The Runner

The Runner

by Christopher Reich

Paperback(Mass Market Paperback - Reprint)

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Overview

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.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780440234685
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Publication date: 10/28/2001
Edition description: Reprint
Pages: 512
Sales rank: 426,545
Product dimensions: 4.19(w) x 6.87(h) x 1.15(d)

About the Author

Christopher Reich was born in Tokyo in 1961. A graduate of Georgetown University and the University of Texas at Austin, he worked in Switzerland before returning to the United States to pursue a career as a novelist. The author of the New York Times bestselling thriller Numbered Account, he lives in Texas with his wife and children.

Read an Excerpt

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.”

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Runner 3.8 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 21 reviews.
harstan More than 1 year ago
Like Daniel Silva, Christopher Reich leads a new generation of intrigue thriller authors. "The Runner" is steeped in historic background that brings the post-WWII period to life at the same time as it provides an electrifying read. What's more it dares to provide a possible explanation of what really happened to General Patton at the end of the war. He was a man who had outlived his time and usefulness, and the convenience of his death has to raise the kind of "what-if" questions that are grist for a gifted storyteller like Reich. Now I must read his other two novels for I have become a fan.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Not the worst novel I've ever read, but the chase-the-Nazi-with-the-help-of-the-femme-fatale story has been done to death; it's way too familiar. Characterization, not the author's strong suit in Numbered Account, is particularly weak here. And he has a real tendency to overwrite, which gets annoying.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I really enjoyed reading The Runner. In fact it is not often that I say I loved a book but this one really worked for me. Reich captures the essence of post war Germany - I know because I was there! He has a realistic view of the politcal and personal upheaval of the time. I have read many WWII books but this one is fresh and is not only a good novel, well written but also a commentary of an important time in history. If only there were more books of this caliber out there.
Guest More than 1 year ago
The Runner is, quite simply, right up there with Eye of the Needle and The Day of the Jackal, making it one of the very best international suspense thrillers ever written.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I was given an advanced copy of the book. What a lucky day! Or I should say day and night because I hardly got off my couch to read the whole thing. I don't want to give too much away, but it was an awesome book - not just a page turner, but with some serious thinking behind it, too. I don't know who was worse, the SS or some of our army heros??? Reich is definitely my favorite new writer.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Fast paced and entertaining.
slatsdawson More than 1 year ago
This was more of an action thriller than some of his other books.
Guest More than 1 year ago
The author has a good writing style, but character development is wanting in this one.Also, mistakes about a well known and popular German army pistol, and a famous U.S. Government agency detract from the work. Additional research would have helped it along somewhat.
FredB on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
A thriller about a US GI's search for a German SS officer who escaped from a POW camp after WWII. The ending is pretty predictable.Spoiler alert...The book makes the accusation that George Patton attempted to have Truman, Churchill and Stalin assassinated at Potsdam after the war. I guess this is fiction, so one should not take it too seriously.
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Guest More than 1 year ago
To start with: too many mistakes. It is difficult to apprehend, why some authors have to 'load' the text with foreign words or expressions which are flat out wrong and quite often do not even exist in that language and then, even worse, provide a wrong translation. Why C. Reich does it is not readily understandable. If he likes to ad flavour by using the local lingo, fair enough, but do it proper. (Another great offender of such principles is Greg Iles-Spandau Phoenix) The story is not well written, the characters are indeed ill defined. To compare him with Ludlum, Higgins and le Carre' is not only preposterous, but an insult to these great story tellers. I thought his first attempt 'Numbered Account' was a good try, but it appears he is going down hill directly from the start.