Garden of Beasts

the others leave at once. By the underground route. Perhaps there is only the one assassin but perhaps too there are others that this American doesn’t know about.”
    Like everyone who’d read the intelligence reports on Himmler, Taggert considered the former fertilizer salesman half insane and an incurable sycophant. But the American’s role here was clear and he said submissively, “Police Chief Himmler is correct. I’m not sure how complete our information is. Go to safety. I will help your troops capture the man.”
    Ernst shook Taggert’s hand. “My thanks to you.”
    Taggert nodded. He watched Ernst collect his grandson from the corridor and then join the others, who took an internal stairway down to the underground driveway, surrounded by a squad of guards.
    Only when Hitler and the others were gone did Himmler return Taggert’s pistol. The police chief then called to the SS officer who had arranged the detachment downstairs, “Where are your men?”
    The guard explained that two dozen were deployed to the east, out of view of the shed.
    Himmler said, “SD Leader Heydrich and I will remain here and call a general alert for the area. Bring us that Russian.”
    “Hail Hitler.” The guard turned on his heels and hurried down the staircase, Taggert behind him. They jogged to the east side of the stadium, joined the troops there and, in a wide arc to the south, approached the shed.
    The men ran quickly, surrounded by the emotionless SS troops, amid the sound of gun bolts and toggles, snapping bullets into place. But despite the apparent tension and drama, Robert Taggert was at ease for the first time in days. Like the man he’d killed in Dresden Alley—Reggie Morgan—Taggert was one of those people who exist in the shadows of government and diplomacy and business, doing the bidding for their principals in ways sometimes legal and often not. One of the few truthful things he’d told Schumann was his passion for a diplomatic posting either in Germany or elsewhere (Spain would indeed be nice). But such plums were not easy to come by and had to be earned, often in mad and risky situations. Such as the plan involving the poor sap Paul Schumann.
    His instructions from the United States had been simple: Reggie Morgan would have to be sacrificed. Taggert would kill him and take over his identity. He would help Paul Schumann plan Reinhard Ernst’s death and then, at the last moment, Taggert would dramatically “rescue” the German colonel, proof of how firmly the U.S. supported the National Socialists. Word of the rescue and Taggert’s comments about that support would trickle up to Hitler. But as it turned out, the results were far, far better: Taggert had actually performed his routine for Hitler and Göring themselves.
    What happened to Schumann was irrelevant, whether he died now, which would be cleaner and more convenient, or was caught and tortured. In the latter case, Schumann would eventually talk . . . and tell an unlikely tale of being hired by the American Office of Naval Intelligence to kill Ernst, which the Germans would instantly dismiss since it was Taggert and the Americanswho turned him in. And if he turned out to be a German-American gangster and not a Russian? Ah, well, he must’ve been recruited by the Russians.
    A simple plan.
    But there had been setbacks from the beginning. He’d planned to kill Morgan several days ago and impersonate him at the first meeting with Schumann yesterday. But Morgan had been a very cautious man and talented at leading a covert life. Taggert had had no chance to murder him before Dresden Alley. And how tense that had been. . . . 
    Reggie Morgan had had only the old pass phrase—not the lines about the tram to Alexanderplatz—so when he’d met Schumann in the alley, they’d each believed the other was an enemy. Taggert had managed to kill Morgan just in time and convince Schumann that he was in fact the American agent—thanks to the right pass phrase, the forged passport, and the accurate description of the Senator. Taggert had also made sure he was the first to go through the dead man’s pockets. He’d pretended to find proof that Morgan was a Stormtrooper, though the document he’d showed Schumann was, in fact, simply a card attesting that the bearer had donated a sum to a War veterans’ relief fund. Half the people in Berlin had such cards since the Brownshirts were very adept at soliciting “contributions.”
    Schumann himself had