Christopher Reich - The Runner

“Welcome to Berlin, Major Judge,” said Darren Honey. “About time I found you.”

Seyss was in.

A grand foyer greeted him, squeaky wooden floors waxed to an immaculate shine, rich yellow walls, and a gargantuan crystal chandelier bathing the circular hall in an unflattering light. The entry was packed with security men: the Americans in their double-breasted summer suits, Brits sweating in wool serge, and, of course, his fellow members of the Russian secret police, the NKYD, dressed to a man in identical boxy gray suits.

Arms behind his back, lips pursed in polite but stoic greeting, Seyss crossed the foyer. He nodded his hellos and received a few in return. No brows were raised in suspicion. No one questioned his function. No one even asked his name. His mere presence at Ringstrasse 2 bespoke his right to be there.

Behind him were two police checkpoints, a long chat with the head of perimeter security, Gregor Vlassik, and a cordon of Cossack cavalrymen, spit-shined boots and gleaming sabers on proud display. Farther back was Colonel Klimt, who could be found at this instant lying naked in the dirt with a lead slug in his temple. It had been a clean shot, barrel pressed to skin, so as not to risk bloodying the uniform. Rushing to change into Klimt’s pea green smock and jodhpurs, he’d been thrown back to his days as a recruit at the academy in Bad Toelz. Inspections were often held in the middle of the night and these spur of the moment affairs became known as “masquerade balls”. The cadets were lined up naked in front of their beds then ordered to dress for a specific activity — a full gear march, a formal company banquet, even a football match. The first two cadets properly attired were permitted to go back to bed. The rest went at it again and again, until at dawn, the last two standing were ordered to run ten kilometers in full combat dress.

The door closed behind him and he caught the hum of a party in progress, like the drone of distant bombers. A corridor ran the width of the house. A red carpet softened the tread of his cavalry boots, candle sconces lit the way. Seyss moved purposefully through the hall, his foreknowledge of the house’s layout, its security measures, easing his anxieties, and lending his step a confident, unimpeachable gait.

He knew, for example, that Vlassik had an office at the west end of the hall, and that next to it was the radio room. He also knew that there was only a single water closet on the ground floor, so that during the evening guests in need would have occasion to traipse upstairs in search of another. What interested him most, however, lay at the end of the hall: the formal dining room, where tonight the three leaders of the Western world were gathered to celebrate the defeat, rape, and pillage of the Greater German Reich.

Ahead, the French doors to the dining room swung open, spitting out a tuxedo-cladmaitre d’. Spotting Seyss, the man raised an inquiring finger and rushed over.

“No uniforms!” he hissed under his breath. “Thevozhd has expressly requested that all officers not invited to the formal dinner parties remain in the service area. Comrade, this way.” Seyss stood rock-still, appraising the officious man with an insolent gaze. A feeling of utter invincibility had come over him. He was no longer Erich Seyss. No longer a German officer impersonating a Russian officer. He was the colonel, himself. He was Ivan Truchin, hero of Stalingrad, and no one, not even theVozhd — or, supreme leader, as Stalin liked to call himself — would be permitted to show him disrespect.

“Very well,” he answered a moment later, his dignity satisfied. “Lead the way.”

The kitchen was a hive of activity. Waiters, chefs, sauciers, sous-chefs, patissiers all scurrying this way and that. Two broad tables ran the length of the room. On them were a dizzying array of dishes. Smoked herring, white fish, fruit, vegetables, cold duck. A giant tureen of caviar four feet across sat half eaten near the trash, a veritable mountain of the precious black roe. The second course was being served: a lovely borscht with dollops of sour cream. An enticing aroma wafted from the ovens: roasted venison. Stacked in the corner were crates of liquor: red wine, white wine, cognac, champagne. It was more food and drink than the average Russian would see in a lifetime.

And supervising it all, the meddlesome prick who’d shepherded him into the kitchen.

Seyss pulled aside a passing waiter, pointing at the maître d’hôtel . “Who is that?”

“You mean comrade Pushkin?”

“Pushkin the author?”

The waiter laughed, then realizing he was laughing at a colonel of the secret police, frowned. “No, sir, Dimitri Pushkin, the maître d’hôtel of the Restaurant Georgia in Moscow; Comrade Stalin’s favorite.”

“Ah.”

Seyss followed the waiter to the service door and watched him deliver his tray of steaming borscht. Stalin, Truman and Churchill were seated at the same table, separated from one another by their closest advisors. Churchill looked sullen and morose, more interested in devouring the monstrous whisky in his hand than chatting with his dinner partners. Truman and Stalin were deep in conversation, clearly enjoying each other’s company. Stalin banged his good hand on the table and Truman tossed his head back, cackling. Bottles were produced. Vodka for the American. White wine for Stalin. A toast was made. Nastrovya!

Seyss didn’t know who he hated worse. Truman for being so weak. Or Stalin for being so strong.

There was not a single security officer inside the dining room. Just the eight round tables, each seating between seven and ten guests, all male. Twenty-five feet separated Seyss from the head table. Truman was seated sideways to him and Churchill at the far side, facing him. Seyss’s problem was obvious: there were too many bodies in his line of fire. He couldn’t nail two head shots at this distance. Not with any certainty.

Or maybe he was looking for excuses.

For the first time, he wondered if he’d been naive to factor escape into his plans.

Dismissing the notion, Seyss resumed his study of the room. A grand piano was set off to one side, its lid raised. Apparently, there was to be entertainment. Four sets of brocaded French doors gave onto a flagstone terrace, and beyond that a broad lawn sloping to the banks of the river Havel. Another look around the place convinced him. He needed his targets outside.

Retreating from the doorway, Seyss walked the length of the kitchen searching for the exit to the terrace. A chef was pulling the venison from the oven, basting it in its own warm juices. Pots boiling to overflow were eased from the stove, steaming string beans poured into a sieve. A flurry of pops spoke of wine being corked and decanted. Sliding past this well rehearsed chaos, Seyss noticed his heart beating faster, his stomach growing flighty. A bead of sweat escaped his brow and traced a slow course across his forehead. His earlier sang-froid was nowhere to be found. He smiled at his sudden distress, recognizing the familiar sensation. Nerves. It was always this way before a race.

He found the back door in an alcove past the pantry. Standing next to it were two men and two women, all clad in evening dress, talking brightly to one another. The women were typical Bolshies: fat, ugly and in need of a good wash. Both held violins to their ears, plucking the strings, bowing a few notes, tuning their instruments. Their conversation halted the moment they saw Seyss.

But Colonel Truchin was in an ebullient mood. Mixing among them, he opened the door and tucked his head outside. The sky had darkened to a dusky azure. The temperature was pleasant; not a cloud to be seen. He smiled, relaxing a notch.