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Alfi scrambled from the grave. One with the arms, and one with the legs, the two men unceremoniously r>> Jf ^

tossed the bodies of the woman and the boy into the pit.

Alfi replaced the dirt with the spade. Becker helped, using his foot.

"Forgive me if I am out of line, Herr Oberst," Alfi said as he shoveled, "but is there any possibility of notifying my sister at the munitions plant in Schwartzheide that, contrary to the reports she will receive, I am alive and well?"

Becker chuckled and shook his head. "Alfi, Alfi. I have explained to you the need for secrecy. Why do you think I waited until only a few hours ago to tell you of my escape plan? I, myself, have been measuring every word for weeks, afraid I might give it away. For now, and for the foreseeable future both of us must remain among the lamentable casualties of the war. Even my brother, Edwin, at the camp in Dachau will not know."

"I understand," Alfi said, realizing that he did not--at least not totally.

"By the morning, you and I shall be both free and dead." Becker stamped on the topsoil of the grave and began throwing handfuls of dusty sand and pine needles over the fresh dirt. The idea of using the bodies of the farmer and his son in-law was sheer genius, Becker acknowledged. Originally, he had planned to have the two farmers supply him with transportation to Rostock. Their lorry would now run just as well with him at the wheel. The other refinements in his original plan were dazzling. When all was said and done, M tiller and Rendl would be left to face the music with little or no suspicion that he was still alive.

"... and the home of the brave." Becker joined the startled Runstedt in the final line. Both Runstedt and Becker groaned repeatedly with the effort of dragging first one body and then another through the sewage pipe to the false cabinet in the biochemical research building. Intermixed with the sounds of their effort were the scratching and scraping of countless rats, scurrying about in the pitch darkness.

The young farmer was, in height and frame, a virtual twin of Becker's. The older man, like Runstedt, was heavy, but taller than Runstedt by several centimeters.

"Don't worry about the difference in your heights, Alfi," Becker had reassured him. "By the time the explosion and fire are through with these bodies, no one will want to get any closer to them than it takes to remove our watches, rings, identification medallions, and wallets." With Becker pushing from below, Runstedt hauled the corpses through the base of the cabinet and stretched them out on the wooden floor.

"Perfect, perfect," Becker said, scrambling through the hole. "We are right on time." "Oberst," Alfi said, "I
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have one question, if I may."

"Of course."

"How will we keep the tunnel from being discovered after the fire and explosion?"

"Hah! An excellent point," Becker exclaimed. "One, I might add, that I am not at all surprised to have you make. I have kept the steel plate you removed to make the opening in the pipe. It fits perfectly, and stays in place with several small hooks I have welded on. With ashes and debris piled on top, I doubt the pipe will ever be discovered."

""Brilliant. Herr Oberst, you are a truly brilliant man."

"Thank you, Unteroffizier. And now, we must check.

Have you said anything to anyone which might suggest you are planning to leave tonight?"

"No, sir."

"Good. And have you told the men in your barrack that you will be working late in the laboratory with me?"

"Yes, Oberst."

"Wonderful. We are ready to arrange the ether, to set the charge and the timer, and to exchange clothes with our friends here."

"Then it is off to hot dogs and Betty Grable," Alfi said.

"Hot dogs and Betty Grable," Becker echoed. "But first a toast to our success thus far. Amaretto?"

"Cheroots! Amaretto! My God, Oberst, how do you keep coming up with these things?" Alfi took the proffered glass, inhaled the wonderful almond scent, and then drained the liqueur in a gulp. The cyanide, its deadly aroma and taste masked, took just seconds to work.

Becker was removing his uniform and jewelry as Runstedt, writhing and vomiting on the floor, breathed his last.

With some effort, Becker dressed the young farmer in his own uniform, adding a ring, billfold, identification necklace, and, finally, Edwin's watch, an elegant piece which many in the camp associated with him.

Next, he stepped back and, with the use of the hooded flashlight, surveyed the scene. Everything, everyone had to be perfectly placed.

He undressed the farmer who was to have served as Alfi's double, tossed the clothes to one side, and then dumped the naked body down the tunnel. "Now, Alfi, my most loyal of servants, we must find a place for you."

He shone the torch on the contorted, violet face by his feet.

In minutes the arrangement was complete. The young farmer's body lay in the center of the laboratory, his face resting beside a laboratory timer and a five-gallon tin of ether. Several other tins were spaced throughout the dry, wooden building. Alfi's body lay near the door, as far from the explosive vapors as possible. It would be the validity of Runstedt's face which would assure acceptance of Becker's own demise.

The simple elegance of the whole plan was as pleasing as a major research success, and Becker felt ballooned with pride as he made a final survey of the scene.

He checked the small ignition charge and set the timer for ten minutes. Willi Becker was grinning as he dropped into the tunnel and pulled the workbench cabinet back in place. He sealed the drainage pipe opening, and without a glance at the farmer's body, crawled toward the exit beyond the camp's electrified fence.

He was behind the wheel of the lorry, a quarter mile from the camp, when the peaceful night sky turned red gold. Seconds later, he heard the muffled series of explosions.

"Good-bye, Josef Rendl," he said. "I shall enjoy reading in The New fork Times of your trial and execution. And as for you, Dr. Miiller, it is game and match between us, eh? A shame you shall never know who really won. Perhaps someday, if you survive, I will send you a postcard." His wife and son were waiting for him in Rostock. As Becker bounced down the road, he began humming the "Star Spangled Banner."

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Chapter 1.

Sunday 9 December

The morning was typical of December in Massachusetts.

A brushed aluminum sky blended into three-day old snow covering the cornfields along Route 127. Dulled by streaks of road salt, Jared Samuels's red MGTD roadster still sparkled like a flare against the landscape.

From the passenger seat, Kate Bennett watched her husband negotiate the country road using only the thumb and first two fingers of his left hand. His dark brown eyes, though fixed on the road, were relaxed, and he seemed to be singing to himself. Kate laughed.

"Hey, Doc," Jared asked glancing over, "just what are you laughing at?"

"You."

"Well, that's a relief. For a moment there I thought you were laughing at me ... Tell me what I was doing that was so funny, I might want to write it down." "Not funny," Kate said. "Just nice. It makes me happy to see you happy. There's a peacefulness in you that I haven't seen since the campaign began."

"Then you should have turned on the bedroom light last night at, oh, eleven-thirty, was it?"

"You didn't just pass out after?"

"Nope. Five minutes of absolute Nirvana ... then I

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passed out." He flashed the smile that had always been reserved for her alone.

"I love you, you know," Kate said.

Jared looked at her again. It had been a while since either of them had said the words outside the bedroom.

"Even though I'm not going to be the Honorable Congressman from the Sixth District?"

"Especially because you're not going to be the Honorable Congressman from the Sixth District." She checked the time. "Jared, it's only nine-thirty. Do you think we could stop at the lake for a bit? We haven't in such a long time. I brought a bag of bread just in case." Jared slowed. "Only if you promise not to poach when goddamn Carlisle starts hitting to my backhand."

"Once. I stole a ball from you once in almost two years of playing together, and you never let me forget it."

"No poaching?"

Was he being serious? It bothered her that after almost five years of marriage she couldn't always tell.

"No poaching," she vowed finally, wary of making a response that would chip the mood of the morning. Lately, it seemed, their upbeat moods were becoming less frequent and more fragile.

"The ducks bless you," Jared said in a tone which did nothing to resolve her uncertainty. The lake, more a large pond, was a mile off 127 in the general direction of the Oceanside Racquet Club. It was surrounded by dense thickets of pine and scrub oak, separated by the backyards of a dozen or so houses--upper-class dwellings in most communities, but only average in i the North Shore village of Beverly Farms. At the far end of the ice cover, hockey sticks in hand, a trio of boys chased a puck up and down a makeshift rink, their bright mufflers and caps phosphorescing against the pearl-gray morning. Nearer the road, a spillway kept the surface from freezing. Bobbing on the half-moon it created were a score of ducks. Several more rested on the surrounding ice.

*jr

The couple stood motionless by their car, transfixed by the scene.

"Currier and Ives," Kate said wistfully.

"Bonnie and Clyde," Jared responded in the same tone.

"You're so romantic, Counselor." Kate managed a two-second glare of reproach before she smiled. Jared's often black sense of humor was hit or miss--"kamikaze humor," she had labeled it. "Come on, let's duck," she called.

Her runner's legs, objects of the fantasies of more than a few of her fellow physicians at Metropolitan Hospital of Boston, brought her easily down the snowy embankment, her auburn hair bouncing on the
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hood of her parka.

As she approached the water, a huge gander, honking arrogantly, advanced to get his due. Kate eyed the bird and then threw a handful of bread over his head to a milling group of smaller mallards and wood ducks. A moment later, from atop the bank, Jared scaled an entire roll precisely at the feet of the gander, who snatched it up and swaggered away.

Kate turned to him, hands on hips. "Are you trying to undermine my authority?"

"Always side with the overdog. That's my motto," he said brightly. "I even voted for Mattingly in the Sixth Congressional race. I mean who would want to waste his vote on a sure loser like the other guy?"

"A two-point defeat when you started out twenty-two behind? Some loser. Slide on down here, big boy, and I'll give you our traditional Sunday morning kiss."

"We have a traditional Sunday morning kiss?"

"Not yet."

Jared surveyed the embankment and then chose a safer, albeit much longer, route than Kate had taken. She stifled a smile. Never lift up your left foot until your right one's firmly planted was a favorite saying of Jared's father, and here was the scion--the disciple--embracing the philosophy in its most literal sense. Someday, Jared, she thought, you are going to lift up both of your feet at the same time and discover you can fly. |

His kiss was firm and deep, his tongue caressing the roof of her mouth, the insides of her cheeks. Kate responded in kind, sliding both her hands to his buttocks and holding him tightly.

"You kiss good, Doc," he said. "I mean good."

"Do you think the ducks would mind if we started making dirty snow angels?" she whispered, warming his ear with her lips.

"No, but I think the Carlisles would." Jared pulled free. "We've got to get going. I wonder why they keep inviting us to play with them when we haven't beaten them once in two years."

"They just love a challenge, I guess." Kate shrugged, tossed out the remaining bread, and followed him along the safe route to the road.

"Did someone call this morning?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Pardon?"

"While I was in the shower." Jared turned to her as he reached the MG and leaned against the perfectly maintained canvas top. "I thought I heard the phone ring."

"Oh, you did." A nugget of tension materialized beneath her breastbone. Jared hadn't missed hearing the phone after all. "It ... it was nothing, really. Just Dr. Willoughby." Kate slid into the passenger seat. She had wanted to choose carefully the moment to discuss the pathology chiefs call.

"How is Yoda?" he asked, settling behind the wheel.

"He's fine. I wish you wouldn't call him that, Jared.

He's been very good to me, and it sounds so demeaning."

"It's not demeaning. Honestly." He turned the key and the engine rumbled to life. "Why, without Yoda, Luke Skywalker would never have survived the first Star Wars sequel. What else could I possibly call someone who's three feet tall, bald with bushy eyebrows, and lives in a swamp? Anyway, what did he want?"

Kate felt the nugget expand, and fought the sensation.

"He just needed to discuss some twists and turns in the politics at the hospital," she said evenly. "I'll tell you about them later. How about we use the little time we have to plan some kind of strategic ambush for the Carlisles?"

"Don't poach. That's all the strategy we need. Now what was so important to of' Yoda at eight-thirty on a Sunday morning?"

Although the words were spoken lightly, Kate noted that he had not yet put the car into gear. From the beginning of their relationship, he had been somehow threatened both by her career and by her unique friendship with her aging department head. It was nothing he had ever said, but the threat was there. She was certain of it. "Later?" She tried one last time.

Jared switched off the ignition.