"Would Lincoln Scott have moved the body closer to his own hut?"

"No. That would make no sense."

"But putting Vic in the Abort made sense to someone."

"Someone who needed to make certain that the actual crime scene vicinity wasn't searched. And, if you consider it, who would do more than a perfunctory examination of the body inside the Abort. The place smells…"

"Visser did," Hugh grunted.

"It didn't seem to bother him in the slightest."

"Ah," Pryce grinned.

"An interesting observation. Yes.

Tommy, I think it is safe to assume that despite his Luftwaffe uniform,

Herr Visser is Gestapo. And a policeman with expertise.

And it is doubtful that whoever moved Vic's body would have anticipated his arrival on the scene. They would probably have assumed that the somewhat prissy and stiff Von Reiter would be in charge of the crime scene. Now, would Commandant Von Reiter have carefully searched the Abort? Not bloody likely. But all this prompts a second question: If the killer wanted to avoid a search of a specific location… well, who was he afraid of? Germans or Americans?"

Tommy raised an eyebrow.

"The trouble is, Phillip, every time I think we're making some sort of progress, new questions arise."

Hugh snorted.

"Damn right. Why can't things be simple?"

Pryce reached out and touched the hulking Canadian on the arm.

"But you see, accusing Scott of the crime is simple.

And therein lies the lie, if you will."

Pryce wheezed a laugh, which translated into a cough, but still smiling, still enjoying himself, still delighting in each intricacy they unfolded, he turned back to Tommy.

"And the unexplained and somewhat surprising appearance of Fritz Number

One on the scene? This tells us what?"

"That he had a deeply compelling reason to be there."

"Do you think that the illicit trade of some item of contraband could bring Fritz and Trader Vic out in the dead of night at considerable risk to the both of them?"

"No." Tommy spoke before Hugh could reply.

"Not for a minute. Because Vic had already managed to trade for all sorts of illegal items. Cameras. Radios. Souvenirs.

"Anything…" Fritz said. But even the most special of acquisitions can still be managed in regular daytime hours. Vic was an expert at that."

"So, whatever it was that put both Vic and Fritz Number One out and abroad in the midst of considerable danger had to be something extremely valuable to the both of them…"

Pryce mused.

"And something that was best hidden from everyone else in the camp."

"You're assuming that it was the same thing that brought them out. We don't know that," Tommy said sharply.

"But, I suspect, it is the avenue we are obligated to travel," Pryce said with determination. He turned to Tommy.

"Do you see something in all this, Thomas?"

And Tommy did.

"Something best hidden…" An electric idea raced through his imagination. He was about to speak, when the thoughts of all three men were sharply interrupted by a sudden burst of shouts and alarm coming from outside the wire, past the main gate. In unison, all three turned toward the noise, and as they did, they stiffened as they heard the staccato sound of a weapon being fired, the crack of the rifle riveting the afternoon air.

"What the bloody hell…" Hugh started to ask.

Almost instantly, a detachment of guards, their uniforms hastily thrown on, but bearing weapons at port arms, emerged from a building in the administration compound. The soldiers were jamming steel helmets onto their heads, trying to button their tunics. The squad took off sharply, running down the road past the commandant's office, a Feldwebel shouting hurried instructions. No sooner had the air filled with the heavy tread of their boots slapping into the hard dirt road, than at least a half-dozen ferrets blasting away at their whistles came racing through the front gate, screaming obscenities and urgent commands between shrill shrieks from their whistles.

The siren that was ordinarily used only for air raids started up, wailing loudly. Tommy, Hugh, and Pryce all saw Fritz Number One in the midst of the group. The German spotted them and, waving his arms wildly, roared angrily: "In formation!

Line up! Line up! Raus! Schnell! Immediately! We must count!"

None of the ferret's usual wheedling jocularity was contained in any of the words. His voice was high-pitched, insistent, and frantically demanding. He pointed a finger at Tommy.

"You! Lieutenant Hart! You are to stand to the side and be counted with the British!"

Another nearby volley of rifle shots creased the air.

Without any further explanation, Fritz Number One raced into the center of the camp, continuing to shout commands.

As he passed, the parade ground began to fill with British airmen, all struggling into their jackets, pulling on boots, jamming caps on their heads, hurrying toward the unexpected Appell. Tommy turned to his two companions, only to hear Phillip Pryce feverishly whisper a single wonderful, yet terrible, altogether heart-stopping word:

"Escape!"

The British airmen stood at attention in their assembly yard for nearly an hour, as ferrets moved up and down the rows of men, counting and recounting, swearing in German, refusing to answer any questions, especially the most important.

Tommy lingered perhaps a half-dozen yards to the side of the last block of men, flanked on either side by two other American officers who'd also been caught inside the British compound when the escape attempt took place. Tommy only barely recognized the two other Americans; one was a chess champion from Hut 120 who frequently bribed goons to let him pass over to where the competition was better. The other was a slender actor from New York who'd been enlisted by the British for one of their theatrical performances. The onetime fighter pilot made a more than convincing blond bombshell, when decked out in homemade wig, cheap makeup, and a slinky black evening gown refashioned by the camp's tailors from scraps of worn and tattered uniforms, and was therefore in demand in both compounds' theatrical productions.

"Still can't figure what fer Christ's sakes is going on," the chess master whispered, "but the Krauts sure look angry as hell."

"Lotsa talk. And a couple of those formations look to be shy more than a couple of men," the actor replied.

"Think they'll keep us here much longer?"

"You know the damn Germans," Tommy replied softly.

"If there's only nine guys standing where yesterday there were ten, well, hell, they've got to count maybe a hundred times over and over, just to make sure they're right…"

Both the other Americans grunted in assent.

"Hey," the chess champion muttered, "look who's coming.

The Big Cheese, himself. And ain't that the new little cheese, right at his side? The guy who's supposed to be watching over your show, right. Hart?"

Tommy looked across the compound and saw that a red-faced Oberst Von Reiter, in full dress uniform, as if he'd been interrupted on the way to an important meeting, was striding down the steps of the main office building. Trailing behind him, in his usual slightly rumpled, much less spit-and-polished appearance, was Hauptmann Heinrich Visser. In contrast to Von Reiter's hard-edged eyes and ramrod bearing, Visser seemed to have a faint look of amusement on his face.

But Visser's half-smile could just as easily have been a look of cruelty, Tommy thought, which probably spoke a great deal about the sort of man he was.

The two officers were trailed by a substantial squad of goons, all bearing machine pistols or rifles. In the midst of this group, close to two dozen British officers, all in various forms of undress-including two totally naked men-emerged from the camp offices. One man was limping slightly. The two naked men wore immense grins on their faces. All seemed cheery, and more than slightly pleased with themselves, despite the fact that they were marched forward with their hands clasped behind their heads.