Flight of Dreams (28 page)

T
he American has a theory about small men. They are exhibitionists. He has never known a small man to be quiet. Or humble. They are never farmers or dentists. They need to be seen. Every small man he has ever known is loud and gregarious. They become entertainers or jockeys or soldiers. Musicians. Actors. Take up reckless jobs or ones that draw attention to themselves. Occasionally you'll find one who becomes a surgeon, but only because this heroism causes him to be adored by others. Small men are tense and wiry. They spring when they walk. They notice everything around them. They have opinions and make them known. The American has heard the arguments about such men feeling inferior and overcompensating with theatrics. He thinks this is bullshit. It is, he believes, a simple matter of having more heart than body to contain it. Given the choice he'd go into a foxhole with a small man over a giant any day. He has found them to be indestructible. And, if honest, he would admit that such men are small targets. That's always a plus in his profession.

“Twenty dollars says you can't do it.” The American stops and tilts his head back to stare at the cruciform bracing directly above them.

“I was in jail once,” Joseph Späh says. “Some nameless town on the Austrian border. Spent three days in the cell for public intoxication. I didn't much enjoy it, and if you don't mind I'd rather not repeat the process. The food's terrible in jail. So is the company.”

The acrobat barely comes to his shoulder, so it's impossible not to look down at him. The American drifts back a few steps so it's not as obvious. Small men don't tend to appreciate the reminder. “Who's going to see you?” The American spreads his arms, spins on the empty walkway to illustrate the point.

The keel catwalk is empty in both directions. Passengers and crew are at dinner. It's the last night of the flight. Everyone is otherwise occupied. They are killing time. Waiting for bed. Because tomorrow they will be flying over New York City, and then things will finally get interesting. Everyone on board this ship is thinking about what they are going to do when they land. The American is thinking about what must happen in the next few precious hours.

“Do you know what would happen if they caught me climbing that? Do you know what they would think?”

“That the infamous Joseph Späh is worth the ticket price.”

This is too much for the acrobat's ego. Few men can withstand such blatant stroking. “I will tell them that you dared me,” he says. He points a finger but already it's halfhearted. The idea is planted. “That you paid me.”

“You'd have to be caught first, and that isn't going to happen. Let me tell you a secret.” The American lowers his voice, makes it conspiratorial. “People don't look up. Not at the clouds or the cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling. They don't look at tree branches or gutters. Want to stay hidden? Start climbing.”

This isn't entirely true, of course. But it's what Späh wants to hear. He's experiencing withdrawal. He needs to perform. The man hasn't heard applause in at least three days. He hasn't been able to sit still for hours. It's a wonder he hasn't broken into song or started tap-dancing on the tables yet.

“If I go to jail, you go to jail.” He slips out of his suit coat and hands it to the American.

“Fear not, I'm good behind bars.” Good at getting what he wants. Good at making sure his throat doesn't get cut in the middle of the night.

Späh doesn't stretch or roll up his shirtsleeves. He simply leaps. Had he not witnessed it himself, the American would never have believed that such a short man could get so far off the ground. But he squats, coils, and springs. He is four feet in the air before the American can blink. It's like watching a monkey or a squirrel or a lemur—one of those creatures with a preternatural sense of balance. He bends, flips, swings up the cruciform bracing, leaping from beam to beam. He doesn't make it look easy; he makes it look like destiny. As if humans ought to abandon their time as dirt dwellers and take to the sky. As if Späh might actually throw himself off, sprout wings, and fly.

For the first time since meeting the strange little acrobat, the American feels a twinge of jealousy. Späh is halfway up now, just below the axial catwalk, and he slows, lifts his head up to make sure the way up is clear, then continues the ascent. The American assumed that Späh would do the minimum necessary to prove that he could climb the girders. But he has proven he can climb whatever the bloody hell he wants. The American concedes a begrudging respect.

It is 135 feet from the base of the
Hindenburg
to its highest point. And Joseph Späh climbs all sixteen stories with such ease that he appears bored. And there, at the very top, he leans out at a near ninety-degree angle and waves. Then because he's a damn showoff he reaches out and lays a hand on one of the hydrogen gas cells. Maybe to say,
Here I am and I've conquered this bastard.
Or, most likely, just because he can. But that single intimate touch gives the American an idea. He feels another piece of his plan snap into place.

Späh comes down just as easily—perhaps more so—and the American steps aside to give him room to land. He takes a bow. “Well?”

“Impressive.”

“I was going for spectacular.”

“Hungry for applause?” He hands Späh his jacket and the plate loaded with dinner scraps, then turns toward the cargo area where Ulla is waiting for her dinner.

“Recognition. There's a big difference.”

No,
the American thinks,
there is only the matter of motive.
The
why
behind our actions. He will make sure that Joseph Späh gets recognition for what he has just done. But it won't be in a way the acrobat likes or will even be aware of. At some point tonight when he relaxes with the other passengers in the lounge or the bar, the American will mention this tremendous feat, that gentle touch on the gas cell, and they will remember these details later. They will repeat them. They just won't remember how they came by this knowledge.

The art of disinformation lies in placing suspicion elsewhere. Leave a trail of breadcrumbs that lead nowhere. Create a distraction. Provide reasonable doubt. Coerce a man into performing an acrobatic feat when he feels safe and unseen, and then make sure others know he is capable of the act. Slowly, subtly, constantly cast suspicion on everyone but yourself. Do this and there will be so many questions, so many possibilities, that no one will ever connect the dots.

A
s Leonhard sets the Maybach 12 onto the lacquered table in front of Captain Lehmann, the frosted glass immediately begins to sweat. He pulls out a chair for Gertrud first, directly across from the captain, then settles in beside her.

Lehmann raises the glass in toast, takes a sip, and says, “To what do I owe this honor?”

“We need to talk,” Leonhard says.

Gertrud scrapes a bit of frost from her glass with a thumbnail. She listens. They agreed on this earlier. She will listen. Nothing more. Leonhard and the captain have known each other for over twenty years and have developed a legitimate friendship in the course of co-writing Lehmann's biography. Lehmann does not know Gertrud at all, and he will not appreciate any contribution she could make to this particular conversation.

Lehmann's biography—simply titled
Zeppelin
—has done well in Germany, and all signs suggest it will be a hit in America as well when it is released next month. Leonhard has earned Lehmann's trust the old-fashioned way, with time and consistency. Yet Gertrud itches to interrogate the captain anyway. She has questions and she wants answers, but she has promised Leonhard that she will chew on her tongue if necessary.

“What do we need to talk about?” Lehmann asks.

Leonhard rests his elbows on the table. “The American passenger on board this flight.”

“Which one? There are many.”

“Edward Douglas.” Leonhard says the name slowly and watches Lehmann's face for any sign of duplicity.

“Ah. That one. I suspected as much.”

“Do explain.”

“Edward Douglas is something of an anomaly.”

“You know him?”

“I know of him. He works for an American advertising company in Frankfurt. His paperwork checks out. According to our sources he is going home to visit family, a mother and four brothers, to be precise. We have no official reason to suspect his actions or his passage on board this trip.”

Leonhard tries very hard not to pounce on this information. Gertrud can see him tensing beside her, putting pieces together in his mind.

“And yet?” he asks.

“We are monitoring him.”

Leonhard laughs this off. “You're monitoring everyone.”

Lehmann doesn't deny it. He simply glances at Gertrud, offers a patronizing smile, and turns back to Leonhard. So that's how it is. Lehmann will not speak freely in her presence. Fine. Gertrud isn't a fool. Leonhard can get the job done. He has been prying information out of sources since before she was born.

Gertrud yawns and stretches, then lays a hand on Leonhard's arm. “If you don't mind, I think I'll join the ladies in the reading room. I'd like to finish my book.”

Leonhard is not fooled by her doe-eyed look. A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. He winks at Lehmann and says, “Do excuse my wife.”

Both men rise from the table, and Lehmann hands her the Maybach 12. “Good evening, Frau Adelt. Don't forget your drink.”

Gertrud walks from the smoking room with an exaggerated, feminine sway, but once she's alone in the corridor she tips her glass back and drinks the Maybach 12 in two long gulps. Then she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and swears.

W
erner watches the last of the crew finish dinner and stack their plates in the middle of the table. He pulls out his pocket watch. Frowns. He holds it to his ear to make sure it's still working. Sure enough, the steady
tick-tick-tick
sounds within. The watch is correct. It's only eight o'clock but everyone is done with dinner. They normally linger, dragging out each free moment until their duties resume. But tonight the crew's mess has emptied early. He gathers the dishes and carries them into the kitchen. The sink is his for fifteen minutes—Xaver's routine will only allow for a short interruption—so the cabin boy makes quick work of the delicate china. Werner returns to the crew's mess to put the dishes away and wipe down the tables. He sweeps. Checks the chairs and banquettes for crumbs and sticky patches, then declares the job complete. This gives him a moment to pause as he does a quick calculation. He now has half an hour of free time. A rare luxury.

Last year the
Hindenburg
carried a Blüthner baby grand piano in the lounge. It was custom-made to comply with flight requirements—weighing a mere 397 pounds—and instead of the standard wood shell was covered with yellow pig skin. While on break Werner would linger in the lounge listening to passengers play ragtime on the piano. He liked the raucous music and the gregarious singing that accompanied it. He misses it. Had it been up to him, he would have kept the piano. But the powers that be decided that the few hundred pounds of weight could be better used to store cargo. Freight brings a profit; pianos do not. So there is no music on this flight and, as a result, Werner thinks the atmosphere is too somber. He heads toward the lounge anyway. There's no telling what the passengers will be up to, and there's a good chance he'll find some form of entertainment. A card game. Or perhaps a bit of storytelling. There are a number of Americans on board. They always seem to have the most outrageous stories. And a curious sense of humor.

Later tonight, when he finally crawls into bed, he will wonder if Irene Doehner lingered on the stairs because she was waiting for him. But now he only thinks that he is pleased to see her. That the gangway stairs are his favorite spot on the ship because he has the habit of running into her here. She is sitting halfway up the steps, a mess of needlepoint on her lap. She looks frustrated. And then delighted when she sees him. Irene rises to her feet, and he notes that there is nothing awkward about the motion. She is simply standing where a moment before she was sitting.

He offers a shy smile, and she returns it with one of her own.

Werner nods, polite. “Pardon me,
Fräulein.
”

He tries to step around her, but she says, “Wait.”

He never expected a kiss. Werner would have been happy with smiles and a handful of flirtatious glances. Had he been particularly bold, he would have orchestrated a way for his hand to touch hers just once during the flight. So when Irene sets her mouth at the corner of his and presses in with her small, soft lips he nearly falls backward down the stairs. It doesn't last more than a second or two, but to him time freezes and every bit of the sensation comes rushing into his mind. He records everything, as though taking notes for a paper at school. The way her hair brushes against his ear. The way she smells of soap—nice and clean and with the faintest tang of lye. The warmth of her mouth. The buzzing of his blood as it rushes through his ears. He has been kissed. It is a shock and a wonder.

One of Irene's front teeth is slightly crooked. He can see this when she pulls away and her smile grows wider. She is delighted by his surprise.

“Thank you,” she says, “for the flower. I kept it. I have it pressed inside a book.”

Werner is dumbfounded. He has lost all capacity for speech.
Say something, you Dummkopf,
he thinks. Finally, after an aching silence, he says, “I will bring you another one tomorrow.”

He isn't sure if his voice cracks or squeaks or if he has even said this out loud until Irene laughs.

“I will look for it.”

The poor boy has no idea what to do next. Is he supposed to stay and talk to her? Should he return the kiss? Should he jump and whoop and holler and run around like he has scored the winning kick in
Fußball
? He has spent a lot of time talking with his brother about girls. He has even had a few conversations with his father. But no one has bothered to tell him what happens after a moment like this. And when he realizes that he is staring at Irene, mute and dumb, he does the only thing he can think to do: he laughs as well—high and bright and too close to a giggle for his liking—then runs up the stairs.

Werner takes them two at a time and arrives at the top with a wild bound.
The wattage on my face must be blinding,
he thinks. And he is half-blinded himself because it takes him a second or two to see Gertrud Adelt studying him. She has witnessed the entire thing.