“You are a famous aviatrix from America. He would love to bore you with his war stories. Please come to my home. It is not far from here. We can leave from the exhibition.”
“I’m not dressed.”
“Nonsense. You are perfect. I have some business to attend to, so please enjoy the rest of the exhibition and I will collect you closer to three. It’s a short drive to my home in Wannsee.”
Aubrey remembered the writing on the back of the picture: Lydia Frick, Wannsee.
“If you insist,” she said.
“I do,” the count said, and smiled.
When Aubrey went to the front gate at three, she spied the count talking to the two young airmen who had driven her to the exhibition. They were ramrod straight and threw up salutes, but the count ignored them. He spotted her emerging from the airfield and waved her over.
Richard Fuchs was there too, with a gaggle of journalists.
“You finished for the day?” she asked him.
“We are. Would you let me show you some of the sights of Berlin? We’re headed to a bar.”
“Not tonight. I have a date, remember?”
Richard saw who she was talking about. He turned his back on the count. “I cannot compete with that.”
“Don’t say that. I hardly know him. I hardly know you, for that matter.”
“Another time, perhaps. You’ll be here tomorrow?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Who was that?” the count asked when she joined him.
“A reporter friend of mine. German. Works for one of your newspapers.”
“I’ve never seen him. But then again, reporters buzz around me all day; I don’t take the time to get to know them any more than I would a house fly.”
“You don’t like reporters much, do you?”
“A necessary evil.”
“I’m a reporter.”
“You’re the exception, my dear. I took the liberty of discharging your minders.”
“I saw that. They seemed frightened of you.”
“Just being good German soldiers.”
“I see.”
“This way.” He led her over to a massive Mercedes Benz touring car. There were side pipes coming out of the engine as thick as those on a warplane.
“Look at this beast,” Aubrey said, giving a low whistle.
“Two-ninety horsepower, top speed of one hundred and twenty miles. My driver got it up to that speed once on the new Autobahn. It was thrilling.”
“Almost as good as flying one of those 109s.”
“Almost.”
“You mentioned you would take me up in one.”
“All in good time, my dear. All in good time. First, we have to dine and meet the top brass. We can discuss the flight later tonight.”
He showed Aubrey into the rear of the big car. There was a thick ruby-coloured curtain hanging in the gap between the driver and the passenger compartment. The count went around the other side and the chauffeur opened the door for him. He slid onto the seat beside Aubrey, the door was slammed shut and they were safely cocooned.
There was a well-stocked bar built into the back of the front seats below the curtain, and he poured her a sweet vermouth.
“This is the only way to travel,” Aubrey said, and she sank back into the comfortable seat with her cocktail.
“Is it? said the count. “I wouldn’t know.”
“You wouldn’t know what it was like to drive your own tractor or walk ten miles to town?”
“No, I would not. My family is one of the few aristocratic ones that has not had their family fortunes privatized.”
“Who has?”
“Jews, mostly.” The way he said ‘Jews’ was neutral; she could not tell if he despised them or felt sympathy. She decided it was somewhere in between.
With drinks poured, the car motored out onto the Autobahn for the drive to Wannsee. The car rumbled at first, and then the engine smoothed out and grew high in tone as it sped up. Aubrey sipped her vermouth and looked out the window at the passing countryside.
“My word, we are really flying. I wish Father’s truck could go this fast. I might give up flying for auto racing.”
“Have you been to an auto race? The European Grand Prix is in two weeks.”
“I haven’t, and sadly, I can’t stick around for it.”
“That’s disappointing. It really is something to see—a real blood sport.”
“I know. I’ve read of the crashes. Drivers killed—spectators, too.”
“They know the risks, those racing the cars and those coming to see it.”
“Still.”
They passed some slower-moving sedans that went by in a whirl.
“How fast are we going?”
“I’d say at least a hundred miles an hour.”
“Incredible.”
“Another drink?”
“A short one.” Aubrey remembered Hewitt Purnsley’s cautionary words about getting tipsy. She was already feeling a warm glow from the drink. Hopefully they would have soda water at this shindig she was attending.
The count’s house was not what she had been expecting. He read her disappointment.
“You thought I lived in a castle.”
“Of course—like Dracula.”
He chuckled. “The family had one centuries ago, but the villagers sacked it and set the torch to it. The ruins are still there. Perhaps you are interested?”
“I don’t have the time, Count.”
“Please, call me Helmut.”
“Helmut.”
“That’s my given name. You can call me Your Grace or Count von Villiez when we are around others. Not for my sake, of course, but to avoid offending anyone who still holds on to these sentimentalities from a bygone era.”
“You’ve moved on.”
“We had to. Our positions were abolished in 1918, as part of the German revolution, to keep the allies happy. All we kept were our titles.”
“And money.”
“Those who saw it coming and turned their lands and holdings into cash deposited into Swiss banks, yes. Most are penniless. I’m somewhere in between.”
“Doesn’t look like it to me.” The house they were approaching was not a Gothic castle, but it was still impressive. She judged it to be around the same size as the east wing of the White House, a place she’d visited personally with some of the other Ninety-Nines, the group of women flyers that Earhart had set up. Helmut’s stately house was a pale yellow in colour, with a large circular driveway that led under an overhang.
The driver stopped the car at the front steps and opened the rear doors for
