He let out air slowly.
Then he looked past Fenelli, up to Colonel MacNamara.
"Colonel," he said, plastering a small, fake smile onto his face.
"Obviously Lieutenant Fenelli's change of tune takes the defense by complete surprise. We would request that you adjourn these proceedings until tomorrow, so that we can discuss strategy."
Captain Townsend rose.
"Sir, there's almost an hour until the evening Appell. I think we should continue as late as possible.
There's more than enough time for Mr. Hart to ask some questions, and then, if need be, continue in the morning."
Tommy coughed. He crossed his arms in front of him and realized that he had just avoided a trap. The problem was, he couldn't quite see what the trap was. He glanced sideways and noticed that Major Clark had curled his hands into fists.
MacNamara seemed oddly oblivious to what was going on. Instead, he started to shake his head back and forth.
"Lieutenant Hart is correct," he said slowly.
"There's less than an hour. Not really enough time, and these things are better when they're not cut in two. We'll recess now, and pick up again in the morning." He turned briefly toward Hauptmann Visser, sitting by the side of the room, and lectured him with an irritated, inconvenienced tone of voice: "We could be far more efficient here, Herr Hauptmann, and bring things to a much more rapid and orderly conclusion if we were not constantly having to interrupt ourselves for the regularly scheduled roll calls. Will you bring this up with Commandant Von Reiter?"
Visser nodded.
"I will mention it to him, colonel," he replied dryly.
"Very good," MacNamara said.
"Lieutenant Fenelli, please remember that just like the other witnesses, you are under oath and not to discuss your testimony or any other aspect of this case with any other person. Understand?"
"Of course, sir," Fenelli answered briskly.
"Then we are dismissed until tomorrow," MacNamara said, rising.
As before, Tommy, Scott, and Hugh Renaday waited for the theater to empty out, remaining at their table silently, until the last echo of flight boots faded from the cavernous room behind them. Lincoln Scott was staring straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the vacant witness chair.
Renaday pushed back from the table hard, and spoke first.
"Blasted liar!" he said angrily.
"Tommy, why didn't you go right after him? Tear his dishonest throat out!"
"Because that was what they wanted. Or, at the least, that was what they expected. And what Fenelli said was bad enough. But maybe what he was about to say was going to be worse."
"How do you know that?" Renaday sputtered.
"I don't," Tommy said flatly.
"I'm just guessing."
"What could he say that was worse?"
Again, Tommy shrugged.
"He was equivocating on all those lies, lots of maybes and coulda’s and should as Perhaps when I asked him about being paid a visit by Townsend and Clark, perhaps he wasn't going to be quite as unsteady.
Maybe the next lie was going to sink us. But I'm guessing.
Again."
"Bloody dangerous guesswork, my lad," Hugh said.
"Just gives the deceitful bastard all night to ready himself for the onslaught."
"I don't know about that," Tommy said.
"I think I'll pay Mr. Fenelli a little visit after dinner."
"But MacNamara said…"
"The hell with MacNamara," Tommy replied.
"What the hell can he do to me? I'm already a prisoner of war."
This response tripped a slight, sad grin onto Lincoln Scott's face. He nodded. But he did not speak, seeming to prefer to keep all the terrifying thoughts that had to be burning within him contained. And one thing was obvious: Perhaps Colonel MacNamara couldn't really do anything worse to Tommy, but that wasn't the case for Lincoln Scott.
The evening sky was clearing, the irritating cold drizzle had ceased, and there was a little promise of milder weather ahead at the evening Appell. Tommy stood patiently beside Lincoln Scott as the mind-numbing process of being counted was repeated again. He wondered for a moment just exactly how many times the Germans had counted him during his years at Stalag Luft Thirteen, and he pledged that if he ever made it home to Vermont, he would never ever allow anyone to count his head out loud ever again.
He looked around, searching the rows of fliers for Fenelli, but was unable to spot him. Tommy figured he would be lurking in the back row of one of the formations, as distant from the men in Hut 101 as possible. This made no difference to Tommy, He intended to wait until the hour right before the lights were going out to make his real search. He was reviewing what he was going to say to the would-be medic, trying to find the right combination of anger and understanding that would get Fenelli to tell him why he'd changed his story, Clark and Townsend had reached him. Tommy knew.
But just how he wasn't sure, and that was what he needed to know. He also needed to know what it was that Fenelli was intending to say in the morning.
Other than that pursuit, he recognized that he was more or less out of tricks. He had no evidence to present. The only witness for the defense was Scott himself. Scott and whatever eloquence Tommy could muster. He shook his head. Not much to offer. He expected Scott to be a terrible witness, and he had great doubts over his own ability to sway anyone much less Colonel MacNamara and the other two members of the court with any sort of impassioned speech.
He heard the bellow of dismissal from the front of the formations and wordlessly he followed Scott and Hugh back across the parade ground toward Hut 101. He paid no attention to the buzz of voices around them.
As they walked down the center corridor of the barracks, Hugh spoke out.
"We need to eat something. But there's not much in the larder, I'll wager."
"You go ahead," Scott said.
"I have almost a full parcel left.
Take whatever you need and fix something for yourselves.
I'm just not that hungry."
Hugh started to respond, then stopped. Both he and Tommy knew this statement for the lie it was, because everyone was always hungry at Stalag Luft Thirteen.
Scott stepped ahead of the two others and thrust open the door to their room. He pushed inside, but stopped after traveling only a few feet.
Behind him, both Tommy and Hugh paused.
"What is it?
"Tommy asked.
"We've had visitors again," Scott said flatly.
"I'll be damned."
Tommy slid past the black airman's broad shoulders. He could see that Lincoln Scott was staring at something, and Tommy fully expected another crude sign. But what he saw stopped him in his tracks as well.
Stuck into the rough-hewn wooden frame of Tommy's bunk, right above the threadbare pillow for his head, reflecting the harsh, bright light from the overhead bulb, was a knife.