Christopher Reich - The Runner

“Major was as high as they saw fit.” “Maybe one day you’ll tell me your real name.”

“Maybe.” Seyss offered a smile of good luck. “Off you go. I’ll be right behind you.”

Lenz held the piece of wood under his arm. With his free hand he grasped Seyss by the shoulder. “You saved me twice tonight. Once from a vacation on the Côte d’Azur, and then from a trip to a much hotter destination. Maybe one day, I can—”

“Shut up, Lenz. Time to swim.”

Upon his return to Flint Kaserne, Devlin Judge set out to track down General Oliver von Luck. It was six in the evening and outdoors the summer weather was inviting. A bold sun promised the local beer gardens a healthy crowd. Indoors, the Kaserne’s hallways were deserted. Gone were the legions of smartly attired soldiers making their daily rounds. Passing an open door, he’d hear a hushed voice or a muffled laugh. In the gloom of the endless corridors, a shadowy figure shuffled from one office to the next. A skeleton crew could put Germany to bed. Administering the peace was a less urgent pursuit than fighting a war.

Judge had been given a large office on the second floor. Four pine top desks were spaced evenly around the room, scarred leftovers from the academy’s glory days. Among the initials and dates carved into their yellowed surface, he had found the inscriptions of several promising cadets: “1,000 Jews equals one German”; “ Lebensraum” — living space. And most haunting, the single word “ Vernichtung” written ten times over in a perfect column. Annihilation. He had tried to repeat the word all ten times, but couldn’t. It was physically impossible. After the fifth repetition, the word caught in his throat as a gush of nausea flooded his body. Above his head, an exposed pipe ran the length of the ceiling. Droplets of water leaked from one end of it into a tin bucket set in the corner.

But nothing was as bad as the mural. Painted across the rear wall was a Teutonic knight in full chivalric armor, blue eyes focused on the sunlit horizon, blond hair tousled by the wind. He rode a fiery black steed and brandished a gleaming sword. A scarlet Nazi armband was the artist’s sole concession to modernity. Above the scene, floating among puffy clouds was a silver ribbon bearing the words, “ Mein Ehre Heisst Treue ”. Loyalty is my honor. Every time Judge looked at the picture he cringed.

Along with the office and the lovely artwork, he’d been given three aides. Two of them were on the road, visiting divisional offices of the military police. A third, one PFC. George Merlin, an acned teenager from Iowa, had gone home for the day. As for Honey, he’d left for Munich to run down a lead. Someone from the local arm of Bob Storey’s Document Collection Division had come across the personnel records of the First SS Panzer Division and Honey wanted to check if any of Seyss’s comrades lived in the Munich area. Afterwards he planned on finding himself a billet.

Judge slid back his chair and with a resigned sigh set to work. First, he sent queries to all CIC sub-stations regarding last known whereabouts of General Oliver von Luck. Next, he transmitted wires to the seven regional chiefs of what remained of Germany’s criminal police, known as the Kripo, asking for their cooperation in the search. The process was painstakingly slow, demanding the filling out of a mountain of forms, requests, and authorizations, each in triplicate. At ten past midnight (after a half hour of haggling with the night operator) he managed to get a direct line to Washington DC and put in a call to headquarters military intelligence at the War Department. Judge kept his request simple. Please forward all information regarding last known posting of General Oliver von Luck, German Army. Urgent. To add a little zip, he said, “by order of General George S. Patton, Jr.” then hung up the phone.

“So you’re looking for Ollie von Luck?”

Judge jumped in his chair, his eyes seeking the source of the words. A hunched figure lurked in the doorway, face cloaked in shadow. He had a high-pitched voice that delivered his English with a thick German accent.

“Who are you?”

“Altman is my name. Klaus Altman.” The man stepped into Judge’s office, the glare of the overhead light reflecting off his bald pate. He was young, no more than thirty, dressed in a pressed gray suit that despite its obvious quality looked as if it belonged to a taller man. A pronounced brow hid pale, anxious eyes. An aquiline nose and ruby lips curled in a salacious sneer completed the picture. For all the world, he looked like a dirty-minded vulture. Advancing a step, he flashed United States Army identification, holding it long enough for Judge to take a careful look.

“I am employed by the CIC substation in Augburg,” Altman went on. “Lt Delvecchio is my commanding officer. I understand you’re working with one of my colleagues presently, Sergeant Darren Honey?”

“That’s correct.” Judge motioned for Altman to take a seat, his heartbeat slowly returning to normal. The compact man shuffled forward, offering an ingratiating bow as he pulled the chair close to Judge’s desk. Judge didn’t know what scared him more: this little creep’s midnight visit or that the counter-intelligence branch of the US Army was employing Germans, presumably former members of the military, presumably Nazis, as agents. “So you know von Luck?”

“Of course. He was a famous man, even well regarded — once.”

Once. The ominous tone in Altman’s voice warned of bad news to come. “What can you tell me about him?”

“You’re familiar with the Abwehr? The intelligence wing within the Wehrmacht run by Wilhelm Canaris. The man for whom you are looking, General Oliver von Luck, served as Canaris’s deputy chief from 1939 to 1944. Both men were active members of the Twentieth of July plotters, the cabal of officers who attempted to assassinate the Fuhrer at his military headquarters in East Prussia.”

“Woltschanze.” Judge gave the German name of the headquarters. The wolfs lair.

“Ah, you speak German. Excellent.” Altman grinned while cocking his eyebrows, as if the two shared an appetite for an exotic dish. When he spoke next, it was in his native tongue. “Von Luck is dead. He was arrested with Canaris and tried by the People’s Court, Roland Freisler presiding. You’re aware of Freisler’s record?”

“Shit.” Judge couldn’t stop the word from escaping. “Yes, I am.”

In the wake of the failed attempt on Hitler’s life over five thousand men and women had been executed, many of them tried and convicted by said Roland Freisler, a strutting, raving sadist who derived overt and grotesque gratification from verbally lacerating the accused in his kangaroo court. The most prominent of the plotters were hung by piano wire and left to die a slow, excruciating death. Hitler had demanded the executions filmed.

“We know that Canaris was killed,” said Judge, “but do you have confirmation that von Luck received the same punishment?”

“Someone so close to Canaris could not have survived.”

Judge recognized an evasive answer when he heard one. “Do you have any proof he was executed?”

“Proof, no,” replied Altman crisply, his integrity impugned. “I was stationed in France at the time, in Lyons. But believe me when I say von Luck could not have escaped the Gestapo’s grasp.” The pride in his voice left no doubt as to the German’s wartime affiliation. “I’m sorry if you are disappointed.”

“Thanks for the information, but I’ll keep checking all the same.”

“Suit yourself.” Altman placed a hand on the desk and leaned close. “Might I ask if this is in connection with your search for Erich Seyss?”