Christopher Reich - The Runner

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At the end of WWII Erich Seyss, former SS officer and Olympic sprinter, known as the ‘White Lion’, uses his skills as a trained killer and escapes from the American POW camp holding him. He finds refuge with a shadowy organisation of former Nazis who plan to use his expertise in a breathtaking plot — a conspiracy that could change the destiny of Europe. Hard on his heels is Devlin Judge, an American lawyer who has his own reasons for wanting Seyss brought to justice. Devlin must find him at all costs — to prevent a catastrophe of horrifying proportions.

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Seyss hefted the uniforms and carried them back to Rizzo. “And the truck?”

“Near the loading dock. Follow me.” Rizzo led Seyss down a long aisle, then turned left. Five steps further on, a heavy iron door blocked their path. Rizzo fiddled with his keys before selecting the proper one and shoving open the door. “We’ve got about a dozen GAZs, some Zhigulis, even a couple Fords sent over during Lend-Lease.”

Parked inside the garage were at least twenty trucks, a dozen tanks and a slew of self-propelled artillery pieces. Seyss patted the hood of the nearest truck, smiling. Proximity to heavy weapons and transport never failed to boost a soldier’s spirits. He had the guns, the ammo, the uniforms, and now, even the two and half-ton truck Egon had promised. The runt was to be commended. All Seyss needed was the money to pay for it and the plan might work — at least this phase of it.

The Soviets had established a permanent residence in the heart of Frankfurt, seat of the American military government, ostensibly to strengthen ties with the American command, but in fact to monitor and interfere with the work of Dwight Eisenhower and his deputy, Lucius Clay. Each day at three p.m. a truck bearing members of the diplomatic mission and packed with booty liberated from the Western zones departed the residence for Berlin. Their route was always the same. Friedrichstrasse to Wilhelmstrasse, then a left turn onto the autobahn. What better cover could Seyss want than to pass his team off as members of the diplomatic mission? American military police would be reluctant to stop a truck carrying four Soviet soldiers. Once they crossed into the Russian zone, they could travel free of any worries.

“Nice,” said Seyss, patting Rizzo on the back in a show of bonhomie. “A wonderful addition to my museum. I’m thinking a diorama. The valiant Russians breaking out from Leningrad, advancing across Lake Ladoga to encircle the Nazi foe.”

But Rizzo was uninterested in his plans for the exhibit. “So listen, this stuff’s yours for a thousand even. Payable on receipt. But I can’t let you have the truck until Saturday night. Still a couple arrangements I’ve got to make.”

Today was Thursday. Were he to pick up the truck Saturday night, he’d have only one day to drive to Berlin. Terminal was scheduled to begin Monday at five p.m. Tight, but he had no alternative. He reminded himself he still needed to raise a thousand dollars. He had his own arrangements to make.

“That shouldn’t be a problem. Have it in good working condition and gassed up by midnight. We’ll meet outside the hotel in Heidelbeg at nine and drive here together. We’ll settle up then.”

Rizzo motioned to the crates at his feet. “What about this stuff?”

“I’ll take it all Saturday. And I mean it about the truck being in good working condition. Check the oil, the brakes, and throw a few extra cans of fuel in the rear.”

“What do you want to do? Drive the truck to Ireland?”

Seyss smiled, but didn’t answer.Wrong direction, Captain Rizzo.

Chapter 21

Judge barely made it to the side of the road before vomiting.

“You all right, chief?” Sergeant Honey called from his customary position behind the wheel of the Jeep.

Judge waved a defeated hand and raised his head to answer, but what remained of his lunch beat his words to the draw. Head bowed, he fell to one knee. Even close to the grass, the air was rank, cut with a piss-sour stench that made his skin itch and his stomach buckle. The odor of decay clawed his airways, suffocating him. He couldn’t erase the smell, but he could block it. Closing his eyes, he pictured himself in his mother’s kitchen, perched like a hawk above the stove waiting for her apple fritters to come out of the frying pan. Small rings of apple dipped in a honey batter, fried in cooking oil, then dusted with powdered sugar and cinnamon. As a child, he’d liked nothing better in the world, the scent most of all. The vividly rekindled memory subdued his olfactory nerves and after a few more breaths he was able to get to his feet. Aptelkuchen was what she called the dessert, and like the fetid air he was breathing, it was a uniquely German creation. The reminder of his blood heritage caused him to flush with shame.

Wiping his mouth, Judge trained his eyes on the source of the foul stench. One hundred yards down the road, a wide steel gate striped with barbed wire stood open, beckoning. Three words were inscribed above the gate:Arbeit Macht Frei. He read them and shivered. Work shall set you free.

He had arrived at Dachau.

A village of low-slung barracks greeted the two Americans as they entered the camp, long gray buildings hewn of cheap lumber. Twenty, thirty, forty…he lost count quickly. Visible to the left was a windowless blockhouse from which four red brick chimneys rose into a hazy sky. A sign next to the gate gave the camp’s name. Under it was written, “Liberated 29 April 1945, Forty-fifth Infantry Division, United States Army.” Judge added his own postscript. Founded 1933 as a political re-education center. Converted to a Konzentrationslager , or KZ, in 1936. He didn’t know when it had begun gassing and cremating its inmates.

“Let’s get this over with as quickly as possible.” Honey nodded. For once, he did not smile.

The hospital ward had white walls and a warped wooden floor and stank of disinfectant and excrement. Screens had been nailed over each window but a squadron of flies buzzed in Judge’s head as he walked down the aisle. A single fan hung from the ceiling, turning too slowly to do any good. Twenty iron beds lined each wall. Their occupants lay still under the sheets or sat with feet drawn under them. Shaved heads, sunken cheeks, emaciated chests that under their cotton pyjamas resembled the keel of a sailing ship. And, of course, the eyes. Unblinking, Unfaltering. Eyes that knew death as an everyday companion. At first, it was hard to tell one man from the next. Starvation had provided the patients with a startling familial resemblance.

The man seated on the cot in front of Devlin Judge appeared no different from the rest. According to intelligence records, General Oliver von Luck was fifty-one years old. He looked seventy. Gray stubble covered his scalp and chin. Everything about him was shriveled and sunken except his eyes, which were alert and sparkling and, at two o’clock this Thursday afternoon, maybe even cheerful.

“If you think I look bad now, you should have seen me a month ago,” said von Luck, by way of introduction. “Down to eighty pounds, I was. It wasn’t my own people who nearly killed me, it was your GIs. Hershey bars were the first real food I’d eaten in months. The sugar put me into shock. My heart, it stopped like that.” He snapped a finger. “But, mein Gott , it tasted heavenly.”

Judge mumbled something about being glad the general was still alive, and after giving his name and Honey’s, provided von Luck with a brief explanation of the reason for their visit.

“So he came through alive?” von Luck asked. His English was impeccable.

“You’re surprised?”

“One can only dodge so many bullets.” Von Luck’s voice was tainted by a survivor’s fatalism.

“I understand you knew him well.” “I taught him. I coached him. I ordered him into battle. I knew him as well as one man can know another.”

Judge reached into his briefcase and removed the slim file his team had put together on von Luck. Inside was a clipping from The Black Corps , the monthly magazine of the SS, dated June 1936. It contained a photograph of von Luck standing next to Erich Seyss on a running track. The caption read: Like Father and Son. The new Germany’s revered coach, Colonel Oliver von Luck, with National Champion, SS cadet Erich Seyss. The Fuhrer anticipates victory in Berlin!

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