"Now that I've been properly bribed by the Yank, Hugh, I hope you've prepared as well?"

Renaday poured a more conservative touch of milk into his own tea and nodded vigorously.

"Of course, Phillip. Although I have been placed at a significant disadvantage by the unseemly bribery by our friend from the States, I have. The evidence I have at hand is overwhelming. The ransom money-those distinctive gold certificates-found hidden in Hauptmann's home. The ladder-which I can prove was carved from the boards of his own garage. His lack of a credible alibi-" "And lack of confession,"

Tommy Hart briskly interrupted.

"Even after he's been subjected to hours and hours of your harshest questioning."

"That confession. Or lack thereof," Pryce interjected, "that is most troubling, Hugh, is it not? It is most surprising, also, that it could not be obtained. You would think the man would crumble under the efforts of the state police. You would think, too, that he would be filled with remorse at taking the poor child's life. You would imagine that these pressures, from within and without, would be well-nigh insurmountable, especially to a rough man of limited education. And that, in due time, this confession, which would answer so much and free us from so many dogged questions, would arrive.

But instead, this dull workingman steadfastly maintains his innocence…"

The Canadian nodded.

"It surprises me that they could not break him. I damn well could have, and without resorting to what you folks in the lower forty-eight call the third degree.

Now, I do concede a confession would be helpful, perhaps even important, but…"

Hugh Renaday paused, then smiled at Tommy.

"But I don't need it. Not really. The man comes to the courtroom draped in guilt. Cloaked in guilt. Fully dressed out and equipped with guilt. Pregnant with guilt…" Renaday puffed out his stomach and patted it with a thump. The three men laughed at the image.

"There's little for me to do, save help the hangman tie his noose."

"Actually, Hugh "Tommy said quietly, "in New Jersey they favored the electric chair."

"Well," the flying officer said, as he broke off a square of chocolate and popped it into his mouth before handing the bar to Pryce, "then they damn well ought to have it warmed up and ready to fly."

"Probably have difficulty finding volunteers for that job, Hugh," Pryce burst out.

"Even with a war on."

The wing commander's laugh disintegrated into a series of wracking coughs, which settled when he took a long sip of tea, once again bringing a wide grin to his wrinkled face.

The argument went well. Tommy thought, as he and Fritz Number One retraced their steps through the zone between the two compounds. He had made some points, conceded some, battled hard on every procedural question, losing most, but not without a fight. On the whole, he was pleased.

Phillip Pryce had decided to put off on issuing any ruling and allow further discussion the following week, much to Hugh

Renaday's theatrical dismay and mock-bitter claims that Tommy's unfair bribery was clouding their friend's usually perceptive vision. This was a complaint none of the three men took particularly seriously.

After walking side by side for a moment or two. Tommy noticed that the ferret seemed oddly quiet. Fritz Number One enjoyed using his language skills, often privately suggesting that after the war he would be able to turn them to good use and financial reward. Of course, it was difficult to tell whether Fritz Number One meant after they had won the war, or lost it. It was always difficult. Tommy thought, to tell precisely how fanatic most of the ordinary Germans were. The occasional Gestapo man who visited the camp especially in the wake of failed escape attempts wore his politics openly. A ferret such as

Fritz Number One or the commandant, for that matter was a much harder read.

He turned to the German. Fritz Number One was tall, as he was, and thin, like a kriegie. The main difference was that his skin had a healthier glow to it, not like the sallow, pasty appearance all the prisoners gained within their first few weeks inside Stalag Luft

Thirteen.

"What's the matter, Fritz? Cat got your tongue?"

The ferret looked up quizzically.

"Cat? What does this mean?"

"It means: Why are you so silent?"

Fritz Number One nodded.

"Cat holding your tongue. This is clever. I will remember."

"So? What's the problem?"

The ferret frowned and shrugged.

"Russians. Today," he said softly.

"They are clearing space for another camp for more Allied prisoners. We take the Russians and use them for the labor. They live in tents barely a mile away. Other side of the woods."

"And?"

Fritz Number One lowered his voice, swiveling his head around quickly to make certain no one could overhear him.

"We work the Russians to their deaths, lieutenant. There are no Red Cross parcels with tinned beef and cigarettes for them. Just work.

Very hard. They die by the dozens. By the hundreds. I worry that if the Red Army ever finds out how we have treated these prisoners, their revenge will be harsh."

"You're worried that when the Russians show up…"

"They will not show charity."

Tommy nodded, thinking: Serves you right.

But before he could say anything, Fritz Number One held out his hand, stopping him. They were perhaps thirty yards from the gate to the southern compound, but Fritz Number One was unwilling to cross the short distance. To his left, Tommy suddenly saw why: A long, sinewy column of men was marching toward them, and he could see that they would pass directly in front of the entrance to the American compound.

He paused, watching with a mingling of curiosity and despair, thinking:

These men are no different. They have lives and homes and families and hopes. But they are dead men, marching past.

The German soldiers guarding the column wore battle dress. Their machine pistols swept over the shuffling line of men. Occasionally one would shout "Schnell! Schnell!" urging them to hurry, but the Russians moved at their own deliberate and painstaking pace. Marching with utter exhaustion.

Tommy could see sickness and hurt behind their thick beards, in their recessed, haunted eyes. Their heads were bent, each step forward seemingly agonizing. Occasionally he could see one man, or two, gazing at the German guards, muttering in their own tongue, and then he could spot anger and defiance, mingled with resignation. What he saw was the most unusual of conflicts: Men covered with the tattered clothing of harshness and deprivation, yet undefeated by their condition, even knowing they had no hope. The Russians slowly shuffled forward, marching to the next minute, which was nothing but sixty seconds closer to their inevitable deaths.

Tommy found himself choking, unable to speak.

But in that moment, he saw a remarkable thing: Inside the American compound, just beyond the wire, Vincent Bedford had been at the plate, in the midst of a softball game. Like all the players, and the rest of the kriegies, he had seen the Russian prisoners' painful approach. Most of the Americans stood riveted in place, fascinated by the skeletons shuffling past.

But not Bedford. With a bellow, he'd dropped the bat to the dust; waving his arms and shouting furiously, Trader Vic had turned and raced back into the nearest hut, the thick wooden door slamming with a resounding shot behind him.

For an instant. Tommy was confused, not understanding what Bedford was yelling. But it became clear within seconds, because the Mississippian emerged from the hut almost as quickly as he had first disappeared, but now his arms were filled with loaves of dark German-issued bread. He was shouting: "Kriegsbrot! Kriegsbrot!" at the other POWs in his distinctive southern drawl. Then, without hesitating to see if his message was understood, Vincent Bedford ran forward, sprinting quickly to the camp gate. Tommy saw the German guards suddenly swing their weapons in his direction.