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.
CHAPTER
2
T HE CAFÉ DOWNSTAIRS WAS PLAYING Dietrich again. “Lilli Marlene” for the third time this morning and it was still before ten. Glad for the distraction, Devlin Judge slid his chair from his desk and stepped onto the balcony of his fifth-floor office. The music was clearer now. Dietrich’s dusky voice bounced off the cobblestones and wandered through the canyon of apartments and office buildings, mingling with the cling-clang of bicycle bells and the hot sweet scent of freshly baked croissants.
Humming nervously, Judge let his eyes wander the rooftops of Paris. A bold sun splashed the landscape of ocher tile and verdigris, its lustral rays erasing a lifetime of soot and grime. The Arc de Triomphe stood guard at the end of the block. Through the fine morning haze, the towering limestone plains looked close enough to touch. If he rose on his toes, he could catch the crown of the Eiffel Tower. Normally the sights made his heart jump.
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.
CHAPTER
2
T HE CAFÉ DOWNSTAIRS WAS PLAYING Dietrich again. “Lilli Marlene” for the third time this morning and it was still before ten. Glad for the distraction, Devlin Judge slid his chair from his desk and stepped onto the balcony of his fifth-floor office. The music was clearer now. Dietrich’s dusky voice bounced off the cobblestones and wandered through the canyon of apartments and office buildings, mingling with the cling-clang of bicycle bells and the hot sweet scent of freshly baked croissants.
Humming nervously, Judge let his eyes wander the rooftops of Paris. A bold sun splashed the landscape of ocher tile and verdigris, its lustral rays erasing a lifetime of soot and grime. The Arc de Triomphe stood guard at the end of the block. Through the fine morning haze, the towering limestone plains looked close enough to touch. If he rose on his toes, he could catch the crown of the Eiffel Tower. Normally the sights made his heart jump.
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