“Darling, don’t do this to yourself,” he said, picking up the pistol. “Think of our boy. Would he like to see his parents fighting this way?”
Ingrid’s eyes squinted in disbelief. “You knew?”
“Not until now.” He offered a hand to help her up and she knocked it away. “I’m touched.”
“Don’t be, Erich. You just fucked me. You may be his father, but you’re not his parent.”
Seyss struck out blindly with his boot, catching her squarely in the sternum, lifting her a few inches off the ground. He was angry at her impudence and her courage, angry at his own predilection for sentiment. He felt no kinship because of their shared offspring. Instead, he felt disgusted and foolish, her rejection of his affection tempering his willingness to overlook her Jewish heritage.
Ingrid squirmed on the carpet for a minute, coughing, making pathetic gurgling noises. Slowly, she gathered her breath and drew herself to a sitting position. Her defiance was ebbing visibly. To make sure of it, he jumped as if to kick her again. She threw out an arm to block the feigned blow, then shrunk to the carpet, crying. Bending down, he helped her onto the couch and offered his handkerchief. It was the least a gentleman could do.
“As you were saying…”
“I’m going to Potsdam this evening,” she whispered.
“Louder!”
Ingrid cleared her throat, lifting her voice. “My cousin is a member of the Presidential delegation. Chip DeHaven. Stalin is throwing a soirée for Truman and those left behind are giving a small party at the Little White House. We’re meeting at the Excelsior at seven.”
Seyss nodded. The Little White House. Kaiserstrasse 2. A map in the dossier showed its location and floor plan; another, that of Stalin’s villa on the Havel. He’d study both after he killed Judge. “Who invited you?”
“An American reporter. His name is Rossi.”
Seyss sat next to her, placing an arm around her shoulders. “Why didn’t you just tell me in the first place? So foolish of you to bring this on yourself. All to do a job the Americans should be taking care of themselves.”
He pulled her close and kissed her hair. She was noticeably thinner than when he’d last seen her — cheekbones more pronounced, eyes that much larger, waist absent — but her slender figure served only to make her more alluring than she’d been. Maturity had added the final strokes to an unfinished masterpiece. Seeing she didn’t resist, he kissed her again, this time on her cheek. Slipping his arm lower, he turned her waist so that she faced him more directly. “So we have a boy,” he said. “Smile. Be happy his father is alive. No boy should grow up without his papa. We’re together again. As it should be.”
“Never,” she said and he felt the venom in her words.
Tossing her shoulders, she tried to stand up but a firm arm locked around her back defeated her struggles. He slid down the couch and moved his head toward hers. Her lips were dry and chapped. Feeling her shift, he tightened his grip and placed a hand on her breast. She was always sensitive there, he recalled. He pressed his body into hers so that she might feel his attraction, then snuck in two fingers to unbutton his pants.
Just then, an iron bucket clanked and clattered down three flights of stairs.
Startled, Ingrid gasped and held him tighter. Seyss shook her loose and jumped to his feet, grabbing the pistol and running into the bathroom. The fire escape groaned as someone mounted the steps. Jutting his head out the window, he caught sight of a mop of dark hair climbing the rusted stairs. He brought the pistol to bear and cocked the hammer. It was a man and he was coming up fast, but where was the uniform Ingrid had mentioned. Seyss waited, knowing a shot would ricochet off the scaffolding. He didn’t want to fire. A gunshot would bring unwelcome attention. The figure rounded the stairs. A head popped from the sea of metal slats, looking expectantly upward and Seyss was staring at the dirt-smeared face of a teenage boy.
“He paid me. He paid me,” the boy was yelling, hand raised to ward off Seyss’s bullet.
Seyss didn’t hear him.
By then, the door to Ingrid’s flat had crashed open and Devlin Judge was rushing across the room, a jagged section of pipe in hand.
Chapter 51
“Raus! Raus!”
Devlin Judge charged across the room, brandishing a heavy lead pipe. He yelled for Ingrid to get out of the apartment but she stood as if frozen. His ruse had brought them a few seconds, no more, and it was only through speed and surprise that they could take advantage of them.
Seyss dashed from the bathroom, a look of incomprehension heating to anger, then resolve. His hand rose sharply and he brought the muzzle of the Colt to bear. Before he could fire, Ingrid was upon him, hands working to free the pistol from his grasp. Judge leapt onto the coffee table and launched himself at the German. The gun bucked once, twice. The noise was excruciatingly loud, clotting his ears with an unbearable ringing. Gunpowder from the muzzle blast scalded his cheek and the next instant he collided with Seyss, his head butting the German in the ribs. The momentum of flight propelled both men into the wall. With a thud, they landed in a confused heap.
Judge cleared his left forearm and pinned Seyss to the ground. Staring into his callous, confident face, he suffered every bitter emotion of the past ten days. His humiliation at being bested at Lindenstrasse, his frustration at allowing Seyss to escape from the armory, and his unspoken anger and the will to revenge on behalf of his brother, Francis Xavier. These feelings and a hundred more for which he had no name came to an instant, uncontrollable head inside him. Cocking his free arm, he delivered two quick downward jabs. The first blow connected solidly with Seyss’s cheek. The second glanced off his chin and scraped the floor, causing Judge to lose his balance. And in that instant Seyss’s fist erupted like a coiled spring, a freight train on a vertical track catching his jaw square on. Judge’s sight darkened and his vision collapsed to a narrow band of light, grainy and unfocused. He tumbled to the floor and his head struck something hard and uneven. Stunned, he thrust his hand behind him and his fingers danced across the cool metal of Seyss’s pistol. The discovery and its concomitant prospect of revenge most sweet enlivened him.
Scrambling to his feet, Judge noted with dismay that Seyss had risen, too, and was propelling Ingrid toward the door. Judge took aim at the plane of Seyss’s back. The trigger caressed his finger like lips to his ear, begging him to fire. He hesitated. A shot at such close range might easily pass through Seyss and kill Ingrid, too. He yelled for the two to stop, but even as he spoke, Seyss twirled, shunting Ingrid in front of him. He had another gun in his hand and as Judge threw himself behind the sofa, it exploded. The bullet struck the wall behind him, misting the air with vaporized concrete. Ingrid screamed, and when he lifted his head, the apartment was empty.
Judge ran to the door and popped his head into the hallway. Two more shots came his way but neither was close. Seyss was buying time, executing a retreating action to the Horsch with Ingrid, a flesh and blood shield. Judge slid down the stairs, his back to the wall. He was desperate to stop Seyss, but prudence forced him to pause at the top of each landing, to advance inch by inch until he could be certain the next flight was clear.
Reaching the street, he wasn’t surprised to see that Seyss had trundled Ingrid into the black roadster. She was half inside the sports car, her flailing arms providing a scrappy if ineffective resistance. Seyss jabbed the pistol into her ribs, hard enough to make Judge wince. He shouted for her to calm down, to do as he said, and she stopped fighting. He shoved her head into the tight compartment and climbed in beside her.