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.’The numbers had been painted on crudely, across each chest, in white.And, since both the ‘7’ and the ‘17’ were unadorned by the continental mark, those numbers were of British origin, not German.‘If you look closely, you’ll see that Number 7 has only got one arm,’ murmured Audley as Fred lifted the photograph closer to his eye in the uncertain light.‘And, although Otto’s pretty-damn-clever, he’s not quite up to that—growing another arm … And also, if you turn on to the enlargements, the shape of the jaw is different, too.’Fred delayed for a moment, as he ran his eye along the double row of mixed German military-civilian personnel, in search of a common denominator.Number 7’s right sleeve was indeed empty, and pinned under his number across his chest; and, for a fact, most of his uniformed comrades were more-or-less battered—legless, or armless, or hideously scarred … or merely old—‘Come on.’ Audley held out his hand.‘Amos’ll give you your own pictures in due course, Fred.’Fred turned the group picture over, ignoring him.‘Just a moment, David.’Number 7, enlarged, certainly wasn’t Otto, he could see that.But somebody had done an amazingly good job of enlarging the group faces, he could see that too.It was like John Bradford had said: war had improved photography, as well as methods of navigation and surgery, and mass-murder.‘Besides which, Number 7 is dead.’ Audley sighed.‘Quite authentically dead.Which I know, because he was one of mine to research.And I don’t make mistakes.’ The familiar twist met Fred’s scrutiny.‘We were rather unlucky there, as it happens.’‘Unlucky?’Audley shook his head.‘Don’t make me go into details before dinner.It might put me off my food.Come on, for Christ’s sake, Fred!’ He held out his hand for the mock-wallet.Fred folded the wallet up.Obviously there were enlargements of every one of the group, by the thickness of it.But he still kept hold of the collection.‘What are they? War criminals?’‘War criminals?’ Audley’s eyebrows lifted.‘Good God, no! Perish the thought! We’re not … we’re not policemen, for God’s sake!’Then what are they? Who are they?‘‘Well … ’ Audley shrugged ‘ … really quite decent chaps, so far as I can make out.On the whole, I mean.That is, allowing for the fact that several of ’em were Nazi Party members.And all of ‘em are Germans, of course.Or were Germans—’ He stopped suddenly, cocking an eye at Fred.‘You’re not one of those chaps who think the only good German is a dead one, are you?’Fred felt his temper slipping.‘What the devil d’you mean?’‘What I say.’ Audley took the wallet out of his hand.‘Because they are—or were, in the majority of cases now, unfortunately—a group of officers and gentlemen, and scholars and gentlemen, working out of the Rheinische Landesmuseum at Trier—sort of official, and also semiofficial, like the old Gesellschaft fur nutzliche Forschung.’ He grinned.They were … a sort of follow-up party to the RAF you might say.‘The Society for Useful Research (allowing for Audley’s barbarous German pronunciation)—? The … RAF?‘That’s right.Christ, you’ve seen what we’ve done to Germany, haven’t you? That pile of broken bricks on the way from the airfield was the city of Frankfurt—Frankfurt! And it’s the same everywhere else—or worse … Cologne’s worse … or “Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensis”, as our beloved commanding officer insists on calling it.‘ Audley drew a deep breath, which became a sigh.’A lot of fine old cities—German cities, I agree … but some of ‘em go back a thousand years—or even back to the Romans … But all flattened now.’ He stared at Fred.‘But also cleared and opened up, too.Okay?’It wasn’t okay.But Fred was unable to describe what it was.‘Great chance for the archaeologists, after the war, someone thought.’ Audley nodded.‘After Germany had won the war—’ Slight shrug ‘—they thought … a lot of rebuilding.But they mustn’t miss the opportunity to excavate first.So someone had to mark the sites for urgent excavation.They even invented a long German technical term for what they wanted to do … which I can’t remember now, because I don’t actually speak the lingo—“urgent-rescue-excavation”, it translates, more or less.But Amos will tell you, if you ask him, anyway.’ Nod.‘Great scholars, the Germans—classical scholars.’ Audley touched his battle-dress blouse, where he had replaced the wallet.‘Several of ’em in our picture.Stoerkel, Zeitzler, Peter von Mellenthin—the late Peter being Number 7 … ‘ Audley shook his head slowly ’Enno von Mitzlaff—scholar and soldier … Langer, Hagemann … and, of course, old Professor Schmidt himself—ex-Cambridge and Bristol Universities, friend of Mortimer Wheeler.‘ Audley paused.’Dead, or “missing, presumed dead”, or still missing … but mostly dead, they are.‘But not in battle, thought Fred.Because the military wrecks and the elderly civilians in the photograph were plainly not cannon-fodder.‘How dead?’‘Franz Langer was killed in the bombing.And we think Stoerkel was in Dresden when the RAF took it off the map—that’s near enough certain, the Crocodile says.’ No nod this time, just a stare [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]