unobtrusively, through the entrance to the parking bay in the basement, in cars with darkened windows.”
“And who attends these meetings?” Quinn asked.
Finally, though, the other fear had asserted itself. The sergeant hesitated, then said, “Men, Herr Obersturmbannführer, whom I would prefer not to name, if it is all the same to you. Men whose names I am sure you already know, if you already know of these meetings. One never knows who might be listening when one speaks of such matters.”
Quinn nodded, not wanting to press the point. “Quite right, Unterscharführer. You are a very judicious man.” He turned to the private. “Is there anything you have to add?”
The private shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Very well, then,” Quinn said, putting Garner’s photo back in his pocket and turning back to the sergeant. “You have been very helpful. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, sir,” the sergeant said, visibly relieved that the interview now appeared to be over.
Quinn entered the building and emerged into the main lobby. It was a large, imposing, impersonal room, intended to make any newcomer to the inner sanctum of the world’s most feared secret police feel suitably puny. The floor, a sea of green linoleum tiles, stretched away from him, combining with the whitewashed plaster walls to provide the room with a distinctly antiseptic, dehumanized flavor. At the opposite end of the lobby, a wide staircase led up to an archway leading to Prinz Albrechstrasse’s upper levels. There were similar archways leading into the labyrinthine innards at the ground level, two framing the staircase and one set into each side wall.
Quinn looked around, taking in the place in all its linoleum and plaster glory. He watched the people who would emerge from one of the archways, generally with manila or brown files under their arms, and walk purposefully to disappear through another, heels clicking smartly on the tile: male Gestapo officers in their feared all-black uniforms, female clerks in black skirts and white blouses.
There was an information desk to Quinn’s right, with a female clerk seated behind it. Quinn walked up to it. “Where is the records office?” he asked.
The young woman flicked a glance at his Amt III insignia and pointed to one of the archways that framed the staircase. “Down that corridor, third door on the right, Herr Obersturmbannführer.”
Quinn nodded. “Thank you, mein Fraulein.”
He took the archway she indicated and soon came to a doorway over which hung a cream-colored sign with “Central Records” stenciled on it in businesslike black letters. He turned into the doorway—and collided with a young female clerk carrying a stack of files against her chest.
The clerk stumbled backwards, and her files went flying. They hit the floor and slid along the linoleum tile with a hiss, their contents scattering down the corridor. The clerk was on her knees instantly, collecting folders and papers.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Quinn said. He crouched down to help her gather them up. “I apologize, Fraulein—”
She glanced at him briefly, then returned her attention to the floor. She was startlingly beautiful—short blonde hair reaching to the bottom of her ears, cut in long bangs to frame her face; piercing blue eyes and fair skin. A poster girl for the Master Race.
“Think nothing of it, sir,” she said brusquely, obviously intending to put an end both to his apology and to any further conversation.
She got smoothly to her feet, her files cradled in her arms, and Quinn rose too and handed her the papers he had gathered up. He glanced at the nametag clipped to her collar—“E Voss”—and at the departmental badge beside it: IV-A2. Amt IV was the Gestapo, and Department A, Section 2 was—
“You work in Counter-Sabotage,” Quinn said.
She had taken a step forward as if to leave, but Quinn was blocking her exit into the corridor. She gave the slightest of sighs and reluctantly
“And who attends these meetings?” Quinn asked.
Finally, though, the other fear had asserted itself. The sergeant hesitated, then said, “Men, Herr Obersturmbannführer, whom I would prefer not to name, if it is all the same to you. Men whose names I am sure you already know, if you already know of these meetings. One never knows who might be listening when one speaks of such matters.”
Quinn nodded, not wanting to press the point. “Quite right, Unterscharführer. You are a very judicious man.” He turned to the private. “Is there anything you have to add?”
The private shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Very well, then,” Quinn said, putting Garner’s photo back in his pocket and turning back to the sergeant. “You have been very helpful. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, sir,” the sergeant said, visibly relieved that the interview now appeared to be over.
Quinn entered the building and emerged into the main lobby. It was a large, imposing, impersonal room, intended to make any newcomer to the inner sanctum of the world’s most feared secret police feel suitably puny. The floor, a sea of green linoleum tiles, stretched away from him, combining with the whitewashed plaster walls to provide the room with a distinctly antiseptic, dehumanized flavor. At the opposite end of the lobby, a wide staircase led up to an archway leading to Prinz Albrechstrasse’s upper levels. There were similar archways leading into the labyrinthine innards at the ground level, two framing the staircase and one set into each side wall.
Quinn looked around, taking in the place in all its linoleum and plaster glory. He watched the people who would emerge from one of the archways, generally with manila or brown files under their arms, and walk purposefully to disappear through another, heels clicking smartly on the tile: male Gestapo officers in their feared all-black uniforms, female clerks in black skirts and white blouses.
There was an information desk to Quinn’s right, with a female clerk seated behind it. Quinn walked up to it. “Where is the records office?” he asked.
The young woman flicked a glance at his Amt III insignia and pointed to one of the archways that framed the staircase. “Down that corridor, third door on the right, Herr Obersturmbannführer.”
Quinn nodded. “Thank you, mein Fraulein.”
He took the archway she indicated and soon came to a doorway over which hung a cream-colored sign with “Central Records” stenciled on it in businesslike black letters. He turned into the doorway—and collided with a young female clerk carrying a stack of files against her chest.
The clerk stumbled backwards, and her files went flying. They hit the floor and slid along the linoleum tile with a hiss, their contents scattering down the corridor. The clerk was on her knees instantly, collecting folders and papers.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Quinn said. He crouched down to help her gather them up. “I apologize, Fraulein—”
She glanced at him briefly, then returned her attention to the floor. She was startlingly beautiful—short blonde hair reaching to the bottom of her ears, cut in long bangs to frame her face; piercing blue eyes and fair skin. A poster girl for the Master Race.
“Think nothing of it, sir,” she said brusquely, obviously intending to put an end both to his apology and to any further conversation.
She got smoothly to her feet, her files cradled in her arms, and Quinn rose too and handed her the papers he had gathered up. He glanced at the nametag clipped to her collar—“E Voss”—and at the departmental badge beside it: IV-A2. Amt IV was the Gestapo, and Department A, Section 2 was—
“You work in Counter-Sabotage,” Quinn said.
She had taken a step forward as if to leave, but Quinn was blocking her exit into the corridor. She gave the slightest of sighs and reluctantly
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