Christopher Reich - The Runner

She saw the car as she passed the front door on her way back to his room.

A large American sedan swept up the driveway, a red flag fluttering from its front bumper. A pair of motorcycles preceded it and a Jeep came to the rear. Setting down her father’s tray, she moved to the window. In the meadow, Pauli was rushing toward the vehicles, all gaping mouth and scraped knees. Visitors were rare. Apart from the squad of soldiers stationed at the head of the driveway, ostensibly to keep her father under house arrest, and the ever-present GIs running about the woods slaughtering her chamois, only a clutch of friends came to Sonnenbrucke. With petrol so scarce, it was simply too much of an excursion.

The motorcade halted directly before the front door. The petite red flag bore three gold stars. She was to receive a general. She prayed he would not bring bad news. She wasn’t sure she could bear anything more. Self-consciously, she prettied her hair and ran a hand over her dress. One part of her was aghast at her appearance, another proud of it. Damning her misplaced vanity, she let her hair fall where it may, then opened the door and stepped onto the brick portico. She recognized the officer stepping from the rear of the sedan at once: Leslie Carswell, the general who commanded the troops keeping an eye on Papa. She’d met him during the interrogations conducted to establish whether her father was fit for trial. He was tall and distinguished with trim gray hair, wiry eyebrows and a craggy face you could hang climbing ropes on. Older, but not badlooking. A southerner, if she remembered correctly. Like so many Americans he refused to walk like a soldier, sauntering casually across the driveway as if taking a Sunday walk.

“Miss Bach, a pleasure to see you again,” he called, extending a hand.

“Good day, General. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Casting a glance over his shoulder, she noticed that his driver and the other members of his retinue were staying in their places. Odd.

“A social call, ma’am.”

“Oh? I didn’t realize American men were permitted to mingle with the Hun.”

“The Hun?” Carswell slapped a hand on his thigh. “Why with that lovely accent you sound as English as the queen, herself.”

Ingrid smiled politely. She had no illusions about Carswell’s ability to influence the conditions of her father’s incarceration. One call could land Papa in an eight by ten cell, illness or no. “Papa insisted all the children learn English fluently,” she responded. “He was a great friend of Mr Churchill.”

“I’m all for bettering relations between the fine German people and us Americans. In fact, that’s the reason for my visit. I was thinking it might be useful for us to have a discussion about what your father was doing during the last months of the war.”

“He was ill,” she shot back defensively. “You know that.”

Carswell chuckled as if there’d been a misunderstanding. “Before that, I mean. Some of the boys in intelligence had a few questions about the extent of his resistance. Not many of Hitler’s top dogs went against him and lived.”

“Father talked, that’s all. He may not have liked the Fuhrer but he certainly wasn’t going to compromise production. His first loyalty was to our soldiers.”

“And did you agree?”

“War is a man’s business, General. The opinions of a twenty-five-year-old woman don’t hold particular sway.”

Ignorance relieved her of complicity. What she did not know, she could not be responsible for. It was a hand-tailored excuse, worn thin these six years, and lately, she’d begun to see through it altogether. One could not simply close one’s eyes and pretend nothing was happening. Ignorance was just a different kind of guilt.

“That may be, Miss Bach, but I’d be most interested to hear them. Have you by any chance been to the Casa Carioca in Garmisch? It’s quite a nice establishment.”

Taking in Carswell’s wolfish grin, Ingrid suddenly realized why he’d come. He couldn’t care less about Papa’s opposition to the Fuhrer. He wanted to bed her. Many women were allowing themselves to be taken as mistresses to American GIs. In exchange for their company, they received cigarettes, stockings, chocolate, even perfume — all of it ready currency on the black market. She had no illusions how they earned their keep. Mistress was just a diamond-crusted word for whore.

“I’m sorry, General, but I just couldn’t. Someone must look after Papa and my son still doesn’t know what to make of your GIs camped on our driveway. Maybe another time.”

Carswell was ever the gentleman. Tipping his cap, he said he’d come again next week, if only to inquire as to her father’s health. “And Miss Bach, if there’s anything I can help you with — anything — do let me know.”

Ingrid remained outside as the motorcade circled the marble fountain and accelerated up the driveway. To her everlasting shame, she even found herself waving.

Papa’s wine would only last so long.

“Here he is, then, the luckiest man in Germany.”

Stanley Mullins swept into the hospital room in a swirl of self-importance, taking up position at the end of Judge’s bed. “I don’t know if a cracked rib will get you a Purple Heart, lad, but I can surely put in a request.”

Judge prodded the swath of bandages wrapped around his torso and winced. The only medal he deserved was one for monumental ineptitude. “Just get me out of here, Spanner,” he said. “We need to get up to Garmisch pronto. Seyss is in Munich and the only people who might have an idea why are his buddies in that camp. The sooner we talk to them, the better.”

Mullins tapped a finger to the side of his nose. “Got the scent of him, have you? There’s my bloodhound. Let me have a word with the docs. They seem to think you need a few days to mend.”

Judge was up on an elbow, shaking his head, before Mullins could finish his words. The typescript of his orders scrolled before him like the news wire at Times Square:Temporary duty. Seven days. To expire at midnight, Sunday 15 July. He was down to five days and he’d scared off the prey. It wasn’t quite the start he’d been hoping for.

“Relax, Dev,” soothed Mullins. “Word’s out that Seyss is in town. We’ve doubled the patrols, set up two dozen roadblocks and instituted spot identification checks at random points allover the city all per your very own instructions.”

The key word being “random”, Judge thought, disgustedly. There was no time to get a new description of Seyss out to the troops patrolling the city. Most hadn’t even had a chance to see his photograph. They’d be stopping every blond male over five feet tall. A black-haired, bespectacled six-footer would pass unnoticed, untouched, and unhindered. Still, Judge knew it was better than nothing, so he kept his complaints to himself.

Mullins motioned for him to scoot over and sat down on the bed beside him. “Before I track down the nearest sawbones, Dev, I wanted a word.”

Judge sat up stiffly. “Yeah?”

“Now tell me honest, are you feeling okay?”

“I’ve been better, but there’s no reason to keep me tied to abed.”

Mullins’s watery eyes brimmed with concern. “You’re sure? You know my rule about sending out a man when he’s less than a hundred percent. It’s the only way I can look after you.”

“It’s a rib, Spanner. Not even broken, just cracked. But thanks for asking.”

Mullins tapped a finger to his forehead. “And up here? Everything as it should be?”

“Sure.”

“Good. Good.” Mullins smiled, but something in his regard changed. His worries about Judge’s well-being answered, he’d moved on to more important matters. “I don’t mean to pry, lad, but what happened back there at Lindenstrasse? One second you’re telling Sergeant Honey you’ve got your man, the next, Mr Seyss has a gun in your back, you’re doing a swan dive off the stairs, and he’s making his escape.”