She ran her hand over to his side of the large mattress, found the sheets cold. She smiled at the comfort of the place and the memories of everything they’d done. Propped up on both elbows, she surveyed the room; it had been in darkness when they’d first entered earlier that morning.
The room was white everywhere: the furniture, the walls and ceilings. The walls were white paper with thin gold lines that flashed in the morning light streaming in through the open windows. There was a balcony with an espresso table and a set of chairs, all white. There was gold jewellery, a tie pin and cuff links scattered on a white cloth on top of the large dresser. Her clothes were folded neatly on a chair instead of heaped on the floor where she’d left them. How thoughtful. A thick robe lay on another chair, and a doorway led to an en-suite bathroom.
The air felt cold against her skin when she sprang from the bed and dashed to the bathroom, grabbing the robe as she went. Hot needles of water tickled her flesh in the shower. She held herself, all soapy and warm again, and ran her hand down her belly to between her legs. She fantasized about the count coming into the shower behind her and embracing her, pressing his hardness against her. She wondered if he was still in the house. She dried herself off with a plush towel and wrapped herself in the robe.
There was a knock at the door. The count? No, he wouldn’t knock, although he might knock and enter simultaneously. This was his room, and Aubrey had nothing left to hide from him. Another knock: the light knuckle-rap of a female.
Aubrey bade the person to come in. She recognized the maid from the soiree the count had thrown. The young girl was carrying a tray of delicious-looking buttered buns and bacon and a pot of tea. She spoke to Aubrey in German. Aubrey’s brain was still buzzing; she didn’t bother to try and interpret it. The woman put the tray outside on the balcony after not receiving a reply.
Aubrey’s watch showed nearly noon. This wasn’t breakfast; it was brunch. Here it was, the last day of the air exhibition, and she was playing hookey. As if on cue, a very fast airplane roared overhead, a white contrail extending behind it. Perhaps a Bf 109? She remembered Helmut’s promise of a ride in one. Then she remembered her mission. If Hewitt Purnsley was sitting beside her, he would say “You damn fool, you silly girl. Lounging around in a German’s bed.”
But what would he say if he knew she was on the cusp of obtaining real, firsthand knowledge of the 109’s capabilities? What better way of finding out than to actually take one up in the air, feel the throb of the stick between her legs, the thunder of the engine, as she rolled that sucker over into a dive to find out what it could handle? Huh, Hewitt Purnsley? How about that? She was confident that when the count took her up, he would let her take the controls. Hang in there, she told herself. This is the way forward. Forget hustling over to the airfield to catch the last of the speeches and sales pitches. Stick with the count: he’ll get you up in the damn thing. That might make up for the failed meeting with Agent Starlight. A shiver of fear ran down her back when she thought of the blond-haired spy and his aborted attempt at passing her information. She wondered what the man had had for her. It’s not for you, Aubrey, she reminded herself. It’s for Hewitt and John Walton.
Aubrey dressed and descended to the lobby. A butler appeared with a note on a silver platter.
My dearest Aubrey,
My work called me away early this morning and I did not want to wake you. Wilbur will ensure you get back to your hotel. I would like to have dinner with you again this evening, if possible. I can meet you at your hotel at 8. If this is not convenient, please inform Wilbur. But I do so desperately hope that it is.
Until later, my love,
Helmut
When she returned to the Hotel Adlon, she had an inclination to get changed and head over to the air exhibition for the last few hours. If Captain Schmidt was there, he might be able to pass on whatever information he had this time.
The more distance and time she put between herself and the count’s bedroom and the things that had happened in there, the more doubts she had. The smart thing to do, Aubrey, she told herself, would be to get your things and get on a train out of here. Perhaps even leave the gun behind for some lucky traveller to find, or a maid, lest she be caught with it at the border.
She felt warm again when she thought of Helmut. It wasn’t time to leave Berlin, and in the midst of all this danger and intrigue she felt the cloak of his protection over her. She had funny fantasies of the two of them running away together, perhaps back to America. He would be the most dashing foreigner in all of Sacred, Michigan. They could turn her father’s farm into a horse breeding operation, or perhaps an airstrip for a flying school. These wild schoolgirl fantasies
