More likely, it was Judge; Bauer’s capture and the subsequent call to Patton giving Egon ample reason to believe the American intended to travel to Berlin. Judge! Every time he heard the American’s name he felt a dread chill. Instinctively, he turned and scanned the street behind him. He saw the usual mish-mash of city folk: a pair of Trümmerfrauen hard at work; a one-legged veteran begging; a postman fiddling with his motorbike. Nothing to worry about. Calmer, he realized he’d half expected to see the fiery-eyed American bearing down on him. Nerves.
Unlocking the Horsch, he climbed into the driver’s seat and keyed the ignition. Over the velvet growl of the twelve cylinder engine, he asked himself where in Berlin he might hide if he were traveling with Ingrid Bach and two days absent without leave. The answer came at once, and he smiled. Why not have a look? He needed a quiet spot to spend the afternoon, someplace sufficiently private where he could delve into Patton’s dossier without interruption. Who knew? He might find an old set of clothing.
Even better, he might find Judge.
Kneeling alongside the purloined motorbike, Judge observed Erich Seyss slide into the sleek roadster. Whatever ideas he’d harbored about jumping him and screaming bloody murder, he canned the moment he saw the German speaking to Patton. As far as Judge knew, every MP around the place might be one of Patton’s henchmen. Waiting for a puff of smoke to shoot from the exhaust, Judge swung a leg over the ripped seat and kickstarted the engine. The Horsch pulled away from the curb and crept up the street. Judge allowed it a fifty yard head start, then angled the bike into the center of the road and gave chase.
The black sports car traveled north along Wilhelmstrasse, slowing to cross the Unter den Linden, then accelerating wildly when it reached the other side. Judge threaded his way through a gaggle of pedestrians, almost losing Seyss as the automobile made a sharp turn right around a devastated street comer. Opening up the throttle, Judge ducked low and cut the corner only to see Seyss turn again, this time left. Pylons of debris six feet high cluttered the road. He thanked God for the mess. One extended straightaway and Seyss would be out of sight.
Even so, Judge had to struggle to keep up. The Horsch was just too fast. Eyes tearing from the wind, he came to an abrupt and unpleasant realization. Continuing surveillance on Seyss was futile. It would be no use trying to arrest Seyss and impossible to catch him in the act. If he wanted to stop him, he had to kill him. And soon.
At some point, the two crossed into the Russian zone. Dozens of Red Army soldiers patrolled the street, but given their lackluster posture it was difficult to tell if they were on duty or off. The Horsch turned right onto a broad boulevard, teeming with horses, pushcarts and pedestrians. Blumenstrasse, read a street sign posted on a scarred brownstone. Judge recognized the name. The post office where he’d stolen the motorcycle was located somewhere along this street.
Seyss had pulled away again. Judge worked the throttle, not wanting too large a distance to grow between them. Responding to his instructions, the bike shot forward and at that instant, a pushcart piled high with fractured porcelain nosed into his path. The road was blocked. Braking madly, he threw the handlebars to the left. A grunt and the bald tires slid out from under him.
He came to rest two feet from the pushcart. His pants were torn, his knees and elbows bloodied. The bike was a wreck, front tire folded back on itself, chain broken and splayed like a three foot worm. Ignoring the half-hearted queries of passers-by, he skirted the pushcart, desperate to catch sight of the Horsch. He spotted it, a hundred yards up the road. As if in sympathy, it had stopped to allow an oncoming streetcar to pass before negotiating a sharp left turn. With a sigh of infinite frustration, he watched Erich Seyss disappear up the narrow street, a shimmering shadow under the midday sun.
Then his eye came to rest upon the striped awning of a stubborn grocer. And above it a street sign:Eichstrasse.
And then he ran.
Chapter 50
The door slammed and Ingrid rushed from the bathroom.
“Devlin, I have some wonderful news. You’ll never guess what…”
He stood in the doorway, dressed in the uniform of an American officer, blue folder tucked under one arm. His face was harder than she remembered, shorn of youth’s innocent disguise. His cheeks were hollow. His jaw thicker, more resolute. New lines advanced from the corners of his eyes. He was the only man the war had made more handsome.
“The uniform,” said Erich Seyss, touching the lapel of his jacket. “Strange, I know. I’m still getting used to it myself. It’s the only way to get around town without too many questions.”
Ingrid stared at him for a few seconds, not knowing what to say. Her skill at making conversation had fled, along with the air from her lungs and, for a moment, she couldn’t decide how to deport herself: whether to act the maiden betrayed, the resourceful mother, or the secret accomplice come to aid in his capture.
He decided for her. Closing the door, he crossed the short distance between them and took her in his arms. He stroked her hair, and for a few seconds, her heart fluttered as it had six years ago. Here he was then, the long lost object of her adoration. The man whose actions had shredded her every belief in herself. The source of her strength and her misery. The father of her only child.
She held him for as long as it took to realize she no longer loved him, then let him go. “Hello, Erich.”
“Ingrid.”
She raised a hand to his cheek, wanting to touch him. It was a reflex; a remembrance of an intimacy lost. And she stopped herself just shy of his burnished skin.
Seyss looked her up and down, nodding his head. “Now I know I wasn’t a fool to let you ruin my career.”
Ingrid broke from his embrace and walked to the vanity, needing the distance to make sense of his words. “I beg your pardon?”
“I came back for you,” he said, following her every step. “Two years ago, it was, in March. We’d lost Stalingrad. Everyone knew the war was over. It was just a question of when. Suddenly, I decided that you were more important than the party or some bureaucrat’s idiotic rules. I didn’t have a pass, but I left anyway. I took a sleeper to Munich, then drove to Sonnenbrucke. You were gone. To a friend’s somewhere for the week.”
“But I was married. Surely you knew.”
“Of course,” he answered, standing at her shoulder like a stubborn suitor. “Foolish of me, but I thought I could lure you away.”
Ingrid stood preternaturally still, her eyes fastening upon every detail of the apartment’s hard-won cleanliness. The floor she’d mopped with a moth-eaten sweater, the furniture she’d polished with a lace dress, the duvet plumped up after airing for an hour. Her surprise was not rooted in disappointment or regret. Not for an instant did she ask herself “what if”. She was captured, instead, by her immunity to his words. And at that moment, she realized she was truly free of him.
“No one told me.”
“Only Herbert knew.” Seyss smirked. “Glad to know someone can keep their oaths.”
He laid a hand on her shoulder and turned her around so they were standing close to one another. Uncomfortably close, by Ingrid’s reckoning. Smiling mawkishly, he took her hands in his. “Ever since, I’ve wondered what would have happened if I’d arrived a day earlier. I’ve asked myself the same question again and again.”
“It’s in the past, Erich. We’re different people now.”
“Would you have divorced Wilimovsky? Would you have married me?”