The entourage disgorged its occupants and a troop of black-helmeted men came into the foyer and formed a phalanx. Then up the steps came the most enormous man Aubrey had ever seen, wearing a pale blue uniform adorned with more medals and buttons than she could count. He also wore a maniacal grin that bunched up the jowls of his fat face as he waddled up the stairs. He had a short, gilded staff in one meaty paw, and he raised it in return to the Nazi salutes. Even the count clicked his heels and shot his hand out into the air. The count’s servants came to attention, frozen in their tracks. Aubrey was the only one not paying homage to the enormous fellow entering the house. The massive man spied her and made a beeline for her. The count introduced the latecomer to her: Hermann Goering.
11
Aubrey did some sort of American version of a curtsy and immediately felt foolish. Herr Reichsmarschall Goering, Hitler’s right-hand man, smiled manically and grasped her hand in both of his pudgy, effeminate, well-manicured mitts. His enormous belly almost touched her, yet he was two feet away. He was by far the largest man she’d ever seen. He could, no doubt, no longer fit into the cockpit of his World War One fighter. Or probably any fighter, for that matter. Maybe that was why he had his own train?
The leader of the Luftwaffe and high-ranking Nazi listened intently, never taking his eyes off her, while Helmut recounted, in rapid German, her deeds in the air. Goering nodded and clucked, and then he spoke, in perfect English, which startled her. She did not know why.
“How did you enjoy the air exhibition?”
“It was impressive, sir.”
“Please, my dear, call me Hermann. There is no rank here. You hear that, Helmut? No rank tonight. We are all one big, happy band. So, Miss Endeavours, are you impressed with our new Luftwaffe?”
“I am, especially the new fighter, the Bf 109.
“Ahh, yes. Our sports car of the air.”
“The count here says he can take me up in one.”
“Yes, and why not? We want the world to see our latest achievements. The 109 will be the dominant fighter for years to come, to suppress the growing menace of world communism.”
“Herr Reichsmarschall, perhaps you would care for some hors d’oeuvres?” the count said.
“I just came from dinner, but yes, now that you mention it.” Goering was successfully distracted and veered off to a nearby waiter with a tray of food who was shaking with fear.
“He likes you,” the count said.
“I heard I should not be left alone with him.”
The count laughed quietly. “Whoever told you that is wrong. The Reichsmarschall has enormous appetites, but by all accounts, he is faithful to his wife. Unlike the rest of the cabal that surrounds the Führer.”
“Listen, Helmut, I have to use the facilities.”
“Yes, of course. Come this way.”
“I can find it on my own. I’m a pretty good navigator.” She gave him a smile to take the sting out of the words. “Just point me in the right direction.”
“Through those doors and on the left.”
“Thank you.”
Aubrey left the main reception room, and the din of conversation faded as she walked through a set of double doors. She found the ladies’ but skirted by it. She was actually in search of a phone directory. There was a kitchen at the end of the hall, and she saw cooks dashing around and the waiters in their tight white jackets and black pants balancing even more trays of food and drink. There was a set of stairs, and she ascended to the second story.
After checking that she was alone, Aubrey cautiously engaged in bit of snooping. Most of the rooms were either enormous bedrooms or completely devoid of furniture. She finally happened upon the count’s office, where she saw a bronze head of Hitler on an enormous oak desk. There were papers strewn about on it, and she glanced at them briefly, remembering her mission. They were covered in figures; industrial output numbers. They made no sense to her, but she was sure if she studied them, they would be of some value to the Brits and her uncle.
She was not stupid enough to pick them up. She was here for one thing only: to make contact with this agent of Hewitt’s, retrieve what he had to give her and get out. Still, she slid one document out and saw what she thought were kilometres per hour at various altitudes. Very useful. But no. She slid it back into the pile.
She opened a desk drawer and saw a book. A quick flip through it showed that it was a phone directory, very similar to an American version. She turned to the F’s, scanning for Frick, and saw one entry in Wannsee. She memorized the address, 32 Eindhoven Strasse, and the phone number. She closed the book with a slap and then froze. Someone was there.
“What exactly are you doing there?” a voice called into the room, chilling her to the bone.
She turned, half expecting it to be the count, praying it would be. It was worse, much worse. Captain Schmidt stood in the doorway, his chest and chin thrust forward in accusation. He strode over to her.
“I said, what are you doing in here? At the count’s personal desk?”
“I was looking for the bathroom. I just wandered in.”
The SS captain took one look at the papers on the desk and realized their importance. “You were spying.”
“I was not. I’ll be honest, I was looking for a phone book. Found one.” She tapped the book.
“You were spying. These are classified documents.”
“Then why does the count have them on his desk?”
The SS man moved uncomfortably close and grabbed one of her biceps. “You were spying.”
“No, not true. I wasn’t, honest.”
His eyes bored into her as he spoke. “The tulips in Amsterdam
