Judge went on to tell Mullins about his late night call to Patton, Patton’s promise to bring him to Berlin, and the subsequent wolf pack sent to arrest him. But even as he explained, a part of his mind ventured off, imagining what would happen if Seyss had his way. A Russian shooting Truman and Churchill on Russian-occupied soil. It would be war for certain.
And, picturing the renewed conflagration, he finally saw where Egon Bach fit in. Faced with a superior foe, the Americans would have no choice but to call up and re-arm the German Wehrmacht. In days, Bach Industries would be back in action, spewing out bullets, artillery shells, and most importantly, at least to Egon Bach, profits. This whole thing was about greed. Greed for glory and greed for financial gain.
“Blarney,” retorted Mullins. “You’re talking about George Patton, not some hooligan from the Bowery. I won’t hear anymore of it.”
“It’s not blarney,” Judge shot back. “And I don’t give a damn if you believe me or not. I’ll take care of things from here on out.”
“Enough!” roared Mullins.
Judge raised an arm to object, but caught his tongue. Sitting back, he saw that Ingrid had gone white. Instinctively, he grabbed her hand and squeezed it, offering a comforting smile. “Fine, Spanner. I don’t want to argue about it. Let’s get Seyss, then we’ll talk about next steps.”
Mullins didn’t answer for a second, his all-seeing eyes fastened upon their joined hands. For a moment his face hung limp, cheeks drooping like a mainsail becalmed, and Judge saw that Mullins had grown old beyond his years. A second later, he perked up and the mouth rose into a smile. “That’s more like it, lad. Let’s concentrate on the matter at hand and keep our fanciful notions to ourselves.”
But Judge couldn’t get the look out of his mind. Surprise never sat well with Mullins.
Just then, Ingrid tapped Judge on the arm, speaking softly to him in German. “We just missed the turn to the Excelsior.”
“Bist-du sicher?” he asked, sotto vocce. “You’re sure? It’s probably a detour.”
“The Kurfurstendamm is clear. I walked it today.”
“What’s that, you two?” asked Mullins, his eyes trading surprise for suspicion.
Judge released Ingrid’s hand and scooted forward on his seat. “You sure we’re going the right way?”
“How the hell should I know? Never set foot in this town until last night.”
“I thought you flew up this morning.” Mullins coughed. “Yeah, this morning. It was still dark when we landed.”
“Ingrid says this isn’t the way to the hotel.”
“That’s correct, Colonel,” she said. “We should have turned on the right on the East-West Axis. It’s the fastest way to the Kurfurstendamm.”
Mullins glanced at his driver. “That right, Tommy? You’re not getting us lost, are you?”
“No, sir. We’re right on track.”
And then Judge saw it. The shitty little grin that Tommy shot Mullins, as he shrugged his shoulders and said not to worry, that he knew exactly where they were headed. It was a grin reeking of complicity and disdain and, Judge thought, hate.
“What’s going on, Spanner?” he asked.
“Nothing, lad. Tommy’s taking us his way. Been in Berlin two weeks. Practically a native. Just sit back and relax yourself.”
But there was nothing relaxing about Mullins’s voice. It had taken on a servile edge, its tone smug and insincere. Judge had heard the voice a hundred times before, Mullins talking down a difficult suspect, dismissing an irksome complainant. It wasn’t Mullins talking; it was the force. The power behind the shield, or in this case, the uniform.
It was Judge realized with dread dismay, Patton.
“Alright,” he said, “but tell him to hurry.”
He kept his voice easy, his shoulders relaxed, while inside he cursed himself for his willful ignorance. His surprise at seeing Mullins, followed upon by his impatience to get moving, had distracted him from closely scrutinizing the Provost Marshal’s presence in Berlin. Christ, but the signs were obvious: his coasting through formalities to obtain Judge and Ingrid’s release, the official car and driver, the gaffe about when he’d arrived. But none was more telling than the mere fact of Mullins’s bodily presence.
Mullins had never disobeyed an order in his life. The thought that of his own volition, he’d defy Patton and jump a flight to Berlin was ludicrous, even if as he’d claimed he’d wanted to clear his own name. It was a leap of faith Stanley Mullins was incapable of taking.
Judge’s fear came and went. His only route was to play this out to the end, try to keep a measure of dignity. He looked at his watch, returned to him when he left American custody. “Christ, it’s five of.”
Dropping his fingers to the door handle, he gave it a slow hitch north. Locked, as he’d thought. “Hey, Spanner, I’ll need a pistol when we hit the hotel. What can you give me?”
“We’ve got a couple pistols in the trunk,” said Tommy. “We’ll pull over up ahead. Get you all fitted out. That all right, Major?”
“Yeah, that’s good.”
Judge nodded enthusiastically, but he knew he wasn’t fooling Mullins for a second. He looked over at Ingrid, who smiled back, unaware of their predicament. He decided it was better she didn’t know. Her ignorance might gain them a second or two. A glance out the rear window revealed the street to be empty save a Jeep trailing a hundred yards back. Probably Mullins’s back-up.
The Buick made a sharp and sudden turn right, bouncing madly as it advanced down an alley of uptorn flagstone and brick. Shadows drenched the car and Judge saw they had driven into an abandoned courtyard, or hof. Half-wrecked buildings rose all around them; crumbling witnesses four storeys high, crying red brick.
Ingrid laid a hand on Judge’s leg, sitting up abruptly, her flashing blue eyes sensing trouble. “Why have we stopped? It’s nearly seven, Colonel. We must get to the hotel.”
Judge gripped her hands, his eyes never leaving Mullins. “You want to tell her, Spanner?”
“Go ahead, lad. You were always the silver-tongued one.”
“Colonel Mullins doesn’t have any intention of helping us find Erich Seyss,” he said, an iron collar keeping the sorrow and anger from his voice. “He’s part of it. One of Patton’s boys. Isn’t that right?”
Ingrid looked from Judge to Mullins, half gasping as the words found their way home.
“The lad’s correct, Miss Bach. My apologies for having allowed him to drag you into this. Your problem, Dev, is that you’re always asking questions when you should be following orders. You don’t know when to forget being the lawyer and remember to be a soldier.”
Judge kicked at the door, once, twice, ramming his heels against the chassis. The door didn’t budge. As quickly, his rage passed and he sat back.
Tommy pivoted in his seat, bringing his right arm over the banquette. He had a tough’s beady eyes to go with his bullet head and crew cut, and a scuffed up Luger in his hand. But Judge’s eyes weren’t on the pistol. They’d found something more interesting on Tommy’s uniform. A ribbon of red, white, and blue, with a star in its center, pasted on his olive tunic. The Silver Star. And clearly visible a quarter inch above it, a clean tear in the fabric where General Oliver von Luck’s protesting hand had ripped it off.
“You tipped off Sawyer,” said Judge. “You set out the wire for us in Heidelberg.”
Mullins eyes twinkled, and he sighed, tiredly. “Alright, Tommy.”
Judge threw a protective arm across Ingrid, shielding her with his body. “Jesus, Spanner, can’t you even do this yourself?”
And for a split second, Judge felt removed from himself, queer and floaty, as if all of this wasn’t quite happening. Staring into Mullins’s ruddy face, he saw the two of them walking out of a Brooklyn courthouse in the summer of twenty-five, Patrolman Mullins and his charge, Devlin Parnell Judge; he felt the pressure of Mullins’s hand the day he’d pinned his policeman’s shield to his chest, and four years later when he’d exchanged it for the gold badge of a plainclothes detective.