Christopher Reich - The Runner

Carswell didn’t see the punch coming. Judge simply grabbed his shoulder, swung him around and gave him as solid a right hook as he’d ever delivered in a life of bar-room brawls, street spats, and gutter fights. Carswell spit out a tooth then dropped like a rock.

Honey materialized from the crowd, latching onto Judge’s arm and dragging him toward the front door. “We have to leave immediately, Major.”

“I’ll take my punishment,” said Judge, shaking loose Honey’s arm. With a man shot in the parking lot and a three star general roughed up, the military police would be there any minute. Turning toward the bar, he spotted Ingrid Bach helping Carswell to his feet. Against his will, a flash of jealousy fired his cheeks. How could she even look at that son of a bitch? He felt as if she had rammed a knife into his gut and was slowly twisting it. He’d never learn.

“Major, the military police are already here,” Honey was saying, his rubbery face even more animated than usual. “They’re waiting for us out front.”

“What are they waiting for? If they want to arrest me, they can come in.”

“Dammit, Major, this isn’t about you hitting the General — you’ll have to deal with that later.” Honey took him physically by the shoulders and shook him. “We got him. I told you to be patient. He’s in Heidelberg.”

Judge felt the booze and adrenaline and the welt of his attraction to Ingrid abruptly dissipate. In their place came a nervous energy, a clear, burning excitement.

“Seyss. You’re talking about Seyss? He’s in Heidelberg?”

“Yessir,” shouted Honey, smiling now, nodding his head vigorously. “Altman tracked him down. The White Lion is ours.”

Early the next afternoon, inside a torpid quonset hut at airfield Y31 on the outskirts of Frankfurt, five men gathered round a conference table to review for a third and final time their plan to capture Erich Seyss. Each betrayed the anxiety gnawing at his gut in his own particular fashion. Spanner Mullins ripped at the cuff of his splendidly pressed uniform, eyes darting from one man to the next as if trying to guess who held the ace of spades. Darren Honey slouched in his chair, hands drumming the table, his shit-eating grin stowed in a safe place. Next to him sat the German informant, Klaus Altman, ramrod-straight in his too large suit, forehead awash in sweat, cracking one knuckle, then the next. An outsider and wanting everyone to know it.

Nearest to Judge stood Major General Hadley Everett, Patton’s dapper chief of intelligence, caressing his gambler’s mustache as he droned on about the necessity to arrest Seyss before the Big Three arrived in Berlin.

“Georgie tells me Ike is counting on some good news to pass to President Truman when the three meet in Berlin tomorrow,” Everett said. “Our efforts to bring in Seyss coincide with the kicking off of the operational phase of Tally Ho. I can’t imagine a better way to get things started than to capture Seyss. It would send Fritz just the right message,” he shot Judge a bullying glance, wall eye holding him for a second before caroming to a far corner, “not to mention free up some precious resourcesand please everyone concerned.”

Great, thought Judge, he should have figured someone would turn the hunt for Seyss into a political football. Stealing a glance at his watch, he saw that it was only two fifteen. The temperature was ninety and climbing. Above the table, a fan turned too slowly to do anything except push the clouds of cigarette smoke from one side of the hut to the other. He felt miserable. His head pounded in time to his heart. His tongue had grown a coat of fur. And no wonder…he’d polished off a half bottle of booze last night. If that wasn’t enough, the knuckles of his right hand ached as badly as his bruised ribs. All morning he’d been waiting for word that General Carswell was pressing charges. Laughing, Mullins had told him not to worry. Ike would be none too pleased to learn that a lieutenant general under his command considered plinking unarmed, if larcenous, Germans part of a Friday evening’s entertainment.

With Everett finished speaking, Mullins lumbered to his feet and walked to the south end of the table where he addressed himself to a chalkboard set on rollers. A schema of the Wiesbaden armory decorated the black slate.

“Once more for those of you in the bleachers,” he began, and Judge saw Everett flash a grin. One point for Spanner. “Dusk falls at 22:30 hours. At 22:45 hours we’ll move our lads into position around the armory. Troops from military police Company Seventy-three will be divided into four platoons and positioned here, here, here and here.” He banged his chalk at the four corners of the outpost. “Sgt Honey will take the platoon opposite the entry. Two platoons with yours truly will be opposite the garage and one held in reserve outside the installation perimeter. We’re setting up the kliegs inside the garage, so that when we get the signal from Major Judge, we can illuminate the bastards and make sure no one shoots one of our own, namely the villainous Captain Jack Rizzo. You may stand and take a bow.”

Rizzo was seated in a far corner of the quonset hut, along with a pair or brutish MPs to keep him company. Hearing his name he smiled glumly and wisely chose not to respond. He’d been pulled in at 10:30 that morning, as Judge, Mullins, and Honey were en route to Frankfurt in an army transport. According to Altman’s unnamed source, Seyss was doing business with the American officer who controlled the keys to an armory in Wiesbaden. As there was only one armory in town, the path quickly led to Rizzo, who as it turned out, was already under suspicion of selling Russian weapons to his fellow GIs. Given the choice between fifteen years at Leavenworth or a dishonorable discharge, Rizzo not only confessed to his crimes but promised his full and complete cooperation.

“As for you, Captain,” Mullins continued, pointing a finger at the swarthy black marketeer, “you’re to play it very cool, indeed, which I imagine should pose no problem at all to a man of your criminal bent. You’re to lead your chum, Fitzpatrick, as Mr Seyss calls himself, and whoever accompanies him, into the armory and take them directly to the spot where we’ve gathered the weapons.” Mullins indicated a bay deep inside the armory adjacent to the doors leading to the garage. “Understand?”

Rizzo said yes.

“Good lad. And there you’ll wait, making small talk, twiddling your thumbs, picking your Italian nose for all we care, until you hear my signal.” Here, Mullins produced a silver whistle from the folds of his uniform and gave it a good long blow. Everyone rushed to plug their ears and Judge was pleased to note a look of discomfort on Everett’s face. “ And when you do, you’ll be smart to hit the ground double-quick. Got that boy-o? Remember, you’ll have a friend close by. Won’t he, Dev?”

Spotting his cue, Judge walked to the blackboard. He accepted the chalk from Mullins and drew an “x” next to the small box that indicated where Rizzo had placed the weapons Seyss wanted to purchase. “I’ll be laying on top of the stack of crates, just above and behind you, Captain. You don’t have to worry about a thing. I’ll be keeping an eye on you the entire time you are inside the armory. Just be sure to maneuver Seyss into the open so that a direct line of fire exists from the garage to the weapons. We don’t want him playing hide and seek inside the armory. Too many guns and too much ammunition.”

Indicating to Rizzo where Mullins would be positioned, Judge asked himself again what Seyss wanted with Russian weapons and uniforms. How he had been able to locate his former comrades so rapidly. And how {according to Altman’s informant) he’d gotten his hands on a couple of thousand dollars even before selling supplies pirated from an army convoy? Maybe he’d been digging up cash back at Lindenstrasse along with the dog tags. Or maybe somebody else had given the money to him.