Garden of Beasts by Jeffery Deaver Page A

security mechanism would turn toward you and your loved ones… sometimes with deadly consequences. As, Reinhard Ernst was convinced, had now occurred, given the mysterious and peremptory summons to an early, unscheduled meeting. The Third Empire was order and structure and regularity personified. Anything out of the ordinary was cause for alarm.
    Ach, he should have told the man something about the Waltham Study when Ernst had first conceived it this past March. Yet the Leader, Defense Minister von Blomberg, and Ernst himself had been so occupied with retaking the Rhineland that the study had paled beside the monumental risk of reclaiming a portion of their country stolen away by the Allies at Versailles. And, truth be told, much of the study was based on academic work that Hitler would find suspect, if not inflammatory; Ernst simply hadn’t wanted to bring the matter up.
    And now he was going to pay for that oversight.
    He announced himself to Hitler’s secretary and was admitted.
    Ernst walked inside the large ante-office and found himself standing before Adolf Hitler—leader, chancellor and president of the Third Empire and ultimate commander of the armed forces. Thinking as he often did: If charisma, energy and canniness are the prime ingredients of power, then here is the most powerful man in the world.
    Wearing a brown uniform and glossy black knee boots, Hitler was bending over a desk, leafing through papers.
    “My Leader,” Ernst said, nodding respectfully and offering a gentle heel tap, a throwback to the days of the Second Empire, which had ended eighteen years before, with Germany’s surrender and the flight of Kaiser Wilhelm to Holland. Though giving the Party salute with “Hail Hitler” or “Hail victory” was expected from citizens, the formality was rarely seen among the higher echelon of officials, except from the drippier sycophants.
    “Colonel.” Hitler glanced up at Ernst with his pale blue eyes beneath drooping lids—eyes that for some reason left the impression that the man was considering a dozen things at once. His mood was forever unreadable. Hitler found the document he sought and turned and walked into his large but modestly decorated office. “Please join us.” Ernst followed. His still, soldier’s face gave no reaction but his heart sank when he saw who else was present.
    Sweating and massive, Hermann Göring lounged on a couch that creaked under his weight. Claiming he was always in pain, the round-faced man was continually adjusting himself in ways that made one want to cringe. His excessive cologne filled the room. The air minister nodded a greeting to Ernst, who reciprocated.
    Another man sat in an ornate chair, sipping coffee, his legs crossed like a woman’s: the clubfooted scarecrow Paul Joseph Goebbels, the state propaganda minister. Ernst didn’t doubt his skill; he was largely responsible for the Party’s early, vital foothold in Berlin and Prussia. Still, Ernst despised the man, who couldn’t stop gazing at the Leader with adoring eyes and smugly dishing up damning gossip about prominent Jews and Socis one moment then dropping the names of famous German actors and actresses from UFA Studios the next. Ernst said good morning to him and then sat, recalling a recent joke that had made the rounds: Describe the ideal Aryan. Why, he’s as blond as Hitler, as slim as Göring and as tall as Goebbels.
    Hitler offered the document to puffy-eyed Göring, who read it, nodded and then put it into his sumptuous leather folder without comment. The Leader sat and poured himself chocolate. He lifted an eyebrow toward Goebbels, meaning he should continue with whatever he had been discussing, and Ernst realized his fate regarding the Waltham Study would have to remain in limbo for sometime longer.
    “As I was saying, my Leader, many of the visitors to the Olympics will be interested in entertainment.”
    “We have cafés and theater. We have museums, parks, movie theaters. They can