The Runner Read Online Free PDF Page B

Ritz. Judge jumped from the back of the jeep, the dossier tucked high under one arm, and set off up the broad stairs. Bob Storey pulled him close as they entered the lobby.
    “I’ve already spoken with Justice Jackson and made a plea on your behalf. He’s as fair a man as I’ve met, but he can be brusque. Remember, we’re damned lucky he’s even here. Luckier he’s seeing us. Let’s take that as a good sign. Just be polite and let him do the talking.”
    Justice Jackson was Associate Justice of the Supreme Court—Robert Jackson, chief American prosecutor for the coming war crimes trial and the de facto organizer of the International Military Tribunal. He was in Paris for the day, on his way to Germany to scout locations for the war crimes trials. Judge had met him once, a brief powwow in D.C. to give thanks for his appointment to the IMT. He remembered the firm handshake, the steely gray eyes, the softly spoken words, and the sense of mission they had successfully imparted. It had been one of the proudest days of his life.
    “Fair, I have no doubt,” said Judge. “Reasonable, that’s another question.”
    “These days you’re a soldier first and a lawyer second,” cautioned Storey. “Fair is more than you have a right to expect.” His face softened and he winked. “As for reasonable, well, that’s plain out of the question.”
    The lobby was marble and mirrors and velvet furniture encrusted with gold leaf. Judge spent a moment adjusting his tie and combing his hair. He pulled at each cuff, ensuring that one inch of cotton protruded beyond the sleeve and no more. He was damned if he’d make a lousy impression. Only the Lord could see your heart, he’d been taught. Everyone else judged you by your appearance. His uniform was impeccable. Tailor-made from Brooks Brothers. Gabardine, and not the cheap stuff either: Super 100 all the way. It had cost nearly a month’s salary after alimony. Giving himself a final looking over, he headed to the elevator.
    A soldier, first, eh? If Jackson saw it that way, he didn’t have anything to worry about.
     
    “T HE WAR CRIMES TRIALS ARE a watershed, Major,” said Robert Jackson from his position at the head of a mahogany conference table. “A defining moment in history. For the first time, we are treating war as a crime and the aggressors as criminals. We are showing the world that waging aggressive war will no longer be tolerated. The trials aren’t just a symbol of superior might but of superior morality.”
    Judge nodded, saying “Absolutely, sir.” He was seated to Jackson’s right in the drawing room of a palatial suite on the hotel’s second floor. Storey sat next to him and Judge could sense his hand poised above his arm, ready to calm him should the verdict go against them. He was trying hard to heed Storey’s advice and let Jackson do all the talking. Normally it would have been an easy task. He wouldn’t have dared interrupt a man of Jackson’s stature. Head of Antitrust at Justice, attorney general under F.D.R., then a slot on the highest court in the land. It was the career Judge had dreamed about. Today, though, it took his every power of restraint to stop from reaching across the table, grabbing the old man’s tie, and telling him to hurry up, goddammit, and get on with it.
    “When you joined our little outfit, Major, you made a commitment,” Jackson continued. “Not just to your fellow members of the IMT but to your country and, dare I say, the entire civilized world, to see our view of morality driven home. Walk out and you’ll be doing us all a disservice.”
    Judge didn’t miss the threat tucked inside Jackson’s words. There was no question but that his own career would be at the highest risk. His request had been simple enough: an immediate transfer to the unit charged with tracking down Erich Seyss; command of the investigation, if possible. The prognosis didn’t look promising.
    “I appreciate your concern, sir,” he said.