“I believe this is yours,” said Jackson, thrusting the envelope towards Judge.
Judge tore open the telegram. It read: “Per Verbal Orders Supreme Commander Armed Forces Europe. Major Devlin Parnell Judge, JAG, is forthwith and immediately transferred on temporary duty to the office of the Provost Marshal, United States Third Army, General George S. Patton commanding. The duration of the transfer shall last no longer than seven days and will end at 00:00 hours, 14 July 1945. Every member of this command is to provide this officer with all assistance he requests. Signed, General Dwight D. Eisenhower.”
Judge wanted to smile. He’d gotten his transfer to Patton’s Third, and with Eisenhower’s blessing, no less. But something in the telegram bothered him. Reading it a second time, his eyes tripped over the words that left his excitement stillborn. “The duration of the transfer shall be seven days.” Seven days! It would take him a day just to travel to Bad Toelz and get acquainted with the set up. The transfer was hardly better than being turned down altogether. If ever he’d won a pyrrhic victory, this was it. So much for Storey’s downcast look.
“I can’t have you traveling all over Europe at your discretion,” explained Jackson. “This will put a rush on things. Do your work, find him, and get back. I hope I’m making you happy.” Judge kowtowed as decorum demanded. “Yes sir, I appreciate your efforts on my behalf. Thank you.”
Jackson ambled to a dresser and poured himself a tumbler of scotch. “By the way, you should feel right at home in Bad Toelz. The Provost Marshal is a fellow named Mullins. Ring a bell?”
“Would that be Spanner Mullins, sir?”
“If Spanner is some kind of nickname for Stanley, yes it would. Your former precinct commander is delighted to have you aboard. Said Tally Ho is pinching his resources in a terrible way. He asked if you might be granted a longer stay, but I had to turn him down. Told him you were too good a man to lose indefinitely.”
Judge mumbled “thank you,” again. He was happy to be reporting to Mullins but hardly surprised. Half of New York City was in Europe. His commanding officer at interrogations was John Harlan Amen, the former district attorney for Brooklyn. Telford Taylor, a prominent Park Avenue attorney who’d recruited him out of law school was also working under Justice Jackson, and now, who should turn up but Spanner Mullins, commander of the twentieth precinct during his ten years as a New York City cop. He’d heard his former boss was attached to Patton’s staff. He should have figured it would be in the Provost Marshal’s office.
“I’m flying to Nuremberg tomorrow morning,” said Jackson. “If you want to hitch a lift, be at Orly Airport at nine o’ clock. Seven days, Major. Next Monday, I want you at the Ashcan in Luxembourg beginning your interrogation of ‘Fat Stuff’. Is that clear? Oh, and, Judge, one last thing. You’re going to Patton’s command. Make sure your shoes are shined.”
Back in his office at 7 rue du Presbourg, Bob Storey locked the door and rushed to his desk. Unlocking a cabinet near the window, he removed a scuffed black telephone, pulling the cord behind it so he could set the apparatus on his desk. Lifting the receiver, he dialed a nine digit number in London.
A woman answered after three rings. “Personnel.”
“I need to speak to Walter Williams, please. It’s his nephew, Victor.”
“Thank you. I’ll put you right through.”
Two minutes passed until a deep, gravelly voice came onto the line. “That you, Bob? We secure?”
“Yes, Bill, the line’s clear,” said Storey. “We’ve got a rather interesting situation developing over here. A war criminal’s escaped and one of Jackson’s boys wants to go after him.”
“A lawyer? You’re kidding?”
“I believe we all practiced the trade at some time in our life. Unlike us, this one did the exciting stuff before joining the bar.”
Storey had spent the first part of the year on a mission for his friend “Bill”. Traveling behind Russian lines, he’d accompanied a team of Red Army jurists as they dealt with suspected war criminals. Usually, the accused were brought before the court at dawn, tried by lunch, and shot by dusk. It wasn’t the exercise of justice. Just power.
“Is that right?” asked Bill. “Don’t leave me hanging.”
“This man happened to be a peace officer in his other life.”
“We call them policemen outside of Texas,” Bill laughed. “Give me the details.”
Storey relayed the news of Seyss’s escape, Judge’s interest in the German officer and his success in obtaining a transfer to Patton’s Third Army, office of the Provost Marshal. He even recited the text of Eisenhower’s orders verbatim. A photographic memory was one of the attributes that had made him such an attractive find.
“And when is Judge leaving?”
“Tomorrow morning,” said Storey.
“Well, you were right to let me know, Bob. Many thanks. I’ll make sure we keep an eye on him. After all, we wouldn’t want the boy causing us any trouble.”
Chapter 4
A persistent rapping on the bedroom door roused him from his slumber.
“Herr Seyss, it is time to wake. You are to dress and come to the salon at once.”
“Sofort,” Seyss answered, his voice immediately clear. Right away.
Lifting his head from the down pillow, he squinted into the darkness and willed the room into focus. Slowly, reluctantly, it obliged: the armoire where he’d hung his clothing; the night table where a basin of water had been set for him to wash; the damask curtains drawn to block out the morning light. And with it, memories of the night before.
Free from the camp, he’d abandoned the wagon and headed into the forest. His destination was a logging road that ran along the crest of the mountain — a two-mile run uphill. His exhilaration at being free wore off after the first incline, leaving his legs trembling and his lungs afire. Hardly his nation’s greatest hope. To stoke his resolve, he seized on his shame at having nearly botched the escape, but over the last half mile, that too faded. Anger carried him over the crest of the mountain, his ire at the pitiful condition he’d been left in by Janks and Vlassov and the entire Allied war machine.
He spotted the Mercedes right off, tucked in a copse of birch trees so that only its chrome snout was visible. A pair of headlamps flashed once and two men dressed in formal business attire climbed from the cabin. “Hurry, Herr Sturmbannführer,” one whispered. “Into the trunk. The Olympicstrasse is only clear until eleven p.m.”
Nearing them, Seyss took a closer look at the car: a 1936 Mercedes touring sedan, black with spoke hubcaps, whitewall tires, and on its mesh grill, a crimson badge displaying the letter B in ornate white Gothic script — the symbol of Bach Industries: Germany’s largest armaments manufacturer. He’d thought he recognized it; now he was sure. He’d ridden in this very car a hundred times before the war.
At last, he knew who had summoned him. Only one further question remained: why?
That had been six hours ago.
Seyss walked to the night table and splashed water in his face, then on his chest and neck. Drying himself, he crossed the room to open the curtains. Sunshine flooded the bedroom. He unlatched the window and a wave of hot air swept over him. It was not six in the morning, but six in the evening. He had slept eighteen hours without waking.
Three sets of clothing hung inside the armoire. He chose a pair of tan trousers and a white shirt. Putting them on, he stared at his body in the mirror. His face and forearms were colored a rich mountain brown but the rest of him was ghostly pale. The scar from the Russian’s bullet had left an ugly pink weal four inches long above his waist. He could count his ribs easily. His arms, though, had kept their tone.