Oath Bound - Book V of The Order of the Air (26 page)

“Dora is Mr. and Mrs. Segura’s daughter,” Stasi said, giving him her hand, which he bent over courteously. The ring on his finger glittered in the light of the electric chandeliers.

“I believe someone said that you were Austrian?”

“Yes,” Stasi said airily, “My family had an old home near Budapest before the War. But that’s gone now of course. None of our lands are in the family anymore.”

“And you met Mr. Sorley…”

“Right after the war,” Stasi said, reclaiming her hand. Jimmy looked confused, as well he should since the entire conversation was in German. “Mitchell was an American military attaché assigned to the embassy in Budapest.” Which was entirely true, if anyone wanted to check Mitch’s record. “It was just a whirlwind romance!”

“Ah,” Hess said, inclining his head. “An American ace and a beautiful Austrian girl of good family. There is a motion picture in that.”

“One of those frothy ones with Ginger Rogers,” Stasi supplied, though there was no one on God’s green earth who resembled her less than Ginger Rogers.

“Do you never miss your homeland?”

“I think of it fondly, of course,” Stasi said, “but my life is with my husband and my children. I can imagine no greater happiness than I enjoy as wife and mother.” She gave him a brilliant smile. “And as you can see, I quite have my hands full!”

“I do indeed. I compliment you on your family, Mrs. Sorley. I hope you enjoy the remainder of your stay in Palermo.”

“I’m sure we shall,” Stasi said, nodding politely as he and the other gentlemen moved away.

She heard Hess turn to one of them in the doorway, “Now that is the model of Aryan womanhood, my friends.”

Douglas pulled at her sleeve. “What did that man say? He gave me the heebie jeebies.”

“We met him at the party the other night,” Stasi said, her eyes still on their retreating backs. “He said he hoped we enjoyed Palermo. I suppose it’s only to be expected that he’s lunching here since he’s staying at this hotel.”

If that was the ring that Lewis had meant — well, it had to be, didn’t it? There was something wrong, very wrong.

“I think he’s a ghost,” Douglas said.

“How could he be a ghost?” Jimmy demanded. “He’s absolutely corporeal. And everybody sees him.”

“I don’t mean like a real ghost,” Douglas said. For once he looked abashed. “I mean like a spook or something. Like he’s not completely here like the other men. Like a wraith.”

“What are you talking about?” Jimmy said. “He’s one of the aviation bosses.”

“I know what he means, darling,” Stasi said. She glanced at Douglas, who hadn’t touched his dessert at all. “Like he’s sold his soul.”

E
lena arrived early in the afternoon, and Stasi turned the children over to her. She gathered coat and hat and gloves and made her escape before anyone could ask questions. Though why should anyone ask questions? And if they did, surely it was entirely reasonable that a woman might find it easier to run certain errands without four children in tow. To that end, she paid a visit to the nearest pharmacy, relieved to find that despite the medieval exterior it carried all the modern conveniences for ladies, and then found a small cafe where she could indulge in a coffee and a pastry — a harried mother grasping at anything that would prolong her freedom — and unfolded the thin magazine she had purchased the day before. If she was going to do what she had promised, write to Bullfinch and the others, she needed to have something more substantial to tell them.

Her Italian was not very useful for reading, but she knew the symbols on the smudged cover well enough to guess that the title meant something like “Great Mysteries Revealed.” A sphinx radiated light in the center of the page, and a confusion of occult symbols formed the border: not by any stretch of the imagination a respectable publication, and she folded the cover back, ignoring the articles in favor of the advertisements in the back. Yes, there it was, the crescent moon and star that for those in the know marked a member of the Leading Star, and the discreet advertisement — private consultations, she thought it said, and something about “impeccable methods.” The name was unfamiliar, Madame Serafina Refin, and probably false anyway, but the address was not, she thought, too far from the airfield. She reached into her purse for her Baedecker, and her fingers brushed the small pin fastened to the lining of her purse. She still didn’t travel without it, though she’d never expected to use it here.

As she’d thought, the address was on the way to the airfield, just behind the church of San Giovanni Evangelista; she finished her coffee without tasting it, left a proper tourist’s tip, and made her way back onto the crowded streets. The building was old and undistinguished, with worn stone steps up between windows that advertised a men’s haberdashery to the right, and a dispirited-looking stationer’s to the left. Inside, the hall was set with modern tile, an amber globe dimming the single light bulb so that it was almost impossible to see the discreet sign pointing to Mme. Refin at the back.

It looked like any small office from the outside, but when Stasi turned the knob, the door opened onto a comfortable, homey parlor. There was a wreath of pine boughs on the inner door, scenting the air, and a tiny stove that held a coffeepot in one corner; the overstuffed chairs were a little worn, but doilies hid the worst of that, and the velvet upholstery glowed in the electric light. She looked quickly around, seeing none of the usual paraphernalia, and the inner door swung open, the movement releasing another wave of balsam.

“Good morning, signora.” Madame Refin was perhaps fifty, and wore black like a widow, her heavy gray-streaked hair tucked under in a neat roll. She wore no makeup, and her only jewelry was a plain gold ring. Stasi saw her eyes move, a quick once-over, even as she gestured to the nearest armchair. “Please, have a seat. How may I help you?”

“I’ve come for some helpful advice,” Stasi said, using the phrase she had learned years ago in Vienna, and saw the woman’s eyes flicker again. Stasi perched on the edge of the chair and opened her purse, turning the flap so that Refin could see the pin.

“Ah.” Madame Refin took a breath. “And what brings a sister here?”

“I’m passing through,” Stasi said quickly. Best to make sure that there was no question of competition. “But I’ve had an unexpected offer, and I — have some doubts. I was hoping you might be able to offer some advice, either generally or in particular.”

“Go on.”

“I was thinking of going to Germany,” Stasi said. “Not that that was my original plan, but — this offer, you see. A friend told me that there are certain parties who are interested in mediumistic talents. And other things.”

“And you want me to tell you if you should go?” Refin’s eyebrows rose. “Surely you can read that for yourself. As you’re one of us.”

“I’m more interested in what sort of a group this might be,” Stasi said. “Whether they can or will pay me what my friend promises, and also what sort of work they’re likely to want done. My friend is being very cagey, and — I like to know what I’m walking into.”

“There are a lot of groups in Germany. “ Refin cocked her head like a plump pigeon. “Tell me, does this group have any, shall we say, governmental connections?”

“It might.”

“I’ve heard both Marshal Göring and Reichsminister Hess are in town.”

“I’ve heard that, too,” Stasi said, and met the other woman’s eyes squarely.

Refin leaned back in her chair. “Well, they’ll pay you. Or so I’ve heard. If it’s the marshal, he likes lots of pomp and incense, and he’s not fussy about either the methods or the results. The minister, though… You’d best be able to deliver the goods, and he’s not going to be fooled by any of the usual methods.”

“I’m pretty good,” Stasi said, and Refin shook her head.

“He and the people he works with, they’re very serious souls. And they don’t take kindly to being crossed.”

“What sort of group is it?”

“Rosicrucians, or something like that. And very, very Germanic. I don’t know their name, they don’t traffic with the likes of me.” Refin leaned forward again. “Listen, young woman, you asked for my advice. Well, this is it. Do not take a job for the minister unless you can actually do what you promise. People have ended up dead — messily dead — for less.”

Stasi felt a chill run down her spine. This was what she had come for, confirmation that Hess was part of the world of the German lodges, something she could take home once the job was over, but this — it was more than she had expected. “Thank you,” she said, and was pleased that her voice was still steady. “I expect I won’t be taking the job after all.”

January 3, 1936

A
lma woke to Lewis’s hand on her shoulder. The light in the compartment had changed, fading toward twilight, and she sat up quickly. “How’re we doing?”

“We passed Wad Madani about forty minutes ago. Von Rosen has us looking for one last landmark, a town called Al Qadarif, and he says from there we should be able to pick up the station at Bahir Dar.”

Alma rubbed her eyes and stretched, the map unreeling in her mind. That meant they’d turned east again, heading toward the border of Sudan and Italian Eritrea. “Weather?”

“A few more clouds, but pretty much the same.  Tail wind’s picking up, which is a help.” Lewis paused. “Coffee?”

“Thanks.” Alma took a few swallows of the scalding liquid, pale and sweet the way she liked it, and stepped through the hatch into the navigator’s compartment. Iskinder was sitting at the radioman’s station, headphone on, and he pushed them back as she approached.

“This seemed to be something I could do, listen for other traffic.”

“It’s a help,” Alma answered.  “Anything?”

“Nothing so far.”

And that was definitely good news. The light in the compartment was heavy, golden; she bent to look out the starboard window and saw the sun toward the distant horizon, a dazzling smear of molten light. Below, the ground had changed, no longer barren sand but scrub and the occasional rock that cast enormous shadows across the broken ground. When she looked to port, the eastern sky was dark blue, the waxing moon rising toward the zenith. That would be a help, later, she thought, and went forward into the cockpit.

“How’s it going?”

Von Rosen had the controls, she saw, and Mitch looked over his shoulder. “So far, so good.”

“We’re looking for Al Qadarif,” von Rosen said. “That should be it ahead.”

Alma squinted, and thought she could make out darker shapes amid the dazzle, something standing up from the horizon.  They were still heading south of west, but the sunset light was almost blinding. From Al Qadarif, it should be about three hours to Bahir Dar.  “All right. Let’s switch over.”

“Sure thing,” Mitch answered, and began to free himself from the belts. Alma took his place, her adjustments automatic, and confirmed the heading and speed as she took the controls. The Cat droned on, smooth and easy at nine thousand feet. As Lewis had mentioned, a line of lower clouds was building in the west, and the patchy ceiling had dropped a bit, was maybe at ten thousand feet — presumably why they’d dropped below it, she thought, checking her instruments again as Mitch and von Rosen changed places.

“And what do you want me to do now, Mrs. Segura?” von Rosen asked.

“Help Tiny with the radio,” Alma answered. “Let me know as soon as you pick up Bahir Dar.”

For a second, she thought he was going to object, but then he nodded.  “Very well.”

The intercom crackled. “Ok, Al, I’m up as flight engineer,” Lewis said. “I’ve sent Tiny forward to man the radio.”

“I’m on the radio, Mrs. Segura,” Tiny said, in almost the same moment. “And — hey, I’m picking up something.”

“What sort of something?” Alma frowned.

“I’m not sure. Sounds like another plane? Maybe a couple of them? They’re breaking up.”

The only other planes likely to be in the area were Italian — the commercial flights had all cut back, didn’t want to venture into a war zone any more than Claudet had. “Are they speaking English?”

“I don’t think so?”

There was a snap as another headset was plugged in, and a moment later Von Rosen said, “It sounds like Italian.”

“Can you get a heading?” Alma asked. She scanned the darkening sky to the east. That was where the Italian airfields were, on the Eritrean border, but there was nothing, just the streaks of green from her own dazzled vision.

“East?” Tiny said doubtfully. “The signal’s faint.”

Then, suddenly, there they were, two faint specks.in the distance. She blinked, trying to see details — biplanes, she thought. “Does Italy have biplane fighters?”

“Yeah,” Mitch said, and Lewis answered at the same time.

“They were at the show. Fiat CR.32. Couple of machine guns, top speed’s about two-ten.”

Faster than the Cat even if she risked going flat out — and with the bright red paint job for the show, they weren’t exactly inconspicuous, even with the sun behind them to dazzle the Italian pilots. She pulled back on the wheel, putting the Cat into a climb. If she could get above the cloud layer, put clouds between them and the Italians… “I see two biplanes east of us and ahead — about ten o’clock. I’m going to take us up.”

“Good idea,” Mitch said.  He was leaning forward, craning to see the fighters. “Ok, I’ve got them. Looks like they’re running parallel with us.”

Damn. Why couldn’t they be heading for home, at the end of a long patrol, not expecting to see anything? Alma could almost feel the paint job glowing, like a neon sign against the sky.  Next time she’d pick something less conspicuous, and the hell with showing off. “Any change, Tiny?”

“No, ma’am. They’re still just talking.”

They entered the cloud, the cockpit dimming as the canopy was covered with fog. Alma checked her instruments, and a moment later the Cat broke through the cloud, coming into sudden twilight. To the east, the sky was darker still, and she thought she caught a brief glimpse of one of the Italian planes as its wings caught the last of the light.

“Not enough cover,” Mitch said.