Jeffrey Deaver may be the master of psychological thrillers, but Garden of Beasts doesn’t fit that formula from my perspective. Garden of Beasts is, indeed, a thriller, but it is more of a procedural thriller set in a historical era—Berlin of 1936, the year of the Berlin Olympics. Naturally, the Olympic Stadium plays a role in the story, as do the transvestite servers at the Aryan Club, and the Tiergarten (from which the book gets its name—a double entendre on the garden and the National Socialists in charge of the country). Interestingly enough, at least to me, Deaver made it a special point to translate even familiar German phrases like “Heil Hitler!” and “Gott im Himmel!” into colloquial English. This was both jarring and effective as it demonstrated both the protagonist’s fluency with German (even though he was from the U.S.) and that, in spite of the language foreign to most of Deaver’s readers, these “beasts” were also human.
The essence of the story is that a hit man has been recruited by certain interests in the U.S. government to “touch off” an important Nazi official. The official is fictitious, named Reinhard Ernst (probably after the “Reinhardt Program” in the early ‘30s in which the country was trying to rebuild its infrastructure). The fictional official, like Helmut Schacht in real life, was in charge of coordinating both the civilian and war effort economies. Unlike Schacht who ran afoul of Hitler by not moving fast enough on armament, Ernst is the master of both coordinating logistics for the war industry, but also disguising the efforts from those entrusted with supervising the terms of the Versailles treaty.
For those who immediately discount the use of an organized crime figure in a covert government plot, let me remind them of Lucky Luciano’s role in keeping the longshoremen and maritime industry in line so that the war effort moved smoothly. It isn’t, to borrow a phrase from a popular film, entirely “inconceivable.” In fact, one grows rather to like this hit man when one discovers the source of his involvement with organized crime and his personal philosophy. As his government recruiters indicate: “’Jimmy Coughlin told us you said one time that you only kill other killers. What’d you say? That you only ‘correct God’s mistakes?’ That’s what we need.” (p. 12)
Now, what I thought was unique about this thriller involved quick cuts between the procedural preparations for the assassination and a coincidental (but intriguing) pursuit of the pursuer that occurs as a result of a killing to cover the assassin’s tracks. Instead of a stupid police inspector clumsily tracing the assassin, a very bright inspector keeps closing the gap while being constantly frustrated by the refusal of the Gestapo to share any information. He believes he is tracing a murderer rather than a threat to state security. Although Garden of Beasts has the expected spy, counterspy, and betrayal tropes, this competent but hamstring investigation adds significant tension to the story.
Further, instead of the typical James Bond-style romantic liaison, there is a point where an attractive German woman affirms: “I’d rather share my country with ten thousand killers than to share my bed with one.” (p. 325) Deaver refuses to position all Germans as either helpless or villains. Rather, like this rather strong woman and other characters (including the persistent police inspector), there is always a glimmer of hope that this monstrous situation would not last and Germany would be returned to sanity and culture.
In some ways, Garden of Beasts is a typical thriller, but it is the human touch and the cinematic deftness of the author’s perspective that keeps one turning pages. It is certainly a work of fiction, but the verisimilitude of the human experience resonates profoundly. In addition to depictions of actual historical figures, even the fictitious characters are real (even though, in the words of Elie Wiesel with regard to fictional events, “…are true, even thoughthey never happened.”).