Garden of Beasts by Jeffery Deaver Page B

examination of the corpse, unfazed by Paul’s test. “I’d rather work with a cautious man who insults me than a careless one who doesn’t. We’ll both live longer.” He dug through the pockets of the dead man. “Any visitors yet?”
    Paul glanced up and down Dresden Alley. “Nothing.”
    He was aware that Morgan was staring in chagrin at something he’d found in the dead man’s pockets. He sighed. “Okay. Brother, here’s a problem.”
    “What?”
    The man held up an official-looking card. On the top was a stamp of an eagle and below it, in a circle, a swastika. The letters “SA” appeared on the top.
    “What does that mean?”
    “It means, my friend, that you’ve been in town for less than a day and already we’ve managed to kill a Stormtrooper.”

Chapter Six
    “A what?” Paul Schumann asked.
    Morgan sighed. “ Sturmabteilung. Stormtrooper. Or Brownshirt. Sort of the Party’s own army. Think of them as Hitler’s thugs.” He shook his head. “And it’s worse for us. He’s not in uniform. That means he’s a Brown Elite. One of their senior people.”
    “How did he find out about me?”
    “I’m not sure he did, not you specifically. He was in a phone booth, checking up on everybody on the street.”
    “I didn’t see him,” Paul said, angry with himself for missing the surveillance. Everything was too damn out of kilter here; he didn’t know what to look for and what to ignore.
    Morgan continued. “As soon as you started into the alley, he came after you. I’d say he just took it on himself to see what you were up to—a stranger in the neighborhood. The Brownshirts have their fiefdoms. This must’ve been his.” Morgan frowned. “But still, it’s unusual for them to be so vigilant. The question is why is a senior SA man looking into ordinary citizens? They leave that to their underlings. Maybe some alert has gone out.” He gazed at the corpse. “In any event, this is a problem. If the Brownshirts find out one of their own has been killed they won’t stop searching until they find the murderer. Oh, and they will search. There are tens of thousands of them in the city. Like roaches.”
    The initial shock of the shooting had worn off. Paul’s instincts were returning. He walked from the cul-de-sac to the main portion of Dresden Alley. It was still empty. The windows were dark. No doors were open. He held up a finger to Morgan and returned to the mouth of the alley, then looked around the corner, toward the Beer House. None of the few people on the street seemed to have heard the shot.
    He returned and told Morgan that everything seemed clear. Then he said, “The casing.”
    “The what?”
    “The shell casing. From your pistol.” They looked over the ground and Paul spotted the small yellow tube. He picked it up with his handkerchief, rubbed it clean, just in case Morgan’s prints were on it, and dropped it down a drainpipe. He heard it rattle for a moment until there was a splash.
    Morgan nodded. “They said you were good.”
    Not good enough to keep from getting nabbed back in the United States, thanks to a little bit of brass just like that one.
    Morgan opened a well-worn pocketknife. “We’ll cut the labels out of his clothes. Take all his effects. Then get away from here as fast as possible. Before they find him.”
    “And who is ‘they’?” Paul asked.
    A hollow laugh from Morgan’s lips. “In Germany now, ‘they’ is everybody.”
    “Would a Stormtrooper wear a tattoo? Maybe of that swastika? Or the letters ‘SA’?”
    “Yes, it’s possible.”
    “Look for any. On his arms and chest.”
    “And if I find one?” Morgan asked, frowning. “What can we do about it?”
    Paul nodded at the knife.
    “You’re joking.”
    But Paul’s face revealed that, no, he wasn’t.
    “I can’t do that,” Morgan whispered.
    “I will then. If it’s important he’s not identified, we have to.” Paul knelt on the cobblestones and opened the man’s jacket and shirt. He