“Am I free?”
“You’re in Belgium.”
He smiled again, then started to cry.
“Hang in there,” she told him. “Help is on the way.”
“I’m dead. But I’m free. Listen to me, girl.” The man spoke in a German accent. “You must listen to me about Lazarus. He must be set free. They have him.”
She tried to calm him. He tried to prop himself up on his elbows to let her know he was serious, but he collapsed back in pain. The ground beneath him was saturated with blood.
“Lazarus, they have him. Here.” He took a photo out of his pocket. “Write to Lydia. Tell her I died a free man.” He thrust a photo at her. She didn’t even look at it; she just held his hand, crumpling the photo.
“Tell her.”
“You’re going to be okay.” She heard a vehicle approaching. “You’re going to be okay.”
“Tell Lydia I died a free man. Tell her I’m sorry.” The man didn’t finish the last word. His mouth was frozen open and he died looking into a stranger’s eyes.
Aubrey wiped a way a tear away as the truck came roaring down the road. She watched it approach. The photo went into her pants pocket and she stood as the men got out of the truck.
There were three of them. Two seemed to be workmen, and they ran to the aircraft. The other was more casual, dressed in a suit and tie with an overcoat. He walked over to Aubrey.
“He’s dead,” she said.
“I can see that,” he said.
“Who is he?”
“None of your concern. He’s nobody now. Pascal!” the man called, and the two men came over to the dead agent and picked him up by his arms and legs. They carried him to the back of the truck.
“Are you alright?” the man asked. He had a distinct upper-class British accent, and he retrieved a silver cigarette case from his coat pocket. He offered one to Aubrey. She shook her head.
“I want to get out of here. There’s an airport near here. They can repair the plane and I can continue the rally.”
The man stood smoking a cigarette and looked the plane over. “Not sure it’s worth it.”
The two men came back, carrying jerry cans. Aubrey thought they were going to refuel the Polish plane. Awfully nice of them.
“What happened?”
“We were ambushed. He got on board and the whole place lit up with fireworks. Gunfire,” she said. “We took off. I almost got my butt shot off in the process. Then we were attacked by German fighters. Two of them. Heinkel 51s, I think. They nearly got us.” She realized how foolish her words were, given one of them was lying dead in the back of a truck.
“But you managed to outmanoeuvre them?”
“I did. Got right in behind them. They thought they lost me.”
The man smiled and nodded as he puffed on his cigarette. “We should get going.”
“Yes. I’m heading south.”
“Really?” the man said. Aubrey heard splashing, and realized the men were dousing the plane in gasoline. She started to run towards them. The man with the cigarette grabbed her arm and held her. He was strong and pulled her back.
“What are you doing? That’s my plane!”
“No, it’s not. Pascal, if you please.” One of the Belgians took the two jerry cans back to the truck. The man named Pascal had a stick with a rag tied to it, and he set fire to it. He approached the plane and touched its nose, which was glistening with gasoline. The whole thing went up in a whoosh. They were pushed back by the flames.
“Get in the truck, before the petrol tank goes.” The Englishman pulled on her arm and they began to run. They got halfway to the vehicle when the plane’s fuel tanks ignited with a roar. The exquisite Polish airplane was strewn all over the field.
Aubrey kept silent until she was in the back of the truck with the British man and the dead agent. At least they’d put a blanket over him. The other two fellows got in the front.
“You crashed,” the British man said as she opened her mouth to speak. “You entered the rally and made it across Germany, but bad weather forced you down in this field. You survived, miraculously unscathed.”
“And him?”
“Never mind about him. He was never here. We were never here. Is that understood?”
“What about Lazarus?”
“I don’t know who that is. Did he say something?”
“I think that’s what he said,” she lied. “He died just after.”
“We’re going to let you out near the town. You’ll walk the rest of the way. You’ll tell them you crashed. They’ll come back out with you to the field. Afterwards, you can make contact with your embassy.”
“Guess I’m out of the race.”
“You were never really in it.”
Aubrey kept her eyes on the retreating countryside for the rest of the drive.
3
The Sopwith Camel’s stick bucked and jarred so much so that Aubrey had to grip it tightly with both hands. The thick leather gloves she wore not only kept her hands warm but provided grip on the polished piece of maple and reduced vibration. She’d never flown in weather like this before. She’d been delayed on the ground for over an hour because of engine trouble; the other competitors in the race across the Rocky Mountains had left on time and the judges had been on the verge of disqualifying her when her mechanic finally got the 130-horsepower engine going with a roar. If they had actually disqualified her, she didn’t know it. Nor had she cared. Aubrey had roared down the runway past the judges stand and was airborne. That takeoff had been in blue skies without a cloud in sight.
But as she approached the
