It was the same look of frustration and despair that the colonel wore a few weeks back, when the two men digging had been buried alive. Tommy looked over at the barbed wire.

No way out, he told himself. Except the worst way.

And then, in that second, he wondered whether this was true.

To his left, he suddenly spotted an officer with a metal hoe working a small patch of garden, dutifully cultivating the rows of turned earth over and over again. There were similar gardens all along the length of Hut 106. All were well-tended.

Dirt, he thought, fresh dirt. Fresh dirt being blended with old.

He wanted to stand, look closer, but with a great internal tug at his emotions and a lassoing of the ideas that began to spring to his mind, he remained where he sat.

Tommy took a long, slow breath, releasing the air like a man ascending through the water. He lowered his head, trying to make it seem as if he were lost in thought, when in reality his eyes were darting back and forth, searching the area around him. He knew someone was watching him. From a window. From the exercise yard. From the perimeter path.

He did not know precisely who, but he knew he was being watched.

Abruptly, from the front of the hut, he heard a sharp wolf whistle, the double-pitched sound that in happier places meant a pretty woman was sashaying past. Almost immediately afterward, there was the sound of a metal waste container being slammed shut twice, another double report.

Then he heard a single kriegie voice call out: "Kein drinkwasser!" in a distinctly flat, twangy American accent. Someone from the Midwest, Tommy thought.

He stretched out his arms, like a man who'd been dozing, and lifted himself to his feet, dusting off his pants. He noticed that the officer who'd been tending the garden across from where he was seated had disappeared, and this made him very curious, though he took pains to hide this observation. A few moments later, Fritz Number One came sauntering around the front of the hut. The ferret was making no attempt to move through the camp with any concealment; he knew that his own presence had already been noticed by the fliers assigned to stooge duty that day. He was merely reminding the kriegies that he was there, as always, and alert. When Fritz Number One saw Tommy, he walked over to him.

"Lieutenant Hart," he said, grinning, "perhaps you have a smoke for me?"

"Hello, Fritz," Tommy replied.

"Yes, if you'll escort me to the British compound."

"Two smokes then," Fritz answered.

"One for each direction."

"Agreed."

The German took a cigarette, lit it, took a deep drag, and slowly blew out smoke.

"Do you think the war will end soon, lieutenant?"

"No. I think it will go on forever."

The German smiled, gesturing with his hand for the two of them to start moving across the compound toward the gate.

"In Berlin," the ferret said slowly, "they talk of nothing except the invasion. How it must be thrown back into the sea."

"Sounds like they're worried," Tommy said.

"They have much to worry about," Fritz answered carefully.

He looked up into the sky.

"A day like this one would be right, don't you think, lieutenant? For launching an attack.

That is what Eisenhower and Montgomery and Churchill must be imagining back in London."

"I wouldn't know. All I did was navigate a plane. Those gentlemen rarely consulted me with their plans. And anyway, Fritz, planning invasions wasn't my particular cup of tea."

Fritz Number One looked momentarily confused.

"I do not understand these words," he said.

"What has drinking tea to do with military maneuvers?"

"It's another saying, Fritz. What it means is that I don't have any sort of education or interest in that thing."

"Cup of tea?"

"That's right."

"I will remember." The two men continued toward the sentries at the gate, who looked up as they approached.

"Again you have helped me, lieutenant. Someday I will speak truly like an American."

"It's not the same thing, Fritz."

"Same thing?"

"Not the same as being one."

The ferret shook his head.

"We are what we are. Lieutenant Hart. Only a fool apologizes. And only a fool refuses to take advantages from what is in front of him."

"True enough," Tommy answered.

"I am not a fool, lieutenant."

Tommy took a sharp breath and measured quickly what the German was saying, listening hard to the soft tones, trying to see into the suggestions beyond the words.

The two men marched in unison toward the British compound.

Right before they reached the gate, Tommy asked in an idle voice that masked his sudden intensity, "The Russians building the new camp… how close to completion are they?"

Fritz shook his head. He continued to speak in a quiet, concealed voice.

"A few months, perhaps. Maybe a little time longer. But perhaps never. They die too fast. Every few days the trains arrive at the station in town bringing a new detachment.

They are marched into the woods and take over for the men who have died. It seems that there is no end to Russian prisoners. The work goes slowly. Day after day, the same."

The ferret shuddered slightly.

"I am glad to be here, instead," he said.

"You don't go over there?"

"Once or twice. It is dangerous. The Russians hate us very much. In their eyes, you can see they wish us all dead. Once a Hundfuhhrer released his dog into the camp. A big Doberman.

A vicious beast, Lieutenant Hart, more a wolf than a dog. The fool thought it would teach the Ivans a lesson. Idiot." Fritz Number One smiled briefly, shaking his head.

"He had no respect.

This is stupid, don't you think. Lieutenant Hart? One must always respect one's enemy. Even if one hates, one must still have respect, no? Anyway, the dog disappeared. The fool stood at the wire, whistling and calling, "Here, boy! Here, boy!" Idiot. In the morning, the Ivans threw out the skin. That was all that was left.

They ate the rest. The Russians, I think, are animals."

"So you don't go over there?"

"Not often. Sometimes. But not often. But see this, Lieutenant Fritz

Number One quickly glanced around to see if there were any German officers in the vicinity. Spying none, he slowly removed a shiny brass object from the breast pocket of his tunic.

"… Perhaps you would like to make a trade? This would make an excellent souvenir, when you finally return home to America. Six packs of cigarettes and some chocolate, maybe two bars, what do you say?"

Tommy reached out and took the object from Fritz's hand.

It was a large, heavy, rectangular belt buckle. It had been polished carefully, so that the red hammer and sickle embossed on the buckle glistened in the sunlight. Tommy hefted it in his hand and wondered for a moment whether Fritz had traded bread for it, or whether he'd simply removed it from the waist of a dead Russian soldier. The thought made him shudder.

He handed it back.

"Not bad," he said.

"But not what I'm looking for."

The ferret nodded.

"Trader Vic," he said, with a wry smile, "he would have seen the value, and he would have met my price. Or come very close. And then he would have turned around and made a profit."

"You did much business with Vic?" Tommy asked idly, although he listened carefully for the answer.

Fritz Number One hesitated.

"It is not permitted," he said.

"Many things that happen aren't permitted," Tommy replied.

The ferret nodded.

"Captain Bedford was always seeking souvenirs of war, lieutenant. Many different items. He was willing to trade for anything."

Tommy slowed his pace as they approached the entrance to the British compound, nodding, realizing that the ferret was trying to tell him something, and Fritz Number One put out his hand and just touched Tommy's forearm.