Flight of Dreams (20 page)

I
t's two o'clock on the dot, and Christian Nielsen steps into the chart room just as Max's concentration begins to waver. After so many years working aboard ocean liners, and now airships, he finds that his body works to the clock. He has trained himself to operate at an acute level of performance for the exact duration of his shift. But when the clock turns, his mind and body are only too happy to follow.

There are only a few details to make Nielsen aware of, and he goes through the list quickly. “Keep an eye on the engine telegraph dial for gondola two. I had to make an outboard repair this morning.”

“You did? Why not Zettel?”

“Don't ask.”

“All right. But—”

“We're still fighting strong headwinds,” Max interrupts, “and it looks as though they will get stronger overnight. We haven't made up much time today. Less than an hour at most. I've been checking coordinates every fifteen minutes to make sure we stay on course.” He taps the chart, drawing Nielsen's eye to the complex grid of lines, a language of longitude and latitude decipherable only to their kind. “If we're not here by midnight”—he points at a specific point on the grid and lowers his voice to a whisper—“I'd suggest you increase that to every ten minutes. Pruss is feeling…
hostile
at the moment.”

Nielsen looks through the door at the rigid form of Commander Pruss, who stands over the elevator man, questioning every small adjustment. The young man looks frayed with the effort of not arguing with Pruss.

“Good luck.” Max hands over the logbook and clears his belongings from the navigation desk. Watch. Compass. Pen. He fastens the watch around his wrist and tucks the other items in his pocket. Max goes through his mental checklist: sign out of the logbook, make sure the officers' safe beneath the chart table is locked, verify that all of the navigational instruments are operating correctly.

Nielsen has worked aboard the
Graf Zeppelin,
and he survived a spectacular wrecking of the sailboat
Pinnas.
Yet Max still has to prepare himself to hand over command of his post every night. Nielsen is thorough, attentive, and cautious. Traits every navigator is recruited for. But this small space is Max's territory. His kingdom. And relinquishing control is a battle, especially since he was not able to fully correct the delay. But he has other things to attend to at the moment. He must perform his postmaster duties and he must find Emilie. He has to warn her about what Wilhelm Balla has done.

T
he American has never been a fan of beef Wellington. It's a meal that tries too hard, not to mention being damned hard to get right. The
Hindenburg
's chef is clearly adept, for the dish is cooked perfectly. Still the American is unimpressed. He would have preferred a steak and roasted potatoes. A stout beer. A cigar. And if there weren't such a dearth of women in the immediate vicinity, perhaps one of those as well.

“Are you not enjoying your meal, Herr Douglas?” Captain Lehmann asks.

The American slices off a piece of the tenderloin and places it in his mouth, chewing slowly as if savoring it. “It is easily the best beef Wellington I've ever tasted.”

“I'm glad to hear it.”

National pride can extend to so many bizarre things. Now that the
Hindenburg
has become irrevocably linked to the Third Reich it seems that serving any meal that falls short would mar the Führer's reputation.

The American and Captain Lehmann have one of the smaller tables to themselves. Tonight's flower is a dahlia the size of a soup bowl. A profusion of orange petals at the end of a long, thick stem. It's quite lovely. But the American can't fathom where they came by such a flower at this time of year. The tables are impeccable. Bright linens. Fine china. Shining silver. The tenderloin is soft enough to cut with a spoon, but the stewards have provided steak knives anyway. The American wonders at his chances of sneaking one into his suit pocket. Perhaps it isn't necessary, but it might come in handy. All is going according to plan so far, but he learned long ago that things can go pear-shaped at any moment. It's always good to be prepared. And armed. He thinks better of pocketing the knife when he notices the smallest Doehner boy watching him from the next table. He relaxes his hand, drawing it away from the knife. No point giving the little rascal any ideas. He will wait for a better opportunity. Hermann and Matilde Doehner are talking in the quiet, lazy drawl common to exhausted parents. Their children chatter and pepper them with questions while they hem and haw, offering noncommittal answers.

“I was surprised to get your invitation,” the American says, switching to English so as not to be overheard by his neighbors.

Lehmann adjusts his language to accommodate him with only the slightest sign of irritation. “How so?”

“I fear I did not make a favorable impression on Commander Pruss last night.” He pushes the haricots verts to the edge of his plate. Spears one. Eats it without much enthusiasm. It tastes like a plant. Nothing more.

“He did mention your peculiar theories.”

“I'm not the only person who holds them.”

“Perhaps not. But popularity and truth are not mutually exclusive.”

“You don't seem concerned that Pruss and I didn't manage to become friends.”

The steward sets a rich German red on the table beside Lehmann. Typical. Lehmann lifts the wineglass. Takes a sip. Nods in appreciation. “I can count on one hand the number of people Commander Pruss calls friend.”

“Are you among them?”

“We have mutual goals. That can constitute a friendship.”

“Do those goals include protecting this airship and its passengers?”

“Of course.”

“I'm very glad to hear it.” The American lifts his own wineglass, containing a French white.

Lehmann leans across the table. Lowers his voice. “Is there something I need to know?”

“That depends on how you feel about reciprocation.”

“I don't like games, Herr Douglas.”

“Neither do I. My preference lies with information.”

“What kind of information?”

“A name. Nothing more.”

“And you propose an
exchange
of information?”

“I do. A name for a name.”

Lehmann pulls away and settles back into his chair. He has the smug look of superiority about him. “What sort of name could you possibly give me that would be of interest?”

The American forces down another bite of beef Wellington, then pushes his plate away. He sets his napkin over the knife, then dabs the corner of his mouth with the bright linen and deftly sets both napkin and knife in his lap. “The name of your crew member who is planning to remain in America.”

A
s usual there is only a handful of men in the officers' mess at this hour. Captain Lehmann dines with the other passengers—never here—then retreats to the bar. This has been his habit on every trip that Max has ever flown with him, whether the captain is on duty or not. So it comes as something of a surprise to see Lehmann enter the room. He leans against the door, arms crossed, chin tipped upward as he listens to the ongoing conversation. The officers are discussing the curious sport of American baseball, and the general consensus seems to be one of indifference and confusion.

“Good evening, Captain.” Max salutes. The other officers scramble to do the same.

Lehmann returns the salute and then motions Max forward. “May I have a word with you?”

“Of course,” Max says, but he hopes this won't take long. He's hungry. And exhausted. And mostly he wants to deposit today's mail, find Emilie, and retreat to his cabin so they can enjoy the bottle of Armagnac he pilfered from the bar this afternoon. Max spent the better part of the afternoon trying to speak with Emilie, but she avoided him—either leaving the room entirely or ignoring his presence. To get her alone would have required making a scene, and that certainly wouldn't help his cause. In the end their duties drew them apart and he hasn't found another opportunity to make amends.

“After you.” Lehmann follows Max from the officers' mess.

Once in the corridor the captain takes off without an explanation, and Max has to increase his pace to match Lehmann's long stride.

“May I ask what this is about?”

“You'll see.”

They go straight down the keel corridor, through the passenger quarters, and into the short hallway that houses the domestic crew: cooks, stewards, cabin boy, and bartender. Lehmann stops at the last door on the left and Max pulls back in alarm. Emilie's cabin. Lehmann doesn't knock but rather pulls a key ring from his pocket, unlocks the door, and steps in without announcement or invitation.

“I don't think—”

“I assure you that Fräulein Imhof is not here.”

“Still—”

“I am the captain of this ship. This is an official matter. And I need your assistance. Must I ask you again?”

Lehmann is an observer on this flight, so whatever is happening now should be Commander Pruss's responsibility, but Max does not point this out. He swallows hard instead. “No.”

“Then by all means, come in.”

Emilie has left the room tidy. All of her clothing hangs in the small closet, and only a few personal items are visible. Her toothbrush. A damp washcloth left over the sink edge to dry. A pair of shoes—one of them tipped onto its side—beneath the bed. A comb. Three bobby pins. The room smells of her perfume.

Lehmann closes the door behind them and holds his hands behind his back in an official military gesture. He watches Max but says nothing for a moment.

“What are we doing here?”

“I thought you might like to tell me that.”

No. No. No. It takes him a moment to realize that he is shaking his head. Max has to force his body to slow and then stop the movement. “I must confess to a certain amount of confusion,” he says.

It's a lie, of course. He knows perfectly well what is happening. Wilhelm told him this afternoon. And to his great shame he wasn't able to warn Emilie in time. Max certainly didn't plan on being a witness to the fallout. And he didn't think it would happen today.

Lehmann sighs. It's an abrupt, disappointed sound. As though he expected better of Max. He looks at the ceiling for a moment, appealing to a higher power for help. But his gaze, when he finally levels it on Max, is cold and shrewd and unforgiving. “I would like you to tell me where you found Fräulein Imhof's papers last night.”

“I don't—”

“Yes you do. And I realize that you are rather fond of the girl. But lying is not advisable in this situation.”

The door vibrates with a quiet knock.
“Bitte treten Sie ein!”
Lehmann says without looking away from Max.

Wilhelm Balla enters the room looking abashed. He closes the door behind him.

Lehmann waves off the accusation that is building at the base of Max's throat. “Don't worry. Your friend didn't tell me. And I've no interest in listening to him explain to you who he did tell. Or how that knowledge came to me. What I care about at this particular moment is that the two of you knew before I did. There were three links in the chain before it reached me, and I find that…disturbing. One of my crew plans to violate her contract and I am the last to know? Do you know what that makes me,
Herren
? A fool. And I'm sure you can guess how much I like being made to look a fool.”

Balla has not looked at Max once since he set foot in Emilie's cabin. His gaze shifts between his feet, the doorknob, the cleft in Captain Lehmann's chin, and the wall behind Max's shoulder. He does not speak during this monologue or comment when it's over.

“I asked Herr Balla to join us as a simple means of coercion. Unfair, perhaps. But likely quite effective. I will call him to speak as witness if I find you to be uncooperative, but I'm hoping that will not be necessary. So”—Captain Lehmann smiles, but there's no friendliness in the expression—“I will repeat my earlier question. Would you please show me where you found the documents indicating that Fräulein Imhof plans to leave?”

“Immigrate.” The word comes out as a croak. “She intends to immigrate, Captain.”

“I see you have discussed this to some degree with her. But she has either misled you as to the legality of her actions or she is ignorant of them—which I highly doubt. She is many things, but ignorant is not one of them. We would not have commissioned her service had that been the case. She is not immigrating. She is leaving.”

Max doesn't care about the semantics. Immigrating. Leaving. They both mean the same damn thing. Emilie is leaving him. There's no need to force Lehmann to ask his question a third time, or to involve Balla any further—he will deal with the steward later. So Max takes a single step across the narrow cabin and opens the closet door. “Here,” he says, pointing to the pile of neatly folded underclothes at the bottom of the closet. “I found the papers here.”

Lehmann leans a few degrees to the left but doesn't touch anything. “It seems they have been moved.”

Max does not answer the obvious, unspoken question.

“It is a guess, though I believe it to be accurate, that you are somewhat acquainted with Fräulein Imhof's personal belongings?”

“I would have to argue that.”

“You have touched them on at least one occasion?”

“A few of them. Perhaps.”

“Then you have a greater familiarity with them than I do. So I will leave it to you to find the papers.”

“That is unfair. And uncalled for. If you need to find something, I suggest you summon Emilie.”

“You forget yourself, Herr Zabel. Male and female crew members do not address one another by their first names on this airship.”

Max does not apologize.

“I will reprimand Fräulein Imhof soon enough. Right now I am commanding you to locate her papers. And I assure you that I am doing this as a courtesy because I know you care for her. And that you will respect her privacy in ways that other men perhaps might not. I can call another officer to conduct the search or you can do it yourself.”

Captain Lehmann offers no time limits, no room for argument. Take it or leave it.

Max begins in the closet. He lifts the items carefully, sliding his hands in folds and pockets, finding nothing. The top bunk and the suitcase beneath the bottom berth similarly yield no trace of the documents. He makes careful work of the job as Lehmann and Balla watch. He wants to make sure that they cannot argue about his thoroughness. But soon there is nothing left unsearched in the room except for Emilie's cosmetic case. And searching it seems the greatest violation of her privacy so far. There are things in this case that Max cannot name or describe. Items that he does not know the use for. It has her scent, though, and as he lifts the objects out, one by one, his senses are filled with her. He feels very much as though he is stripping her naked and allowing her to be ogled by strangers. When the case is empty, and the items are piled on the bed, he turns it over and shakes it three times.

Perhaps she didn't place the hidden panel back in firmly, or maybe the movement knocks the panel loose. Regardless, the thin, stiff board falls out, followed by her travel documents and the cash she has saved. Max sees the note he scribbled on the envelope and turns away.

For the first time since entering the room Lehmann touches her effects. He gives the papers a cursory look, just long enough to verify what they are. He reads the message but does not count the money. He simply stacks everything in a pile and holds it in his palm as though balancing a tray.

“You may go, Herr Balla,” he says, waving one hand at the steward dismissively.

Balla obeys, quickly and silently.

“Will that be all, Captain?” The tone of Max's question is blunt and angry, bordering on disrespect.

“Almost. If you would follow me, Commander Pruss would like to have a quick word with you as well. Then you are free to go.” Lehmann hands him Emilie's papers. “Hold these.”

Max is struggling to fit them neatly in the crook of his arm when Lehmann pushes open the door to the officers' mess and reveals Emilie sitting at the plush banquette with Commander Pruss. When she lifts her face he can see that she has been crying. Her gaze settles on what he holds in his arm and a look of acute betrayal sweeps across those light, rust-colored eyes.