Garden of Beasts by Jeffery Deaver Read Free Book Online
Authors: Jeffery Deaver
to a café called the Bierhaus.”
Avery looked at Paul, who was staring at the map. “You can take it with you. You don’t have to memorize it.”
But Paul shook his head. “Maps tell people where you’ve been or where you’re going. And looking at one on the street draws everybody’s attention to you. If you’re lost, better just to ask directions. That way only one person knows you’re a stranger, not a whole crowd.”
Avery lifted an eyebrow, and even Manielli couldn’t find anything to razz him about on this point.
“Near the café there’s an alley. Dresden Alley.”
“It’ll have a name?”
“In Germany the alleys have names. Some of them do. It’s a shortcut. Doesn’t matter where to. At noon walk into it and stop, like you’re lost. Our man’ll come up to you. He’s the guy the Senator was telling you about. Reginald Morgan. Reggie.”
“Describe him.”
“Short. Mustache. Darkish hair. He’ll be speaking German. He’ll strike up a conversation. At some point you ask, ‘What’s the best tram to take to get to Alexanderplatz?’ And he’ll say, ‘The number one thirty-eight tram.’ Then he’ll pause and correct himself and say, ‘No, the two fifty-four is better.’ You’ll know it’s him because those aren’t real tram numbers.”
“You look like this’s funny,” Manielli added.
“It’s right out of Dashiell Hammett. The Continental Op. ”
“This ain’t a game.”
No, it wasn’t, and he didn’t think the passwords were funny. But it was unsettling, all this intrigue stuff. And he knew why: because it meant he was relying on other people. Paul Schumann hated to do that.
“All right. Alexanderplatz. Trams one thirty-eight, two fifty-four. What if he flubs the tram story? It’s not him?”
“I’m getting to that. If something seems fishy, what you do is you don’t hit him, you don’t make a scene. Just smile and walk away as casually as you can and go to this address.”
Avery gave him a slip of paper with a street name and number on it. Paul memorized it and handed the paper back. The lieutenant gave him a key, which he pocketed. “There’s an old palace just south of Brandenburg Gate. It was going to be the new U.S. embassy but there was a bad fire about five years ago and they’re still repairing it; the diplomats haven’t moved in. So the French, Germans and British don’t bother to snoop around the place. But we’ve got a couple of rooms there we use from time to time. There’s a wireless in the storeroom next to the kitchen. You can radio us in Amsterdam and we’ll place a call to Commander Gordon. He and the Senator’ll decide what to do next. But if everything’s silk, Morgan’ll take care of you. Get you into the boardinghouse, find you a weapon and get all the information you need on the… the man you’re going to visit.”
We people say touch-off…
“And remember,” Manielli was pleased to announce, “you don’t show up in Dresden Alley tomorrow or you give Morgan the slip later, he calls us and we make sure the police come down on you like a ton of bricks.”
Paul said nothing and let the boy have his bluster. He could tell Manielli was embarrassed about his reaction to Heinsler’s suicide and he needed to jerk some leash. But in fact there was no possibility that Paul was going to lam off. Bull Gordon was right; button men never got a second chance like he was being given—and a pile of dough that would let him make the most of it.
Then the men fell silent. There was nothing more to say. Sounds filled the damp, pungent air around them: the wind, the shusssh of the waves, the baritone grind of the Manhattan ’s engines—a blend of tones that he found oddly comforting, despite Heinsler’s suicide and the arduous mission that lay ahead. Finally the sailors went below.
Paul rose, lit another cigarette and leaned against the railing once more as the huge ship eased into the harbor in Hamburg, his thoughts wholly focused on
Avery looked at Paul, who was staring at the map. “You can take it with you. You don’t have to memorize it.”
But Paul shook his head. “Maps tell people where you’ve been or where you’re going. And looking at one on the street draws everybody’s attention to you. If you’re lost, better just to ask directions. That way only one person knows you’re a stranger, not a whole crowd.”
Avery lifted an eyebrow, and even Manielli couldn’t find anything to razz him about on this point.
“Near the café there’s an alley. Dresden Alley.”
“It’ll have a name?”
“In Germany the alleys have names. Some of them do. It’s a shortcut. Doesn’t matter where to. At noon walk into it and stop, like you’re lost. Our man’ll come up to you. He’s the guy the Senator was telling you about. Reginald Morgan. Reggie.”
“Describe him.”
“Short. Mustache. Darkish hair. He’ll be speaking German. He’ll strike up a conversation. At some point you ask, ‘What’s the best tram to take to get to Alexanderplatz?’ And he’ll say, ‘The number one thirty-eight tram.’ Then he’ll pause and correct himself and say, ‘No, the two fifty-four is better.’ You’ll know it’s him because those aren’t real tram numbers.”
“You look like this’s funny,” Manielli added.
“It’s right out of Dashiell Hammett. The Continental Op. ”
“This ain’t a game.”
No, it wasn’t, and he didn’t think the passwords were funny. But it was unsettling, all this intrigue stuff. And he knew why: because it meant he was relying on other people. Paul Schumann hated to do that.
“All right. Alexanderplatz. Trams one thirty-eight, two fifty-four. What if he flubs the tram story? It’s not him?”
“I’m getting to that. If something seems fishy, what you do is you don’t hit him, you don’t make a scene. Just smile and walk away as casually as you can and go to this address.”
Avery gave him a slip of paper with a street name and number on it. Paul memorized it and handed the paper back. The lieutenant gave him a key, which he pocketed. “There’s an old palace just south of Brandenburg Gate. It was going to be the new U.S. embassy but there was a bad fire about five years ago and they’re still repairing it; the diplomats haven’t moved in. So the French, Germans and British don’t bother to snoop around the place. But we’ve got a couple of rooms there we use from time to time. There’s a wireless in the storeroom next to the kitchen. You can radio us in Amsterdam and we’ll place a call to Commander Gordon. He and the Senator’ll decide what to do next. But if everything’s silk, Morgan’ll take care of you. Get you into the boardinghouse, find you a weapon and get all the information you need on the… the man you’re going to visit.”
We people say touch-off…
“And remember,” Manielli was pleased to announce, “you don’t show up in Dresden Alley tomorrow or you give Morgan the slip later, he calls us and we make sure the police come down on you like a ton of bricks.”
Paul said nothing and let the boy have his bluster. He could tell Manielli was embarrassed about his reaction to Heinsler’s suicide and he needed to jerk some leash. But in fact there was no possibility that Paul was going to lam off. Bull Gordon was right; button men never got a second chance like he was being given—and a pile of dough that would let him make the most of it.
Then the men fell silent. There was nothing more to say. Sounds filled the damp, pungent air around them: the wind, the shusssh of the waves, the baritone grind of the Manhattan ’s engines—a blend of tones that he found oddly comforting, despite Heinsler’s suicide and the arduous mission that lay ahead. Finally the sailors went below.
Paul rose, lit another cigarette and leaned against the railing once more as the huge ship eased into the harbor in Hamburg, his thoughts wholly focused on