Hart's War

by John Katzenbach

  Tommy took the parcel and removed the sausage, holding it up for the audience to recognize. There was some uncomfortable laughter of recognition in the crowd.

  Then Tommy moved back to the defense table. He picked up the homemade blade, then seized one of his precious white sheets of notepaper from the desk. Before the prosecution caught on to what he was doing, Tommy wrapped the paper around the handle of the knife, covering the cloth that was already stained. He held the blade up, theatrically, as Walker Townsend jumped up and shouted out “Objection!” once again. Tommy ignored the word, and ignored the sudden gaveling from the tribunal’s table. Instead, he took the knife and swiftly plunged it down hard across the thick middle of the sausage, cutting it in half. Then he chopped at the sausage twice more, making certain that the paper-wrapped handle creased the mess of false meat. The room seemed to fill with an exaggerated pungent smell of waste, and the kriegies closest to the defense table groaned as the smell struck them.

  Tommy ignored the objections flooding from the prosecution, and paced directly in front of Lieutenant Murphy. He raised his own voice above all the other noise, and silenced the room with his question: “What do you see on the paper, lieutenant? The paper around the handle?”

  Murphy paused, then shrugged.

  “It looks like blood,” he said. “Specks of blood.”

  “About the same amount of blood that mars the cloth and which the prosecution claims with no supporting evidence whatsoever belongs to Trader Vic!”

  Stepping back from the witness, Tommy shouted, “No further questions.” He took the knife and unwrapped the paper from the handle, holding it above his head so that the entire courtroom could see the splatter marks. Tommy then walked over to Walker Townsend and handed the paper to the prosecutor, who shook his head from side to side. The knife, however, he jabbed by the point into the tabletop, leaving it vibrating like a tuning fork in the once again silent courtroom.

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE PROSECUTION’S LAST WITNESS

  Tommy spotted Fritz Number One counting the adjacent formation of kriegies at the following morning’s Appell. He kept the lean ferret locked in his sight throughout the assembly, ignoring the light rain that fell from dark gray skies, staining the brown leather of his flight jacket with streaks of black dampness. When Major Clark saluted Oberst Von Reiter and saw the usual nod from Colonel MacNamara, and then spun sharply and bellowed out the dismissal, Tommy surged through the melee of fliers, pushing his way directly to where Fritz and some of the other ferrets were gathered at the edge of the exercise yard, smoking and divvying up the day’s assignments. The German looked up as Tommy approached, frowned, and immediately stepped away from the others.

  Tommy stopped, a few feet away, and beckoned to the ferret, cocking a single finger with exaggeration like some impatient and harsh schoolteacher overseeing a laggardly student. Fritz Number One looked about nervously for an instant, then took a few quick strides to Tommy’s side.

  “What is it, Mr. Hart?” he asked swiftly. “I have many duties to perform this morning.”

  “Sure you do,” Tommy replied. “What, there’s some spot that needs to be inspected for the ten millionth time? You need to be sneaking around somewhere urgently? Come on, Fritz. You know the only show in town today is Scott’s trial.”

  “I still have my duties, Mr. Hart. We all do. Even with the trial.”

  Tommy shrugged in an overstated, disbelieving fashion.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll only take a minute or two of your valuable time. Just a couple of questions, then you can get back to whatever is so damn important.” Tommy smiled, paused for a second, then demanded in a loud voice that carried to where the other ferrets were gathered: “All right, Fritz. I want to know where you got the knife from, and when exactly you traded it to Vic. You know which one I’m talking about: the murder weapon. . . .”

  Fritz Number One paled, and grabbed Tommy by the arm. Shaking his head, he pulled the American flier into the lee of one of the huts, where he responded both angrily and with what Tommy detected was more than a small share of nervousness. “You cannot be asking me this, Lieutenant Hart! I have no idea of what you are speaking—”

  Tommy interrupted the instantaneous whining response with a sharp-edged reply of his own. “Don’t bullshit me, Fritz. You know precisely what I’m talking about. A German ceremonial dagger. Maybe SS type. Long and thin and with a death’s head skull at the tip of the handle. Very similar to what Von Reiter wears when he’s all decked out and ready to go to some important function. Trader Vic wanted one, and you got it for him, not long before he was killed. Like a couple of days at the most. I want to know about it. I want to know word for word what Vic said to you when he traded for that knife, and where it was supposed to go and who was supposed to get it. I want to know everything you did. Or maybe you’d prefer if I took my questions to Hauptmann Visser. I betcha he’ll be real interested in knowing about that knife.”

  The German reeled back, almost as if he’d been struck, pressing against the wall of the hut. Fritz Number One looked ill.

  Tommy took a deep breath, then added, “Why, I’ll wager a pack of Luckies that it’s against some Luftwaffe rule to trade an actual weapon to a prisoner of war. And especially some fancy special Nazi-type honor of the fatherland big deal dagger . . .”

  Fritz Number One twisted about, looking over Tommy’s shoulder, making certain that no one had hovered close enough to hear their conversation. He stiffened visibly when he heard Tommy speak Visser’s name.

  “No, no, no,” he replied, shaking his head back and forth. “Lieutenant, you do not understand how dangerous this is!”

  “Well,” Tommy answered in tones as blandly matter-of-fact as he could muster, “why don’t you tell me?”

  Fritz Number One’s voice quivered and his hands shook slightly as he gestured. “Hauptmann Visser would have me shot,” he whispered. “Or sent to the Russian front, which is the same. Exactly the same, except maybe not as quick and maybe a little worse. To trade a weapon to an Allied airman is verboten!”

  “But you did it?”

  “Trader Vic, he was insistent. At first, I told him no, but it was all he could speak about. A souvenir, he promised me. Nothing more! He had a special customer, he said, willing to pay a large price. He needed it without delay. That day. Immediately! He told me it had great value. More value than anything else he’d ever traded for.”

  For a moment, Tommy swallowed hard, imagining the cold-bloodedness of the man who performed the ultimate swindle upon Trader Vic, getting the camp’s entrepreneur to provide him with the weapon that he would then use to kill him. Tommy felt his mouth dry up, almost parched at the thought.

  “Who wanted it? Who was Trader Vic fronting for?”

  “I don’t understand fronting . . .”

  “Who was he making the deal for?”

  Fritz Number One shook his head. “I asked. I asked more than once, but he would not tell me this name. But he said it was a sweetheart deal. That is what his words were, Lieutenant Hart. Sweetheart. I did not understand this either, until he explained it to me.”

  Tommy frowned. He was not sure that he totally believed the ferret. Nor was he at all sure he disbelieved him. Something in between. And it certainly hadn’t turned into a sweetheart deal for one man.

  “Okay, so you didn’t get the name. So where did you steal the knife? From Von Reiter?”

  Fritz Number One shook his head rapidly. “No, no, I could never do that! Commandant Von Reiter is a great man! I would be dead a long time ago, fighting the Ivans, if he had not brought me here with him when he received his orders. I was only a mechanic on his flight crew, but he knew I had the gift for languages, and so I accompanied him. It was death to remain behind, in Russia! Death. Winter, freezing cold, and death, Lieutenant Hart. That was all there was for us in Russia. Commandant Von Reiter saved me! I shall never be able to fully repay Commandant Von Reiter! If I am able to live through t
he war, it will be because of him! And here, I serve the commandant as best I can. I would never steal from him!”

  “From someone else, then?”

  Again Fritz shook his head. He whispered his response frantically, his words almost hissing, like air escaping from a punctured tire. “To steal this item from a German officer, and then trade it to an Allied airman, lieutenant, this would be a death warrant! The Gestapo would come for you! Especially so, if Hauptmann Visser were to discover it!”

  “So you didn’t steal it?”

  Fritz continued to shake his head. “Hauptmann Visser does not know of this dagger, Lieutenant Hart! He suspects, but he does not know for certain. Please, he cannot learn. It would mean great trouble for me. . . .” In the slight hesitation at the end of his voice, Tommy heard distinctly that it would not be Fritz alone who suffered if this particular trade were exposed. And so he asked the obvious question.

  “And who else, Fritz? Who else would be in trouble?”

  “I will not say.”

  Tommy stopped. He could see the tremor in Fritz’s jaw, and he believed he knew the answer to his question. Fritz had already told him. And, Tommy thought, there was probably only one man in the camp who could have provided that specific dagger without first stealing it. He decided to press the ferret further.

  “Tell me about the commandant and Visser,” Tommy asked suddenly. “Do they—”

  “They despise each other,” Fritz interrupted.

  “Really?”

  “It is a deep and terrible hatred. Two men who have worked closely together for months. But they have nothing together but contempt. Contempt and complete hatred for each other. Each would be gladdened greatly to see an Allied bomb drop in the lap of the other.”

  “Why is that?”

  The ferret shrugged, sighing, but his voice was shaky, almost like an old woman’s. “Visser is a Nazi. He wishes the camp were his to command. The policeman son of a provincial schoolteacher. His father’s party number is less than one thousand! He hates all the Allies, but especially the Americans because he once lived among you and the British fighter pilots because one of them took his arm. He hates that Oberst Von Reiter treats all the prisoners with respect! Commandant Von Reiter, he comes from an old, important family, who have served in the Wehrmacht and the Luftwaffe for many generations. There is no love lost between the two. I should not be speaking of these things, Lieutenant Hart! I will say no more.”

  Tommy nodded. This didn’t surprise him terribly. He scratched at his own cheek, feeling the day’s stubble growing there, then fired another question, taking the ferret by surprise.

  “What did you get, Fritz? When you traded the knife?”

  Fritz Number One shuddered, almost as if a sudden fever had slid through his body. Either the damp rain or sweat had broken out on his forehead, and his words continued to quiver.

  “I got nothing,” he answered, shaking his head back and forth.

  Tommy snorted. “That doesn’t make any damn sense! You’re telling me that this was a big deal, the biggest deal, and that Trader Vic had a buyer already lined up ready to pay through the nose, and now you’re saying you got nothing in return? Bullshit! Maybe I should go talk to Visser. I’m sure he has all sorts of extremely clever and decidedly unpleasant methods for extracting information. . . .”

  Fritz Number One shot out his hand, grasping Tommy by the arm.

  “Please, Lieutenant Hart, I am begging you. Do not speak to the Hauptmann of these matters! I fear that even Oberst Von Reiter would not be able to protect me!”

  “Then what did you get? What was the trade?”

  Fritz Number One lifted his head, eyes skyward, as if wracked by sudden pain. Then he lowered his eyes, and whispered to Tommy Hart: “The payment was due the night Captain Bedford was murdered!” The ferret’s voice was so low, Tommy had to crane forward. “He was to meet me with the payment in the dark that night. But he never arrived at our meeting place.”

  Tommy inhaled slowly. There was the explanation for the ferret being in the camp after lights out.

  “What was the payment?” Tommy insisted.

  Fritz Number One straightened up suddenly, leaning back against the wall of the hut as if Tommy had thrust a weapon into his chest. He shook his head. He was breathing hard, as if he’d just sprinted some distance.

  “Do not ask me this question, Mr. Hart! I cannot say more. Please, I am begging you now, my life depends on it, other lives, as well as my own, but I cannot say to you more of this matter.”

  Tommy could see tears in the corner of the ferret’s eyes. His face had turned a wan, gray color, like the sky overhead, the sickly, agonizingly fearful appearance of a man who can see his own death lurking close by and beckoning. Tommy was surprised, and he took a small step back, as if the look on Fritz Number One’s face scared him as well.

  “All right,” he said. “All right for now. I’ll keep my mouth shut. For now. No promises for later, but for now, we’ll keep this between ourselves.”

  The German quivered again and broke into a grateful smile filled with reprieve. He seized Tommy’s hand and shook it hard.

  “I shall never forget this kindness, Lieutenant Hart. Never!”

  The ferret took a step back, away from Tommy. “I will be in your debt, Lieutenant Hart! I will not forget this.”

  And with that, he lurched away, hurrying out into the dank morning. Tommy watched Fritz Number One’s head twisting about, trying to ascertain whether he’d been observed in this conversation. On the one hand, Tommy knew he had just acquired enough information to blackmail Fritz Number One into doing whatever he wanted, probably for the duration of the war. But on the other, he was left more filled with questions than ever before. And one question that dominated all the others: What was the payment for the weapon that was turned on Vic? He watched as Fritz Number One scurried across the exercise yard, and wondered who else might have the answer to that question. He glanced down at his wristwatch, felt a pang of loneliness crease across his heart. For a single second, he wondered what time it was back home in Vermont, and he had trouble remembering whether it was earlier or later. Then he dismissed this unfair thought when he realized that if he did not hurry, he would be late for the beginning of that morning’s proceedings.

  The throngs of kriegies were already surrounding the makeshift theater and jamming the aisles as Tommy arrived for the trial’s start. As he’d feared, everyone else was in place. The tribunal behind their table at the front, the prosecution seated and waiting impatiently, Lincoln Scott and Hugh Renaday in their chairs, Hugh wearing a concerned look. Off to the side, Hauptmann Visser was smoking one of his thin, brown cigarettes, while the stenographer next to him nervously fiddled with his pencil. Tommy picked his way down the center, stepping over feet and outstretched legs, stumbling once as he tripped over a pair of flight boots, thinking to himself that his solitary entrance was much less dramatic than when he had joined the two others and walked in formation.

  “You’ve kept everyone waiting, lieutenant,” Colonel MacNamara said coldly, as he stepped to the front of the room. “Zero eight hundred means precisely that. In the future, Lieutenant Hart—”

  Tommy interrupted the Senior American Officer.

  “I apologize, sir. But I had business crucial to the defense.”

  “That may well be, lieutenant, but—”

  Tommy interrupted MacNamara again, which he was absolutely certain would infuriate the commanding officer. He didn’t really care.

  “My first and primary duty is to Lieutenant Scott, sir. If my absence caused a delay, well, then it equally demonstrates vividly, once again, sir, the unfortunate rush that this proceeding takes place within. Based on information that has just been made available to me, I would once again renew my objections to the trial continuing, and would request additional time to investigate.”

  “What information?” MacNamara demanded.

  Tommy sauntered to the front of the prosecution’s table
, and picked up the homemade blade that Scott had fashioned. He turned it over once or twice in his hand, then set it down again, looking up at MacNamara.

  “It has to do with the murder weapon, colonel.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Tommy saw Visser stiffen in his seat. The German dropped his cigarette to the floor, and ground it beneath the heel of his boot.

  “What about the murder weapon, lieutenant?”

  “I’m not really at liberty to speak openly, colonel. Not without considerable further investigation.”

  Captain Townsend rose from his seat with liquid confidence in his voice. “Your Honor, I believe that the defense seeks delay simply for delay’s sake. I believe that absent some real showing on their part of dire necessity, that we should continue—”

  MacNamara held up his hand. “You are correct, captain. Lieutenant Hart, take your seat. Call your next witness, Captain Townsend. And Lieutenant Hart, do not be late again.”

  Tommy shrugged, and took his place. Lincoln Scott and Hugh Renaday both leaned over toward him. “What was that all about?” Scott demanded. “You find out something helpful?”

  Tommy whispered his reply. “Maybe. I found out something. But I’m not sure how it helps.”

  Scott leaned back. “Great,” he muttered under his breath. He picked up the stub of a pencil from the rough table and tapped it against the wooden surface. Scott fixed his eyes on the morning’s first witness, another officer from Hut 101, who was being sworn in by MacNamara.

  Tommy checked his notes. This was one of the witnesses who saw Scott in the hut’s central corridor on the night of the murder. He knew what was coming was the worst sort of testimony. An officer with no particular connection to either Scott or Trader Vic, who would tell the court that he saw the black airman outside his bunk room, maneuvering through the darkness with the aid of a single candle. What the witness would describe were all actions that any man might have performed. Taken independently, they were benign. But in the context of that murderous night, they were damning.