"Alterations?
"Tommy demanded.
Clark did not reply to this. He turned to Hart, his face set, illuminated by candles that exaggerated the red rage coloring on his cheeks.
"You are correct that the ending of the trial provided us with a crucial opportunity that we elected to seize. Take advantage of. But that's all it provided. An opportunity.
There. Now you've had your damn question answered. Get out of the way. We don't have any time to waste, especially on you. Hart, and you, too, Scott."
"I don't believe you," Tommy said.
"Who killed Trader Vic?" he asked insistently.
Major Clark pointed a finger directly at Lincoln Scott.
"He did," he replied harshly.
"All the evidence points to him. It has from the start. And that's what the tribunal will conclude tomorrow morning. You can take that to the bank, lieutenant.
Now get the hell out of the way."
Another bucket rose from the hole in the floor and was seized by a kriegie, who silently moved it into the corridor.
Tommy was only peripherally aware that many of the men behind him had pushed forward, trying to hear the words being spoken above the tunnel entrance.
"Why was Vic killed?" Tommy asked.
"I want the damn answers, major!"
For a moment, the entire corridor jammed with men, and the men working in the tunnel entrance all seemed to hesitate, letting this question echo about the tiny space, painting each kriegie with the same doubt.
Clark folded his arms in front of his chest.
"You won't be getting any more answers from me, lieutenant," he said.
"All the answers you need have already come out at trial. Everyone here knows that. Now stand aside and let us get finished!"
The major seemed rocklike. Uncompromising. Tommy was suddenly at a loss as to what to do. It seemed to him that somewhere close by everything that had happened in the camp over the past weeks could be explained, but he had no idea where to turn. The major was turning obstinacy into a rock-solid lie, and Tommy did not know how to break that barrier. He could sense Lincoln Scott wavering at his side, almost defeated by this final obstacle before them. Tommy searched about, trying to find his next step, next maneuver, but was greeted with a confused emptiness within himself.
He knew he couldn't compromise the escape effort. He did not know what threat he could make, what lever he could pull, what invention he could come up with that would break the sudden stalemate in the privy. He thought right at that second that on the other end of the tunnel men were going to break free, and the truth was going to leave with them.
And just as this thought crept into his heart, Nicholas Fenelli abruptly piped up again.
"You know. Hart, the major isn't going to help you. He hates
Lieutenant Scott as much as Trader Vic did, and probably for the same damn reasons. He probably wants to be there to see that Kraut firing squad take aim. Hell, sounds to me like he'd be willing to give the damn order to fire…"
"Shut up, Fenelli!" Clark said.
"That's a direct order!"
Tommy looked down at the man who wanted to be a doctor, who shrugged, again ignoring the major.
"You want some answers. Tommy? Well, it seems to me you're going to have to dig hard for them tonight."
Tommy felt a sudden chill in the room, as if he'd stepped into a pocket of cold air.
"I don't follow," he said, hesitating.
"Sure you do," Fenelli answered, with another small, braying laugh, and a mocking sneer directed toward Major Clark.
"Let me put it to you this way. Tommy…"
The medic held out a small piece of white paper. Tommy saw the number twenty-eight written in black pencil in the middle of the sheet. He looked at Fenelli.
"I'm twenty-eight," Fenelli said slowly.
"In order to get that number, all I had to do was maybe change my trial testimony a bit. Maybe lie a little. Just take away your defense. Of course, they didn't expect your little maneuver with Visser.
Didn't expect that at all. That was pretty neat. Anyway, Tommy, the guys right in front of me, well, they're not rotten bastards like I am, who paid a price for their spot in this line.
Most of those guys are the good guys. Hart. There are some forgers and some engineers and some tunnel rats. They get the higher numbers, right? They're the guys who designed this thing, and did all the really hard work and just about everything else. Just about everything. But not quite everything.
So, let me ask you a question. Tommy…"
Fenelli's smile faded instantly, replaced with a harsh, hard look that said almost as much as the words that followed.
"I'm just a liar, and I got number twenty-eight. So, where do you suppose the men willing to kill a man in order to keep this tunnel a secret would be? Do you think maybe they might be at the very top of the list?"
Tommy was about to blurt out But how? when he saw the answer.
A deep, almost painful, cold shaft of fear sliced through his heart and lodged deep in his stomach. He could feel sweat burst forth on his temples, beneath his arms, and his throat went abruptly dry. He knew his hands were starting to shake, and the muscles in his thighs twitched in sudden terror.
At his side, Scott must have understood the panic that settled within
Tommy, because he said quietly, "I'll go. You can't go down there. I know that. You wait here."
But Tommy shook his head back and forth hard.
"They won't believe you, even if you did manage to come back with the truth. But they'll have to believe me."
From his position near the tunnel entrance, Fenelli chimed in: "He's right, Scott. You're the one facing the firing squad.
Got nothing to lose by lying. But there's a good chance that all these guys here, the ones not going out tonight, well, they're likely to believe what Tommy says. Because he's one of them. Been in the bag for goddamn nearly forever, and he's as white as they are. Sorry, but that's the truth."
Scott seemed to grow tense, his arms rigid. Then he nodded, although it clearly took a great effort for him to do this.
Tommy stepped forward.
Major Clark stepped into his path.
"I won't allow…" he began.
"Yes, you will," Scott said coldly. He did not need to say anything else. The major eyed the black flier, then stepped back quickly.
"You watch my back, Lincoln," Tommy said.
"I won't be long I hope" He did not wait to hear the black airman's acknowledgment.
Knowing that if he hesitated in the slightest, he wouldn't be able to force himself to do what he now knew he had to do, Tommy stepped to the edge of the tunnel.
There were candles spaced out, on hand carved ledges, leading down into the narrow pit. A single strand of half-inch-thick black German telephone cable probably stolen from the back of a truck and strong enough to hold a man's weight was fastened to the edge of the toilet, anchored there. Tommy sat down on the lip of the tunnel hole. The man beneath him passed up a bucket filled with dirt, and then squeezed back, pressing himself into the dirt of the tunnel wall. Tommy seized hold of the cable and, filled with utter terror remembered from his childhood and many hard nightmares, slowly lowered himself down into the cold emptiness waiting below him.