"Anything," the German repeated.

Abruptly, Tommy stopped. He turned and eyed Fritz Number One carefully.

"You found the body? Right, Fritz?

Just before morning Appell, right? Fritz, what the hell were you doing in the compound then? It was still dark, and no Germans are wandering around inside the wire after lights out, because the tower guards have orders allowing them to shoot anyone seen moving around the camp. So why were you there, when you could have been shot by one of your own men?"

Fritz Number One smiled.

"Anything," he whispered. Then he shook his head.

"I have helped you now, lieutenant, but to say more might be extremely dangerous. For the both of us."

The ferret gestured toward the gate to the British compound, swinging open to allow him to enter.

Tommy held a number of questions in check, passed the German another cigarette as he had promised, and then, after a momentary hesitation, pressed the remainder of the package into the ferret's hand. Fritz

Number One grunted a surprised thanks and broke into a grin. Then he waved Tommy forward, and watched as the American walked into the

British camp, looking for Renaday and Pryce, Tommy's head starting to swim with ideas. Neither man paid much attention to a squad of British officers, all carrying towels, soap, and meager assortments of spare clothing, heading in the opposite direction toward the shower block. A pair of desultory, bored, and unarmed German guards, their heads drooping as if they were fatigued, escorted the men, who cheerily marched through the dust of the front gate, breaking into the usual wildly ribald song as they strolled past.

"Most curious," Phillip Pryce said, leaning his head back momentarily to scan the skies for a stray thought, then pitching forward and fixing

Tommy with his most unwavering gaze.

"Truly, most intriguing. There's no doubt, my lad, that he was trying to say something?"

"No doubt whatsoever," Tommy replied, kicking at the ground, raising a puff of dirt with his boot. The three men were collected by the side of one of the huts.

"I don't trust Fritz, not any of the Fritzes, not Number One, Two, or

Three, and I don't trust any other bloody fucking Kraut," Hugh muttered.

"No matter what he says. Why would he help us? Answer me that one, counselor."

Pryce coughed hard once or twice. He was sitting with his pants rolled up in a spot of warm sunshine, both feet lowered into a rough dented steel basin that he periodically replenished with near-boiling water.

He held one foot up, eyeing it.

"Blisters, boils, and athlete's foot, which, of course, in my case is an immense contradiction in terms," he said with a mock-rueful grin. He coughed dryly once again.

"My God, I'm bloody well falling apart at the seams, boys. Nothing seems to work too well." He smiled again, turning toward the

Canadian.

"You're right, of course, Hugh. But on the other hand, what incentive would Fritz have to lie?"

"I don't know. He's a right devious bastard. And always angling for promotions and medals or whatever it is the Krauts like to reward their bloody hard workers with."

"A man out for himself?"

"Absolutely, goddamn right," Hugh snorted.

Pryce nodded, turning back to Tommy, who anticipated what the older man was about to say and beat him to it.

"But, Hugh," he said swiftly, "that suggests that he would be telling me the truth. Or at least trying to point me in some correct direction. Even if he is a German, we all agree that Fritz is mainly out for himself. And he sees everything in the camp as an opportunity.

More or less the same way Trader Vic did."

"So," Hugh asked, "what do you suppose he's talking about?"

"Well, what are we missing? What do we need to know?"

Hugh smiled.

"Two things: the truth and the means of finding it."

Pryce nodded. He turned back to Tommy and spoke with sudden intensity: "I think this could be important. Tommy.

Very much so. Why was Fritz inside the wire in the predawn dark? He could very well have paid for that little trip with his life if he'd been spotted by one of these teenagers that the Krauts are enlisting and putting up in the guard towers. And it doesn't seem to me that

Fritz is the type of gentleman to risk an accidental death unless the reward is great."

"Personal reward," Hugh added.

"I don't think Fritz does much for the fatherland unless it helps him out, as well."

Pryce clapped his hands together once, as if the ideas flooding through his head were as warm as the water he was pouring over his ravaged feet. But when he spoke, it was slowly, with a deliberateness that surprised Tommy.

"Suppose Fritz's presence implies both?" Pryce then made his hand into a fist and waved it with a sense of triumph in the air in front of him.

"I think, gentlemen, that we have been slightly foolish. We have spent our time considering the murder of Trader Vic and the accusation against Lincoln Scott in precisely the manner that the opposition desires. Perhaps it is time to consider these things differently."

Tommy Hart sighed.

"Phillip, once again, you're being cryptic and slightly obtuse."

"But that's my manner, my dear boy."

"After the war," Tommy said, "I think I shall require you to come visit the States. A lengthy visit. And I will force you to sit around an old woodstove inside the Manchester General Store one day in the dead of winter when the snow is piled up about six feet high outside the window and listen to some old Vermonters talk about the weather, the crops, the upcoming fishing season in the spring, and whether or not this kid Williams the Red Sox have playing for them will ever amount to anything in the majors. And you will discover that we Yankees speak concisely and always directly to the point. Whatever the hell that point might be" Pryce burst into a laugh tinged with coughing.

"A lesson in forthrightness, is that what you have in mind?"

"Yes. Precisely. Straight-shooting."

"Ah, a distinctly American phrase, that."

"And a quality that will be needed on Monday morning at zero eight hundred, when Scott's trial commences."

Hugh grinned.

"He's right about that, Phillip. Take it from me: our southern neighbors are nothing if not straightforward.

Especially MacNamara, the SAO. He's right out of West Point and probably has the uniform code of military conduct tattooed on his chest. It won't do a lick of good to suggest anything in trial. The man has little imagination.

We're going to have to be exact."

Pryce seemed abruptly to be lost in thought.

"Yes, yes, that is so," he said slowly, "but I wonder… " The emaciated, wheezing Englishman held up his hand, cutting off both Tommy and Hugh from speaking. Both men could see his mind working hard behind his eyes, which darted about.

"I think," Pryce started slowly, after a long pause, "that we should reassess the entirety of the crime. What do we know?"

"We know that Vic was killed in a hidden spot an entire alleyway away from the location where his body was actually found. We know that his corpse was discovered by a German ferret who shouldn't have been inside the camp at that hour. We know that the murder weapon and the very method of death are different from that which the prosecution will contend…"

Tommy paused, then added, "Arrayed against these elements, we have Lincoln Scott's bloody shoes, bloodstained flight jacket, a weapon that also has blood on it, though it is doubtful that it was used in the killing…"

Tommy sighed, continuing, "And we have well-documented animosity and threats."

Pryce nodded his head slowly.

"Perhaps we would be wise to examine all the factors separately. Hugh, tell me: What does moving the body tell you?"

"That the murder location would compromise the killer."