Now he was dead, and no longer a part of Tommy Hart's waking life.

Tommy let out a long, slow draft of breath.

He searched the landscape of murder in front of him.

And then he saw what was wrong.

"Hugh," he said very quietly, "I think I see a problem."

Renaday quickly looked up from his sketch pad.

"Me, too," he replied.

"Clearly…" But he did not finish his statement.

Both men heard a noise from outside the Abort. There were German voices raised, sharp-edged and insistent. Tommy reached across and seized the Canadian by the arm.

"Not a word," he said.

"Not until we can talk later."

"Bloody right. You got it," replied Renaday.

The two men then turned and walked from the latrine, stepping out into the chilled misty air, feeling the closeness of the smell and of what they'd seen drop away from them like so many droplets of moisture.

Fritz Number One was standing by the front door, strapped in strict attention. In his hand at his side was a camera with a flash attachment.

A foot or two away, a German officer stood.

He was of modest height and build and seemed slightly older than Tommy, perhaps closing on thirty, although it was difficult to tell for certain because war aged men differently.

His close-cropped thick hair was jet black, but tinged with premature gray around the temples, the same color as the leather trenchcoat he wore above a sharply pressed but slightly ill-fitted Luftwaffe uniform.

He had very pale skin, and on one cheek he sported a jagged red scar just beneath the left eye. He wore a thin, well-groomed beard, which surprised Tommy. He knew that naval officers in the German military often wore beards, but he'd never seen a flier with one, even a sparse one such as this officer maintained. He had eyes that seemed knifelike, slicing their gaze forward.

The officer turned slowly toward the two kriegies, and Tommy saw that he was also missing his left arm.

The German paused, then asked: "Lieutenant Hart? Flying Officer Renaday?"

Both men came to attention. The German returned their salutes.

"I am Hauptmann Heinrich Visser," he said. His English was smooth, accented only slightly, but tinged with a slight hissing sound. He looked at Renaday sharply.

"Did you fly a Spitfire, flying officer?" he asked abruptly.

Hugh shook his head.

"Blenheim," he replied.

"Second seat."

Visser nodded.

"Good," he muttered.

"Does it make a difference?" Renaday demanded.

The German slid a small cruel smile across his face. When he did this, the scar seemed to change color slightly. And the smile was crooked.

He made a small gesture with his right hand toward his missing arm.

"A Spitfire took this," he said.

"He managed to come around behind me after I killed his wing man." He kept his voice even and controlled.

"Forgive me," he added, still pacing each word carefully.

"We are all imprisoned by our misfortunes, are we not?"

Tommy thought this a philosophical question better suited for a dinner table and a fine bottle of wine, or a rich liqueur, than standing outside a latrine and in the gory presence of a murdered body. He did not say this out loud. Instead, he asked: "You are, I believe, Hauptmann, to be some sort of a liaison? Exactly what duties does this include?"

Hauptmann Visser relaxed, shuffling his feet momentarily in the muddy earth. He did not sport the riding boots that the commandant and his assistants preferred. Instead, he wore more utilitarian, but highly polished, black boots.

"I am to witness all aspects of the situation, then make a report back to my superiors. We are bound by the Geneva Convention to account for the well-being of every Allied prisoner of war in our possession. But here, now, I am merely in charge of having the remains removed. Then perhaps it will be possible for us to, how do you say? Compare our findings? At a later juncture."

Hauptmann Visser turned toward Fritz Number One.

"This soldier was providing you with a camera?"

Hugh stepped forward.

"It is customary in a murder investigation to take photographs of the body and of the crime scene location. That is why we demanded Fritz obtain the camera for us."

Visser nodded.

"Yes, this is true…"

He smiled. Tommy's first impression was that the Hauptmann seemed a dangerous man. His tone of voice seemed gentle and accommodating, but his eyes told a different tale.

"But only in a routine situation. This situation, alas, is decidedly not routine. Photographs could be smuggled out of the camp. Used for propaganda purposes. I cannot permit this."

He reached out his hand for the camera.

Tommy thought Fritz Number One was ready to pass out.

His chest was drawn up, his spine rigid, his face pale. If he had dared to even take a breath of air in the Hauptmann presence, Tommy Hart had been unaware. The ferret immediately thrust the camera forward to the officer.

"I did not think, Herr Hauptmann" Fritz Number One started.

"I was told to assist the officers…"

Visser cut him off with a laconic wave.

"Of course, corporal. You would not see the danger in the same way that I might."

He turned back to the two Allied airmen.

"That, precisely, is why I'm here."

Visser coughed, a dry, gentle sound. He turned, gesturing to one of the armed soldiers still ringing the Abort. He handed this man the camera.

"See that it is returned to its owner," he said. The guard saluted, draped the camera's strap over his shoulder, and returned to his sentry position. Then Visser removed a package of cigarettes from his breast pocket. With surprising dexterity, he extricated one from the pack, returned the remainder to his pocket, and produced a steel lighter, which immediately flickered with flame.

He took a long drag on the cigarette, then looked up, one eyebrow slightly raised: "You have completed your inspection?"

Tommy nodded.

"Good," the German said.

"Then the corporal will accompany you to see your…" he hesitated, then, still smiling, said, "your charge. I will complete matters here."

Tommy Hart thought for a second, then whispered to the Canadian: "Hugh, stay here. Keep as close a watch on the Hauptmann as you can. And find out what he does with Bedford's body."

He looked over at the German.

"I think it would be critical to have a physician examine Captain

Bedford's remains. So that at least we can be certain of the medical aspects of this case."

"Damn right," Hugh said in an almost whisper.

"No photos. No doctor. That's bloody-all fucked."

Hauptmann Visser shrugged, not acknowledging the Canadian's obscenity, though he surely heard it.

"I do not think this would be practical, given the difficulties of our current situation. Still, I will examine the body carefully myself, and if I think your request is warranted, I will send for a German physician."

"An American would be better. Except we don't have one."

"Doctors make poor bombardiers."

"Tell me, Hauptmann, do you have knowledge in criminal investigations?

Are you a policeman, Hauptmann? What do you call it? Kriminalpolizei?"

Tommy threw the questions across the dirt ground.

Visser coughed again. He raised his face, still smiling crookedly.

"I look forward to our next meeting, lieutenant. Perhaps we will be able to speak at greater length at that point. Now, if you will excuse me, there appears much to do and not much time to accomplish it."

"Very good, Herr Hauptmann," Tommy Hart said briskly.

"But I have ordered Flying Officer Renaday to remain behind and personally witness your removal of Captain Bedford's remains."

Visser's eyes darted at Tommy Hart. But his face wore the same accommodating smile. He hesitated, then said: