Christopher Reich - The Runner

“It is. Von Luck was Seyss’s trainer for the Olympic Games. I assume Erich Seyss is what brings you here at this late hour.”

The German answered a simple yes, mumbling an insincere apology for disturbing him, before delving on. “Excuse my curiosity, Major, but I had to speak with you in person. You see, I’m a little confused by what’s been happening these last few days. It seems you’re mounting an awfully large operation to bring in one man. Is there, perhaps, any information you are holding back that you might care to share with me? Any idea why Seyss is staying in the country?”

“We’re not withholding any information, Mr Altman. You have everything we have.”

Altman waggled a finger, affecting a far off glance. “If it were me, and I’d killed an American officer to get out of a camp, I’d turn south and keep going until I hit the Adriatic. Maybe I’d try for Naples. Either way, I’d get out of the country as soon as I possibly could. It must be something awfully important for Seyss to remain in Germany.”

“There’s nothing more I can tell you, Mr Altman. It’s as simple as that.”

But even as the words left his lips, Judge was thinking of the dog tags Honey had retrieved from the basement of Lindenstrasse 21, hearing Corporal Dietsch recount Seyss’s words. “One last race for Germany.” He mulled his impressions over, mixing in the decidedly suspicious cast to Altman’s voice.It must be something awfully important for Seyss to remain in Germany. Looking up, he found Altman’s dull blue eyes boring into him and suddenly, unaccountably, he grew breathless and a little dizzy. He remembered feeling the same way only once before, the first time he’d been to the top of the Empire State Building. Peering out over Manhattan, past Central Park into the Bronx, east to Brooklyn and west up the Hudson River, he’d nearly fainted at the immensity of it all. He’d never imagined the world was so big. The revelation was as frightening as it was inspirational. A similar sensation swept over him now; a notion that he was tapping into something larger than he knew. And the thought dashed through his mind that he’d be smart to turn around this second and go home without asking any more questions. Francis could fend for himself.

“Too bad, then,” said Altman. “I’m sorry for disturbing you so late in the evening, but my work demands I keep a rather odd schedule.” His voice registered disappointment but his squirming lips never lost their lascivious posture. “I hope you didn’t take fright.”

“No,” Judge lied, “not at all.” He stood, still trying to shake off the discomfiting feeling as he accompanied his visitor to the door. “Mind if I ask what CIC has you doing these days?”

Altman shrugged helplessly in his too large suit. “I’m terribly sorry but most of our work is classified. I can only say that many of the men we’re looking for here in the western zone are proving useful in the East.”

Judge shook the man’s hand, wishing him goodnight. It was clear that Altman was referring to his former colleagues in the Gestapo. Gestapo stood for Geheimstaatspolizei . The Secret State Police. For the past ten years, they’d been spying on their fellow Germans. All they had to do was turn their snooping apparatus in the opposite direction and spy on the Russians. The work was the same. The only difference was to whom they reported.Useful indeed.

“At least we know Erich Seyss is in Munich,” Altman said in parting. “If he stays in Germany, we’ll find him. Let’s hope you scared him underground. That’s my territory. There’s only so many places a man can hide.”

Judge watched the man slip off down the corridor. His footsteps were exceptionally soft, little more than brushstrokes against the flagstone. Then they were gone — like a rain that had abruptly stopped. Judge strained his neck, squinting into the darkness to make out the man’s crooked silhouette, but he saw nothing. Shivering, he crossed the hall to the restroom. He had an overwhelming desire to wash his hands and face. Suddenly, he felt very dirty.

Contrary to what he told Major Judge, Darren Honey did not proceed to the Munich arm of Colonel Robert Storey’s Document Collection Division. The personnel records of the First SS Panzer Division had, in fact, turned up, but Storey had already received them in Paris. Nor did Honey, as he’d also said to Judge, inquire about finding a billet for non-commissioned officers. Pointing the nose of his Jeep north, he left Bad Toelz and made his way out of the foothills and into the lush plain that surrounded the city of Munich. As the roads worsened, and he began dodging shell holes, craters, and piles of rubble taller than the buildings they once comprised, he sat up straighter and his smile vanished. Soon his face took on a decidedly unpleasant cast.

Darren Honey was sick of war and sicker of being smack dab in the middle of it. Most of all, he was sick of being someone else. His post in the 477th Counter-intelligence Company of the United States Army was only the latest in a string of covers too long to enumerate. He hadn’t landed at Morocco with Patton in forty-two, nor had he endured the Anzio beaches with Mark Clark. Everything he had told Devlin Judge about himself was false, including his name.

The only truthful thing about his appearance was the ribbon adorning his chest that denoted the Silver Star. He’d been awarded the commendation in recognition of actions taken in Paris, France, on 5 June 1944, one day prior to the Allied landings in Normandy. He’d sworn never to divulge what exactly he did, but it involved making sure that certain German generals visiting the French capital for a bit of rest and recreation were kept far away from their respective divisional headquarters in Normandy. It had cost quite a few lives.

Honey’s work came under the heading “SO” or special operations, known within the Office of Strategic Services, or “OSS”, simply as Department II. His rank, not that it counted for much, was actually captain, which for a poor kid from Arlington, Virginia, who’d never even graduated high school, wasn’t too shabby.

The OSS was America’s secret intelligence service. Formed in 1941, just months before the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, it had already placed thousands of agents around the globe, from Burma to Bulgaria, Singapore to Stockholm. The man who commanded the OSS, who had built it from the very ground up, was named William J. Donovan. His heroics in the First World War as an officer in the Fighting 69th had earned him the Congressional Medal of Honor, along with the nickname “Wild Bill.” Contrary to his colorful moniker, Donovan was a mild-mannered, avuncular man, with thin gray hair and kind blue eyes. In the years between the wars, he’d made a small fortune as a Park Avenue attorney and consultant to many of America’s largest corporations. He didn’t speak loudly, but something about him made you pay close attention to his every word. People called him charismatic and magnetic. Honey called him “Sir”, and did exactly as ordered.

Guiding the Jeep across the Maximilliansbrucke and up Maximillianstrasse, Honey sighed with distress. Munich was an absolute wreck. Eighty-five per cent destroyed according to the Allied bombing survey. All this destruction was getting to him, making it harder and harder to keep up his smiling persona as the ever-ebullient young sergeant from Texas. There came a point when enough was enough. He’d seen it in others: the constant irascibility, the inability to get a decent night’s sleep, the need to keep moving, even if there wasn’t a damned thing to do. And he was reaching that place himself. He didn’t know what would happen if he ever got there. Some men started crying and didn’t stop for a month. Others blew their brains out. Neither alternative sounded very appealing. He just hoped it didn’t happen soon. He didn’t want to disappoint “Wild Bill”.