Scott paused, breathing in deeply, before continuing.

"I guess now all we have to do is wait for the verdict that we've known was coming straight at me since the morning Vic's body was found."

This statement finally shook Tommy loose from the near-trance he'd been in, since the end of the court session that day.

He looked over at Lincoln Scott and slowly shook his head.

Over? "Tommy said.

"Lincoln, the case has just begun."

Scott looked at him quizzically.

From the bunk, Hugh said, almost exhausted, "Now, Tommy, you've managed to lose me on that one. Begun? How?"

Tommy abruptly pounded one fist into an open palm, and then, just like

Scott, he suddenly punched out at the emptiness in the room, whirling about, snapping off a couple of jabs, then throwing a wild left hook at the air in front of them.

The single harsh overhead bulb burning above him threw exaggerated streaks of light across his face.

"What am I doing?" he demanded suddenly, stopping in his tracks in the center of the room, grinning maniacally at the other two men.

"Acting like a crazy fool," Hugh said, managing a smile.

"Shadow-boxing," Scott replied.

"That's right. Exactly right! And that's what's been going on over the past few days." Tommy put a hand to his head, pushed his shock of hair away from his eyes, then lowered his index finger to his lips. He tiptoed over to the door, opened it gingerly, and looked out into the corridor, checking to see if anyone was watching them or listening in.

But the corridor was empty. He closed the door and turned back to the two other men, an exaggerated look of excitement on his face.

"I have been a fool not to have seen it earlier," he said quietly, though each word seemed to glow incandescently.

"See what?" Scott asked. Hugh nodded in agreement.

Tommy stepped toward the two others, and began to whisper.

"What do we know Trader Vic traded for, right before his death?"

"The knife that killed him."

"Right. Right. The knife. The knife we needed. The knife we had, then gave up, and which Visser seems so intent on finding. The damn knife. The all-important damn knife.

Okay. But what else?"

The other two looked at each other.

"What do you mean," Scott started.

"It was the knife that was critical…"

"No." Tommy shook his head.

"The knife had everybody's attention, right. It killed Vic. No doubt.

But what Bedford also managed to acquire for some unknown men in this camp was just as important. That fighter pilot, the guy from New York, he told us he saw Vic with some German currency and official papers and also with a train schedule…"

"Yes, but…"

"A schedule." Lincoln and Hugh remained silent.

"I just didn't think about it, because I was, like everybody else, thinking about the goddamn knife! Now, why would any kriegie need a schedule, unless someone thought he could catch a train? But that's impossible, right? No one has ever escaped from this camp! Because even if you could somehow get past the wire and then through the woods into town without being spotted, and managed to get to the station platform, why, by the time the seven-fifteen or whatever train that's heading to Switzerland and safety came chugging in, the place would be crawling with Krauts and Gestapo goons looking for your sorry butt, because the alarm would already have sounded right here at dear old Stalag Luft Thirteen!

Right. We all know that! And we all know that the fact that no one has ever gotten out of here has been eating away at Colonel MacNamara and his slimy little sidekick Clark for months." Then Tommy lowered his voice yet another octave, so that his words were spoken in little more than a whisper.

"But what is different about tomorrow that has never once been different?"

Again the others simply stared at him.

"Tomorrow is different because of one thing, and it's the one thing that this trial has required the Germans to do. Different from any other day that we've been here. Think about it! What never changes?

Not on Christmas or New Year's. Not on the nicest day of summer. Not on goddamn Adolf Hitler's official birthday! What is the one thing that never changes?

The morning count! Same time. Same place. Same thing every day! Day in. Day out. Three hundred and sixty-five days a year and leap year, too. Like clockwork, the sun comes up and then the damn Krauts count us every morning. Except for tomorrow. Because the Germans have graciously agreed to postpone the Appell because everyone is concerned that the rendering of the verdict in this case will cause a riot!

The Krauts, who never, ever change their damn routines, are changing theirs tomorrow! So, tomorrow, and tomorrow only, the count will be delayed. What? An hour? Two hours?

All those damn nice convenient formations five-deep to make it easier for the Krauts to count us! Well, tomorrow the formations won't happen until far past their usual time."

Scott and Hugh looked at each other. There was a wildness in Tommy's eyes that seemed infectious, and passed quickly to the others.

"You're saying…" Scott started.

But Tommy finished for him.

"Tomorrow those formations will be short some men."

Scott said, "Keep going. Tommy," as he listened.

"You see, if only one man, or two, maybe as many as three or four were blitzing out, well, you could probably cover up for them when the ferrets make their way up and down the rows although that's never happened. I suppose it's conceivable that you could find a way to give them the couple of hours' head start they would need. But more? How about twenty men? Thirty? Fifty? That number missing would be obvious from the first minute at Appell, and the alarm would sound. So, how do you give them enough time, especially when you can't have all fifty jump on the first train that comes rolling into the station? When you need to spread out the numbers and catch trains over the course of the entire morning?"

Hugh pointed a finger at Tommy, as he nodded his head.

"Makes bloody sense," he said.

"Makes absolutely bloody sense. You've got to delay that morning count! Except I still don't see what Vic's death has to do with an escape."

"I don't know, either," Tommy said.

"Not quite yet. But I'm damn certain it has something to do with it, and I'm going to find out what tonight!"

"Okay, I'll go along with that. But how does Scott facing a firing squad fit into this?" Hugh asked.

Tommy shook his head.

"Another good question," he said.

"And another answer I'm going to get tonight. But I'd be willing to wager my last pack of smokes that someone ready and willing to kill Trader Vic in order to get out of this damn place sure as hell wouldn't think twice about leaving Lincoln behind to face a German firing squad, either. A very angry German firing squad."

This statement drew no response from the others because its truth was so glaringly obvious.

It was a few minutes before one a.m. on the luminescent dial of the watch that Lydia had given him when Tommy Hart heard the first faint sounds of movement in the corridor outside their barracks room. Since the moment the Germans had extinguished the electricity throughout the camp, the three men had taken turns perched beside the door, craning to pick up the telltale noises of men moving as silently as possible toward the exit. Waiting had been a gamble. More than once Tommy had to overcome the urge to simply gather the others and head out into the night. But he had remembered that on another night he'd awakened to hear men heading out, and he guessed that the same trio as before were on the list of men taking their chance for freedom that morning.

Following was a better idea than simply launching himself and the others out into all the dangers of the searchlights and trigger-quick goons, not really knowing where they were heading. Tommy had a good idea that he knew which of the huts were strong possibilities as the gathering place for the escapees: either 105, where the murder had taken place, or 107, the next hut over, and although not the closest to the wire and the forest beyond, not the farthest, either.