A Prince Without a Kingdom (33 page)

“Well?” asked the tango dancer.

Viktor’s eyes were glued to his binoculars. He knew that if he was being deceived, it would cost him thousands, the biggest contract of his life. A red piece of cloth at the window would result in a lot of bloodshed to wash his honor. The marksman was waiting beside him. The balloon turned a little more.

“White,” said Viktor. “White.”

“Bravo,” cheered the Argentine from behind. “Everything is now confirmed. Congratulations!”

Five hundred meters away, on the other side of the airfield

“Ethel . . .”

Her name leaped from his heart and lips. Vango was sprinting toward the
Hindenburg.

His boat had dropped him off in New York two days earlier. He had rushed to the tower, where he climbed the scaffolding. Building work had still not resumed. Vango found Zefiro’s lookout post deserted and the huge steel letters abandoned. Nobody had lived there for some time. There was no trace of the padre. Had Ethel led the enemy to Zefiro? Had she been captured with him?

Vango had waited there for one night. Then he had crossed the street and recklessly presented himself at the reception desk of the Plaza Hotel.

“I have something for Madame Victoria in the suite on the eighty-fifth floor.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Madame Victoria.”

The man had scrolled through his registers.

“There’s no customer under that name. Never has been.”

“Somebody occupied the eighty-fifth floor for several months this winter. I may have their name wrong. Please check.”

“No,” the receptionist had assured him. “The eighty-fifth floor has been under construction for three years now. There are no rooms on that floor.”

“I can assure you —”

“Please. That’s enough. Go away now.”

So Vango had set off to wander the city at random. And then he had found a newspaper that someone had left behind on a bench in Grand Central Station. On the back page were a few lines announcing the arrival of the
Hindenburg
close to New York. Vango had glanced up at the clock.

Ethel would be on board. He was sure of that.

As he ran across the field toward the balloon, Vango felt as if he had set a trap for Ethel. She would be there, pursued by murderers, far from home, because of him. When he had left her alone among the cornfields of Lakehurst nearly ten years earlier, following their world tour in the
Graf Zeppelin,
it was to spare her the death that Vango felt hovering over his shoulder at all times. When he had abandoned her on the dockside at Southampton, it was because she meant more to him than anything else in the world.

A two-tone Ford coupe sped past him. The tires skidded, leaving ruts in the damp grass.

In the airship, Ethel kept her tiny suitcase by her feet. She was waiting next to the window in the lounge and leaning forward as, little by little, she saw the earth draw closer. Already, the people on the grass looked less like miniatures. She could see children. She could even make out the feathers in the ladies’ hats and, over there, a black-and-white car approaching a hangar.

The Ford coupe parked in front of the door. A man got out and climbed the exterior staircase of the warehouse.

Voloy Viktor was watching the marksman dismantle his weapon. For once, Viktor was relieved that the weapon wouldn’t be used. He had sometimes doubted this game of poker that he was caught up in, with tens of millions of dollars at stake. But he was starting to believe in it now.

“Mr. Viktor . . .”

It was the man with the Argentine accent again. Viktor turned around brusquely to make him pipe down.

“There’s somebody here for you,” announced the man, whose hair gleamed as much as his pointy shoes.

Viktor turned another ninety degrees and saw a figure appearing between the bales of hay. It was the Irishman. He was brushing off his jacket, which was covered in dry grass.

Viktor gave a weak smile: something he wouldn’t have done for anyone else in the world. A weak smile that was vaguely respectful.

“Your men let me through down below,” commented the Irishman. “They’re not very careful.”

“They recognize my friends just as I recognize them.”

The Irishman had gone over to the window. He was watching the airship, which was still a hundred meters above ground level.

“You’ve got a nice view.”

Viktor nodded.

“What’s the news from on board?” added the Irishman.

“It’s good.”

“Meaning?”

“My men have been able to confirm everything in Europe. It’s a clean deal.”

“Oh, yes?”

“I would never involve you in a dodgy one.”

“Is that so? And who are your men on board?”

“Dorgeles and two others. Dorgeles has been working with me since the beginning.”

“Is that meant to inspire confidence?”

The Irishman was still brushing his jacket nervously, even though there wasn’t a shred of hay left on it.

“Can I go now?” asked the marksman, who had closed his double-bass case.

“No,” the Irishman said softly before Viktor could even reply.

Voloy Viktor was mildly startled, but the Irishman went right up to him.

“Can I ask you a favor?”

“Yes,” said Viktor.

“I’ve got filthy hands because of this pigsty. Could you take out the photo from my inside pocket? I don’t want to get my shirt dirty.”

Viktor moved his hand toward the Irishman and thrust it into his jacket, where he fumbled about a bit. He felt rather uncomfortable standing next to him, and had never before had such a close-up view of the red scarf worn by his business associate. Once, the Irishman had told Viktor that it was “a present from a friend who disappeared.”

Viktor rummaged around some more in the pocket and felt a piece of paper.

“Here you go,” he said, taking out the photo.

“No, you look at it. I told you, I’ve got dirty hands.”

Voloy Viktor went over to the window to take a look at the photo.

“It’s J. J. Puppet,” he exclaimed.

“Yes.”

The engines of the
Hindenburg
were roaring less forcefully now, and the airship was flying lower and lower. Viktor took a careful look at the picture.

In a flash, he understood.

Puppet wore his boxer’s gloves around his neck in the photograph. He was in the middle of a field of white crosses: the cemetery of Douaumont near Verdun. Fifteen thousand graves and ten times that number of unknown soldiers. The caption was written in italics just below:

The boxer J. J. Puppet, world champion and advocate for peace

“How well do you know your friends?” asked the Irishman.

Voloy Viktor remained silent. He was staring out of the window. He had just lost a fortune, and he was about to lose his wealthiest partner. So he needed to give a powerful and rapid response that would turn the situation on its head.

“Prepare the rifle,” he ordered.

The marksman put his double-bass case down again.

“You told me this was a clean deal,” the Irishman reproached him. “But it’s a rat trap. And I was about to get my leg caught, just like a rat, because of you, Mr. Viktor. Puppet is a regular in this kind of conspiracy. We’ve been framed. I don’t know the name of the other guy, but he’s a Frenchman of the same ilk. And as for that Dorgeles of yours, the man’s incompetent.”

“I’ll put this right,” said Viktor in a flat tone of voice. “Puppet, Dorgeles, and all the others. I’ll make them history.”

And he bent down to select a long thin bullet from the top of the elite marksman’s holster. He held it out to him, while the Irishman looked on.

“That’s an incendiary bullet. . . .” pointed out the marksman with the broken fingers.

“Load it up.”

“I’ve only got one. And I can’t kill a man with a bullet like that.”

“I know. You’re just going to fire the once.”

Viktor turned toward the balloon, which had dropped half a ton of water so as not to descend too quickly.

“Hurry up,” he ordered.

“But . . .” protested the marksman, “we’ve got three men on board; there’s Dorgeles —”

“I don’t know anyone called Dorgeles,” retorted Voloy Viktor, threatening the marksman with a gun he had just taken out of his pocket. “Do as you’re told.”

This attempt at winning the Irishman back was met with some success. He gave an amused smile as he made his way between the bales of hay. But he wasn’t hanging around. He headed downstairs, got into his car, and drove off.

Vango was now at the edge of the area where the
Hindenburg
would touch down. Cables had just been cast from the zeppelin. A sprinkling of water also fell. For a moment, he thought he saw Ethel’s face at the window. He tried to force his way forward but got pushed back. Men lunged to catch the moorings, which had reached the ground, but the
Hindenburg
was still a good forty meters up.

Suddenly, a flash of light burst from the back of the zeppelin.

Flames. A cry rose up from the crowd. Vango couldn’t even tell if he was shouting as well.

It took a few seconds for the balloon to become a flare. Next to Vango, a journalist was still clinging to his microphone, trying to file his report: “There is smoke, there are flames, and everything is collapsing! Yes,” his voice kept breaking, “everything is collapsing to the ground! Weep for humanity!”

All Vango could think of in the middle of this blaze was Ethel. Was this the trap for her that he had always feared? He felt as if he had lit the match that had sparked these flames. As if he were responsible for this field reduced to ashes. The prow of the
Hindenburg
had just touched the ground, but in a vertical position. Vango began to run toward the fire as hordes of shadowy figures were trying to escape from it. They were the same men who had wanted to pull on the cables to bring the airship down to the ground. Disaster had struck.

“Ethel!”

At last he could hear his own voice calling out in the roar of the flames.

“Ethel!”

It had only taken one minute. And now almost everything was destroyed.

“Ethel!”

The hydrogen had caused the fire to spread like lightning. And yet, as he drew closer, Vango could make out a few ghosts emerging from the flames. Survivors. There were survivors! Vango gathered up the first person, who was black with smoke. Vango led him to one side and signaled for someone to take him. Figures rushed over to help.

On the other side, not far from there, a man had just extracted himself from the inferno. Half his body was burned, but he couldn’t feel anything. He was clutching a lifeless, unrecognizable body, which he laid down in the close-cropped grass before collapsing alongside it.

“Schiff,” pleaded Zefiro, shaking the body.

But Schiff was no longer alive. As Zefiro fell to the ground, he understood that he didn’t have much time left either. He could feel the painful beating of his heart slowing down. His eyelids no longer moved. And yet he thought he saw a face leaning over him.

“Padre . . .”

It was Vango.

Zefiro tried to move his lips.

“Is that you, Padre?” whispered Vango.

He leaned even farther over him.

“Stay alive. . . . Go away and live, Vango. Leave everything. Start again.”

“Padre —”

“Forget.”

Zefiro gave a numb smile.

“I didn’t know how to. Promise me. Abandon arms. Forget.”

Vango hesitated.

“Promise.”

He promised.

And Zefiro raised his right arm slowly. Vango spotted his blue handkerchief tied around the padre’s wrist.

“Take it,” ordered the monk.

Tenderly, Vango obeyed. He stared at the fabric, only one corner of which was burned, with the charred section petering out just before the star.

“It’s yours. But you’re going to give it to this young man who looks like you. It would have made him happy.”

He pointed to Schiff.

“Do it, Vango. It will save you. They will all think that Vango is dead. And that way,” added Zefiro, “you will live.”

Vango had placed his cheek next to Zefiro’s, and the padre was whispering into his ear. Vango’s tears ran down his friend’s face.

“Leave.” Zefiro sighed. “Go somewhere no one will recognize you. Where you’ll no longer be a danger to anyone.”