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.
JUDGE 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 wi
th 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.”
THE 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.
Seyss stood on a fringe of lawn at the top of a gentle slope that fell away to the riverbank. Behind him the forest encroached at his back. Lining the lawn from the villa to the Havel, were members of the crack division assigned to guard the residence of their supreme leader. To a man their faces were turned to the terrace, eyes watering at the romantic musings of their own Pyotr Ilich Tchaikovsky.
From his vantage point, Seyss had a clear view of the gathering. Churchill, Truman, and Stalin stood shoulder to shoulder at the forefront of the assembled guests. He measured the distance to his targets as seventy feet. A chest shot with a pistol from this distance would be simple. A head shot, more difficult. A hand brushed his holster, thumb freeing the pistol guard. Using the last three fingers, he eased the revolver a centimeter or two from its well-oiled cradle. Once he drew the weapon, he would have to move fast. Aim and two shots, aim and two shots.
The cauldron must be made to boil.
It was time.
Raising his nose to the fragrant night air, he took a tentative step forward. His muscles itched. He felt loose and energetic. He saw himself down in the blocks, imagined the feel of the clay as his fingers danced over the starting line. This was the part he’d always liked best, the prelude to the race, sizing up himself and the competition, his uncertainty hardening to conviction. Macht zur Sieg. The will to victory. The memory of it all made him smile. He rolled his neck to either side, breathing deeply, his eyes focusing on the targets. Truman dressed in a charcoal suit, an appreciative grin pasted to his face. Churchill in a khaki uniform, arms drawn over his chest, liking none of it. Seyss took a deep breath and swallowed hard. His mouth was dry and suddenly he didn’t want to smile anymore.
Sächlichkeit, a voice urged him, and his entire body stiffened.
One last race.
THE GUESTS HAD ASSEMBLED ON the terrace forming a large crescent around the musicians. They stood with their backs to the villa, forty men in dark suits enjoying the lively music. Judge rushed to the edge of the gathering, eyes scouring the group for the distinctive pea green of a Russian officer’s uniform. He found only three or four soldiers, generals all, each above fifty.
“Shit,” said Honey. “The troops are in the woods.”
Dozens of Russian soldiers lined either side of the lawn, emerged from their positions to enjoy the music. Every man shouldered a machine gun, a pistol in his belt. Many more remained partially shrouded, shadowy figures inhabiting the forest’s border. Any one of them had a clear, unobstructed shot at the Allied leaders.
Judge skirted the crowd. Harry Truman, Winston Churchill, and Josef Stalin stood ten feet away. Caught up in the music, they were impervious to the frantic hunt being launched around them. He saw Vlassik whispering urgently in Stalin’s ear and Stalin shooing him away with an expression of grave irritation. Judge turned his eyes to the soldiers closest to the terrace, squinting to make out the features beneath their woolen caps.
“I see him.”
It was Ingrid and her voice was ice. She clutched at his arm, using her free hand to point toward a cluster of soldiers half hidden beneath the overhanging branches of a centuries-old pine. “There.”
Still pointing, she released Judge’s arm and began to jog, then run across the terrace.
“Erich!” she yelled. “Erich, don’t!”
A gunshot cracked the night air and Ingrid seemed at once to stop and rise on her tiptoes. A flower had bloomed high on her back, larger than any rose Judge had ever seen, and as she collapsed, his heart fell with her.
Seyss emerged from the shadows, sprinting, pistol extended in front of him, firing in time to his step. His cap blew from his head and Judge saw his face, hard, determined, fearless.
The musicians played a few bars longer, first one violinist cutting short a bow, then the other. Finally the pianist dropped his hands from the keyboard, looking altogether mystified. The guests remained where they stood, the combined civilian and military leadership of
the three most powerful countries on earth, warriors all, and not a soul among them moving.
By now, Judge was running too. Firing and running, closing the distance to the president. Honey dropped to one knee, and steadying his arm, began to blow off rounds. Somewhere in the tumult, Judge could hear the spent shells tinkling to the ground like coins from a winning slot.
Ten feet separated him from the president. A last step and he was there. Throwing himself in front of Truman, he grabbed the man’s shoulders and chucked him to the ground. Then he was falling, too, spinning in time to see Seyss’s gun spit fire, feeling a sudden and terrible pain spear his hip.
Seyss came nearer, his runner’s stride relentless, and Judge imagined he could see his finger whitening as it tensed around the trigger. All his efforts were for naught, for Francis, for Ingrid, for himself, and now for the president. The White Lion would succeed. The thought sparked in him a terrific rage, a fury that cauterized his pain and momentarily erased his worry for Ingrid.
Raising his pistol, Judge fired twice, striking Seyss in the shoulder and the thigh. He could hear the bullets’ impact, a dull and concise thud, could see filaments of his uniform waft into the air.
Still Seyss’s pace did not slacken.
Judge waited a moment longer, until Seyss’s body filled his entire field of vision. He yelled “Stop!” and squeezed off his final round, even as another slug knocked him to the ground.
A perfect dot appeared on Seyss’s cheek as a puff of pink smoke burst from the rear of his head. His step faltered, but only for an instant. Still he ran, but his stride was looser, his mouth open, his eyes no longer focused. The gun rose in his hand, but just as quickly fell. Arms flailing, he tumbled recklessly to the ground, his pistol clattering to the flagstone.
Seyss lay a foot away from Judge. He was dead, his blue eyes frozen on the infinite distance.
Judge rested his head on the terrace and stared into the night sky. A single star twinkled above him.
The Runner Page 46
