Flight of Dreams (22 page)

“The rest is up to you,” Werner says. “Your clothes are here and I'll be back in ten minutes. You might want to drink some of that water while you're standing there.”

T
he dog tag is missing. This realization is not new. He first discovered it was gone while at dinner last night with Captain Lehmann. The American had slipped his hand into his pocket, intending to pull it out with dramatic flair and set it on the table. He didn't bother digging around. He could feel that it was gone. So he'd taken a sip of wine instead and allowed his mind the few seconds necessary to find a different course of action. He had given Lehmann the stewardess's name as a boon, an act of good faith. Emilie Imhof. He'd spoken it with all the confidence of an informant, making it seem less like blackmail and more like charity by going first. So magnanimous of him. And in return? Well, his reward would come today. Lehmann had been skeptical, of course, and he wanted to test the American's claim.

The tag is small. And the information engraved on it long since memorized. The American had simply requested pen and paper from Wilhelm Balla—it appears as though he's stuck with the steward for the duration of the flight—then written the information down for Lehmann. He didn't expect the captain to have a memory like his. Lehmann told him it will take a bit of time to collect the data. But he doesn't mind waiting a few hours. It's a reasonable sacrifice so long as he can move closer to his goal. The American's real problem, and the thing that has kept him up half the night, is that the dog tag has fallen into the hands of a stranger. This is an unforgivable error on his part. Not just a miscalculation. A catastrophic mistake. The worst kind of misfortune.

Because the chance to kill the owner of that dog tag is the only reason he agreed to this mission. And he would sooner throw himself out the access hatch, onto the engine rotors, than miss it. But someone has his bartering piece. And if that someone is smart enough to figure out the owner's identity and warn him, then many years of carefully planned revenge will be lost. And that is a scenario that the American simply cannot accept.

He's on his feet pacing now, but he restrains the urge to kick the walls in frustration. The dog tag had been in his pocket at this time yesterday. He'd put it there in the morning, the cool weight of it seeping through his satin pocket liner into his skin, its bulk a necessary irritation. He had heard the small, metallic ping when he dropped his trousers onto the tile floor of the shower.

The American is still wearing yesterday's clothes. He had thrown himself onto the berth fully dressed and lay there most of the night, fits of restless sleep enveloping him as he chased his thoughts in circles, like a mangy dog chewing its own tail. Fretting. Plotting. And the answer only comes to him now because exhaustion has filled the small wells inside his mind, poured itself into the hollows of his bones.

He lost the dog tag in the shower. Of course. Yes. An amateur mistake but there you have it.

He kicks his shoes off and lies back down on the bed. He crosses his hands over his chest and closes his eyes as though mimicking a corpse. The American sees it clearly now in this dream-like state as his limbs relax into the mattress.

He had shaken out his trousers before folding them. Years and years of military training had instilled this habit in him. He never wads his clothes into a ball and throws them in the hamper. He straightens and folds them along their crease lines instead. He sets them in orderly stacks and sends them to the cleaners.

The dog tag could still be in the shower, one part of his brain offers. This voice is the hopeful one, the one he has tried to systematically stomp to death over many years. He listens to it on rare occasions, but this is not one of them. No. The American is certain the dog tag was found. His job is to figure out by whom.

The art of extracting his own memories is something he learned from military interrogators. It was part of his training, albeit small, when they determined his particular gifts would be better used in other areas. His real job—not the one he performs for the advertising agency in Frankfurt—is to have conversations and repeat them to his handlers. He strikes up conversations and asks the right questions to the right people at the right moments. He finds his targets when they are unguarded. When they feel safe. In a bar or on a train or in a department store. He learns their secrets but almost never by force. His betrayals are acute and painful and personal. It's a morally ambiguous career, to be sure, and not one that comes without consequence. But he is two decades in and has long since learned to justify the means and the ends and everything in between. He is not sorry for what he has done or what he is about to do.
Usually it's nothing personal,
he thinks; this is what it takes to save the world.

So the American rewinds his brain and goes back over the day before. He begins in the shower, with that last moment that he had the dog tag, and he creates a mental marker of that moment when he shook out his trousers. He moves forward, one frame at a time, to everything that happened after that. Sneaking back to the cargo area. Watching the navigator and the cabin boy exit the ship. No. There's nothing significant there, so he continues on. Paying the cabin boy to care for the dog. Breakfast. Watching Leonhard Adelt. His mind skitters a bit so he slows and carefully goes through his little monologue before the passengers. Gertrud Adelt entering the dining room. And there, like a flashbulb, he has it: damp curls hanging heavy against her chin. Pink skin warmed by the shower.

Gertrud Adelt was in the shower yesterday morning. Gertrud Adelt has the tag. This certainty comes to him at the exact moment that his mind officially surrenders to sleep. And because it is both a conscious thought and a dream it is tattooed into his memory. It will be his first thought upon waking.

M
ax is almost certain that he has dressed himself correctly. There's a bit of chafing in a couple of areas, but he doesn't see any obvious tags or seams. He checks his collar and runs his fingers down the front of his shirt, counting buttons, making sure everything is lined up correctly. Tying his shoes is problematic. Not because his fingers aren't working properly but because bending over makes him want to die. And then vomit. And then drive an ice pick through his eye and out the back of his own skull. All of which would be counterproductive given his current situation. So in the end he has to lean against the wall and lift his foot as high as he can without falling over.

This is demoralizing,
he thinks. Nothing so easily renders a man helpless as a ferocious hangover. Max has seen grown men cry for their mothers after waking up from a night of binge drinking. Not that he's experienced this often himself. He is, typically, a man of moderation. But there's something about Emilie that drives him to extremes.

He doesn't remember much about last night. Shutting the door to his cabin. Kicking off his shoes. Bypassing the glass and going straight for the bottle. And that look on her face. He can't get it out of his mind no matter how many times he blinks or rubs his swollen eyes. She hadn't even looked at him. Emilie had simply walked straight past, chin tilted, eyes glassy, mouth set. If he'd had to describe the look in a single word he'd say hatred. She hates him. And can he really blame her? He's a fool. Wilhelm Balla? Why the hell did he share her secret with the steward? Why had he shared it with anyone? Max knew by the look on her face that there was no making this right. And yet Emilie is the least of his problems right now. The navigator is certain that if he can't get his
Scheiße
together this morning, if he can't do a convincing job of hiding his indiscretion, he will face the wrath of Commander Pruss.

His dirty clothes are soaked and wadded in a corner. He'll have to leave them there and send Werner back with a bucket to collect them. There's no way to carry wet clothes back to his cabin.

Werner.

Max needs him. It rankles him that his best chance of recovering from this situation requires the help of a pubescent boy. And this after the lecture he'd given Werner the day before about respect and behaving like a man. Max isn't sure whether he should apologize to the cabin boy or strangle him.

Werner knocks on the door. Opens it. Beckons him out with a wave of his hand. “Follow me,” the boy whispers, and leads Max toward the kitchen.

We're making a habit of this,
Max thinks. Two mornings in a row Werner has taken it upon himself to interfere. Twice now Max has been fetched from that small tiled room by a boy who doesn't even shave.

Max expected the headache and the dizziness and the cotton mouth. Standing in the shower, fully clothed and deeply exhausted, he had even made peace with the looming nausea. What he hadn't prepared for was the emotional excess brought on by his physically weakened state. Every emotion is visceral, floating right beneath the surface. Anxiety that his secret will be found out. Panic. Paranoia. Fear. And then a profound and complete anger when Werner swings the kitchen door inward and he finds himself staring into the smug face of Xaver Maier.

“Damn,” the chef says. “How much did you drink?”

Max can feel himself pull an arm back, ready to knock Maier's head right off his knobby shoulders. But he's moving slowly because Werner leaps up and grabs Max's arm. Drags it down against his side.

“No!” the boy scolds. “We need his help.”

He wonders briefly if the chefs have been talking, if Emilie's little spectacle has been rehashed at every opportunity since yesterday afternoon. He wonders if Werner knows, and then he decides that he doesn't care. Max lunges at the chef again.

Werner swats his hand—actually swats his hand—like he's batting away a fly. “Stop,” the cabin boy says. “No fighting.”

It's an admonition that he must have heard a million times growing up. There's the hint of matronly impatience to the tone, and Max suspects that Werner is mimicking his mother.

Maier looks over the navigator's appearance, eyes settling on Max's collar, and he is certain he must have buttoned something wrong.

“You need coffee,” the chef says. “A lot of it.”

Werner chimes in, trying to be helpful. “And water. The colder the better. That's what Balla said. Lots of water.”

A silver carafe of steaming coffee is on the stainless-steel counter—Maier has been hard at work already—along with a bowl of sugar and a small pitcher of cream. The chef pours Max a cup without asking permission or preference. He offers it, black and piping hot.

Max doesn't take it from Maier's hand.

“Drink.”

“Fuck you.”

Werner's eyes go round.

“
She
kissed
me.
You saw that much yourself.”

“You didn't seem to mind.”

“And?” Maier says. “Good grief. I'm a man. I know a pretty woman when I see one. Not that it matters. You're the one she wants. And I don't know what you did to piss her off, but please stop blaming me for it. I don't owe you anything. Certainly not an apology. And I didn't have to get out of bed early to help sober up your sorry ass. Drink the coffee.”

Maier hands the coffee cup to Werner and Werner places it in Max's hand. “Why are you doing this?” Max asks.

“Emilie is my friend. She wouldn't want you punished. Thank
her
.”

“We aren't exactly on speaking terms at the moment.” Max takes a sip and struggles to swallow it. He spits it back into his cup. “Too hot.”

“Hold this down and I'll give you one with sugar. Hold that down and I'll give you some cream. Start with water if it's too much. I'm not going to spend my morning mopping up vomit. And learn how to hold your liquor. This is disgraceful.”

The concession is demoralizing. He looks at Werner. “Water.”

Werner swaps out a glass for the mug in his hand. The water is easier to take than the coffee. Max swishes it around his mouth to warm it up and then swallows. He repeats this process, head tipped back and eyes closed, until half the glass is gone. Then he guzzles.

Max breathes deeply through his nose for several minutes once the water hits his stomach. Yes? No? He's not sure for one long moment whether it's coming back up, but in the end he decides it's going to stay down.

“Coffee,” he demands, extending his hand.

He takes one sip and his begrudging respect for Xaver Maier grows by several degrees. The coffee is good. Hot and strong and smooth. He'd prefer it with a bit of sugar and a drop of cream—just enough to cut the shine—but this will do. Max takes several long, measured sips, then stands there, eyes closed, working on the coffee until the mug is empty.

“Sit down,” Maier says. He looks at Werner. “Wait a few minutes. Don't give him anything else. I'll cook him something.”

Max lays his head on his forearms, mumbles into the fabric of his sleeve: “Not hungry.”

“Don't care.” Maier turns his back and pulls a skillet from the pan rack hanging above the counter.

A few minutes later the smell of bacon and fried eggs fills the small kitchen.

“The key,” Maier says, “to surviving a hangover is to trick the body back into operating like normal. Right now all of your energy is being spent on removing the alcohol from your system. Which is why you're nauseous and addled and sluggish. Your head feels like a wheel of cheese with a chunk broken off. Your eyes have been rubbed with salt. Your throat is scorched. Too much energy is being expended in all the wrong places. It's a waste of body function.”

Shut up.
Too many words. Max's mental protest does not stop the chef from continuing. He flips an egg in the pan and sprinkles it with salt and cracked pepper.

“I can live at a level near complete intoxication without anyone being the wiser because of three things: salt, coffee, and water. Thus,” he says, dumping the food onto one of the white china plates, “bacon and eggs. Eat up.”