“He had three men with him last night. Which one made it through?”
“Bauer, the fat one,” said Mullins. “He managed to drag himself out before the grenades went off.”
Bauer was the factory worker in whose home Seyss had shacked up. Judge could still hear Seyss yelling Bauer’s name, and a moment later, exposing himself to a withering fire in an effort to save him. There had to be some bond between the two men. What might link a factory worker and a field grade officer, though, he didn’t know. “How bad is he?”
“Ruptured eardrums and soiled nappies. He’s in the prisoners’ ward downstairs.”
“Anyone talk to him yet?”
“About what?” Mullins sounded genuinely surprised, but then his practiced ignorance had always been a source of pride. Judge set down the glass of water, too tired to push him on it. “Just tell me one thing: Who turned on the kliegs? I never gave the command.”
“It was an accident. One of our boys heard the voices. He thought Rizzo was in trouble. Got excited. You know how these things happen.”
Yeah, Judge said, he knew, but in fact he wasn’t so sure. Flipping on those lights wasn’t like pulling a trigger. A nervous finger wouldn’t do it. No, by God, you had to take hold of that switch in your fist and tug it from ten o’clock to two o’clock. And what idiot tossed in the grenades? Everyone knew that the armory was chock-full of ammunition. Rizzo had made a point of it before agreeing to go in, joking that no one had better toss a lit cigarette his way. Judge didn’t want to think about who had taken a couple shots at him. Something about three strikes.
“Whoever it was, I hope you court-martial the dumb son of a bitch.”
Mullins dropped his head. “That won’t be necessary. Only the Lord can punish him now. The same explosion that knocked you off the roof killed four of our MPs. Six more were badly hurt. And that’s not counting the two Seyss took care of.”
“What?” Judge felt a stone tumble onto his chest. He opened his mouth, but could only gasp in disbelief. Six men killed, six injured, just to bring in one man. Counting Seyss and his ill-fated crew, it was a regular massacre.
“And Honey? Where did he get to?”
“Docs didn’t know when you’d come round so he headed back to Toelz this morning. He told me to give you his congratulations.” Mullins’ voice cracked. “Blessed be Mary, but the whole place went up like a keg of powder.”
“Dammit, Spanner, it was a keg of powder!”
Judge let his head fall to the pillow. He had only himself to blame for the debacle. He should have killed Seyss when he had the chance. Suddenly, his beliefs in the sanctity of the law and a prescribed moral order were an embarrassment—somewhere between thinking the earth flat and man come from Adam and Eve. Closing his eyes, he offered a brief prayer to his brother, asking for forgiveness. Yet even as his thoughts left him, something caught in his mind, not a word but an image—a picture of a bare slab of concrete, vacant and unremarkable, except for a smudge of blood and a black Luger. And off in the distance, blinking like a miner’s helmet in an abandoned shaft, a single point of light. Short. Long. Short. Dot. Dash. Dot. SOS. A crude signal for Seyss to get the hell out of there.
“Did you recover Seyss’s body?” he asked Mullins.
“What’s left of it.”
“What do you mean, ‘what’s left of it’?”
Mullins drew himself to attention, mindful of the suspicious note in Judge’s voice. “I mean the whole place went up. Mr. Seyss left behind a nasty corpse.”
“You’re sure it’s him?”
“Bauer identified the body. Altman confirmed it, too.”
“What the hell does Altman know?”
Mullins’ cheeks flushed scarlet at Judge’s contemptuous tone. Moving to the foot of the bed, he directed an angry finger in his former detective’s direction. “Now, you listen to me, Devlin Judge. No one else came out of that armory alive. We had that building surrounded. I was at one exit, Honey the other. You positioned us there. So don’t go getting any crazy ideas.”
“Fine,” Judge replied calmly. You didn’t argue with Mullins. “But I’d like to see the body.”
“I spent all morning in that bloody morgue identifying those kids. I’ve seen worse, but not much, and not often, thank the good Lord.” Mullins ran a hand across his mouth and Judge could see that he was very upset. “If it’ll make you sleep better, you can go check the body, yourself. Altman will give you the tour. He’s down there now.”
THE MORGUE WAS LOCATED IN the basement of the hospital. It was a large antiseptic room with green linoleum flooring and white tile walls. Like morgues everywhere, it smelled strongly of formaldehyde and disinfectant. A row of gurneys bearing the remains of the men killed the previous night in Wiesbaden was parked against one wall. One, two, three . . . Judge stopped counting the crisp white sheets. A dull ache took the place of his heart.
Altman burst through the swinging doors at the far side of the room, a satisfied smile plastered to his lips. “Congratulations, Major. I’m delighted to see you in one piece.”
“Thank you, Mr. Altman.” Judge could see that the Gestapo man expected a pat on the back for having tracked down the White Lion. With Seyss dead, he’d have his promotion. That was enough. “I understand you’ve identified Erich Seyss.”
“Actually, it was Herr Bauer who identified the body. I simply confirmed his opinion.” Altman scurried to the third gurney in line against the wall. “I trust you have a strong stomach.”
Judge was dressed in a hospital bathrobe and pajamas. If he got sick, at least he wouldn’t be puking on his own clothes. “Strong enough. Let me see it.”
Altman pulled back the sheet.
Judge glanced at the disfigured body, clenching his jaw to arrest a flight of bile. Seyss’s face resembled a crushed pomegranate. “Excuse me, Mr. Altman, but half of this man’s skull is missing. How do you know with any certainty that it is Erich Seyss?”
Altman responded eagerly, pointing out the butchered physiognomy as he went. “We can still see the lips, some of the nose and the jaw. I suppose we could request the dental records but I’m afraid they would be a long time in coming. Besides, this is clearly the body of a man who served in the SS.” Lifting the corpse’s right arm, he pointed to a star-shaped scar the size of a beverage coaster on its underside. “Sturmbannführer Seyss’s last command was on the southeastern front against Malinovsky’s Ninth Army. It was common for SS men fearing imprisonment at the hands of the Russians to eliminate their blood group tattoo.” He turned the arm over and pointed to a smaller scar the size of a cigarette burn, just below the shoulder. “A bullet here removes all trace of the marking.”
“You’re saying Seyss shot himself through the arm to remove the tattoo.”
“More likely he had his sergeant shoot him. It was a common practice. One of his comrades, Herr Steiner, who served under him in the last months of the war, bears a similar scar. Would you care to see it?” Altman sounded like a headwaiter asking if he’d like to try the daily special.
“No, thank you.” Judge turned from the gurney. The body appeared to match Seyss’s height and weight and it was wearing the same gray flannel trousers. Still, he was troubled by the profound injury to the face. And he didn’t remember reading anything in Seyss’s medical record about a distinguishing scar under his right arm. Maybe he was being overly suspicious. With armed soldiers posted at every exit, escape from the armory would have been impossible.
And the flashlight? Judge asked himself. Had it been one of his own men showing Seyss the way out?
Thanking Altman, he spun on his heel and crossed to the exit. But reaching the door, he pulled up suddenly. “Tell me, Altman, how many bodies did we recover from the armory?”
“Nine.”
Judge turned and strode past the row of gurneys, figuring the casualties in his head. He’d seen five men killed with his own eyes: Rizzo, Biedermann, Steiner, and the two MPs shot by Seyss. Mullins said four more sol
diers had been killed when the ammunition dump exploded. Arriving at the ninth gurney, he said, “We’re one short.”
“Excuse me?”
“We’re missing a body.”
“No, no. You’re thinking of Biedermann. As you recall, he was killed taking refuge behind a foot locker filled with ammunition. When the locker exploded, he simply disintegrated.”
“And his boots?” challenged Judge. “Did they disintegrate, too?”
Altman parried the thrust with ease, ever guarding his solicitous tone. “Certainly not. But as the armory held over five thousand uniforms, including boots, it would be difficult to identify which pair was his.” He bowed ever so slightly. “Anything else, Major?”
JUDGE FOUND MULLINS PACING THE hallway outside the morgue.
“There are only nine bodies, Spanner.”
“What of it?”
“You bought Altman’s line about Biedermann disintegrating? I can see how a shell from a Howitzer would obliterate every trace of a man, but a hand grenade, even a few dozen bullets . . .’’ Judge shrugged. “They’d just make a big mess.”
“You yourself saw Biedermann hit,” said Mullins. “He fell right next to the ammo box. Whatever was inside it exploded like a Chinese firecracker. And that was before the rest of the place went up.”
Judge nodded, weighing his own suspicions against the facts of record. “Has anyone checked the body’s blood type against Seyss? Can we get a copy of his dental charts?”
Mullins ran a hand across the back of his neck, his brow assuming its earlier scarlet coloration. “Seven Americans died nabbing this Nazi bastard. I’m damned well not going to tell Georgie Patton that Seyss is still on the loose, because you alone refuse to believe it. This is no time for a doubting Thomas.”
“Especially since by now he’s told Ike and Ike’s told the president. After all, Operation Tallyho wouldn’t be a success without Seyss being rounded up.”
“It’s got nothing to do with Tallyho!” shouted Mullins, moving closer and clamping both hands on Judge’s shoulders. “Make no mistake, Mr. Seyss died inside that armory. That is his body on that gurney. Bauer said so and Altman confirmed it. Understand?”
Judge broke from his grip and began walking to the elevator.
“Ike cut you seven days to bring in Seyss and you did it in six,” called Mullins, rushing to catch up. “You should be proud, boy-o. Who knows? There might even be a promotion in here somewhere for you. It’s time to think of the future again. There’s a flight out tomorrow at noon for Munich. We’ll gather your gear at Bad Toelz and have you back in Paris by nightfall. Play your cards right, and come the trials, you’ll be in every newspaper round the world.”
Judge slowed, regarding Mullins earnestly. A week ago, a position on the International Military Tribunal meant everything to him. Another rung up the ladder. The chance to serve his country. The opportunity to gild his professional name. Today it left him uninspired. It was another man’s dream.
What had he been after? Justice or merely glory?
“Tell me, Colonel Mullins, has anyone asked Bauer what Seyss was planning to do with the Russian guns and the Red Army uniforms? Didn’t Altman say they belonged to the NKVD? Why do you think Seyss wanted to pass himself off as a member of the Russian secret police?”
Corporal Dietsch’s words echoed in his mind. It’s some kind of mission. A final race for Germany.
Mullins winced at the questions. “I make it my business not to make it my business. Seyss is dead. Case closed. Bauer will be tried in a German court for black marketeering and as an accomplice to murder.”
Judge sighed and pressed the call button. He was tempted to lower his head and call it a day. Good men had died. They had a body and an identification. He should count himself lucky to be alive. Better yet, he could return to the IMT with an even heart and put his energies back into his career.
But what is it you want? Justice or glory?
He wanted Seyss.
He refused to go on building his career atop a compromised conscience.
“Okay, Seyss is dead,” Judge heard himself agreeing. “But would you mind if I had a few words with Bauer? Technically, he is my prisoner.”
Mullins eyed him warily. “You believe that, do you? Or are you just trying to get back on your uncle Spanner’s good side?”
“So we’re on first-name terms again?”
“All you had to do was nab Seyss.” Mullins held open the elevator door. “You can talk to Bauer first thing in the morning before we pack up for Bad Toelz. What we all need now is a good night’s rest.”
“Amen,” said Judge, yawning. But he had no intention of going to sleep.
CHAPTER
33
THE CLOCK ON THE WALL READ ten past nine as Judge entered the prisoners’ ward later that night. A lone MP sat outside the door, dozing. Judge tapped him on the shoulder and flashed his identification. “I need some time alone with my prisoner. Why don’t you grab a cup of coffee?”
The guard checked the face on the ID against the banged-up man in uniform standing in front of him. Raising a hand to his mouth, he masked a deep yawn. “Sure thing, Major. His ankle’s cuffed to the bed. Need the keys?”
“Why not?” Judge winked. “Maybe we’ll take a walk.”
The MP knew what that meant. With hooded eyes, he handed over a small pair of keys, then bustled down the hallway.
Judge pushed open the swinging doors and entered the ward. Beds ran up and down either wall. All were empty but one, mattresses rolled up to expose rusting iron lattices. The room had the melancholy air of a summer camp boarded up for the winter. In the farthest corner, a heavyset man with cropped dark hair and no discernable neck slouched on his bed, reading a newspaper. Printed in large boldface print, the headlines read, “Big Three to Meet at Potsdam Tomorrow.”
The first postwar conference was set to open tomorrow at 5:00 P.M. Truman, Churchill, and Stalin would meet near Berlin to decide the political future of Germany and the European continent. Reparations would be set, borders drawn, elections scheduled in countries returned to their native habitants. Mostly, though, the Allied leaders would discuss which measures to take to prevent Germany from ever waging war again. They’d failed at Versailles in 1919. From the harsh measures being bandied about in the press, Judge did not think they’d fail again.
“So, you’ve come to get me out of here?” said Bauer, lowering the paper and offering a dingy smile. “You’re late.”
“Sorry,” answered Judge, dismissing the jest. “Wrong man. I’m the guy who was looking for your friend, Major Seyss. I understand you identified his body this morning.”
Bauer shrugged noncommittally as if to say that was his business, now leave him alone. Judge knew better than to press him. Under no circumstance could he suggest that he harbored doubts whether Seyss was, in fact, dead. “You’re a lucky man. Seyss, Biedermann, Steiner, all dead. You’re the sole survivor.”
Bauer leaned closer, squinting his eyes. “Now I recognize you. I saw you in the armory, standing up on top of the crates yelling like John Wayne. By the way, you’re a lousy shot.”
“I don’t have much practice. Even as a cop, I wasn’t very good. A guy had to be very close for me to hit him. About as close to me as you are.”
“Is that a threat?”
Judge returned the same noncommittal shrug. Normally, he’d spend some time asking Bauer a string of easy questions, getting him accustomed to saying yes, building a rapport between them, but tonight he didn’t have time for any games. He unlocked the German’s cuffs, then took out a pack of Lucky Strikes and offered him a cigarette. He hadn’t met a German yet who didn’t smoke. “Mind telling me what Seyss planned to do with all that Russian equipment? Why the guns and uniforms? Where you boys were headed in that truck?”
Bauer kept his gaze on his feet, not saying a word. He smoked like a survivor, keeping the cigarette burning until the embers singed his callused fingertips.
�
�Look,” said Judge, “the game is over. Whatever you fellows had planned is not going to happen. I’d appreciate your cooperation. It’ll go easier on you if you tell me the truth.”
Bauer grunted, clearly contemptuous of Judge’s supplication, but he said nothing.
“Let’s go back a step, shall we? How did Seyss find you? You’re a factory worker, not a soldier. Did you know him before the war? Are you related somehow? I saw how he tried to save you. I’d be hard-pressed to do the same for my own brother. Or what, did he just show up on your doorstep and suggest you hop on down to the armory and buy some machine guns, maybe pick up a couple of bratwurst on the way?”
At that, Bauer’s eyes rose to his, but still he didn’t speak.
Judge let a minute pass, the German’s silence goading him, provoking a swell of anger. He wasn’t mad at Bauer so much as disgusted with everything he’d witnessed since coming to Germany. The bombed-out cities, the deplorable living conditions, the pauper-thin population, the madness of Dachau, the degradation not only of the German people but of the Americans, as well. Janks starving his prisoners to line his own pockets, Carswell plugging krauts to satisfy his bloodlust, and somewhere tied up in it all, Ingrid Bach, fallen princess of Sonnenbrücke, selling herself to look after her family. Somehow, he managed to keep the growing rage from his voice.
“Only three questions concern me: Where were you going? What were you planning on doing when you got there? And who put you up to it? Rather, who put Seyss up to it?”
Bauer smirked. “That’s four questions.”
Judge punched him hard in the eye, toppling Bauer over the side of the bed. His fist stung and he saw that he’d split a knuckle. Though upset, he hadn’t considered hitting Bauer until that moment. It had just seemed like the necessary thing to do, and for once, no antiquated notions of propriety braked the impulse. Strangely, guilt figured nowhere in his emotions. Instead, he felt both happy and clever, as if he had just discovered an easier way to complete a tiresome job and it came. It came to him that he’d been foolish not to have sweated Fischer and Dietsch. And that Germany was no place for the Marquess of Queensbury.
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