Garden of Beasts

might be, had clearly sabotaged the gun.
    Moving fast, he’d ripped twine from the cartons in the shed and hung the rifle from the ceiling to make it appear he was still there then slipped outside, joining a group of other troopers walking north. He’d split off from them at the swimming complex, found a change of clothing and shoes, thrown away the SS uniform and torn up and flushed the Russian passport down a toilet.
    Now, a half hour from the stadium, running, running . . .
    Sweating fiercely through the thick cloth, Paul turned off the highway and trotted into a small village center. He found a fountain made from an old horse trough and bent to the spigot, drinking a quart of the hot, rusty water. Then he bathed his face.
    How far from the city was he? Probably four miles or so, he guessed. He saw two officers in green uniforms and tall green-and-black hats stopping a large man, demanding his papers.
    He turned casually away from them and walked down side streets, deciding it was too risky to continue into Berlin on foot. He noticed a parking lot—rows of cars around a train station. Paul found an open-air DKW and, making sure he was out of sight, used a rock and a broken branch to knock the key lock into the dashboard. He fished underneath for the wires. Using his teeth, he cut through the cloth insulation and twined the copper strands together. He pushed the starter button. The engine ground for a moment but didn’t catch. Grimacing, he realized he’d forgotten to set the choke. He adjusted it to rich and tried again. The engine fired to life and sputtered and he adjusted the knob until it was running smoothly. It took a moment to figure out the gears but soon he was easing east through the narrow streets of the town, wondering who’d sold him out.
    And why? Had it been money? Politics? Some other reason?
    But at the moment he could find no hint of the answers to those questions. Escaping occupied all his thoughts.
    He shoved the accelerator to the floor and turned onto a broad, immaculate highway, passing a sign that assured him that the city center of Berlin was six kilometers away.
    •   •   •
    Modest quarters, off Bremer Street in the northwest portion of town. Typical of many dwellings in this neighborhood, Reginald Morgan’s was in a gloomy stone four-flat that dated from the Second Empire, though this particular structure summoned up no Prussian glory whatsoever.
    Willi Kohl and his inspector candidate climbed from the DKW. They heard more sirens and glanced up to see a truck of SS troops speeding along the roads—yet another installment of the secret security alert, even more extensivethan earlier, it seemed, with random roadblocks now being set up throughout the city. Kohl and Janssen themselves were stopped. The SS guard glanced with disdain at the Kripo ID and waved them through. He didn’t respond to the inspector’s query about what was happening and merely snapped, “Move along.”
    Kohl now rang the bell beside the thick front door. The inspector tapped his foot with impatience as they waited. Two lengthy rings later a stocky landlady in a dark dress and apron opened the door, eyes wide at the sight of two stern men in suits.
    “Hail Hitler. I’m sorry, sirs, that I didn’t get here sooner but my legs aren’t—”
    “Inspector Kohl, with the Kripo.” He showed his identity card so the woman would relax somewhat; at least they were not Gestapo.
    “Do you know this man?” Janssen displayed the photo taken in Dresden Alley.
    “Ach, that’s Mr. Morgan, who lives here! He doesn’t look . . . Is he dead?”
    “Yes, he is.”
    “God in heav—” The politically questionable phrase died in her mouth.
    “We’d like to see his rooms.”
    “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Follow me.” They walked into a courtyard so overwhelmingly bleak, Kohl thought, that it would sadden even Mozart’s irrepressible Papageno. The woman rocked back and forth as she walked. She said breathlessly, “I always thought him a little strange, to tell the truth, sirs.” This was served up with careful glances at Kohl, to make it clear that she was no confederate of Morgan’s, in case he’d been killed by the National Socialists themselves, and yet that his behavior wasn’t so suspicious that she should have denounced him herself.
    “We haven’t seen him for a whole day. He went out just before lunch yesterday and he never returned.”
    They went through another locked door at the