The Runner (13 page)

“No. Not a thing.”

“Cheer up,” continued Honey, his smile back in place. “Seyss is in Munich. He knows we’re after him. Let him be the nervous one. The way I see it, it’s his turn to make a mistake.”

Judge colored. He couldn’t tell if Honey was being rude or just tactless. Before he could say anything in his own defense, Mullins returned with a physician in tow. The doctor examined him and pronounced him fit for travel. Fifteen minutes later, he and Mullins were standing outside the hospital waiting for Honey to draw the jeep around.

“Good luck, then,” said Mullins, offering a shake of his meaty paw. “If our German friends in Camp Eight don’t feel like talking, remember what I taught you. You were a fair practitioner in your day.”

“Yeah,” said Judge, looking away.
Your own Jimmy Sullivan.
“I’ll keep in it mind.”

Mullins grabbed his chin and brought their faces close together. “Serious, lad. You let him go once. Now it’s my name you’re ruining, too.”

CHAPTER

13

T
HE DRIVE TO
C
AMP 8 TOOK
two hours, a steady climb through fields of summer corn and rolling hills laced with tumbling brooks. The afternoon sky was a pale blue, scratched with hazy cumulus. Few cars traveled the narrow country roads but traffic was heavy nonetheless. Dozens of pushcarts freighted with all manner of household items—chairs, dressers, mirrors, and, of course, clothing—trudged along both sides of the highway. Each was accompanied by a shabby flock of women and children, sometimes even a man. Some were Germans returning to their homes, others foreigners shoved about by war’s merciless tide. The estimates out of Washington said that over 6 million of these displaced persons were on the move across Germany. The flotsam of Hitler’s folly.

Judge kept his eyes on the road. Unwilling to admit to Honey, or himself, how Seyss had gotten the drop on him, he remained silent. Large divots had been clawed from the pavement by the treads of angry tanks and the jeep’s incessant jarring down and out of these furrows racked his already sore frame. After an hour, he grew numb from it, seeing his persistent discomfort as a hair shirt of his own tailoring. How Francis would welcome his kid brother’s newly discovered piety! The irony brought a grudging smile to Judge’s lips.

Occasionally, the jeep sped by an abandoned Sherman tank, half-track, or six-ton truck parked at an odd angle, half on, half off the road. In the pell-mell drive to capture enemy territory, the vehicles had been abandoned where they’d broken down.

At ten o’clock sharp, they reached the gates to Prisoner of War Enclosure 8. A spit-shined corporal, M-1 carbine slung over a shoulder, pointed the way to the command post. Honey brought the vehicle to a halt outside a stone-and-pine cabin that reminded Judge of the low-rent place in the Catskills where he’d stayed on his honeymoon. His wife had called it Grossinger’s without the class. It was the first salvo in their battle over the direction of his career, but he’d been too young, too much in love to notice.

A few hundred German soldiers milled around the playing field across the compound from the CP. Their tunics were filthy, their faces gaunt. Most huddled in small groups sharing a common cigarette. From their ranks drifted the smothering stink of dirt and sweat.

Entering the CP, Judge and Honey were met by the camp commander.

“Morning, gentlemen,” said Colonel William Miller. “I’ve been so looking forward to seeing you. Come with me.” He was shorter than Judge, bald and bespectacled, with the hint of a drinker’s belly. He had analytical brown eyes, a wispy mustache, and a pasty complexion that testified to a longtime love affair with his desk. A parson’s son, thought Judge; a lifelong conformist enjoying his first chance to whip those of little faith into line.

Miller whisked them toward a pair of chairs set before his desk. “Please sit down. Make yourselves at home.”

Judge took a last look at his notes and smiled graciously before beginning his questioning. The primary investigator’s report had been succinct if unenlightening, consisting of a description of the crime scene and an unimaginative recounting of the escape. No effort had been made, however, to ascertain how Seyss had obtained the murder weapon, appropriately an SS officer’s dagger, or how he had managed to traipse across three hundred yards of open space unseen.

“Colonel Miller,” he began, “we’re not interested in Colonel Janks’s illicit activities. Whatever worries you may have about that matter, please put them to rest. We’re here to talk about how Erich Seyss managed to get out of this camp. Do you have any idea how he got his hands on the dagger?”

“No idea,” Miller declared gravely, his eyes shifting like a pendulum between Judge and Honey.

“Was Seyss allowed out of the camp at any time?”

“No.”

Judge offered Honey a resigned glance. Monosyllabic responses were ideal under cross-examination, but Miller was a friendly witness—at least in theory. “Are
any
prisoners allowed out of the camp at any time?”

“Most leave every day. We organize work details to help out in Garmisch. Some of the prisoners work on farms, getting the harvest in. Others help out in the kitchens of hotels and restaurants in town, washing dishes, sweeping the floor. I can provide you a list of the establishments. Menial jobs, mind you, and the prisoners are under constant guard. A detachment of soldiers accompanies every group.”

Now they were getting somewhere. “How many?”

“Two or three GIs for each crew of ten prisoners.”

Honey chuckled. “Excuse me for saying so, Colonel, but isn’t that like a couple of hens guarding a pack of foxes?”

Miller colored, but to his credit did not respond.

Judge took up the questioning. “But Seyss never left?”

“Major Seyss was a class-one war criminal awaiting transfer to an appropriate holding facility. He was confined to the camp at all times. Besides, he was under medical supervision. He was in no condition to work.”

“Just to escape, eh?” added Honey.

Judge went on before Miller could protest. Honey was, after all, a noncom, and had no business speaking to an officer so disrespectfully. “And how are the prisoners searched when they return to camp?”

“They’re patted down.”

“Patted down?” brayed Honey, and this time Judge silenced him with a reproachful look. It was clear that anyone could have smuggled in a dagger. Work crews outside the camp for eight to ten hours a day supervised by a couple of postadolescent GIs. Judge was surprised the prisoners weren’t equipped with an entire arsenal by now—steak knives to begin with. “When you mention Seyss’s medical condition, you are referring to the bullet that took out his spleen?”

“He saw the camp doctor daily. A local physician from Garmisch named Peter Hansen. It’s army policy to use natives whenever possible. Naturally, we were quite interested ourselves in speaking with Dr. Hansen. Unfortunately, he’s no longer at home.”

Judge made no comment, choosing to conceal his disappointment in a quest for further details. “And was Hansen a member of the German military?”

“Yes, sir. I believe he served in the army.”

Honey tapped Judge’s arm. “A full-blooded Nazi no doubt.”

Judge shifted his attention to Miller. “Was he, in fact, a member of the Nazi party?”

Miller stared into his lap and coughed. “Yes, sir, I believe he was.”

Seeking clarification, Judge raised a hand. “I thought General Eisenhower had outlawed the employment of former Nazis in any capacity. Isn’t that the basis of our denazification program?”

“General Patton thinks differently,” Miller retorted. “He’s encouraged us to use whoever’s available. He said being a Nazi is no different than being a Republican or a Democrat.”

Judge wanted to shout “What?” but out of respect for his ribs, kept his outrage in check. “One more question: Was Dr. Hansen searched upon arriving at camp each day?”

Miller retained his strict posture. “No, sir.”

“You outrank me, Colonel. A ‘sir’ isn’t necessary.”

Miller flushed, but Judge saved him from his embarrassment, suggesting that they retrace the prisoners’ steps the night of the escape. Mercifully, Honey kept quiet.

Outside, Miller led Judge and Honey around the back of the command post to a trail running alongside the north fence. They passed one barracks after another, stopping at the fourth down the line.

“We count them at morning and at dusk,” explained Miller. “Seyss was assigned a spot in this Barracks F.” He pointed to the cream stone building with a riding crop. “PFC McDonough reported seeing Seyss at five minutes before bed check. Seyss said he was on his way to the latrine. McDonough confirms seeing him enter. He’d been given a pass from Dr. Hansen allowing him use of the facilities at any time. His kidneys were also badly damaged.”

“Dr. Hansen said so?” ventured Honey, a smirk lurking close behind his lips.

The three men were standing at the entry to Barracks F.

“So he left from here,” said Judge. “He went to the latrine, then made his way to the kitchen.” His outstretched arm pointed to a stable fifty yards to their right, then rotated counterclockwise ninety degrees, stopping at a stained pine building two hundred yards farther on. “Where he killed Colonel Janks and Vlassov, mounted Vlassov’s wagon, and drove through the gate.”

Judge walked to the center of the road that bisected the camp and turned in a full circle. Against a backdrop of green meadows rolling to snowcapped peaks, he counted eleven watchtowers rimming the perimeter of the camp. He continued to the latrine where again he stopped and turned round, as if taking his bearings. His gaze skimmed the grass, tracing the path Erich Seyss had taken to the kitchen. He began walking. Every few steps he paused to look to his right and left, checking if one of the watchtowers had a clear view of him. When he reached the supply shed at the rear of the kitchen, he raised his hands in the air and exclaimed, “I give up, Colonel! Seyss was in the direct line of sight of at least three watchtowers the entire way. Would you care to explain to me how a prisoner could cross such a wide distance without being seen, or as I would have hoped, detained, questioned, and returned to his bed?”

“It was a moonless night,” Miller countered defensively. “We’ve spoken with the soldiers manning those towers. They didn’t see a thing. We certainly don’t keep the compound lit after dark.”

“No, no,” said Judge, irascible because of his discomfort. “I don’t buy it. Either he didn’t come this way or he wasn’t dressed like his buddies. Or . . .’’ And here he stopped and fixed Miller with his most hawkish gaze. “Or he had help on the inside.”

The accusation hung between the men for several seconds, ripe with unpleasant implications. Then Miller stepped forward. “We did find something odd a few days ago,” he offered sheepishly. “Maybe you’d care to take a—”

“Please, Colonel, yes, we’d like to see it.”

Miller shuffled off to his office and returned carrying what appeared to be an olive drab mixing bowl. “This turned up behind the shed.”

Honey plucked the rounded object from Miller’s hands, swept off his cap, and fitted it to his own head. “It’s a helmet, for chrissakes. What did he use? A soccer ball?”

“Yes,” Miller stuttered, “but we don’t know if it belonged to Seyss or if he used it during the—”

“Give it here, Sergeant,” ordered Judge. Handling the “helmet” he scraped away some of the paint, revealing strips of chipped brown leather. “For argument’s sake, I’ll just assume he was wearing fatigues as well.”

Judge stalked past Miller to the porch where Janks and Vlassov had been murdered. The gates to the camp stood sixty feet away, no farther than the distance from the pitcher’s mound to home plate. Approaching them, he craned his neck to take in the guard towers crowding either side. Two soldiers manned each parapet. Judge’s eyes, however, were drawn to the perforated snout of the .30-caliber machine gun, and next to it, the bald countenance of a klieg light. He lowered his gaze to the gates themselves and the sentries walking back and forth before them. Ten to one, these kids were itching to give their guns a workout. Had Seyss been stopped that night, he would have been cut to ribbons.

The man we’re after is a gambler,
he thought.
Brave, daring, and more than a little reckless.
But then Judge had learned that firsthand this morning.

Turning, he tossed the ball to Miller. “I’m ready to interview the prisoners now.”

CHAPTER

14

J
UDGE
’
S FIRST IMPRESSION OF
Sergeant Willy Fischer was that he looked the way a tank driver should: short and wiry, with a shock of black hair and a pack mule’s stubborn glare. Fischer had spent the war attached to the First SS Panzer Division. From December 1944 through May of this year, he had served under Erich Seyss. He was being detained at the camp for his participation in the Malmedy massacre, though on a lesser charge than his commanding officer. On Judge’s orders, he’d been removed from the camp population the previous afternoon and confined to an empty larder in the supply shack—what passed for the cooler at POW Camp 8. Since then he’d been fed a warm dinner and an American breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon. No explanation had been given for his confinement. Judge wanted him confused.

“Guten Morgen,”
Judge said loudly, doing his best impression of a German officer. “I’m sorry we couldn’t find a bed for you, but at least you had something to eat.”

“Good morning to you.” Brushing the dust from his uniform, Fischer took a step toward Judge. His dark eyes raced over the uniform, trying to ascertain who exactly this man was. Judge saved him the trouble, introducing himself as an inspector with the military police and saying he needed his assistance with an important case. “It concerns your former commanding officer.”

“I’m sorry but he’s not here any longer,” Fischer said wryly. “I believe he checked out a few days ago.”

“Know where he went?”

“Baden Baden, if I’m not mistaken. He usually goes this time of year to take the cure.”

Despite himself, Judge laughed. He hadn’t expected a man who’d spent three years trapped in an iron sarcophagus to have a sense of humor. A clerk shuffled into the room with a school chair in each hand. When he’d left, Judge shut the door and gestured for the prisoner to take a seat. “Cigarette?”

“Ja. Danke.”

Judge tossed him a pack of Lucky Strikes, then handed him his Zippo lighter. He wasn’t sure how exactly to handle Fischer. What point was there in threatening a man who’d survived the war only to face the gallows? The man would cooperate only if he felt it would benefit him. “Where’s your family?”

Fischer remained silent for a long while, smoking his cigarette and staring at his inquisitor. Judge imagined he was asking himself how far to go, examining his conscience for signs that he’d suffered enough as it was. Finally, he said, “Frankfurt.”

“Does your wife know you’re here?”

“I’ve written her.” Fischer shrugged as if to say he didn’t have much faith that the letters were being delivered.

“Give me her address. I’ll make sure they have enough ration stamps, someplace warm to sleep.”

“What? No Hershey bars and stockings?”

Judge played the jolly good fellow. “How could I forget? I’ll throw them in, too.”

“You’re a generous man. A pack of cigarettes, a couple of decent meals and the word of an American officer that he will look after my family.” Fischer pursed his lips as if appraising the offer, while a bemused expression tightened his features. He stood and tossed the lighter to Judge. “Seyss is gone. Leave him.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Fischer pointed an accusing finger at his interrogator. “Do you know what the Ivans do to members of the SS when they catch them? They take a bayonet and insert it . . .’’ He left off. “Forget it. I don’t talk about the man who saved my life.”

And you,
Judge wanted to say.
What did you do to the Russians when you caught them? Shoot them, starve them, send them to a factory to work until they dropped dead of exhaustion.
Three million Russian soldiers had perished under German captivity. But if Judge was seething, he did not let his anger show.

“You didn’t fight the war to end up in prison for the rest of your life. Help me find Seyss and I’ll see the courts go easy on you.”

Fischer scoffed and retreated to a dark corner of the room.

“Tell me how you helped him get out of the camp.”

“Helped him?” Fischer laughed to himself. “No one helps the major.”

“The time for heroes is over,” Judge said crossly. “It’s time to think about yourself. Your family. Tell me where Erich Seyss is.”

Fischer ambled back to his chair and sat down. After a last drag, he threw his cigarette on the floor, then ran a filthy hand over his mouth. “I am a German soldier,” he said, answering a question only he had heard.

Judge met his hard gaze. “The war is over.”

Fischer shook his head, then dropped his eyes to the floor. “Too bad, eh?”

J
UDGE STOOD OUTSIDE THE LARDER,
his back to the wall, willing himself to maintain his composure. An hour of questioning and cajoling hadn’t gotten him anywhere. What upset him was not Fischer’s flippant cynicism but his own misreading of the prisoner. His years in law enforcement had taught him that there was no honor among thieves. His mistake had been to assume that a defeated soldier would act in the same manner as a captured criminal. He had not reckoned on the inculcated loyalty of the German military. Unless he could convince the second POW that Seyss had wronged him, he’d have no chance in securing the man’s cooperation.

Honey stood next to him, arms crossed, eyes too insistent by half. “There’s another way to make Fritz talk.”

Judge shook his head and walked toward the second larder. “I know.”

C
ORPORAL
P
ETER
D
IETSCH SAT CROUCHED
in the corner of the barren room, clasped hands protecting his mouth as if at any moment it might betray him of its own volition. Like Fischer, Dietsch had served under Seyss’s command in the Ardennes and later in Russia and Austria. Like Fischer, he had been a member of a tank squad, his occupational specialty that of gunner. But Dietsch had not volunteered for the Waffen-SS. He’d been transferred into the First SS Panzer Division from a Wehrmacht replacement battalion in November 1944. A conscript. Judge could only pray that Dietsch’s loyalties didn’t run as deep as Fischer’s.

“Good morning,” he began, speaking German, of course, but casually this time. No more baying like a Prussian bloodhound. “Enjoy your breakfast?”

Dietsch eyed him warily before standing up and saying thank you very much, he had indeed. He was a tall, gangly boy, nineteen according to his
soldbuch.
His blond hair was shorn to the scalp, his nose too big for his face, and his chin too small. He was the runt who took his beatings and didn’t complain.

Judge explained why he was there. He wanted to know if Dietsch could shed some light on Seyss’s escape or if he knew where Seyss had gone. Dietsch vehemently denied any knowledge of the escape or of his whereabouts, then launched himself into an impassioned defense of the heroic soldier. It was the same crap that Fischer had spewed, but Judge let him have his say. He wanted to give Dietsch plenty of chances to convince himself of his loyalty.

“I have a hard time listening to you speak so highly of the man who got you into this trouble,” said Judge when the boy finally stopped speaking. “If it weren’t for Seyss ordering you to open fire on one hundred unarmed American soldiers, you wouldn’t be sitting here looking at a hangman’s rope.”

“When attacking there is no time to take prisoners,” answered Dietsch. “The Führer himself issued the orders.”

“So Hitler was with you in Malmedy? Because if he wasn’t, I’m afraid it’s your commanding officer who is responsible for giving you that order.”

“Of course Hitler wasn’t there,” retorted Dietsch.

“That’s right. It was Seyss who ordered you to pull the trigger. It was Seyss who turned you from an honorable soldier into a cold-blooded murderer.”

Dietsch lowered his eyes. “Yes. Fine. It was Seyss. So what? What do you want anyway?”

Judge leaned forward and put a comforting hand on the boy’s knee. “For you to talk to me. Help me learn how Seyss got out of here. Tell me where he went.”

Dietsch glanced up. His blues eyes had gone glassy, shedding the defiance they’d harbored only a moment before. Judge could see that not only did he know something but that he was going to talk. The tension in the room vanished, as noticeable as an abrupt drop in atmospheric pressure. Instead of pressing, though, he sat back and let the boy come to him. He wouldn’t repeat his mistake with Fischer. He took out another pack of cigarettes and put it on the floor between them. After a moment, Dietsch bent over and picked it up. “You mind?”

“Help yourself.”

Dietsch fumbled with the pack, taking an eternity to get the cigarette into his mouth. He smoked like the schoolboy he should have been, puffing earnestly, staring at the skeins of smoke rising in front of his big nose as if he were contemplating Kant’s
Critique of Pure Reason.
And just when Judge’s patience was deserting him, he spoke. “I want out,” he said. “My wife is eight months pregnant. I must see her. At least a visit.”

Judge almost felt sorry for him. The kid would talk himself into a phone call if he let him go on. “Forty-eight hours,” he said. “A two-day pass to visit your wife and you’ll be accompanied by a guard at all times . . . if you have information that can help me.”

Dietsch laughed. “I didn’t know he’d made it until yesterday evening. I asked myself why else would they throw me in the cooler?”

“Tell me everything.”

“Forty-eight hours?”

Judge nodded.

Dietsch shot him a glance that asked if he could trust him, then sighed and began speaking. “We thought he was crazy at first. I mean the major was so proud about how he was going to face the Americans and admit to his actions. He used to quote von Luck: ‘Victory forgives all, defeat nothing.’ The next day, he said he was getting out, that the Fatherland needed him. ‘
Kameraden,’
he said. ‘One last race for Germany’ and all that.”

“He said that? ‘One last race’?”

“Yes.” Dietsch brightened. “He was very famous when I was a child, you know? Hitler himself nicknamed him the White Lion before his race against the Negro Americans in Berlin.”

“He lost,” Judge cut in. He wasn’t interested in the glorification of his brother’s murderer. “You were saying?”

“The major told us he needed the baize from a billiards table,” said Dietsch. “Fischer and I work some days at the Post Hotel. He knew they had a game room. It was easy to remove, actually. Some of the men made a ruckus in the kitchen while we stripped the table.”

Judge drew small satisfaction from the validation of his suspicions. “And you sewed it to the inside of his uniform so that when he turned it inside out he looked like a GI?”

“We had to work on the fabric a little. Darken it with oil, draw on the unit insignia.”

“And the helmet? Where did you get the paint for that?”

Dietsch laughed, encouraged by Judge’s knowing the tale. “The helmet was easier. We cut the camp ball in half and covered it with paint from the toolshed. Von Luck said ‘Imitation is the bravest form of deception.’”

That was the second time he’d heard the name mentioned. “Who’s von Luck?”

“General von Luck, of course. The major’s trainer for the Olympic Games. A founder of the Brandenburg Regiment. Seyss spoke of him like a father.”

Judge made a mental note to check if this von Luck character had made it through the war. “And Vlassov? How did Seyss know about him and Janks?”

Dietsch shrugged unconvincingly. “No idea.”

Judge lurched forward and grabbed Dietsch by his jacket. “Now is not the time to start lying to me.”

“I imagine Dr. Hansen told him. How else?”

How the hell did Hansen know? Judge wondered. According to Miller he left the camp at seven each night and didn’t work at all on Sundays. Something still wasn’t right. “And the knife?”

“Hansen. He could bring anything into the camp that would fit inside his medical bag. He brought the major extra rations to help build him up. Wurst, bread, even some fruit. The major often shared it with us.”

Judge released the thin boy, giving him an easy shove toward the corner. “Where did Seyss go?”

Dietsch bent to pick up his cigarette. “He never told us. Just that he had to meet
kameraden.
Other SS men, people loyal to the Fatherland. I don’t know who.”

“Where was he meeting them?”

“I don’t know.”

“Munich?”

“I don’t know.” Dietsch insisted.

Discerning a deceitful glint in Dietsch’s eyes, Judge rose from his chair and advanced on the soldier. “Dammit, tell me!”

Dietsch cowered, fighting back tears. “I don’t know!”

Judge spun and kicked his chair to the ground. It was time for the strong-arm stuff. Time to call in Spanner Mullins. He imagined Mullins’s voice, the Irish brogue whispering in his ear, “Either you get him to talk or I will.” He thought of Seyss walking the streets of Munich a free man. He could still feel the bastard’s hand on his back, giving him a shove that was meant to end his life. Judge circled the room, tensing the muscles in his arms and shoulders as he walked, clenching his fists. In the end, it always came to this. Knock out a man’s front teeth and he’ll confess like a drunk on the steps of St. Patrick’s. As Mullins said, “Sorry, lad, there’s just no other way to make sure he’s telling the truth.”

Looking over his shoulder, he caught sight of Honey peeking through the door. The young Texan was nodding his head, telling him it was okay to unleash a couple of good ones on this feckless kid.

Suddenly, Judge rushed at the prisoner, latching his hands on his shoulders and shaking him forcefully. The urge to hit Dietsch blossomed inside him like a physical desire. He didn’t know if it was the frustrations of the day or just a return to his inglorious self, but God help him, he wanted to punch this kid in the face with everything he had. This schoolboy punk who’d leveled his machine guns at men his own age, American men, and pulled the trigger.

“Dammit, Dietsch!” he yelled. “Tell me the truth.”

Dietsch flinched, raising both hands to protect his face. “He wasn’t stupid, you know. He knew you’d come looking for him. He wouldn’t tell us anything that might jeopardize his mission. I’ve told you what I know. I want to see my wife. You promised.” And then he broke. Tears poured from his eyes and he sobbed, all the while sure to keep his arms about his head. “My wife. You promised.”