Christopher Reich - The Runner

The pair of headlights had expanded to a second, then a third, and Judge felt as if the entire army were after them. Two minutes into his fool’s run, his head start had been whittled down to three hundred yards and with every passing second was growing shorter. Rounding a sharp corner, he shot a glance over his shoulder. A bank of begonias momentarily blocked his view of the pursuing Jeeps. Spotting his chance, he steered the Jeep away from the security of the gravel walk and doused the headlamps. He was driving among the trees now, weaving in and out like a skier negotiating a slalom course, sure to keep a ninety degree heading away from the walkway. Beneath branches sagging with a summer’s bounty of nuts and cones, the ground was feathered with a crop of knee-high grass, and with every unseen rut and gully, he grunted, all the while accelerating madly. Abruptly, he cut the engine and coasted to a halt a hundred yards on.

Ingrid raised herself in the seat, staring into the dark wood. “Who are they?”

“Shh,” Judge cautioned, ear tuned to the highly revving engines. Their insistent whine grew, and suddenly he could make out the trace of their headlights. Wheels skidding on the clay and gravel, the Jeeps rounded the begonias. He held his breath, expecting the lights to bob as they, too, left the path, and a moment later to be illuminated in their beams. But the Jeeps roared on, advancing on a phantom prey.

“Who are they?” Ingrid demanded.

Judge answered as he restarted the engine, irritated by her obstinacy. “The same folks who arranged for the detour in Heidelberg. The fellas who want us to think Erich Seyss is dead. Is that good enough?”

Ingrid tucked in her chin, taken aback by his sharp response. “I suppose it has to be.”

Judge pushed the Jeep pell-mell through the trees, the howling engine a pitch-perfect echo of his own anxieties. Every few seconds, he turned his head to scout the encroaching dark. He saw nothing, but still his neck bristled. Overnight, he’d become the hunted, not the hunter, and the new role fit him as poorly as the lice-ridden clothing he’d picked up that morning. But there was more. At some point during the last twenty-four hours, he’d crossed over an interior meridian into unknown waters. He’d abandoned the rigid structure of his previous life, renounced his worship of authority, and forsworn his devotion to rules and regulation. He’d tossed Hoyle to the wind and he didn’t care. Yet it was this very betrayal of his past that confirmed his most closely held beliefs. That the rules man made were subordinate to those made for him. And when it came to choosing, a man had to use his heart not his head.

Fine summation, counselor, he added, mockingly.Tell me one thing, then. If you’re so damned sure of yourself why are you shaking in your boots?

Five minutes later, the curtain of forest parted and they came to a large clearing. A café was visible to their right, and next to it, a large man-made pond, the kind where he would have launched a sailboat with Ryan. Judge swung toward the squat building, dodging a line of birch trees, as Ingrid read the sign above the entry.

“Rumplemeyer’s,” she announced. “If we follow the path leading to the café, it’s only a few hundred meters to Zehlendorf.”

“You mean the city?”

“Yes, a residential quarter in the southwest corner of town.”

“We need a place to stay, somewhere reasonably safe. We can’t risk sleeping outside again tonight. It’s your city. Got any ideas?”

“Just our house in town and some of Papa’s friends.”

“Not good enough.” The presence of Honey in Berlin made it impossible for he and Ingrid to seek refuge in any of her old haunts. If Honey was working with Patton and Patton was close to Egon Bach, then Judge had to consider all those addresses blown. “Isn’t there someplace only you know about? At one of your old girlfriends maybe? A boyfriend, even?”

“There is a place I know,” Ingrid said haltingly, “an apartment not far from the university where I lived while a student there.”

He could read what was coming next. “But Seyss knows about it?”

“He was the reason I took it. It was our hideaway.”

“That was six years ago,” Judge said sternly. “Don’t you think they’ve found a new tenant by now?”

It was her turn to offer a rebuke. “No, Major, you don’t understand. I didn’t rent the place. I bought it.”

“And Egon? Does he know about it, too?”

“No,” Ingrid replied adamantly. “It was our secret. Erich’s and mine.”

Judge mulled over their options. Even if Seyss was in Berlin, the odds were against him hiding out at his and Ingrid’s old love nest. The UN war crimes dossier stated he’d been stationed at Lichterfelde Kaserne before the war. If Egon hadn’t already fixed him up with a place, he’d have a dozen of his own in mind. While Judge desperately wanted to find Seyss, the idea of getting the drop on him in the middle of the night without a weapon wasn’t what he’d exactly had in mind. Still, it might be an unexpected opportunity. Catch Seyss on the sly. Have him wrapped up and in custody by morning. To his realist’s eye, it sounded too pat. Either way, they didn’t have much choice.

“How far to this place?”

“Eichstrasse is in Mitte. I’d say eight kilometers.”

About five miles. Fifty city blocks in Manhattan. A breeze if they could stay clear of the Trophy Brigades Mahoney had warned them about. Cocking his head, he listened for the retaliatory growl of his frustrated pursuers. The night was silent.

“Can you walk it?” he asked Ingrid. “Once in the city, we’ll stand out like a sore thumb in this Jeep. The first American patrol we see will either shoot us or have us arrested.”

Ingrid smiled with the knowledge of a secret strength. “Yes, Major, I believe I can.”

Judge slowed the Jeep and when she’d stepped out, drove it a little ways into the forest. He found a dense grove of bushes and nosed the vehicle slowly into its embrace. Sliding from the wheel, he freed the crushed branches until the Jeep was partially hidden from view. Hardly a masterful job of camouflage, but it would do until morning.

Rubbing sap from his palms, he jogged back to Ingrid.

“Alright, Pocahontas,” he said. “Lead the way.”

The building on Eichstrasse was standing and, except for a fractured chimney and a couple of broken windows, undamaged. They’d circled the block twice before approaching, checking alleys and doorways for signs of surveillance. The neighborhood wasn’t deserted; it was dead. Not a lamp burned from a single paneless window. Not a soul walked the streets. Neither a German, an American, or for that matter, a Russian was in sight. The feared Trophy Brigades had taken the night off.

Ingrid’s apartment was on the third floor. “Just a studio,” she had warned him, forgetting for a moment that they had more important concerns than the size of her apartment. They climbed the stairs quietly and when they neared her door, Judge signaled for her to remain behind. He approached as stealthily as he knew, rolling his shoe from heel to toe, easing his weight onto the distressed floorboards. In his hand he carried a bent crowbar he’d picked up on the street; fine, if he wanted to brain someone, but it wouldn’t hold up long against a loaded pistol. Reaching the entry to her apartment he checked for signs of recent intrusion. A sheen of dust coated the brass doorknob. Cobwebs hugged the doorframe. Laying an ear to the door, he listened. Nothing. If Seyss had been by, he’d kept his presence well hidden. Cautiously, Judge turned the knob to the right. Locked. Finding a rusted nail, he played with the keyhole until he’d picked the lock.

The apartment was empty. Even more surprising, it was untouched and as she’d left it six years before. Sitting squarely in the Soviet zone, maybe the Reds figured they’d get to it in their own due time.