Christopher Reich - The Runner

“Even the Kripo is looking for you,” added Steiner. “ An inspector came round the bar asking too many questions. He was a real bumbler, but others might not be.”

Seyss decided to confront any hesitation head-on. “If any of you men want out, you can go. I know plenty of Germans willing to take a risk for the benefit of our country. We have lost the war, true. But L for one, am not willing to lose the peace.”

Heinz Bauer stepped forward and clapped his hand on Biederman’s muscled shoulder. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Biederman shook his head. “ Kein angst , Herr Major.” Don’t worry, Major. “We wouldn’t desert you.”

Steiner sat down on the couch, nonchalant as ever. “Jesus, with all this talk we could be in Berlin already.”

Seyss thanked the men, then pulled up a chair. “So what have you got for me?”

Bauer licked his lips and leaned forward. “What we’re looking for is in Wiesbaden, fifty kilometers up the road. The Wehrmacht kept a lock-up for Russian prisoners there until late last year. Everything taken from them is stored there: guns, ammunition, uniforms.”

“And the price is still a thousand US?”

Bauer nodded.

“Including the truck?”

“Yes, of course. Everything exactly as I told Herr Bach.” His eyes creased with worry and Seyss knew he’d have to tell Bauer soon about losing the money.

“Go on, now. You’ve got me excited.”

“Our contact is an American officer,” continued Bauer. “What with the military police in an uproar and half their army looking for the dreaded criminal, Erich Seyss, he won’t go near the usual spots. I had a hard time convincing him not to cancel our agreement. He’s agreed to meet at the Europaischer Hof. A group of music professors from the university plays for a thé-dansant every afternoon at four.”

“The Europaischer Hof is out of the question,” Seyss scoffed, more irritably than he’d wanted. “The only ones there will be American troops.”

“Actually, just officers. My contact decided a meeting would be more inconspicuous among his colleagues.”

“And you agreed? Jesus Christ, Bauer, what about the non-fraternization rules? No Germans will be allowed inside.”

“Oh, he wouldn’t sell these guns to a German,” reported Bauer. “I told him I was representing a Britisher. A private collector. Your mother is English or something, right?”

“Or something.”

Seyss sighed loudly while running a hand along the back of his neck. He imagined himself walking into a salon packed full of American officers, trading quips with a colonel from Milwaukee while slugging back a couple of drinks. He couldn’t pass himself off as an Englishman. He didn’t have the manners, the jargon, or the sickening self-effacement that came so easily to a Brit. An Irishman, though, was a different story. With a decent blazer, a haircut, and a pair of glasses, no one would recognize him. Besides who would dare think he’d infiltrate their ranks? Seyss caught himself. He’d said the same thing about his returning to Lindenstrasse.

“Bring me your best suit,” he said to Bauer. “Whatever you’d wear to your daughter’s wedding. Hurry up, then.”

“Already done, sir.” Bauer shuffled from the room, returning a minute later with a navy suit folded over one arm, and a shirt and tie on the other. “Size forty long. Neck fifteen and a half. Shoes an eleven.”

Seyss tried on the jacket. A little loose but more than passable. Bauer might look like a half-wit, but he was sharp as a tack. Something to keep in mind. “So tell me, what name does our man go by?”

Every German city of size or repute boasted at least one five-star hotel. In Heidelberg it was the Europaischer Hof. Three wings of weathered Dolomite granite dominated a cobblestone courtyard. Ceramic planters brimming with colorful flowers prettied the marble stairs that rose to the lobby. At either side of a revolving door, a military policeman replete with white helmet, white spats, khaki uniform and Sam Browne belt, scrutinized the arriving guests. The afternoon thé-dansant was an “officers only” affair.

Seyss lent his step a sprightly air as he climbed the stairs to the hotel. Passing the MPs, he threw in a tap of his shoe to show his delight at the cheery music drifting from the main salon. “Lovely day, eh, boys?” he ventured, sure not to slow his pace. Hesitation meant uncertainty, and uncertainty that for some reason he shouldn’t be there.

“Have a nice time, sir,” one MP replied. The other had already focused his attention on a brace of general officers at the foot of the stairs.

“Aye,” said Seyss, and he was past them. So much for his picture in the paper. He felt strange, almost gay, masquerading as an Irishman. His new suit fitted better than he had hoped. His shoes, were they to be inspected, supported his cover nicely. Brogues from Churches Shoes. His lack of identification might prove problematic, but he had a story up his sleeve just in case. Something about being rolled by a German whore. They were a tough lot, he was prepared to say, and angry — but who could blame them? As for his cover, he had decided upon a reporter. The country was lousy with them. Wearing a white cotton shirt and a maroon club tie, he was the embodiment of the victor arrived to claim the spoils.

Seyss strolled past the reception desk and up a few stairs, letting himself be guided by the music. The salon was packed with American officers, most in forest green jackets and khaki colored trousers, all with a stiff drink in hand. He passed through their ranks, offering a polite nod, a hushed hello, and once, a brief handshake, when a drunken lieutenant offered him a scotch on the rocks. He paused to take a pull of the scotch, and in a second polished the whole thing off. He slid across the floor keeping a bee-line for the bar. On the stage, a quintet attired in dinner jackets was playing an unfamiliar song with an upbeat tempo. Suddenly, a young officer hopped onto the stage and began belting out the lyrics.

Hearing the German lyrics, Seyss did a doubletake, then laughed loudly, hoping to cover his surprise. It was a sign, he told himself. A none too subtle reminder just how close Germany and America actually were.

“I’d take the Andrew Sisters over that lout any day,” boomed an officer who had appeared at his side. “Maxine’s the one for me.” He was a homely man with a pencil thin mustache, a shorter and fatter version of the jug-eared American who’d starred inGone with the Wind. An oak leaf adorned his epaulets. “Everybody’s crazy for Patty: the thick blonde hair, those bedroom eyes. Not me, friend.”

Seyss had no idea who the Andrews Sisters were, or who Maxine was, for that matter. Still it was clear the officer expected some kind of answer. “Yes, indeed,” he answered. “Maxine’s a gorgeous lass.”

“Maxine?” The officer eyed Seyss oddly. “What, are you kidding me? She’s the homely one. But she’s safe. You wouldn’t have to worry about her running around on you when you’re over here. And boy, does she have a set of pipes.”

Seyss wasn’t sure if he was referring to her tits or her tonsils, so he simply nodded his head, wanting to escape further conversation. “Indeed, Colonel. A fine set.”

A hand on his arm prevented his departure. “What are you, a Brit?”

Seyss retreated a step, forcing a smile. “Irish, actually. Just over to do a story for the local paper.”

“Sorry, guy. Didn’t pick up the accent. A short round ruined the hearing in my left ear.” He extended a hand. “Abe Jennings, nice to know you.”