I do not own any of the characters from the series Hogan's Heroes. However, I claim ownership of any original characters appearing in this story, which was inspired by a real-life incident.

The cover image is based on "Vase of Peonies" ca. 1882, by Claude Monet.

"Is Carter back?" said Colonel Hogan, as he came down the ladder into the radio room, the underground nerve centre for the behind-the-lines Allied operation which ran from inside the toughest prisoner of war camp in all of Germany.

"Not yet, Colonel," replied Kinch. "But he's probably waiting for dusk before he goes for the tunnel entrance, so the goons on the gate don't spot him. Either that, or he's trying to get out of helping with the spring cleaning."

"How's that coming along?"

Kinch laughed. "I can't believe some of the stuff we've found down here. I bet you haven't seen one of these for a while." He held up a Luger P08 pistol.

Hogan took the gun with a smile. "Looks remarkably like a novelty cigarette lighter." He pulled the trigger, and a little flame appeared from the breech. "I thought we sold all of these."

"We did, all but that one. It's got a casting flaw, the barrel's cracked. Should have been melted down for re-use, but I guess one of the boys in the metal shop decided to keep it for a souvenir, and then forgot about it."

"I only wish some of the other rubbish we've got tucked away down here took up as little bleedin' space." Newkirk appeared from one of the side tunnels, carrying a large box. "You wouldn't credit it, Colonel, there's still a pile of fake gold bricks down in Tunnel 4."

"You sure they're not some of the real ones?" asked Hogan.

"Real gold doesn't peel off when you stub your toe on it," replied Newkirk sourly.

Hogan chuckled softly. "That's true. What have you got there?"

"Hand-grenade paperweights." Newkirk put the box down, quite carefully, on the radio desk. "Nice little earner, they were, until they started going off. After that sales took a bit of a nosedive."

Kinch leaned forward to look. "Are you sure there are no live ones left in there?"

"No idea," replied Newkirk. "The only man who can tell the difference is Carter, and he's in Hammelburg, staking out the florist."

"In that case" said Kinch, "keep 'em away from the radio."

LeBeau glanced up from the German army uniform he was mending. "I know how you can find out, Newkirk. Take them down to one of the empty tunnels, pull out the pins and see how many explode."

"Very funny," growled Newkirk. "I think I'll let Carter sort them out...speak of the devil. Well, Andrew, how was your afternoon out? Meet any pretty little flower sellers?"

Carter had come into sight from the direction of the emergency tunnel, still wearing the checked jacket and brown leather cap which turned him from American prisoner to German civilian. "Actually, she wasn't that little," he replied. "Or that pretty."

"I thought I told you to keep your distance," said Hogan.

"I did. You don't have to get up close to tell when a girl's as homely as that one."

"Could she be a Gestapo man in disguise?"

"Boy, I sure hope so. Anyway, I didn't go anywhere near her - him - well, whatever," said Carter, as he began to change out of his town clothes. "I went into the Weinkeller, and I got a beer, and sat down right in the window where I could see across the street to the flower shop, and I started reading the newspaper. And then Max came in, and he got a beer, and sat down at the same table as me, and started reading the newspaper. Only he had the Nachrichten, but I got the Morgenpost, because the ink on the Nachrichten comes off on your hands, and the last time I read it..."

"Carter." Hogan's voice cut across what might otherwise have developed into an extended digression.

"Sorry, Colonel," mumbled Carter, abashed. "Well, after a little while, he said, It's been a very warm autumn. And I said, That means we'll have a cold winter. Which is kind of stupid, because it's halfway through spring already. So then he told me to keep watching the flower shop, and sure enough, what do you think happened?"

"Someone went in to buy a posy," said Newkirk, casually resting an elbow on the box of grenades.

"Yeah, and you'll never guess who it was."

Hogan guessed at once: "Major Hochstetter."

"It sure was, boy - I mean, sir. He wasn't in uniform, and he kept his face hidden, but it was Hochstetter, all right. He went in there, and half an hour later he came out with a bunch of peonies."

"Peonies?"

"Yes, sir. Or they could have been roses...or maybe carnations. They were definitely pink, anyway. Unless they were yellow..."

"Carter..."

"Sorry, sir. Anyway, whatever they were, he seemed kind of embarrassed about having them. Looked like he wanted to hide them in his pocket, or down the front of his coat, or something like that."

"I'm not surprised," said Kinch. "It wouldn't do much for his public image, being seen around Hammelburg with a bunch of pink peonies."

Carter, who was in the process of pulling on his army coverall, had turned around, and he answered over his shoulder. "Max told me he's been in there a couple of times every day, ever since the Gestapo took over the place. Sometimes he buys tulips, sometimes daffodils, and one day he even came out with a dozen gladioli."

That mental picture drew a wicked chuckle from LeBeau; Newkirk smirked, and even Hogan relaxed a little. "I guess he thinks it's a good excuse to call in at the florist and get a progress report."

LeBeau was still laughing. "What do you think he does with them all?"

"Probably tosses 'em in the nearest rubbish bin," replied Newkirk. "If he had a missus to take 'em home to - which he doesn't - she'd probably think he'd been up to something, and fling him out on his ear. And no other bird's going to look at him, no matter how many daffodils he brings with him."

"I don't get it, Colonel," said Kinch. "The Gestapo have gone to a lot of trouble, taking over the florist's shop and setting up surveillance. You'd think Hochstetter would be smart enough to stay away and not risk being seen going in there. He's blown the whole thing."

Hogan gave a rueful grin. "He needs a win. For some reason, the guys in Berlin aren't very pleased with him right now. Seems every case he's had in the last six months has gone bad on him. He's been very unlucky, and I can't think why." His eyes twinkled, and his men sniggered. "Apprehending a high-profile would-be defector like Martin Freischütz would go a long way towards retrieving his reputation."

"I should think it would." Newkirk pushed the box closer to the radio, earning an exasperated glare from Kinch. "I mean, Freischütz is right in with the top men. He's probably collected more dirt than the cleaning lady at Berchtesgaden."

"Hochstetter wants this one, badly," Hogan went on. "But it's not enough to sit in his office and let his men do the work. He has to be in at the kill, to make sure he gets the credit. That's why he's buying so many flowers, and he probably spends his nights either at the florist or the observation post at the rear of the safe house."

"I wonder how he found out about Spiegelmann's watch repair shop being an Underground station," said Kinch, while he removed the box of grenades from under Newkirk's elbow, and put it on the floor, close to the wall and away from the radio.

"Right now, that doesn't matter. He knows Freischütz was headed there, so he thinks all he has to do is wait, and grab him when he turns up. The only trouble is, Freischütz got there early. He was already inside before they started their surveillance. Now he can't get out without being seen."

"So what we need is a plan to get him out of there," said Kinch. "And Spiegelmann, too, now his cover's been blown."

"Right. And we need to do it fast, before Hochstetter runs out of patience and sends his men to storm the place." Hogan pushed his cap back on his head, and folded his arms, contemplating the problem. His men watched him, hardly daring to move in case it broke his train of thought; Carter even stopped buttoning his coverall.

"They couldn't slip out the back way in disguise, I suppose?" suggested Newkirk at last.

"No, Hochstetter's got men watching the rear of the building," replied Hogan. "Besides, Freischütz stands six foot seven. The only way to disguise that is if he's dressed as a lamp post. As for Spiegelmann...well, a man with one leg is always going to be a little conspicuous."

He picked up a pencil, and started sketching a rough map on the top page of Kinch's notepad. "Okay, this is Lindenstraße. The watchmaker's is here." He drew an X on one side of the street; then another, almost but not quite directly opposite. "And here's the flower shop. From there, they've got a clear view of anyone entering or leaving Spiegelmann's by the front door."

"What if we got a delivery van, and parked it in the street, to block the line of sight?" suggested Kinch, placing a finger on the sketch. "Then we could get Freischütz and Spiegelmann into the van and drive away."

Hogan considered the suggestion, then grimaced. "Too obvious. Hochstetter's agent in the flower shop would know right away that something was up, and call in the troops. I'm not saying it won't work, but we'd need a diversion. Something really big."

Silence fell again, as all five men tried to come up with something. Carter, his forehead creased in concentration, finished buttoning his coverall, and shuffled across the floor to where his jacket still hung on a peg attached to one of the wall battens near where LeBeau was sitting. His foot encountered the box Kinch had left there; he stumbled, half-recovered, staggered forward, then sprawled at LeBeau's feet.

"For heaven's sake, Carter! Watch what you're doing," snapped Newkirk. "Do you want to set those ruddy grenades off?"

Carter pushed himself to a sitting position and rubbed his knee. "Gee, I wondered where those had gotten to. But there's no reason for getting all worked up about 'em, Newkirk. They're all dummies."

"You sure of that, Carter?" asked Hogan, his head tilted to one side.

"Well, sure, Colonel. You think I'd let a bunch of perfectly good grenades go to waste? There's a war on, for Pete's sake."

"Guess it must have slipped my mind." A speculative gleam had appeared in Hogan's eye. He picked out one of the fake grenades, and examined it. "You know, I don't think we give the boys in the metal shop nearly enough credit for their craftsmanship. These are beautifully made. Very realistic."

"You think we can use one of them for the diversion?" Kinch shook his head. "I don't see how it would buy us enough time, Colonel. Even if one of us could get close enough to pitch a grenade in there, it's only going to take maybe ten seconds for them to realise it's a dud, and come after the man who delivered it."

Hogan turned the grenade in his hands. "There's more than one way to pitch something, Kinch. And as for the delivery man...well, who says it's got to be a man?" He tossed the grenade to Newkirk, who caught it in both hands. "I hope you haven't gotten rid of your bonnet and shawl during the clean-up. Tomorrow, Frau Newkirkberger's going to town."