Christopher Reich - The Runner

“I have no idea.”

“But you were willing to risk your life for them?”

“Of course,” said Bauer. “Herr Bach paid me generously. Two months’ salary. Five hundred Reichsmarks. Besides, he said it was of utmost importance to Germany.”

“Did he?” Judge betrayed no excitement at the mention of the Bach name, but his joy was that of a man granted a last minute reprieve. “And which Herr Bach are you referring to? Alfred or Egon?”

Bauer shot him an incredulous look. “Why Herr Egon, of course. He has been running the concern for two years now.”

Judge recalled Ingrid’s mention of the Lex Bach, Hitler’s edict granting Egon Bach complete control of Bach Industries. If Egon had been running the company for two years, why the hell hadn’t the War Crimes Commission issued a warrant for his arrest? It wasn’t only the factory chiefs who were being hauled before the dock. Sure, Alfried Krupp was in jail, but so were ten of his top lieutenants. The same went for the big shots at I.G. Farben, Siemens, Volkswagen, and so on.

Confused, he sat back on the iron springs and ran a hand through his hair. Wheels within wheels, Mullins would say.

“Herr Major, may I offer you a cigarette?” Bauer reached beneath his bunk and took out a crushed pack of Chesterfields. “I don’t care for Lucky Strikes. Have one of mine.”

“No thanks,” said Judge, eyeing the wrinkled pack. “I don’t smoke.” Chesterfield was Honey’s brand. Obeying a hunch, he said, “I see my colleague left you some of his cigarettes. Young man, blond hair, a sergeant?”

“Three stripes,” said Bauer, drawing parallel lines on the sleeve of his pyjamas. “Yes, he was young. A fine Aryan.”

“And he spoke German?”

“Perfekt! ”

It was Judge’s turn to feel as if he’d been sucker punched. What the hell had Honey been doing talking to Bauer? Honey, who couldn’t even get out a comprehensible “ wie gehts ?” Honey, who according to Mullins had returned to Bad Toelz early that morning?

Staring at the floor, Judge worked to regain his bearings. Bauer’s copy of the Stars and Stripes lay at his feet. On the front page was a photograph of President Truman on board the USSAugusta mooring in Brussels the day before and below it, another showing the burnt wreckage of the Riechstag. The place was a mess, a jungle of twisted steel and crushed concrete. 3000 Germans had died defending the place and 5000 Russians taking it. One lousy building. And for what? The city was already lost, ringed by a million Russian soldiers. He flipped the paper over and read the headline once again. “Big Three to meet at Potsdam Tomorrow.”

A final mission for Germany.

And then he had it. Why Seyss wanted the weapons, the sniper’s rifle, the pistols; why he needed the uniforms and the truck. And it had nothing to do with engineering drawings.

A final mission for Germany.

He whispered the words and the hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention.

“Just one more question: Babelsberg, that’s near Berlin, right?”

Bauer rubbed his chin, nodding. “About twenty kilometers outside the city. Actually, it’s closer to Potsdam. Just next door, in fact.”

Judge gripped the steering wheel with both hands, ten o’clock and two o’ clock, like Mullins had showed him in the hospital parking lot. One foot held the accelerator to the floor, the other rested above the brake, just in case. He’d been driving for six hours, a midnight run on the famed German autobahn. The four-lane highway was nearly deserted, the world’s straightest river with a surface to skate across. He’d passed Karlsruhe, Stuttgart, and Augsburg, seeing only unlit exit signs and stunted silhouettes, and now he was nearing his destination.

“Pick up von Luck. Bring him straight back and the secret’s between us,” Mullins had said, in response to Judge’s entreaty that Seyss’s body be positively identified. Bauer’s statement had raised enough questions to trouble even Mullins’s rule-bound conscience. “I’ll get Georgie Patton to extend your transfer by twenty-four hours. Then it’s straight back to Paris with you and we’ll pick up any loose straws.”

Judge knew of two people who could look at what remained of the body on gurney number three and say with any certainty whether or not it was Erich Seyss. Of them, only von Luck could provide insight into Seyss’s actual intentions, and in doing so, validate Judge’s suspicions.

Neither Mullins nor Judge believed Seyss would venture into Soviet-held territory for something so pedestrian as engineering drawings. The first thing a police officer learns is that there is no such thing as coincidence.

As for Honey and his reasons for interrogating Heinz Bauer, Judge could only guess. Maybe he’d received orders from CIC to grill Bauer. Maybe he’d done it on his own, hoping to prove his mettle and wrangle himself a promotion. Whatever the reason, Judge was puzzled why he’d given Bauer the order to keep quiet. Certainly, Honey knew that Judge wouldn’t leave without questioning him. Either he hadn’t expected him to use his fists to get the information or there was someone else he didn’t want Bauer to speak with.

Eyeing the speedometer, Judge kept the Jeep traveling at a constant sixty-five miles per hour. Driving wasn’t as difficult as he had imagined. A few turns around the hospital courtyard with Mullins in the passenger seat screaming “brake, clutch, shift, gas”, and he’d been ready to go.

A sliver of daylight appeared directly ahead, cutting the horizon in two. The sliver widened into a band, then lost its borders as the cloudless sky was suffused with a warm orange glow. Heralding the dawn’s arrival, a prickly cross wind picked up from the north, freighting the air with the rich smells of land under cultivation. He breathed deeply, his eyes watering at the loamy scent and its promise of rebirth and renewal. And slowly, a new sense of confidence took root inside him and grew.

The Jeep sped past a large sign reading “Munich-Nerd”, letters of white offset against a deep blue background. Judge followed it off the tree-lined autobahn and into the city’s torn-up streets. Maneuvering the Jeep was more difficult now, a clumsy ballet of gas and clutch, one hand welded to the wheel, the other to the stick shift. Piles of splintered wood and serrated masonry twenty feet high choked the roads. He steered crazily around them. On the sidewalks, clutches of women huddled around smaller mountains of red brick, chipping away mortar and lattice so that they could be used to rebuild their city. Trümmerfrauen , they were called. Rubble women.

Judge searched for signs leading to Dachau. Despite the abject destruction, no important intersection was naked of arrows pointing the direction to towns in the vicinity. He turned left, then right, entering the village that gave the notorious camp its name. It was market day. Vendors bustled across the town square, erecting stalls for their corn and beets and potatoes. He stayed on the main road another ten minutes and found himself traveling a familiar country lane. More familiar, still, was the rank scent souring the air. He did not slow the Jeep as he passed through Dachau’s gates.

A sentry stood guard at the base of the stairs leading to the camp headquarters. Judge announced his business and was immediately ushered into the camp commander’s office. A short, stiff-backed officer dressed in fatigues shook his hand, giving his name as Captain Timothy Vandermel. “Follow me, Major. The CO is waiting for you in the emergency ward.”

Vandermel led Judge across the camp. Behind fifteen foot fences topped with razor-sharp concertina wire stood row upon row of low-slung barracks. Hundreds of slack figures wandered the dirt infield between them. Many still wore the blue and white striped uniform issued them at Auschwitz, Belsen, Sachsenhausen. Men sat around open fires, smoking, talking in agitated voices. Women tended laundry over salvaged oil drums. Children let out loose high pitched screams of joy as they chased one another here and there.