There was no cause for alarm, they assured her. After all, Mallory was not a combatant. Probably he was taking these injured people to Madrid or to Valencia, not to hot, dry, isolated El Carmoli, with scant hospitals nearby. He would be back in a few days, once the wounded were all evacuated.

How do you know this? Irene demanded. How do you know he hasn’t been shot down or crashed?

The two men traded glances and said of course there was no way of knowing for certain. That was the nature of war. You simply had to keep faith and wait for news. Señorita Foster could stay here for as long as she liked. The commandant’s wife would be happy to accommodate her until Señor Mallory returned.

That was very kind, Irene told them. (By now they were inside the hangar, sheltered from the fierce sun, drinking hot, strong coffee that lifted the hairs on Irene’s arms and the back of her neck.) But instead of accommodation, she would prefer a map and a hundred gallons of aviation fuel, for which she would pay in American dollars.

Of course, it wasn’t quite as easy as that. News had reached the commandant of this somewhat embarrassing (although hardly surprising) breach of the airfield’s defenses, such as they were, and he came striding in a moment later, demanding to know what was going on. She told him she was here for Señor Mallory.

“Señor Mallory?” he said, peering at Irene. His face illuminated. He switched to English. “Miss Foster! You are Irene Foster!”

Irene tried to tell him that this was a secret, but he was already pumping her hand with joy.

“I am a great admirer!” he told her. “I am filled with happiness to meet you! I have spoken about you many times with Señor Mallory! You are like a queen to us! But are you not supposed to be in a race right now?”

“I left the race,” said Irene. “I’ve come to join Señor Mallory.”

The commandant’s face turned grave. “Señorita Foster, this is no place for a woman. This is war. I cannot be responsible for what will happen to you if you stay. It is quite possible we will be bombed. And what is there for you to do?”

“I can train pilots, for one thing.”

“I am afraid that is impossible. This is not America. No Spanish man will take instruction from a woman, certainly not in a matter so serious as flying. Besides, this is a fighter school! Have you ever fought in an airplane?”

Irene had to admit that she hadn’t.