Garden of Beasts

sufficient credibility to be trusted with Morgan’s name.
    “But we don’t know exactly when and where he’ll be arriving,” Morgan pointed out. There were a dozen walks and passages he could take. “They might not use the main entrance. We couldn’t anticipate that and you should be in hiding before he gets there. The entire National Socialistpantheon will be assembled; security is going to be massive.”
    Paul continued to peruse the map. Morgan was right. And he noticed from the map that there was an underground driveway that seemed to circle the entire stadium, probably for the leaders to use for protected entrances and exits. Ernst might never be outside at all.
    They stared silently for a time. An idea occurred to Paul and, touching the photos, he explained it: The back walkways of the stadium were open. Leaving the pressroom, one would walk either east or west along this corridor then down several flights of stairs to the ground level, where there was a parking area, a wide drive and sidewalks that led to the railway station. About a hundred feet from the stadium, overlooking the parking lot and drive, was a cluster of small buildings, labeled on the map Storage Facilities.
    “If Ernst came out onto that walkway and down the stairs I could shoot from that shed. The one there.”
    “You could make the shot?”
    Paul nodded. “Yes, easily.”
    “But, as we were saying, we don’t know that Ernst will arrive or leave that way.”
    “Maybe we can force him outside. Flush him out like a bird.”
    “And how?” Morgan asked.
    Paul said, “We ask him.”
    “Ask him?” Morgan frowned.
    “We get a message to him in the pressroom that he’s urgently needed. There’s someone who needs to see him in private about something important. He walks out the corridor onto the porch, into my sights.”
    Webber lit one of his cabbage cigars. “But would anymessage be so urgent that he’d interrupt a meeting with the Leader, Göring and Goebbels?”
    “From what I’ve learned about him he’s obsessed with his job. We tell him that there’s a problem having to do with the army or navy. I know that’ll get his attention. What about this Krupp, the armorer that Max told us about. Could a message from Krupp be urgent?”
    Morgan nodded. “Krupp. Yes, I’d think so. But how do we get the message to Ernst while he’s in the photography session?”
    “Ach, easy,” Webber said. “I’ll telephone him.”
    “How?”
    The man drew on his ersatz cigar. “I will find out the number of one of the telephones in the pressroom and place a call. I will do this myself. I will ask for Ernst and tell him that there is a driver downstairs with a message. Only for him to see. From Gustav Krupp von Bohlen himself. I will call from a post office so when the Gestapo dials seven afterward to find the source of the call, there’ll be no lead to me.”
    “How can you get the number?” Morgan asked.
    “Contacts.”
    Paul asked cynically, “Do you really have to bribe someone to find the number, Otto? I would suspect that half the sports journalists in Berlin have them.”
    “Ach,” Webber said, smiling in delight. He tried English. “You are hitting the head on the nail.” Back to his native tongue: “Of course that’s true. But the most important aspect of any venture is knowing which individual to approach and what his price is.”
    “All right,” Morgan said, exasperated. “How much? And remember, we are not a bottomless well.”
    “Another two hundred. Marks will be fine. And for thatI will add, for no extra charge, a way to get into and out of the stadium, Mr. John Dillinger. A full SS uniform. You can sling your rifle over your shoulder and walk straight into the stadium like Himmler himself and no one will stop you. Practice your ‘Hail’s and your Hitler salute, flapping your limp arm in the air like our goat-peeing Leader.”
    Morgan frowned. “But if they catch him masquerading as a soldier they’ll shoot him for a spy.”
    Paul glanced at Webber and they both broke into laughter. It was the gang leader who said, “Please, Mr. Morgan. Our friend is about to kill the national military tzar. If he is caught he could be dressed like George Washington and whistling ‘Stars and Stripes Forever’ and they would still shoot him quite dead, do you not think?”
    “I was only considering ways to make it less obvious,” Morgan grumbled.
    “No, it’s a good plan, Reggie,” Paul said. “After the shot