The prisoners on the work detail were not exerting themselves, and the current round of road repairs seemed unlikely to be any more effective than their previous attempt. However, they were behaving well, and the guards had become complacent enough not to notice there was one man less to watch than there was supposed to be.
"Newkirk should be nearly there by now," murmured Kinch, who had worked his way along the edge of the road to where Hogan was standing.
Hogan nodded absently, but didn't speak, and Kinch came to a halt, keeping his eyes on the road surface as if looking for flaws. "What's wrong, Colonel?" he asked, without looking up.
"Not sure," replied Hogan. "I'm still stuck on why Staller tried to knock Carter off. It doesn't make sense. Nobody does something like that without a good reason, unless they're crazy. And whatever else he is, I'm pretty sure he's not crazy."
"You still think it's got something to do with the 182nd?"
"It's got to be that, Kinch." Hogan tipped his cap back. "There's something we've missed. For some reason, which I can't put my finger on, Staller thinks Carter's a danger to him, or to Weber. Or else we're on the wrong track, and someone else wants Carter dead." He paused, gazing along the road with narrowed eyes. "You know, I keep coming back to Lieutenant Mason. He was Staller's inside man at the 182nd, and Carter knew him. That has to be the connection. If there was any way he could have survived that plane crash, gotten himself to Germany and resurfaced as Weber..."
He fell silent, following the trail back in his mind, from the Düsseldorf Underground to a downed plane in the English Channel, and from there to 182 Squadron, and a cold, dark night that had almost destroyed an innocent man. Then forward again, this time focusing on Staller, analysing his part in the story. And suddenly Hogan's thoughts came to a halt, as he found himself replaying the first conversation he'd had with Staller, the night the major had arrived at Stalag 13.
"Oh, crap," he said softly.
"Colonel?" Kinch stopped working, startled by the tone in Hogan's voice. "What's up?"
"It wasn't Mason. Staller lied, right from the start," growled Hogan. "All along, we've been assuming his inside man at the 182nd was dead, because we knew Mason couldn't have survived that crash. But we only had Staller's word for it that Mason was actually the insider. That's why he couldn't risk letting Carter meet Weber, because Carter would have known him on sight." His expression tightened, as he considered what that implied.
"You don't think..." Kinch broke off abruptly.
"Yeah. He's one of the bastards that did that to Carter. It's the only explanation we've found so far that makes sense. It also means Staller's not the only connection between Düsseldorf and 182 Squadron. That puts Weber, or whoever he really is, right in the frame as the double agent."
"And Newkirk's just gone to bring him back here, so we can take him back to Stalag 13," added Kinch. "Colonel..."
"Okay, just hold it a minute, Kinch. Let me think." Hogan raised his head, making an apparently casual survey of the road. "Even if I'm right, we still need to get Weber out of circulation, and the best way to do that is to bring him back to camp. But we can't take him back with the work party as planned, in case he's got any of his Gestapo friends tailing him. Kinch, how fast can you get to the Flensheim road?"
"Pretty fast," replied Kinch. "Hopefully fast enough."
"Good. Give me a couple of minutes to make sure the guards aren't watching, then get going. Tell Newkirk to take Weber back to camp, by the most complicated route he can manage. If anyone's following them, he's got to make sure he loses them on the way. They go in through the emergency tunnel, and he's to keep Weber underground till I get back. Under no circumstances is Weber to see Carter, or Staller. Once you've given Newkirk his instructions, you hightail it back here as fast as you can. Is that clear?"
"Clear, Colonel," replied Kinch.
LeBeau had been keeping Schultz occupied, by describing in detail the feast he planned to prepare on the day when, as the Frenchman phrased it, "the dirty Boche finally accept the inevitable, and surrender". The details were so spectacular as to render Schultz almost insensible, and he didn't respond when Hogan hailed him in a sharp, accusatory tone.
"For Pete's sakes, Schultz," complained the colonel, "will you pay attention? This is serious."
Schultz returned to the real world with a start. "Oh, please, Colonel Hogan, don't shout. Whatever it is, it can't be that important. LeBeau was just about to tell me..."
"Well, it'll have to wait." Hogan stood with one hand on his hip, the other gesturing towards the woods on the opposite side of the road, away from where Kinch was waiting. "I'm appalled, Schultz. All this time you've been holding out on us."
"W-w-was ist...?" stammered Schultz.
"I know we're not on the same side, but there's such a thing as honesty, and decency, and trust," Hogan went on. "So come clean, Schultz. Just when were you planning to tell us about the wolves in these woods?"
Schultz boggled at him, and a faint, hysterical squeak came from one of the other guards.
"W-w-wolves...?"
Kellet's initial burst of speed hadn't lasted long. His injured leg slowed him down, and within a couple of minutes Mills overtook him. The trees thinned out closer to the road, but the fleeing Luftwaffe captain - presumably Weber - was no longer in sight. Apparently he'd veered off, unwilling to risk being caught out in the open.
Mills slowed, scanning the woods. He no longer had any clear idea what was going on, but he knew one thing. Carter had recognized Weber, and from his reaction he hadn't been happy to see him. It was bad news, whichever way you looked at it.
After a momentary hesitation, Mills turned to the left, making his way along a narrow path between heavy undergrowth, well aware that while it was the most likely direction for Weber to have taken, it was also a perfect situation for an ambush. He knew Kellet was not far behind him, but was not so sure whether Kellet would come to his aid if necessary.
For some considerable distance there was no sign of any activity, and Mills began to think he'd made a mistake. He must be well beyond the rendezvous point by now, it wasn't likely Weber had gone this far.
He turned back, his nerves keyed up to such a degree that when a rabbit burst from the bushes and darted across his path, he jumped back almost three feet, his pistol arm snapping into position. For several seconds he held his ground, then as no further sound reached him, he relaxed slightly.
"Waffe fallen lassen."
The command came from behind him. Instinctively he half turned.
"Drop the gun, or I'll shoot you right there." This time the man spoke in English. Disconcertingly, his accent was American. Mid-Western, in fact. He could almost have come from the town where Mills had grown up. "And don't play dumb. I know you can understand me. I've met one of your pals before, and he sure as hell ain't German."
He meant Carter, of course. And the tone of his voice, lightly pitched and boyish though it was, left no doubt as to whether he would actually carry out his threat. Mills allowed the gun to fall at his feet.
"Now, turn around, and keep your hands where I can see them," said Weber. The pistol in his hand was aimed squarely at Mills' heart, and at this range he couldn't miss.
"Okay, pal," murmured Mills tightly, "whatever you say." He drew back, raising his hands, knowing that for the moment, he had no choice. Whether Weber wanted a live prisoner, or just didn't want to attract attention by shooting him, didn't matter. Either way, he was in trouble.
Weber took a couple of steps forward, but stayed out of arm's reach. He was breathing as fast as Mills, and his eyes flickered nervously. "Where's the other guy?"
"He went on towards the road." It was probably true. Kellet wasn't very bright.
Weber glanced back the way they'd come, assessing the situation. "All right," he said at last, with a jerk of the chin. "That way, and don't make a sound."
Mills shuffled back a little. If he could just get the guy to come close, maybe he'd have a chance. "You mean, down that way?" he mumbled uncertainly.
"What did I just say? One more word, that's all." Weber moved in. He was almost close enough, but would still have time to fire, if Mills made a wrong move.
"Hold it, buddy."
The shout, from amongst the trees below, startled both men, and Weber turned his head. It was the break Mills needed. He stepped forward, swinging his right arm down to grasp Weber's wrist, forcing the gun away from his own body, then grabbing it with his left hand. As the movement jerked Weber off balance, Mills drove his knee into the man's groin. Weber gasped, and released his hold on the pistol, and Mills, with all his strength, struck upwards.
Kellet had come storming out of the woods, but the business was already done. Weber was down for the count, and beyond.
"Jesus, Mills." Kellet stooped over the unconscious man. "Where'd a guy like you learn to do something like that?"
Mills had dropped to one knee, panting for breath, his face drawn. That last effort had sent yet another searing pain through his injured shoulder. But at Kellet's question he managed a quiet laugh.
"Basic training," he said. "Guys like me don't get through without learning to take care of themselves."
His eyes were on Weber, who lay still, bleeding from the nose. He could be dead. But Mills had a pretty good idea now who he might be, and at that moment, the possibility that he'd killed the son of a bitch didn't trouble him at all.