Nearing the edge of town, Seyss found himself gripping the handlebars more tightly, sitting higher in the seat. The candy-striped pole blocked the street ahead. One hundred meters further on stood the Glienickes Bridge, the only one of three crossings open from which Russian-controlled Potsdam could be reached from Berlin. An American transport — “ a deuce and a half” in their streetwise vernacular — had just pulled up to the border. Eager to observe the relations between these reluctant partners, Seyss cut his speed and shunted the bike onto the sidewalk. Russian sentries in pea green smocks stormed over the truck like ants to their queen. One yelled for the tailgate to be opened. The American driver shouted an order and his troops poured out. Immediately, they formed a line and began unloading large cardboard cartons. Seyss was close enough to read the boxes. Evian. Eau Minerale. Drinking water. Probably provisions for the Presidential party.
The Russian officer spent a long time counting and recounting the boxes, tallying the total against a sheet on his clipboard. Finished, he blew a whistle and the American soldiers formed a single file line. Each held out his dog tag as the Russian officer passed by. It was clear they’d been through the whole routine before; equally clear they didn’t enjoy it.
As he turned the motorcycle around and headed north to Wannsee, Seyss remembered something Egon Bach had said during their meeting at Villa Ludwig.How long before the flame of democracy ignites the cradle of communism?
Soon, Seyss whispered. Very soon.
Grossen Wannsee 42 was a stern Tudor mansion set far back from the street on a heavily wooded lot in the southwestern corner of Berlin. Tall iron gates circled the estate. A sprawling lawn cradled the house, sloping in the rear to the Wannsee itself, a calm expanse of water formed by an outcropping of the River Havel. Beds of tulips lined the red brick drive and strands of bougainvillea enveloped the trellis. It was every inch the province of one of Germany’s industrial titans. And that included the spit-polished black Hosch roadster parked before the front entry.
Seyss gave the house a last glance, then goosed the motorcycle down the shadowy lane. It had turned into a fine day. The air was cool, dampened by a morning shower. The sun hung at forty degrees, blanching the eastern sky. Breathing deeply, he enjoyed a surge of vitality, an invigorating shiver that made him see everything that much clearer.Berliner Luft, he thought sarcastically. The Berlin air. Citizens of the capital never missed a chance to boast about the restorative qualities of their city’s air. It was a crock of horse shit, really.
Turning into a grassy lot, he brought the bike to a halt and climbed from the saddle. A few steps brought him to the crest of a gentle knoll. He ducked through a clump of bushes and was rewarded with an unobstructed view of the house. He checked his watch: 9:30. Half an hour remained until his meeting with Schmundt. Enough time to scout the neighborhood and make sure no welcoming party had convened without his knowing.
The neighborhood was quiet. No traffic essayed the winding road. An elderly couple ambled from their home and Seyss waved a modest “hello”, the humble victor. The couple were less reserved. Shouting “Good Morning!” in their best English, they greeted him with smiles meant for their richest relations. Two more innocents who’d abhorred Hitler and welcomed the Americans as liberators. Seyss smiled back, wanting to shoot them. Instead, he offered the woman his arm, and speaking to her in exquisitely fractured German, escorted her down the lane until they were well past his destination. A few nimble glances over her shoulder revealed nothing untoward. Schmundt’s house was quiet as the grave.
At five minutes past ten, Seyss hopped the fence at the rear corner of the property and dashed toward the faux English monstrosity. Shimmying a gutter pipe to a second floor balcony, he pried open a window and slid into a partially furnished bedroom that stank of urine. The Russians had been here, too. Yet, no sooner had he opened the bedroom door and ventured a neck into the hallway, than a voice called from below.
“I’m in the salon, Erich. Do come down.” Seyss grimaced at the familiar nasal voice. Egon Bach.
The two men faced each other across an empty room, separated only by their mutual dislike. The furniture had been carted away and the carpets torn out, leaving the floorboards exposed. Traces of blood smeared the eggshell walls.
“Finally, I see the real you,” said Egon. “The adept at masquerade. The star of the costume ball. You always did look wonderful in a uniform. I’m jealous.”
Every time he saw Egon Bach, Seyss needed a second or two to get used to the puny fellow. The narrow shoulders, the marble-thick glasses, the inquisitive head two sizes too large for his body. He was a tortoise without his shell.
“Where’s Schmundt?”
“Gone. Taken away with the furniture. I don’t know and you shouldn’t worry.” Egon approached Seyss and clapped his hands on the taller man’s shoulders. “What’s wrong, Erich? You don’t trust me, anymore? No calls from Heidelberg. Not a word from Frankfurt. I would have thought a ‘thank you’ was in order.”
The touch of Egon’s hands reminded him all over how much he despised the Jew: the presumptuous manner, the cocksure voice coupled with that sickening little swagger.
“For what? Pulling me from the frying pan or throwing me into the fire? Your address in Frankfurt wasn’t worth a damn. The Amis had rolled up the entire neighborhood. Your friends were nowhere to be found. Or were they with Schmundt? Your ‘Circle of Fire’ seems to be shrinking daily. I doubt your father had the same problems.”
At the mention of his father, Egon colored a fierce red and dropped his arms to his sides. “If you’d called from Bauer’s as agreed, we’d have had none of these worries. You have no idea the effort we expended to pull you out of that armory.”
Seyss bowed theatrically. “Forgive my ingratitude. Next time, if you’re going to send a man to help me out of a pinch, at least have him give me a lift. It was a day’s walk to Frankfurt.”
“We may have friends, but we have to move carefully. Others are watching.” Egon stalked across the barren room and glanced out of the window. “By the way, I’ve seen to it that the families of Steiner and Biederman will be taken care of. I thought you’d be glad to know. Officer looking after his men and all that.”
“So it was Bauer who ratted us out?” Seyss roared at the irony. “I knew it! Another of your recruits.”
“Bauer?” smirked Egon. “You believe Heinz Bauer sold you out to the Amis? Oh, you are the arrogant one, Erich. I will grant you that. Bravo!” He clapped his hands with unbridled insolence, chuckling softly. “No, I’m afraid you have only yourself to blame for what happened in Wiesbaden. Whatever possessed you to deal with a man like Otto Kirch? You might as well have gone straight to Eisenhower.”
“It was Kirch?”
“How else did you think the Octopus stayed in business?”
“I imagined the same way as you.”
Egon ignored the jibe and Seyss knew it was only so he could inflict one of his own. “Kirch was on the phone to the Americans five minutes after you left him. They found a Herr Lenz in Mannheim who was only too eager to reveal your whereabouts. Unfortunately, Bauer made it out of Wiesbaden alive. It would have been better for all of us if there were no survivors.”
Egon paused long enough for Seyss to wonder if he was meant to be included. “So Bauer talked?”
“Against his will. I understand he had a long conversation with the American investigator who planned that charming soirée.”