"But you. Wing Commander Pryce, you will already have seen this, and you will, I have no doubt whatsoever, understand its true significance."

Pryce simply stared at the German, who smiled nastily, handed the sketches back to Tommy Hart, and reached down to his leather portfolio.

With some dexterity, using his only hand, he managed to extract a small, tan, dossier folder from within the portfolio.

"It took me no small amount of time to obtain this, wing commander. But when I did finally acquire it, ah, the intrigue that it held. Quite interesting reading."

The other men in the room remained quiet. Tommy thought Pryce's breath was filled with the wheeziness of tension.

Heinrich Visser looked down at the dossier. His smile faded, as he read: "Phillip Pryce. Wing Commander, 56th Heavy Bomber Group, stationed in

Avon-on-Trent. Commissioned in the R.A.F, 1939. Born, London, September 1893. Educated at Harrow and Oxford. Graduated in the top five in his class at both institutions. Served as an air adjutant to the general staff during the first war. Returned home, decorated.

Admitted to the bar, July 1921. Primary partner in the London firm of Pryce, Stokes, Martyn and Masters. At least a dozen murder trials argued, all of the most sensational, with great headlines and all due attention, without a single loss…"

Heinrich Visser stopped, looked up, fixing the older man.

"Not a single loss," the German repeated.

"An exemplary record, wing commander. Outstanding record. Quite remarkable.

And probably quite remunerative, as well, no? And at your age, it would have seemed that you had no need of enlisting, but you could have remained throughout the war enjoying the comforts of your position and resting amid your quite noteworthy successes."

"How did you obtain that information?" Pryce demanded sharply.

Visser shook his head.

"You do not truly expect me to answer that particular question, do you, wing commander?"

Pryce took a deep breath, which caused him to cough harshly, and shook his head.

"Of course not, Hauptmann" The German closed the dossier, returned it to his portfolio, and glanced across at each of the men, in their turn.

"Not a single loss in a capital case. Quite a phenomenal accomplishment, even for a barrister as prominent as yourself.

And this case, where you have been so ably, yet so discreetly, assisting young Lieutenant Hart? You do not predict that it might become your very fast failure?"

"No," Pryce said abruptly.

"Your confidence in your American friend is admirable," Visser said.

"I do not know that it is widely shared beyond these walls." Visser smiled.

"Although, after this morning's performance, perhaps there are some who are reevaluating their opinions."

Visser worked the portfolio up beneath his remaining arm.

"Your cough, wing commander. It seems quite severe. I think you should see to its treatment before it worsens further," the German said briskly. Then, with a single, farewell nod, he turned sharply on his heel and strode from the room, the metal tips of his boots making a machine-gun-like sound against the worn wooden boards.

The four Allied fliers remained silent for a moment, until Pryce broke the quiet: "The uniform is Luftwaffe," he said thinly, "but the man is

Gestapo."

It was later in the day when Tommy hurried across to the South Compound, heading toward the medical services tent to interview the

Cleveland mortuary assistant. He was troubled by Visser's appearance.

On the one hand, the German seemed to be trying to help-as evidenced by his pointing out the flaws in the crime scene sketches. But then there was so much unmistakable threat in everything he said.

Pryce, in particular, had been unsettled by the Hauptmann's unstated intentions.

As he paced quickly through the darkening shadows that littered the alleys between the housing huts. Tommy Hart found himself thinking about the game of mouse roulette he'd seen earlier. He decided that he would no longer feel anything but sympathy for the mouse.

There were a couple of airmen standing outside the medical services hut, smoking. They parted as he approached, and one of the fliers said, "Hey, Hart, how's it going?" as he passed.

He found Lieutenant Nicholas Fenelli inside one of the small examination rooms. There was a small table, a few hard-backed chairs, and a tabletop covered with a rough white sheet. Light from a single overhead electric bulb filled the room. On a pair of wooden shelves that had been nailed to one wall there was an array of medicines sulfa drugs, aspirin, disinfectants and creams, bandages, and compresses.

The selection was modest; all the kriegies knew that getting sick or injured was dangerous in Stalag Luft Thirteen. A routine illness could easily become complicated by the lack of proper medical materials, despite the efforts of the Red Cross to keep the dispensary stocked.

The Allied prisoners believed that the Germans regularly pilfered the precious medicines for their own hard-pressed hospitals, but this was denied by the Luftwaffe commanders, who scoffed at the allegations.

The more they scoffed, the more the kriegies were convinced they were being robbed.

Fenelli looked up from behind the table as Tommy entered.

"The man of the hour," he said, extending his hand.

"Hell, that was some show you put on this morning. You got an encore planned for Monday?"

"I'm working on it," Tommy replied. He glanced around.

"You know, I've never been in here before…"

"You're lucky. Hart," Fenelli said brusquely.

"I know it ain't much. Hell, best I can do is lance a boil, maybe clean out some blisters, or set a broken wrist. Other than that, well, you got trouble." Fenelli leaned back, glanced out the window, and lit a cigarette. He gestured at the medicines.

"Don't get sick, Hart. At least not until you think Ike or Patton and a column of tanks is just down the road." Fenelli was short, but wide-shouldered, with long, powerful arms. His curly black hair hung over his ears, and he was in need of a shave. He had an open grin, and a cocky, self-assured manner.

"I'm not planning on it," Tommy said.

"So, you're going to be a doctor?"

"That's right. Back to med school as soon as I get my sorry butt outta here. Shouldn't have too much trouble with gross anatomy class after all the stuff I've seen since I got my greetings from Uncle Sam. I figure I've seen just about every body part from toes to guts to brains all laid out nice and special thanks to the fucking Krauts."

"You worked in the mortuary back home…"

"I told all that stuff to your buddy, Renaday. All true. And not nearly as bad a place to work as folks'll think. One thing you can always count on: Working in a mortuary is a nice, steady job. Never a shortage of stiffs heading your way.

Anyway, as I told your Canadian buddy-shit, I wouldn't want to get in a fight with him, you see the shoulders on him?

Anyway, I told him, soon as I saw that knife wound in Trader Vic's neck, I knew what the hell had happened. Didn't have to look at it for more than one second, although I did. Took a nice long look. I seen it before and I know how it got put there, and I haven't got no trouble telling anyone who's interested."

Tommy handed Fenelli the sketch of the neck wound that Colin Sullivan had made. The American swiftly nodded.

"Hey, Hart. This fella can draw, all right. Yeah. That's exactly what it looked like. Even the edges, man, he's got them just right.

Not sliced, like you'd think, but just frayed a bit where the knife went in, bang! and then got worked around…"

As he spoke, Fenelli mimicked the blade entering the throat. Tommy took a deep breath, imagining the last second of panic that Trader Vic must have felt as he was grasped from behind.