The Soldier Spies (Men at War 3)

It was a rather snobbish thing for her to say, von Heurten-Mitnitz thought.

But she is a countess, and my brother is no less a snob.

And then he thought of something else, and said it.

“That’s an Americanism.”

“Is it really?” the Countess said.

“I realize this may well be an imposition,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said,“and I will certainly understand if you have other plans—”

“But?” she interrupted.

“What I had hoped to do, on this very short notice,” he said,“was to ask you to take lunch with me—”

“I accept,” the Countess interrupted again.

“—following which,” von Heurten-Mitnitz went on,“would you be good enough to serve as my guide around town? I’ve been given the addresses of several available flats, and I—”

“But of course,” she said. “Offer me a good meal, and I am yours.”

Helmut von Heurten-

Mitnitz laughed, just a little uneasily.

“I’m at the Imperial,” he said. “To judge by dinner last night—”

“Not what it once was,” she interrupted once again,“but passable.”

"Precisely,” he said. “What time would be convenient for you?”

“Come by at quarter to one,” she said. “You know how to find it?”

“Holy Trinity Square,” he said.

“Quarter to one, then, my dear Helmut,” the Countess said.

She hung up the telephone and went back into her apartment.

She opened one of three ceiling-high wardrobes and selected from it a dress meeting two criteria, warmth and style, in that order. She settled on a black wool dress and laid it on her bed. Then she went to a chest of drawers and searched through her alarmingly dwindling selection of lingerie. She chose in the end to go all black, although there was a temptation to go all red. There was still a rather nice red silk chemise and slip.

She considered a bath and decided against it. For one thing, there was barely time. There was no longer hot water on demand. The hot-water heater in the bathroom was fired up only when a bath was planned. And, she thought, there were some men, and she suspected Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz was among them, who preferred the smell of woman to the smell of soap. Or, she corrected herself, the smell of a perfumed woman. Besides, she still had adequate supplies of scent. When Manny had gone to Paris, he’d bought everything he could lay his hands on for her.

She laid on the bed one of her remaining half-dozen pairs of silk stockings beside the black dress and the black underwear. Then, taking a deep breath as if facing an ordeal, she very quickly slipped out of the sable coat and the sweaters and the skirt. Then, naked save for the knitted stockings, she ran to her dressing table and liberally anointed herself with Chanel #5. Her skin was covered with goose bumps, and her nipples grew erect.

She ran back to the bed and quickly put on the underwear, the dress, and the sable coat. Then she returned to her dressing table and did her hair and her face. When that was done, she spun around on the stool, removed the boots and the knit stockings, and pulled on the silk stockings. Finally, she hoisted the skirt of her dress out of the way and hooked the stockings to the garter belt. Then, on the balls of her feet, she walked to one of the wardrobes, selected a pair of pumps, and slipped them on.

Then she rang for her maid

“I’m going out for lunch,” she said. “When I return, I’d like these rooms warm. I will more than likely have a guest with me, so clean the place up. Put some decent sheets on the bed.”

“Countess,” the maid, a gray-haired woman in her sixties, said,“we don’t have all that much coal—”

“I have an idea my guest may be able to remedy that,” the Countess said. “Just do what I tell you.”

The maid nodded.

“And bring me the silver fox, the knee-length one,” the Countess said. “And the matching hat. I look like Catherine the Great, at seventy, in the sable.”