His voice raw with anger, Hitler raged, “Do what you must! Everything! There will be no taint on our Games.” And, unnervingly, a fraction of a second later, his voice was calm and his blue eyes bright. He leaned forward to refill his cup with chocolate and place two zwieback biscuits on the saucer. “Please, now, you may all leave. Thank you. I need to consider some building matters.” He called to the aide in the doorway, “Where is Speer?”
“He will be here momentarily, my Leader.”
The men walked to the door. Ernst’s heart had resumed its normal, slow beat. What had just happened was typical of the way the inner circle of the National Socialist government worked. Intrigue, which could have disastrous results, simply vanished like crumbs swept over the door stoop. As for Göring’s plotting, well, he -
“Colonel?” Hitler’s voice called.
Ernst stopped immediately and looked back.
The Leader was staring at the mock-up of the stadium, examining the newly constructed train station. He said, “You will prepare a report on this Waltham Study of yours. In detail. I will receive it on Monday.”
“Yes, of course, my Leader.”
At the door Göring held his arm out, palm upward, letting Ernst exit first. “I will see that you receive those misdirected documents, Reinhard. And I do hope you and Gertrud will attend my Olympic party.”
“Thank you, Mr. Minister. I will make a point of being there.”
Friday evening, misty and warm, fragrant with the scent of cut grass, overturned earth and sweet, fresh paint.
Paul Schumann strolled by himself through the Olympic Village, a half hour west of Berlin.
He’d arrived not long before, after the complicated journey from Hamburg. It had been an exhausting day, yes. But invigorating too and he was stoked by the excitement of being in a foreign land – his ancestral home – and the anticipation of his mission. He had shown his press pass and been admitted to the American portion of the village – dozens of buildings housing fifty or sixty people each. He’d left his suitcase and satchel in one of the small guestrooms in the back, where he’d stay for a few nights, and was now walking through the spotless grounds. As he looked around the village he was amused. Paul Schumann was used to a lot rougher venues for sports – his own gym, for instance, which hadn’t been painted in five years and smelled of sweat and rotten leather and beer, no matter how energetically Sorry Williams scrubbed and mopped. The village was, however, just what the name suggested: a quaint town all its own. Set in a birch forest, the place was beautifully laid out in sweeping arcs of low, immaculate buildings, with a lake and curved paths and trails for running and walking, training fields and even its own sports arena.
According to the guidebook Andrew Avery had included in his satchel, the village had a customs office, stores, pressroom, a post office and bank, gas station, sporting goods store, souvenir stands, food shops and travel office.
The athletes were presently at the welcoming ceremony, which he’d been urged to attend by Jesse Owens, Ralph Metcalfe and the young boxer he’d sparred with. But now that he was in the locale of the touch-off, he needed to lay low. He’d begged off, saying he had to get some work done for interviews the next morning. He’d eaten in the dining hall – had one of the best steaks of his life – and after a coffee and a Chesterfield was now finishing his walk through the village.
The only thing troubling to him, considering the reason he was in the country, was that each nation’s dorm complex was assigned a German soldier, a “liaison officer.” In the U.S. facility this was a stern, young, brown-haired man in a gray uniform that seemed unbearably uncomfortable in the heat. Paul stayed as clear of him as possible; the contact here, Reginald Morgan, had warned Avery that Paul should be wary of anyone in uniform. He used only the back door to his dorm and made sure the guard never got a close look at him.
As he strolled along the swept sidewalk he saw one of the American track athletes with a young woman and baby; several team members had brought wives and other relatives with them. This put Paul in mind of the conversation with his brother last week, just before the Manhattan had sailed.
Paul had distanced himself from his brother and sister and their families for the past decade; he didn’t want to visit the violence and danger tainting his own life on theirs. His sister lived in Chicago and he got there rarely but he did see Hank sometimes. He lived on Long Island and ran the printing plant that was the descendant of their grandfather’s. He was a solid husband and father, who didn’t know for sure what his brother did for a living, except that he associated with tough guys and criminals.
Although Paul hadn’t shared any personal information with Bull Gordon or the others in The Room, the main reason he’d decided to agree to come to Germany for this job was that wiping his record clean and getting all that scratch might let him reconnect with the family, which he’d dreamed about doing for years.
He’d had a shot of whisky, then another, and finally picked up the phone and called his brother at home. After ten minutes of nervous small talk about the heat wave and the Yankees and Hank’s two boys, Paul had taken the plunge and asked if Hank might be interested in having a partner at Schumann Printing. He quickly reassured, “I’m not having anything to do with my old crowd anymore.” Then he added that he could bring $10,000 into the business. “Legit dough. One hundred percent.”
“Mother of pearl,” Hank said. And they’d both laughed at the expression, a favorite of their father’s.
“There’s one problem,” Hank added gravely.
Paul understood that the man was about to say no, thinking of his brother’s shady career.
But the elder Schumann added, “We’ll have to buy a new sign. There’s not enough room for ‘Schumann Brothers Printing’ on the one I got.”
The ice broken, they talked about the plan some more. Paul was surprised that Hank sounded almost tearfully touched at this overture. Family was key to Hank and he couldn’t understand Paul’s distance in the past ten years.
Tall, beautiful Marion, Paul had decided, would like that life too. Oh, she played at being bad, but it was an act, and Paul knew enough to give her only a small taste of the seamy life. He’d introduced her to Damon Runyon, served her beer in a bottle at the gym, taken her to the bar in Hell’s Kitchen where Owney Madden used to charm ladies with his British accent and show off his pearl-handled pistols. But he knew that like a lot of renegade college girls, Marion would get tired of the tough life if she actually had to live it. Dime-dancing would wear thin as well, and she’d want something more stable. Being the wife of a well-off printer would be aces.
Hank had said he was going to talk to his lawyer and have a partnership agreement drawn up for Paul to sign as soon as he got back from his “business trip.”
Now, returning to his room at the dorm, Paul noticed three boys in shorts, brown shirts and black ties, wearing brown, military-style hats. He’d seen dozens of such youngsters here, assisting the teams. The trio marched toward a tall pole, at the top of which flew the Nazi flag. Paul had seen the banner in newsreels and in the papers but the images had always been in black and white. Even now, at dusk, the flag’s crimson was striking, brilliant as fresh blood.
One boy noticed him watching and asked in German, “You are an athlete, sir? Yet you’re not at the ceremony we are hosting?”
Paul thought it better not to give away his linguistic skills, even to Boy Scouts, so he said in English, “Sorry, I don’t speak German so well.”
The boy switched to Paul’s language. “You are an athlete?”