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.
'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
