She nodded as she exhaled the cigarette smoke toward the ceiling.
The memory of when she learned that was very clear in her mind.
Years earlier, in one of Monica Sinclair’s weaker moments—she’d been stone-drunk after a long day of being extremely difficult on the set—Ingrid had been told about “that sonofabitch” with whom Monica had had a fling.
And by whom she had had an unwanted son.
Monica Sinclair had vividly described the Baron von Fulmar as not only “a miserable fucking prick of the highest order” but as one highly placed in the Nazi Party and as the general director of the very important Fulmar Elektrische G.m.b.H.
So, Ingrid knew, not only was Fulmar arguably as German as anyone in Yorkville, but he was unquestionably better connected than probably everyone there. Including Fritz Kuhn, whom Hitler tolerated but did not necessarily like.
She looked him in the eyes.
“And,” he went on, “you have alluded to the fact that you are friendly with Fritz Kuhn.”
Ingrid quickly looked away.
“I’d prefer we not talk about that here.”
She picked up her beer and took a healthy swallow.
Fulmar did the same, then put down his glass. He leaned forward.
“I want to help,” he whispered.
“Help what?”
“The Bund.”
Fulmar noticed that the mention of the German-American Bund—the federation of American Nazis—seemed to pique her interest.
“Especially,” he went on, “if there’s any connection to the bombing of the American cities.”
Ingrid looked at him a very long moment—he thought he saw sadness or maybe even some disappointment—but she did not say a word.
She looked away, lit a fresh cigarette, took a puff and exhaled.
She looked back at Fulmar, her ice blue eyes calculating, then drained her beer and stubbed out her barely burned cigarette.
“Let’s discuss this in my apartment,” she said with a smile.
Fulmar smiled back.
Yes, let’s discuss this in your apartment.
This…and maybe how I get in your pants.
He turned to the bartender and pointed to their table.
“Check, please!”
[ THREE ]
Room 909
Robert Treat Hotel
Newark, New Jersey