Act One

Scene One

– Two –

Just a few weeks until Christmas, Hogan thought. Another Christmas here. A sigh. He had hoped the war would be over by now. But it wasn't. The Germans were still far from dead, still fighting with all the skill and ingenuity they possessed. It wasn't over yet. Not by a long shot. Still more work for his group of men. And, unfortunately, more prisoners as well.

"Company coming," Newkirk said softly beside him.

A car turned inside the gate and approached Klink's office.

"Set up the coffeepot," Hogan said. "I'll check our visitor out."

Klink had come out of his office and seemed genuinely pleased to see his visitor. A captain. Wehrmacht. Klink and his visitor embraced. There seemed to be real warmth in the greeting.

"Kommandant!" Hogan called as he approached. "Do you have a minute?"

"Colonel Hogan." Klink wasn't too pleased to see him. "Can it wait until later?"

"Sure, no rush," Hogan said amicably. "I'm not going any place."

Intense brown eyes peered at him out of a pleasantly handsome face. A faint twinkle of humor was in their depths.

"Very funny, Hogan," Klink said. "Dieter, I'd like you to meet Colonel Robert Hogan, the senior POW officer. Colonel Hogan, my brother-in-law, Captain Dieter Müller."

Hogan raised a brow. This pleasant, intelligent-appearing man related to Klink? "How do you do, Captain?"

The handshake was firm, friendly. "I am well, Colonel. I hope Wilhelm is treating you the same."

The interest in Müller's eyes seemed real. "Can't complain. He won't let me," Hogan added to Klink's annoyance.

Müller smiled faintly in response.

"Dieter is a doctor, Colonel Hogan. Perhaps he will visit the infirmary later," Klink said.

"Yes. I would like that very much."

"Very generous, Captain," Hogan said.

"Not at all. It is simply my duty as a physician."

"Now, if you have nothing else, Colonel . . . " Klink started.

"No, nothing. Nice meeting you, Captain."

"And you, Colonel."

Hogan went back to his room. His men, save for Kinch, were already listening in.

"Friendly sounding chap," Newkirk observed.

"He's Klink's brother-in-law. A doctor."

Kinch came in. "Colonel, the underground said to contact a new man in the area. Name's Dieter Müller."

Hogan looked at him in surprise. "Are you sure?"

"Yup. Captain Dieter Müller. What's wrong, Colonel?"

"He's already here; he's Klink's brother-in-law."

Klink handed Müller a glass of brandy and sat down behind his desk. "How is Therese?" His voice sounded a little different to the eavesdropping men.

"As well as can be expected," Müller said. "Christmas . . . Christmas will be difficult." He looked at Klink. "Can you get away?"

Klink shook his head. "Nein. With the war the way it is — "

"The war!" Müller interrupted vehemently. "The war! It killed my son! Murders thousands of people every day. Destroys countries. And for what?!" There were tears in his voice.

Klink chose his words carefully. "It will end."

"When? How many more children must die? How many more parents must cry for their babies?"

"Dieter, don't!" Klink's voice was soothing. "Stop tormenting yourself. It will end."

"Not if left to those," an ugly expression, "in Berlin." The hate in Müller's voice surprised the listening prisoners. "Well, I am not leaving it to them any longer!"

"What do you mean?" Klink asked slowly, deliberately.

"I mean I am going to do everything I can to end this madness, Wilhelm. Help anyway I can."

"Help who?"

"The resistance, Wilhelm. And I want you to join me."

His statement took Klink and the listeners by surprise.

"Dieter, you are talking of treason."

"I am talking of ending this insanity brought on by a madman."

"That 'madman' is your Führer, Dieter," Klink said carefully.

"My what?" Müller stared at Klink. "Wilhelm, what is the matter with you? You sound like one of those damned Nazis."

"Dieter, please." Klink sounded tired.

"Please, what? You once hated everything the Nazis stood for." Brows were raised among the eavesdroppers. "What has happened to you?"

Klink stayed silent.

"Join me," Müller pressed. "Come with me to see these people. As the Kommandant of a prison camp, you could be of great help."

"He already is," Hogan said with a grin.

"Dieter, this is mad. The Gestapo is suspicious of everyone, everything. If you are caught . . . Think, Dieter! You can destroy everything — your career, your home, your family."

"You are afraid!" Müller accused.

"Of course, I'm afraid!" Klink stood, angry. "You should be, too! These are dangerous times, Dieter. Leave politics and resistance to those who know best."

Müller stared at him. "Mein Gott, they're true. All true. I didn't want to believe it."

"Believe what?"

Müller stood and faced him. "All those stories. Klink, the ineffectual, spineless fool — "

"Ouch," from Carter.

"Whose only claim to any talent is that no one has ever escaped from this camp," Müller continued damningly. "But, in all other respects, a hopeless incompetent."

Klink turned away from him, his face a frozen mask.

"If Therese ever knew . . . " Müller's voice was quiet. "She adores you. You were always her big brother. You were brave, strong. You knew everything, could do everything." He shook his head. "If she could see you now, as you really are."

Silence from the man at the window.

"It would kill her," Müller finished softly.

"Dieter, please." A very tired voice.

"I won't say anything to Therese." Müller slipped on his coat. "I can't destroy her image of you. But . . . Perhaps it is best that you don't see her."

Klink turned to him. "Dieter, don't do anything foolish. Please."

"Why?" Müller challenged. "Will you turn me in to your precious Nazis?"

Klink went white. "I think," he sought to control his voice, "we should stop. Before too much is said."

"It has already been said, Wilhelm." Müller said contemptuously. "God willing, I will be back in a day or two to see your prisoners. But I have no desire to see you again, Wilhelm. Goodbye."

The listeners heard the door slam.

"Gee," Carter said, "I almost feel sorry for Klink."

"Yeah," Kinch said. "His brother-in-law gave it to him. But good!"

"Well, he deserves it," LeBeau sneered.

"So," Baker asked, "how do we contact him?"

"Tonight. At his hotel," Hogan said.

Newkirk grinned. "Is he going to be in for a surprise!"

There was a knock on the door as Dieter Müller started to take off his jacket. Frowning slightly, he went to the door. "Who is it?" he called.

"Herr Doktor," said a voice, "there is an emergency. We must speak to you."

Surprised, Müller opened the door. He was shocked to find Colonel Hogan standing there in civilian clothes. Before he could say a word, Hogan pushed his way into the room along with one of his men and closed the door.

"Colonel Hogan!" Müller finally found his voice. "What are you doing here? How did you get out of camp? Did you escape?"

"Not exactly," answered the American. "I understand it never snows in Munich."

Müller stood frozen for a moment. Then his numb brain remembered the response. "Only when the sun is out."

Hogan grinned at him. "Stupid codes, aren't they?"

Müller couldn't say a word, his mind still trying to grapple with Hogan's presence.

"Does anyone know you are here, or not in camp?" he finally managed to ask.

"You mean, Klink?" Hogan's voice was disparaging.

Müller nodded.

"Don't be ridiculous."

Müller shuddered as he grasped the full implication of Hogan's statement. "You . . . You are in the habit of wandering in and out of camp."

Hogan nodded.

"And, no one, the guards, no one knows — "

"We have a very nice little setup," LeBeau said.

Dieter Müller sank into a chair. The stories he'd heard became even more horrible. What had happened to the man he'd thought he had known? What?!

"We understand that you want to help," Hogan was saying.

"What? Oh, yes." Müller visibly shook himself. "Yes, I do."

"You know it could be dangerous?"

A nod. "It is dangerous everywhere."

Hogan smiled. "Okay. Tomorrow night at 2300 met us at the north end of town, just past the signpost. Wear something unobtrusive."

Müller nodded.

"Good." Another smile. "Until tomorrow then."

"Until tomorrow."

And Hogan and his man were gone, leaving behind a very shaken Dieter Müller.

The Stage changed the frequency on the radio set atop the bookcase before sitting down in the old, comfortable chair beside it.

The night's operations had gone better than he'd anticipated. It had required a great deal of planning to coordinate the fifteen separate strikes against military targets in Germany and France. Two of the raids had been carried out in conjunction with British and American units. Those hits were the ones that pleased him the most. Thus far, the Allies had been reluctant to coordinate their activities with local resistance units. The success of the night's missions should lead to more cooperative ventures between the Allied armies and the resistance. He hoped.

The success of the operations would also add to his already mythic reputation. He had made certain that there was no doubt that the Stage had been responsible for the strikes; he had allowed himself to be impersonated in half a dozen locations to further confuse his enemies. He permitted himself a smile. After all these years, he still enjoyed confounding the leaders of the so-called master race.

His smile faded as he listened to one of the underground units' messages.

So, Papa Bear had decided to go ahead with the meeting, despite his warning. It didn't surprise the Stage. Very little that Papa Bear did surprised him any more.

He glanced down at the book in his hand. Tacitus had lost is appeal. He returned the book to the shelf, and pulled out another one. A glance at the title. No, not Divina Commedia; the horrors he saw were even worse than the hell imagined by Dante. He returned the book to the shelf, pulled out one of Moliere's comedies, and changed the frequency on the powerful radio.

The Stage listened more closely now. This was the enemy's frequency. Code, of course, but one he knew quite well.

He stiffened in surprise. So, the SS knew about the meeting of the two groups. Knew and would attend.

Damn!

The book lay forgotten on his lap. It sounded as if, this time, the SS had planned well. Papa Bear and his men had managed to evade capture in the past; this time, he wasn't certain they could. A very valuable underground unit could well be taken. Along with innocents who had nothing to do with it.

The Stage started to reach for the radio, to order Papa Bear to cancel the meeting.

And changed his mind. It had been a long time since the Stage had been seen around Hammelburg. Perhaps a personal visit was long overdue. A thin smile. As was the lesson about to be taught to a certain, rather impudent, American colonel.