Flight of Dreams (8 page)

T
he American waits. He waits, buried under three canvas bags of international mail, as the navigator and his companion get the mail drop ready. He wonders at her identity. The American matches her voice against those he is already familiar with: the journalist, the heiress, the teenage girl, and a handful of other women he overheard at dinner. He has not heard this woman's voice before. She speaks easily in German, though he notices she tosses in the random English word for good measure. And occasionally one in Spanish or Italian. She's intelligent, clearly, and she doesn't seem uneasy in this room. A crew member, then. But there's only one of those that he has seen—a stewardess. Tall. Aloof. Pretty. So the navigator has himself a girl then? Yes. That will come in handy. By the time they leave the mailroom, the American is fully relaxed beneath his pile, quite content to have placed the stewardess in her slot.

He waits, breathing through his mouth to remain silent. He can feel the vibration from the engine gondolas faintly through the floor beneath him. A gentle hum through his cheek, chest, belly, thighs, each part of his body pressed against the floor by the weight of the mailbags. Still he waits.

Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.

Finally the navigator and the stewardess exit the door opposite the mailroom. They wander off down the hall toward the passengers' quarters. Slowly, painfully, he pushes the mail aside to stand and stretch, allowing the circulation to return to his feet and to the tips of his fingers. The American is light-headed as the blood moves through his extremities again, but he does not lean against the wall or steady himself on anything. He simply closes his eyes, breathes evenly, and focuses on staying upright.

There will not be another mail drop during the flight, and it's a good thing. The navigator will likely have to get the doorknob replaced in New Jersey. Or at the very least after the return flight to Frankfurt. The lock is broken. That's his own fault, of course, but he is not concerned. One ruined lock is a small price to pay for having accomplished the first of his goals. Let the love-stricken navigator worry about how to protect his precious letters in the future.

The door closes behind him but barely latches. The tine has moved farther into the tumblers now. He does not hesitate in the hallway but moves off intently, as if he has every right to be here and will say so to anyone who questions him.

He's passing the dining room, on his way toward his cabin, when Joseph Späh steps in front of him holding a plate filled with dinner scraps. It's fish, mostly, but there are a couple of half-eaten rolls and bits of potato as well. The American stops abruptly so he won't run over the small man.

Späh lifts the plate. “I have a dog,” he says matter-of-factly.

The American blinks but does not answer.

“You should come meet her.”

“You mean the dog is on this ship?”

Späh looks at him like he has sprouted a second head. “Well, you didn't think this was for me?”

“I hadn't a clue what it was for.”

“Good grief, man, where have you been? Didn't you catch my arrival? It caused quite a stir.”

“I'm afraid I was rather indisposed. I hardly noted my own arrival. You could say I was quickly taken to my cabin and put out of the way.”

“Ah. Your hangover.”

The American shrugs but does not apologize. He's not the sort of man to apologize for anything.

They stare at one another awkwardly for a moment before Späh says, “Well?”

“What?”

“Are you going to come meet my dog or not? She's an honest-to-goodness European purebred Alsatian. Which is just a fancy way of saying German shepherd, but still, she's impressive. Her name is Ulla. I trained her to perform with me onstage. She has been all over Europe. I'm bringing her home as a gift for my daughter. It won't make up for missing her birthday, but at least she'll have bragging rights at school, and that is damn near good enough.”

“Where is this mutt of yours? Surely they aren't letting you keep it in your cabin?”

“Hell no. They've got the poor bitch stored back in the freight room.”

“And you're allowed back there?”

Joseph Späh is odd. He's the sort of man who is both insecure and absurdly arrogant. But he is also clever, manipulative, and fiercely intelligent. “It's either they let me back there at my leisure or they're the ones cleaning up dog shit twice a day.”

The American laughs. “I think I would very much like to meet the dog that has the Zeppelin-Reederei crew breaking their precious rules.” He looks at the plate, then around the empty corridor. “And we don't need an escort?”

Späh shrugs, sort of a hell-if-I-know movement, and heads off down the corridor to the steps leading to B-deck. The American follows quite happily behind.

If the Zeppelin-Reederei has spared no expense in making the passenger quarters a statement of luxury, they have spared no expense in this part of the ship on their engineering marvel. He follows Joseph Späh out of the passenger area, through a heavy door, and onto the keel catwalk, feeling every bit as though he is traversing the spine of a Leviathan. Gone are the residential trappings. Once they pass through the access door at the end of B-deck, clearly marked
CREW ONLY,
they enter into a world of duralumin and pipes. Air shafts and gas tanks. Catwalks. Girders. Valves. Bracing wires. Above them are countless massive fabric bladders filled with hydrogen gas and covered with thick cell netting. To him they look like giant inflated lungs. It is like taking a tour through the skeletal system of an automaton. The subtle creaking of welded joints is audible here in the absence of walls and doors and ceilings. But most amazing to the American is the skin of the airship itself. While the outside of the Hindenburg is a dazzling silver, the inside had been coated in a deep crimson thermite paint, giving life to the feeling that they are indeed traipsing through the belly of a sentient beast. The lights along the catwalk are spaced at intervals of twenty feet and are in tightly secured glass globes, but nonetheless their dim illumination amplifies the eerie, lifelike quality of the space.

They step around a massive T-shaped cruciform brace that must be one of the central supports, and then a short distance beyond that the spiral staircase that connects the keel catwalk to the axial catwalk eighty feet above them. The American has traveled aboard the
Graf Zeppelin
a number of times but has never been outside the passenger areas. This is to him a new and profound and disturbing experience.

“I halfway suspect I'll have nightmares tonight,” Joseph Späh says.

The American answers this observation with a grunt. He will have nightmares tonight as well, but they will be about different things. His nightmares will tap into the most basic, primal fear he has: losing control. Behind his closed eyes he will see things falling apart. He will grasp after missed opportunities and misinformation. He will hear whispers in languages he does not know, and he will see faceless shapes slipping around corners and ducking through doors while he is exposed, frozen, unable to follow. His dreams will be all shadow and no substance.

The American shudders. Clears his mind. Marches behind Joseph Späh with a new determination.

Finally the small man points to a metal door marked
FREIGHT
. “She's in there.”

At the sound of his voice a high, keening whine comes from the other side, followed by a bark. Then a second, deeper bark.

The freight room is cold and dark and smells of stale air and dog piss.

“Shit,” Späh says. “I'm too late. Poor girl is probably scared stupid. Dogs piss on
everything
when they're scared.”

So do men,
the American thinks, but he does not say this out loud. He just stands back, watching.

Späh finds the light switch on the wall and a tepid glow fills the room. The cargo hold isn't very large. And apart from two dog crates it contains a number of steamer trunks, boxes, and what looks to be a large piece of furniture wrapped in a blanket.

Ulla sees her master and barks. She spins in a tight circle inside her crate, her tail thrashing against the wicker slats with a
thwap, thwap, thwap.

“Who does that one belong to?” The American points at a second crate that holds a large, shivering mutt. It might be the half-breed bastard of something resembling a greyhound.

“I don't know.” The American moves closer but Späh says, “Watch your step.”

Three streams of urine trickle from a puddle in one corner of the mutt's crate. Späh gently lifts the latch on Ulla's crate. She pants. Presses her nose into the gap. Tries to force her way out.

“No,” Späh says. “Sit.”

The dog is reluctant and hungry but well trained. She drops her rump to the floor but cannot contain the frenzied thrashing of her tail. He sets the plate at his feet.

“Stay,” he says.

The mutt whimpers, eyes locked on the plate of food.

Joseph Späh pulls the crate door open and steps backward. Ulla stays where she is, though with a great effort. The American can see her training wrestling with her instinct. The muscles in her forelegs spasm with little jerks as she forces herself to obey.

“Eat.”

Ulla rushes forward at the command and inhales her dinner. When observed coldly, the act is almost violent. She does not bite or chew but rather consumes with bared teeth and wild gulps. Alsatians are nearly indistinguishable from German shepherds, their temperaments fierce and protective, but Ulla has one great distinction. Instead of the traditional brown and black markings, she is completely white. Albino? he wonders. But no, her eyes are a deep black. In the scant light they look like bits of obsidian, reflecting his curiosity back at him. Joseph Späh has her well in hand, but the American does not doubt for a moment that this animal is intelligent. She is not to be trifled with.

“Shut up,” Späh says to the mutt in the other cage as it throws itself against the slats, whining.

“It's hungry.”

Späh frowns. “It is not my responsibility.” But there is no hardness in his voice. Rather a faint thread of compassion.

Ulla licks the plate until it rattles against the floor. There isn't so much as a breadcrumb or ribbon of fish left when she's done. The expensive Nazi plate is delicate, with silver edging, and it's being licked by a dog. The American finds this very apropos, and the sight puts him in an inexplicably good mood.

As it turns out, Ulla proves to be worth whatever Späh has paid to transport her across the Atlantic. The tricks he has taught her are quite spectacular. She can stand on her hind legs or forelegs at a single command. She can do a back flip and speak her name. Ulla is almost human in the way she anticipates her master's needs, and the American quite enjoys the show Späh performs on his behalf.

“Good night, girl,” Späh whispers as he rubs behind her ears and under her chin. “I'll be back tomorrow.”

Until now the airship has felt incomplete to the American, as though he has seen only part of a map. But now, having walked the
Hindenburg
from one end to the other, he feels a greater sense of certainty in his mission. There are still closed doors, places he has not been, things he hasn't seen, but he will rectify that. He has been on board for a little over five hours, and the shape of the great airship is forming in his mind.

He bids Späh good night and thanks him for the chance to meet Ulla as they re-enter the passenger area.

“You should come with me again tomorrow. I think she likes you.”

Foolish dog,
the American thinks.

Späh claps him on the back. “I'll come get you in the morning.”

“Not too early.”

He peers at the ceiling as though trying to decide the time of day. “Don't worry, when I get home my days of sleeping in are over. I have three children. They wake up at the most ungodly hour every single day.”

“Anytime after seven.” He parts ways with Späh, who turns at the stairs to head up toward A-deck, and returns to his room.

The pistol is still there. He moved it to the bottom of his suitcase when he went to dinner. The American feels the reassuring weight of it in his hands. The cartridge is still loaded. His room has not been entered. He can tell this by the little clues he set in place before leaving: one corner of the pillowcase tucked underneath. The closet door closed but not latched. The sink set to a faint drip. The shirts folded at the top of his suitcase. He takes a deep, satisfied breath and begins to undress for bed. It will take some time to quiet his mind. It will take much longer to fall asleep.

He has just stretched out on the berth when the door to the next cabin opens. Laughter. A man's voice, and then a woman's. Whispers. The door closes with a loud click.

It is well past midnight now and the airship is eerily quiet. Too quiet for the woman to be speaking as loudly as she does.

“Do you think he's right?” she asks.

“Ssshhhh,” her partner says, and then lower, “About what,
Liebchen
?”

“About the bomb.”

The American sits up straight, every muscle tense, breath held, listening for whatever it is they will say next.

“S
sshhhh.” Leonhard stands behind her, his lips close to her ear. Warm. And his voice is little more than a whisper. “It's Colonel Erdmann's job to worry, not yours.”

“But—”

“Quiet,
Liebchen.
”

“He said—”

“I know what he said.”

Gertrud loves Leonhard's hands. He is bright and educated and easily the funniest man she has ever met, but his hands are not the soft, indolent hands of an academic. They are broad and strong and calloused. They are the hands of a man who has never known a sedentary day. And right now those hands snake around her waist, stroking, massaging until they find the top button of her skirt. He flicks it open with two fingers and the fabric at her waist relaxes. Gertrud is never more aware of how much older Leonhard is than when he touches her. It is startling how much skill he has acquired in those two extra decades.

“I know what you're doing,” she says.

When Leonhard tugs at her skirt it falls a few inches to settle on her hips.

“I'd say it's fairly obvious.”

“You're trying to distract me.”

Gertrud's skirt drops to the floor, and Leonhard moves those nimble, calloused fingers to her blouse. One button. Two. Three. He spreads the collar open, revealing an elegant sweep of clavicle and the pale ivory of her camisole. Next he shifts his attention to the opening at the back of her slip as he unbuckles her garters from behind.

“You never did tell me what you were thinking,” he whispers. Leonhard tugs lightly at her earlobe with his teeth.

It takes a beat too long for Gertrud to find her question. “When?”

“When you came out of the toilet after dinner. You looked sad and guilty, like you could cry but were too angry. Why?”

“Egon. I hadn't thought of him for hours.”

“Ah. I thought so.” He gently pulls her to him, her back pressing against his chest. Leonhard is warm and solid, and she settles against him. “Egon is at home with your mother, asleep. You should sleep as well.”

“There's little chance of that.”

“Oh?” One of those hands she loves so much drops between them and makes its way under her slip.

“It isn't going to work, you know.”

“No?” The warmth of his palm high on the inside of her thigh. The stroke of one well-placed finger.

Gertrud clears her throat. “Absolutely not.”

“We shall see about that.” He nuzzles his nose into the soft spot beneath her left ear. Finds her pulse with the tip of his tongue.

“That's not fair.” Her words come out in a rush.

“The rules of fair play do not apply in love or war.”

“Don't you quote John Lyly to me.”

He does not answer, simply continues his gentle stroking against the soft skin of her throat.

“Which is this, then?” she asks. “Love or war.”

“Erotisch.”

So much for fair play. “You didn't answer my question.”

“Oh, but I did,
Liebchen.
” Leonhard finishes unbuttoning her blouse. He slides it off her shoulders and down her arms with warm, long fingers.

This is how she found herself married to Leonhard in the first place. His single-minded, relentless ability to get what he wants. And for the last few years it appears that Gertrud is the only thing he wants. It started with a glass of wine after an editorial meeting. She hadn't wanted to go with him that afternoon—he intimidated her with his age and self-assurance—but he just seemed so certain that
he
wanted to go with
her,
so she relented. Then dinner a few nights later. It must have been excruciating for Leonhard to wait the appropriate amount of time before he could employ his more persuasive abilities. She has wondered since what he would have done had she rebuffed him before he could put them to good use. Alas, she never got the chance to find out. Leonhard Adelt is not the sort of man to let a prize slip through his fingers.

And those fingers are quite busy now hiking her slip higher and higher until it rests at the top of her thighs. “Stop thinking of Egon. He's fine,” he whispers as he hooks his thumbs into the edge of her stockings. Tugs. The sheer silk slides down her legs. Leonhard kicks them toward the growing pile of clothing, then systematically dispatches her garters as well. Leonhard lifts her hands and slides the camisole up and over her head. Unhooks her bra with one hand and drops it to the floor.

“I'm not thinking about him. Not anymore.”

“Liar.” He sets his hands on her hips and slides them slowly up the slope of her belly, over her ribs, until he cups a breast in each hand.

Egon is not quite a year old, and one month ago she was still nursing him twice a day. The process of weaning him was rushed and unwilling and fraught with emotion on both their parts thanks to this trip. And it is only now, as her husband's strong and gentle hands massage her breasts, that she realizes how heavy they are, filled with a phantom ache.

“It's gone,” she whispers, trying to reassure him, as she remembers the awkward pairing of motherhood and lovemaking. There is no polite way to escape the realities of biology when one has a child. Acceptance is the only real course of action. And good humor.

“It never bothered me,
Liebchen.
You know that.” His attentions are methodical as he explores all the dips and hollows, the ridges and mounds of her body, with those expert hands. “But I was right, you do need to be distracted. You won't sleep otherwise.”

If Leonhard was careful in the removal of her clothing, he is efficient when it comes to his own. In a matter of moments there is no fabric between them. He pushes her gently onto the bed.

“It won't work.”

“You keep saying that,” Leonhard says as he climbs in and hovers over her, “but there is so much you have to learn,
Liebchen.
” He graces her with a patient smile.

“You've been a thorough teacher so far.”

“Perhaps…
perhaps
I shall exhaust you so thoroughly that you will concede my point.”

“I'd like to see you try.”

He laughs. Then growls. Drops his mouth to her skin. Leonhard kisses the hollow where neck and shoulder meet. It takes only seconds for his ministrations to become more sensual.

Gertrud is not as crafty as her husband, but she's every bit as provocative and quite a bit faster. “No so fast,” she whispers, pulling away slightly.

He shudders and his eyes take on a glassy, hungry look that only feeds her determination. He murmurs something desperate against her throat.

“Not this time,
Geliebter,
” she whispers. “It's my turn to teach you a thing or two.”