But when Judge had arrived at Kronprinzenallee, Seyss was already walking from his parked car, and in seconds, he had disappeared into the ranks of the gathered soldiers.
Abruptly, the ceremony ended. The flag fluttered in a light breeze atop the Air Defense Command. The orchestra played a Souza march. The assembled dignitaries shook hands with one another and slowly made their way from the podium. A hive of officers swarmed at the base of the steps, waiting to greet the president and the former supreme Allied commander. Despite his average height, Truman was easily visible. His pale straw hat stood in marked contrast both in color and shape to the olive military covers. An easy target. Judge cut through the crowd moving in a course parallel to Truman’s. He thought feverishly of what kind of diversion he could create. Something that would alert the president to the danger he was in. All he could think of was to yell what he shouted at opposing pitchers when they’d struck out Pee Wee Reese or Pete Reiser. “Get lost, you bum.” He looked around for something to throw. A bump on the head would hasten his departure, that was for sure. He found nothing. Naturally, the grounds had been cleared of debris for the ceremony.
By now, a picket of soldiers had formed around the president. Truman’s automobile drew up and he climbed in, followed by Ike and Omar Bradley, the two ranking generals present. Watching the sedan pull away, Judge breathed easier. Only Patton remained on the podium. His stiff posture belied some interior strain, either physical or mental. Judge eyed him, thinking, You sonuvabitch. You’re helping Seyss. You’re a part of this.
An officer mounted the podium and addressed himself to Patton. He stood toe to toe with the general, shaking his hand exuberantly. Patton colored visibly and looked in either direction, but the officer did not release his hand. Only as he leaned forward to whisper something in Patton’s ear did Judge catch the tan skin, the arrogant jaw, and the flashing blue eyes.
“GENERAL, I BELIEVE IT’S TIME we finally met.”
“The pleasure’s all mine, Captain. Did you serve under my command?”
“You might say that. Actually, I’m serving under it now.”
“Then you’re off-limits, son. My Third Army doesn’t grant R and R in Berlin. Which unit are you with?”
“A very special one. We call ourselves the Circle of Fire. My name is Seyss. Erich Seyss. Once I was a major.”
George Patton flinched, his normally ruddy mien flushing an exquisite plum. It wasn’t often a major could make the equivalent of a field marshal squirm and Seyss was enjoying the moment immensely. He leaned closer to Patton, whispering in his ear. “I wanted to thank you personally for the dossier on Terminal. I wouldn’t have a chance without it. But it’s hardly enough. Not if I’m to do a proper job and get out in one piece.”
“Spit it out, man,” Patton said through clenched teeth. “You’ve got your credentials, what else is it you need?”
“Be at the entry of the Cecilienhof tomorrow at eleven. Keep yourself visible. The fourth plenary session is scheduled to start at eleven-thirty. I’ll be accompanying you into the main hall, and if things go as planned, out again as well.” When Patton didn’t answer, he added, “Otherwise, I can’t promise what will happen to the dossier. It might be hard to explain how a man under house arrest got his hands on such sensitive material or how he got here, for that matter.”
“Egon Bach is indispensable to the rebuilding of Germany,” blustered Patton.
“You mean he was.” Seyss smiled, and before Patton could ask him what he meant, fired off a salute. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow morning at eleven. Good day, General. It is an honor. Truly.”
Returning to the car, Seyss focused his mind on the task at hand. Tomorrow morning at ten he’d report to the Bristol Hotel for a ride out to Potsdam. He’d need some civilian clothes before then and some time to study Egon’s dossier. For all the information the papers gave him, it couldn’t begin to give him a picture of the setup of the place—the placement of security guards, who sat where, where the leaders lunched, the layout of the Cecilienhof itself. All that he must learn for himself.
Seyss sneaked through the crowd, finally breaking free of it at the corner of Wilhelmstrasse and Prinz Albrechstrasse. Spotting the Horsch, he picked up his heels and walked a little quicker. It was a beautiful machine. The registration said it belonged to Karl Heinz Gessler. Now, there was a name from the past. During Ingrid’s time as a student at Humboldt University, the two had dined regularly at the Gesslers. The cuisine was terrible, as he recalled. Nothing but overcooked sauerbraten and lumpy spätzle.
The thought of Ingrid brought back Egon’s odd words. “Christ, I’m your boy’s uncle.” Seyss wanted to dismiss the remark as a ploy, an almost successful effort at distraction, but the words stayed with him. He wondered if Ingrid was the reason Egon had come to Berlin. Egon had stated that Judge had enlisted her help to track down her onetime fiancé. Brother and sister had never gotten along, but he’d always suspected that Egon was secretly mad about her. Maybe too mad.
More likely, it was Judge, Bauer’s capture and the subsequent call to Patton giving Egon ample reason to believe the American intended to travel to Berlin. Judge! Every time he heard the American’s name he felt a dread chill. Instinctively, he turned and scanned the street behind him. He saw the usual mishmash of city folk. A pair of trümmerfrauen hard at work. A one-legged veteran begging. A postman fiddling with his motorbike. Nothing to worry about. Calmer, he realized he’d half expected to see the fiery-eyed American bearing down on him. Nerves.
Unlocking the Horsch, he climbed into the driver’s seat and keyed the ignition. Over the velvet growl of the twelve-cylinder engine, he asked himself where in Berlin he might hide if he were traveling with Ingrid Bach and two days absent without leave? The answer came at once, and he smiled. Why not have a look? He needed a quiet spot to spend the afternoon, someplace sufficiently private where he could delve into Patton’s dossier without interruption. Who knew? He might find an old set of clothing.
Even better, he might find Judge.
KNEELING ALONGSIDE THE PURLOINED MOTORBIKE, Judge observed Erich Seyss slide into the sleek roadster. Whatever ideas he’d harbored about jumping him and screaming bloody murder he canned the moment he saw the German speaking to Patton. As far as Judge knew, any MP around the place might be one of Patton’s henchmen. Waiting for a puff of smoke to shoot from the exhaust, Judge swung a leg over the ripped seat and kick-started the engine. The Horsch pulled away from the curb and crept up the street. Judge allowed it a fifty-yard head start, then angled the bike into the center of the road and gave chase.
The black sports car traveled north along Wilhelmstrasse, slowing to cross Unter den Linden, then accelerating wildly when it reached the other side. Judge threaded his way through a gaggle of pedestrians, almost losing Seyss as the automobile made a sharp right turn around a devastated street corner. Opening up the throttle, Judge ducked low and cut the corner only to see Seyss turn again, this time left. Pylons of debris six feet high cluttered the road. He thanked God for the mess. One extended straightaway and Seyss would be out of sight.
Even so, Judge had to struggle to keep up. The Horsch was just too fast. Eyes tearing from the wind, he came to an abrupt and unpleasant realization. Continuing surveillance on Seyss was futile. It would be no use trying to arrest Seyss and impossible to catch him in the act. If he wanted to stop him, he had to kill him. And soon.
At some point, the two crossed into the Russian zone. Dozens of Red Army soldiers patrolled the street, but given their lackluster posture it was difficult to tell if they were on duty or off. The Horsch turned right onto a broad boulevard teeming with horses, pushcarts, and pedestrians. Blumenstrasse read a street sign posted on a scarred row house. Judge recognized the name. The post office where he’d stolen the motorcycle was located somewhere along this street.
Seyss had pulled away again. Judge worked the throttle, not wanting too large a distance to grow between them. The bike shot forward, and at
that instant a pushcart piled high with fractured porcelain nosed into his path. The road was blocked. Braking madly, he threw the handlebars to the left. A grunt and the bald tires slid out from under him.
He came to rest two feet from the pushcart. His pants were torn, his knees and elbows bloodied. The bike was a wreck, front tire folded back on itself, chain broken and splayed like a three-foot worm. Ignoring the halfhearted queries of passersby, he skirted the pushcart, desperate to catch sight of the Horsch. He spotted it, a hundred yards up the road. As if in sympathy, it had stopped to allow an oncoming streetcar to pass before negotiating a sharp left turn. With a sigh of infinite frustration, he watched Erich Seyss disappear up the narrow street, a shimmering shadow under the midday sun.
Then his eye came to rest upon the striped awning of a stubborn grocer. And above it a street sign. Eichstrasse.
And he ran.
CHAPTER
50
THE DOOR SLAMMED AND INGRID RUSHED from the bathroom.
“Devlin, I have some wonderful news. You’ll never guess what—”
He stood in the doorway, dressed in the uniform of an American officer, blue folder tucked under one arm. His face was harder than she remembered, shorn of youth’s innocent disguise. His cheeks were hollow. His jaw thicker, more resolute. New lines advanced from the corners of his eyes. He was the only man the war had made more handsome.
“The uniform,” said Erich Seyss, touching the lapel of his jacket. “Strange, I know. I’m still getting used to it myself. It’s the only way to get around town without too many questions.”
Ingrid stared at him for a few seconds, not knowing what to say. Her skill at making conversation had fled, along with the air from her lungs, and for a moment, she couldn’t decide how to comport herself—whether to act the maiden betrayed, the resourceful mother, or the secret accomplice come to aid in his capture.
He decided for her. Closing the door, he crossed the short distance between them and took her in his arms. He stroked her hair, and for a few seconds, her heart fluttered as it had six years ago. Here he was, then, the long-lost object of her adoration. The man whose actions had shredded her every belief in herself. The source of her strength and her misery. The father of her only child.
She held him for as long as it took to realize she no longer loved him, then let him go. “Hello, Erich.”
“Ingrid.”
She raised a hand to his cheek, wanting to touch him. It was a reflex, a remembrance of an intimacy lost. And she stopped herself just shy of his burnished skin.
Seyss looked her up and down, nodding his head. “Now I know I wasn’t a fool to let you ruin my career.”
Ingrid broke from his embrace and walked to the vanity, needing the distance to make sense of his words. “I beg your pardon?”
“I came back for you,” he said, following her every step. “Two years ago, it was, in March. We’d lost Stalingrad. Everyone knew the war was over. It was just of question of when. Suddenly, I decided that you were more important than the party or some bureaucrat’s idiotic rules. I didn’t have a pass, but I left anyway. I took a sleeper to Munich, then drove to Sonnenbrücke. You were gone. To a friend’s somewhere for the week.”
“But I was married. Surely you knew.”
“Of course,” he answered, standing at her shoulder like a stubborn suitor. “Foolish of me, but I thought I could lure you away.”
Ingrid stood preternaturally still, her eyes fastening upon every detail of the apartment’s hard-won cleanliness. The floor she’d mopped with a moth-eaten sweater, the furniture she’d dusted with a lace dress, the duvet plumped up after airing for an hour. Her surprise was not rooted in disappointment or regret. Not for an instant did she ask herself “what if.” She was captured, instead, by her immunity to his words. And at that moment, she realized she was truly free of him.
“No one told me.”
“Only Herbert knew.” Seyss smirked. “Glad to know someone can keep their oaths.” He laid a hand on her shoulder and turned her around so they were standing close to each other. Uncomfortably close, by Ingrid’s reckoning. Smiling mawkishly, he took her hands in his. “Ever since, I’ve wondered what would have happened if I’d arrived a day earlier. I’ve asked myself the same question again and again.”
“It’s in the past, Erich. We’re different people now.”
“Would you have divorced Wilimovsky? Would you have married me?”
Ingrid tried to avert her eyes, but couldn’t. His unwavering gaze didn’t belong to a spurned lover but a betrayed commander. It was his pride, not his heart, that had been wounded. “No.”
“And now that he’s dead?”
Finally, she looked away, her eyes coming to rest on their intertwined hands. “For the longest time after you left, I kept track of your whereabouts. I’d call my brothers and ask if they’d seen you, if you were safe. Sometimes I swear I wanted to hear that you’d been killed. The hardest thing I ever did was to stop caring for you.”
“I’m sorry.”
She pulled her hands free. “It’s too late for apologies, Erich. Six years. These days, that’s a lifetime.”
“When did you stop?”
“Stop what?”
“When did you stop caring?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “What does it matter?”
Grasping her arms, he gave her a violent jolt. “When?”
She stared at him before answering, keenly aware that despite his lovelorn words he was not here to pay a social call. “Long before you ‘ruined your career for me.’ I didn’t have the strength to hate you anymore.”
Turning her shoulders, she forced herself from his embrace. She was frightened by his coarse behavior. Never had he been pushy or demonstrative. If anything, he was the opposite. Cool to the point of indifference. “Sächlichkeit,” he’d called it, and when she used to say that it was just a soldier’s ruse to get out of an argument, he’d simply smile at her and give a shake of his blond head.
A queer expression crossed Seyss’s face, a rare current of indecision, and for a moment his lips moved as if he was going to ask her something. But just as suddenly, his hesitation vanished. Pivoting, he walked to the window, and right away she saw that his bearing had changed. The spine had stiffened. The shoulders fallen back. He was the soldier again, the time for reminiscences done and discarded. And she knew she’d been right to feel afraid when he’d first walked through her door.
“How did you know I would be here?”
Pulling back a lace curtain, Seyss craned his head outside and peered up and down the street. The windows were simply wooden frames, the glass blown out during the battle for the city. “I didn’t, really,” he said, pulling his head back into the apartment. “Egon mentioned you might be in town. He told me all about your crusade with Major Judge. Actually, I was looking for a place to go to ground for a few hours. Tell me, schatz, when is he due back?”
Ingrid approached him, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Erich, please go. I won’t tell him you’ve been here. I give you my word.”
He shot her a bemused look, as if her suggestion was ridiculous, then returned his eyes to Eichstrasse. “Soon, I take it. Or do you wear that perfume all day long?” He sniffed at the air. “Joy. It was my favorite. I suppose I should be jealous.”
Ingrid took a step back, her cheeks flushing with shame. She’d picked up a petit flacon of the perfume at the open-air market in the Tiergarten, a token to celebrate her finding a way to visit her cousin. Now her victory was in tatters, and she had to find some means of alerting Devlin to Erich’s presence.
“It’s madness, Erich. Whatever you’re trying to do, stop it. Just leave now. Leave the apartment. Get out of the country.”
Seyss might not have heard. His only response was a dry laugh, followed by a hunching of the shoulders that signaled an increased concentration. “Where has he been all day?”
Ingrid was careful in choosing her words, wanting to be cooperativ
e so long as it didn’t endanger Devlin. “Looking for you.”
“Thank God Berlin is a big city.”
Seyss moved away from the window and set out on a tour of the apartment. Two strides took him to the door, which he latched with a turn of his wrist. Grunting, he returned to the windows, drawing the lace curtains over each—she supposed to prevent anyone from seeing in. His last stop was the bathroom. A window above the tub led to a rusted fire escape at the rear of the building. Using both hands, he wrenched open the window, brushing away a smattering of broken glass. Taking one of the buckets, he set it precariously on the rail of the fire escape. The softest step on the escape would send it clattering to the ground three stories below.
“And when did he leave?” Seyss asked, retreating from the bathroom.
“Just after seven.”
“What did you say he was wearing?”
Ingrid detested his smugness. “His uniform, of course,” she said, gathering the courage to lie. “Just like yours.”
SEYSS HAD ENVISIONED IT DIFFERENTLY. She would rush into his arms. They would hug, and in her long-denied joy she would forgive him his transgression. Naturally, they would fall onto the nearest bed and make love, and it would be a loud, sweaty, earthy affair. The imaginery scene had taken place in a dozen familiar locales—Villa Ludwig, Sonnenbrücke, even here, in their lovers’ hideaway on Eichstrasse—and a thousand exotic ones, too. Six years’ fodder for a soldier’s dreams.
The Runner Page 42
