Christopher Reich - The Runner

Mullins glanced at his driver. “That right, Tommy? You’re not getting us lost, are you?”

“No, sir. We’re right on track.”

And then Judge saw it. The shitty little grin that Tommy shot Mullins, as he shrugged his shoulders and said not to worry, that he knew exactly where they were headed. It was a grin reeking of complicity and disdain and, Judge thought, hate.

“What’s going on, Spanner?” he asked.

“Nothing, lad. Tommy’s taking us his way. Been in Berlin two weeks. Practically a native. Just sit back and relax yourself.”

But there was nothing relaxing about Mullins’s voice. It had taken on a servile edge, its tone smug and insincere. Judge had heard the voice a hundred times before, Mullins talking down a difficult suspect, dismissing an irksome complainant. It wasn’t Mullins talking; it was the force. The power behind the shield, or in this case, the uniform.

It was Judge realized with dread dismay, Patton.

“Alright,” he said, “but tell him to hurry.”

He kept his voice easy, his shoulders relaxed, while inside he cursed himself for his willful ignorance. His surprise at seeing Mullins, followed upon by his impatience to get moving, had distracted him from closely scrutinizing the Provost Marshal’s presence in Berlin. Christ, but the signs were obvious: his coasting through formalities to obtain Judge and Ingrid’s release, the official car and driver, the gaffe about when he’d arrived. But none was more telling than the mere fact of Mullins’s bodily presence.

Mullins had never disobeyed an order in his life. The thought that of his own volition, he’d defy Patton and jump a flight to Berlin was ludicrous, even if as he’d claimed he’d wanted to clear his own name. It was a leap of faith Stanley Mullins was incapable of taking.

Judge’s fear came and went. His only route was to play this out to the end, try to keep a measure of dignity. He looked at his watch, returned to him when he left American custody. “Christ, it’s five of.”

Dropping his fingers to the door handle, he gave it a slow hitch north. Locked, as he’d thought. “Hey, Spanner, I’ll need a pistol when we hit the hotel. What can you give me?”

“We’ve got a couple pistols in the trunk,” said Tommy. “We’ll pull over up ahead. Get you all fitted out. That all right, Major?”

“Yeah, that’s good.”

Judge nodded enthusiastically, but he knew he wasn’t fooling Mullins for a second. He looked over at Ingrid, who smiled back, unaware of their predicament. He decided it was better she didn’t know. Her ignorance might gain them a second or two. A glance out the rear window revealed the street to be empty save a Jeep trailing a hundred yards back. Probably Mullins’s back-up.

The Buick made a sharp and sudden turn right, bouncing madly as it advanced down an alley of uptorn flagstone and brick. Shadows drenched the car and Judge saw they had driven into an abandoned courtyard, or hof. Half-wrecked buildings rose all around them; crumbling witnesses four storeys high, crying red brick.

Ingrid laid a hand on Judge’s leg, sitting up abruptly, her flashing blue eyes sensing trouble. “Why have we stopped? It’s nearly seven, Colonel. We must get to the hotel.”

Judge gripped her hands, his eyes never leaving Mullins. “You want to tell her, Spanner?”

“Go ahead, lad. You were always the silver-tongued one.”

“Colonel Mullins doesn’t have any intention of helping us find Erich Seyss,” he said, an iron collar keeping the sorrow and anger from his voice. “He’s part of it. One of Patton’s boys. Isn’t that right?”

Ingrid looked from Judge to Mullins, half gasping as the words found their way home.

“The lad’s correct, Miss Bach. My apologies for having allowed him to drag you into this. Your problem, Dev, is that you’re always asking questions when you should be following orders. You don’t know when to forget being the lawyer and remember to be a soldier.”

Judge kicked at the door, once, twice, ramming his heels against the chassis. The door didn’t budge. As quickly, his rage passed and he sat back.

Tommy pivoted in his seat, bringing his right arm over the banquette. He had a tough’s beady eyes to go with his bullet head and crew cut, and a scuffed up Luger in his hand. But Judge’s eyes weren’t on the pistol. They’d found something more interesting on Tommy’s uniform. A ribbon of red, white, and blue, with a star in its center, pasted on his olive tunic. The Silver Star. And clearly visible a quarter inch above it, a clean tear in the fabric where General Oliver von Luck’s protesting hand had ripped it off.

“You tipped off Sawyer,” said Judge. “You set out the wire for us in Heidelberg.”

Mullins eyes twinkled, and he sighed, tiredly. “Alright, Tommy.”

Judge threw a protective arm across Ingrid, shielding her with his body. “Jesus, Spanner, can’t you even do this yourself?”

And for a split second, Judge felt removed from himself, queer and floaty, as if all of this wasn’t quite happening. Staring into Mullins’s ruddy face, he saw the two of them walking out of a Brooklyn courthouse in the summer of twenty-five, Patrolman Mullins and his charge, Devlin Parnell Judge; he felt the pressure of Mullins’s hand the day he’d pinned his policeman’s shield to his chest, and four years later when he’d exchanged it for the gold badge of a plainclothes detective.

“Why?” he asked.

Mullins dug something out of his pocket and stuck a hand over the seat. “Two reasons, if you have to know. One for each shoulder.” Resting in his palm was a small jewel box displaying a pair of silver five-pointed stars. “I’m not going to have any snot-nosed punk talking down to me when I’m back stateside. The way I see it, the mayor will be more than happy to appoint a brigadier general who served under Georgie Patton commissioner of police for the five boroughs.”

“You’re going to help Patton start another war just to get a lousy promotion?”

Mullins colored, rising in his seat. “Look around you, lad. If it’s not now, it’ll be later. Why not get the job done when our boys are still here? You think Mr Stalin’s going to sit still in Berlin? The Poles and the Czechs, why they’re done for already. They’re greedy bastards, the commies are. George Patton knows that. He’s the only fellow brave enough to take steps, while we can do something about it. You were a decent fighter once. I’d thought you’d understand.”

“Yeah,” said Judge, shaking his head. “Your own Jimmy Sullivan.”

Mullins snapped the box closed, giving Judge a doleful smile. “Sorry, lad, but you’ve left me no other way.” And shifting in his seat, he nodded to his driver. “Alright, Tommy. Let’s get it over.”

“No!” shouted Judge.

A hailstorm of glass exploded into the car, a battery of gunshots blowing out the windows, spraying crystal splinters over Judge and Ingrid. One, two, three. The blistering reports came close on each other, melding into a terrific earsplitting roar. Somewhere inside the blizzard, the side of Tommy’s face dissolved into a frothing red mass. Ingrid buried herself in the car leather, mouth frozen in a silent scream, blood freckling her delicate features. Mullins shouted, “What the he—” The next instant his voice died, his skull caromed from the dashboard to the window and his shoulders slumped against the door. White smoke choked the car, cordite from the spent casings.

Silence.

Rivulets of glass tinkled onto the dashboard.

Judge pulled his hands from his ears, releasing his breath. Ingrid stared at him in shock, her eyes blinking wildly. Tommy was dead. Spanner Mullins twitched, gasped, then was still.

Suddenly, the door behind Judge was flung open. A GI brandishing a smoking pistol peered into the automobile. Judge recognized the cornflower blue eyes, the shock of brown hair, the open and trusting face, but the Texan’s shit-eating grin was nowhere to be seen.