met with the usual catcalls, insults, and general groaning from the assembled kriegies. Men stomped their feet against the damp, chilly morning air, made nastier by a stiff breeze slicing in from the north.
The sky overhead was a slate gray marred with a pair of pinkish-red streaks on the eastern horizon, more of the indecisiveness of the German weather that seemed to be forever trapped between winter and spring. Tommy hunched his shoulders against the wind, shivering slightly in the weak light in the hour just past dawn, wondering where the prior day's warmth had fled to and still filled with doubt about the gathering set for eight a.m. Just to his right, Hugh shuffled to get his circulation going and swore at the ferret, 'Get it right this time, yah bloody idiot!' while to his left, Lincoln Scott stood motionless, as if unaffected by the cold and wet. Some moisture glistened on the black flier's cheeks, making it appear almost as if he'd been crying.
The ferret hesitated, staring down at a notepad, on which he was listing numbers. This act of doubt, signaling that he might start over for a fifth time, brought a cascade of obscenities and useless threats from the Allied prisoners. Even Tommy, who usually kept quiet during all these small insults of assembly, muttered to himself a quick, 'Come on, Jesus, get on with it…' as a sharp sword of wind sliced through his battered old leather flight jacket.
But he stopped when he heard the voice directly behind him speaking softly, yet insistently: 'Hart? Maybe I got something for you.'
He steeled himself, not turning, half expecting an insult.
The voice seemed familiar, and after a moment, he recognized that it came from a captain from New York who lived in one of the bunk rooms across the hall from him. The captain was a fighter pilot, like Scott, who'd been shot down while escorting B-17s in a raid over Big B, which was Allied airmen's slang for Berlin.
'You still looking for information. Hart? Or you got everything under control?'
Tommy shook his head, but didn't turn back toward the man in formation behind him. Both Lincoln Scott and Hugh Renaday remained still, as well.
'I'm listening,' Tommy said.
'What is it you want to say?'
'Kinda pissed me off, you know,' the pilot continued, 'the way Bedford always had whatever anyone needed. More food. More clothes. More of everything. Need this, he had it.
Need that? He had that, too. And always got more for whatever it was than you wanted to give up. Didn't seem hardly fair. Everybody in the bag supposed to have it more or less the same, but it sure weren't the same for Trader Vic.'
'I'm aware. Sometimes seemed like he was the only kriegie in this place never losing weight,' Tommy responded.
The man muttered a grunt in agreement.
'Hey,' the captain said, 'of course, on the other hand, he sure didn't end up the same neither.'
Tommy nodded. This was true, but, of course, there was no guarantee that they all wouldn't end up just as dead as Vincent Bedford. He didn't say this out loud, though he knew it was never far from any airman's waking thoughts, and certainly featured in many kriegies' dreams. It was one of the prisoner-of-war camp credos: Don't speak of what truly frightens you, for that will surely come to pass.
'No kidding,' Tommy said.
'But you've got something you want to tell me?'
From the adjacent formation on Tommy's right, there was a scattering of angry shouts and complaints. Tommy figured the ferret counting that group had messed up again, as well.
The New Yorker hesitated again, as if reconsidering what he was about to say. Then he grunted an obscenity or two, indicating that whatever internal argument he'd had, had been resolved, and he said, 'Vic made a couple of trades, right before his death, that got my attention. Not just my attention, hell, a couple of other guys, too, noticed that Vic was being real busy. I mean, more busy than normal, and normal he was busy all the time, if you follow my drift.'
'Keep talking,' Tommy said quietly.
The fighter pilot snorted, as if finding the memory distasteful.
'One of the things he got, man, I only saw it just the one time, but I remember thinking who the hell wanted that? I figured had to be some heavy-duty souvenir, yah know, but it sure was an unusual one, 'cause if the Krauts ever found it during one of their goddamn hut searches, well, anyone would know there'd be hell to pay, so I couldn't see getting it, myself, but…'
'What are you talking about?' Tommy asked, probably more sharply than necessary, but still speaking under his breath.
The captain from New York paused again, then replied: 'It was a knife.
Like, a special knife. Like the type that Von Reiter wears when he's got his fanciest gotta go meet the bosses uniform on.'
'Like a dagger? Real thin and long?'
'That's the type. This was SS super special, too. I saw it had one of those death's head skulls on the handle. Very Nazi.
The real deal. Probably only get that for doing something real wonderful for the fatherland, yah know. Like burning books or maybe beating up on women and kids, or shooting unarmed Russians. Anyway, I couldn't see it as a souvenir. No sir. Get caught with that in your kit, and the Krauts were likely to slam your butt into the cooler for a fortnight. They take that ceremonial stuff pretty seriously. Krauts got no sense of humor whatsoever.'
'Where did you see it?'
'Vic had it. I saw it just once. I was in his room, playing some cards with his roommates when he came in with it. Said it was a special order. Wouldn't say who it was going to, but Vic sure made it seem like somebody had paid him something extra special for it. A big deal trade, I'd guess. Somebody wanted that knife something fierce. He squirreled it away with the rest of his loot, wouldn't say who it was going to. I didn't think much about it, until Vic got killed and they said it was with a knife, and I was wondering whether it mighta been that very same knife. Then I heard that it was some homemade job that Scott made up. Then I heard some scuttlebutt that maybe it wasn't, and I started thinking about that knife again. Anyway, don't know if it's helpful, or not, Hart, but thought you might be interested. Wish I knew who got it. That would help a whole lot more. But still, there it is.
Someplace in this lousy camp's an SS dagger. And I'd be wondering about that, if I was you. Would be kinda unusual, too, if it turned out that Trader Vic got murdered with a weapon that he made a deal for.'
'Where do you think he got it?'
The captain from New York snorted a small laugh.
'Only one ferret's got that sort of juice, Hart. You and I both know.'
Tommy nodded. Fritz Number One.
He heard, in that second, a catch in the captain's voice, as the man continued.
'One other thing's been bothering me. Don't know if it's important, or not…'
'Go on,' Tommy said.
'It could be nothin'. I mean, who knows about this shit, right?'
'What was it?'
'You remember tack a coupla weeks when the tunnel out of 109 collapsed?
The one where the two guys got caught and died?'
'Sure. Who doesn't?'
'Yeah. Right. Sure as hell that MacNamara and Clark remember.
I think they were counting on that sucker. Anyways, right around that time Vic was real busy. I mean, real busy. I saw him ducking out more than once, middle of the night.'
'How would you know that?'
The captain laughed briefly.
'C'mon, Hart. There's some questions you shouldn't wanna be asking, unless you got some
