Christopher Reich - The Runner

The cauldron must be made to boil.

It was time.

Raising his nose to the fragrant night air, he took a tentative step forward. His muscles itched. He felt loose and energetic. He saw himself down in the blocks, imagined the feel of the clay as his fingers danced over the starting line. This was the part he’d liked best, the prelude to the race, sizing up himself and the competition, his uncertainty hardening to conviction. Macht zur Sieg . The will to victory. The memory of it all made him smile. He rolled his neck to either side, breathing deeply, his eyes focusing on the targets; Truman dressed in a charcoal suit, an appreciative grin pasted to his face; Churchill in a khaki uniform, arms drawn over his chest, liking none of it. Seyss took a deep breath and swallowed hard. His mouth was dry. Suddenly he didn’t want to smile anymore.

Sachlichkeit, a voice urged him, and his entire body stiffened.

One last race.

The guests had assembled on the terrace forming a large crescent around the musicians. They stood with their backs to the villa, forty men in dark suits enjoying the lively music. Judge rushed to the edge of the gathering, eyes scouring the group for the distinctive pea green of a Russian officer’s uniform. He found only three or four soldiers, generals all, each above fifty.

“Shit,” said Honey. “The troops are in the woods.”

Dozens of Russian soldiers lined either side of the lawn, having emerged from their positions to enjoy the music. Every man shouldered a machine gun, a pistol in his belt. Many more remained partially shrouded, shadowy figures inhabiting the forest’s border. Anyone of them had a clear, unobstructed shot at the Allied leaders.

Judge skirted the crowd. Harry Truman, Winston Churchill and Josef Stalin stood ten feet away. Caught up in the music, they were impervious to the frantic hunt being launched around them. He saw Vlassik whispering urgently in Stalin’s ear and Stalin shoo him away with an expression of grave irritation. Judge turned his eyes to the soldiers closest to the terrace, squinting to make out the features beneath their woolen caps.

“I see him.”

It was Ingrid, and her voice was ice. She clutched at his arm, using her free hand to point toward a cluster of soldiers half hidden beneath the overhanging branches of a centuries old pine. “There.”

Still pointing, she released Judge’s arm and began to jog, then run, across the terrace.

“Erich,” she yelled. “Erich, don’t!”

A gunshot cracked the night air and Ingrid seemed at once to stop and rise on her tiptoes. A flower had bloomed high on her back, larger than any rose Judge had ever seen, and as she collapsed, his heart fell with her.

Seyss emerged from the shadows, sprinting, pistol extended in front of him, firing in time to his step. His cap blew from his head and Judge saw his face — hard, determined, fearless.

The musicians played a few bars longer, first one violinist cutting short a bow, then the other. Finally the pianist dropped his hands from the keyboard, looking altogether mystified. The guests remained where they stood, the combined civilian and military leadership of the three most powerful countries on earth, warriors all, and not a soul among them moving.

By now, Judge was running too. Firing and running, closing the distance to the President. Honey dropped to one knee and, steadying his arm, began to blow off rounds. Somewhere in the tumult Judge could hear the spent shells tinkling from his pistol like coins from a winning slot.

Ten feet separated him from the President. One last step and he was there. Throwing himself in front of Truman, he grabbed the man’s shoulders and chucked him to the ground. Then, he was falling, too, spinning in time to see Seyss’s gun spit fire, feeling a sudden and terrible pain near his hip.

Seyss came nearer, his runner’s stride relentless, and Judge imagined he could see his finger whitening as it tensed around the trigger. All his efforts were for naught, for Francis, for Ingrid, for himself, and now for the President. The White Lion would succeed. The thought sparked him into a terrific rage, a fury that cauterized his pain and momentarily erased his worry for Ingrid.

Raising his pistol, Judge fired twice, striking Seyss in the shoulder and the thigh. He could hear the bullets impact, a dull and concise thud, could see filaments of his uniform waft into the air.

Still, Seyss’s pace did not slacken.

Judge waited a moment longer, until Seyss’s body filled his entire field of vision. He yelled “Stop!” and, even as another slug knocked him to the ground, squeezed off his final round.

A perfect dot appeared on Seyss cheek as a puff of pink smoke burst from the rear of his head. His step faltered, but only for an instant. Still, he ran, but his stride was looser, his mouth open, his eyes no longer focused. The gun rose in his hand, but just as quickly fell. Arms flailing, he tumbled recklessly to the ground, his pistol clattering to the flagstone.

Seyss lay a foot away from Judge. He was dead, his pale blue eyes frozen in the infinite distance.

Judge rested his head on the terrace and stared into the night sky. A single star twinkled above him. “Ingrid,” he shouted, his voice sandy and weak.

He waited, begging the star and whatever force had made it for an answer.

But by now every security officer in Potsdam had descended onto the terrace. The FBI men and their machine guns were pushing their way through ranks of uniformed NKVD regulars. British agents had surrounded a wholly unperturbed Winston Churchill, who Judge heard call for” a whisky, a bloody great big one, and make it snappy”. Stalin stood nearby, huddled with his top commanders.

Peering through a forest of milling legs, Judge fought for a sign of Ingrid. Then he saw her; she lay prone, her legs crossed at the ankle, her form unmoving. Clenching his stomach, he called her name through gritted teeth. “Ingrid!”

Abruptly, his view was blocked by a familiar figure kneeling at his side.

“Are you alright, young man?”

President Harry S. Truman folded his jacket into a square and placed it under Judge’s head.

Judge touched a hand to his hip and it came away warm and wet. The other slug had taken him in the shoulder. Curiously, his entire body was numb. The pain, he realized, would come later. He pulled himself forward an inch or two to regain sight of Ingrid Bach.

“Keep still, son,” Truman said, his earnest features were etched with concern. “We’ll get a doctor here in a jif.”

Suddenly Ingrid’s legs twitched. General Vlassik was kneeling at her side, speaking to her. Applying a compress to her shoulder, he helped her sit up. Her face was pale, her blouse soaked through with blood, but she was alert. She was alive.

Judge closed his eyes for an instant, sure it was his Francis Xavier who had answered his prayer. “Yessir,” he said.

Truman brushed his hand against Seyss’s uniform. “Jesus. One of theirs. And I thought Stalin had security wrapped up damned tight.”

“No,” Judge protested, fighting to raise himself to an elbow. “He’s not a Rus—”

A firm hand pressed him to the ground, cutting short his words. Crouching alongside the President, Darren Honey gave a discreet but unmistakable shake of the head.

“Not what?” Truman asked.

Judge looked at Honey a moment longer, then he knew. They had wanted this to happen: Honey, Vlassik, the OSS and whoever was behind it.

“Nothing,” said Judge. “I wasn’t sure if he was dead.”

“He’s dead alright, damned communist.” Harry Truman glanced over his shoulder. Seeing Stalin, his jaw hardened. His eyes shot back to Judge, but he was looking right through him. “Maybe I can’t trust that sonuvabitch after all.”