A/N: I've held this one back awhile, but I really enjoyed writing it. It'll only be two chapters. Enjoy!

Hogan knew his men weren't telling the truth. Their body language radiated dishonesty, but also nervousness and embarrassment. No, they weren't telling the truth... but what other explanation could there possibly be?

~~HH~~

Crunch.

"What was that?" Newkirk asked in a dangerous voice, although to anyone else in the hofbrau, it would appear that the German sergeant was simply asking his friend how work was going at the cannon factory.

"I—" Carter looked across the table at the piercing English gaze. "Broke the camera."

Newkirk blinked a few times. "You...what?"

"Um." Carter was getting more nervous under that glare. "I dropped it out of my pocket, and I moved to pick it up, and I'm pretty sure I just cracked the lens."

Newkirk pulled a pen out of his pocket, never taking his eyes off Carter, and smiled easily. "I'll get it," he said. He dropped the pen clumsily, it rolled off the table, and he pushed out his chair and bent to retrieve it off the ground. He took the opportunity to curse in whatever language he pleased while he secreted away the crushed camera and took a few moments to get the pen. This mission was already getting difficult after Carter spilled all of the fuel from his bomb on the way here and they had to make a rapid pitstop at the cave they used as an emergency hiding spot to change Carter into non-gasoline-soaked civvies. Now the camera they were going to use to photograph the major's plans was also out of commission. Newkirk pasted a smile on his face and straightened back up.

Carter's face needed revised. "Carter, don't look so guilty. The Gestapo are on the watch for people guilty of things, right?"

"Oh, right." Carter traded it out for a nervous smile, which was better.

"Got a plan B?" Newkirk asked.

"Um, we could just look at the plans and remember the important stuff?"

Newkirk thought about it. The major, due any minute, was handing plans off to a sergeant informing him what to tell the pilots that the major would be sending out tomorrow. The sergeant would inform them of their destination while they were en route. All of this was according to the Underground, to whom this level of complexity and secrecy were to be attributed. The Germans obviously did not want knowledge of this transport's destination getting out to the Allies. Hogan did. He had put LeBeau on the radio to cover for Kinch, who was creating an antenna that would be large enough to transmit their own message to those pilots, leading them into an Allied trap that could hopefully capture whatever precious cargo was being transported. They just needed to find out where to put the antenna, the transport being so high-altitude, and prevent the sergeant from placing his call, which is what Newkirk and Carter were in charge of. The camera was meant to get the location, the bomb was meant to blow a bridge and prevent the sergeant from making his transmission in time. Now, with the donation of some cooking oil from the kitchen, it was just going under the hood of his car, and the camera would have to be ditched for memory.

"That'll have to work," Newkirk said. "We just need a location, right?"

Before Carter could respond, the door opened and, looking over Newkirk's shoulder, he said, "I think that's our major."

The next few minutes went like clockwork—the only thing that did that night. This was well practiced. A few minutes after he sat down at the table next to them, Carter got up and politely asked if he was the Major Lukvärm. He proudly identified himself. Worked every time. Then, Newkirk waited for his opportunity.

He watched the man closely, with a keen thief's eye. Which piece of clothing, which pocket, was he most conscious of in his movements? He was here on business, after all. When the door opened, he would look toward it, checking for the sergeant, and unconsciously, his hand would drift toward his coat in preparation.

Newkirk waited a while longer to confirm, and then made his move. Headed toward the bathroom, all it took was a trip on the trailing corner of the major's coat, plenty of apologies to his superior, a brushing off of the invisible dirt his boot had left on the coat, and Newkirk had the paper. He stepped into the men's room, locked the door behind him, and opened the correspondence. It took him a moment to translate. A few words in, he started over again. He got the same result. Jibberish. Struth, those Germans were thorough. It was in code.

He ground his teeth. Great. They had left their codebook at home. There was nothing left but to take the papers if they wanted information from them. And Hogan had stressed the importance of that transport. Oh, dear. Here we go again.

He flushed the toilet and washed his hands for the benefit of anyone listening outside the door, although he wanted to get out as soon as possible. He made it back to Carter, who was sipping a beer at the table, though he wasn't drinking quite enough to look convincing in his role. He sat down, put the paper in his coat on the chair to throw off anyone following his movements, and took a sincere drag of his own beer. "Plan C," he said quietly. "It's in code. I'm replacing it. You get your oil, and then we'll get out of here."

"Oh," Carter responded. "I'll get on that, don't worry. You think they've got some in the supply room?"

"I'm sure they do. Now, make an excuse."

Carter raised his voice a bit and said, in German, "I think I'll go take a leak, too."

Newkirk nodded acknowledgement, and as Carter got up from the table, he grabbed his beer and headed to the bar, on the lookout for any promising pieces of paper. A thorough look behind the bar revealed nothing passable as a war correspondence. He tried to remain casual while a disturbing ticking noise played in the back of his head. Just then, a cook came out of the kitchen, calling over one of the barmaids to interpret some handwriting on a very convenient-looking slip of paper. There had to be more where that came from. And they were saying something about a supplier. The owner had to have an office in the back somewhere where he could conduct the business of the place, sending letters to his suppliers. Newkirk took the direct route, and walked back like he owned the place, leaving the pay for the two beers under his mug.

Mumbling something unintelligible to the one person who passed him, too busy to take much notice of him anyway, Newkirk made it back to the office. It didn't take much to find. It was cramped back here. Between the top of the desk, the inside of the desk, and the filing cabinets, he found a few unimportant looking printed papers and compared them. He scrutinized them carefully, relying on his keen eye for detail, chose one, and folded it up, returning the others to their places and locking himself out of the cabinets. He picked his way back into the main room just in time to see a sergeant walk through the door. Crikey. He hurried over to the major, who looked over his shoulder and stood up to greet the sergeant. Newkirk didn't even have time to think. He snatched up the major's coat, slipped the paper in, and offered it to him. "Leaving? I can help you with your coat," he offered. He was in such a hurry, the rushed answer came out sounding overeager. The story created itself. The sergeant who had stepped on a major's coat earlier was looking for a way to ingratiate himself.

The major frowned. "Nein," he said, taking back his coat. Newkirk looked embarrassed and ducked away. Soon, the major was distracted by his contact. Newkirk stuck around just long enough to wipe his brow as he watched the papers passed without examination, before he disappeared. Attract any more attention, and he'd be recognizable. He walked into the back again. The same man from earlier bumped into him on the way back to the kitchen, but now seeing Newkirk twice back here, suspected he had a good reason. Newkirk took a deep breath, and let it out. Now where was Carter?

He headed back to the office. It was the first door that would get him out of the hallway, and he remembered seeing doors to other rooms in it. He stepped in and closed the door behind him. The first thing his eye landed on was the desk. Cor, he'd forgotten to relock it. He pulled out his lock picks and got to work. It took longer than he wanted because it was so cheap. The tumblers were all loose and kept catching on things.

The door slammed open and something came hurdling into the room. Newkirk seized up in pure reflex, and spun around. Two somethings. One was Carter, pinned against the wall, scrambling and terrified. The other was a plump, overeager barmaid, aggressively kissing him. It was clear from the look on Carter's face that he had neither started, welcomed, nor expected this. Newkirk just stared for a moment. Then, the girl moved to his neck, and Carter spotted Newkirk.

He immediately began gesturing frantically to the door he had just flown in through, mouthing the words: "The bomb!"

Newkirk was not ready to deal with a bomb, especially the strange-looking one Carter had cooked up for this mission, which was now operating on a fuel it had not been made for. He found a way out.

He approached, tapped the girl on the shoulder, and said, "May I?" He wasn't even sure if the girl noticed the switch as he slipped into Carter's place and Carter wriggled out and ran back to the store room and his baby.

~~HH~~

Four minutes later, Carter was standing outside the back door of the hofbrau, waiting on Newkirk, his new and less destructive bomb securely tucked in his over-sized pocket. He waited nervously, smoking a cigarette to give him a reason for loitering. Newkirk had said get your oil and we'll get out of here, right? He had taken care of the plans, hadn't he? He was about to go back in to make sure nothing was wrong when the door opened and out came Newkirk with ruffled hair and a fear-filled look. He saw Carter and said, "Let's go!"

He was halfway down the alley, dragging Carter behind him when Carter said, "Wait! What about the plans?"

"The pla—" Newkirk stopped and turned. "I left me coat inside."

"They're in your coat?"

Newkirk took a deep breath, and turned bravely to face the hofbrau again. "They're in me coat. We 'ave to go back inside and get them."

He walked resolutely toward the back door, Carter catching up. "What about that girl?"

"Someone came lookin' for 'er. She might be gettin' scolded. I didn't stick around long enough to find out." He obviously did not want to say anything more, and they both crept in the back door and through the back hallway toward the front of the house. As they got to the doorway, Newkirk pulled Carter against the wall. They watched the major and the sergeant get up, shake hands, and bid each other goodnight. They watched the major put down his payment and pick up his coat. They watched the sergeant also put down his payment. Then they watched him pick up Newkirk's coat and put it on. Carter opened his mouth to protest and Newkirk covered it with his hand. They left the hofbrau.

The sergeant had taken the plans he had come for. After all of that. By an amazing feat of will, or perhaps disbelief, Newkirk held in his reaction. He removed his hand as he turned to face Carter.

"Did he just—?"

Newkirk nodded.

Silence.

"You're a good tailor, Newkirk."