Garden of Beasts

garbage. The only safe place is the sewer. No one goes through the sewers. Not yet, in any case.”
    Paul glanced down at a nearby grating and reluctantly shoved in the items.
    His luck-of-the-Irish tie . . .
    “Now I’ll add something to your role as an escaper-from-dung-shirts.” He reached into his jacket pocket and extracted several hats. He selected a light-colored canvas crush hat. He unfurled and handed it to Paul then replaced the others. “Put it on.” The American did so. “Now, the pistol too. You must get rid of it. I know you are hesitant, but in truth it will do you little good. No gun carries enough bullets to stop all the Stormtroopers in the city, let alone a puny Luger.”
    Yes or no?
    Instinct again told him the man was right. He crouched down and tossed the gun down the grating as well. He heard a splash far below street level.
    “Now, follow me.” The man picked up the carton. When Paul hesitated he whispered, “Ach, you’re thinking, howcan you possibly trust me? You don’t know me at all. But, sir, I would say that under the circumstances the real question is, how can you not trust me? Still, it’s your choice. You have about ten seconds to decide.” He laughed. “Doesn’t that always seem to be the way? The more important the decision, the less the time to make it.” He walked to a door, fiddled with a key and unlocked it. He glanced back. Paul followed. They stepped into a storeroom and the German swung the door shut and locked it. Watching through the greasy window, Paul saw the band of Stormtroopers step into the alley, look around, then continue on.
    The room was densely packed with boxes and crates, dusty bottles of wine. The man paused, nodding to a carton. “Take that. It will be a prop for our storytelling. And perhaps a profitable one too.”
    Paul looked at the man angrily. “I could have left my clothes and the gun in your warehouse here. I didn’t have to throw them out.”
    The man jutted out his lower lip. “Ach, yes, except that this isn’t exactly my warehouse. Now, that carton. Please, sir, we must hurry.” Paul set the satchel on top, hefted the box and followed. They emerged into a dusty front room. The man glanced out the filthy window. He began to open the door.
    “Wait,” Paul said. He touched his cheek; the cut from the brass knuckles was bleeding slightly. He ran his hands over some dirty shelves and patted his face, covering the wound, and his jacket and slacks. The smudges would draw less attention than the blood.
    “Good,” the German said and pushed the door wide. “You are now a sweaty laborer. And I will be your boss. This way.” He turned directly toward a cluster of three or four Stormtroopers, speaking to a woman who loungedagainst a street lamp, holding a tiny poodle on a red leash.
    Paul hesitated.
    “Come on. Don’t slow up.”
    They were almost past the Brownshirts when one of them called to the two men, “You there, stop. We will see your papers.” One of his friends joined him and they stepped in front of Paul and the German. Seething that he’d given up his gun, Paul glanced to his side. The man from the alley frowned. “Ach, our cards, yes, yes. I am very sorry, gentlemen. You must understand we’re forced to work today, as you can see.” A nod toward the cartons. “It was unplanned. An urgent delivery.”
    “You must carry your card with you at all times.”
    Paul said, “We are only going a short way.”
    “We are looking for a large man in a gray suit and brown hat. He is armed. Have you seen anyone like that?”
    A consulting glance. “No,” Paul said.
    The second Brownshirt patted both the German and Paul for weapons then grabbed the satchel and opened it, glanced inside. He lifted out the copy of Mein Kampf. Paul could see the bulge where the Russian passport and rubles were hidden.
    The German from the alley said quickly, “Nothing of interest in there. But now I recall that we do have our identification. Look in my man’s carton.”
    The Brownshirts glanced at each other. The one holding Hitler’s book tossed it back inside, set the satchel down and ripped open the top of the carton that Paul held.
    “As you can see, we are the Bordeaux Brothers.”
    A Brownshirt laughed, and the German continued. “But you can never be too sure. Perhaps you should take two of those with you for verification.”
    Several bottles of red wine were lifted out. The Stormtrooperswaved the men on. Paul picked up the