Christopher Reich - The Runner

But when Judge had arrived at Kronprinzenallee, Seyss was already walking from his parked car, and in seconds he had disappeared into the ranks of the gathered soldiers.

Abruptly, the ceremony ended. The flag fluttered in a light breeze atop the Air Defense Command. The orchestra played a Souza march. The assembled dignitaries shook hands with one another and slowly made their way from the podium. A hive of officers swarmed at the base of the steps, waiting to greet the President and the former Supreme Allied Commander. Despite his average height, Truman was easily visible. His pale straw hat stood in marked contrast both in color and shape to the olive military covers. An easy target. Apoplectic, Judge cut through the crowd moving in a course parallel to Truman’s. He thought feverishly of what kind of diversion he could create. Something that would alert the President to the danger he was in. All he could think of was to yell what he shouted at an opposing pitcher when he’d struck out Snyder and Viola: “Get lost, you bum.” He looked around for something to throw. A bump on the head would hasten his departure, that’s for sure. He found nothing. Naturally, the grounds had been cleared of debris for the ceremony.

By now, a picket of soldiers had formed around the President. Truman’s automobile drew up and he climbed in, followed by Ike and Omar Bradley, the two ranking generals present. Watching the sedan pull away, Judge breathed easier. Only Patton remained on the podium. His stiff posture belied some interior strain, either physical or mental. Judge eyed him thinking,You sonuvabitch. You’re helping Seyss. You’re a part of this.

An officer mounted the podium and addressed himself to Patton. He stood toe to toe with the General, shaking his hand exuberantly. Patton colored visibly and looked in either direction, but the officer did not release his hand. Only as he leaned forward to whisper something in Patton’s ear did Judge catch the tan skin, the arrogant jaw, and the flashing blue eyes.

“General, I believe it’s time we finally met.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, Captain. Did you serve under my command?”

“You might say that. Actually, I’m serving under it now.”

“Then you’re off limits, son. My Third Army doesn’t grant R&R in Berlin. What unit are you with?”

“A very special one. We call ourselves the ‘Circle of Fire’. My name is Seyss. Erich Seyss. Once I was a major.”

George Patton flinched, his normally ruddy mien flushing an exquisite plum. It wasn’t often a major could make the equivalent of a field marshal squirm and Seyss was enjoying the moment immensely. He leaned closer to Patton, whispering in his hear. “I wanted to thank you personally for the dossier on Terminal. I wouldn’t have a chance without it. But it’s hardly enough. Not if I’m to do a proper job and get out in one piece.”

“Spit it out, man,” Patton said through clenched teeth. “You’ve got your credentials, what else is it you need?”

“Be at the entry of the Cecilienhof tomorrow at eleven. Keep yourself visible. I’ll be accompanying you into the main hall, and if things go as planned, out again as well.” When Patton didn’t answer, he added, “Otherwise, I can’t promise what will happen to the dossier. It might be hard to explain why a man supposedly under supervised custody got his hands on such sensitive material.”

“Egon Bach is indispensable to the rebuilding of Germany,” blustered Patton.

“You mean hewas.” Seyss smiled, and before Patton could ask him what he meant, fired off a salute. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow morning at eleven. Good day, General. It was an honor. Truly.”

Returning to the car, Seyss focused his mind on the task at hand. Tomorrow morning at ten he’d report to the Bristol Hotel for a ride out to Potsdam. He’d need some civilian clothes before then and some time to study Egon’s dossier. For all the information the papers gave him, it couldn’t begin to give him a picture of the set-up of the place. The placement of security guards, who sat where, where the leaders lunched, the layout of the Cecilienhof itself. All that he must learn for himself.

Seyss snaked through the crowd, finally breaking free of it at the corner of Wilhelmstrasse and Prinz Albrechststrasse. Spotting the Horsch, he picked up his heels and walked a little quicker. It was a beautiful machine. The registration said it belonged to Karl Heinz Gessler. Now there was a name from the past. During Ingrid’s time as a student at Humboldt University, the two had dined regularly at the Gesslers. The cuisine was terrible as he recalled. Nothing but overcooked sauerbraten and lumpy spatzle .

The thought of Ingrid brought back Egon’s odd words: “Christ, I’m your boy’s uncle.” Seyss wanted to dismiss the remark as a ploy, an almost successful effort at distraction, but the words stayed with him. He wondered if Ingrid was the reason Egon had come to Berlin. Egon had stated that Judge had enlisted her help to track down her one-time fiancé. Brother and sister had never gotten along, but he’d always suspected that Egon was secretly mad about her. Maybe too mad.

More likely, it was Judge; Bauer’s capture and the subsequent call to Patton giving Egon ample reason to believe the American intended to travel to Berlin. Judge! Every time he heard the American’s name he felt a dread chill. Instinctively, he turned and scanned the street behind him. He saw the usual mish-mash of city folk: a pair of Trümmerfrauen hard at work; a one-legged veteran begging; a postman fiddling with his motorbike. Nothing to worry about. Calmer, he realized he’d half expected to see the fiery-eyed American bearing down on him. Nerves.

Unlocking the Horsch, he climbed into the driver’s seat and keyed the ignition. Over the velvet growl of the twelve cylinder engine, he asked himself where in Berlin he might hide if he were traveling with Ingrid Bach and two days absent without leave. The answer came at once, and he smiled. Why not have a look? He needed a quiet spot to spend the afternoon, someplace sufficiently private where he could delve into Patton’s dossier without interruption. Who knew? He might find an old set of clothing.

Even better, he might find Judge.

Kneeling alongside the purloined motorbike, Judge observed Erich Seyss slide into the sleek roadster. Whatever ideas he’d harbored about jumping him and screaming bloody murder, he canned the moment he saw the German speaking to Patton. As far as Judge knew, every MP around the place might be one of Patton’s henchmen. Waiting for a puff of smoke to shoot from the exhaust, Judge swung a leg over the ripped seat and kickstarted the engine. The Horsch pulled away from the curb and crept up the street. Judge allowed it a fifty yard head start, then angled the bike into the center of the road and gave chase.

The black sports car traveled north along Wilhelmstrasse, slowing to cross the Unter den Linden, then accelerating wildly when it reached the other side. Judge threaded his way through a gaggle of pedestrians, almost losing Seyss as the automobile made a sharp turn right around a devastated street comer. Opening up the throttle, Judge ducked low and cut the corner only to see Seyss turn again, this time left. Pylons of debris six feet high cluttered the road. He thanked God for the mess. One extended straightaway and Seyss would be out of sight.

Even so, Judge had to struggle to keep up. The Horsch was just too fast. Eyes tearing from the wind, he came to an abrupt and unpleasant realization. Continuing surveillance on Seyss was futile. It would be no use trying to arrest Seyss and impossible to catch him in the act. If he wanted to stop him, he had to kill him. And soon.

At some point, the two crossed into the Russian zone. Dozens of Red Army soldiers patrolled the street, but given their lackluster posture it was difficult to tell if they were on duty or off. The Horsch turned right onto a broad boulevard, teeming with horses, pushcarts and pedestrians. Blumenstrasse , read a street sign posted on a scarred brownstone. Judge recognized the name. The post office where he’d stolen the motorcycle was located somewhere along this street.