The Runner (37 page)

Drawing up her skirt a notch or two, Ingrid guided a perfectly formed leg over him and straddled his chest. Slowly, she unbuttoned her blouse, freeing one arm, then another from her sleeves. Slipping a hand behind her back, she unclasped her brassiere and dropped it onto his belly. Posture erect, breasts bathed in the waning moonlight, she placed an ivory hand in his lap and began kneading him, moving her palm in slow circles as he lifted his hips to meet her. He touched his finger to her nipple and brushed it gently back and forth until it was erect, and Ingrid was quivering with anticipation. His body was suffused with a liquid warmth, an encompassing heat that pulsed in time to his heart. When he ran a finger over her lips, she shuddered noticeably.

“Now,” she said.

Judge lifted her with his hands and guided her onto the bed next to him. For a few seconds, they stared at each other, intimate beyond their time together, each inviting the other into their soul. Eyes open wide, lips trembling with anticipation, Ingrid looked vulnerable yet supreme, eager yet frightened.

He moved slowly at first, tenderly. He kissed her shoulders and her neck, seeking diversion from the heat building in his loins. It was she who quickened their rhythm, she who rose to meet his thrusts. She was passionate and uncontrolled, and the volatile combination eclipsed anything he’d ever experienced. Her face grew flushed, her breath low and vibrant. She bit into his lip, fighting to stifle her moans.

“Devlin,” she whispered,
“halte nicht. Halte nie.”

Judge tucked his face into her neck, aware that his movements were no longer his own. All of himself—his hopes and dreams, his fears and worries—was concentrated into a white-hot core at the center of her being. He closed his eyes and as he let himself go, he realized that his ardor for her extended beyond a physical craving and that Ingrid had rekindled in him the desire to love.

“W
HAT WILL YOU DO?
”
SHE
asked afterward.

“I’m going to find him,” Judge said evenly. It didn’t matter that he’d never been to Berlin before, he added for his own benefit, or that he didn’t have so much as a scooter to get around, or that his own police were looking for him.

“Berlin is a big city,” she said. “We walked for three hours to get here and we didn’t even cross a quarter of it. He might be anywhere.”

“If he were hiding, I’d give up. I’d say it was impossible. But he’s not. He’s out and about. He’s got a job to do and he’s figuring out how to do it. Actually, I’m optimistic.”

Smiling, Ingrid sat up on an elbow and ran a finger over his lips. “Optimistic, even?”

“Didn’t you hear Sergeant Mahoney? President Truman is visiting Berlin today. All we’ve got to do is find out where and when and I’m betting Seyss will be there.”

“I hope you’ll let me go with you.”

“The police’ll be looking for the pair of us traveling together. We used up our ration of luck last night. Besides, there’s something else I need you to do. I want you to get in touch with Chip DeHaven. You told me he’d written you that he’d be in Potsdam for the conference. Did he ask you to come up for a visit?”

“Well, yes, but I’m sure he was just being polite.”

“Then let him show you his manners. He’s your cousin. He’ll have no choice but to see you when he learns you’re in town. As a counselor to the president, I imagine he’s quartered in Potsdam. Probably with Truman himself.”

“I can’t just go to Potsdam and tell Chip I’m here,” Ingrid protested. “It belongs to the Russians now.”

“That’s true. We have to find someone to let DeHaven know you’re in town.”

“I’m afraid we’re a little short of friends at the moment. Who do you propose?”

Judge asked himself who in Berlin might share his distrust of authority. The answer came in an instant.

Leaning closer to Ingrid, he ran a hand through her hair and whispered it in her ear.

CHAPTER

46

S
EYSS ROSE AT DAWN, SHOWERED,
and dressed in one of the fresh uniforms he’d taken from room 421 of the Frankfurt Grand. The walk to the mess hall was like a stroll down memory lane. Images of morning formation flooded his mind. He dismissed them outright. Nostalgia had no claim on his time today. Instead of herring, sausage, and hard rolls, he took eggs, bacon, and toast. The talk at the breakfast table was confined to one subject: Truman’s visit to Berlin. The flag raising was set for twelve o’clock at the former Air Defense headquarters. On his way to the ceremony, the president would pass the length of the East–West Axis in review of the Second Armored Division. From the excited talk, Seyss gathered that practically every American soldier in Berlin would participate either in the parade or the ceremony, as would the cream of the American high command. Patton, Bradley, even Eisenhower, himself, were slated to attend.

It was, Seyss decided, the rarest of opportunities.

Newly confident, he crossed the parade ground and walked into the motor pool. A broad smile and a stiff bribe got him an MP’s Harley-Davidson WLA, complete with windscreen, siren, saddlebags, and a rifle bucket (unfortunately empty). The mechanic was sorry he didn’t have anything speedier. Everything else had been dragged out for the parade.

With a few hours before his meeting with Herr Doctor Schmundt in Wannsee, Seyss decided to make a tour of the capital. He was anxious to see how Berlin had fared, and more important, to discover the disposition of occupying troops in the different parts of the city. At Yalta, Stalin, Roosevelt, and Churchill had divided Berlin into three sectors. The Russians took the East, the British the Northwest, and the Americans the South and Southwest. After the war ended, the French crowed about wanting a piece for themselves, so the Brits carved a chunk from their sector and handed it over. Germany had become a cake, with all the victors claiming a piece.

Leaving Lichterfelde, he motored north toward Charlottenberg, patrolling the East–West Axis from the Victory Column to the Brandenburg Gate to view the preparations for the parade. Armored vehicles of every sort lined both sides of the eight lane road. Tanks, half-tracks, self-propelled guns. He stopped long enough to gape at the carcass of the Reichstag—still smoldering two months after its destruction—and the remains of the Adlon Hotel. Beneath the Quadriga, a crew of GIs was busily erecting a large wooden placard.

“You Are Now Leaving the American Sector,” read the sign, with the message repeated in French, Russian, and lastly German.

From the Brandenburg Gate, he motored west following the contours of the river Spree. More than half of Germany’s electrical industry had been located within Berlin’s city limits and the waterway was a vital commercial artery. A few barges cut through calm green waters. Those heading east flew Russian flags and were loaded with machinery: boilers, presses, an endless assortment of steel plate. He wondered where reparations ended and theft began.

He sped past the giant Siemens factory—so big it was called Siemens City—and had a look at the AEG works in Hennigsdorf. He checked out others, too: Telefunken, Lorenz, Bosch. Their premises had been stripped. A few pieces of scrap lay scattered across the barren factory floors. Nothing more. He sped by Rheinmetall-Borsig, Maybach, and Auto-Union, the firms responsible for manufacturing the Reich’s tanks and heavy artillery. Empty. Henschel, Dornier, Focke-Wulf—the mainstays of the aircraft industry: Concrete husks all; nary a screw rolling on the floor.

Locusts!

The sight of the naked factories validated Egon Bach’s and the Circle of Fire’s every worry concerning the Allies’ intentions for Germany. They were hell-bent on stripping the Reich of every last vestige of her industrial might. An agrarian state wasn’t far away.

Nearing the edge of town, Seyss found himself gripping the handlebars more tightly, sitting higher in the seat. A candy-striped pole blocked the street ahead. One hundred yards farther on stood the Glienickes Bridge, the only one of three crossings open from which Russian-controlled Potsdam could be reached from Berlin. An American transport—a deuce and a half, in their streetwise vernacular—had just pulled up to the border. Eager to observe the relations between these reluctant partners, Seyss cut his speed and shunted the bike onto the sidewalk. Russian sentries in pea-green smocks swarmed over the truck like ants to their queen. One yelled for the tailgate to be opened. The American driver shouted an order and his troops poured out. Immediately, they formed a line and began unloading large cardboard cartons. Seyss was close enough to read the lettering on the boxes.
Evian. Eau Minérale.
Drinking water. Probably provisions for the presidential party.

The Russian officer spent a long time counting and recounting the boxes, tallying the total against a sheet on his clipboard. Finished, he blew a whistle and the American soldiers formed a single-file line. Each held out his dog tag as the Russian officer passed by. It was clear they’d been through the whole routine before, equally clear they didn’t enjoy it.

As he turned the motorcycle around and headed north to Wannsee, Seyss remembered something Egon Bach had said during their meeting at Villa Ludwig.
How long before the flame of democracy ignites the cradle of communism?

Soon,
Seyss thought.
Very soon.

G
ROSSEN
W
ANNSEE 42 WAS A
stern Tudor-style mansion set far back from the street on a heavily wooded lot in the southwestern corner of Berlin. Tall iron gates circled the estate. A sprawling lawn cradled the house, sloping in the rear to the Wannsee itself, a calm expanse of water formed by an outcropping of the river Havel. Beds of pansies lined the redbrick drive and strands of bougainvillea enveloped the trellis. It was every inch the province of one of Germany’s industrial titans. And that included the spit-polished black Horsch roadster parked before the front entry.

Seyss gave the house a last glance, then goosed the motorcycle down the shadowy lane. It had turned into a fine day. The air was cool, dampened by a morning shower. The sun hung at forty degrees, blanching the eastern sky. Breathing deeply, he enjoyed a surge of vitality, an invigorating shiver that made him see everything that much clearer.
Die Berliner Luft,
he thought sarcastically. The Berlin air. Citizens of the capital never missed a chance to boast about the restorative qualities of their city’s air. It was a crock of horseshit, really.

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. Nine-thirty. 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 drainpipe 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.

T
HE 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 bottle-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 where 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 in 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 the window. “By the way, I’ve seen to it that the families of Steiner and Biedermann 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 jab 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 soiree.”

“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, ‘and,’ you beautiful idiot? He knows. He was a fucking detective in New York City. Two nights back, he called Patton ranting 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 bootheel? 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 crimes 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.”