The Runner (43 page)

Judge threw a protective arm across Ingrid, shielding her with his body. “Jesus, Spanner, can’t you even do this yourself?”

And for a split second, Judge felt removed from himself, queer and floaty, as if all of this weren’t quite happening. Staring into Mullins’s ruddy face, he saw the two of them walking out of a Brooklyn courthouse in the summer of ’25, Patrolman Mullins and his charge, Devlin Parnell Judge; he felt the pressure of Mullins’s hand the day he’d pinned his policeman’s shield to his chest, and four years later when he’d exchanged it for the gold badge of a plainclothes detective.

“Why?” he asked.

Mullins dug something out of his pocket and stuck a hand over the seat. “Two reasons, if you have to know. One for each shoulder.” Resting in his palm was a small jewel box displaying a pair of silver five-pointed stars. “I’m not going to have any snot-nosed punk talking down at me when I’m back Stateside. The way I see it, the mayor will be more than happy to appoint a brigadier general who served under Georgie Patton commissioner of police for the five boroughs.”

“You’re going to help Patton start another war just to get a lousy promotion?”

Mullins colored, rising in his seat. “Look around you, lad. If it’s not now, it’ll be later. Why not get the job done when our boys are still here? You think Mr. Stalin’s going to sit still in Berlin? The Poles and the Czechs, why, they’re done for already. They’re greedy bastards, the Commies are. George Patton knows that. He’s the only fellow brave enough to take steps while we can do something about it. You were a decent fighter once. I’d thought you’d understand.”

“Yeah,” said Judge, shaking his head. “Your own Jimmy Sullivan.”

Mullins snapped the box closed, giving Judge a doleful smile. “Sorry, lad, but you’ve left me no other way.” And shifting in his seat, he nodded to his driver. “All right, Tommy. Let’s get it over.”

“No!” shouted Judge.

A hailstorm of glass exploded into the car, a battery of gunshots blowing out the windows, spraying crystal splinters over Judge and Ingrid. One, two, three. The blistering reports came close on one another, melding into a terrific earsplitting roar. Somewhere inside the blizzard, the side of Tommy’s face dissolved into a frothing red mass. Ingrid buried herself in the car leather, mouth frozen in a silent scream, blood freckling her delicate features. Mullins shouted “What the he—” The next instant his skull caromed from the dashboard to the window, his voice died, and his shoulders slumped against the door. White smoke choked the car, cordite from the spent casings.

Silence.

Rivulets of glass tinkled onto the dashboard.

Judge pulled his hands from his ears, releasing his breath. Ingrid stared at him in shock, her eyes blinking wildly. Tommy was dead. Spanner Mullins twitched, gasped, then was still.

Suddenly, the door behind Judge was flung open. A GI brandishing a smoking pistol peered into the automobile. Judge recognized the cornflower-blue eyes, the shock of brown hair, the open and trusting face, but the Texan’s shit-eating grin was nowhere to be seen.

“Welcome to Berlin, Major Judge,” said Darren Honey. “About time I found you.”

CHAPTER

54

S
EYSS WAS IN.

A grand foyer greeted him, squeaky wooden floors waxed to an immaculate shine, rich yellow walls, and a gargantuan crystal chandelier bathing the circular hall in an unflattering light. The entry was packed with security men: the Americans in their double-breasted summer suits, Brits sweating in wool serge, and, of course, his fellow members of the Russian secret police, the NKVD, dressed to a man in identical boxy gray suits.

Arms behind his back, lips pursed in polite but stoic greeting, Seyss crossed the foyer. He nodded his hellos and received a few in return. No brows were raised in suspicion. No one questioned his function. No one even asked his name. His mere presence at Ringstrasse 2 bespoke his right to be there.

Behind him were two police checkpoints, a long chat with the head of perimeter security, Gregor Vlassik, and a cordon of Cossack cavalrymen, spit-shined boots and gleaming sabers on proud display. Farther back was Colonel Klimt, who could be found at this instant lying naked in the dirt with a lead slug in his temple. It had been a clean shot, barrel pressed to skin so as not to risk bloodying the uniform. Rushing to change into Klimt’s pea-green smock and jodhpurs, he’d been thrown back to his days as a recruit at the academy in Bad Toelz. Inspections were often held in the middle of the night and these spur-of-the-moment affairs became known as “masquerade balls.” The cadets were lined up naked in front of their beds then ordered to dress for a specific activity—a full-gear march, a formal company banquet, even a football match. The first two cadets properly attired were permitted to go back to bed. The rest went at it again and again, until at dawn, the last two standing were ordered to run ten kilometers in full combat dress.

The door closed behind him and he caught the hum of a party in progress, like the drone of distant bombers. A corridor ran the width of the house. A red carpet softened the tread of his cavalry boots, candle sconces lit the way. Seyss moved purposefully through the hall, his foreknowledge of the house’s layout, its security measures, easing his anxieties and lending his step a confident, unimpeachable gait.

He knew, for example, that Vlassik had an office at the west end of the hall, and that next to it was the radio room. He also knew that there was only a single bathroom on the ground floor, so that during the evening guests in need would have occasion to traipse upstairs in search of another. What interested him most, however, lay at the end of the hall: the formal dining room where tonight the three leaders of the Western World were gathered to celebrate the defeat, rape, and pillage of the greater German Reich.

Ahead, the French doors to the dining room swung open, spitting out a tuxedo-clad maître d’. Spotting Seyss, the man raised an inquiring finger and rushed over.

“No uniforms!” he hissed under his breath. “The
vozhd
has expressly requested that all officers not invited to the formal dinner parties remain in the service area. Comrade, this way.”

Seyss stood rock still, appraising the officious man with an insolent gaze. A feeling of utter invincibility had come over him. He was no longer Erich Seyss. No longer a German officer impersonating a Russian officer. He was the colonel himself. He was Ivan Truchin, hero of Stalingrad, and no one, not even the
vozhd
—or supreme leader, as Stalin liked to call himself—would be permitted to show him disrespect.

“Very well,” he answered a moment later, his dignity satisfied. “Lead the way.”

The kitchen was a hive of activity. Waiters, chefs, sauciers, sous-chefs, patissiers all scurrying this way and that. Two broad tables ran the length of the room. On them were a dizzying array of dishes. Smoked herring, whitefish, fruit, vegetables, cold duck. A giant tureen of caviar four feet across sat half-eaten near the trash, a veritable mountain of the precious black roe. The second course was being served: a lovely borscht with dollops of sour cream. An enticing aroma wafted from the ovens: roasted venison. Stacked in the corner were crates of liquor: red wine, white wine, cognac, Champagne. It was more food and drink than the average Russian would see in a lifetime.

And supervising it all, the meddlesome prick who’d shepherded him into the kitchen.

Seyss pulled aside a passing waiter, pointing at the maître d’. “Who is that?”

“You mean Comrade Pushkin?”

“Pushkin the author?”

The waiter laughed, then realizing he was laughing at a colonel of the secret police, frowned. “No, sir, Dimitri Pushkin, the maître d’hotel of the Restaurant Georgia in Moscow, Comrade Stalin’s favorite.”

“Ah.”

Seyss followed the waiter to the service door and watched him deliver his tray of steaming borscht. Stalin, Truman, and Churchill were seated at the same table, separated from one another by their closest advisors. Churchill looked sullen and morose, more interested in devouring the monstrous whiskey in his hand than chatting with his dinner partners. Truman and Stalin were deep in conversation, clearly enjoying each other’s company. Stalin banged his good hand on the table and Truman tossed his head back, cackling. Bottles were produced. Vodka for the American, white wine for Stalin. A toast was made.
Nastrovya!

Seyss didn’t know who he hated worse. Truman for being so weak. Or Stalin for being so strong.

There was not a single security officer inside the dining room. Just the eight round tables, each seating between seven and ten guests, all male. Twenty-five feet separated Seyss from the head table. Truman was seated sideways to him and Churchill at the far side, facing him. Seyss’s problem was obvious: There were too many bodies in his line of fire. He couldn’t nail two head shots at this distance. Not with any certainty.

Or maybe he was looking for excuses.

For the first time, he wondered if he’d been naïve to factor escape into his plans.

Dismissing the notion, Seyss resumed his study of the room. A grand piano was set off to one side, its lid raised. Apparently, there was to be entertainment. Four sets of curtained French doors gave onto a flagstone terrace, and beyond that a broad lawn sloping to the banks of the river Havel. Another look around the place convinced him. He needed his men outside.

Retreating from the doorway, Seyss walked the length of the kitchen searching for the exit to the terrace. A chef was pulling the venison from the oven, basting it in its own warm juices. Pots boiling to overflow were eased from the stove, steaming string beans poured into a sieve. A flurry of pops spoke of wine being uncorked and decanted. Sliding past this well-rehearsed chaos, Seyss noticed his heart beating faster, his stomach grown flighty. A bead of sweat escaped his brow and traced a slow course across his forehead. His earlier sangfroid was nowhere to be found. He smiled at his sudden distress, recognizing the familiar sensation. Nerves. It was always this way before a race.

He found the back door in an alcove past the pantry. Standing next to it were two men and two women, all clad in evening dress, talking brightly to one another. The women were typical Bolshies: fat, ugly, and in need of a good wash. Both held violins to their ears, plucking the strings, bowing a few notes, tuning their instruments. Their conversation halted the moment they saw Seyss.

But Colonel Truchin was in an ebullient mood. Mixing among them, he opened the door and tucked his head outside. The sky had darkened to a dusky azure. The temperature was pleasant, not a cloud to be seen. He smiled, relaxing a notch.

“A beautiful evening, yes?”

The musicians responded merrily. “Wonderful. Gorgeous. A pity not to play
al fresco
.”

Seyss inclined his head at the suggestion. “Yes,” he agreed. “A pity.”

The best ideas were always the simplest.

J
UDGE SAT IN THE FRONT
of the jeep, hand on the windscreen, leaning to the right so that his head captured the brunt of the passing wind. He kept his eyes open, allowing them to tear. He’d decided he preferred a moist, unfocused landscape to the stark and desolate one Darren Honey had just revealed.

Darren Honey, captain attached to the Organization of Strategic Services.

The OSS had known about Patton for the last three months—his growing psychosis, his hatred of the Russians, his admiration for all things German. Judge had come along at the right time, the investigation into Seyss’s escape a perfect medium to insert an agent into Patton’s command. No one had any idea at the beginning that Seyss would be linked to Patton so directly. They’d only wanted to see to what extent Patton abetted or interfered with the investigation. Serendipity, Bill Donovan had called it. To paraphrase a famous general, he’d rather be lucky than good.

Judge thought there was more but Honey wasn’t talking, except to say he was sorry for allowing Mullins to beat him to the
gemeindehaus
in Wedding. Just as well, though. It saved them from having to deal with Mullins later.

They’d crossed the Glienickes Bridge five minutes ago. Officially they were now in Potsdam. The road rose and fell, carving its way through sparsely forested foothills. Russian soldiers lined their path like a green picket fence. And though it was high summer and the trees thick with leaves, there was a smokiness to the air, the spicy scent of smothered embers and burning wood that made him think of fall.

Honey’s walkie-talkie gargled and he held it to his ear. A voice spat out some words in a foreign language. Honey answered back in the same tongue.

“The Russians found one of their men in a drainage ditch not far from Ringstrasse. Dead.” Honey hesitated, then added, “His uniform was missing.”

Ingrid shot forward from the backseat. “Quick. You must ring the president. Call Stalin. Warn them Erich is here.”

Honey spoke a few more words into the walkie-talkie, then set it down. “Taken care of.”

“That’s it?” Judge asked. “Where are the sirens? Why isn’t every one of these soldiers picking up his gear and moving his ass to Stalin’s place?”

“Taken care of,” Honey repeated, and Judge knew he was no longer in charge.

They passed through two checkpoints, stopping each time for ten excruciating minutes as Honey’s papers were meticulously scrutinized and phone calls were made up the chain of command. Judge asked for a pistol and Honey shook his head. One hothead with a gun running around Stalin’s residence was enough. Judge was only there in case they couldn’t find Seyss. Same went for Ingrid. They were the only two who knew his face close up.

The road had assumed a long, steady curve and the Havel was visible in the cuts between the houses, a calm blue expanse framed by sloping grass bank. Cresting a rise, they came upon a black Mercedes parked on the side of the road. Honey braked hard and pulled the jeep over. A man was already running toward them, pale and thin with lank dark hair and a drooping mustache. He was dressed in a gray suit and carried a bundle of clothing under one arm.

“For you, Major Judge, please to put on. Quickly.” He handed over a blue blazer and white shirt, then ran back to the black sedan.

“Do as he says,” ordered Honey. “And hurry up about it.” Putting the jeep into first gear he followed the Mercedes up the hill.

“Who was it?” asked Judge, slipping on the clean dress shirt and blazer.

“A friend.”

“But he’s Russian,” Ingrid protested.

“I hope so,” Honey retorted. “I don’t know how else you expected to slip into a state dinner given by Marshal Stalin.”

Judge was as curious as Ingrid about the man’s identity, wondering why the hell he knew his name.
A friend.
He had a good idea what that meant. “Who was it?” he asked again, and this time held Honey’s gaze until he answered.

“Vlassik. General Gregor Vlassik. Head of compound security during the marshal’s stay. It’s his neck if anything happens. Like I said, a friend.”

They pulled back onto the road and followed the Mercedes for three minutes. Number 2 Ringstrasse was a gated stucco mansion painted the color of rust, with a mansard roof and dormer windows. Truman’s bodyguard was parked on the main road, a bevy of G-men in pinstripes and fedoras toting Thompson submachine guns. Churchill’s escort was more discreet, lounging in a half dozen Bentleys. Vlassik waved off a brace of sentries and both cars coasted through the open gates, parking in a covered court to the left of the front door.

The Russian was out of the Mercedes in a flash, ushering his three guests into the service entrance. From the moment he stepped inside, it was apparent something was wrong. The mansion was deadly quiet, the kitchen half deserted. Vlassik rushed to a lone waiter who sat smoking a cigarette, perusing a Moscow newspaper.

“Where is everyone?” Though he spoke Russian, the gist of his question was obvious.

The waiter shrugged, pointing toward the rear of the houses with his cigarette. “Outside on the terrace. I believe they are performing some Tchaikovsky. Perhaps the Violin Concerto in D minor.”

Judge grabbed Vlassik’s sleeve. “I take it Tchaikovsky on the terrace wasn’t part of the program.”

Vlassik blanched and shook his head. “No, comrade, it was not.”

Judge turned to Honey, hand extended, palm open. “Give me a goddamned gun and give it to me right now.”

Vlassik beat him to the punch, drawing a heavy revolver from his boot and slapping it into Judge’s hand. “A Smith and Wesson thirty-eight. Standard police issue,
nyet?
If you are to see this man Seyss, please to kill him.”

Judge flicked open the cylinder, checked for rounds, then slapped it home. “You’ve got my word.”

T
HE MUSICIANS WERE REALLY QUITE
good, though Seyss would have preferred something more somber for the occasion, Beethoven’s Eroica, for example. The piano had been rolled outside and the two female violinists stood next to it, bowing vigorously, swooning in time to the pianist’s dramatic runs.

A few words to Pushkin as to Stalin’s ire that the American president found the dining room too smoky and the anxious little Muscovite had moved like the wind to reorganize the musical entertainment. No wonder he presided over the best restaurant in Moscow. He knew the first rule of catering: The guest comes first. Though, Seyss added somewhat sympathetically, after this evening, Pushkin could probably forget about returning to his post at the Restaurant Georgia. If he returned to Moscow, at all, it would be in a pine box.