Kohl nearly added: as are the Stormtroopers. But he merely said, “Then we can hope that the perpetrator turns out to be a Slav.”

Krauss gave no reaction to the reference to his own ethnic origins. Another look at the corpse. “I will make inquiries about this, Willi. I will have my people make contact with the A-men in the area.”

Kohl said, “I am encouraged by the thought of using National Socialist informants. They’re very good at it. And there are so many of them.”

“Indeed.”

Bless him, Janssen too looked impatiently at his watch, grimaced and said, “We’re very late for that meeting, sir.”

“Yes, yes, we are.” Kohl started back up the alley. But he paused and called to Krauss, “One question?”

“Yes, Willi?”

“What kind of hat does Air Minister Göring wear?”

“You are asking…?” Krauss frowned.

“Göring. What kind of hat?”

“Oh, I have no idea,” he replied, looking momentarily stricken, as if this were knowledge that every good Gestapo officer should be versed in. “Why?”

“No matter.”

“Hail Hitler.”

“Hail.”

As they hurried back to the DKW, Kohl said breathlessly, “Give the film to one of the Schupo officers and have him rush it to headquarters. I want the pictures immediately.”

“Yes, sir.” The young man diverted his course and handed the film to an officer, gave him the instructions, then caught up with Kohl, who called to a Schupo, “When the coroner’s men get here, tell them that I want the autopsy report as soon as possible. I want to know about diseases our friend here might have had. The clap and consumption in particular. And how advanced. And the contents of his stomach. Tattoos, broken bones, surgical scars, as well.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Remember to tell them it’s urgent.”

So busy was the coroner these days that it might take eight or ten hours for the body even to be picked up; the autopsy could take several days.

Kohl winced in pain as he hurried to the DKW; the lamb’s wool in his shoes had shifted. “What’s the fastest route to the Summer Garden? Never mind, we’ll figure it out.” He looked around. “There!” he shouted, pointing to a newsstand. “Go buy every newspaper they have.”

“Yes, sir, but why?”

Willi Kohl dropped into the driver’s seat and pushed the ignition button. His voice was breathless but still managed to convey his impatience. “Because we need a picture of Göring in a hat. Why else?”

Chapter Seven

Standing on the street corner, holding a limp Berlin Journal, Paul studied the Summer Garden café: women who drank their coffees with gloved hands, men who would down their beers in large gulps and tap their mustaches with pressed linen napkins to lift away the foam. People enjoying the afternoon sun, smoking.

Paul Schumann remained perfectly still, looking, looking, looking.

Out of kilter…

Just like setting type, plucking the metal letters from a California job case and assembling words and sentences. “Mind your p ’s and q ’s,” his father would call constantly – those particular letters easy to confuse because the piece of type was the exact reverse of the printed letter.

He was now looking over the Summer Garden just as carefully. He’d missed the Stormtrooper watching him from the phone booth outside Dresden Alley – an inexcusable mistake for a button man. He wasn’t going to let that happen again.

After a few minutes, he sensed no immediate danger but, he reflected, how could he tell? Maybe the people he was watching were nothing more than they seemed: normal joes eating meals and going about their errands on a hot, lazy Saturday afternoon, with no interest in anyone else on the street.

But maybe they were as suspicious and murderously loyal to the Nazis as the man on the Manhattan, Heinsler.

I love the Führer…

He tossed the paper into a bin then crossed the street and entered the restaurant.

“Please,” he said to the captain, “a table for three.”

“Anywhere, anywhere,” the harried man said.

Paul took a table inside. A casual glance around him. No one paid any attention to him.

Or appeared to.

A waiter sailed past. “You wish to order?”

“A beer for now.”

“Which beer?” He started to name brands Paul had never heard of.

He said, “The first. A large.”

The waiter walked toward the bar and returned a moment later with a tall pilsner glass. Paul drank thirstily but found he disliked the taste. It was almost sweet, fruity. He pushed it aside and lit a cigarette, having shaken the Chesterfield out of the pack below the tabletop so no one could see the American label. He glanced up to see Reginald Morgan strolling casually into the restaurant. Looking around, he noticed Paul and walked up to him, saying in German, “My friend, so good to see you again.”

They shook hands and he sat down across the table.

Morgan’s face was damp and he wiped it with his handkerchief. His eyes were troubled. “It was close. The Schupo pulled up just as I got away.”

“Anyone see you?”

“I don’t think so. I left by the far end of the alley.”

“Is it safe to stay here?” Paul asked, looking around. “Should we leave?”

“No. It would be more suspicious at this time of day to arrive at a restaurant then leave quickly without eating. Not like New York. Berliners won’t be rushed when it comes to meals. Offices close down for two hours so people can have a proper lunch. Of course, they also eat two breakfasts.” He patted his stomach. “Now you can see why I was happy to be posted here.” Looking around casually, Morgan said, “Here.” He pushed a thick book toward Paul. “See, I remembered to return it.” The German words on the cover were Mein Kampf, which Paul translated as “My Struggle.” Hitler’s name was on it. He’d written a book? Paul wondered.

“Thank you. But there was no hurry.”

Paul stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray but, when it was cool, slipped it into his pocket, ever careful not to leave traces that might place him somewhere.

Morgan leaned forward, smiling as if whispering a bawdy joke. “Inside the book’s a hundred marks. And the address of the place you’ll be staying, a boardinghouse. It’s near Lützow Plaza, south of the Tiergarten. I wrote down directions too.”

“Is it on the ground floor?”

“The apartment? I don’t know. I didn’t ask. You’re thinking of escape routes?”

Specifically he was thinking of Malone’s binge-nest with its sealed doors and windows and a welcoming party of armed sailors. “That’s right.”

“Well, have a look at it. Maybe you can swap if there’s a problem. The landlady seems agreeable. Her name is Käthe Richter.”

“Is she a Nazi?”

Morgan said softly, “Don’t use that word here. It will give you away. ‘Nazi’ is Bavarian slang for ‘simpleton.’ The proper abbreviation is ‘Nazo,’ but you don’t hear that much either. Say ‘National Socialist.’ Some people use the initials, NSDAP. Or you can refer to the ‘Party.’ And say it reverently… Regarding Miss Richter, she doesn’t seem to have any sympathies one way or the other.” Nodding at the beer, Morgan asked, “You don’t care for that?”

“Piss water.”

Morgan laughed. “It’s wheat beer. Children drink it. Why did you order it?”

“There were a thousand kinds. I’d never heard of any of them.”

“I’ll order for us.”

When the waiter arrived he said, “Please, bring us two Pschorr ales. And sausage and bread. With cabbage and pickled cucumbers. Butter if you have any today.”

“Yes, sir.” He took away Paul’s glass.

Morgan continued. “In the book there’s also a Russian passport with your picture in it and some rubles, about a hundred dollars’ worth. In an emergency make your way to the Swiss border. The Germans’ll be happy to get another Russian out of their country and they’ll let you pass. They won’t take the rubles because they won’t be allowed to spend them. The Swiss won’t care that you’re a Bolshevik and will be delighted to let you in to spend the money. Go to Zurich and get a message to the U.S. embassy. Gordon will get you out. Now, after Dresden Alley we must be extremely careful. Like I said, something is clearly going on in town. There are far more patrols on the street than usual: Stormtroopers, which is not particularly odd – they have nothing to do with their time but march and patrol – but SS and Gestapo too.”