Jeffery Deaver

“Often, it’s the details that help solve crimes, and no one does detail better than Deaver, particularly by way of the forensic expertise of Lincoln Rhymes and Amelia Sachs… Well-researched and exciting, this has all the elements of good crime fiction: likable leads, a colorful supporting cast, fascinating scientific analysis, and a look at the secrets of an otherwise unknown world. A sure hit.”
– Booklist

“This is prime Deaver.”
– Publishers Weekly

“…the book’s plotting and pacing—featuring twist upon twist and reversal upon reversal—are nothing short of dazzling, reminiscent of Agatha Christie at her best. Deaver proves himself an accomplished illusionist, misdirecting your attention with one hand while slipping a firecracker down your pants with the other.”
– Amazon.com

Narrated by Jefferson Mays. Listen to an excerpt.

 

June 30, 2004

Question: Jeff, this is your first historical novel. What triggered the idea to place a story in 1936 Berlin?
Jeffery Deaver: The inspiration for the book was September 11th. I wanted to write a book with a different villain—basically, pure evil, institutionalized evil, rather than your typical hit man or serial killer. But since I don’t find fundamentalist terrorism particularly compelling for a thriller, I searched for some large-scale evil that would give me the chance to write about something a bit different and yet keep a certain familiarity about the book. The Nazis came to mind immediately. I liked the Olympics as an image because of the stark irony: There was Hitler putting on a show for world harmony while at the same time preparing for war and murdering thousands of opponents in the early concentration camps.

Question: I imagine that writing this book took an amazing amount of research because you touch on so many historical facts. Where did you begin?
Jeff: Yes, indeed. Usually it takes me one year to research and write a book. Garden of Beasts took me two, and the extra year was devoted almost entirely to research. I read perhaps ten thousand pages of material from books, the Internet, declassified government documents, correspondence, maps. Even though we know how certain aspects of the story played out (World War II did occur, for instance), I was careful not to read anything past the fall of 1936, since I didn’t want to have my characters anticipate what might happen.

Question: The story is based in history yet it is a very suspenseful thriller. How did you balance the facts with your fiction?
Jeff:  My number one responsibility is to give my readers a sweaty-palm thriller, not a history book. I tried very hard to incorporate only those facts into the book that would move the story along. For instance, there are very accurate scenes involving Hitler, Goering and Goebbels (their dialog is modeled after actual transcripts of theirs), but those scenes aren’t gratuitous. They introduce a subplot that pays off at the end of the book in a big way.

Question: Can you describe the main characters: Paul Schumann, Willi Kohl, and Reinhard Ernst?
Jeff:  Paul is a hit man for the New York mob (he works for Luciano and other assorted mobsters). But he’s a hit man with a conscience. He’s like a soldier (he was a decorated infantryman in WWI); he only kills other killers. Willi Kohl is a senior investigator in the Kripo, the Berlin criminal police. He’s smart, hardworking, loves his family (and his bratwurst and desserts!), and dislikes the Nazis, but is forced to work among them. He is the most efficient and relentless of all the foxes on the trail of Paul Schumann. Reinhard Ernst—Hitler’s rearmament tzar—is the most complex character in the book. He is a former WWI hero and has a deep love of the German people and nation. He sees Hitler as a temporary evil and thinks he can work toward a better country after he’s removed; still, he must do his duty, which means making the country ready for war.

Question: Do you have a favorite character in this book?
Jeff: My favorite is probably Otto Webber. He’s a small-time crime boss and operator in Berlin. He’s funny, lives life to the fullest and forms an improbable friendship with Paul.

Question: Do you plan on writing any other historical novels?
Jeff: I may. But it would have to be a story that would let me tell my typical novel—many twists and turns, surprise endings, and a very short time frame, one or two days (which probably eliminates the Hundred-Years War!).

Question: You have mentioned that there is a connection in Garden of Beasts to the Lincoln Rhyme series. Do you want to share anything more about this?
Jeff:  The reference is in the last half of the book.

The Button Man
Monday, 13 July, 1936

Chapter One

As soon as he stepped into the dim apartment he knew he was dead.

He wiped sweat off his palm, looking around the place, which was quiet as a morgue, except for the faint sounds of Hell’s Kitchen traffic late at night and the ripple of the greasy shade when the swiveling Monkey Ward fan turned its hot breath toward the window.

The whole scene was off.

Out of kilter . . .

Malone was supposed to be here, smoked on booze, sleeping off a binge. But he wasn’t. No bottles of corn anywhere, not even the smell of bourbon, the punk’s only drink. And it looked like he hadn’t been around for a while. The New York Sun on the table was two days old. It sat next to a cold ashtray and a glass with a blue halo of dried milk halfway up the side.

He clicked the light on.

Well, there was a side door, like he’d noted yesterday from the hallway, looking over the place. But it was nailed shut. And the window that let onto the fire escape? Brother, sealed nice and tight with chicken wire he hadn’t been able to see from the alley. The other window was open but was also forty feet above cobblestones.

No way out . . .

And where was Malone? Paul Schumann wondered.

Malone was on the lam, Malone was drinking beer in Jersey, Malone was a statue on a concrete base underneath a Red Hook pier.

Didn’t matter.

Whatever’d happened to the booze hound, Paul realized, the punk had been nothing more than bait, and the wire that he’d be here tonight was pure bunk.

In the hallway outside, a scuffle of feet. A clink of metal.

Out of kilter . . .

Paul set his pistol on the room’s one table, took out his handkerchief and mopped his face. The searing air from the deadly Midwest heat wave had made its way to New York. But a man can’t walk around without a jacket when he’s carrying a 1911 Colt .45 in his back waistband and so Paul was condemned to wear a suit. It was his single-button, single-breasted gray linen. The white-cotton, collar-attached shirt was drenched.

Another shuffle from outside in the hallway, where they’d be getting ready for him. A whisper, another clink.

Paul thought about looking out the window but was afraid he’d get shot in the face. He wanted an open casket at his wake and he didn’t know any morticians good enough to fix bullet or bird shot damage.

Who was gunning for him? he wondered.

It wasn’t Luciano, of course, the man who’d hired him to touch off Malone. It wasn’t Meyer Lansky either. They were dangerous, yeah, but not snakes. Paul’d always done top-notch work for them, never leaving a bit of evidence that could link them to the touch-off. Besides, if either of them wanted Paul gone, they wouldn’t need to set him up with a bum job. He’d simply be gone.

So who’d snagged him? If it was O’Banion or Rothstein from Williamsburg or Valenti from Bay Ridge, well, he’d be dead in a few minutes.

If it was dapper Tom Dewey, the death would take a bit longer—whatever time was involved to convict him and get him into the electric chair up in Sing-Sing.

More voices in the hall. More clicks, metal seating against metal.

But looking at it one way, he reflected wryly, everything was silk so far; he was still alive.

And thirsty as hell.

He walked to the Kelvinator and opened it. Three bottles of milk—two of them curdled—and a box of Kraft cheese and one of Sunsweet tenderized peaches. Several Royal Crown colas. He found an opener and removed the cap from a bottle of the soft drink.

From somewhere he heard a radio. It was playing “Stormy Weather.”

Sitting down at the table again, he noticed himself in the dusty mirror on the wall above a chipped enamel washbasin. His pale blue eyes weren’t as alarmed as they ought to be, he supposed. His face was, though, weary. He was a large man—over six feet and weighing more than two hundred pounds. His hair was from his mother’s side, reddish brown; his fair complexion from his father’s German ancestors. The skin was a bit marred—not from pox but from knuckles in his younger days and EverLast gloves more recently. Concrete and canvas too.

Sipping the soda pop. Spicier than Coca-Cola. He liked it.

Paul considered his situation. If it was O’Banion or Rothstein or Valenti, well, none of them gave a good goddamn about Malone, a crazy riveter from the shipyards turned punk mobster, who’d killed a beat cop’s wife and done so in a pretty unpleasant way. He’d threatened more of the same to any law that gave him trouble.

Every boss in the area, from the Bronx to Jersey, was shocked at what he’d done. So even if one of them wanted to touch off Paul, why not wait until after he’d knocked off Malone?

Which meant it was probably Dewey.

The idea of being stuck in the caboose till he was executed depressed him. Yet, truth be told, in his heart Paul wasn’t too torn up about getting nabbed. Like when he was a kid and would jump impulsively into fights against two or three kids bigger than he was, sooner or later he’d eventually pick the wrong guys and end up with a broken bone. He’d known the same thing about his recent career: that ultimately a Dewey or an O’Banion would bring him down.

Thinking of one of his father’s favorite expressions: “On the best day, on the worst day, the sun finally sets.” The round man would snap his colorful suspenders and add, “Cheer up, P.S. Tomorrow’s a whole new horse race.”

He jumped when the phone rang.

Paul looked at the black Bakelite for a long moment. On the seventh ring, or the eighth, he answered. “Yeah?”

“Paul,” a crisp, young voice said. No neighborhood slur.

“You know who it is.”

“I’m up the hall in another apartment. There’re six of us here. Another half dozen on the street.”

Twelve? Paul felt an odd calm. Nothing he could do about twelve. They’d get him one way or the other. He sipped more of the Royal Crown. He was so damn thirsty. The fan wasn’t doing anything but moving the heat from one side of the room to the other. He asked, “You working for the boys from Brooklyn or the West Side? Just curious.”

“Listen to me, Paul. Here’s what you’re going to do. You only have two guns on you, right? The Colt. And that little twenty-two. The others are back in your apartment?”

Paul laughed. “That’s right.”

“You’re going to unload them and lock the slide of the Colt open. Then walk to the window that’s not sealed and pitch them out. Then you’re going to take your jacket off, drop it on the floor, open the door and stand in the middle of the room with your hands up in the air. Stretch ’em way up high.”

“You’ll shoot me,” he said.

“You’re living on borrowed time anyway, Paul. But if you do what I say you might stay alive a little longer.”

The caller hung up.

He dropped the hand piece into the cradle. He sat motionless for a moment, recalling a very pleasant night a few weeks ago. Marion and he had gone to Coney Island for miniature golf and hot dogs and beer, to beat the heat. Laughing, she’d dragged him to a fortuneteller at the amusement park. The fake gypsy had read his cards and told him a lot of things. The woman had missed this particular event, though, which you’d think should’ve showed up somewhere in the reading if she was worth her salt.

Marion. . . . He’d never told her what he did for a living. Only that he owned a gym and he did business occasionally with some guys who had questionable pasts. But he’d never told her more. He realized suddenly that he’d been looking forward to some kind of future with her. She was a dime-a-dance girl at a club on the West Side, studying fashion design during the day. She’d be working now; she usually went till 1:00 or 2:00 a.m. How would she find out what happened to him?

If it was Dewey he’d probably be able to call her.

If it was the boys from Williamsburg, no call. Nothing.

The phone began ringing again.

Paul ignored it. He slipped the clip from his big  gun and unchambered the round that was in the receiver, then he emptied the cartridges out of the revolver. He walked to the window and tossed the pistols out one at a time. He didn’t hear them land.

Finishing the soda pop, he took his jacket off, dropped it on the floor. He started for the door but paused. He went back to the Kelvinator and drank down another Royal Crown. Then he wiped his face again, opened the front door, stepped back and lifted his arms.

The phone stopped ringing.

# # #

 

“Deaver fans expect the unexpected from this prodigiously talented thriller writer, and the creator of the Lincoln Rhyme series and other memorable yarns (The Blue Nowhere, etc.) doesn’t disappoint with his 19th novel, this time offering a deliciously twisty tale set in Nazi Berlin. Deaver weaves three manhunts — Paul after his target, Kohl after Paul, and the Nazi hierarchy after Paul — with a deft hand, bringing to frightening life the Berlin of 1936, a city on the brink of madness. Top Nazis, including Hitler, Himmler and Goring, make colorful cameos, but it’s the smart, shaded-gray characterizations of the principals that anchor the exciting plot. An affecting love affair goes in surprising directions, as do the main plot lines, which move outside Berlin as heroes become villains and vice versa. This is prime Deaver, which means prime entertainment.”
— Publishers Weekly starred review

“World War I veteran Paul Schumann is a hit man with a conscience—he kills only bad guys. But then he is arrested, and the Office of Naval Intelligence makes him an offer: go to jail or go to Germany disguised as an Olympic athlete and kill a ranking Nazi. If he succeeds, he will be both forgiven and rich; if he fails, he’ll be dead. Taking a break from his successful Lincoln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs thrillers, Deaver plays out an intriguing plot against the ominous backdrop of Hitler’s growing power. Incredibly, there are still many Germans in 1936 who don’t feel that Hitler is either serious or will last very long. Denial runs strong, but even stronger is the blanket of evil that is snuffing out dissent and freedom. Following Schumann through a multitude of twists, turns, and betrayals is exciting and helps illuminate the early days of the Third Reich. Highly recommended.”
— Library Journal

“Although not known for historical fiction, Deaver takes the new genre in stride, subtly and plausibly working real people into the tale while delivering his signature sense of story, depth of characterization, and sharply rendered dialogue. Readers looking for the author’s usual startling plot twists will not be disappointed, either. Deaver’s audience will be pleased with this one, but it will be an equally big hit with fans of such Nazi-era thrillers as Philip Kerr’s Berlin Noir trilogy or Robert Harris’ Fatherland.”
— Booklist

“Deaver’s novel, equal parts noir thriller and historical extrapolation, is a page-turner that offers a twisting visceral experience of the tension in Berlin during that fateful summer.”
— Amazon.com Editorial Review

Narrated by Dennis Boutsikaris. Listen to an excerpt.