The captain didn't stir, even while Sergeant Wilson was examining him. To the others' surprise he reported few injuries, but when he added that the Captain's apparent extreme exhaustion could best be explained by sleep deprivation they understood. Wilson instructed them to let the man sleep as long as he needed, and then returned to his barracks. Lebeau withdrew, swearing about Germans and planning a nourishing meal for the Captain once he woke, leaving Kinch and Newkirk in the tunnel. They withdrew to the radio room so they could talk without disturbing him.

"What are we going to do, Kinch?" asked Newkirk, hating how lost he sounded.

"I don't know," Kinch admitted. "I don't know what to do."

"What do we tell the others?"

"That we carry on, that we'll find the Colonel…"

"That everything'll be dandy?" Newkirk broke in bitterly.

"You got any better suggestions?" Kinch retorted.

Newkirk seemed to deflate. "No, mate, course not, sorry."

"The Colonel would want us to carry on," Kinch said decisively. "So that's what we need to do."

Jack slept uninterrupted for hours, waking in the late evening, and wondering for a few moments where he was. Slowly memory returned, and he sat up, rubbing his face and looking around him. He knew from reports of Freti survivors that their feeding left the victim with severe exhaustion along with their injuries, which often took weeks to overcome. Jack, of course, was already feeling much better, though he sensed he would need some more sleep before he could be completely recovered from the experience.

As he rose and began to move along the tunnel, the last words of the Freti as it died returned to him. It had thrown his failure in his face, boasting that it had given birth and its child was gone. So after escaping the lab and lying low, he'd had no choice but to take the escape route that led through Stalag 13. He hoped he could have a private chat with Hogan, maybe get some ideas where to search from someone on the ground. He couldn't go back to England yet, not til the job was done.

Following the sound of voices, he came to the radio room, where Lebeau stood chatting to Kinch, a coffee pot in hand. "Mon Capitaine, you are awake!" Lebeau exclaimed. "You will be hungry. I will prepared some food." He scurried off before Jack could get a word in.

Jack and Kinch stared at each other for a moment. "Captain Jack Harkness," said Jack finally, with a smile.

"I'm sorry, sir." Kinch snapped out of his surprise and stood, saluting. "Sergean Ivan Kinchloe."

Jack returned the salute casually, and looked for a seat, waving at Kinch to sit as well. "How are you feeling, sir?" Kinch asked.

"Better." Jack rubbed his eyes. "Just tired. I need to speak to Colonel Hogan."

Kinch hesitated. "Ah. Yes, well …"

Jack frowned. "What's the problem? Is he out on a job? I am cleared, if that's what's worrying you."

"No, sir, that's not it." Kinch took a deep breath. "Colonel Hogan is missing, sir."

Jack stared at him. "Missing?" he repeated blankly.

He searched his memory for what he knew of this period. They'd studied espionage technique in the Time Agency, and the lecturer had talked a great deal about spy masters of the past. Robert Hogan, aka Papa Bear, had featured prominently, and Jack knew he was supposed to survive the war. To be missing now … the timing was suspicious, though he couldn't immediately see how it could be connected to his own predicament.

At that moment Lebeau reappeared with a plate of food. He caught the atmosphere immediately. "You told him then," he said to Kinch.

Jack thanked Lebeau for the food, and returned his attention to Kinch. "Start at the beginning."

By the time Kinch had finished the story, Jack was very worried. Everything he remembered about history told him something was not right. Hogan and his team survived the war, he was positive, and certainly had more work to do between now and the war's end.

This could be nothing, he told himself. It could be an incident among a number of incidents that would be resolved without his help. How could it have anything to do with his failure?

Hochstetter, he concluded. Hochstetter hated Hogan, and Hochstetter had a connection with Hoffmann. From what Jack had seen, Hochstetter would be an ideal candidate for a Freti host. The timing could be coincidence, but its an awfully big coincidence. "So, this offside of Hochstetter's said he was on leave?"

Kinch nodded. "His behaviour was odd, sir. The Gestapo would be all over an escape like this normally. Hochstetter wouldn't stay on leave, not unless he already knows where Colonel Hogan is."

A juvenile Freti, mused Jack. A baby without its parent. What do babies want? Food. It has access to the host's memories and feelings, with no adult to monitor and explain. Would that make it fixate on Hogan? Jack sighed in frustration. He didn't know enough about them. Nobody did.

All right. Assuming Hochstetter is now a Freti, where would he take his meal. Freti are instinctive hunters. In hostile territory a hunter takes its prey somewhere it won't be disturbed, but it wouldn't want to go too far. It would be keen to start feeding, after all. "Where does Hochstetter normally go on holiday?"

The others shrugged. "Didn't know he took holidays," said Lebeau.

"We had the underground go by his home," Kinch said. "Definitely no one at home."

"Does … does Hochstetter like to hunt?"

"Other than people, you mean?" snapped Lebeau.

"You're thinking of a hunting cabin?" Kinch asked.

Jack nodded. "Get your underground friends to check if he owns one, or even may have the use of someone else's, a friend or colleague."

Kinch, eager to have something to work on, turned back to the radio. Lebeau said he was going back upstairs to fill Newkirk in, and Jack decided to get some more sleep, until there was some news.