Garden of Beasts

and shook their hands, welcoming them. He explained that Doctor-professorKeitel would be with them shortly. He held up a football that he and another soldier had been kicking around and he tapped it toward Hans, who expertly sent it on its way to another of the recruits.
    And, as always happens when young men and a ball end up together on a grassy field, it was only a matter of minutes before two teams had formed and a game begun.

Chapter Thirty-Four
    At 5:30 P.M. the Labor Service truck eased over a smooth, immaculate highway that wove through tall stands of pine and hemlock. The air was flecked with motes of dust, and lazy insects died on the flat windshield.
    Paul Schumann struggled to think only of Reinhard Ernst, of his target. Groping for the ice.
    Don’t think about Otto Wilhelm Friedrich Georg Webber.
    This was, however, impossible. Paul was consumed with memories of the man he’d known only a day. Presently he was thinking that Otto would have fit in perfectly on the West Side of New York. Drinking with Runyon and Jacobs and the boxing crew. Maybe he’d even enjoy sparring a little. But what Webber really would have loved were the opportunities in America: the freedom to run countless scams and grifts.
    Someday I may boast to you of my better cons. . . . 
    But then his thoughts faded as he turned around a slow curve and diverted down a side road. A kilometer along the highway he saw a carefully painted sign, Waltham Military College. Three or four young men in hiking outfits lounged on the grass, surrounded by packs, baskets and the remnants of their Sunday afternoon dinner. A sign beside them pointed down the wide drive to the main hall. A second road led to the stadium and gymnasium andAcademic Buildings 1 through 4. Farther along was the driveway to Buildings 5 through 8. It was in Building 5 that Ernst would have his meeting in a half hour, Paul had read on his schedule. He continued past the turnoff, though, drove another hundred yards along the road and pulled onto a deserted unpaved byway, overgrown with grass. He nosed the truck into the woods so that it couldn’t be seen from the main road.
    A deep breath. Paul rubbed his eyes and wiped the sweat from his face.
    Would Ernst actually show up? he wondered. Or would he be like Dutch Schultz that time in Jersey City, when the mobster had skipped out on a meeting where he’d instinctively—some said psychically—known he was going to be ambushed?
    But what else could Paul do? He had to believe the colonel would go ahead with the meeting. And his assessment was that the man would in fact show up here. Everything he’d learned about him suggested someone who didn’t shirk his obligations. The American climbed out of the truck. He stripped off the bulky blue-gray uniform and hat, folded them neatly and rested them on the front seat, beneath which he’d also hidden another suit, in case he needed to change identity yet again to escape. Paul dressed quickly in the working clothes he’d stolen from the warehouse. Then, collecting the rifle and the ammunition, he plunged into the thickest part of the woods, moving as silently as he could.
    He slowly made his way through the quiet, fragrant forest, cautious at first, expecting more guards or troops, especially after the attempt that afternoon on Ernst’s life, but he was surprised to find none at all. As he moved closer to the buildings, easing through brush and trees, hesaw some people and vehicles near the front of one of the structures, which a sign reported was No. 5, the one he sought. Parked up the drive about one hundred feet from it was a black Mercedes sedan. A man wearing an SS uniform stood beside the car, looking around vigilantly, a machine gun over his shoulder. Was this Ernst’s car? He couldn’t see through the glare of the windows.
    Paul also noted a small panel van and a bus, near which a dozen young men in civilian clothing and a soldier in a gray uniform were playing soccer. A second soldier leaned against the bus, watching the game and cheering the teams on.
    Why would someone as senior as Ernst meet with this small group of students? Maybe they were a handpicked group of future officers; the boys looked like model National Socialists—fair, blond and in very good shape. Whoever they were, Paul assumed that Ernst would meet with them in the classroom, which would require him to walk the fifty feet or so from the Mercedes to Building 5. Paul would have plenty of time to