Upon entering her room, Aubrey studied its contents. The feeling that someone had been in here was more prominent now. She checked her markers; her overnight bag was out of alignment with the bedpost. And perhaps one of the American magazines as well. Someone may have been interested in what her reading interests were, whether they were ‘aligned’ with those of the Reich. The Führer would be out of luck, though. Harper’s Bazaar rarely ran articles on building a racially pure utopia.
The maid had been in the room; the bed was made. Perhaps she’d jostled these things. Perhaps. A quick lift of the mattress showed the gun was still there, the tip of the barrel pointed towards the bedpost. It hadn’t been disturbed.
Aubrey changed and headed down to the lobby. There was one message waiting for her at the front desk. It was from Richard Fuchs, just his name and a phone number. There were several phone booths near the elevators. Aubrey stepped into the farthest one and dialled the number on the paper. A female receptionist answered in lightning-fast German. Aubrey managed to ask to be put through to Richard.
“It’s a good thing you caught me,” he said. “I was just on my way out of the office. Did you have fun last night?”
“I did. The count took me to this underground-–”
“Not over the phone,” Fuchs said, interrupting her. “You never know who might be listening, my dear.”
“I see. Want to meet for coffee?”
“Or maybe something else.” Aubrey detected a slur in his words. “There is a café not far from your hotel. Take the number five tram for four stops. It’s a big yellow building, French design. You cannot miss it.”
“I’ll leave now.”
“See you soon.”
Aubrey saw Fuchs from a long way off. She wasn’t sure, but she thought he was stopping, scanning back the way he’d come. Paranoia? It almost looked like the fieldcraft she and Hewitt Purnsley had practised, but it was subtler than that. Maybe a journalist in Berlin, one who had apparently rankled the ruling class, had a right to be paranoid.
Richard saw her and smiled from across the street. He let a truckload of shouting, hooting SA men and a tram pass before dashing across.
“Been here long?” he asked her breathlessly.
“Two cups and one danish.”’
“Good, aren’t they?”
“Better than back home.”
“Where is home, my dear?”
There was no challenge in the way he said “my dear.” He knew that Aubrey and the count had gone on a date; maybe he suspected much, much more. If he only knew the half of what they’d gotten up to. She could still hear the sharp crack of the whip and smell the leather on the woman from the Rathskeller.
“I’m from Michigan. Little town called Sacred.”
“I want to visit America one day. You’ll have to write down the best places to go.”
“New York, Chicago, New Orleans, San Francisco.”
“And of course, this town Sacred. I will be like a pilgrim on the way to Mecca.”
“If you want to be bored out of your skull, by all means. How was the rest of the exhibition?”
“Oh, yes, that’s right—I did not see you there. I attended this morning. I have all I need for my article. German aviation at its finest, except for the sad little business of the crash. I’ll leave that part out.”
“That was dreadful. Very unfortunate for such a prestigious event.”
“It was. That SS captain, the one who almost stopped you from getting in,” he began.
“Yes, I remember him,” Aubrey said, and looked away quickly.
“He was furious with the cancelling of the exhibition. It was disgraceful; the loss of two men’s lives had ruined the event for the Führer.” A woman next to them turned her head at the scornful way Fuchs had used the leader’s title.
“You should keep your voice down.”
“We mustn’t embarrass the almighty Führer in anyway,” Richard said, his voice rising. Yes, he was definitely slurring his words, she realized.
“Seriously, how much have you had to drink?”
“Not enough, my dear. Not nearly enough.”
“You said you couldn’t handle it; I see you weren’t joking. Let’s get you a coffee. We need to sober you up before you wind up in prison.” Aubrey flagged a waiter down.
“Ah, yes—as a guest of our beloved Führer, in one of his nice little holiday camps.”
Other customers’ heads were turning now.
“If you don’t be quiet, I’m leaving. I don’t think they would stop at throwing me in jail just because I’m sitting with you.”
“No, of course they wouldn’t. I’ll bet that one there, stuffing her face with crumpet, is going to go rat me out right now. Aren’t you?” he said to the lady nearest them.
“That’s enough,” Aubrey snapped. “My apologies,” she said to the woman. “He’s been under some stress.”
“Okay, okay,” he whispered mockingly. “Concentration camps are very nasty places, I hear.”
“Me too. I know someone who was sent to one,” she said.
He stared at her in astonishment. “You’ve only been here three days. Who is it? Tell me!”
“Aren’t you afraid of guilt by association? I certainly am, with you sitting here drunk and shooting your mouth off.”
“Is this person a friend?”
“He’s not a friend, not even someone I know. I made a promise once. Seems I won’t be able to fulfill it, though. Heck… At least I tried.”
“You have my attention now, Fraulein,” Fuchs said, leaning towards her, suddenly sober as a judge. “Please tell me what you’re talking about.”
“Do people get paroled from these camps?” Aubrey asked him. “My understanding is if you go in, you don’t come out.”
“They do release people. It just takes the right amount of baksheesh.”
“What’s that?”
He rubbed his fingers together and leaned closer, lowering his voice. “As high and mighty as the Reich may wish to appear, they are not beyond corruption. In fact, quite the opposite. The entire thing is corrupt. Government appointees, Aryanization of businesses. They’re even talking of kicking undesirables out of their homes and giving them to those of good German stock. Shameful, I know.”
“So, you’re saying someone can
