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Seyss’s own eyes had borne out the Circle of Fire’s most outrageous claims. Day after day, Germany was being stripped of her machinery, her industry, her very means of survival. Two weeks after the Russians had moved out of western Berlin, their barges still traveled the Havel and the Spree laden with disassembled machinery. The Americans were doing nothing to stop them. Hell, they were probably doing the same with their share of the pie.

In a few months, a few years, a decade at most, the Amis would be gone, leaving Stalin and his monstrous hordes poised from Danzig to the Danube. And when the Russians advanced, how was an agrarian state to stop them? With a commando force of Holsteins and heifers?

No, Seyss decided, he wouldn’t waste his life killing Truman alone. Why write a footnote to history, when he could write an entire chapter.

Just then the orchestra burst into the Star Spangled Banner and the crowd surged forward. All voices joined as one, heads tilted back as the flag was raised over the new headquarters of the United States Occupational Government of Berlin. God bless America!

Judge had lost Seyss. One second he had him, the next the crowd was driving forward and he was gone, one uniform among hundreds. Shoving his way through a mass of Germans, Judge neared the line of GIs meant to keep the citizens of Berlin a safe distance from their American masters. He shuffled to the right and stood on his toes, keeping his eyes pinned to the spot where, up until a moment ago, Seyss had been standing. A news camera set on an elevated tripod blocked his view. He shuffled to the left and met the fierce gaze of a military policeman. Damning his luck, Judge lowered his head and retreated into the recesses of the crowd.

It had been near impossible to keep up with Seyss on the way to the ceremony. A two-stroke motorbike was no match for a twelve-cylinder Horsch, and several times Judge had lost sight of him altogether. Only Seyss’s arrogance had saved him. The unmistakable black silhouette provided sharp contrast to the dull and ruined cityscape, standing out clearly from a quarter mile or more. And in those anxious seconds when the Horsch’s sleek profile was no longer in view, Judge steeled himself to act at the earliest instance.

Frantically, he’d asked himself what he could do. Shoot Seyss? He didn’t have a gun. Stab him? He didn’t have a knife. All he had was his bare hands and his will. But that, he determined, was enough. The sight of a filthy kraut grappling with an American officer would bring soldiers running in a hurry and give Judge ample opportunity to declare in his best Brooklyn accent that Seyss was an imposter, an escaped Nazi war criminal intent on harming the President of the United States. It was an accusation no one could lightly dismiss.

But when Judge had arrived at Kronprinzenallee, Seyss was already walking from his parked car, and in seconds he had disappeared into the ranks of the gathered soldiers.

Abruptly, the ceremony ended. The flag fluttered in a light breeze atop the Air Defense Command. The orchestra played a Souza march. The assembled dignitaries shook hands with one another and slowly made their way from the podium. A hive of officers swarmed at the base of the steps, waiting to greet the President and the former Supreme Allied Commander. Despite his average height, Truman was easily visible. His pale straw hat stood in marked contrast both in color and shape to the olive military covers. An easy target. Apoplectic, Judge cut through the crowd moving in a course parallel to Truman’s. He thought feverishly of what kind of diversion he could create. Something that would alert the President to the danger he was in. All he could think of was to yell what he shouted at an opposing pitcher when he’d struck out Snyder and Viola: “Get lost, you bum.” He looked around for something to throw. A bump on the head would hasten his departure, that’s for sure. He found nothing. Naturally, the grounds had been cleared of debris for the ceremony.

By now, a picket of soldiers had formed around the President. Truman’s automobile drew up and he climbed in, followed by Ike and Omar Bradley, the two ranking generals present. Watching the sedan pull away, Judge breathed easier. Only Patton remained on the podium. His stiff posture belied some interior strain, either physical or mental. Judge eyed him thinking,You sonuvabitch. You’re helping Seyss. You’re a part of this.

An officer mounted the podium and addressed himself to Patton. He stood toe to toe with the General, shaking his hand exuberantly. Patton colored visibly and looked in either direction, but the officer did not release his hand. Only as he leaned forward to whisper something in Patton’s ear did Judge catch the tan skin, the arrogant jaw, and the flashing blue eyes.

“General, I believe it’s time we finally met.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, Captain. Did you serve under my command?”

“You might say that. Actually, I’m serving under it now.”

“Then you’re off limits, son. My Third Army doesn’t grant R&R in Berlin. What unit are you with?”

“A very special one. We call ourselves the ‘Circle of Fire’. My name is Seyss. Erich Seyss. Once I was a major.”

George Patton flinched, his normally ruddy mien flushing an exquisite plum. It wasn’t often a major could make the equivalent of a field marshal squirm and Seyss was enjoying the moment immensely. He leaned closer to Patton, whispering in his hear. “I wanted to thank you personally for the dossier on Terminal. I wouldn’t have a chance without it. But it’s hardly enough. Not if I’m to do a proper job and get out in one piece.”

“Spit it out, man,” Patton said through clenched teeth. “You’ve got your credentials, what else is it you need?”

“Be at the entry of the Cecilienhof tomorrow at eleven. Keep yourself visible. I’ll be accompanying you into the main hall, and if things go as planned, out again as well.” When Patton didn’t answer, he added, “Otherwise, I can’t promise what will happen to the dossier. It might be hard to explain why a man supposedly under supervised custody got his hands on such sensitive material.”

“Egon Bach is indispensable to the rebuilding of Germany,” blustered Patton.

“You mean hewas.” Seyss smiled, and before Patton could ask him what he meant, fired off a salute. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow morning at eleven. Good day, General. It was an honor. Truly.”

Returning to the car, Seyss focused his mind on the task at hand. Tomorrow morning at ten he’d report to the Bristol Hotel for a ride out to Potsdam. He’d need some civilian clothes before then and some time to study Egon’s dossier. For all the information the papers gave him, it couldn’t begin to give him a picture of the set-up of the place. The placement of security guards, who sat where, where the leaders lunched, the layout of the Cecilienhof itself. All that he must learn for himself.

Seyss snaked through the crowd, finally breaking free of it at the corner of Wilhelmstrasse and Prinz Albrechststrasse. Spotting the Horsch, he picked up his heels and walked a little quicker. It was a beautiful machine. The registration said it belonged to Karl Heinz Gessler. Now there was a name from the past. During Ingrid’s time as a student at Humboldt University, the two had dined regularly at the Gesslers. The cuisine was terrible as he recalled. Nothing but overcooked sauerbraten and lumpy spatzle.

The thought of Ingrid brought back Egon’s odd words: “Christ, I’m your boy’s uncle.” Seyss wanted to dismiss the remark as a ploy, an almost successful effort at distraction, but the words stayed with him. He wondered if Ingrid was the reason Egon had come to Berlin. Egon had stated that Judge had enlisted her help to track down her one-time fiancé. Brother and sister had never gotten along, but he’d always suspected that Egon was secretly mad about her. Maybe too mad.