Christopher Reich - The Runner

“Get in the car,” he said. “I’ve got to get back to town. General Patton phoned. He needs me right away.”

Schneider was a bluff country boy from the mountains of Vermont, a “Green Mountain Raider”, he’d said proudly, who’d arrived in Germany only the month before. Not one to question an officer’s orders, he fired off a salute and opened the rear door. Seyss climbed in, settling into the wide leather banquette. When Schneider had guided the automobile out of the gates and onto Kaiserstrasse, he leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Change of plan, sport. We’re headed to Stalin’s house. I’ve got a message for President Truman.”

Schneider beamed with excitement, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror. “But you’re a public affairs officer, aren’t you? I mean that’s what I heard you telling everyone on the way out.”

Apparently, Schneider listened as well as he talked.

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” said Seyss, with just the right mixture of pride and disinterest. “Ringstrasse 2. Know where it is? President’s waiting on me.”

“Yessir.” As Schneider accelerated the Buick along the winding road, Seyss peered from the window into the shadowy hills, searching for signs of increased security. He saw them immediately. Whole platoons of infantry resting to the side of the road. A sudden profusion of armored personnel carriers. A bounty of barbed wire strung at fifteen-foot intervals along the ground. They were getting close. Very close.

Cresting a rise, they came upon a guardhouse and a candy-striped pole barring the path. Three soldiers snapped to attention as an officer rushed from the temporary booth.

Seyss did not want him to speak with Sergeant Schneider. Flinging open the door, he leapt out of the car and intercepted the stocky man at the front bumper.

“Good evening, Colonel,” he said, spying the golden laurel that decorated the Russian officer’s epaulets and noting the blue stripe that indicated he was a member of the secret police. “My name is Gavin. Daniel Gavin. I have an urgent message for President Truman. Eyes only.”

“I’m sorry, Captain. No uninvited guests are permitted beyond this point. If you’d like I can phone and allow you to speak to one of your President’s security detachment. Perhaps Mr Cahill? If necessary, he can come and fetch you.”

The Russian gestured to the guardhouse and smiled obligingly. Black hair cut to a stubble, pronounced cheekbones, and a single bristly eyebrow forming an uninterrupted hedgerow above his eyes, he was every bit the Mongol warrior. But his English was flawless and unaccented. Delivered in an unctuous voice the product of Moscow’s finest diplomatic school, it was every bit as fluent as Seyss’s.

“That’s very kind of you,” said Seyss. “I take it you have a direct line?”

“This way.” Seyss followed him to the hut, but before the Colonel could pick up the phone, he leaned close and spoke to him in the earthy Russian of a native Georgian. “Evening,tovarich. I commend you on your English. Impeccable. I only wish you had the same control over your men. Are you aware that a mile back a few of them had a cozy little bonfire going just out of sight of the main road? You should see them, smoking American cigarettes and giggling like a bunch of maidens.”

Before the colonel could ask a question or voice his disagreement, Seyss handed him the identification card carrying Truchin’s name. As the colonel studied it, Seyss continued speaking. “I lost enough men at Stalingrad to give two shits about this petty bullshit. But humor me. Send a man back to clear it up, won’t you, Colonel…”

“Klimt.”

“General Vlassik wouldn’t be too happy to discover his men were loafing. ‘Tiger’ is one for discipline, isn’t he?”

Seyss handed Klimt the telephone. He could only pray that the information discussing Russian security measures in Patton’s dossier was correct, and that Vlassik was indeed the commanding officer. “Now. Please.”

A worried cast came over Klimt’s face. Dereliction of duty was punished with a bullet to the back of the neck for suspects and their commanding officers alike. The colonel dialed a number, then barked out some orders to send a patrol to Dingelstrasse double time. Hanging up, he retained a suspicious scowl that suggested he was only half won over. “May I inquire, Comrade General, what you are doing in an American uniform?”

Seyss lit a Lucky Strike and handed the colonel the pack. “Someone must tell Comrade Stalin what the American President is up to. With your English, I’m surprised you weren’t selected.”

Klimt chuckled as he took a cigarette. “Alas, no such luck.”

“And you, you’re from where? Kiev?”

Klimt brightened. “Yes, you’ve a good ear. I thought I got rid of my accent a long time ago.”

But Seyss was no longer listening. He walked to the Buick and with an open hand banged it on the hood. “Okay, Schneider. Everything’s hunky dory from here. Colonel Klimt has graciously consented to take me the last little way. Go home.”

Seyss walked around the crossing pole, not once looking behind him. A moment later, he heard a pair of boots thumping behind him. Klimt appeared at his side, red faced with frustration and indecision.

“Well?” asked Seyss. “Get the fucking car, you miserable pissant. Do you think I came just to tell you about your worthless troopers? I have an urgent message for Comrade Stalin.”

Whatever doubt Klimt had retained was excised by Seyss’s derisive voice. Only a proper Russian could insult another so thoroughly. “ Da, Comrade Truchin . Right away.”

But as he watched the Russian Colonel rush to retrieve his car, Seyss permitted himself only a blush of satisfaction. Getting in was the easy part. It was getting out that had him worried.

The room was oppressively small, six by eight, windowless, its sole decoration a three-legged stool, a naked bulb dangling from the ceiling and the ripe and all pervasive stink of ruptured plumbing. Judge paced its length, holding his cuffed hands to his chest, a forsaken pilgrim beseeching the Almighty. His knees were scabbing; so were his elbows. His cheek tingled as a thousand grains of gunpowder worked their way from his dermis. His head throbbed from the malicious vim of an eager MP. But his physical discomfort was more blessing than curse, an oft-repeating canticle keeping his mind alert, focused. To acknowledge the pain, to moan, even to grimace, was to admit defeat. No, he whispered under his breath. Seyss won’t make it.

Hope, he realized, had become his last weapon.

They’d been locked up at 3:45 and he wasn’t sure how much time had passed since. An hour. Two. Maybe more. With no watch and no means of seeing the outside world, he had only his thirst to keep the time. A little while ago, a guard had thrown in a mess kit with some chipped beef on toast — “shit on the shingle”. Neither he nor Ingrid had touched it.

A welter of voices in the surrounding rooms captured his attention. Judge stopped his zealot’s pacing as the door swung open. A late afternoon’s glare flooded the room forcing him to squint to make out the formidable silhouette filling the doorway.

“There’s my boy. Got himself all banged up again. Look at you. No better than Jerry, himself, and smelling just as bad.” Whatever surprise Judge felt at seeing Spanner Mullins was outweighed by his relief.

“He’s here, Spanner. He’s in Berlin.”

“So I gathered, lad. So I gathered.” Mullins stepped into the room, patting a hand softly against the air in a motion for his former charge to keep quiet. Under his breath, he added, “You can give me the details when we’re alone.