got carried away .. . you don't know how I hate these bastards."
"I've got a good idea, Stanley. They killed -my brother. The interrogation, please."
"Right. Who are you, where do you come from, and whom do you represent?"
"I am a prisoner of war and I am not required-"
Witkowski struck the neo's mouth with the back of his free hand, the blow savage, his gold army ring drawing blood.
"There's a war, all right, you scum, but it's not declared, and you're not entitled to a damn thing except what I can dream up for you. And let me assure you, it won't be pleasant." The colonel looked up at Latham.
"There's an old carbine bayonet of mine on the desk over there, I use it to open envelopes'. Be a good lad and bring it to me, will you? We'll see how it opens throats, that's really what it was designed for, you know."
Drew crossed to the desk and returned with the snub handled blade as Witkowski probed the flesh around the terrified false courier's neck.
"Here you are, Doctor."
"Funny you should say that," said the far older G-2 veteran.
"I was thinking of my mother only last night; she always wanted me to become a doctor, a surgeon, to be exact. If she said it once, she said it a thousand times.
"You got big strong hands, Stachu. Be a doctor who operates; they make good money." .. . Let's see if I can get the hang of it." The colonel jabbed his finger into the soft flesh just above the German's breastbone.
"This feels like, a good place to start," he continued, lowering the point of the blade.
"It's kind of Jell-O-like, and you know how that spreads so easily when you put the edge of a spoon into it. Hell, it ought to be a cinch with a knife, and believe me, this is a real knife. Okay, let's start the first incision-how do you like that?
"Incision."
"Nein!" shrieked the struggling neo as a trickle of blood rolled down across his neck.
"What do you want from me? I know nothing, I do only as I'm ordered!"
"Who gives you the orders?"
"I don't know! I receive a telephone call-a man, sometimes a woman-they use my code number and I inuist obey."
"That's not good enough, scum bucket-"
"He's telling the truth, Stosh," Latham broke in quickly, stopping Witkowski from cutting further.
"The other night, that driver told me the same thing, practically word for word."
"What were your orders tonight?" pressed the colonel as the Nazi screamed under the increased pressure of the blade.
"Tonight!" roared Witkowski.
"To kill him, jato kill the traitor, but to make sure we take the body far away and burn it."
"Burn it?" interrupted Drew.
"Ja, and to cut off the head, burning it also, but in another place, far away from the body."
Chapter Thirteen
""Far away' .. . ?" Drew stared at the trembling, horror-stricken neo.
"I swear it, that's all I know!"
"The hell it is!" shouted the colonel, drawing more blood.
"I've interrogated hundreds like you, slug ball and I know. It's always in your eyes, something you haven't said, haven't told us! .. . A kill's no big deal, the rest of it's a little tougher, maybe a lot more dangerous, carrying around a dead body, cutting off a head, and burning everything. That's even a little weird for you psychopaths.
What haven't you told us? Talk, or it's the last breath of air in your throat!" I .
"Nein, please! He will die shortly, but he cannot die among the enemy! We must reach him first!"
"He's going to die?"
"Ja, it cannot be stopped. Three days, four days, that's all he has, all we know. We were to take him tonight, kill him before morning, far away, where he will not be found."
Latham walked away from the couch, half in a daze, trying to understand the enigma presented by the Nazi revolutionary.
Nothing made sense, except one apparently incontrovertible projection.
"I'm sending this rat face over to French Intelligencewith our entire testimony, every word he said here, which,
actually, we've got, thanks to that little machine on my desk," said Witkowski.
"You know, Stosh," countered Drew, turning around and looking at the colonel, "maybe you should put him on a diplomatic jet to Washington, to Langley, no information available, except to the receivers at the
CIA."
"Good Christ, why? This is a French problem."
"Maybe it's more than that, Stanley. Harry's list. Perhaps we should see who at the Agency tries to protect this man, or, conversely, who tries to kill him."
"You're beyond me, youngster."
"I'm beyond myself,