Christopher Reich - The Runner

Turning into a grassy lot, he brought the bike to a halt and climbed from the saddle. A few steps brought him to the crest of a gentle knoll. He ducked through a clump of bushes and was rewarded with an unobstructed view of the house. He checked his watch: 9:30. Half an hour remained until his meeting with Schmundt. Enough time to scout the neighborhood and make sure no welcoming party had convened without his knowing.

The neighborhood was quiet. No traffic essayed the winding road. An elderly couple ambled from their home and Seyss waved a modest “hello”, the humble victor. The couple were less reserved. Shouting “Good Morning!” in their best English, they greeted him with smiles meant for their richest relations. Two more innocents who’d abhorred Hitler and welcomed the Americans as liberators. Seyss smiled back, wanting to shoot them. Instead, he offered the woman his arm, and speaking to her in exquisitely fractured German, escorted her down the lane until they were well past his destination. A few nimble glances over her shoulder revealed nothing untoward. Schmundt’s house was quiet as the grave.

At five minutes past ten, Seyss hopped the fence at the rear corner of the property and dashed toward the faux English monstrosity. Shimmying a gutter pipe to a second floor balcony, he pried open a window and slid into a partially furnished bedroom that stank of urine. The Russians had been here, too. Yet, no sooner had he opened the bedroom door and ventured a neck into the hallway, than a voice called from below.

“I’m in the salon, Erich. Do come down.” Seyss grimaced at the familiar nasal voice. Egon Bach.

The two men faced each other across an empty room, separated only by their mutual dislike. The furniture had been carted away and the carpets torn out, leaving the floorboards exposed. Traces of blood smeared the eggshell walls.

“Finally, I see the real you,” said Egon. “The adept at masquerade. The star of the costume ball. You always did look wonderful in a uniform. I’m jealous.”

Every time he saw Egon Bach, Seyss needed a second or two to get used to the puny fellow. The narrow shoulders, the marble-thick glasses, the inquisitive head two sizes too large for his body. He was a tortoise without his shell.

“Where’s Schmundt?”

“Gone. Taken away with the furniture. I don’t know and you shouldn’t worry.” Egon approached Seyss and clapped his hands on the taller man’s shoulders. “What’s wrong, Erich? You don’t trust me, anymore? No calls from Heidelberg. Not a word from Frankfurt. I would have thought a ‘thank you’ was in order.”

The touch of Egon’s hands reminded him all over how much he despised the Jew: the presumptuous manner, the cocksure voice coupled with that sickening little swagger.

“For what? Pulling me from the frying pan or throwing me into the fire? Your address in Frankfurt wasn’t worth a damn. The Amis had rolled up the entire neighborhood. Your friends were nowhere to be found. Or were they with Schmundt? Your ‘Circle of Fire’ seems to be shrinking daily. I doubt your father had the same problems.”

At the mention of his father, Egon colored a fierce red and dropped his arms to his sides. “If you’d called from Bauer’s as agreed, we’d have had none of these worries. You have no idea the effort we expended to pull you out of that armory.”

Seyss bowed theatrically. “Forgive my ingratitude. Next time, if you’re going to send a man to help me out of a pinch, at least have him give me a lift. It was a day’s walk to Frankfurt.”

“We may have friends, but we have to move carefully. Others are watching.” Egon stalked across the barren room and glanced out of the window. “By the way, I’ve seen to it that the families of Steiner and Biederman will be taken care of. I thought you’d be glad to know. Officer looking after his men and all that.”

“So it was Bauer who ratted us out?” Seyss roared at the irony. “I knew it! Another of your recruits.”

“Bauer?” smirked Egon. “You believe Heinz Bauer sold you out to the Amis? Oh, you are the arrogant one, Erich. I will grant you that. Bravo!” He clapped his hands with unbridled insolence, chuckling softly. “No, I’m afraid you have only yourself to blame for what happened in Wiesbaden. Whatever possessed you to deal with a man like Otto Kirch? You might as well have gone straight to Eisenhower.”

“It was Kirch?”

“How else did you think the Octopus stayed in business?”

“I imagined the same way as you.”

Egon ignored the jibe and Seyss knew it was only so he could inflict one of his own. “Kirch was on the phone to the Americans five minutes after you left him. They found a Herr Lenz in Mannheim who was only too eager to reveal your whereabouts. Unfortunately, Bauer made it out of Wiesbaden alive. It would have been better for all of us if there were no survivors.”

Egon paused long enough for Seyss to wonder if he was meant to be included. “So Bauer talked?”

“Against his will. I understand he had a long conversation with the American investigator who planned that charming soirée.”

“Judge?” Seyss spat out the name like a dose of poison.

Egon shook his head reprovingly, while clucking his tongue. “Tell me, have you spoken to Ingrid, lately? I understand she’s gone missing. Last seen with the same Major Judge at the American hospital in Heidelberg. She was happy to confirm that your body wasn’t among those in the morgue. He’s been screaming about it to his superiors, but so far we’ve managed to keep things quiet. He’s disappeared, as well. Officially absent without leave as of Monday evening.”

Seyss wasn’t sure what was being implied. “And?”

“’And?’” Egon threw his hands in the air. “What do you think, you beautiful idiot? He knows. He was a fucking detective in New York City. Two nights back, he called Patton raving about how you were still alive and on your way here to rid the world of Truman and Churchill. Patton’s issued a warrant for his arrest on some trumped-up charge, but sooner than later Judge is going to find someone who believes him.”

“You said he’d disappeared. Is there any reason to think he’s headed to Berlin?”

“We don’t know, and that’s the only reason we’re having this conversation.”

Seyss caught the veiled threat and added it to his store of hate for the odious runt. “Nonsense,” he said. “No way he could get here.”

“You’re here,” said Egon. “I’m here. Frankly, I’m a bit surprised Major Judge hasn’t joined the two of us for our little chat.” Plucking his glasses from his nose, he began cleaning the lenses with a handkerchief. “Aren’t you the least bit curious why this man is sticking to you like shit to a boot heel? You’ve nearly killed him twice. Any other policeman would have considered his duty fulfilled long ago.”

Seyss was pacing the room. “If you’ve something to say, spit it out.”

“You killed his older brother at Malmedy — the war crime the Americans had you in the cooler for. When Judge learned you’d escaped, he had himself transferred to Patton’s Third Army so that he could personally find you.”

Seyss took in the information without emotion. If Egon expected him to be frightened he was sorely mistaken. Judge was an amateur. He had only to recall their encounter at Lindenstrasse to confirm his opinion. Brave, perhaps, but nevertheless an amateur. “Is that what you came up here to tell me?”

“I’ve come,” Egon said, “because we no longer have the luxury of time. Originally we’d thought you’d have a week, eight days, to do the magic that made you such a hero. Unfortunately, that’s no longer the case.

“Oh? Tell me then, Egon, what is the case?”