Visser shook his head.
'I think not, wing commander. I think not. Regardless, allow me to introduce my companion to you: This gentleman is Herr Blucher of the
Swiss Red Cross…'
Visser turned to the diminutive man, who nodded toward the prisoners and clicked his heels together, simultaneously making a small bow.
'Herr Blucher…' Visser continued, smugness creeping into his voice,
'has arrived this very day directly from Berlin, where he is a member of the Swiss legation there.'
'What the bloody hell…' Pryce started, but then he stopped, fixing the German with a cold look of his own.
'It is against the interests of the Luftwaffe High Command to have a distinguished and justly famed barrister such as yourself perish here amid the rough and deprived life of prisoners of war. We are concerned with your persistent illnesses, wing commander, and alas, because we lack the proper medical facilities for treatment, it has been decided by the highest authorities that you are to be repatriated. Good news,
Mr. Pryce. You are going home.'
The word home seemed to echo in sudden silence.
Pryce stood stock-still in the center of the small room. He drew himself to attention, trying to gather some military bearing.
'I don't believe you,' he said abruptly.
Visser shook his head.
'Ah, but it is true. At this very instant at a camp in Scotland, a captured German naval officer suffering from similar maladies is being informed by the Swiss representative there that he is to be returned to his homeland. It is the simplest of trades, wing commander. Our sick prisoner for their sick prisoner.'
'I don't believe you,' Pryce repeated.
The man identified as Herr Blucher took a single step forward.
He spoke in fractured, Germanicized English: 'Is true, Mr. Pryce. I will be escorting you by train to Switzerland…'
Pryce turned sharply, staring at Herr Blucher.
'You're no bloody Swiss,' he said, spitting. Then he swung about and fixed Visser with a harrowing glance.
'Lies!' he said instantly.
'Bloody lies, Visser! There's no trade! There's no exchange!'
'Ah,' Visser replied, sickeningly sweetly, 'but I assure you, wing commander, this is so. Even as we speak. A naval officer who will be allowed to return to the loving arms of his wife and children ' 'Lies!
Black lies!' Pryce interrupted, shouting.
'But Mr. Pryce, you are mistaken,' Visser said unctuously.
'I thought you would be pleased at the thought of returning home.'
'You lying dog!' Pryce cried. He turned to Tommy Hart and Hugh Renaday, his face a portrait of instant and complete despair.
'Phillip!' Tommy blurted out.
Pryce took an unsteady step toward Tommy, reaching out and seizing the younger man by the sleeve of his jacket, as if he was suddenly weakened.
'They mean to kill me,' Pryce said softly.
Tommy shook his head, and Hugh pushed past the two of them, thrusting himself directly in Visser's face. He jabbed a blunt finger sharply into the Hauptmann's chest.
'I know you, Visser!' the Canadian hissed.
'I know your face! If you are lying to us, I will spend every second of every day of every month for the remainder of my years on this earth hunting you to the ground! You will not be able to hide, you Nazi scum, because I will be like a nightmare on your ass until I find you, and I will kill you with my own bare hands!'
The one-armed German did not shrink back. Instead, he merely stared directly into Hugh's eyes, and said slowly, 'The wing commander is to gather his possessions immediately and accompany me. Herr Blucher will see to his care, while in transit.'
Visser's mocking grin slid past the Canadian, back to Phillip Pryce.
'Alas, wing commander, we have no time for elaborate farewells. You are to embark immediately. Schnell! Pryce started to reply, then stopped, turning again to Tommy Hart.
'I'm sorry, Tommy. I had hoped we three would walk out the gate together as free men. That would have been ever so nice, would it not?'
'Phillip!' Tommy choked, unable to speak the words that flooded him.
'You will be fine, lads,' Pryce continued.
'Stick together.
Promise me this: You will survive! No matter what happens, you boys are to live! I expect much from the both of you, and even if I'm not there to see it, as I'd hoped, that doesn't mean you shan't accomplish what you are capable of!'
Pryce's hands quivered, and there was a warble in his voice. The older man's fear filled the room.
Tommy shook his head.
'No, Phillip, no. We'll still be together and you can show me
Piccadilly, and what was that restaurant? Just like you've promised.
It will be okay, I know it.'
'Ah, Simpson's on the Strand. I can taste it now. So, Tommy, you and Hugh will have to go there now without me, and raise a glass on my behalf. Nothing cheap, mind you!
Hugh, no bottle of beer! A nice red wine. Something prewar and expensive, the color of deep burgundy. Something that plays a waltz across your taste buds, and cascades down your throat. That sounds wonderful…'
'Phillip!' Tommy could barely control himself.
Pryce smiled at him, and then at Hugh, whose arm he also reached out and seized.
'Boys, promise me you'll not let them leave my carcass in the woods somewhere where the animals will gnaw on my old bones. Force them to return my ashes, and then spread them somewhere nice. Maybe over the Channel after all this is over. I think I would like that, so that the tides can wash them up on our beloved island's shore. But anywhere where it is free, boys. I don't mind dying alone, lads, but I'd like to think my remains went somewhere where they can enjoy a tiny breath of freedom-' Visser interrupted sharply.
'There is no time! Wing commander, please ready yourself!'
Pryce turned and scowled at the German.
'That's what I am doing!' he answered. He returned his eyes to his two younger companions.
'They'll shoot me in the forest,' he said softly. His voice had regained some strength, and he spoke with an almost matter-of-fact sense of resignation. It was as if Pryce wasn't afraid so much as he was irritated by the thought of his imminent death.
'Tommy, lad, here's what they will tell you,' he whispered.
'They'll say I attempted to flee. That I made some sort of break for freedom. There was a struggle, and they were forced to fire their weapons. It will all be a lie, of course, and you boys will know it-'
Visser interrupted again, smiling with the same upturned scowl that he wore earlier when Von Reiter was threatening to shoot the British airmen who'd tried to escape.
'A prisoner exchange,' Visser said.
'Nothing more. So that the wing commander's health is not our responsibility.'
'Stop lying,' Pryce said arrogantly.
'No one believes you, and it makes you appear foolish.'
