainty, aren’t you in the wrong line of work?” He took out one of his cabbage cigars.
    “You’re not going to smoke that here?” Morgan asked.
    “Where would you have me smoke it? On the door stoop of the Leader’s abode, striking the match on an SS guard’s ass?” He lit the stogie, nodded at Paul. “We will be waiting here for you.”
    •   •   •
    Hermann Göring strode through the Chancellory building as if he owned it.
    Which, he believed, he one day would.
    The minister loved Adolf Hitler the way Peter loved Christ.
    But Jesus eventually got nailed to a T of wood and Peter took over the operation.
    That is what would happen in Germany, Göring knew. Hitler was an unearthly creation, unique in the history of the world. Mesmerizing, brilliant beyond words. And because of that he would not survive to see old age. Theworld cannot accept visionaries and messiahs. Wolf would be dead within five years and Göring would weep and beat his breast, pierced by pitched, genuine sorrow. He would officiate during the lengthy mourning. And then he would lead the country to its position as the greatest nation in the world. Hitler said that this would be a thousand-year empire. But Hermann Göring would steer his regime on the course to forever.
    But, for now, smaller goals: tactical measures to make certain that it was he who stepped into the role of Leader.
    After he’d finished his eggs and sausage, the minister had changed clothes again (he normally went through four or five outfits a day). He was now in a flamboyant green military uniform, encrusted with braids, ribbons and decorations, some earned, many bought. He had dressed for the part because he felt like he was on a mission. And his goal? To tack Reinhard Ernst’s head to the wall (Göring was, after all, hunting master of the empire).
    The file exposing Keitel’s Jewish heritage tucked under his arm like a riding crop, he strode down the dim corridors. Turning a corner, he winced in pain from his wound—the bullet he’d taken in the groin during the November ’23 Beer Hall Putsch. He’d swallowed his pills only an hour before—he was never without them—but already the numbness was wearing off. Ach, the pharmacist must have gotten the strength wrong. He would berate the man about this later. He nodded to the SS guards and stepped into the Leader’s outer office, smiling to the secretary.
    “He asked that you go in at once, Mr. Minister.”
    Göring strode across the carpet and then entered the Leader’s office. Hitler was leaning against the edge of his desk, as he often did. Wolf was never comfortable sittingstill. He would pace, he would perch, he’d rock back and forth, gazing out windows. He now