He turned back to the two Allied airmen.
'That, precisely, is why I'm here.'
Visser coughed, a dry, gentle sound. He turned, gesturing to one of the armed soldiers still ringing the Abort. He handed this man the camera.
'See that it is returned to its owner,' he said. The guard saluted, draped the camera's strap over his shoulder, and returned to his sentry position. Then Visser removed a package of cigarettes from his breast pocket. With surprising dexterity, he extricated one from the pack, returned the remainder to his pocket, and produced a steel lighter, which immediately flickered with flame.
He took a long drag on the cigarette, then looked up, one eyebrow slightly raised: 'You have completed your inspection?'
Tommy nodded.
'Good,' the German said.
'Then the corporal will accompany you to see your…' he hesitated, then, still smiling, said, 'your charge. I will complete matters here.'
Tommy Hart thought for a second, then whispered to the Canadian: 'Hugh, stay here. Keep as close a watch on the Hauptmann as you can. And find out what he does with Bedford's body.'
He looked over at the German.
'I think it would be critical to have a physician examine Captain
Bedford's remains. So that at least we can be certain of the medical aspects of this case.'
'Damn right,' Hugh said in an almost whisper.
'No photos. No doctor. That's bloody-all fucked.'
Hauptmann Visser shrugged, not acknowledging the Canadian's obscenity, though he surely heard it.
'I do not think this would be practical, given the difficulties of our current situation. Still, I will examine the body carefully myself, and if I think your request is warranted, I will send for a German physician.'
'An American would be better. Except we don't have one.'
'Doctors make poor bombardiers.'
'Tell me, Hauptmann, do you have knowledge in criminal investigations?
Are you a policeman, Hauptmann? What do you call it? Kriminalpolizei?'
Tommy threw the questions across the dirt ground.
Visser coughed again. He raised his face, still smiling crookedly.
'I look forward to our next meeting, lieutenant. Perhaps we will be able to speak at greater length at that point. Now, if you will excuse me, there appears much to do and not much time to accomplish it.'
'Very good, Herr Hauptmann,' Tommy Hart said briskly.
'But I have ordered Flying Officer Renaday to remain behind and personally witness your removal of Captain Bedford's remains.'
Visser's eyes darted at Tommy Hart. But his face wore the same accommodating smile. He hesitated, then said:
'As you wish, lieutenant.'
With that, the German stepped up, passed Tommy, and headed into the
Abort. Renaday hurried after him. Fritz Number One waved wildly, now that the officer was out of sight, for Tommy to follow him, and the two men set off across the camp again. The milling knots of kriegies still gathered on the parade ground let them pass. Behind him, Tommy Hart could hear the men murmur with questions and speculation, and perhaps the first few tones of anger.
There was a single guard clutching a Schmeisser machine pistol standing outside the door to cooler cell number six.
Tommy thought the man young, probably no more than eighteen or nineteen. And although he stood at attention, the guard seemed nervous, almost scared to be in such close proximity to the kriegies.
This was not all that uncommon, Tommy thought. Some of the newer and younger, less experienced guards arrived at Stalag Luft Thirteen so propagandized about the Terrorfliegers-terror-fliers, according to the constant harangue of Nazi broadcasters-in the Allied armies that they believed the kriegies all to be bloodthirsty savages and cannibals. Of course. Tommy knew that the Allied air war was admittedly one that was predicated upon the twin concepts of savagery and terror. Night and day incendiary raids on the populated centers of the cities could hardly be considered something different. So he guessed that the unsettling thought of coming into close contact with a black Terrorflieger kept the teenager's finger dancing around the trigger of the Schmeisser.
The young guard wordlessly stepped aside, pausing only to unbolt the door, and Tommy stepped past him into the cell.
The walls and floor were a dull gray concrete. There was a single overhead bare lightbulb and a solitary window up in the corner of the six by nine room. It was dank, and seemed a good ten degrees colder inside the cell than outdoors, even on the overcast, rainy day.
Lincoln Scott had been sitting in a corner, his knees drawn up to his chest, across from the sole piece of furniture in the cell, a crusted metal pail for waste. He stood up rapidly as Tommy entered the room, not exactly coming to attention, but certainly close to it, rigid and stiff.
'Hello, lieutenant,' Tommy said briskly, almost officiously.
'I tried to introduce myself to you the other day…'
'I know who you are. What the hell is going on?' Lincoln Scott demanded sharply. His feet were bare and he wore only pants and blouse. There was no sign in the cell of either his sheepskin flight jacket or boots, and he must have had to fight to prevent himself from shivering.
Tommy hesitated.
'Haven't you been told ' Scott interrupted.
'I haven't been told a damn thing! I'm pulled out of formation and hustled into the commandant's office sometime this morning. Major Clark and Colonel MacNamara demand I hand over my jacket and boots. Then they question me for a half-hour about how much I hate that cracker bastard Bedford. After that, they asked me a couple of questions about last night, and then the next thing I know, I'm being escorted into this delightful place by a couple of Kraut goons. You're the first American I've seen since this morning's session with the colonel and the major. So, Lieutenant Hart, please tell me what in the hell is going on!'
Scott's voice was a mingling of restrained fury and confusion.
Tommy was taken aback.
'Let me get this straight,' he said slowly.
'You haven't been informed by the major…'
'I told you, Hart. I haven't been told a thing about anything! And what the hell am I doing in here? Under guard.' 'Vincent Bedford was murdered last night.'
Scott's mouth opened and his eyes widened for an instant, before narrowing and fixing Tommy Hart with an unwavering gaze.
'Murdered? Here?'
'Major Clark informs me that you will be charged with this crime.'
'Me?'
'Correct.'
Scott leaned back against the cement wall, almost as if he'd been struck by a steady, surprise blow. The black flier took a deep breath, steadied himself, and once again stood ramrod straight.
'I've been assigned to help you prepare a defense to the charge.' Tommy hesitated, then added, 'And I must warn you that they consider this to be a capital offense.'
Lincoln Scott nodded slowly before he replied. His shoulders were thrust back. His eyes fixed on Tommy Hart. He spoke slowly, deliberately, his voice slightly raised, as if he could weight each word with a passion that reached beyond the cement walls of the cooler cell, avoided the guard and his automatic weapon, and
