Christopher Reich - The Runner

Egon marched over to the fireplace and picked up a blue folder resting on the mantle. “Read this. Everything you need to know is inside.”

Seyss raised a skeptical brow and accepted the folder. An American eagle was emblazoned on its cover, the words “Top Secret” and “Terminal” stamped above it. He lifted the cover. The first memo was addressed to General George S. Patton, Jr.

“Patton gave you this?”

Egon grinned triumphantly. “A true friend of Germany.”

Of course, thought Seyss. Who else could have ordered the Olympicstrasse cleared of traffic for a few hours? What better source to procure an authenticpersilschein ?

The first dossier contained information about the conference and its participants. Included were a detailed schedule of the daily plenary sessions, names of the Americans attending and their British and Soviet counterparts, a map of Babelsberg marked with the locations of the homes where Truman, Churchill and Stalin would be residing, and a second map marked with the route Truman would take from the “Little White House” at Kaiserstrasse 2 to the Cecilienhof in Potsdam some ten kilometers away.

The second dossier concerned security measures. Names of the secret service officers assigned to the presidential detail. Military policemen seconded to the presidential security detachment. A proposed duty roster.

The third dossier contained similar information for Winston Churchill and, more interesting to Seyss, for Stalin, himself. Seyss recognized the name of the Russian General commanding the NKYD regulars dispatched to guard the town of Potsdam. Mikhail Kissin, nicknamed, “ the Tiger”.

The last held mostly mundane information — menus for each day’s meals, a list of radio frequencies for daily transmissions to Washington, and finally, an urgent note stating that due to a lack of potable water in Babelsberg one hundred cases of French drinking water would be flown in each morning to Gatow Airport.

Seyss re-read the final notice, seeing in his mind’s eye a stack of cartons piled high beside an American supply truck and the words “ Evian. Eau Minerale ”, stenciled upon them. Egon Bach had struck gold.

“This is good, Egon. Very good. But it will only be of use once I’m in Potsdam. Have you been by the border? Stalin has it zipped up tight.”

Egon reached into his jacket and handed Seyss a visitor’s pass to the Cecilienhof issued in the name of Aaron Sommerfeld. “Mr Sommerfeld is a member of the US State Department’s delegation to the conference. Currently, he finds himself in a hospital in Frankfurt laid up with a bad case of dysentery.”

Seyss examined the pass. “It’s for tomorrow.”

Egon shrugged disinterestedly. He might have given him lousy seats to the symphony instead of a warrant for his death. “As I said, time is a luxury we no longer possess. You have yourself to thank.”

Seyss slid the pass into his pocket. “There might be another way. Truman is visiting Berlin today to raise the flag over the headquarters of the American command. Naturally there will be a speech, a tour of the building. Eisenhower will be with him. So will your good friend, General Patton. Get me a decent rifle and I’ll take all three.”

Egon was shaking his head before Seyss had finished speaking. “Truman isn’t enough. We must have Churchill, too. Otherwise, the Brits will talk the Americans down. As for Eisenhower, no one will care. Soldiers are supposed to die. Besides, it must be in Potsdam. It must occur under the Russian’s nose if it’s to mean a thing. It must appear as if Stalin had sanctioned the entire affair. The cauldron must be made to boil, understand?”

But Seyss was in no mood for understanding. “Tomorrow, Egon? Are you out of your mind? You’re giving me no time to plan; no time to have a look around. It’s ahimmelfahrtskommando . A one way ticket to heaven! Suicide!”

Egon kept his eyes locked on Seyss, speaking as if the words hadn’t registered. “Your name will be on the list of visitors arriving from Berlin. The others are press, a few VIPs. A bus leaves from the Bristol Hotel at nine in the morning.”

“And a way out?” Seyss demanded. “Have you planned that for me too?” Suddenly, he was angry. Furious. Not only at Egon but at himself. Of course, Egon hadn’t planned a way out. Why should he have when Seyss, himself, hadn’t expected to come out alive? But something had changed over the past few days. He’d seen that Germany would survive and the thought of his country battling back from the brink instilled in him a new desire to fight with it.

“Come, come,” said Egon. “You’re being dramatic. I have every faith in your ability to wangle your way out. You couldn’t expect me to think of everything?”

Seyss laughed dryly. He felt as if he were stepping outside himself and looking back at a man he didn’t know. A stupid man. Why should Egon Bach want him to escape? Seyss was the only man who could attach him to the murder of two world leaders. Egon couldn’t afford to have a loose cannon careering across the desk of Bach Industries. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about Germany, only the family konzern . A strong Germany meant a healthy Bach Industries, and a healthy Bach Industries, profit for Egon Bach. His venal eye rendered Seyss’s love of country a rube’s delusion.

And as Seyss walked across the room and replaced the dossier on the mantelpiece, he felt a cold hand settle on his shoulder.Sachlichkeit.

“You know, Egon, you’re right. I wouldn’t dream of asking you for anything else. The information you’ve provided is top notch. The rest is up to me.”

Egon smiled confidently. “I’m glad you think so.”

“Come to think of it, I don’t think we need ever to speak to each other again.”

It was true. He had everything he needed. Moreover,he didn’t want anyone left to tie him to the murder of two world leaders, either. He had no intention of being captured or killed. He was, after all, a Brandenburger.

Sensing his intentions, Egon lost the self assured grin. “Erich, don’t be rash.”

“I’m not, Egon. Just smart.”

“This is ridiculous. Why, we’re practically family.” But even as he spoke, his right hand was delving inside his jacket, fumbling for an all too conspicuous bulge.

Seyss found his holster, unsnapped the leather flap, and withdrew the Colt .45, all in single fluid motion. Family? With a Jew? As he dropped the safety and tightened hi

finger on the trigger, the thought made him cringe.

“I might as well be your brother,” mumbled Egon, his words coming fast and loose. He had freed his pistol from his pocket, a neat little Browning 9mm, and held it limply in front of him, his hand shaking almost as much as his voice. “Christ, I’m your boy’s uncle. If that’s not blood, I don’t know what is.”

Seyss let go the pressure on the trigger, cocking his head just the slightest. His boy’s uncle? What was he talking about?

“Pardon me?”

And in that instant, Egon raised the Luger and straightened his arm to fire.

Seyss’s grip hardened round the Colt. Stepping forward, he depressed the trigger even as he raised the pistol. A split second passed, no more, but to Seyss it was all the time in the world. As a sprinter, he had learned to measure the world in halves of seconds, in quarters, in eighths. Somehow, he could see things more clearly when he was moving. Motion brought clarity, and clarity, understanding. Where others saw a blur, he saw an outline. Where others saw a shadow, he saw a form and could discern its intent. And so he knew he had won.

Squeezing off a round, he drilled a hole dead center in Egon Bach’s forehead.

Some people had no business touching firearms.