“I was on the Western Front,” Lewis said. “AEF Air Service. Two-seaters, and then promoted to fighters.”
Before Alma could say anything — she could brag about Lewis’s medals, even if he couldn’t — a voice interrupted.
“There you are, Carl!” The speaker was a lanky, good-looking man about her own age, his fair hair brushed straight back from his high forehead. He was loose-limbed and smiling and, she thought, a bit tight, and the woman on his arm looked just as elevated. She was pretty and curvy with curly brown hair held back in gold clips shaped like little biplanes. Another flyer? Alma wondered. She hadn’t seen her at the show, but then, she’d been kept mostly in the harbor. “Your uncle-in-law sent me to fetch you.”
For just an instant, an expression of annoyance flickered across von Rosen’s face, but he controlled it instantly. “I suppose he must not be kept waiting. If you’ll forgive me, dear lady, Mr. Segura.”
He bowed and turned away. The fair-haired man watched him go, swaying slightly, then turned back to Lewis. “You’re the man who flew the Dart today.”
“And you flew the — Stuka?” Lewis tested the pronunciation, and the fair-haired man grinned.
“That’s me.” He held out his free hand, and Lewis took it. “Ernst Udet.”
“Lewis Segura.” Lewis put his hand gently on Alma’s arm. “My wife Alma.”
“Enchanté, dear lady,” Udet said, klicking his heels. “And this is Francesca Mueller, who’ll make a pilot someday. Mrs. Segura flies the big planes, Flick.”
“Hownicetomeetyou,” the girl said, in a rush. Alma suspected that exhausted her English, and wondered if she spoke Italian.
“And Mr. Segura — let’s just say it was a good thing for us that he came late to single-seaters.”
“Very kind,” Lewis said.
“I like that Dart,” Udet said. “If I ask Mr. Kershaw to let me look it over, will you put in a good word? I’d do the same for the Stuka.”
“I’d like that,” Lewis said. “And of course I’ll do what I can.”
Francesca — Flick? — tugged at his elbow, and Udet looked down at her, laughing. “Flick, liebchen, you’ll have to be more discreet. But, yes, I promised we’d dance. If you’ll excuse us?”
They slipped away through the crowd, and Alma shook her head. “He’s — a character.”
“And one hell of a pilot,” Lewis answered. “Sixty-two kills. And he made it to the Armistice.”
He’s got a right to get drunk, then, Alma thought. She tucked her hand more tightly into the crook of Lewis’s arm and sipped at her warming champagne. Under her fingers, she felt Lewis stiffen, and followed his gaze across the room. Von Rosen had found his uncle-in-law, it seemed, stood talking to a big man in a well-tailored uniform swagged with braid, but the medal at his throat was familiar: the Pour le Mérite, the Blue Max that was Imperial Germany’s highest honor. A Hollywood-pretty blond stood with them, diamond bracelets on both wrists, but Lewis’s eyes were on the German.
“I know that man, too,” he said.
“The one von Rosen’s talking to?”
Lewis nodded. “He took over the Flying Circus after von Richthofen was killed. He was in command at the Armistice — twenty-two kills. I met him once, one of those meandering dogfights that goes on and on, circling and circling and never getting the advantage. I got close enough to see his face—” He stopped, shaking his head, and Alma didn’t prompt him. “But that’s him all right. Hermann Göring.”
The dancing was well underway at last. Lewis had partnered Alma in a careful waltz — they were neither one of them particularly practiced dancers — and they’d attempted a foxtrot before retreating to one of the little tables in the dining room. They’d gotten another glass of champagne and a plate of exotic canapés, peering through the arches at the dance floor, where Mitch and Stasi were performing a perfectly sedate and impeccably executed foxtrot of their own.
“Not at all like a Legion dance,” Alma said, with a quick smile.
Lewis grinned. “Not in any way, shape, or form.” The Legion hall back home had been Chip Gunderson’s grandfather’s barn before Chip agreed to rent it to the Legion for a dollar a year, and everyone had chipped in to make the improvements — like a sanded floor and actual indoor plumbing and some hastily knocked-together partitions that did nothing to keep in the heat from the inadequate wood stove. But with forty or more people dancing, the place was warm enough — nothing like this place, though. Nothing at all. He could see Henry across the dance floor, talking to a very pretty young woman and a man in a uniform that Lewis didn’t recognize; Tiny was at a table at the end of the hall, talking with a group of boys in a mix of civilian dress and uniforms — staying out of trouble, it looked like, and Lewis set down his glass to clap as the music ended.
Mitch and Stasi came off the dance floor in a rush, Mitch pulling out Stasi’s chair and leaning close to be heard over the sudden rumble of conversation. “I need a drink. Can I get anyone else anything?”
“Champagne, darling,” Stasi said, and Alma nodded.
“Me, too, thanks.”
Lewis shook his head, and Mitch waded into the crowd gathering beside the bar.
“You look splendid out there,” Alma said.
Stasi touched her hair and seemed to relax as she felt all the pins in place. Lewis reached for his lighter, lit her cigarette, and she took a deep breath of the smoke. “Thank you — and thank you, too. It’s a lovely orchestra, isn’t it?”
“As good as the ones in St. Petersburg?” Lewis couldn’t resist the earnest question, and Stasi gave him a sidelong glance, her mouth prim but her eyes filled with mischief.
“Well, no, darling, but they were very special. And of course they had more incentive than most —”
She broke off as Count von Rosen loomed up out of the crowd, clicking his heels to bow generally to the table. “Ladies. Mr. Segura. I wondered, Mrs. Segura, if I might persuade you to dance? If Mr. Segura permits.”
The orchestra was starting up again, flourishes that would settle into a waltz. Lewis looked at Alma, got the smallest of shrugs in return. “If Alma wants, sure.”
Alma looked up at von Rosen, and her smile had steel in it. “If you’re planning on picking my brains about the Cat, you’d be better coming by for a proper tour.”
Von Rosen tipped his head to one side. “Don’t tell me you don’t have all the figures at your fingertips, Mrs. Segura.”
“Oh, I do,” Alma answered. “I’m just not that good a dancer.”
Von Rosen blinked, and then smiled. It was an unexpectedly charming expression, and took ten years off his austere face. “Then I will definitely come to the harbor as soon as possible, and have a proper tour. And in the meantime, perhaps you would honor me with the dance? I promise to let you concentrate.”
Alma smiled back, and rose to her feet. “Sure. But I can only promise I won’t trip you up on the plane.”
“Understood entirely.” Von Rosen offered her his arm, and led her onto the dance floor.
Stasi gave him a sharp-eyed glance, and blew a wobbly smoke ring. “Who was that, darling?”
“Count Carl Gustav von Rosen,” Lewis answered. “I think he wants to buy a flying boat, though why I’m not sure.”
“Him or his government?” Stasi asked. “And who is his government, I wonder?”
“I don’t know. He’s related to the German Air Marshal, I think.”
“Which doesn’t necessarily make him German, of course.” Stasi blew another, more successful smoke ring, and Lewis saw her eyes fix on something to his right. He glanced casually in that direction, and saw one of the organizers, Fillipini, coming toward their table.
“Signore Segura, Signora Sorley! I hope you are well this evening?”
Lewis nodded, and Stasi gave him a brilliant smile. “This is a lovely party. Absolutely lovely!”
“It is by the courtesy of two of our sponsors,” Fillipini said conscientiously. “It is the sales
departments of Bavarian Motor Works and of Fokker who have paid for the champagne.”
“Very nice of them,” Lewis said.
“Yes, indeed,” Stasi echoed. “Such a very nice party.”
“I am so glad you are enjoying it,” Fillipini said. “But — I wonder, Signora, if I might impose upon you just for a moment? There is one of your countrymen who perhaps is in need of assistance, but I cannot find anyone who speaks Russian —
Lewis turned to follow Fillipini’s discreetly pointed chin, and saw one of the young Soviet fliers slumped low in his chair in the darkest corner of the room. “Drunk.”
“Quite possibly,” Fillipini said, “and, again, Signora, I do apologize of asking, but perhaps a lady’s voice, in his native tongue?”
“Native tongue?” Stasi repeated.
“I believe your charming husband said you were Russian?” Fillipini smiled nervously.
“Did he?” Stasi matched him tooth for tooth, a sure sign she was rattled. “I’m sure he meant Austrian! I’m Austrian, darling.”
Fillipini looked confused. As well he might, Lewis thought, and cleared his throat. “If the man’s drunk — you should probably find some of his own team.”
“Ah.” Fillipini looked from one to the other as though he was certain his English had failed him.
“Austrian,” Stasi said firmly. “Not Russian.”
“Ah,” Fillipini said again. “Well. Then you will not speak Russian to him.”
“Is that their team leader?” Lewis asked. “By the orchestra?”
“Perhaps?” Fillipini straightened. “That would certainly be the best. Excuse me.”
He bustled off, and Stasi let out a long breath.
“Problem?” Lewis looked around for either Mitch or a waiter, but neither was in signaling distance, though Mitch was getting closer to the bar.
“And how. I don’t speak a word of Russian, darling. I’d never get by with it for a second with any actual Russians.”
“So what have you been doing?”
“I just speak Czech and nobody knows the difference.”
“Do you speak Austrian?” Lewis asked.
“German, darling. Austrians speak German — well, not to hear the Germans tell it, but I speak German like a duck.”
“Ducks speak German?”
“It’s a saying.” Stasi looked as though she really wanted that glass of champagne. “I’ve got to tell Mitch he can’t say I’m Russian —”
The music stopped, and they both clapped, Lewis glancing sideways to see Mitch finally returning with the three glasses of champagne.
“Darling,” Stasi began, but Lewis saw Alma and von Rosen coming back to the table, and shook his head.
“Trouble?” Mitch asked.
“Later,” Stasi said, and downed half her glass.
Von Rosen handed Alma to her seat, and lifted a finger to summon a waiter with a tray of drinks. Lewis accepted one, feeling that he’d earned it, and Stasi swallowed the rest of her drink. “Mitch, darling, let’s dance.”
Mitch blinked, but rose obediently to his feet and let her lead him toward the dance floor. Alma gave Lewis a sharp look, and he gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. She relaxed and he turned his attention to von Rosen, hoping that this conversation wouldn’t lead into deep waters.
That’s it, Mitch thought. I am officially the gawking American. The ballroom glittered with light, the enormous chandeliers dripping with crystal, and more torchieres flared from every wall and pillar, also wired for electricity and hung with glass. The women in their sleek satin and diamonds were just as glittering, and the number of men in full dress uniforms was a little alarming. It was just that most aviation research was funded by the military, he told himself, but he couldn’t help being aware of the number of medals worn by men who were otherwise in civilian formal wear.
The French ace Vuillemin, now a senior commander of the French Air Force, caught his eye, the scarlet sash of the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honor bright across his perfectly tailored coat. While they were in Hawaii, the Lodge had managed to stop a plot to use the Legion of Honor to find and influence its members, past and present, and Mitch looked away before anyone noticed him staring. If the conspirators had managed to control Vuillemin — and who knew how many others in positions of power all over Europe — it didn’t bear thinking about. The Lodge had blocked that path from ever being used, and that was something he could be proud of.
He glanced sideways at Stasi, walking decorously at his side, back straight and head held regally high, her gloved hand resting lightly on his arm. “So what gives?”
Her red lips quirked slightly, as though she suppressed a smile. “I’m Austrian, darling. Not Russian. Please try to remember that while we’re here.”
“Absolutely,” Mitch said. Keeping Stasi’s stories straight was always fun, though he thought this one was a little closer to the truth than usual. “Any particular reason I should remember that?”
“Because there’s a Soviet air team here, and I don’t actually speak Russian.”
“Ah.”
“Exactly.” She paused. ”How many people have you told I’m Russian, anyway?”
Mitch considered. “Not too many.”
“Let’s hope they don’t remember.”
Her voice was tight, and he glanced down at her again. ”Of course, it would be incredibly rude to ask a Russian countess to translate for a Soviet soldier. There’s no knowing what bad memories or old feelings there might be between them. A wronged lady who’s resourceful enough — or wronged enough — she might even attempt to take her revenge on one of them. No, probably safer just not to ask.”
Stasi smiled in spite of herself. “There’s that. But I’d rather not make a memorable scene.”
The orchestra began the prelude to a Viennese waltz, and he smiled down at her instead. “Shall we?”
She nodded, turning gracefully into his arms, and he steered them onto the floor, falling into step between two well-dressed couples. Stasi was light in his arms, responsive to each suggestion, and they circled the room, each formal figure perfectly performed. It was like a movie, he thought, some elaborate Hollywood adventure where the hero wanders into a troubled European kingdom, and ends up dancing with an elegant jewel thief. That was a little too close to reality, and he pivoted neatly. The aviator hero ends up with the very dangerous princess who wants the throne for herself. Yes, that had possibilities, a memory he’d save for when they were back home, but at the moment… He smiled down at Stasi.
“I think I’m out of my league.”
“Nonsense, darling.” They spun together, the most old-fashioned form of the dance they knew, no place here for the sparks and twirls they danced at home. “You’re an American ace. Of course you belong.”
But he didn’t, Mitch thought, as another set of turns gave him a good view of the crowd. He had seven kills, and each one still made him vaguely queasy; he’d gotten them because he was good, because flying was his one great talent, the thing for which he was born, not because he had the killer instinct. The other aces here all had that, and he could see it in the young pilots’ eyes, the same sharp hunger he saw sometimes in Lewis. Lewis should have been an ace twice over, if they’d counted the kills he’d made from two-seaters at the beginning of the war; he had two more in the eight months or so he’d been flying fighters, and had loved every minute of it…
He put that thought away, familiar doubt, and smiled apologetically at Stasi. She was humming something under her breath, and he bent his head to catch it.
“… The Blue Danube Waltz, by Strauss, that louse, is sharing a house, with Mickey Mouse…”
He burst out laughing, the sour mood utterly exploded. ”Where in the world did you get that?”
“Douglas.” Stasi beamed. “I think it’s in some cartoon or other.”
“Of course,” Mitch said, and swung her into a sweeping turn that was almost as good as flying.
It was well a
fter midnight by the time they returned to the hotel. Dora was contentedly asleep with Merilee in the children’s bedroom, and it seemed easier to leave her there. Lewis tipped the young maid who had acted as babysitter while she assured them in excellent English that the children had been no trouble at all, and finally closed the main door of his and Alma’s room with a sigh of relief. Alma shed her fur on the nearest chair, and crossed to the window, pulling back the curtain to look down on the palm trees and the gaslit courtyard. The gold dress showed pale against the dark, and Lewis didn’t switch on the overhead, instead flicking on one of the small lights on the console behind the sofa. They had been given a semi-suite, with a sitting area in the big bedroom and a tiny second bedroom for Dora; it was nice to have the room entirely to themselves for an evening.
He came up behind Alma, and she let the curtain fall into place, leaning against him as he put his arms around her waist. They were nearly of a height, and he rested his cheek against her hair, breathing in the scent of her perfume and other people’s cigarettes.
“Well, I think I’ve got one buyer for Floyd,” she said.
“The count?”
She nodded.
“What does he want a flying boat for? I mean, I can’t see a lot of demand in Europe, and he didn’t look like the sort of guy who was planning to start his own air service.”
“He’s pretty slick, isn’t he?” Alma wrapped her hands over his, pulling him closer. “’He was cagey about what he wanted to do with a Cat if he could get one.”
“Mm.” Lewis closed his eyes, but all he could sense was her warmth and the sleek satin under his fingers. There was no tingle of warning, none of the floating symbols he was learning to recognize as the call of his talent. He hadn’t much liked the count, but there had been no reason for it — well, if he was honest, he hadn’t liked the count because the count had given him an all-too-familiar look of disdain. Your wife wears the pants, it said. You’re not a man. It was a little better than the story the reporters had come up with during the Great Passenger Race — jealous Latin lover, going to catch on eventually and then she’ll get what’s coming to her — but he resented it as much for Alma’s sake as for his own. But he didn’t have anything to prove, not in this company. He was as good as the best of them, and everyone could see it.
Oath Bound - Book V of The Order of the Air Page 6