The Runner (15 page)

“Let them come,” he whispered in a melancholy voice. “If this is all that is left, the Reds can have it.”

T
HE SUN WAS SETTING AS
they passed through Karlsruhe an hour later. Heidelberg lay eighty kilometers due north. Another two hours aboard the petrol express. The air had cooled considerably. A thick cushion of cloud hovered low on the horizon. Far away, lightning flickered, but Seyss couldn’t hear the thunder. He lay his head on an arm and closed his eyes.

A sudden thud awakened him. The car was completely dark. He could barely make out his companion’s shadow at the far side of the car. “Lenz,” he yelled. “What was that?”

“A new engine?”

“Too close. It came from the car in front of us.” Seyss hustled toward the sound, picking his way over the jerry cans as nimbly as a cat. Men’s voices carried from somewhere down the track. He peered from the car, searching for a clue to his anxiety. Something felt wrong. For a soldier, that was enough.

The train shuddered, then began rolling forward. He tapped his leg in rhythm to the pulse of the engine. Faster, faster. He slid to his left and stared from the slats. Stars shone from the ground. He squinted his eyes and saw that he was looking at the night sky’s reflection in a body of water. They were headed toward a broad river.

“It’s the Rhine,” he said, as if announcing its discovery.

“We don’t want to get off on the other side,” said Lenz, who was staring at the river from the opposite end of the car. “The French control the Saar. That must be Ludwigshafen, we’re looking at.”

“So?”

“So? The French aren’t as forgiving as Uncle Sam or John Bull. Your
persilschein
means nothing to them. Haven’t you heard? They’re sending our men to labor camps in Biarritz and Avignon. I’m all for a holiday, but that’s not exactly my style.”

Seyss recalled Robert Weber telling him about the French government’s policy of using captured German soldiers to man their factories and mine their ore. At the same moment, he remembered Rosen’s words as he closed the wagon door.
Bon voyage.
And, suddenly it clicked. The Americans had put them into a car bound for the French zone. Two mouths fewer for the occupational army to feed. Who knew how many more men were in the cars behind them? As if to confirm his thoughts, the train veered left and he heard the hollow thump of the forward cars crossing onto the bridge.

“We’re crossing the fucking Rhine!” shouted Lenz.

Seyss scuttled toward the door and began hoisting empty jerry cans and throwing them over his shoulder. Lenz joined him. When a small square had been cleared, Seyss jumped into the opening and began handing the cans up to his companion. He looked outside. The train was gathering speed, but their car had not yet come to the bridge. He lifted a can, then another. He jumped down a level. Empty gasoline cans fell onto his shoulders. The fumes were overpowering. The car jostled violently under him. They were on the bridge. Another few cans and he found the latch to the door. Wrapping his palms around the iron arm, he shoved it downward with all his strength. The lock disengaged and the door slid open. He swung from the car and looked ahead of him. Twenty yards farther on a platoon of soldiers waited, strung out along the wooden ramparts leading to the far side of the bridge. The silhouette of their helmets identified them as French.
Poilus.
Thirty feet below flowed the Rhine.

He smiled despite himself. The sergeant in Munich palming his watch. Private Rosen wishing him bon voyage. Brilliant! The men would have made the SS proud.

He looked up at Lenz, then back at the Frenchmen. Dammit. There was really no decision to be made. “Lenz, get your ass down here.”

The stout man dangled over the edge of the shifting ledge. This was no time for hesitation. Seyss grabbed his feet and gave them a tremendous yank. Lenz tumbled down, all two hundred pounds of him and a dozen jerry cans, to boot. Seyss linked arms with him. “Ready?”

Seyss leaped from the train before Lenz could answer. The two men landed in a heap and rolled onto their backs. Fifteen feet away, a soldier raised his weapon.
“Arrêtez!”

Seyss picked up Lenz and shoved him across the ramparts. “Jump!”

A shot was fired, then another. Lenz took a step forward and disappeared from view. Seyss followed a half second later. The water was cold; the current faster than he expected. He glanced up and saw a dozen rifles pointed at him. Then he was in darkness, safe under the bridge.

“Lenz!”

“Over here.”

“Are you hit?”

“By a lousy frog? Never.”

“Kick against the current. We must remain under the bridge.”

“My brother was the sailor. Me, I’m infantry all the way.” The gargling of water replaced his voice, then, “Shit. I can’t keep this up.”

Seyss swam toward the gravelly voice. A jagged piece of debris slammed into his cheek and he found himself sucking down a mouthful of water. Lenz was flailing now, arms slapping the water, head bobbing up and down, his motions growing more spasmodic, more hysterical. Seyss ducked under the water, surfacing behind the larger man. He positioned an arm around his shoulder, but Lenz knocked it off, spinning in the water, throwing both arms around Seyss as if hoping to climb up and over him. Christ, thought Seyss, it was like holding up a boulder. Frantic hands groped his shoulders, his shirt. He kicked violently, working to free Lenz, to turn him around so that he might drag him to a bridge support.

Suddenly, Lenz went under and a moment later, Seyss did too, dragged down by desperate fingers clawing at his waist and the frayed web belt that held his gold. Finally, he pried the fingers free, managing to wrap his forearm around Lenz’s neck. Two firm kicks brought the men to the surface.

“Ruhe!”
shouted Seyss through gasps for breath. Calm down! He laid an arm around Lenz’s neck and began kicking toward the nearest pylon. Floodlights erupted from the western shore. Pale beams swept the water but did not penetrate beneath the bridge. He swam harder. After another minute, he pulled Lenz onto a rough concrete abutment, then joined him. Above them, footsteps pounded back and forth along the ramparts built to support the bridge. Voices called out in French and English, but he could not make out what they said.

Seyss lay still, gathering his breath. One hand checked his breast pocket for the Russian Colonel Truchin’s identification. Good. Still there. The other fell to his trousers and the web belt that no longer circled his waist. He was standing in a snap, eyes combing the abutment, running over the flowing green water. It was hopeless. The gold was gone. And to his horror, so was his wallet, and with it two thousand dollars. He was penniless.

A new round of cries forced him to postpone his mourning. His first priority was to get to safety. They had one option and one option only. They must drift north a mile or two under cover of darkness, then swim to shore. It was doubtful the Americans would search for a couple of krauts trying to keep themselves out of French hands. He explained his idea to Lenz, who grunted his approval. One thing was certain: The man could not stay afloat long by himself. He would need assistance.

Seyss swam into the river and treaded water until he could find a piece of debris large enough to support Sergeant Hans-Christian Lenz. Part of him wanted to abandon the man right here. Lenz could drown for all he cared. He’d already brought enough bad luck. The idea never took root. A German officer’s foremost duty was to his men.

Spotting a warped piece of wood large enough to have been a road sign or a section of flooring, he yanked it to his body and swam back to the pylon.

“Take this,” he instructed Lenz. “Hold it above your chest and float under it. You must keep your head under the water for as long as possible until we are far from the bridge. Take a deep breath, then under you go.
Alles klar?”

“Ja. Alles klar.”
Lenz pulled at the tips of his mustache. “I should have guessed you were a filthy officer. What? A captain? Major? Or were you one of the ambitious pricks they promoted to colonel?”

“Major was as high as they saw fit.”

“Maybe one day you’ll tell me your real name.”

“Maybe.” Seyss offered a smile of good luck. “Off you go. I’ll be right behind you.”

Lenz held the piece of wood under his arm. With his free hand he grasped Seyss by the shoulder. “You saved me twice tonight. Once from a vacation on the Côte d’Azur, and then from a trip to a much hotter destination. Maybe one day, I can—”

“Shut up, Lenz. Time to swim.”

CHAPTER

16

U
PON HIS RETURN TO
F
LINT
K
ASERNE,
Devlin Judge set out to track down General Oliver von Luck. It was six in the evening and outdoors the summer weather was inviting. A bold sun promised the local beer gardens a healthy crowd. Indoors, the
kaserne
’s hallways were deserted. Gone were the legions of smartly attired soldiers making their daily rounds. Passing an open door, he’d hear a hushed voice or a muffled laugh. In the gloom of the endless corridors, a shadowy figure shuffled from one office to the next. A skeleton crew could put Germany to bed. Administering the peace was a less urgent pursuit than fighting a war.

Judge had been given a large office on the second floor. Four pine-top desks were spaced evenly around the room, scarred leftovers from the Academy’s glory days. Among the initials and dates carved into their yellowed surface, he had found the inscriptions of several promising cadets. “1000 Jews equals 1 German.”
“Lebensraum.”
Living space. And most haunting, the single word
“Vernichtung”
written ten times over in a perfect column. Annihilation. He had tried to repeat the word all ten times, but couldn’t. It was physically impossible. After the fifth repetition, the word caught in his throat as a gush of nausea flooded his body. Above his head, an exposed pipe ran the length of the ceiling. Droplets of water leaked from one end of it into a tin bucket set in the corner.

But nothing was as bad as the mural. Painted across the rear wall was a Teutonic knight in full chivalric armor, blue eyes focused on the sunlit horizon, blond hair tousled by the wind. He rode a fiery black steed and brandished a gleaming sword. A scarlet Nazi armband was the artist’s sole concession to modernity. Above the scene floating among puffy clouds was a silver ribbon bearing the words
Mein Ehre Heisst Treue.
Loyalty is my honor. Every time Judge looked at the picture he cringed.

Along with the office and the lovely artwork, he’d been given three aides. Two of them were on the road, visiting divisional offices of the military police. A third, one PFC George Merlin, an acned teenager from Iowa, had gone home for the day. As for Honey, he’d left for Munich to run down a lead. Someone from the local arm of Bob Storey’s Document Collection Division had come across the personnel records of the First SS Panzer Division and Honey wanted to check if any of Seyss’s comrades lived in the Munich area. Afterward he planned on finding himself a billet.

Judge slid back his chair and with a resigned sigh set to work. First, he sent queries to all CIC substations regarding last known whereabouts of General Oliver von Luck. Next, he transmitted wires to the seven regional chiefs of what remained of Germany’s criminal police, known as the
Kripo,
asking for their cooperation in the search. The process was painstakingly slow, demanding the filling out of a mountain of forms, requests, and authorizations, each in triplicate. At ten past midnight, after a half hour of haggling with the night operator, he managed to get a direct line to Washington, D.C., and put in a call to Headquarters Military Intelligence at the War Department. Judge kept his request simple: Please forward all information regarding the last known posting of General Oliver von Luck, German Army. Urgent. To add a little zip, he said, “by order of General George S. Patton, Jr.,” then hung up the phone.

“So you’re looking for Ollie von Luck?”

Judge jumped in his chair, his eyes seeking the source of the words. A hunched figure lurked in the doorway, face cloaked in shadow. He had a high-pitched voice that delivered his English with a thick German accent.

“Who are you?”

“Altman is my name. Klaus Altman.” The man stepped into Judge’s office, the glare of the overhead light reflecting off his bald pate. He was young, no more than thirty, dressed in a pressed gray suit that despite its obvious quality looked as if it belonged to a taller man. A pronounced brow hid pale, anxious eyes. An aquiline nose and ruby lips curled in a salacious sneer completed the picture. He looked for all the world like a dirty-minded vulture. Advancing a step, he flashed a United States Army identification, holding it long enough for Judge to take a careful look.

“I am employed by the CIC substation in Augsburg,” Altman went on. “Lieutenant Delvecchio is my commanding officer. I understand you’re working with one of my colleagues, Sergeant Darren Honey?”

“That’s correct.” Judge motioned for Altman to take a seat, his heartbeat slowly returning to normal. The compact man shuffled forward, offering an ingratiating bow as he pulled the chair close to Judge’s desk. Judge didn’t know what scared him more: this little creep’s midnight visit or that the counterintelligence branch of the U.S. Army was employing Germans, presumably former members of the military, presumably Nazis, as agents. “So you know von Luck?”

“Of course. He was a famous man, even well regarded . . . once.”

Once.
The ominous tone in Altman’s voice warned of bad news to come. “What can you tell me about him?”

“You’re familiar with the Abwehr? The intelligence wing within the Wehrmacht run by Wilhelm Canaris. The man for whom you are looking, General Oliver von Luck, served as Canaris’s deputy chief from 1939 to 1944. Both men were active members of the Twentieth of July plotters, the cabal of officers who attempted to assassinate the Führer at his military headquarters in East Prussia.”

“Wolfschanze.”
Judge gave the German name of the headquarters. The wolf’s lair.

“Ah, you speak German. Excellent.” Altman grinned while cocking his eyebrows, as if the two shared an appetite for an exotic dish. When he spoke next, it was in his native tongue. “Von Luck is dead. He was arrested with Canaris and tried by the People’s Court, Roland Freisler presiding. You’re aware of Freisler’s record?”

“Shit.” Judge couldn’t stop the word from escaping. “Yes, I am.”

In the wake of the failed attempt on Hitler’s life over five thousand men and women had been executed, many of them tried and convicted by said Roland Freisler, a strutting, raving sadist who derived overt and grotesque gratification from verbally lacerating the accused in his kangaroo court. The most prominent of the plotters were hung by piano wire and left to die a slow, excruciating death. Hitler had demanded that the executions be filmed.

“We know that Canaris was killed,” said Judge, “but do you have confirmation that von Luck received the same punishment?”

“Someone so close to Canaris could not have survived.”

Judge recognized an evasive answer when he heard one. “Do you have any proof he was executed?”

“Proof, no,” replied Altman crisply, his integrity impugned. “I was stationed in France at the time, in Lyons. But believe me when I say von Luck could not have escaped the Gestapo’s grasp.” The pride in his voice left no doubt as to the German’s wartime affiliation. “I’m sorry if you are disappointed.”

“Thanks for the information, but I’ll keep checking all the same.”

“Suit yourself.” Altman placed a hand on the desk and leaned close. “Might I ask if this is in connection with your search for Erich Seyss?”

“It is. Von Luck was Seyss’s trainer for the Olympic Games. I assume Erich Seyss is what brings you here at this late hour.”

The German answered a simple yes, mumbling an insincere apology for disturbing him, before delving on. “Excuse my curiosity, Major, but I had to speak with you in person. You see, I’m a little confused by what’s been happening these last few days. It seems you’re mounting an awfully large operation to bring in one man. Is there, perhaps, any information you are holding back that you might care to share with me? Any idea why Seyss is staying in the country?”

“We’re not withholding any information, Mr. Altman. You have everything we have.”

Altman waggled a finger, affecting a far-off glance. “If it were me, and I’d killed an American officer to get out of a camp, I’d turn south and keep going until I hit the Adriatic. Maybe I’d try for Naples. Either way, I’d get out of the country as soon as I possibly could. It must be something awfully important for Seyss to remain in Germany.”

“There’s nothing more I can tell you, Mr. Altman. It’s as simple as that.”

But even as the words left his lips, Judge was thinking of the dog tags Honey had retrieved from the basement of Lindenstrasse 21, hearing Corporal Dietsch recount Seyss’s words. “One last race for Germany.” He mulled his impressions over, mixing in the decidedly suspicious cast to Altman’s voice.
It must be something awfully important for Seyss to remain in Germany.
Looking up, he found Altman’s dull blue eyes boring into him, and suddenly, unaccountably, he grew breathless and a little dizzy. He remembered feeling the same way only once before, the first time he’d been to the top of the Empire State Building. Peering out over Manhattan, past Central Park into the Bronx, east to Brooklyn, and west up the Hudson River, he’d nearly fainted at the immensity of it all. He’d never imagined the world was so big. The revelation was as frightening as it was inspirational. A similar sensation swept over him now, a notion that he was tapping into something larger than he knew. And the thought dashed through his mind that he’d be smart to turn around this second and go home without asking any more questions. Francis could fend for himself.

“Too bad, then,” said Altman. “I’m sorry for disturbing you so late in the evening, but my work demands I keep a rather odd schedule.” His voice registered disappointment but his squirming lips never lost their lascivious posture. “I hope you didn’t take fright.”

“No,” Judge lied, “not at all.” He stood, still trying to shake off the discomfiting feeling as he accompanied his visitor to the door. “Mind if I ask what CIC has you doing these days?”

Altman shrugged helplessly in his too large suit. “I’m terribly sorry but most of our work is classified. I can only say that many of the men we’re looking for here in the western zone are proving useful in the East.”

Judge shook the man’s hand, wishing him good-night. It was clear that Altman was referring to his former colleagues in the Gestapo. Gestapo stood for Geheimstaatspolizei. The secret state police. For the past ten years, they’d been spying on their fellow Germans. All they had to do was turn their snooping apparatus in the opposite direction and spy on the Russians. The work was the same. The only difference was to whom they reported.
Useful indeed.

“At least we know Erich Seyss is in Munich,” Altman said in parting. “If he stays in Germany, we’ll find him. Let’s hope you scared him underground. That’s my territory. There’s only so many places a man can hide.”

Judge watched the man slip off down the corridor. His footsteps were exceptionally soft, little more than brushstrokes against the flagstone. Then they were gone, like a rain that had abruptly stopped. Judge strained his neck, squinting into the darkness to make out the man’s crooked silhouette, but he saw nothing. Shivering, he crossed the hall to the rest room. He had an overwhelming desire to wash his hands and face. Suddenly, he felt very dirty.

C
ONTRARY TO WHAT HE TOLD
Major Judge, Darren Honey did not proceed to the Munich arm of Colonel Robert Storey’s Document Collection Division. The personnel records of the First SS Panzer Division had, in fact, turned up, but Storey had already received them in Paris. Nor did Honey, as he’d also told Judge, inquire about finding a billet for noncommissioned officers. Pointing the nose of his jeep north, he left Bad Toelz and made his way out of the foothills and into the lush plain that surrounded the city of Munich. As the roads worsened, and he began dodging shell holes, craters, and piles of rubble taller than the buildings they’d once comprised, he sat up straighter and his smile vanished. Soon his face took on a decidedly unpleasant cast.

Darren Honey was sick of war and sicker of being smack-dab in the middle of it. Most of all, he was sick of being someone else. His post in the 477th Counterintelligence Company of the United States Army was only the latest in a string of covers too long to enumerate. He hadn’t landed at Morocco with Patton in ’42, nor had he endured Anzio beach with Mark Clark. Everything he had told Devlin Judge about himself was false, including his name. The only honest thing about his appearance was the ribbon adorning his chest that denoted the Silver Star. He’d been awarded the commendation in recognition for actions taken in Paris, France, on the fifth of June 1944, one day prior to the Allied landings in Normandy. He’d been sworn never to divulge what exactly he did, but it involved making sure that certain German generals visiting the French capital for a bit of Rest and Recreation were kept far away from their respective divisional headquarters in Normandy. It had cost quite a few lives.

Honey’s work came under the heading SO, or special operations, known within the Organization of Strategic Services, or OSS, simply as Department II. His rank, not that it counted for much, was actually captain, which for a poor kid from Arlington, Virginia, who’d never even graduated high school, wasn’t too shabby.

The OSS was America’s secret intelligence service. Formed in 1941, just months before the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, it had already placed thousands of agents around the globe, from Burma to Bulgaria, Singapore to Stockholm. The man who commanded the OSS, who had built it from the very ground up, was named William J. Donovan. His heroics in the First World War as an officer in the Fighting Sixty-ninth had earned him the Congressional Medal of Honor, along with the nickname “Wild Bill.” Contrary to his colorful moniker, Donovan was a mild-mannered, avuncular man, with thin gray hair and kind blue eyes. In the years between the wars, he’d made a small fortune as a Park Avenue attorney and consultant to many of America’s largest corporations. He didn’t speak loudly, but something about him made you pay close attention to his every word. People called him charismatic and magnetic. Honey called him sir, and did exactly as ordered.