Garden of Beasts by Jeffery Deaver

were visible everywhere. But Berlin was a low city, very few tall buildings here, “cloud catchers,” he overheard a woman say to a young child on the bus. On his walk through the park with its black trees and thick vegetation he lost any sense that he was in the city at all. It reminded Paul of the dense woods in upstate New York where his grandfather had taken him hunting every summer until the old man’s failing health had prevented them from making the trips.
    An uneasiness crept over him. This was a familiar feeling: the heightened senses at the beginning of a job, when he was looking over the touch-off’s office or apartment, following him, learning what he could about the man. Instinctively he paused from time to time and would glance casually behind him, as if orienting himself. No one seemed to be following. But he couldn’t tell for sure. The forest was very dim in places and someone might easilyhave been eyeing him. Several scruffy men looked his way suspiciously and then slipped into the trees or bushes. Probably hoboes or bums but he took no chances and changed direction a number of times to throw off anyone who might be tailing him.
    He crossed the murky Spree River and found Spener Street then continued north, away from the park, noting that, curiously, the homes were in vastly different states of repair. Some were grand while right next door might be others that were abandoned and derelict. He passed one in which brown weeds filled the front yard. At one point the house had clearly been very luxurious. Now, most of the windows were broken and someone, young punks, he assumed, had splashed yellow paint on it. A sign announced that a sale of the contents would be taking place on Saturday. Tax problems, maybe, Paul thought. What had happened to the family? Where had they gone? Hard times, he sensed. Changed circumstances.
    The sun finally sets . . .
    He found the restaurant easily. He saw the sign but didn’t even notice the word “Bierhaus.” To him it was “Beer House.” He was already thinking in German. His upbringing and the hours of typesetting at his grandfather’s plant made the translations automatic. He looked over the place. A half dozen lunchers sat on the patio, men and women, solitary for the most part, lost in their food or newspapers. Nothing out of kilter that he could see.
    Paul crossed the street to the passageway Avery had told him about, Dresden Alley. He walked into the dark, cool canyon. The time was a few minutes before noon.
    A moment later he heard footsteps. Then a heavysetman in a brown suit and waistcoat strode up behind him, working a toothpick in his teeth.
    “Good day,” the man said cheerfully in German. He glanced at the brown leather briefcase.
    Paul nodded. He was the way Avery’d described Morgan, though he was heavier than Paul had expected.
    “This is a good shortcut, don’t you think? I use it often.”
    “It certainly is.” Paul glanced at him. “Maybe you can help me. What’s the best tram to take to get to Alexander Plaza?”
    But the man frowned. “The tram? Do you mean from here?”
    Paul grew more alert. “Yes. To Alexander Plaza.”
    “Why would you take the tram? The underground is much faster.”
    Okay, Paul thought; he’s the wrong one. Get away. Now. Just walk slowly. “Thank you. That’s most helpful. Good day to you.”
    But Paul’s eyes must have revealed something. The man’s hand strayed to his side, a gesture Paul knew well, and he thought: pistol!
    Goddamn them for sending him out here without his Colt.
    Paul’s fists clenched and he started forward but, for a fat man, his adversary was surprisingly quick and leapt back, out of Paul’s reach, deftly pulling a black pistol from his belt. Paul could only turn and flee. He sprinted around a corner into a short offshoot of the alley.
    He stopped fast. It was a dead end.
    A scrape of shoe behind him and he felt the man’s weapon against his back, level with his