Christopher Reich - The Runner

“And you,” he said, once more the bluff copper, addressing Ingrid, “Miss Bach, I take it? Greetings, ma’am. Just you relax. Everything will be fine. I’ll have you both out of here presently.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind.” Ingrid hauled herself to her feet and Judge could see the worry melt from her face. Mullins was just the dulcet-voiced, big-boned authority her imagination had called on to set the record straight.

In the space of ten minutes, he’d ordered the cuffs off Judge, signed for their release, and gotten them a drink of water and a bologna sandwich. Outside the district garrison, he shepherded them into a four-door Buick, its flat black paint speaking of police rather than military use.

“The Excelsior,” Judge called from the rear seat. “He’ll be there at seven.”

“How do you know?” Mullins queried.

“It’s my fault,” said Ingrid. “I was terribly weak. He only—”

“Just get us the hell there,” Judge cut in, keyed up by his unexpected release. “I’ll explain on the way.”

“The Excelsior, Tom,” Mullins told his driver, a buzz-cut, bullet-headed sergeant even bigger than he was. “You’ve got exactly fourteen minutes to get us there.”

“Be there in ten,” ordered Judge.

Tom turned to give Judge and Ingrid his best knucklehead’s grin. “Yessir.”

The Buick navigated the streets at an uneven clip, nowhere as fast as Judge would have liked. For every open avenue, there was an alley clogged with debris. For every headlong sprint, a stomach churning deceleration. The sun was beginning its descent, its unobstructed rays spraying burnt vehicles and crushed buildings with a gilded edge, setting eddies of dust asparkle and lending the beleaguered city, if only for a few minutes, a golden patina.

Judge tried the window, but found it wouldn’t go down. The doors were probably locked, too. A cop’s car, what did he expect? Settling into his seat, he pictured himself flying into the bar of the Excelsior Hotel, getting the drop on Seyss. But the fantasy lacked an ending. He couldn’t decide whether to shoot him on sight or go for the arrest.

“Now, lad,” said Mullins, swiveling to drape an arm over the top of the seat. “Mind telling me how you got here? George Patton’s got half the United States army looking for you.”

Judge sat forward. “Only way I could figure. I got myself dressed up as a German and gave myself up. Three hours later I was on a transport to Berlin. I should ask you the same question.”

“What? Not happy to see me?” Mullins’s glassy eyes narrowed ruefully. “You’re lucky I didn’t let you rot in that cell and take your punishment — the strings I pulled with the General to get your transfer extended by twenty-four hours and you going AWOL on me. By the by, you can kiss your slot with the IMT goodbye. I had Justice Jackson on the phone with me this morning, didn’t I. Asking all kinds of questions about why you weren’t in Luxembourg at that very instant talking nice to Mr Hermann Goering.”

“Stopping Seyss is a helluva lot more important than a second-rate slot on the IMT.”

“If I didn’t agree with you, I wouldn’t be here.” Mullins shot the driver a nasty glance. “Would you hurry it up, Tommy boy? We don’t have all day.” Then back to Judge. “I was worried when you didn’t show up at Bad Toelz like you promised. When I heard the ghastly news about the girls in Heidelberg, I phoned the hospital to see if you’d been by. Why didn’t you call me then, lad? It’s me gets you out of the tight scrapes, remember?”

“Yeah,” Judge said, “I remember.” And a sliver of shame pricked at him for having distrusted the man who’d done so much to shape his life. “Does Patton know you’re here?”

“Patton? Are you daft, boy?” Mullins drew his brow together in earnest disbelief. “He’ll probably throw my fanny in the can straight after he gets you. No, sir, I’m here on my own. It’s my ass on the line right next to yours. I came to clear both our names.” What could be more typical? Mullins helping Judge to help himself. Anything to insure his career against further collateral damage.

“And you’re sure he’s at the Excelsior?” Mullins asked.

“You can bet on it.” Judge explained about Ingrid’s date with the American reporter, stating his belief that Seyss was certain to take her place to secure a ride to Potsdam. His question was not whether they would capture Seyss — they would, they had to — but what to do afterwards: “Seyss isn’t alone in this, you know.”

“Do I?” “He’s being backed by Patton and by Ingrid’s brother Egon. Some kind of cabal. The same people who got Seyss out of the armory, killed von Luck, and came after us in Heidelberg.”

But Mullins wasn’t buying it. “If it’s a German you want to tie to Mr Seyss, be my guest. But don’t be dragging Georgie Patton’s name into this.”

“He brought his own name into it. Don’t go blaming me.”

Judge went on to tell Mullins about his late night call to Patton, Patton’s promise to bring him to Berlin, and the subsequent wolf pack sent to arrest him. But even as he explained, a part of his mind ventured off, imagining what would happen if Seyss had his way. A Russian shooting Truman and Churchill on Russian-occupied soil. It would be war for certain.

And, picturing the renewed conflagration, he finally saw where Egon Bach fit in. Faced with a superior foe, the Americans would have no choice but to call up and re-arm the German Wehrmacht. In days, Bach Industries would be back in action, spewing out bullets, artillery shells, and most importantly, at least to Egon Bach, profits. This whole thing was about greed. Greed for glory and greed for financial gain.

“Blarney,” retorted Mullins. “You’re talking about George Patton, not some hooligan from the Bowery. I won’t hear anymore of it.”

“It’s not blarney,” Judge shot back. “And I don’t give a damn if you believe me or not. I’ll take care of things from here on out.”

“Enough!” roared Mullins.

Judge raised an arm to object, but caught his tongue. Sitting back, he saw that Ingrid had gone white. Instinctively, he grabbed her hand and squeezed it, offering a comforting smile. “Fine, Spanner. I don’t want to argue about it. Let’s get Seyss, then we’ll talk about next steps.”

Mullins didn’t answer for a second, his all-seeing eyes fastened upon their joined hands. For a moment his face hung limp, cheeks drooping like a mainsail becalmed, and Judge saw that Mullins had grown old beyond his years. A second later, he perked up and the mouth rose into a smile. “That’s more like it, lad. Let’s concentrate on the matter at hand and keep our fanciful notions to ourselves.”

But Judge couldn’t get the look out of his mind. Surprise never sat well with Mullins.

Just then, Ingrid tapped Judge on the arm, speaking softly to him in German. “We just missed the turn to the Excelsior.”

“ Bist-du sicher? ” he asked, sotto vocce . “You’re sure? It’s probably a detour.”

“The Kurfurstendamm is clear. I walked it today.”

“What’s that, you two?” asked Mullins, his eyes trading surprise for suspicion.

Judge released Ingrid’s hand and scooted forward on his seat. “You sure we’re going the right way?”

“How the hell should I know? Never set foot in this town until last night.”

“I thought you flew up this morning.” Mullins coughed. “Yeah, this morning. It was still dark when we landed.”

“Ingrid says this isn’t the way to the hotel.”

“That’s correct, Colonel,” she said. “We should have turned on the right on the East-West Axis. It’s the fastest way to the Kurfurstendamm.”