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 naive 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 brocaded 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 targets 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 corked and decanted. Sliding past this well rehearsed chaos, Seyss noticed his heart beating faster, his stomach growing flighty. A bead of sweat escaped his brow and traced a slow course across his forehead. His earlier sang-froid 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 Office 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 sagging with leaves, there was a smokiness to the air, the spicy scent of smothered embers and burning wood that made him think it fall.
Honey’s field telephone 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 back seat. “Quick. You must ring the President. Call Stalin. Warn them Erich is here.”
Honey spoke a few more words into the receiver, 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 with 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 homes, a calm blue expanse framed by sloping grass shores. 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 expect 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 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. Two Ringstrasse was a gated stucco mansion painted the color of rust, mansard roof and dormer windows. Truman’s bodyguard was parked on the main road, a bevy of G-men in pin-stripes 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.