“Why?” he asked.
Mullins dug something out of his pocket and stuck a hand over the seat. “Two reasons, if you have to know. One for each shoulder.” Resting in his palm was a small jewel box displaying a pair of silver five-pointed stars. “I’m not going to have any snot-nosed punk talking down to me when I’m back stateside. The way I see it, the mayor will be more than happy to appoint a brigadier general who served under Georgie Patton commissioner of police for the five boroughs.”
“You’re going to help Patton start another war just to get a lousy promotion?”
Mullins colored, rising in his seat. “Look around you, lad. If it’s not now, it’ll be later. Why not get the job done when our boys are still here? You think Mr Stalin’s going to sit still in Berlin? The Poles and the Czechs, why they’re done for already. They’re greedy bastards, the commies are. George Patton knows that. He’s the only fellow brave enough to take steps, while we can do something about it. You were a decent fighter once. I’d thought you’d understand.”
“Yeah,” said Judge, shaking his head. “Your own Jimmy Sullivan.”
Mullins snapped the box closed, giving Judge a doleful smile. “Sorry, lad, but you’ve left me no other way.” And shifting in his seat, he nodded to his driver. “Alright, Tommy. Let’s get it over.”
“No!” shouted Judge.
A hailstorm of glass exploded into the car, a battery of gunshots blowing out the windows, spraying crystal splinters over Judge and Ingrid. One, two, three. The blistering reports came close on each other, melding into a terrific earsplitting roar. Somewhere inside the blizzard, the side of Tommy’s face dissolved into a frothing red mass. Ingrid buried herself in the car leather, mouth frozen in a silent scream, blood freckling her delicate features. Mullins shouted, “What the he—” The next instant his voice died, his skull caromed from the dashboard to the window and his shoulders slumped against the door. White smoke choked the car, cordite from the spent casings.
Silence.
Rivulets of glass tinkled onto the dashboard.
Judge pulled his hands from his ears, releasing his breath. Ingrid stared at him in shock, her eyes blinking wildly. Tommy was dead. Spanner Mullins twitched, gasped, then was still.
Suddenly, the door behind Judge was flung open. A GI brandishing a smoking pistol peered into the automobile. Judge recognized the cornflower blue eyes, the shock of brown hair, the open and trusting face, but the Texan’s shit-eating grin was nowhere to be seen.
“Welcome to Berlin, Major Judge,” said Darren Honey. “About time I found you.”
Chapter 54
Seyss was in.
A grand foyer greeted him, squeaky wooden floors waxed to an immaculate shine, rich yellow walls, and a gargantuan crystal chandelier bathing the circular hall in an unflattering light. The entry was packed with security men: the Americans in their double-breasted summer suits, Brits sweating in wool serge, and, of course, his fellow members of the Russian secret police, the NKYD, dressed to a man in identical boxy gray suits.
Arms behind his back, lips pursed in polite but stoic greeting, Seyss crossed the foyer. He nodded his hellos and received a few in return. No brows were raised in suspicion. No one questioned his function. No one even asked his name. His mere presence at Ringstrasse 2 bespoke his right to be there.
Behind him were two police checkpoints, a long chat with the head of perimeter security, Gregor Vlassik, and a cordon of Cossack cavalrymen, spit-shined boots and gleaming sabers on proud display. Farther back was Colonel Klimt, who could be found at this instant lying naked in the dirt with a lead slug in his temple. It had been a clean shot, barrel pressed to skin, so as not to risk bloodying the uniform. Rushing to change into Klimt’s pea green smock and jodhpurs, he’d been thrown back to his days as a recruit at the academy in Bad Toelz. Inspections were often held in the middle of the night and these spur of the moment affairs became known as “masquerade balls”. The cadets were lined up naked in front of their beds then ordered to dress for a specific activity — a full gear march, a formal company banquet, even a football match. The first two cadets properly attired were permitted to go back to bed. The rest went at it again and again, until at dawn, the last two standing were ordered to run ten kilometers in full combat dress.
The door closed behind him and he caught the hum of a party in progress, like the drone of distant bombers. A corridor ran the width of the house. A red carpet softened the tread of his cavalry boots, candle sconces lit the way. Seyss moved purposefully through the hall, his foreknowledge of the house’s layout, its security measures, easing his anxieties, and lending his step a confident, unimpeachable gait.
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 water closet 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 halclass="underline" 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-cladmaitre d’. Spotting Seyss, the man raised an inquiring finger and rushed over.
“No uniforms!” he hissed under his breath. “Thevozhd 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 theVozhd — 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, white fish, 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’hôtel. “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’hôtel 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 whisky 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!