Domber selected a cigar after turning several over. “Such poor cigars. I’ll be glad when the war is over and I can again import some of my favorite Tampa Perfectos.” He snipped the end off the cigar with a gold clipper, then jabbed a full inch of the end into his mouth and rolled the cigar around as though tasting its flavor. “Now,” he said, “we will get down to business.”
Stan leaned back and waited.
“I went to considerable trouble to get this chance to talk with you. The colonel is a bloody old coot. All he thinks of is shooting people. I have other interests besides killing men. My hobby is planes.” Domber bent forward.
Stan was instantly on the alert. He noticed the stenographer had placed a sheet of notes on a rack and was clicking away on her typewriter, but he did not think she was copying from her notes. He was sure she was going to record what he said.
“You have had a chance to work with many new ideas. You’ll be with us until after the war, so I see no reason why we shouldn’t have a chat about new wrinkles.” He smiled and rolled his cigar.
“I understood I was to be shot as a spy,” Stan said.
“The military is bent upon it, but I have much influence. I could have you designated a prisoner of war. Tomorrow I will see the Fuerher himself.”
“What do you want to know?” Stan realized this was a chance to stay alive for a time. If he could interest Domber without giving away any secrets, he might be given a chance to escape.
“You were flying a P-51, a Mustang, the British call it.”
“Yes.”