Hugh shook his head.
Visser hesitated, eyeing Renaday closely.
"You think it is unreasonable for me to ask? Flying officer, I do not believe you entirely appreciate the jeopardy of your current position."
Hugh remained silent.
The German's grin had dissolved now. He wore a singular flat, angry appearance in the set of his jaw, the hardness at the corners of his eyes and the edges of his mouth. The scars on Visser's cheeks seemed to grow pale. He shook his head back and forth one time, then slowly, without moving from his seat, Visser reached down to his waist and with a frightening deliberateness, unstrapped the holster flap he wore, and removed a large black steel handgun. He held this up momentarily, then set it down on the desktop in front of Renaday.
"Are you familiar with this weapon, flying officer?"
Hugh shook his head in reply.
"It is a Mauser thirty-eight-caliber revolver. It is a very powerful weapon, Mr. Renaday. Every bit as powerful as the Smith and Wesson revolvers policemen in the States are armed with. It is significantly more powerful than the Webbly-Vickers revolvers that British pilots carry in their bail-out gear. It is not the standard issue for an officer of the Reich, flying officer. Ordinarily men such as myself carry a Luger semiautomatic pistol. A very effective weapon. But it requires two hands to cock and fire, and I, alas, have but the one. So I must use the Mauser, which, admittedly, is far heavier and much more cumbersome, but can be operated with a single hand, and thus it accommodates me far better.
You do understand, flying officer, do you not, that a single shot from this weapon will remove a good portion of your face, much of your head, and certainly the majority of your brains?"
Hugh took a long look at the black barrel. The gun remained on the tabletop, but Visser had swung it around so that it pointed at the Canadian. Hugh nodded.
"Good," Visser said.
"Perhaps we make some progress.
Now, I ask again, what were you doing out of your quarters?"
"Sightseeing," Hugh said coldly.
The German burst into a humorless laugh. Visser looked over at Fritz
Number One, who hovered in a corner of the room, remaining in the shadow.
"Mr. Renaday seeks to play the fool, corporal. And yet perhaps the joke will be on him. He does not seem to understand that I am well within my rights to shoot him right here. Or if I were to prefer not to make a mess in our office, to have him removed and shot directly outside. He is in violation of a clear camp rule, and the punishment is death! He hangs by the thinnest of threads, corporal, and still he plays games with us."
Pritz Number One did not reply, other than to nod and stand at attention. Visser turned back to Hugh.
"If I were to send a squad to roust the entire contingent of prisoners in Hut 101, would I find your friend Mr. Hart? Or perhaps Lieutenant
Scott? Was your sortie out this night connected to the murder trial?"
Visser held up a hand.
"You do not have to answer that, flying officer, for, of course, I already know that answer. Yes. It must be. But what?"
Hugh shook his head again.
"My name is Hugh Renaday. Flying Officer. My serial number is 472 hyphen 6712. My religion is Protestant. I believe that is all the information I am required to provide at this or any other time, Herr Hauptmann" Visser leaned back in his own seat, anger flashing from his eyes. But the words he spoke in reply were slow, icy, and filled with a patient and awful menace.
"I could not help but notice your limp, as you entered, flying officer.
You have an injury?"
Hugh shook his head.
"I'm fine."
"But then, why the so-apparent difficulty?"
"An old sports injury. Aggravated this morning."
Visser smiled again.
"Please, flying officer, place your foot up here on the desktop, so that your leg is straight."
Hugh didn't move.
"Raise your leg, flying officer. This simple act will delay my shooting you, and give you perhaps a few more seconds to consider precisely how close you are to dying."
Hugh pushed his chair back slightly, and with a great force of will raised his right leg, slapping the heel down onto the center of the table. The awkwardness of his position sent rays of pain radiating up through his hip, and for a moment, he closed his eyes to the collection of hurt that gathered in his leg.
Visser hesitated, then reached over, seizing Hugh at the knee, pressing his fingers hard into the joint, twisting them savagely.
The Canadian nearly tumbled. A bolt of agony surged through his body.
"This is painful, no?" Visser said, continuing to tear at the leg.
Hugh did not reply. Every muscle in his body was taut, fighting against the red-hot lightning of hurt that exploded within him. He was dizzy, almost unconscious, and he fought to maintain some control.
Visser released the leg.
"I can have you hurt, before I have you shot, flying officer.
I can have it so that the pain will be so intense that you will welcome the bullet that ends it. Now, I ask one last time:
What were you doing out of your quarters?"
Hugh breathed in sharply, trying to calm the waves of agony that ebbed and flowed within him.
"Your answer, please, flying officer. Please keep in mind that your life depends upon it," Visser demanded sharply.
For the second time that night, Hugh Renaday realized that the string of his own life had reached its end. He took another deep breath, and finally said, "I was looking for you, Herr Hauptmann."
Visser looked slightly surprised.
"Me? But why would you want to see me, flying officer?"
"To spit in your face," Hugh replied. As he finished, he spat hard at the German. But his parched, dry mouth could not summon any saliva, and he merely sprayed futilely in Visser's direction.
The Hauptmann recoiled slightly. Then he shook his head, and wiped at the desktop with the sleeve of his one arm. He raised his pistol and pointed it in Hugh's face. He held it there for several seconds, aiming straight at Hugh's forehead. The German thumbed back the pistol hammer and then pressed the barrel directly against the Canadian's flesh. A cold that went far beyond all the pulsating pain in his body filled Hugh.
He closed his eyes and tried to think of anything except the moment about to arrive. Seconds passed. Almost a minute.
He did not dare open his eyes.
Then Visser smiled again.
He pulled the weapon back.
Hugh felt the pressure of the barrel slide away, and after a pause, opened his eyes. He saw Visser slowly lower the huge Mauser and, with an exaggerated motion, return it to his holster, snapping the leather flap shut tightly.