The Runner [Secure eReader (recommended)/Microsoft Reader/Adobe PDF]
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by Christopher Reich
Description: Christopher Reich dazzled readers and defied expectations with his New York Times bestseller, Numbered Account, a breathtaking classic of modern suspense. Now Reich returns to the world of international thrillers with a no-holds-barred powerhouse of a novel set against the seething backdrop of post--World War II Germany.... July 1945. U.S. attorney Devlin Judge has come to Europe as part of an international tribunal to try Nazi war criminals. But Judge has his own personal agenda: to find Erich Siegfried Seyss, the man responsible for his brother's death. An SS officer and former Olympic sprinter, Seyss has just escaped from a POW camp, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. But he won't escape Devlin Judge. Between the two men are miles of German countryside ... and the beautiful daughter of one of Nazi Germany's most powerful families--a woman loved by them both. But as Judge hunts his prey across a devastated nation, he finds himself caught up in a staggering conspiracy. Because Erich Seyss is no rogue SS killer. He is a man running a final race to make one last, unforgettable contribution to the Fatherland. And he is acting on orders from the last person anyone would ever suspect.
eBook Publisher: Random House, Inc., 2002
Mundania eBookstore Release Date: August 2002
18 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats [Secure eReader (recommended)/Microsoft Reader/Adobe PDF - What's this?]: SECURE MICROSOFT READER FORMAT [512 KB] - Requires Microsoft Reader 2.1.1 for PCs, SECURE EREADER (RECOMMENDED) FORMAT [513 KB], SECURE ADOBE PDF FORMAT [1.4 MB], OEBFF Format (IMP) [857 KB]
Reading time: 357-500 min.
All formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED
GEOGRAPHIC RESTRICTIONS: Available to customers in: US, PR, VI, UM What's this
"A wonderful novel of conspiracy, treachery and political intrigue ... Reich evokes the fascinating world that existed between the hot war and the cold war--he is a master of atmosphere and detail."--Nelson DeMille, author of The Lion's Game
"Irresistible."--The Wall Street Journal
"This is thriller-writing on the grand scale."--The Denver Post
"Fast-moving ... briskly paced ... The Runner confirms all the promise Reich showed in Numbered Account."--Chicago Tribune
"Move over, Jack Higgins and Robert Ludlum, Reich has grabbed hold of your genre and made it sing. The Runner is an intriguingly crafted cat-and-mouse hunt."--San Francisco Examiner
"Reich skillfully keeps us guessing."--Chicago Sun-Times
"Reich is good news for insomniacs who need an excuse to stay up till the wee hours."--New York Daily News
At nine o'clock, on a warm July evening in the Bavarian Alps, Erich Seyss stepped from the doorway of his assigned barracks and walked briskly across the grass toward the burned-out stable that housed the prisoners' latrine. He wore a shapeless gray uniform that carried neither rank nor insignia. No cap adorned his head. Only his arrogant gait and undaunted posture remained to identify him as an officer of the German Reich. In the distance, the sun's last rays crowned snowcapped peaks with a hazy orange halo. Closer, and less angelic, twin barbed-wire fences and a succession of spindly-legged watchtowers surrounded a five-acre enclosure, home to three thousand defeated soldiers.
POW Camp 8, as it was officially designated by the United States Army of Occupation, sat in a broad meadow on the western outskirts of Garmisch, a once chic resort that in 1936 had played host to the Winter Olympic Games. Until three months earlier, the compound had served as the headquarters of the German Army's First Mountain Division. Like Garmisch, it had escaped the war unscathed -- weathered, perhaps, but untouched by a single bomb or bullet. Today, the assembly of stout stone buildings and low-slung wooden cabins housed what Seyss had heard an American officer refer to as "the scum and brutes of the German Army."
Seyss smiled inwardly, thinking "the loyal and proven" was more like it, then jogged a few steps across the macadam road that bisected the camp. In contrast to his relaxed demeanor, his mood was turbulent, a giddy mix of anxiety and bravado that had his stomach doing somersaults and his heartbeat the four-hundred-meter dash. To his left ran the prisoners' barracks, a row of stern three-story buildings built to sleep two hundred men, now filled with a thousand. Farther on hunched a weathered cabin that housed the radio shack, and ten meters past that, the camp commander's personal quarters. Barely visible at the end of the road was a tall wooden gate swathed in barbed wire and framed by sturdy watchtowers. The gate provided the camp's sole entry and exit. Tonight, it was his destination.
In ten minutes, either he would be free or dead.
He had arrived at the camp in late May, transported from a hospital in Vienna, where he had been recovering from a Russian bullet to his lower back. The wound was his third of the war and the most serious. He'd suffered it in a rearguard action against lead elements of Malinovsky's Ninth Army, maintaining a defensive perimeter so his men could make it across the Enns River and into the American zone of occupation before the official end of hostilities at midnight, May 8. Surrender to the Russians was not an option for soldiers whose collar patch bore the twin runes of the SS.
A week after his surgery, a chubby American major had showed up at his bedside, a little too solicitous of his good health. He'd asked how his kidney was and confided that a man didn't really need a spleen. All the while, Seyss had known what he was after, so when finally the major demanded his name, he gave it voluntarily. He did not wish to be found in two months' time cowering in his lover's boudoir or hiding beneath his neighbor's haystack. Peeling back his hospital smock, he had lifted his left arm so that the SS blood group number tattooed on its pale flank could be read. The American had checked the group number against that written on his clipboard, then, as if declaring the patient cured, smiled, and said, "Erich Siegfried Seyss, you have been identified by the Allied powers as a war criminal and are subject to immediate transfer to an appropriate detention facility, where you will be kept in custody until the time of your trial." He didn't provide any specifics as to the nature of the crimes or where they were alleged to have taken place -- on the Dnieper, the Danube, the Vistula, or the Ambleve, though Seyss acknowledged it might have been any one of those places. The major had simply produced a pair of handcuffs and locked his right hand to the bed's metal frame.
Recalling the moment, Seyss paused to light a cigarette and stare at the fiery silhouette of the mountains surrounding him. He considered the charge again and shook his head. War crimes. Where did the war end and the crimes begin? He didn't loathe himself for acts from which other, lesser men might have shrunk. As an officer who had sworn his loyalty to Adolf Hitler, he had simply done as he'd been told and acted as honorably as circumstances did or did not allow. If the Allied powers wanted to try him, fine. He'd lost the war. What else could they do?
Dismissing his anger, Seyss cut behind the hall, then traversed a dirt infield littered with bales of firewood. Dusk brought quiet to the camp. Prisoners were confined to their barracks until dawn. GIs freed from duty hustled into town for a late beer. Those staying behind gathered in their quarters for heated games of poker and gin rummy. He walked slower now, guarding the shambling pace of a man with nowhere to go. Still, a sheen of perspiration clung to his forehead. He ventured a glance at the wristwatch taped high on his forearm. Three minutes past nine. Tonight everything would hinge on timing.
Fifty feet away, a lone sentry rounded the corner of the latrine. Spotting Seyss, he called, "Hey, Fritz, get over here. Time for bed check. What're you doing out?"
Seyss approached the GI, pleased he was precisely on schedule. "Just have to make a pee," he answered in English. "Plumbing's messed up and gone to hell. No hard feelings, though. It was Ivan's doing, not yours." Born of an Irish mother and a German father, he'd grown up speaking both languages interchangeably. He could recite Yeats with a Dubliner's impish brogue and quote Goethe with a Swabian's contemptuous slur.
"Just give me your pass and shut up."
Seyss retrieved a yellow slip from his pocket and handed it over. The pass cited an irregularly functioning kidney as grounds for permission to visit the latrine at all hours.
The sentry studied the slip, then pointed at his watch. "Bedtime, Fritz. Curfew in five minutes."
"Don't worry, Joe. I'll be back in plenty of time for my story. And don't forget a glass of warm milk. I can't sleep without it."
The sentry handed him back the pass, even managing a laugh. "Just make it snappy."
Seyss said "yessir," then moved on toward the latrine. Americans were easily seduced by foreigners who could speak their language and he'd been quick to take advantage of their garrulousness, using any pretext to ask carefully disguised questions about the camp's security. What he'd learned was useful to a man with an eye bent on escape. Twenty-four soldiers were posted on night watch -- one in each of the eleven towers that ringed the camp, ten walking the area perimeter and three in the camp commander's office located just inside the gate. Only seven of the 150-man camp garrison had been in Germany longer than three months. The rest were replacement troops -- green soldiers who had never fired a gun in anger. Most interesting, Colonel Janks, the reed-thin martinet who commanded the camp, had forbidden the use of the klieg lights mounted in the watchtowers except in emergency situations. He had cited a paucity of diesel oil as the reason, but word around camp said otherwise. Janks was selling the oil for dollars on the black market.
Stepping into the latrine, Seyss took a last drag on the cigarette, then threw it into the slit trench running the length of the stable. Despite the absence of a roof and the steady breeze sweeping the building, the stench was ungodly. He smiled grimly. At least he wouldn't have to bear this particular hardship any longer.
Two weeks earlier, the camp doctor, Peter Hansen, had given him word that his presence was required in Munich. Individuals whose intentions could not be questioned, he'd said. Powerful men whose decisions would govern the Fatherland's future. Kameraden. As to the identity of the patriots who had requested Seyss's presence, Hansen provided no more information. Nor could he explain the nature of their interest in him. Kameraden was all he had said. And that was enough. He was, however, able to supply several items necessary to effect an escape: a wristwatch, a dagger, and, of course, the pass. The rest Seyss managed himself.
Inside the latrine, he acted quickly. Removing his tunic and his pants, he turned both inside out, then put them back on. A pool table's green baize darkened by paint from the camp motor pool had left the garments the same olive drab as an American infantryman's uniform. He ran to a corner of the stable, fell to one knee, and dug at the ground. The earth was loose and came away easily. A minute later, he found what he was looking for. He stood and brushed the dirt off what appeared a dented bedpan, then placed it on his head. His "helmet" was, in fact, a camp soccer ball, deflated, cut in two, and painted the same dull green as his tunic.
Seyss poked his head out of the latrine. The sentry was turning left, past the last barracks. He would continue to the southwest corner of the camp before doubling back to meet up with the officer of the watch and conduct the nightly bed check in Fox, Golf, and Hotel Barracks -- or Fichte, Goethe, and Hegel Haus, as some closet intellect from Wittenberg called them. He would not return for at least eleven minutes. Dr. Hansen's Swiss watch had timed his movements for the past twelve nights.
Seyss moved as soon as the sentry disappeared. Thirty yards away stood the camp storehouse, and fifty yards beyond that, the kitchen of the American officers' mess -- his destination. Leaving the latrine, he set out across the soccer field. He kept his shoulders pinned back and his head held high. Fifty feet above his right shoulder stood a watchtower, and in that watchtower, an untested twenty-year-old with a hankering to fire the Browning .30-caliber machine gun he hadn't shot since his last day of training.
A voice yelled at him from the tower. "Jacobs, that you?"
Seyss shuddered, but kept walking. He raised an arm in greeting, but his gesture failed to satisfy whoever was in the tower.
"Is that you, Conlan?" came the voice. "You're the only prick that walks like he's got a spading tool up his ass."
Seyss knew he had to respond. Emboldened by the fact that he must at least look like a GI, he lifted his head toward the parapet and yelled, "Shut the hell up! Don't you know Jerry's sleeping?"
No response came from the tower. Reflexively, he bunched his shoulders. The initial burst would strike his back dead center. Finally, the voice answered, "Miller, that you?"
Seyss waved him off and a moment later was swallowed by the shadow of the camp storehouse. He jogged to the far corner and peeked around it. It was a forty-yard dash across open terrain to the rear of the camp kitchen. Every tree inside the compound had been cut down to improve the guard towers' fields of fire. Walk it and he risked being engaged in conversation by a tardy sentry or a clerk on his way to the radio shack. The doctor's pass would do him no good then. He had no choice but to run. Pulling up his trousers, Seyss swept the "helmet" from his head and dropped it to the ground. At the western end of the camp, a pair of sentries disappeared inside Hotel Barracks. Bed check in Hegel Haus.
A glance to his left. The main road was deserted.
Steeling himself, he remembered a maxim he'd been taught at the officers' academy. In battle, the intrepid soldier must follow Nietzsche's maxim to "live dangerously." Only in this manner could victory be achieved. It was one of the quaint catch phrases the older professors quoted to convince their students that war was the natural offspring of the German intellect and thus a legitimate undertaking.
"Live dangerously," he whispered, his lips curled with irony.
And taking a deep breath, he ran.
He ran tentatively at first, his steps short and ungainly. His stitches had been removed two days earlier and he'd had no choice but to wait until this moment to explore the gravity of his injuries, or, more important, the extent of their healing. Any moment, he expected to be leveled by some demon pain kept hidden by his inactivity. None came, so he lengthened his stride. The shadow of a watchtower threatened from the corner of his eye, but he could see no movement from its parapet. In the alpine night, he was a fleeting shadow. He pressed harder, enjoying the soft stamp of grass under his feet. His legs felt strong and limber. The legs of a runner, he reminded himself. The legs of a champion. And then, he was there, hugging the kitchen wall.
Seyss flattened his back against the building. Sliding to the corner, he peeked to his right. Vlassov's two-horse rig was parked in front of the kitchen. The black marketeer came every Sunday night at eight-thirty hauling a bounty of souvenirs pilfered from a dead army: battle flags, Walther pistols, Schmeisser machine guns, you name it. And, of course, all manner of military decoration. Rumor had it the souvenirs brought top dollar among Allied soldiers who had never seen battle. A Luger fetched seventy-five dollars. A Mauser automatic rifle twice that. He wondered how much an Iron Cross would bring.
Seyss darted to the center of the kitchen and fell to the grass. The cabin was built on cement foundations sixteen inches above the ground, a protective measure to guard against the flooding of the Loisach River, which cut through the meadow a hundred yards to the south. He slid under the wooden frame and crawled toward the front of the kitchen. Here the earth was muddy, soaked by the runoff from an afternoon thundershower. He moved more slowly now, carefully freeing each knee and elbow from the mire. His hands were slathered with red clay. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, savoring its gritty texture, and the memory of another day filled his mind.
He saw himself settling in the blocks, spreading his hands in the fine ocher dirt. Laying his fingers along the starting line, he cocked first one leg, then the other behind him. Suddenly, the crowd murmured as one, the communal sigh of 100,000 spectators, and he knew it was Jesse Owens, the American, two lanes to his right, standing down. He lifted his head and the world collapsed to the narrow lane stretching before him to eternity, and there just visible, the white ribbon that would wrap him in his country's glory. He felt himself rise in the blocks, his body quivering with anticipation, his being an instrument of physical expression. Macht zur Sieg. The will to victory. And then the snap of the starter's pistol. The explosion of the crowd as he sprang from the line. The dark blur flashing past his right where no one had passed before, the instant knowing that all was lost, that the race was the American's, and that Germany's White Lion was defeated.
He opened his eyes and the roar of the crowd faded, replaced by the sawing of summer locusts.
Seyss dragged his body forward. He could hear voices coming from above him. The bellow of an American's voice stopped him. It was Janks, the camp commander.
"I don't care if that sword belonged to Hermann Goering himself, I will not give up two fifty-pound bags of flour for it. The most I can offer is one bag of flour, a carton of condensed milk, and a sack of Louisiana rice. Take it or leave it."
"Eggs," said Vlassov. "I need eggs."
"No eggs, friend. Eggs are for Americans only. I'll give you some peaches instead. What do you say?" Janks sounded anxious, still new to his role as war profiteer.
"Yes, it is okay," Vlassov said after a moment. Seyss guessed he was a Czech, one more Slav with no home to go back to. The Americans referred to them as DPs -- displaced persons.
Tucking a shoulder under his chest, he tried to roll onto his back. Maybe he could catch a glimpse of the dealings through a crack in the floorboards. The crawl space was too narrow and he returned to his prone position. A beetle skittered up his arm and onto the back of his neck. He raised an arm to knock it away, but froze as his hand brushed the floor. He clenched his teeth, willing the insect away. Its legs tickled his flesh, then it was gone. He scooted a few inches forward. The confinement was suffocating him. Hurry up, he urged Janks and Vlassov. He felt his breath coming faster, panic approaching step by step. No one escaped out the front gate. The idea was insane.
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 toward his eyes and focused on the watch's tritium hands. Eight minutes past nine. Bed check was well under way. 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 at his face. Vlassov lumbered back and forth carrying his evening's wages. After his fourth trip to the wagon, he reentered the kitchen and spoke to Janks. "All done, Colonel. I see you next week."
"Till next week, Mr. Vlassov. My boys will open the gate once they see you in your wagon. Go on, now."
Vlassov grunted a good-bye 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 sprang 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 that 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 to be 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 Jank's pistol. He could only hope it was loaded. Lowering his eyes, he whispered "Good night."
"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.
Copyright © 2000 by Christopher Reich