Garden of Beasts

emotion cloud his judgment.
    He knew how Schumann had figured things out. There was a piece of wire on the floor of the shed and bits of lead next to it. Of course, he’d checked the bore of the gun and found it plugged. Taggert thought angrily, Why the hell didn’t I empty the powder out of his shells and recrimp the bullets back into the brass casing? There’d have been no danger to Ernst that way and Schumann never would have figured out the betrayal until it was too late and the SS troops were around the shed.
    But, he reflected, the matter wasn’t hopeless.
    After a second brief meeting in the Olympic pressroom with Himmler and Heydrich, during which he told them he knew little more of the plot than what he’d already explained, he left the stadium, telling the Germans that he would contact Washington at once and see if they had more details. Taggert left them both, muttering about Jewish and Russian conspiracies. He was surprised he’d been allowed out of the stadium without being detained—his arrest would not have been logical but was certainly a risk in a country top-heavy with suspicion and paranoia.
    Taggert now considered his quarry. Paul Schumann was not stupid, of course. He’d been set up to be a Russian and he’d know that was whom the Germans would be looking for. He’d have ditched his fake identity by now and be an American again. But Taggert preferred not to tell the Germans that; it would be better to produce the dead “Russian,” along with his confederates, a gang-ring criminal and a woman dissident—Käthe Richter undoubtedly had some Kosi-sympathizing friends, adding to the credibility of the Russian assassin scenario.
    Desperate, yes.
    But, as he steered the white van south over the Stormtrooper-brown canal then east, he remained calm as stone. He parked on a busy street and climbed out. There was no doubt that Schumann would return to the boardinghouse for Käthe Richter. He’d adamantly insisted on taking the woman with him back to America. Which meant that, even now, he wasn’t going to leave her behind. Taggert also knew that he’d come in person, not call her; Schumann knew the dangers of tapped phones in Germany.
    Continuing quickly through the streets, feeling the comforting bump of the pistol against his hip, he turned the corner and proceeded into Magdeburger Alley. He paused and examined the short street carefully. It seemed deserted, dusty in the afternoon heat. He casually walked past Käthe Richter’s boardinghouse and then, sensing no threat, returned quickly and descended to the basement entrance. He shouldered open the door then slipped into the dank cellar.
    Taggert climbed the wooden stairs, keeping to the sides of the steps to minimize the creaks. He came to the top, eased the doorway open and, pulling the pistol from his pocket, stepped out into the ground-floor hallway. Empty. No sounds, no movement other than the frantic buzzing of a huge fly trapped between two panes of glass.
    He walked the length of the corridor, listening at each door, hearing nothing. Finally he returned to the door on which hung a crudely painted sign that read, Landlady.
    He knocked. “Miss Richter?” He wondered what she looked like. It had been the real Reginald Morgan who’d arranged for these rooms for Schumann, and apparently they’d never met; she and Morgan had spoken on the phone and exchanged a letter of agreement and cashthrough the pneumatic delivery system that crisscrossed Berlin.
    Another rap on the door. “I’ve come about a room. The front door was open.”
    No response.
    He tried the door. It was not locked. He slipped inside and noted a suitcase resting open on the bed, clothes and books around it. This reassured him; it meant Schumann hadn’t returned yet. Where was she, though? Perhaps she wanted to collect money she was owed or, more likely, borrow what she could from friends and family. Emigrating from Germany through proper channels meant leaving with nothing more than clothes and pocket money; thinking she’d be leaving illegally with Schumann, she’d get as much cash as she could. The radio was on, the lights. She’d be back soon.
    Taggert noticed next to the door a rack containing keys for all the rooms. He found the set to Schumann’s and stepped into the corridor again. He walked quietly up the hall. In a swift motion he unlocked the door, pushed inside and lifted his pistol.
    The living room was empty. He locked the door then stepped