Pritz Number One did not reply, other than to nod and stand at attention. Visser turned back to Hugh.

"If I were to send a squad to roust the entire contingent of prisoners in Hut 101, would I find your friend Mr. Hart? Or perhaps Lieutenant

Scott? Was your sortie out this night connected to the murder trial?"

Visser held up a hand.

"You do not have to answer that, flying officer, for, of course, I already know that answer. Yes. It must be. But what?"

Hugh shook his head again.

"My name is Hugh Renaday. Flying Officer. My serial number is 472 hyphen 6712. My religion is Protestant. I believe that is all the information I am required to provide at this or any other time, Herr Hauptmann" Visser leaned back in his own seat, anger flashing from his eyes. But the words he spoke in reply were slow, icy, and filled with a patient and awful menace.

"I could not help but notice your limp, as you entered, flying officer.

You have an injury?"

Hugh shook his head.

"I'm fine."

"But then, why the so-apparent difficulty?"

"An old sports injury. Aggravated this morning."

Visser smiled again.

"Please, flying officer, place your foot up here on the desktop, so that your leg is straight."

Hugh didn't move.

"Raise your leg, flying officer. This simple act will delay my shooting you, and give you perhaps a few more seconds to consider precisely how close you are to dying."

Hugh pushed his chair back slightly, and with a great force of will raised his right leg, slapping the heel down onto the center of the table. The awkwardness of his position sent rays of pain radiating up through his hip, and for a moment, he closed his eyes to the collection of hurt that gathered in his leg.

Visser hesitated, then reached over, seizing Hugh at the knee, pressing his fingers hard into the joint, twisting them savagely.

The Canadian nearly tumbled. A bolt of agony surged through his body.

"This is painful, no?" Visser said, continuing to tear at the leg.

Hugh did not reply. Every muscle in his body was taut, fighting against the red-hot lightning of hurt that exploded within him. He was dizzy, almost unconscious, and he fought to maintain some control.

Visser released the leg.

"I can have you hurt, before I have you shot, flying officer.

I can have it so that the pain will be so intense that you will welcome the bullet that ends it. Now, I ask one last time:

What were you doing out of your quarters?"

Hugh breathed in sharply, trying to calm the waves of agony that ebbed and flowed within him.

"Your answer, please, flying officer. Please keep in mind that your life depends upon it," Visser demanded sharply.

For the second time that night, Hugh Renaday realized that the string of his own life had reached its end. He took another deep breath, and finally said, "I was looking for you, Herr Hauptmann."

Visser looked slightly surprised.

"Me? But why would you want to see me, flying officer?"

"To spit in your face," Hugh replied. As he finished, he spat hard at the German. But his parched, dry mouth could not summon any saliva, and he merely sprayed futilely in Visser's direction.

The Hauptmann recoiled slightly. Then he shook his head, and wiped at the desktop with the sleeve of his one arm. He raised his pistol and pointed it in Hugh's face. He held it there for several seconds, aiming straight at Hugh's forehead. The German thumbed back the pistol hammer and then pressed the barrel directly against the Canadian's flesh. A cold that went far beyond all the pulsating pain in his body filled Hugh.

He closed his eyes and tried to think of anything except the moment about to arrive. Seconds passed. Almost a minute.

He did not dare open his eyes.

Then Visser smiled again.

He pulled the weapon back.

Hugh felt the pressure of the barrel slide away, and after a pause, opened his eyes. He saw Visser slowly lower the huge Mauser and, with an exaggerated motion, return it to his holster, snapping the leather flap shut tightly.

Hugh's breath came in raspy bursts. His eyes were fixed on the revolver. He wanted to feel relief, but felt nothing but fear.

"You think yourself fortunate, flying officer, to still be alive?"

Hugh nodded.

"This is sad," Visser said harshly. He turned to Fritz Number One.

"Corporal, please summon a Feldwebel, and have him collect an appropriate squad of men. I want this prisoner taken out immediately and shot."

"Scott is innocent."

"Scott is innocent."

From man to man down the length of the tunnel, the single message echoed. That the three words dragged along with them dozens of other questions was ignored in the close, hot, dirty, and dangerous world of the escape. Each kriegie knew only that the message was as important as the final two or three strokes with the pickax, and each kriegie knew that there was a sort of freedom contained within the three words, a freedom nearly as powerful as that they were crawling toward, so the message was passed along with a ferocity that nearly matched the intensity of the battle that Tommy had fought to acquire them. None of the men knew what had taken place at the front of the tunnel. But they all knew that with the twin extremes of death and escape so close, no one would lie. So by the time the message reached back to the anteroom at the base of the shaft leading down from the privy in Hut 107, the words carried a sort of intoxicating religious fervor.

The fighter pilot from New York leaned forward, over the top of the bellows, craning to hear the message being passed back from the next man in line. He listened carefully, as did the man working beside him, who used the moment to seize a second's rest from the backbreaking work of lifting the buckets of sandy earth.

"Repeat that," the fighter pilot whispered.

"Scott is innocent!" he heard.

"Got it?"

"I got it."

The fighter pilot and the kriegie lifting buckets looked at each other momentarily. Then both grinned.

The fighter pilot turned and peered up the shaft of the tunnel.

"Hey, up there! Message from the front…"

Major Clark stepped forward, almost elbowing Lincoln Scott aside in his eagerness. He knelt at the side of the entranceway, bending over into the pit.

"What is it? Have they reached the surface?"

The weak candlelight flickered off the upturned faces of the two men in the tunnel anteroom. The pilot from New York shrugged.

"Well, kinda," he said.

"What's the message?" Clark demanded sharply.

"Scott is innocent!" the fighter pilot said. The bucket man nodded hard.

Clark did not reply. He straightened up.

Lincoln Scott heard the words, but for a moment, the impact of them did not occur to him. He was watching the major, who was shaking his head back and forth, as if fighting off the explosion of the words spoken in such a small space.

Fenelli, however, caught the importance immediately. Not merely in the message, but how it was passed along. He, too, leaned over into the shaft and whispered down to the men below: "That come all the way from the front? From Hart and Numbers One and Two?"

"Yes. All the way. Pass it back!" the fighter pilot urged.

Fenelli sat up, smiling.

Major Clark's face was rigid.

"You'll do nothing of the sort, lieutenant! That message stops right here."

Fenelli's mouth opened slightly in astonishment.

"What?" he said.

Major Clark looked at the doctor-in-training and spoke, almost as if Lincoln Scott abruptly had disappeared from the room, ignoring the black flier.

"We don't know for sure how or why or where that message came from and we don't know, I mean. Hart could have forced it out or something. We don't have any answers, and I won't allow it to be spread."