“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 “Erotica”, 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, regarding 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 river bank. Behind him the forest encroached to 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 Peter Ilych Tchaikovsky.
From his point of vantage, he 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 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. Suddenly he didn’t want to smile anymore.
Sachlichkeit, 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, having 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. Anyone 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 shoo 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 from his pistol like coins from a winning slot.
Ten feet separated him from the President. One 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 near 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 him into 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, even as another slug knocked him to the ground, squeezed off his final round.
A perfect dot appeared on Seyss 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 pale blue eyes frozen in the infinite distance.
Judge rested his head on the terrace and stared into the night sky. A single star twinkled above him. “Ingrid,” he shouted, his voice sandy and weak.