Hogan had been anything but pleased when LeBeau had told him about Dubois' plans, such as they were. By 5 o'clock in the morning, an hour before rollcall, when he roused his men, it was evident from the puffy, stubbly face, that he'd gotten no sleep. The men tried to shake themselves awake, yet Hogan snapped, "Get the lead out and gather 'round."

"Carter, I want you to make up 4 large, delayed-action charges with precision timers. That factory goes up in three days, as scheduled."

The chemist got out his "Yes, sir" in between yawns. He was oblivious to his CO's frown.

Hogan went on. "The rest of this operation hinges on that factory going up on time." Carter nodded. "Because when it goes, everybody is going to be here—Auverne, the major, Dubois, everybody."

Kinch asked nervously, "And how are we going to manage that, colonel?"

"Simple. Newkirk and I are going fishing this morning…."

"Gawd, not again!" the Englishman squawked.

"Yes, again. Except this time we're fishing for Dubois. We're going to convince him to do it our way."

Newkirk grumped, "And what's our way?"

Hogan took a deep breath before admitting, "Dubois is going to get Auverne." He held up his hand for silence to finish. "But he has to come to Stalag 13 to get him. Auverne will bring his cabaret singer here for a private recital for Kommandant Klink. Dubois, as Vichy Security Police, comes in, arrests Auverne, and leaves. Major Broadbent stays."

"You're going to give Auverne to Dubois? What about orders? London's not going to like this," Kinch remarked.

"This is the joy of command." There was more than a trace of bitterness. "As I see it, there are 3 possibilities: I give him Auverne, I let him take Auverne AND BROADBENT, or I tear up 2 good outfits trying to stop him. None of these choices is attractive. With this plan, improvised as it is, the situation is more controlled, more of the mission is fulfilled, and our losses—specifically Major Broadbent—are reduced. I hope. The major knows double agents existe in the Resistance. Possibly with Dubois, and since we don't know all of his band, there is no way to tell."

"We could bloody ask."

"And do you think, after last night, he'd tell us?" LeBeau reflected sourly. He cradled his head in his hands. "And I told Dubois that Marie-Jacques Duval worked for us."

Hogan felt for the Frenchman. Conflict of loyalties was always painful. He knew from personal experience. Gently, he reminded LeBeau, "But you didn't give away her real identity. Even if Auverne finds out about Marie-Jacques, which I doubt, he is more likely to take care of her himself. At worst, he'll turn her over to Vichy, but that will take some time."

"Why do you doubt Auverne'll find out, mon colonel?"

"Because, frankly, I don't think Dubois believed you last night." At the skeptical faces, Hogan added, "To paraphrase a friend, people believe what they want to believe."

"What about Madame? Is she going to go along with this?"

"Major Broadbent," chimed Kinchloe, quickly clarifying things for everybody.

"I don't see why she shouldn't. Her mission has been blown up. She'll recognize this for damage control. Certainly, she's important to this, for she's the one who has to persuade Auverne to show her off before Klink. That should be easy, especially if she points out to him the delicious bonus of rubbing my nose in his possession of her."

"What if she balks?" asked Kinch.

"Well, if worse comes to worst, I can always make it a direct order. I do outrank her." From his flat tone, the men knew the colonel was loathe to do that. It wasn't part of his general command style. He preferred to ask, particularly when it came to something this dangerous.

"Man, this is sure going to be a rough one," Carter said to no one in particular.

"It sure is, mate, and I don't much fancy it, neither," added Newkirk.

Hogan's eyebrows shot up his forehead. "Excuse me, gentlemen, I am not wild about this, either, but I relish explaining to Allied High Command why this mission fell apart and how we lost a top operative even less." That silenced the grousing. "Added to that, there is this: if Major Broadbent is turned over to Vichy Security Police or their friends the Gestapo, we can certainly kiss this operation—and our lives--good-bye."

"Not to mention she'll be stone-cold dead." The finality of Newkirk's comment chilled the men.

LeBeau looked up at his CO. "I volunteer to go tell Madame the plan."

Hogan cocked his head, looked as if he were going to say something, then thought better of it. After a moment of silence, he said softly, "All right, LeBeau. If she gives you any static, tell her I'll meet her at Pieterskirche at 8pm tonight."

"D'accord."

HH HH HH

Hogan entered Pieterskirche with a heavy and exhausted heart. Nothing had gone well this day. It had been Murphy's Law in action. He'd practically had to browbeat Dubois into compliance with his plan. It had taken a combination of cajolery and threats, including a post-war court martial for Dubois, for him to agree. His second-in-command, Solange Jospin—a cat with Titian-colored gamine-cut hair--had earned Hogan's ire and suspicion, first, by her intransigence and second, by her eagerness to eliminate Duval as well. For once, Newkirk's penchant for playing around with the ladies had paid off, for he'd found out her name. That clinched it for Hogan. Then, to add to all his other problems, including a bone-weariness he'd not felt in years, Miri had decided to give LeBeau A LOT of static. Now, he was going to have sweet talk her into this operation.

God help me, he thought tiredly, I don't have time for this. He dipped his fingers into the basin of holy water and crossed himself before walking down the aisle. He took a place in a pew. Miri had yet to show. Will I even recognize her?

He took in the baroque architecture and painting before his eyes fixed on the ornate, gilt crucifix on the altar. Gazing at it in apparent devotion, he seemed the picture of piety to anybody who might pass by. The crucified Christ momentarily held his attention, and he prayed swiftly for a quick conclusion to this fiasco with a minimum loss of life. He didn't change expression as Miriam slid into the pew in front of him, scarf-covered head ostensibly bent in prayer.

"What is going on, Robin," she whispered and leaned back against the pew, her open breviary and rosary in hand.

Hogan blinked in disbelief. "Didn't LeBeau make that clear to you?" He bent his head as a priest went by. "Your cover's been blown."

"Not necessarily. If Dubois can be persuaded or ordered out of this mad scheme of his…."

"Not a chance," he hissed. "It took all my efforts to get him to agree to my plan. I had to make all sorts of threats. He wasn't going to give on this issue."

The major was silent a moment. "Well, this certainly buggers our operation, doesn't it?"

"It gets worse, Miri. Dubois doesn't know it, but I think his exec is one of Auverne's people. Her name is Solange Jospin."

She almost dropped her breviary in shock. Her voice quavered as she confirmed his suspicions. "Solange is Marcel Jospin's sister. And we know he's in with Auverne. They've got to be in this together." Barely audible to Hogaan's ears, she quickly went through an Ave and a Pater Noster. "This really is turning into a disaster."

"It doesn't have to," he emphasized, "so long as we retain some measure of control over it. Which is why I want you to persuade Auverne to arrange the private recital. We have a greater chance of keeping you out of Dubois' and Jospin's hands at Stalag 13, and we can make disappear faster."

"What about Auverne? There is still so much to be gained from him."

"It would've been nice to get all the information, but that's not going to happen now." Hogan didn't like the way the priest kept eyeing him from the votive candles. He wished he still had his rosary. It would've come in very handy right now. "We've got to cut our losses. I'll give him up to keep you."

"Will you?"

"Look, Miriam, there are some battles that aren't worth fighting. This is one of them. Once Dubois set his mind to getting rid of Auverne, the man was done for. Do you want to end up dead or in Vichy hands?" He paused to let that sink in. "Get whatever you can get from him in 3 days, but that's it." The tone of voice brooked no contradiction.

A defeated sigh came from the pew in front. "I suppose you're right, Robin, but I do so hate scarpering with the job half done."

"No choice, Miri."

"I'll have Auverne in Klink's quarters at this time in three days. Count on it." Before he could respond, she slid out of the pew, genuflected to the altar, and left.

Hogan closed his eyes and thanked the Lord for Miriam's seeing reason. He got up and went to light a candle. After a quick prayer for all of them, he crossed himself and left by the side door.

HH HH HH

Kinch had been monitoring the switchboard all morning. At precisely 11:33am, Auverne called Klink to arrange a private evening of music for the kommandant who had yet to hear the exquisite vocal talents of Mlle. Duval. The radioman frowned at the unctuous hyperbole. Not that he wanted to insult Madame, but he figured this guy couldn't tell the difference between an engine squeal and a jazz singer. What made the sergeant sit up and take notice was Klink's steady reluctance to agree. Oh, no, thought Kinch in frustration, Klink can't wreck this operation now. He tore off his headset and hurried up to the barracks, where he nearly bowled Hogan over.

"Where's the fire, Kinch?" he asked, righting himself and his hat.

"Klink's doing a soft-shoe to avoid Auverne's company tomorrow."

"Oh, great. Why'd he have to get an attack of nobility now?" There was a desperate edge to Hogan's voice. "I'd better get over there and make sure Klink is properly inviting."

HH HH HH

Fortunately, Klink was still on the phone with Auverne when Hogan waltzed in. Klink looked up in irritation—two very annoying people, both jabbering away at him. Oh, could the Russian front be worse? he pondered silently. Covering the mouthpiece with a hand, he said, "Not now, Hogan. Can't you see I'm on the phone?"

Auverne had still heard him. "C'est bon, mon colonel, "he crooned at Klink. "Invite Colonel 'Ogan. I zo want to zee his face when I bring Mlle. Duval to sing for you."

Klink cringed and thought, another evening of M. Auverne baiting Col. Hogan nearly makes me ill. Maybe, just maybe, I'll make sure Hogan comes armed. Donnewetter! What am I thinking? There will be no private recital. "M. Auverne, as I have been trying to tell you…."

"Oh, is that M. Auverne? What a nice fellow."

Klink stared at Hogan in stupefaction. Had the American lost his mind?

"Are you having him over for dinner tomorrow? That'll be a treat for you."

Now, Klink was sure Hogan needed help. Conversationally, he remarked to the aberrant American, "No, he's bringing Mlle. Duval here for a private recital."

"That'll be lovely. What time should I be there? 8pm?"

With eyes glued on Hogan, Klink heard himself surrender to Auverne's importuning. "I'll be delighted to see you and Mlle. Duval at 8 tomorrow evening."

"Magnifique!" responded Auverne. "A bientôt, mon colonel."

As if in slow-motion, Klink watched himself replace the receiver. He looked up at Hogan who was chuckling to himself. Klink found his voice. "What's the matter with you, Hogan? Have you forgotten that dreadful evening we spent with Auverne only a couple of weeks ago?"

"Not at all, Kommandant," came the smiling, cheerful reply.

Folding his arms over his chest, Klink looked suspiciously at the American officer. "You're not insane. You're up to something."

Hogan gave Klink the widest-eyed innocent routine he could. "Who me?" He snorted. "Really, Colonel, how utterly unjust." He gave the kommandant a quick, insubordinate salute, turned on his heel, and left in high dudgeon.

Klink mused aloud, "Why do I feel used?"

HH HH HH

With a confidence he didn't really feel, Hogan strode out of the barracks and over to Klink's quarters. Schultz met him at the door. "The Frenchmen and the singer are already here, Colonel Hogan." The German NCO made plain his distaste. He added, "And he thinks that woman is pretty? His taste is all in his mouth." Schultz shook his head.

"A real dog, eh, Schultz?" Although he smiled conspiratorially to the guard, he shuddered to think what disaster of an outfit Miri was wearing.

"Very short with a shrill voice and bad taste in clothes."

"Thanks for the warning."

The pilot tripped past Schultz, and the older man remarked to himself, "I'd much rather be me than him. Sentry duty is more inviting than that woman."

Even with Schultz's cautionary words, Hogan still wasn't ready for the hideous gown Miri sported. It was sea-foam green silk trimmed with a profusion of white lace and ribbons. While some blonde 16 year old with more heightMIGHT have worn this with relative ease to a prom, the dress seemed to be wearing Miri, who looked washed out and ill. No doubt another gift from Auverne.

The tiny spy gave him a discreet eye roll, as if to second his opinion.

Remembering his manners, he turned his attention to Klink. "Good evening, Herr Kommandant."

"Colonel Hogan, you remember M. Auverne…."

"How could I forget?"

Klink ignored the barb and introduced Mlle. Duval. "And this is Mlle. Marie-Jacques Duval, M. Auverne's discovery." Hogan raised an eyebrow at that loaded description.

She held out a hand. "Je suis enchantée, colonel."

Her speaking voice was about ½ an octave higher than normal. As he reluctantly kissed her hand, he hoped she wasn't going to talk like that all night. It would be worse than Auverne's needling.

The rotund Frenchman possessively put an arm around Duval/Broadbent's waist. "I am zo glad you could come, mon colonel," he lisped genially.

"I wouldn't have missed this for the world." He gave a broad, knowing smile to Auverne. "So, I understand Mlle. Duval is going to sing for us?" Klink pressed a brandy snifter into Hogan's hand. He took it gratefully.

"Mais oui." Auverne turned to the singer and barked commands at her.

A muscle flexed in Hogan's cheek as he checked his temper. Klink frowned in disapproval as Duval took her place at the piano, specially brought in for the occasion.

She put her hands to the keys before Hogan asked, "Is this going to be an evening of Schubert's Lieder? If it is, skip the brandy and bring me 15 cups of coffee."

Klink and Auverne appeared indignant and insulted, but Duval ducked her head. Was she trying to keep from laughing aloud?

After 45 minutes of completely forgettable French cabaret songs, Hogan regretted his quip. After clapping politely at the end of a song, he wished he were anywhere else. The boredom was excruciating, and in complete contrast to his previous performance, Auverne was silent. Hogan didn't even have the verbal duel to keep him awake. When she launched into an a capella version of one of Edith Piaf's songs, he perked up. "Rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien…." He gave her a disapproving look. "No, I regret nothing" cut six ways in this context. But even if she didn't roll her 'r's enough, she could still belt it out. Klink awoke--the bald head popped up, monocle still in place.

After the more enthusiastic clapping died away, Auverne turned to the two officers. "And, now, gentlemen, we 'ave something special for you. Marie-Jacques 'as been working on a sloppy, sentimental American song juce for you, Colonel 'Ogan."

The teeth were there--they hadn't been brought out yet. The man smiled thinly, reminding Hogan of a barracuda. Auverne nodded to Marie-Jacques.

The jazzy swing tune coming out of the piano got Hogan's attention. It sounded like a Benny Goodman song, but not one he'd heard before. She started singing—in English with a French accent. She looked right at him. "We meet, and the angels sing/The angels sing the sweetest music I ever heard./You speak, and the angels sing/Or am I reading music into every word?'"

Not bad, Hogan thought, his toe tapping in time. The softly belted middle she handled deftly, but he wished she'd stop looking at him, particularly with "…your face that I adore./You smile and the angels sing/even though it is just a gentle murmur at the start./We kiss, and the angels sing/and leave their music ringing in my heart.'" She wrapped the song after a 16 bar closing and got a very enthusiastic response.

As they all stood up, the whole building shook with the force of the explosion at the factory. Auverne sat down heavily while Hogan and Klink steadied themselves by grabbing the table in front of them. Duval was actually knocked off her feet.

Nice job, Carter, Hogan thought appreciatively.

Before they'd quite recovered from that shock, in barged Dubois with several of his band, including Jospin. They looked deadly serious in their dark coats. Auverne paled. He took them for what they were supposed to be. Dubois clicked his heels and handed Klink his papers. "Herr Oberst, I am Lt. Felice Robichaux of Vichy Security Police," he rasped.

"Herr Lieutenant," Klink responded, "what can I do for you?"

"I am here to arrest M. Jean-Marie Auverne."

The corpulent Frenchman jumped up and squealed like a stuck pig, "No, you can't do that!! I am a loyal member of Vichy. Pierre Laval est mon ami!!!"

Hogan exhaled audibly and glanced the other way. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Miriam surreptitiously crawling for the kitchen. He turned back to Klink. She didn't need anything to attract attention.

At that moment, trouble jumped up. Solange Jospin, looking darkly efficient, stepped over to Miriam and hauled her to her feet. "Well, if it isn't Marie-Jacques Duval, also wanted by the Security Police."

"I don't think so," Miriam muttered, giving the Frenchwoman a fine right cross to the jaw. Jospin rocked backwards. When the other woman let go, the major bolted for the kitchen and the back door.

At that moment, adding to the confusion and drawing everyone's attention away from the two women, Auverne tried to barrel through Dubois' men. He knocked two aside before being grabbed by several others. He struggled to free himself, but he was held fast.

"That was foolish, monsieur," Dubois remarked coldly. To his men, he said, "Take him away." The Frenchman turned back to Colonel Klink, "I am sorry to spoil your evening, Herr Oberst, but I have my orders. Thank you for your co-operation." He tipped his black fedora and departed. Klink looked dumfounded.

Jospin had followed Duval into the kitchen, grabbing her just as she passed through the back door. The fleeing spy tripped on her hem and fell forward. The dress ripped when Jospin pulled back. The singer/spy fell down the back steps, hitting all three, each with a heavy bounce. Lying flat on her face in the dust, she tried to overcome the disoriented, nauseated feeling sweeping over her, but couldn't. Jospin flipped her over, held a Luger on her. "Say your prayers, Duval, you're finished."

"Non, vous êtes une chienne finie," remarked LeBeau. He smacked Jospin over the head with a full bottle of wine, the contents spilling over Auverne's accomplice and Miriam Broadbent.

"What a waste of fine wine."

"For her, never. It was only a few hours old. Pure vinegar."

"Oh, jolly good." She struggled to get up and failed.

Sgt. Kinchloe picked her up while LeBeau tied up Jospin and dumped her body in the bushes for later. He looked at Kinch and made shooing motions, muttering, "Vite, vite!" He went back into the kitchen where he met Col. Hogan. Answering the unspoken question in his CO's face, "Madame is a little shaken up, but aside from that, she's should be all right. Kinch took her over to the barracks."

"Jospin?" the colonel whispered.

"Unconscious and tied up in the bushes."

"That's a nice little benefit. Let's hope she sings." LeBeau groaned at the pun. Hogan glanced behind him quickly before continuing. "Haul her over to the barracks before anybody finds her. I'll keep Klink happy for a little while." He went back into the living room.

The kommandant stood, surveying the room, chin in hand. "I do not understand what happened."

Hogan shrugged his shoulders. "I guess Auverne was playing both sides against the middle. Not a terribly bright idea."

"You're probably right." He paused a moment before adding, "I never liked that man." Klink looked right at the American and abruptly changed the subject. "You know, I could have sworn that Mlle. Duval sang that last song for you alone."

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

HH HH HH

Sgt. Kinchloe gently laid Major Broadbent on the lower bunk in Colonel Hogan's office. In the short distance between Klink's quarters and the barracks, she'd lost consciousness, but when he'd put her down, her eyes opened. They focused on him. "You're in the barracks, Major. I'll get you a medic."

She sat up, looked down at herself, and realized that she was a sticky, muddy, wine and earth-stained mess. The remnants of the dress and the slip beneath were clammy against her skin. "I don't need a medic. I need a bath." She swung herself out of the bunk. "I want a basin of hot water, soap, and a sponge. Beyond that, a change of clothes."

"But major…."

"I am just a bit bruised, sergeant."

"Ma'am, you've got quite a goose-egg."

Following his gaze, she reached up to her forehead, probing gently with her fingers. She found it and yelped. "I take your point, sergeant. But at worst, it's a mild concussion." She looked pointedly at him. "Now, if I could have the hot water, please?"

"Yes, ma'am." He left, shaking his head. A few moments later, Newkirk popped in with her requests. He also produced a steaming mug of tea.

"O bless you, corporal. How'd you know I could murder a cuppa?"

"I just guessed, ma'am." With both hands, she lifted the mug and took a deep draught. The Englishman leaned toward her conspiratorially. "The colonel's pyjamas are freshly washed." Jerking his head slightly toward the locker, he gave her a quick wink before leaving her.

After washing up, she felt so much better, even if her head had started pounding. She slipped into the red pyjama jacket. The sleeves hung past her hands by a foot while the hem hit just above the knee. She rolled the sleeves back to her wrists. Weariness overtook her. Giving an enormous yawn, she adjusted the duffel bag on the bunk—clearly Robin's pillow, she noted—and tucked herself up. She was halfway to dreamland when the medic entered the room.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but Sgt. Kinchloe said you needed a medic?"

"Poppycock! What I need is sleep," she growled, thinking she'd already had this conversation.

He didn't go away. In fact, he approached and made to examine her. She raised up on an elbow, and in her best parade-ground voice, bellowed, "Be gone, sergeant." The man jumped back as if struck.

HH HH HH

Hogan entered the barracks just in time to hear the roar and to see his medic retreating in the face of overwhelming firepower. The buck sergeant turned to him, looking bewildered. "What IS it with you officers, sir? I've never a met a bunch of people more unwilling to be medically attended." Under Hogan's shocked expression, the medic bolted from the barracks.

The colonel turned to his men. "What is going on?"

Kinch, who agreed with the medic, said, "By her own admission, Madame has a mild concussion. But she just wanted a hot bath."

"And a cuppa, sir."

"So, she doesn't want to be fussed over. You should have left her alone." Unbuttoning his jacket and pulling at his tie, he headed for his office.

"Like somebody else I could mention," Kinch muttered sotto voce.

"Yeah, really," agreed Carter.

"A right pair o' bears, they are," confirmed Newkirk.

Hogan's voice rang out, startling them all. "All right, which one of you guys gave Major Broadbent my pyjamas?"

His men looked innocently back at him. Not so sotto voce, Newkirk responded, "Who else'd be wearin' 'em, 'cept the missus?"