There was another hesitation from Number Three, and then the most critical question.

"Well, if Scott is innocent, then who killed Trader Vic?"

The band leader grinned again, turning to Tommy for an instant, before whispering his response up the tunnel.

"The war killed Vic," he said.

"Now, you pass that word back just like a bucket of dirt, because we are going to start moving outta here in the next ten minutes!"

"Okay. Scott is innocent. Got it."

Tommy craned forward into the tunnel and heard Number Three scramble backward and then say to Number Four, "Scott is innocent! Pass it back!"

He listened for a moment, as the message was relayed down the length of the tunnel.

"Scott is innocent! Pass it back!" He heard it over and over, echoing in the small space, "Scott is innocent! Pass it back! Scott is innocent! Pass it back!" until the words faded totally into the great blackness behind him. Then Tommy slumped over, suddenly exhausted.

He did not know for certain whether those three words broadcast to all the men in line in the tunnel and waiting up in Hut 107 would be sufficient to free Scott. Scott is innocent! But in the sudden total fatigue that overcame him, he understood they were the three best he could pry out of this night. He held out the pickax to the band leader who took it from him.

"I don't even know your name," Tommy said.

For a moment, the band leader brandished the ax, as if he were going to strike Tommy.

"I don't want you to know my name," he said. Then he smiled.

"You got lots of faith, Hart. I'll give you that. Not precisely a religious faith, but faith anyhow. Now, as to the rest of our little discussion here tonight…"

Tommy shrugged.

"I would say that somehow comes under the attorney-client privilege.

I'm not exactly sure how, but if anyone ever asked me, that's what I'd say."

The band leader nodded.

"Tommy, I think you maybe shoulda been a musician. You sure know how to carry a tune."

Tommy took this as a compliment. Then he pointed toward the roof.

"Now's your chance," he said.

The band leader grinned again.

"Ain't gonna be all that simple for you now, Tommy boy. This little misunderstanding has caused us a significant delay. First, Tommy, I done something for you. That's the chance I took. Now, you're gonna do something for me. Take a chance for me. Not only for me; for all the other kriegies waiting in this damn tunnel and dreaming about getting home. You're gonna help us get outta here."

Visser motioned Hugh across the administration room to a stiff-backed wooden chair next to his desk. The German's eyes followed the

Canadian's progress closely, measuring the difficulty that Hugh had with each step. Hugh slumped down into the seat hard, his face tinged red with exertion, a line of sweat on his forehead and dampening the blouse beneath his armpits. He kept his mouth shut while the German officer slowly lit his cigarette, then leaned back, letting the gray smoke curl around them both.

"I am impolite," Visser finally said softly.

"Please, Mr. Renaday, indulge yourself if you so desire." Visser motioned with his only hand to the case of cigarettes lying on the flat table between the two men.

"Thank you," Hugh answered.

"But I prefer my own." He reached into his breast pocket and removed a crumpled package of Players. The German remained silent while Hugh carefully removed a cigarette and lit it. When he inhaled the harsh smoke, he leaned back slightly in the chair. Visser smiled.

"Good," he said, "now we are behaving as civilized men, despite the lateness of the hour."

Hugh did not respond.

"So," Visser continued, maintaining an even, almost jocular tone,

"perhaps, as a civilized man, you will tell me what it is you were doing out of your assigned quarters, Mr. Renaday? Crawling flat on your belly at the edge of the as480 sembly yard. Most undignified. But why would you be doing this, flying officer?"

Hugh took another long drag on the end of the smoke.

"Well," he said carefully, "just as I told your goon who arrested me, I was simply out, taking a breath of fine German night air."

Visser grinned, as if he appreciated the joke. It was not the sort of grin that meant he was actually amused, and Hugh was filled with the first sensations of dread.

"Ah, Mr. Renaday, like so many of your countrymen, and the men they fight alongside, you seek to make sport of what I assure you is a most dangerous situation. I ask you again, why were you out of your assigned quarters after lights out?"

"No reason that concerns you," he said coldly.

Visser continued to smile, although it seemed that the grin was using up more energy than the Hauptmann thought necessary.

"But, flying officer, everything that occurs in our camp concerns me.

You know this, and still you evade my most simple question: What were you doing out of your assigned quarters?"

This time, Visser punctuated each word of the question with a small thump on the tabletop with his index finger.

"Please answer my question with no further delay, flying officer!"

Hugh shook his head.

Visser hesitated, eyeing Renaday closely.

"You think it is unreasonable for me to ask? Flying officer, I do not believe you entirely appreciate the jeopardy of your current position."

Hugh remained silent.

The German's grin had dissolved now. He wore a singular flat, angry appearance in the set of his jaw, the hardness at the corners of his eyes and the edges of his mouth. The scars on Visser's cheeks seemed to grow pale. He shook his head back and forth one time, then slowly, without moving from his seat, Visser reached down to his waist and with a frightening deliberateness, unstrapped the holster flap he wore, and removed a large black steel handgun. He held this up momentarily, then set it down on the desktop in front of Renaday.

"Are you familiar with this weapon, flying officer?"

Hugh shook his head in reply.

"It is a Mauser thirty-eight-caliber revolver. It is a very powerful weapon, Mr. Renaday. Every bit as powerful as the Smith and Wesson revolvers policemen in the States are armed with. It is significantly more powerful than the Webbly-Vickers revolvers that British pilots carry in their bail-out gear. It is not the standard issue for an officer of the Reich, flying officer. Ordinarily men such as myself carry a Luger semiautomatic pistol. A very effective weapon. But it requires two hands to cock and fire, and I, alas, have but the one. So I must use the Mauser, which, admittedly, is far heavier and much more cumbersome, but can be operated with a single hand, and thus it accommodates me far better.

You do understand, flying officer, do you not, that a single shot from this weapon will remove a good portion of your face, much of your head, and certainly the majority of your brains?"

Hugh took a long look at the black barrel. The gun remained on the tabletop, but Visser had swung it around so that it pointed at the Canadian. Hugh nodded.

"Good," Visser said.

"Perhaps we make some progress.

Now, I ask again, what were you doing out of your quarters?"

"Sightseeing," Hugh said coldly.

The German burst into a humorless laugh. Visser looked over at Fritz

Number One, who hovered in a corner of the room, remaining in the shadow.

"Mr. Renaday seeks to play the fool, corporal. And yet perhaps the joke will be on him. He does not seem to understand that I am well within my rights to shoot him right here. Or if I were to prefer not to make a mess in our office, to have him removed and shot directly outside. He is in violation of a clear camp rule, and the punishment is death! He hangs by the thinnest of threads, corporal, and still he plays games with us."