Hart’s War

"Keep talking," Tommy said quietly.

The fighter pilot snorted, as if finding the memory distasteful.

"One of the things he got, man, I only saw it just the one time, but I remember thinking who the hell wanted that? I figured had to be some heavy-duty souvenir, yah know, but it sure was an unusual one, 'cause if the Krauts ever found it during one of their goddamn hut searches, well, anyone would know there'd be hell to pay, so I couldn't see getting it, myself, but…"

"What are you talking about?" Tommy asked, probably more sharply than necessary, but still speaking under his breath.

The captain from New York paused again, then replied: "It was a knife.

Like, a special knife. Like the type that Von Reiter wears when he's got his fanciest gotta go meet the bosses uniform on."

"Like a dagger? Real thin and long?"

"That's the type. This was SS super special, too. I saw it had one of those death's head skulls on the handle. Very Nazi.

The real deal. Probably only get that for doing something real wonderful for the fatherland, yah know. Like burning books or maybe beating up on women and kids, or shooting unarmed Russians. Anyway, I couldn't see it as a souvenir. No sir. Get caught with that in your kit, and the Krauts were likely to slam your butt into the cooler for a fortnight. They take that ceremonial stuff pretty seriously. Krauts got no sense of humor whatsoever."

"Where did you see it?"

"Vic had it. I saw it just once. I was in his room, playing some cards with his roommates when he came in with it. Said it was a special order. Wouldn't say who it was going to, but Vic sure made it seem like somebody had paid him something extra special for it. A big deal trade, I'd guess. Somebody wanted that knife something fierce. He squirreled it away with the rest of his loot, wouldn't say who it was going to. I didn't think much about it, until Vic got killed and they said it was with a knife, and I was wondering whether it mighta been that very same knife. Then I heard that it was some homemade job that Scott made up. Then I heard some scuttlebutt that maybe it wasn't, and I started thinking about that knife again. Anyway, don't know if it's helpful, or not, Hart, but thought you might be interested. Wish I knew who got it. That would help a whole lot more. But still, there it is.

Someplace in this lousy camp's an SS dagger. And I'd be wondering about that, if I was you. Would be kinda unusual, too, if it turned out that Trader Vic got murdered with a weapon that he made a deal for."

"Where do you think he got it?"

The captain from New York snorted a small laugh.

"Only one ferret's got that sort of juice, Hart. You and I both know."

Tommy nodded. Fritz Number One.

He heard, in that second, a catch in the captain's voice, as the man continued.

"One other thing's been bothering me. Don't know if it's important, or not…"

"Go on," Tommy said.

"It could be nothin'. I mean, who knows about this shit, right?"

"What was it?"

"You remember tack a coupla weeks when the tu

The one where the two guys got caught and died?"

"Sure. Who doesn't?"

"Yeah. Right. Sure as hell that MacNamara and Clark remember.

I think they were counting on that sucker. Anyways, right around that time Vic was real busy. I mean, real busy. I saw him ducking out more than once, middle of the night."

"How would you know that?"

The captain laughed briefly.

"C'mon, Hart. There's some questions you shouldn't wa

And I usta be a motorman in a subway. Now, that should tell you that maybe because I ain't some big, tall college guy like yourself and

Scott, there, that maybe somebody's got some other type job for me every so often. You know, the type of job where tall ain't no special advantage, yah don't mind much getting your hands dirty, and it sure as hell helps to be usta being underground."

Tommy nodded.

"I got you."

The pilot continued.

"You know, the night those guys died, I was supposed to be with 'em.

Hadn't been for my sinuses actin' up, I'da been buried in that sand, too. Right alongside 'em. I been thinking about that a lot."

"Lucky."

The fighter pilot caught his words, then continued: "Yeah.

Guess so. Luck's a fu

You can ask him about luck. Hart. All fighter jockeys know about luck. Good luck. Bad luck. Whatever the fates got in store for you kinda luck. Goes with the job description."

"So, what are you saying?"

"What I'm saying is this: I heard, real reliable, that Trader Vic came into some pretty unusual stuff right about that same time. Stuff that some folks in here would find mighty valuable.

Like Kraut identity cards, travel vouchers, and some currency. You know, Reichsmarks and that sort of stuff.

He also came up with something very interesting: a train schedule. The honest-to-God real deal, that bit of info. Now ain't that the sort of information that can only come from one place and costs a helluva lot and that some people around here would do anything to get their hands on. And I do mean anything."

"When I saw them divvying up Vic's stuff after he was killed I didn't see anything like that," Tommy said.

"No. And you wouldn't. Because stuff like what we're talking about would go direct to the right folks. No matter how good he's got his stuff stashed, why, those documents and papers and shit would be very dangerous. And you could never be completely sure that the Kraut who traded for the stuff wouldn't come right back at you, searching for your stash with a buncha other goons. And if they found any of that stuff, they'd likely seize just about everything you had before tossing you in the cooler for the next hundred years, so it was stuff you'd be turning over to the right folks real goddamn fast, you see what I'm saying? The folks that have some use for that stuff would know what to do with it, and they would be doing whatever it was real quick, you know?"

"I think I'm getting the picture "Tommy started, only to have his words sliced off by the captain directly behind him.

"But yah can't, not really, 'cause even I don't get it. Those guys get killed in the tu

Even when I was digging, I never knew who the hell was pla

The pilot snorted another laugh, as if he'd inadvertently made a joke.

"Hell," he said briskly, "then they'd all look just like that goddamn

Nazi, Visser, that's skulking around here and always keeping his beady little eyes on you. Hart."

Even Tommy smiled at that thought.

The New Yorker coughed, and continued, "But I'm thinking that the stuff has gotta be worthless to anybody pla

It bothers me."