The Hunt

“You don’t believe in forgiving your enemies, Ire?” Vierhaus said nervously.

“I believe in the old Irish proverb, Willie. Forgive your enemies—but get even first.”

He removed the clip from the pistol, put it in his pocket and ejected the shell in the chamber. It clattered on the desk and rolled against a book. Keegan put the gun on the desk.

“Aufwiedersehen, Willie,” Keegan said, and walked out of the room. Vierhaus stared after him. He looked around the room, at his cot in the corner, and finally at the pistol on his desk.

Outside the room, Keegan and Wolffson walked down the marble hallway.

“You think it will stick, Ire?” Wolffson asked.

“The murder charge?”

“I doubt it.”

“You think he’ll go free?”

“No. I don’t think he’ll go free, Av.”

“Then what?”

The shot rang out as he said it and echoed through the hallway.

“Christ almighty!” the corporal cried out and ran down the hall.

Keegan walked down the long flight of steps with Wolffson trailing behind him. They got in the jeep.

“Okay,” Keegan said. “Now it’s over.” He leaned over and snapped on the radio. “Whip this baby back to Munich,” he said to the driver. “The party’s on me.”

The same disk jockey was still babbling with joy.

“We’re going home, guys! We’re going home! And here’s a classic from a man we all wish was with us to celebrate today. The immortal Glenn Miller and a song that has become an anthem for all of us on this side of the pond.”

Keegan leaned back as the song began. He joined in when the Modernaires began their vocal.

Don’t sit under the apple tree,

With anyone else but me,

Anyone else but me,

Anyone else but me, no, no, no,

Don’t sit under the apple tree,

With anyone else but me,

Till I come marching home . .

The End