Honey returned from the bar and set down four glasses of scotch. “Cheers, Major. Don’t give up just yet. It’s only a battle, not the war.”
Judge picked up a glass and brought it to his lips. “I’m not giving up. Just figuring where we go from here.”
“Half this damn country is checking their shorts for Seyss. Something will turn up.”
Judge felt at once proud and embarrassed by the younger man’s unbridled optimism. Once he’d had that same piss and vinegar. “Will it? And your rogues’ gallery? Any word from Altman or one of his cronies?”
“’Fraid not,” said Honey, “but they’re looking.” And when Judge sought his eyes for further explanation he glanced away, his cloying grin appearing a moment later, along with the dime-store adage to just be patient.
Judge waved away the entreaty. Patience had never been his strong suit and with two days remaining to track down Seyss he had none to spare. He took a jolt of scotch, shivering as it coasted down his throat. “What’s he up to, eh, Honey? You given that any thought? Can you tell me why a war criminal sure to draw the hangman’s noose decides to stick around and tempt fate? He went to that house for a reason. Tell me why and I’ll tell you what he’s got planned.”
Honey scooted his chair closer so as not to shout. “Don’t get your imagination into high gear. A lot of these soldiers stick around because they don’t have anywhere else to go. They’ve been in Russia, France, Greece, or God knows where, these past six years and the last thing they want to do is leave again. They want to stay close to whatever friends and family they’ve got.”
“Are you calling Seyss a homebody?” Judge railed at the mention. “Didn’t you hear von Luck? He doesn’t live with the enemy. He becomes one of them. A Brandenburger, for chrissake! The man’s been trained to pass himself off as the enemy. Bastard’s probably sitting at the next table.”
Honey shrugged, a sheepish look souring his face. “Looks like Seyss has gotten to you.”
“Of course he’s gotten to me. The sonofabitch killed my brother, stole the gun out of my hand, then damned near killed me. Hell, it’s not just him. This whole upside-down country has gotten to me.” He started on his second glass of liquor, relaxing as the alcohol warmed his belly. “Don’t worry, Sergeant. I’m not giving up. I’m just hoping for a change of luck.”
The band launched into “Air Mail Special,” one of Goodman’s classics. The clarinet soared over the throbbing drums, the saxes and trombone jumping in behind them. Judge tapped his foot to the up-tempo beat. Normally the song put him in a swell mood, the straight-ahead rhythm and brass attack making him forget his problems for a few minutes. Tonight, the music and the memories of home it called up only deepened his anxiety.
Two days remained until his orders were rescinded. Forty-eight lousy hours.
He wasn’t concerned about what it would mean to Francis should he fail to bring in Seyss. Or that Seyss’s capture was the only way he had to apologize to his brother for his hubris. Francis would forgive him on both counts. He’d say it was the effort that counted. But then, Frankie would forgive a rummy a lifetime of boozing if he said he was sorry on his deathbed. Nor was he fearful that he might let down his country—which he took in the form of George Patton and Spanner Mullins—though the relentless achiever in him desperately wanted to satisfy them, too.
Savoring the cheap booze’s fiery drizzle, Devlin Judge cast a gimlet eye on his own ambitions, his own desires, wondering if getting his hands on Seyss wasn’t just a way to put his own unsettled dilemmas to rest, if Seyss was the trophy he needed to prove he was as good as the rest of the men in this place, the notch in his belt signaling another opponent dispatched. Twenty-nine without a loss.
Going a step further, he wondered if Seyss was the answer to the contentious issue that had plagued him these last four years: That by choosing to continue his work for the U.S. attorney’s office instead of seeking military service, he had neglected his obligations to his country. Or to put it more colloquially, that he was a yellow-bellied careerist.
December 7, 1941. A brittle, sunny afternoon in Brooklyn. Judge sitting in the living room of his third-floor walkup with his boy, Ryan, four years old. The two listening to the radio, counting the minutes until the Chase and Sanborn Hour begins. Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy. Judge thinking they were the funniest damn thing ever to hit the airwaves. Suddenly the music stops, Gene Autry cut off as he warbles the refrain from “The Lonesome Cowboy.” The announcer’s stern voice, aquiver with righteous indignation, declaring, “This morning at eight A.M. local time, forces of the Imperial Japanese Army attacked the United States naval base at Pearl Harbor in the Hawaiian Islands.” Ryan crying out in protest, “More music.” Judge wrapping his arms around the boy, pulling him to his chest, asking him to hush, just for a minute. The announcer going on, “The battleship Oklahoma and two yet unidentified vessels are reported sunk with grievous loss of life.” And then the words that delivered a chill down America’s spine. “President Roosevelt will address a joint session of Congress tomorrow morning at ten A.M., it is said, to ask for a declaration of war.”
War. It had finally come to America. Not from across the Atlantic as so many had feared, but from the Pacific. A surprise attack. War!
And Judge’s first thoughts, the initial gut response of a thirty-one-year-old rookie lawyer: A lot of guys are going to leave the office and join up for this thing. If I stay put and keep my nose to the grindstone, I can be at the top of the heap when this mess is over. The army needed “bodies, not minds,” Tom Dewey had said. Who was Judge to disagree?
There it was, then.
Erich Seyss was his confession and his penance, his expiation and absolution, all tucked into a black-and-silver uniform with a death’s-head embroidered on its collar and his brother’s blood on its cuff.
Happier now that he’d given a name to his frustration, Judge turned his ear away from himself and back to the music. The band really was very good.
“You a dancer, sir?” asked Honey.
“Me?” Coming from deep left field, the question made Judge grin. “Yeah, Sergeant, I know a step or two.”
“Go on down. Plenty of dames waiting for you. Go on and sprechen Sie to them. After all, it’s legal now.”
Earlier in the day, Ike had called a press conference to relax the rules against nonfraternization. Servicemen were free to talk to children and widows, he’d said, but should do their best to steer clear of former Nazis and “good-time” girls.
“You go on,” said Judge. “I’m going to stay here.”
Honey stood from the table, upsetting his chair. “Don’t be shy. You’re divorced, remember? Won’t be no one looking over your shoulder but me.”
Judge read the urgency in Honey’s eyes and was unable to keep a part of it from infecting him. “Go on. Maybe I’ll be down in a few numbers.”
Honey shook his head sorrowfully, probably thinking, Old fart doesn’t know what he’s missing, then hurried off.
Judge scanned the dance floor, more comfortable observing than participating. The American girls were easy to pick out. Busy smearing on lipstick or sharing secrets with a girlfriend, they huddled in circles of four or five, angora castles waiting to be stormed. Most were WACs or secretaries sent over by the War Department to help with the administration of the American zone of occupation. The fräuleins were a different story. Scattered through the crowd in ones and twos, they moved with an overtly sexual intent. Cats on the prowl. Their eyes were rimmed with black pencil, their lips painted fire-engine red. Coy was a word they’d never heard. They wore blouses cut low and dresses slit high. They showed more curves than his wife had on their wedding night. Meeting a Joe they liked, they’d offer a frank stare, then follow it with a lingering touch on the arm, a hand draped across an olive drab shoulder. It wasn’t a dance floor so much as a bazaar. The thought that these women were readily available, that they were practically asking to be bedded, aroused him.
; Deciding he needed another drink, Judge made his way down the stairs and into the middle of the fray. The music grew louder, the smoke thicker, and his head lighter. He was aware of every nudge, every glance, every whispered “Hi, Joe.” Still, he kept his eyes lowered, ashamed to meet their direct glance. He reminded himself he was an observer, not a participant, but that tired voice got drowned out in a hurry. He tried A gentleman doesn’t act this way, and got the same results. Lifting his chin, he cast an appraising look at the young fräuleins around him. He was shocked, and, if honest, titillated at their acceptance of his brazen scrutiny.
Judge found the bar and ordered a scotch, happy for a moment’s respite from the melee. Yet no sooner had the drink been poured than a raven-haired girl of twenty bullied in beside him, took the glass full in her fist as if she were grabbing a can of Schlitz, and emptied it in one long draft. She stared at him long enough for him to notice that she was very pretty, then picked up his hand and laid it on her breast. “Komm, Schatzi,” she said huskily, then in some sort of pidgin English, “Take me your haus, Captin. You dutti Yanki bastid. Less go fickin.”
A hungry hand kneaded his trousers. Judge yanked it away, scolding her in a Berliner’s precise German. “That’s enough, sweetheart. Go find a boy your own age. Run along, now.”
Watching her disappear into the crowd, Judge’s hungry eye was arrested by a flash of silver. A tall, languid blonde in a silver satin dress danced cheek to cheek with a slack-jawed man of fifty sporting three stars on either shoulder. Judge could not see her face, but he could see the general’s and he recognized it immediately. Leslie Carswell, commander of the Seventh Army, whose headquarters Judge had spoken with the day before to arrange the meeting at Sonnenbrücke. The couple swayed to the music, and as the song came to an end, Carswell cocked a knee and gallantly dipped the woman in his arms.
It was then that Ingrid Bach threw back her head and looked directly at Devlin Judge.
CHAPTER
27
JUDGE’S FIRST THOUGHT WAS THAT it couldn’t be Ingrid Bach. He wouldn’t classify the women at Jake’s Joint as prostitutes, but they weren’t paragons of virtue either. War had forced on them a terrible hardship and to survive they’d decided to partner with their occupiers. Their rewards were silk stockings, Hershey bars, cigarettes, maybe even a place to stay for a couple of weeks. It was a decision born of economic necessity, which was what made her appearance all the more startling. Ingrid Bach was hardly poor. The woman lived in a home the size of the Frick Museum.
Certain that he was mistaken, Judge returned his attention to her. She was applauding with the crowd, but still she stared at him. The sea- blue eyes, the sharp nose, the blond hair now immaculately dyed and coifed—all conspired in an instant to erase his doubt. He practically expected her to march over and begin lecturing him about the poor chamois being shot on her estate. And nothing could serve as more potent confirmation than the look of abject shame that spread like a shadow across her features, as she, too, recognized him.
Suddenly, everyone was in motion. The band eased into “Body and Soul,” the crowd began dancing, and she was lost, a silver fan twirling slowly on the far side of the floor.
Judge abandoned his post at the bar and cut through the crowd. Ingrid’s discernable humiliation stayed with him the entire way, lending his step an aggressive edge while resuscitating his earlier guilt. He had hardly earned the right to act as wildly irresponsible as the men around him. He hadn’t slogged over the Alps or braved withering fire at Omaha Beach. He hadn’t breached the Siegfried Line or fought his way across the Rhine. Hell, he hadn’t even gone to boot camp. On the contrary. He’d spent the past three years dressed in gray flannel suits and Egyptian cotton shirts, eating at Toots Shor three days a week and at Schrafft’s the other two.
Bodies, not minds, Judge told himself. He’d been serving his country, too.
Crossing the floor, he bumped into Honey cheek to cheek with a chesty fräulein, then forced his way between two couples practically glued together at the waist. Ingrid Bach saw him coming and dug her head into Carswell’s shoulder. Judge didn’t slow for an instant. Reaching Carswell, he tapped him boldly on the shoulder.
“Excuse me, sir, but may I respectfully cut in?”
Carswell dropped Ingrid’s hand and stared at Judge’s sweaty brow, loosened tie, and five o’clock shadow. Obviously, he thought the man a drunk. “You may respectfully go to hell, Major.”
The snap inspection gave Judge the opening he needed. In a single fluid motion, he slid in front of the general, found Ingrid’s hand, and let the crowd sweep them away.
Ingrid Bach lifted herself on a toe to glance at Carswell’s outraged countenance. “Very cheeky, Major. Bravo.”
“You know us New Yorkers. We’re not always the best-mannered guys in the world, but we have heart.”
“Heart? When you left this morning, you were positively frigid. All business. I’d thought we might at least be cordial.”
Judge offered a conciliatory grin. He’d go cordial a step better if it might help squeeze some info out of her about Seyss. “I was a little overwhelmed by the house and meeting your father. It’s hard to figure out who you can trust in this country.”
“Maybe so, Major. But it’s not fair to judge an entire nation by the actions of a few.”
Judge nodded, wondering with which group she lumped herself. No doubt the former. Another innocent bystander.
The music swelled as it reached the first chorus. Judge was careful to hold Ingrid away from him so that their bodies did not touch. She stood a few inches shorter than he and he imagined that if she came a step closer, she’d fit nicely in his arms. This pleased him enormously. Guiltily, he wondered why.
“Known Carswell long?” he asked, curious as to their relationship.
“Me?” She smiled enthusiastically. “Yes, ages, actually. My cousin, Chip DeHaven, introduced us years ago. We’re old friends.”
“Chip DeHaven . . . from the State Department? I didn’t realize Carswell was from New York? I’d always taken him for a southerner. Give him a beard and he’d look like Robert E. Lee.”
“No, actually, he’s . . .’’ Suddenly, Ingrid averted her eyes and her smile crumbled. “You’ve caught me in a fib. I don’t know General Carswell. I haven’t the foggiest where he’s from. He’s been asking me out for weeks. Finally, I gave in and said yes. I hope you don’t think I’m . . .’’ Her words trailed off as her eyes fell to the ground. “I’m very embarrassed.”
“Don’t be.”
“Look, if you want to know why I’m here, it’s the same reason as the other girls. I don’t take kindly to poverty.”
“But you’re a Bach.”
She let go an ironic laugh. “Didn’t you hear Papa this morning? We’ve nothing left. My brother Egon took control of the business two years ago. He convinced the Führer that if Bach Industries was to pass to the next generation intact, the business as a whole must be deeded to him. Egon gave us a few hundred thousand reichsmarks as compensation, and Sonnenbrücke, of course. He thought he was being generous but the money was spent before the war had even ended. I’m lucky not to have been expelled from Sonnenbrücke. Carswell hinted it would make an excellent retreat for officers.”
“He must like chamois.”
“That’s not funny, Major,” she replied sternly, but beneath her schoolmarm’s tone, he detected an impish humor.
They swayed with the music for several bars, growing more comfortable with one another. When the musicians went to the bridge and the tempo quickened, Judge even dared a modest spin. Ingrid responded to his direction perfectly, releasing his hand, turning beneath his outstretched arm, then returning to him with the primest of smiles.
Judge quickly looked away, aware that he was enjoying himself more than circumstances allowed. But a second later, he put his lips to her ear, speaking softly. “I asked for this dance so that I might apologize for disturbing your father this morning. I should have taken
your word about the severity of his illness. I’m sorry.”
Ingrid bowed her head. “Apology accepted, but I’m still curious why you thought I’d know where Erich Seyss is.”
“Even the smartest criminals head for their wives or girlfriends when they’re being pursued. Most know we’re keeping an eye on their loved ones, but they can’t help it. I guess they realize that eventually they’re going to be caught or killed, so they’re willing to risk a final good-bye.”
He didn’t want to say he had no other place to look.
“I would have thought he’d left the country. Show up in a month or two on one those U-boats that keep surfacing in South America.”
“Not a bad guess, except that we saw him Wednesday morning in Munich.”
“You saw Erich?” It was impossible not to hear the distress in her voice.
“I ran into him at his home. If things had turned out differently, I wouldn’t have had occasion to visit Sonnenbrücke.” He shrugged to show it was his fault that Seyss had escaped. “You wouldn’t have any idea why he’d go there?”
“To see his father?” Ingrid offered. “Why do any of us go home?”
“No, the house was a wreck. Abandoned. I was just thinking that if he’d risk going there, he might risk coming to see you.”
“That I doubt, Major.”
“Sure he’s not cuddled up in one of your bedrooms? Admiring your collection of Dresden?” Ingrid was his last connection to Seyss; only reluctantly would he give up on her.
“No, Major. He is not.” Her iron gaze ended all further inquiry.
Just then the crowd closed in around them, as if drawing a collective breath, and Judge found himself cheek to cheek with Ingrid Bach. He smiled awkwardly, trying to say this wasn’t his idea, but the smile did little to slow his racing heart. To his surprise, she smiled, too, lifting her delicate chin to rest above his shoulder. The smell of her perfume, the nearness of her arctic-blond hair, the pressure of her lithe body—after two years without a woman, it was too much to bear. Desire flushed his body, a fever so overwhelming as to become almost palpable. It gripped him; it suffocated him; it sent a charge of electricity racing from the balls of his feet to the roots of his hair. Unconsciously, his hands tightened their grip around her firm waist. And that wasn’t the only part of him constricting with desire. With a start, he realized he was fully aroused. In “a state of sin,” Francis would have said with a chuckle. Dancing close to him, Ingrid had to have noticed. Delicately, he arched his back to ease the pressure of his body against hers, but it was impossible. The crush of dancers was simply too much.
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