Christopher Reich - The Runner

“A beautiful evening, yes?”

The musicians responded merrily. “Wonderful. Gorgeous. A pity not to play al fresco.”

Seyss inclined his head at the suggestion. “Yes,” he agreed. “A pity.”

The best ideas were always the simplest.

Judge sat in the front of the Jeep, hand on the windscreen, leaning to the right so that his head captured the brunt of the passing wind. He kept his eyes open, allowing them to tear. He’d decided he preferred a moist, unfocused landscape to the stark and desolate one Darren Honey had just revealed.

Darren Honey, captain attached to the Office of Strategic Services.

The OSS had known about Patton for the last three months — his growing psychosis, his hatred of the Russians, his admiration for all things German. Judge had come along at the right time, the investigation into Seyss’s escape a perfect medium to insert an agent into Patton’s command. No one had any idea at the beginning that Seyss would be linked to Patton so directly. They’d only wanted to see to what extent Patton abetted or interfered with the investigation. Serendipity, Bill Donovan had called it. To paraphrase a famous general, he’d rather be lucky than good.

Judge thought there was more but Honey wasn’t talking, except to say he was sorry for allowing Mullins to beat him to the gemeindehaus in Wedding. Just as well, though. It saved them from having to deal with Mullins later.

They’d crossed the Glienickes Bridge five minutes ago. Officially they were now in Potsdam. The road rose and fell, carving its way through sparsely forested foothills. Russian soldiers lined their path like a green picket fence. And though it was high summer and the trees sagging with leaves, there was a smokiness to the air, the spicy scent of smothered embers and burning wood that made him think it fall.

Honey’s field telephone gargled and he held it to his ear. A voice spat out some words in a foreign language. Honey answered back in the same tongue.

“The Russians found one of their men in a drainage ditch not far from Ringstrasse. Dead.” Honey hesitated, then added, “His uniform was missing.”

Ingrid shot forward from the back seat. “Quick. You must ring the President. Call Stalin. Warn them Erich is here.”

Honey spoke a few more words into the receiver, then set it down. “Taken care of.”

“That’s it?” Judge asked. “Where are the sirens? Why isn’t every one of these soldiers picking up his gear and moving his ass to Stalin’s place?”

“Taken care of,” Honey repeated and Judge knew he was no longer in charge.

They passed through two checkpoints, stopping each time for ten excruciating minutes as Honey’s papers were meticulously scrutinized and phone calls were made up the chain of command. Judge asked for a pistol and Honey shook his head. One hothead with a gun running around Stalin’s residence was enough. Judge was only there in case they couldn’t find Seyss. Same went for Ingrid. They were the only two who knew his face close up.

The road had assumed a long, steady curve and the Havel was visible in the cuts between the homes, a calm blue expanse framed by sloping grass shores. Cresting a rise, they came upon a black Mercedes parked on the side of the road. Honey braked hard and pulled the Jeep over. A man was already running toward them, pale and thin with lank dark hair and a drooping mustache. He was dressed in a gray suit and carried a bundle of clothing under one arm.

“For you, Major Judge, please to put on. Quickly.” He handed over a blue blazer and white shirt, then ran back to the black sedan.

“Do as he says,” ordered Honey. “And hurry up about it.” Putting the Jeep into first gear he followed the Mercedes up the hill.

“Who was it?” asked Judge, slipping on the clean dress shirt and blazer.

“A friend.”

“But he’s Russian,” Ingrid protested.

“I hope so,” Honey retorted. “I don’t know how else you expect to slip into a state dinner given by Marshal Stalin.”

Judge was as curious as Ingrid about the man’s identity, wondering why the hell he knew his name.A friend. He had a good idea what that meant. “Who was it?” he asked again, and this time held Honey’s gaze until he answered.

“Vlassik. General Gregor Vlassik. Head of compound security during Marshal’s stay. It’s his neck if anything happens. Like I said, a friend.”

They pulled back onto the road and followed the Mercedes for three minutes. Two Ringstrasse was a gated stucco mansion painted the color of rust, mansard roof and dormer windows. Truman’s bodyguard was parked on the main road, a bevy of G-men in pin-stripes and fedoras toting Thompson submachine guns. Churchill’s escort was more discreet, lounging in a half-dozen Bentleys. Vlassik waved off a brace of sentries and both cars coasted through the open gates, parking in a covered court to the left of the front door. The Russian was out of the Mercedes in a flash, ushering his three guests into the service entrance. From the moment he stepped inside, it was apparent something was wrong. The mansion was deadly quiet, the kitchen half deserted. Vlassik rushed to a lone waiter who sat smoking a cigarette, perusing a Moscow newspaper.

“Where is everyone?” Though he spoke Russian, the gist of his question was obvious.

The waiter shrugged, pointing toward the rear of the houses with his cigarette. “Outside on the terrace. I believe they are performing some Tchaikovsky. Perhaps the Violin Concerto in D minor.”

Judge grabbed Vlassik’s sleeve. “I take it Tchaikovsky on the terrace wasn’t part of the program.”

Vlassik blanched and shook his head. “No, comrade, it was not.”

Judge turned to Honey, hand extended, palm open. “Give me a goddamned gun and give it to me right now.”

Vlassik beat him to the punch, drawing a heavy revolver from his boot and slapping it into Judge’s hand. “A Smith and Wesson thirty-eight. Standard police issue, nyet? If you are to see this man, Seyss, please to kill him.”

Judge flicked open the cylinder, checked for rounds, then slapped it home. “You’ve got my word.”

The musicians were really quite good, though Seyss would have preferred something more somber for the occasion, Beethoven’s “Erotica”, for example. The piano had been rolled outside and the two female violinists stood next to it, bowing vigorously, swooning in time to the pianist’s dramatic runs.

A few words to Pushkin, regarding Stalin’s ire that the American President found the dining room too smoky, and the anxious little muscovite had moved like the wind to reorganize the musical entertainment. No wonder he presided over the best restaurant in Moscow. He knew the first rule of catering: the guest comes first. Though, Seyss added somewhat sympathetically, after this evening, Pushkin could probably forget about returning to his post at the Restaurant Georgia. If he returned to Moscow, at all, it would be in a pine box.

Seyss stood on a fringe of lawn at the top of a gentle slope that fell away to the river bank. Behind him the forest encroached to his back. Lining the lawn from the villa to the Havel, were members of the crack division assigned to guard the residence of their supreme leader. To a man their faces were turned to the terrace, eyes watering at the romantic musings of their own Peter Ilych Tchaikovsky.

From his point of vantage, he had a clear view of the gathering. Churchill, Truman and Stalin stood shoulder to shoulder at the forefront of the assembled guests. He measured the distance to his targets as seventy feet. A chest shot with a pistol from this distance would be simple. A head shot, more difficult. A hand brushed his holster, thumb freeing the pistol guard. Using the last three fingers, he eased the revolver a centimeter or two from its well-oiled cradle. Once he drew the weapon, he would have to move fast. Aim and two shots, aim and two shots.