Christopher Reich - The Runner

Kirch had proposed a trade of sorts. A guarantee that his operations run undisturbed for the next six months in exchange for information about where Seyss could be found. (Naturally, Kirch had refused to reveal where or when he had seen the wanted man.) Altman agreed and Kirch gave him the name and address of one Hans-Christian Lenz, domiciled in Darmstadt.

A stream of sweat ran into Altman’s eye, interrupting the recounting of his latest triumph. Damn this heat! One day he’d move someplace cooler. Somewhere in the mountains, maybe South America. He’d heard Peru and Bolivia were lovely. Many of his friends were there already. He dabbed an eye with his hankie and soon his good mood was restored.

This Lenz was a stubborn sort. At first he’d tried to deny even knowing Seyss, let alone where he could be found. Naturally, Altman had methods of persuading him otherwise. Seven years in the Gestapo had taught him all he needed to know about making a man talk.

And Lenz’s informationwas invaluable. He’d revealed where Seyss was staying in Heidelberg, as well as the names of his associates. He’d admitted that he did not believe Seyss was leaving the country. A man with his skills could be in Tokyo by now. So why, Altman had asked, did Seyss need a thousand US dollars if not to escape Germany? The answer had required a little cajoling and a very stubborn thumbnail. Lenz had overheard Bauer and Biederman discussing a buy they were going to make from a crooked American officer. He did not know what exactly they were purchasing, except that it was located at an armory in Wiesbaden. Another nail and Lenz had revealed the mother lode. Saturday night, he’d croaked. Midnight.

Altman grimaced at the memory. It was distasteful extracting information from a kamerad . He counted himself fortunate to have been stationed abroad during the war, in France, where he’d been spared such unpleasantries. He’d had no qualms about questioning the French. In fact, he’d rather enjoyed it. None more than an agent of the maquis , or underground, known as “Max”. Max was a tough nut to crack. First they’d worked on his hands. Then his feet. Then his teeth. Not a word. Altman had been forced to drastic measures. Fourteen inches of hose inserted into the man’s anus followed by twenty gallons of ice water had done the trick. Desolé, mon pote .

Max’s real name was Jean Moulin. During the war, he had been chief of the resistance in Vichy France.

Altman’s real name was Klaus Barbie. As chief of the regional Gestapo, they’d called him “the Butcher of Lyons”.

Barbie settled down for a long wait. He fished in his jacket pocket and drew out a sandwich wrapped in wax paper. Liverwurst on white. Taking a bite, he mashed the soft bread in his mouth. Delightful! He was suddenly very happy with himself for having spared Lenz’s life. Fingernails grew back. He’d done the man no real harm.

Smiling, Barbie balled up the wax paper and stuffed it in his pocket. He had not yet told his superiors at CIC Augsburg a thing about what he knew. They’d rush over, storm the house, and go home with an empty net. First, he wanted to see Seyss. He wanted to lay his eyes on the White Lion. Once he knew that the most wanted man in Germany was staying at Rudolf Krehlstrasse 61, he’d go to his superiors and present his plan. Not to Augsburg, he decided, but to Bad Toelz. To Major Devlin Judge. Clearly, Judge was a man of importance. Just as important, he was respectful. He would be sure to reward Herr Altman generously for his travails.

The Butcher of Lyons was sure of it.

Jake’s Joint was a liberatedgasthof turned roadhouse situated in the rolling countryside thirty kilometers southeast of Munich. “Liberated” meant that American GIs had taken a liking to the modest restaurant and lodging place and promptly evicted the owners of forty years to claim it as their own. The only compensation given was a swift kick in the pants and the good fortune to have survived the war.

At nine o’clock on a Friday night, the airy establishment was packed to the gills with servicemen, civilians, and far too many women for them all to be American. A ten-piece band crowded onto a makeshift stage blasted swing tunes into a miasma of smoke, sweat and booze. The walls were covered with souvenirs gathered by the victorious American army, mementos transported from the boot of Italy to the beaches of Normandy for seemingly no other purpose than to decorate Jake’s. A street sign posted above the entry read, “Paris 20km”. A poster behind the bar cheerily proclaimed, “ Calvados du Bretagne — II fait du bien pour la madame, quand le monsieur le boit !” Roughly translated, “Brittany Calvados Does wonders for a woman when her husband drinks it!” A café table complete with a umbrella advertising Cinzano sat in its own private corner.

And above it all — the buzz of drunken conversation, the roar of good-time music, the clang of plates and the clink of glasses — hung the well-lubricated hum of a victorious army. Jake’s Joint was jumping.

“What are you drinking, sir?” asked Darren Honey, as he and Devlin Judge settled down at a wobbly table on the second floor landing that overlooked the dance floor.

“Give me a scotch.” Judge heard the trumpeter launch into the first bars of “One O’ Clock Jump” then added, “What the hell. Make it a double.”

“That’s more like it. We’re off duty, Major. Time for some R and R.”

Judge watched the Texan lope toward the bar. The kid was right. He needed to relax a little. He’d been pushing himself too hard and it was beginning to show. The trail from Garmisch to Sonnenbrucke hadn’t yielded a thing. Dietsch, von Luck, Ingrid Bach, nothing they’d said was worth a damn. Four days of hitting one dead end after another. Like the kid said, “time for some R and R”.

Judge loosened his tie and kicked out his legs. A few couples began dancing and little by little a space cleared for them to do their stuff. He could tell right away they were the real thing. The couples were working on their rhythm, getting to know each other before slipping into the more serious moves. A husky corporal swung his gal out, then spun her onto his back, rolling her over till she landed on her feet. She shimmied for a couple of bars then, to the delight of the crowd, slid smoothly through his legs.

Honey returned from the bar and set down four glasses of scotch. “Cheers, Major. Don’t give up just yet. It’s only a battle, not the war.”

Judge picked up a glass and brought it to his lips. “I’m not giving up. Just figuring where we go from here.”

“Half this damn country is checking their shorts for Seyss. Something will turn up.”

Judge felt at once proud and embarrassed by the younger man’s unbridled optimism. Once he’d had that same piss and vinegar. “Will it? And your rogue’s gallery? Any word from Altman or one of his cronies?”

“’Fraid not,” said Honey, “but they’re looking.” And when Judge sought his eyes for further explanation he glanced away, his cloying grin appearing a moment later, along with the dimestore adage to “just be patient”.

Judge waved away the entreaty. Patience had never been his strong suit and with two days remaining to track down Seyss he had none to spare. He took a shot of scotch, shivering as it coasted down his throat. “What’s he up to, eh Honey? You given that any thought? Can you tell me why a war criminal sure to draw the hangman’s noose decides to stick around and tempt fate? He went to that house for a reason. Tell me why and I’ll tell you what he’s got planned.”

Honey scooted his chair closer, so as not to shout. “Don’t get your imagination into high gear. A lot of these soldiers stick around because they don’t have anywhere else to go. They’ve been in Russia, France, Greece, or God knows where these past six years and the last thing they want to do is leave again. They want to stay close to whatever friends and family they’ve got.”