Garden of Beasts

the gun over his shoulder and put his black helmet on his head.
    “How do I look?” Paul asked.
    “Authentic enough to scare me. Good luck to you.”
    I’ll need it, Paul thought grimly, peering through the trees at the scores of workmen on the grounds, ready and able to point out an intruder, and at the hundreds of guards who’d be happy to gun him down.
    Six to five against . . .
    Brother. He glanced at Morgan and felt an impulse to lift his hand in an American salute, one veteran to another, but of course Paul Schumann was fully aware of his role. “Hail.” And lifted his arm. Morgan repressed a smile and reciprocated.
    As Paul turned to leave, Morgan said softly, “Oh, wait, Paul. When I spoke to Bull Gordon and the Senator this morning, they wished you luck. And the commander said to tell you you can print his daughter’s wedding invitations as your first job. You know what he means?”
    Paul gave a nod and, gripping the sling of the Mauser, started toward the stadium. He stepped through the line of trees and into a huge parking lot, which must have had room for twenty thousand cars. He strode with authority and determination, glancing sharply toward the vehicles parked here, every inch the diligent guard.
    •   •   •
    Ten minutes later Paul had made his way through the lot and was at the soaring entrance to the stadium. There were soldiers on duty here, carefully checking papers and searching anyone who wanted to enter, but on the surrounding grounds, Paul was merely another soldier and no one paid him any attention. With an occasional “Hail Hitler” and nods, he skirted the building, heading toward the shed. He passed a huge iron bell, on the side of which was an inscription: “I Summon the Youth of the World.”
    As he approached the shed he noticed that it had no windows. There was no back door; the escape after the shooting would be difficult. He’d have to exit by the front, in full view of the entire stadium. But he suspected the acoustics would make it very difficult to tell where the shot had come from. And there were many sounds of construction—pile drivers, saws, riveting machines and the like—to obscure the report of the rifle. Paul would walk slowly from the shed after firing, pause and look around, even call for help if he could do so without raising suspicion.
    The time was one-thirty. Otto Webber, who was in the Potsdam Plaza post office, would place his call around two-fifteen. Plenty of time.
    He strolled on slowly, examining the grounds, looking in parked vehicles.
    “Hail Hitler,” he said to some laborers, who were stripped to the waist and painting a fence. “It is a hot day for work like that.”
    “Ach, it’s nothing,” one replied. “And if it were, so what? We work for the good of the fatherland.”
    Paul said, “The Leader is proud of you.” And continued on to his hunting blind.
    He glanced at the shed curiously as if wondering if itposed any security threat. Pulling on the black leather gloves that were part of the uniform, he opened the door and stepped inside. The place was filled with cardboard cartons tied with twine. Paul recognized the smell immediately from his days as a printer: the bitter scent of paper, the sweet scent of ink. The shed was being used to store programs or souvenir booklets of the Games. He arranged some cartons to make a shooting position in the front of the shed. He then laid his open jacket to the right of where he’d be lying, to catch the ejected shells when he worked the bolt of the gun. These details—retrieving the casings and minding fingerprints—probably didn’t matter. He had no record here and would be out of the country by nightfall. But nonetheless he went to the trouble simply because this was his craft.
    You make sure nothing is out of kilter.
    You check your p ’s and q ’s.
    Standing well inside the small building, he scanned the stadium with the rifle’s telescopic sight. He noted the open corridor behind the pressroom, which Ernst would take to reach the stairway and walk down to meet the messenger or driver that Webber would tell him about. He’d have a perfect shot as soon as the colonel stepped out of the doorway. There were large windows too, which he might shoot through if the man paused in front of one.
    The time was one-fifty.
    Paul sat back, legs crossed, and cradled the rifle in his lap. Sweat was dripping down his forehead in tickling rivulets. He wiped his face with the sleeve of