The music slowed and the horns held the last note for several bars. Judge quickly dropped her hands and applauded. “Thank you for the turn around the floor. I enjoyed it.”
Ingrid responded with graceful politesse. “The pleasure was mine. You’re a fine dancer, Major.”
Staring into her eyes, Judge had a desperate urge to wrap his arms around her and kiss her full on the lips. He felt his head moving toward hers, his body drawing near. Catching himself at the last moment, he averted his gaze and pulled up, instantly shamed and embarrassed by his unharnessed cupidity.
“Good n-night, then,” he stammered, taking a plodding step backward.
“Good night,” she said softly, then turned and vanished into the crowd.
Judge looked around him, expecting to see Carswell plowing toward them, steam spitting from his ears. But the general was nowhere in sight. Judge hit the bar and ordered another scotch. He felt panicked, as if he’d just avoided being hit by a car. Welcoming the drink, he knocked it back in a single motion. What a mess! Deny it or not, he, a United States attorney, an officer in his country’s army, was very much attracted to the daughter of one of Germany’s most notorious war criminals, the onetime fiancée of the man he was hunting. Part of him bowed to an onslaught of guilt, but part of him refused, and he knew it was the spell her physical presence had cast on him. Wait till tomorrow, he told himself. This whole thing will have worn off. Somehow he wasn’t reassured.
Momentarily, he became aware of a commotion at the rear of the building. GIs and civilians were dashing up the stairs and forming a vibrant, boisterous throng. The crowd was congregated around the dormer windows that looked over the hardscrabble parking lot at the rear of the club. He heard shouts of “Put it down,” “Go home, Fritz,” and “Get out while you can.”
Judge ran up the stairs and pushed his way through the crowd. He was surprised to find the mood jovial, GIs standing on their tiptoes asking each other “What do you see?” with undisguised prurience. Maybe a fellow had been caught with a fräulein in flagrante in his jeep, he wondered, and his buddies were giving him a little ribbing.
A gunshot exploded not twenty feet away, and someone said, “You missed, General. Try again.”
Maybe not, thought Judge, smelling the powder even before the laughter erupted. Knifing ahead, he could see the pistol’s silhouette, a ribbon of smoke drifting from its muzzle.
“What’s going on?” he asked a wildly grinning GI.
“General’s gonna bag him a kraut.”
“What?” It was hard to hear over the raucous buzz.
“Dumb German sumbitch trying to steal a spare tire from the general’s jeep,” said the GI. “Won’t stop even though we’re yelling at him.”
Judge pushed the man aside and looked out the nearest window. In the parking lot, a man was working valiantly to pry loose the spare tire from the rear of a jeep. He didn’t seem to be taking any note of the catcalls and warnings directed his way. Or the gunfire.
Judge looked to his right. Separated by a cordon of soldiers, General Leslie Carswell steadied his arm on the windowpane and fired another shot.
“Stop!” yelled Judge, even as a cheer went up. Looking out the window, he saw that the would-be thief had fallen to the ground. He wasn’t dead, just wounded. Raising himself to one knee, he dragged himself across the parking lot.
“Take another crack at him, General,” urged a southern voice. “Some hot lead would do the boy good.”
Smiling madly, Carswell braced his arm and took aim out the window. “Just you watch, son.”
“Don’t shoot,” shouted Judge. “Can’t you see the man is injured?”
Carswell turned toward Judge’s voice, and recognizing him, said, “This is a frontier, dammit, and that kraut is gonna get himself a dose of frontier justice.” He nodded at a heavyset sergeant in sweat-soaked khakis next to him, then pointed the gun at Judge. “Get that man out of here. He’s a menace.”
The brawny soldier rustled through the crowd, laying an arm on Judge’s shoulder. “Get lost, Major.”
Judge grabbed the man’s tunic and delivered a solid uppercut to his chin, sending the sergeant to the floor. If this was a frontier, he’d make his own law. A corporal half his size jumped into his place and slugged Judge in the stomach, but Judge was too riled to feel anything. The kid from Brooklyn was alive and well and looking to bust anybody’s mug who got in his way. He stutter-stepped, then brought his forehead down on the corporal’s nose, breaking it and sending the man to the floor.
“Carswell,” Judge shouted, peeling back the audience. “You don’t kill a man for stealing your tire.”
Carswell sneaked a peek at Judge. Hurriedly, he set his arm on the windowsill, raised the gun, and fired. The voice of the crowd died in time to the weapon’s report. Judge spun his head and peered into the parking lot. The thief lay facedown ten yards from the jeep. He was no longer moving.
“I’ll kill any fucking Nazi I like,” said Carswell, holstering his pistol. “That boy was breaking curfew and stealing from a general officer. I got every right to protect the property of the United States of America. Remember, Major, this is our country now. Our laws. And our women.”
Carswell pushed past him and ambled down the stairs.
Jesus, thought Judge, that prick just killed a defenseless man and he looks like he’s had a game of pool and a good piss. Watching him strut to the bar, he felt a red tide flow inside him. It wasn’t anger or rage, it was something beyond that, an impassioned and deeply felt desire to see justice done. To acknowledge with his fists his resolve for a better world.
Carswell didn’t see the punch coming. Judge simply grabbed his shoulder, swung him around, and gave him as solid a right hook as he’d ever delivered in a lifetime of barroom brawls, street spats, and gutter fights. Carswell spit out a tooth, then dropped like a rock.
Honey materialized from the crowd, latching on to Judge’s arm and dragging him toward the front door. “We have to leave immediately, Major.”
“I’ll take my punishment,” said Judge, shaking loose Honey’s arm. With a man shot in the parking lot and a three-star general roughed up, the military police would be there any minute. Turning toward the bar, he spotted Ingrid Bach helping Carswell to his feet. Against his will, a flash of jealousy fired his cheeks. How could she even look at that son of a bitch? He felt as if she had rammed a knife into his gut and was slowly twisting it. He’d never learn.
“Major, the military police are already here,” Honey was saying, his rubbery face even more animated than usual. “They’re waiting for us out front.”
“What are they waiting for? If they want to arrest me, they can come in.”
“Dammit, Major, this isn’t about your hitting the general—you’ll have to deal with that later.” Honey took him physically by the shoulders and shook him. “We got him. I told you to be patient. He’s in Heidelberg.”
Judge felt the booze and the adrenaline and the welt of his attraction to Ingrid abruptly dissipate. In their place came a nervous energy, a clear burning excitement.
“Seyss. You’re talking about Seyss? He’s in Heidelberg?”
“Yessir!” shouted Honey, smiling now, nodding his head vigorously. “Altman tracked him down. The White Lion is ours.”
CHAPTER
28
EARLY THE NEXT AFTERNOON, INSIDE a torpid Quonset hut at Airfield Y31 on the outskirts of Frankfurt, five men gathered round a conference table to review for a third and final time their plan to capture Erich Seyss. Each betrayed the anxiety gnawing at his gut in his own particular fashion. Spanner Mullins ripped at the cuff of his splendidly pressed uniform, eyes darting from one man to the next as if trying to guess who held the ace of spades. Darren Honey slouched in his chair, hands drumming the table, his shit-eating grin stowed in a safe place. Next to him sat the German informant, Klaus Altman, ramrod straight in his too-large suit, forehead awash in sweat, cracking one knuckle, then the next. An outsider and w
anting everyone to know it.
Nearest to Judge stood Major General Hadley Everett, Patton’s dapper chief of intelligence, caressing his gambler’s mustache as he droned on about the necessity to arrest Seyss before the Big Three arrived in Berlin.
“Georgie tells me Ike is counting on some good news to pass on to President Truman when the three meet in Berlin tomorrow,” Everett said. “Our efforts to bring in Seyss coincide with the kicking off of the operational phase of Tallyho. I can’t imagine a better way to get things started than to capture Seyss. It would send Fritz just the right message.” He shot Judge a bullying glance, walleye holding him for a second before caroming to a far corner. “Not to mention free up some precious resources and please everyone concerned.”
Great, thought Judge, he should have figured someone would turn the hunt for Seyss into a political football. Stealing a glance at his watch, he saw that it was only two-fifteen. The temperature was ninety and climbing. Above the table, a fan turned too slowly to do anything except push the clouds of cigarette smoke from one side of the hut to the other. He felt miserable. His head pounded in time to his heart. His tongue had grown a coat of fur. And no wonder . . . he’d polished off a half bottle of booze last night. If that wasn’t enough, the knuckles of his right hand ached as badly as his bruised ribs. All morning he’d been waiting for word that General Carswell was pressing charges. Laughing, Mullins had told him not to worry. Ike would be none too pleased to learn that a lieutenant general under his command considered plinking unarmed, if larcenous, Germans part of a Friday evening’s entertainment.
With Everett finished speaking, Mullins lumbered to his feet and walked to the south end of the table where he addressed himself to a chalkboard set on rollers. A schema of the Wiesbaden armory decorated the black slate.
“Once more for those of you in the bleachers,” he began, and Judge saw Everett flash a grin. One point for Spanner. “Dusk falls at ten thirty. Immediately afterward, we’ll move our lads into position around the armory. Troops from Military Police Company Seventy-three will be divided into four platoons and positioned here, here, here, and here.” He banged his chalk at the four corners of the outpost. “Sergeant Honey will take the platoon opposite the entry. Two platoons with yours truly will be opposite the garage, so that when we get the signal from Major Judge, we can illuminate the poor bastards and make sure no one shoots one of our own, namely the villainous Captain Jack Rizzo. You may stand and take a bow.”
Rizzo was seated in a far corner of the Quonset hut, along with a pair of brutish MPs to keep him company at ten. Hearing his name he smiled glumly and wisely chose not to respond. He’d been pulled in at ten that morning as Judge, Mullins, and Honey were en route to Frankfurt in an army transport. According to Altman’s unnamed source, Seyss was doing business with the American officer who controlled the keys to an armory in Wiesbaden. As there was only one armory in town, the path quickly led to Rizzo, who as it turned out was already under suspicion of selling Russian weapons to his fellow GIs. Given the choice between fifteen years at Leavenworth or a dishonorable discharge, Rizzo not only confessed to his crimes but promised his full and complete cooperation.
“As for you, Captain,” Mullins continued, pointing a finger at the swarthy black marketeer, “you’re to play it very cool indeed, which I imagine should pose no problem at all to a man of your criminal bent. You’re to lead your chum Fitzpatrick, as Mr. Seyss calls himself, and whoever accompanies him, into the armory and take them directly to the spot where we’ve gathered the weapons.” Mullins indicated a bay deep inside the armory adjacent to the doors leading to the garage. “Understand?”
Rizzo said yes.
“Good lad. And there you’ll wait, making small talk, twiddling your thumbs, picking your I-talian nose for all we care, until you hear my signal.” Here Mullins produced a silver whistle from the folds of his uniform and gave it a good long blow. Everyone rushed to plug their ears and Judge was pleased to note a look of discomfort on Everett’s face. “And when you do, you’ll be smart to hit the ground double-quick. Got that, boy-o? Remember, you’ll have a friend close by. Won’t he, Dev?”
Spotting his cue, Judge walked to the blackboard. He accepted the chalk from Mullins and drew an X next to the small box that indicated where Rizzo had placed the weapons Seyss wanted to purchase. “I’ll be lying on top of the stack of crates, just above and behind you, Captain. You don’t have to worry about a thing. I’ll be keeping an eye on you the entire time you are inside the armory. Just be sure to maneuver Seyss into the open so that a direct line of fire exists from the garage to the weapons. We don’t want him playing hide-and-seek inside the armory. Too many guns and too much ammunition.”
Indicating to Rizzo where Mullins would be positioned, Judge asked himself again what Seyss wanted with Russian weapons and uniforms. How had he been able to locate his former comrades so rapidly? And how, according to Altman’s informant, had he gotten his hands on a couple thousand dollars even before selling supplies pirated from an army convoy? Maybe he’d been digging up cash back at Lindenstrasse along with the dog tags. Or maybe somebody else had given the money to him.
Disturbingly, Judge seemed the only man at the table concerned about Seyss’s motives. Everyone else was focused simply on getting the arrest. After all, Everett had pointed out, once they had Seyss it didn’t matter a good goddamn what he wanted to do with the weapons. Even Honey had agreed. Four rifles, four pistols, and four uniforms were hardly something to worry about, he’d said. As for the truck, no one had the faintest idea what Seyss wanted with it and no one cared. End of discussion.
But Judge had never been satisfied to close a case with a bundle of questions left unanswered. Simple curiosity demanded that he know what the White Lion was up to, what “last race for Germany” he’d been planning to run. After all, if Seyss failed, there might easily be someone ready to take his place. Replaying the questions, Judge came to the same conclusion over and over again. Seyss was not acting alone but as part of a larger preconceived plan. The word conspiracy came to mind, then flitted away. Only by capturing him could Judge learn the scope of his endeavor.
“When I see that you’re in a safe spot, I’ll signal Colonel Mullins to order his men into the armory,” he continued. “Three clicks on the walkie-talkie, right, Colonel? We’ll hit the sirens, throw open the garage doors, and turn on the kliegs. The sound and light should be enough to make everyone freeze in their tracks.”
“You mean piss their pants, don’t you, Dev?” Mullins cracked, and everyone laughed, even Judge.
“I guess I do.”
The plan was his creation, a variation on the standard “bait and wait.” It had been Honey’s idea, however, to put a man inside the warehouse, and to his dismay, Judge had heard his own voice volunteering for the role. He would have preferred taking Seyss and his cronies at their hideout in Heidelberg. Seyss was a cagey one, though. According to Altman, he and his comrades had left the house early this morning, all going separate ways. It was the armory or nothing.
Replacing the chalk in its tray, Judge walked over to Rizzo and laid a hand on his shoulder. “If all goes according to plan, everyone will walk out of there in one piece. Capische?”
Rizzo grinned morosely. “Capisco.”
“All right, then. We adjourn until twenty hundred hours.”
KLAUS ALTMAN GRABBED JUDGE’S ARM as they crossed the runway and headed toward the jeeps that would drive them to Heidelberg.
“So, Herr Major, it appears you will have your White Lion.”
“As long as he shows, I don’t see what can go wrong.”
“I’m sure nothing will go wrong. Still, I can see you are still curious. Inside you asked what Seyss is doing with Ivan’s uniforms, his guns. Do you really have no notion?”
Judge shrugged his shoulders, interested in Altman’s views but not wanting to encourage him. The man was set to receive a promotion and a pay raise if Seyss was caught. That was already too muc
h. “Didn’t you hear the others? It doesn’t matter what he’s doing, so long as we catch him.”
“I have my own ideas. Uniforms, guns, a truck with a full tank of gasoline and extra jerry cans. It seems he is planning a trip.”
“That much I gathered.”
Altman tugged on his cuff. “He is going east, Herr Major. East.”
“East,” Judge repeated. The word made him shiver.
Altman nodded, smiling his lascivious grin. “The question is why.”
CHAPTER
29
WHERE WERE THEY?
Egon Bach held the receiver to his ear, damning the endless ringing. Pick up, he grunted. Pick up! Impatiently, he thumbed his spectacles to the bridge of his nose, oblivious to the perspiration fogging each lens. For two hours he’d been calling, dialing the number every five minutes, allowing the phone to ring twelve, fifteen, twenty times before hanging up. The Americans had tracked down Seyss. They had discovered his intention to purchase the Russian arms and transport. An ambush was planned this very evening to capture him. Pick up!
Egon stood in the factory foreman’s office on the production floor of Bach Steelworks facility number seven in Stuttgart. Hovering beyond the glass partition were two MPs, his constant escorts when venturing outside of Villa Ludwig. With the Amis’ blessing, he had come to supervise the initial retooling of the plant. The machinery used for years to turn out armor plate, military tractors, and 88s was being reconfigured to manufacture products destined for a civilian, rather than military, economy. The large gun lathes and milling machines in machine shops twenty and twenty-one that had been used to produce heavy gun tubes would be reset to manufacture steel girders and sewer pipes. Railroad tire shop three, housing twenty-three lathes, a dozen grinders, and two shell banders, would henceforth labor to turn out streetcar wheels instead of high-caliber artillery shells.
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