Listening to Janks barter away the prisoners’ food supplies, Seyss felt his fear ebb and fury take its place. A sack of grain for a pistol. Two boxes of chocolate for a silver wound badge. A gross of K rations for a general’s cap. Small wonder the camp population was half starved. Finally Janks said it. Fifteen loaves of bread for an Iron Cross. Twenty loaves plus a carton of Lucky Strikes if it had oak clusters. At the mention of the Iron Cross, Seyss’s hand moved to his own neck. It was bare, of course. His own decorations had been confiscated at the hospital in Vienna. Held as evidence, he’d been told. That small and beautiful piece of metal for which he’d spent his blood was this evening deemed worth a few loaves of bread and a carton of cigarettes. Seyss was in no mood to appreciate such grotesque irony.
“What’s next?” asked Janks. “That it? We done here?”
“That is all, Colonel,” said Vlassov.
“Good. Load up your wagon and get the hell out of here.” As the footsteps tramped above him, Seyss slid his wrist towards his eyes and focused on the watch’s tritium hands. Eight minutes past nine. Bed check was well underway. Had the officer of the watch reached his barracks yet?
He crawled forward until he was under the porch that extended from the southern side of the kitchen. A cool breeze lapped his face. Vlassov lumbered back and forth carrying his evening’s wages. After his fourth trip to the wagon, he re-entered the kitchen and spoke to Janks. “ All done, Colonel. I see you next week.”
“’Til next week, Mr Vlassov. My boys will open the gate once they see you in your wagon. Go on, now.”
Vlassov grunted a goodbye and walked out of the room. The kitchen door opened and closed. Seyss slid from beneath the porch and raised himself to one knee. Vlassov was standing in the dark, smoking his customary cigarette before mounting his wagon and leaving the camp. Seyss stared at him a moment. He had been taught to hate the mongrel Slav, to disrespect this man without a homeland, this untermensch. But all he saw was an opponent. A man who stood in his way.
Placing the blade of the dagger in his mouth, he grasped the railing and sprung onto the porch. He landed silently. A single step and he was upon Vlassov. Spinning him round, he clamped a hand over his mouth, then plunged the dagger into the base of his throat. Vlassov grunted, bucked once and was still. Maintaining his grip on the knife, Seyss peeled off the Czech’s reefer jacket one arm at a time. He removed the dagger and gently lowered the body to the ground. A clean kill.
Seyss checked his watch. Twelve past the hour. The officer of the watch had reached his barracks by now. At any moment, the whistle would sound announcing that a prisoner was missing. Three short blows, a pause, then three more. The gates would remain locked until Janks gave the all clear. Urging himself to hurry, he plucked Vlassov’s cap off the porch and placed it on his own head, sure to tuck his lank blond hair under the visor. He had put on the Czech’s jacket when the kitchen door opened. Colonel Janks stepped onto the porch, slowly extending his neck like a cautious turtle. No doubt he’d heard Vlassov’s dying snort and decided to see if something was amiss. Spotting the Czech’s body, he took an involuntary step forward. When he raised his head, he was looking at Erich Seyss.
Seyss moved reflexively, shoving the colonel against the door while slapping a hand over his mouth. Janks stared into his pale blue eyes and for a moment, Seyss saw his own fear mirrored in the American’s face. He considered delivering Janks a blow to the head, leaving him unconscious. No one would care about a dead Czech, but an American officer killed by a German POW? The whole army would be after him. Then he heard Janks’s plaintiff voice offering Vlassov twenty loaves of bread for an Iron Cross and his reason evaporated.
“Tell me, Colonel,” he whispered, “how many loaves of bread for an SS officer’s dagger?”
Janks’s eyes tightened in confusion. “But you weren’t—”
Before he could complete his thought, Seyss rammed the blade into his chest. He withdrew the knife and stabbed him again. Janks’s eyes bulged. He coughed, and a skein of blood decorated Seyss’s cheek. Seyss could feel it warming his skin, rolling down his face, brushing his lips. He tasted the blood of his enemy and his heart beat madly. He took a deep breath, willing the demon to pass, but it was too late and he knew it.
Smiling, he let the wildness take him.
When he was again himself, he pulled at the dagger but it was either impaled on bone or so slick with blood that it would not come free. He dropped Janks’s body, then knelt beside it, searching for the pearl-handled Colt automatic the colonel displayed so proudly on his hip. Vain Americans. Every last one wanted to be like Patton. He removed the pistol from its holster and shoved it into his pocket.
Fighting to maintain his nerve, Seyss stepped off the porch and mounted the wagon. Vlassov’s jacket was slick with blood, but in the dark it appeared only badly stained. He gave the reins a brief tug. The two bays raised their heads as one, then turned to the left and walked toward the gate. Passing through the shadow of the watchtower, he glanced up and saw the nose of a .30 caliber machine gun drooping over the parapet, and behind it a baby-faced soldier aligning him in its sights. Ahead, a dirt road ran through the meadow before veering left and disappearing into the veil of forest that descended from the mountain. A GI approached the wagon, cradling his carbine in one arm. Seyss hunched over the reins to shield the jacket. His right hand delved into his pocket for the comforting heft of Janks’s pistol. He could only hope it was loaded. Lowering his eyes, he whispered “Goodnight”
“Yeah,” grunted the guard. “See you next Sunday.” He patted the bay’s rump, then turned to the gate, dragged it open and waved the wagon through.
The whistle blew when he was fifty yards down the road.
A moment later, klieg lights doused the wagon. Several gunshots rang out. But no figure could be seen at the reins.
Erich Seyss was gone.
The White Lion was free.
Chapter 2
The café downstairs was playing Dietrich again. “Lilli Marlene” for the third time this morning and it was still before ten. Glad for the distraction, Devlin Judge slid his chair from his desk and stepped onto the balcony of his fifth floor office. The music was clearer now. Dietrich’s dusky voice bounced off the cobblestones and wandered through the canyon of apartments and office buildings, mingling with the cling-clang of bicycle bells and hot sweet scent of freshly baked croissants.
Humming nervously, Judge let his eyes wander the rooftops of Paris. A bold sun splashed the landscape of ocher tile and verdigris, its lustrous rays erasing a lifetime of soot and grime. The Arc de Triomphe stood guard at the end of the block. Through the fine morning haze, the towering limestone plains looked close enough to touch. If he rose on his toes, he could catch the crown of the Eiffel Tower. Normally, the sights made his heart jump. Today, he found the view mundane. His work, too, refused his attention. Since arriving three hours earlier, he’d been unable to concentrate on anything except the butterflies that had taken firm, unremitting possession of his gut.
Today was the day. He didn’t need a damn thing to make his heart race faster than it already was.