Flight of Dreams (30 page)

W
erner Franz crouches outside the swinging door that leads from the kitchen into the crew's mess. It's past midnight and the American has been in there for long enough that Werner is starting to feel stiff and cramped in this position. That is his task: spy on the American. Frau Adelt wants to know whom he speaks to and what he says. She wants to know where he sits in the room. The journalist was very clear about these things, but when he asked why she was so interested he was told it was none of his business.

The boy knows nothing of poker, although he hears it's not all that different from chess in that it requires a straight face and a good bit of strategy. But his father has always told him that chess is a thinking man's game and that he's raising Werner to be a thinking man, not one who relies on the luck of the draw. So that's how they spend their time together when he is home. Sitting at the kitchen table beside the fire escape, discussing the merits of the Sicilian Defense over the Alekhine Defense. The Queen's Gambit. The English Opening. The Stonewall Attack. They rehearse the moves, pieces in hand, eyes on the board, the name of each play and the name of each piece suggesting arcane military tactics. And he wonders if the men in the kitchen have names for their own moves. Is it just a bluff? Or a blindman's bluff? A fold? Or a Folded Hat? Is there room for such creativity in a game of chance, or does a man simply rely on his own luck and powers of subterfuge?

As he listens, conversation moves to flying, how long each man has served aboard the
Hindenburg,
and then on to military service. This topic of conversation seems to interest the American more than the others. He is very curious about Ludwig Knorr and the time he spent flying over England during the Great War.

The American has not won a game yet. Or is it a hand? Werner isn't sure. Regardless, they've dealt the cards a number of times, and the American has come up short on all of them. However, he suspects that is about to change because he lost something valuable in the last hand and now he tosses something heavy and metallic into the middle of the table that sends coins scattering in all directions. The other men gasp. Someone whistles.

“I told you I had more,” the American says.

“That confident, are you?” This sounds like Heinrich Kubis.

The American. “My wife had a thick neck. That never looked good on her anyway.”

So a necklace, then. The American is betting jewelry. No wonder they let him in the game. Werner tried to get in a game once, but all he had to bet was the five marks he'd earned as a tip the day before, and the men had sent him scuttling out the door. He suspects they wouldn't let him play because the entire crew knows he works to help support his family and none of them wants to be responsible for any damage his brother and parents would suffer because of a loss. Most of them are rough and dirty men, but they are honorable. And many of them have wives and children of their own at home. They know what it's like to come up short for the month, and how bitter it is when their own stupidity is at fault.

Around the table they go, betting, raising, folding. Two players leave the game in disgust. Eventually the American calls. Cards slap the table. Someone curses. The American has kept his necklace and everything else along with it. Werner does his best to remember these details so he can report them to Gertrud Adelt.

More money goes in the pot. Cards are dealt again. The men swap war stories. And the American wins again. Only now Werner isn't paying attention. He is fascinated. He rarely hears of battlefields and brothels when they know he is within earshot, so he misses the signal that the American is calling it quits for the night. He hears the footsteps but doesn't have time to scramble away. Before he can get to his feet, Werner is knocked backward by the door. He doesn't grunt or call out when he lands hard on his tailbone, so his presence goes undetected by the crew in the other room. They hover over the table, looking at new cards, trying to recover their losses. As the door swings shut, the American bends low over Werner's crouched form, murder in his eyes.

THURSDAY, MAY 6, 1937—5:35 A.M., EASTERN STANDARD TIME

THE EASTERN COAST OF THE UNITED STATES NEAR PORTLAND, MAINE

13 HOURS AND 50 MINUTES UNTIL THE EXPLOSION

I rated the Zeppelin much lower as a weapon of war than almost anyone else. I believed that this enormous bladder of combustible and explosive gas would prove to be easily destructible.

—Winston S. Churchill, First Lord of the Admiralty

“D
o you think he believed you?” Gertrud asks. Their stateroom is dark—nothing more than a suggestion of light coming from the westward-facing windows—and filled with pre-dawn quiet. Her voice sounds like an intrusion. But she knows Leonhard is awake, has been for at least an hour, because he's tracing tiny circles around the knobs of her spine. Slowly. Methodically. From her tailbone to the base of her skull, he does not miss one vertebra.

She can feel his answer from where she lies across his chest—a shake of the head. “No,
Liebchen,
” he says. “I do not.”

There's no need to explain her question. He knows well enough what she means. And he's angry with himself for falling into such a neatly laid trap. Of course there's no way the two of them could have figured out the owner of the dog tag on their own. And Leonhard's nonchalant explanation about the deductive skills of journalists did nothing to convince Captain Lehmann last night in the bar. He knows that Leonhard lied to him, and that leaves them at a disadvantage. They talked for over an hour and, when pressed, Leonhard had been forced to tell Lehmann their suspicions regarding the American and his interest in Ludwig Knorr. He had, thankfully, left out Emilie's part in their discovery.

Gertrud burrows deeper into the warmth of Leonhard's bare arm. “Thank you for protecting her.”

“Never give up a source, right?” He murmurs it against her hair.

“She's a friend,” Gertrud says, and then amends her comment, “for my part, at least.”

“I didn't think you made friends.”

“End of days.”

He laughs at this and rolls her over so she's lying on her back, pinned to the mattress by the weight of his body. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Take me
home.
”

It's the closest she will come to begging, and he flinches at the desperate note in her voice. “I'm trying.”

“We seem to be going in the opposite direction.”

“No way out but through,
Liebchen.
You want to go home to Egon? Home is through Lakehurst and then New York, and then this godforsaken book tour. We miss a single one of those steps and we won't have a son to go home to.”

Leonhard has never said the words so plainly, though she has known the truth of them for some time.

“Is that what Goebbels told you?”

“That and more.”

The breath catches in her throat. “I'm so sorry. I caused this trouble.”

“No. You were just a handy excuse.
I
have co-written a book about German aviation and the Nazis' recent grasp for power.
I
have become a public figure now that the book will be published internationally.
I
have put this target on our backs.”

“I certainly didn't help things.”

“No. But you made them a hell of a lot more interesting.”

Leonhard moves across her body, tucking his head into the crook of her neck, as though protecting her from an assailant. “I am sorry,
Liebchen.
”

The mood is heavy, too much for Gertrud. She tickles him in the ribs until he curses and slides away.

“You can't help yourself. You've been making mischief with your words since the beginning. I'd be rather disappointed if you stopped now.”

“So mischief is what you want?” He slides a hand over her bare hip, down her thigh.

“Tempting.” Gertrud yawns. “But at this particular moment I'd rather have sleep.”

“Come home to me, then.” Leonhard loops an arm around her and pulls her into his chest as he whispers their pet saying. The first time they made love, Leonhard told her that having her in his arms felt like being home. And so now every time he wants her near him he asks her to come home. And she obediently backs herself into the warmth of his broad chest. As Gertrud sinks a few degrees toward unconsciousness, a single question tugs at her mind.

“What do we do about the American? Lehmann listened to you. But he's stalling. We both know that.”

Leonhard lies there, silent for a moment. Then he pulls the blanket high over their bare shoulders. “First we rest. Then we bide our time and get off this damned airship when it lands tomorrow. With any luck we won't have to do a thing about the American. We've planted the seed with Lehmann. He can take it from here.”

“And the cabin boy?”

“What about him?”

“He never came back last night.”

Leonhard's voice is heavy with sleep. “Look for him in the morning. See what he learned.”

And so she drifts toward that blissful void known as sleep. And as she goes she thinks of Werner. How she needs to find him. She thinks of the peculiar absurdity of the adolescent male. She thinks of boys. Boys and brothers. Something about brothers. One or four or what was it? Some inconsistency she has heard. And then the thought has slipped from her and her frantic mind is suspended in temporary peace.

M
ax drops into the control car exactly twenty-five minutes early for his shift. It's not like him, and Christian Nielsen squints in his direction, his tired eyes pinched at the corners, suspicious.

“Couldn't sleep,” Max says as he makes his way into the chart room. He stands beside the window, hands crammed deep into his pockets, and surveys the landscape for nearly five minutes before something obvious occurs to him. “That isn't New Jersey.”

“Maine,” Nielsen says.

“We should be over New Jersey.” Max looks at the clock above the chart table. “We're supposed to land this morning.”

“More headwinds,” Nielsen says by way of explanation. “Pruss just radioed Lakehurst to let them know they should expect us around four this afternoon. Hopefully we can make up some time now that we're over land. But if so, it won't be much.”

Commander Pruss is at the helm, looking out the front windows of the control car into the early morning gloom. The persistent cloud cover that has plagued the entire trip is present here as well—but with a more sinister look. Pruss doesn't comment on the delay or greet Max. He simply stands there, hands on the rudder wheel, glaring out into the mist, daring the weather to turn adverse. They can't afford to lose any more time.

They've been fighting headwinds since the first night, but this is an even more significant delay than he expected. Max assumed they were five or six hours behind schedule, but not—he looks at the clock again to double-check his mental calculations—ten.

“How?” he asks Nielsen.

“The jet stream picked up east of Nova Scotia. There was a block of low pressure offshore, and when we flew into it we lost a lot of speed.”

It's amazing what can happen while a man sleeps. While Max tossed and turned in his cabin not twenty feet away, the ship practically ground to a halt without his knowing. Two, maybe three hours of sleep is all he got. But he has a plan now, and that's more than he had yesterday.

Max doesn't answer Nielsen. He's afraid his voice will betray relief. He feared he wouldn't have time to do the thing he needs to do, but this fortuitous delay has blown his plan wide open and given him the gift of unexpected time. Perhaps he is not doomed after all.

Nielsen's shift is almost over, and he looks like a man with his mind bent on breakfast. Max cannot help but feel a certain amount of glee at the realization that Xaver Maier will be forced to cook a number of unexpected meals today. He makes a mental note to stop by the kitchen at some point and gloat.

When Werner announces the arrival of coffee a few minutes later, it's Max who goes to fetch the tray. And if the cabin boy is surprised to see him in the control car so early he doesn't let on. But neither does he make eye contact. Something about the boy doesn't look right.

“What's wrong?” Max asks.

Werner shakes his head. “Nothing.”

He lowers his voice to a near whisper. “Look at me and say that.”

Werner's eyes are clear, and he doesn't appear to be injured. His uniform is crisp and clean. His hair parted. But there is no light in his eyes. “I'm fine,” he says. But he meets Max's curious gaze with reserve.

“I don't believe you.”

Werner hesitates, then sighs. “You weren't there last night when I came back to your cabin. You told me to come back. I waited as long as I could.”

The boy's voice sounds hurt and accusing, and Max feels a stab of guilt. “I'm sorry, I—”

Werner pulls back from the hatch a few inches. Whispers. “There's something I need to tell you.” But when Max leans forward, curious, Werner nods toward Commander Pruss at the helm. “Not now.”