The Company of the Dead (25 page)

“You’re coming with us,” Kennedy said, softly now. “We need you.”

“What the
hell
do you need me for?” Lightholler mashed the cigarette onto the table’s stained surface. He looked from one man to the other and then back at the journal. “Shit.” It was almost a whisper. “You’ve got to be kidding.” His gaze turned towards the ceiling. He focused on a swirl of smoke that spiralled around the naked light bulb. After a moment, he spoke again.

“That’s why I was selected for the maiden voyage.” He slapped the table with an open palm. “You were
training
me. You actually believe you can go back in time. Back to the
Titanic
... ”

“That’s right, Captain.”

Lightholler was shaking his head. “You’re out of your fucking minds.” Then another thought occurred to him. “How much pull do you guys have? A letter from the King; you’ve got the Admiralty in your pocket...” His voice trailed away.

“Things go our way every now and then,” Kennedy said.

“For all I know, you organised for the
Titanic
’s replica to be built.”

“A little beyond our budget.” Kennedy smiled. “We had nothing to do with the new ship’s construction, though Morgan was consulted on her design. You were, however, one of a select few that we had wanted for her captain.”

“Why me in particular?” Lightholler asked. Despite his scepticism, he found himself curious.

“I guess I’m just sentimental.”

Hardas said, “Let’s go.”

Kennedy gathered up the journal and the photographs and wedged them gently into his satchel.

Lightholler felt a gun’s muzzle nudging against the small of his back. He turned to Hardas and said, “You don’t need that.”

Hardas motioned him towards the door.

“I thought you liked me.”

Hardas smiled. “There’s like and there’s like, Captain. Let’s move.”

The place had started to fill with the early evening crowd. Lightholler was reeling. He could feel no centre of balance.

“You feel disorientated, don’t you, confused?” Hardas said.

Lightholler nodded.

“You’ll get used to it.”

Kennedy worked a path through the slack knots of drinkers that ebbed and flowed along the bar’s edge. Everyone seemed to be moving too slowly. The next time Lightholler heard country music would be too soon.

There was a small sedan parked outside. He was nudged into the back seat, between Kennedy and Hardas. Morgan was seated up front. Lightholler noted, without surprise, that their driver was the same negro who’d been attending him during his stay at the Waldorf.

“Any more details on Osakatown, Martin?” Kennedy asked as they pulled away from the kerb. They headed uptown. Lightholler peered out of the rear window into the forming dusk.

“There was a shooting. Two men. Both dead.”

“Kobe’s joint?” Kennedy asked.

“Two blocks from Kobe’s,” Shine replied.

“That’s where they were supposed to be going,” Lightholler said. “The men who kidnapped me.”

Kennedy turned to face him.

“The
other
men who kidnapped me.” Lightholler offered a faint smile.

“Thank you for the clarification, Captain.”

“This is getting all fucked up, Major,” Morgan said.

“Someone gets shot every other day in Osakatown, Darren,” Kennedy said. “We’re fine.”

Hardas was leaning against his window. The gun remained firmly in his grip. Lightholler eyed the pistol, noting the calibre and the thick bulk of the magazine clip in front of the trigger guard. He decided not to say anything.

“Streets are quiet,” Kennedy muttered.

“What are you thinking, Major?” Hardas asked.

“I’m thinking this is a good time to be leaving New York.”

Shine drove the sedan up Mercer Street and turned onto Bleecker.

“Where are we going?” Lightholler asked.

“Central Park,” Kennedy replied.

“Oh, good,” Lightholler said wearily. “I love the park.”

They ignored him.

“We should check the radio,” Hardas said.

Lightholler sensed that something had changed since Kennedy had approached him in the hotel room, only yesterday. The dynamic seemed all wrong. It was time to stir the mix. He cleared his throat.

“When we do get hauled in, I’ll be sure to remind them to add abduction to the charges of conspiracy and treason.”

“We’ll just have to plead insanity,” Morgan replied. He left the sentence hanging, as if he expected a reply. When none was forthcoming, he turned his head to view Lightholler with a half-hearted attempt at a smile.

Lightholler shook his head. “Amateurs.”

“Of course we’re amateurs,” Kennedy said softly. “We’ll only get one chance at this, and it’s not as if there are any precedents.”

“Think of us as pioneers,” Hardas added.

They travelled in uneasy silence. The radio whined through a chorus of crackle.

“There,” Kennedy said. “Hold it.”

They listened as a reporter described the shootings in Osakatown and the Midtown Tunnel.

“Jesus,” Morgan said. “They happened round the same time.”

“Looks like someone’s cleaning house,” Hardas said.

The reporter’s voice trailed into static again. Shine adjusted the frequency. The static roared, then sputtered.

Kennedy asked, “Can you get anything else?”

“Can’t get anything at all, Major.”

Hardas squinted out the window, scoping the aerial. “We got static and no reason for bad reception.”

Kennedy said, “Even if they called a curfew on account of the shootings, they wouldn’t shut down the radio stations. Check out the police and army bands.”

The static roared again, wearing at Lightholler’s frayed nerves.

“I’m getting nothing, Major,” Shine said.

Kennedy and Hardas exchanged a look.

“Maybe someone’s jamming the transmissions,” Lightholler offered.

They both looked at him.

“What do you know about this, Captain?” Hardas growled.

“I know you’re shitting yourself,” Lightholler said. “You’ll get used to it.”

“You don’t have a fucking clue,” Hardas told him. “You brought those fuckers halfway around the world and you don’t even know it.”

Lost, Lightholler fell silent.

“What do you want me to do, Major?” Shine asked.

“I’m thinking,” Kennedy replied.

“We have to avoid the shore,” Hardas said. “Head to the East Side, stay well away from the Summer Palace and the barracks at Gramercy Park.”

“What’s going on, Major?” Morgan asked worriedly.

Kennedy didn’t answer him. He said, “Take Second Avenue. Any signs of police or military and we turn right around. We’ll cross back to Lexington once we’ve passed the Hirohito Bridge.”

“How about the Holland Tunnel to Jersey? We can double back later.” A tone of exasperation crept into Shine’s voice. He had been about to turn on to Ninth, now he had to cut across town.

“Please,” Lightholler said, “no tunnels.”

Hardas glanced at him.

“And for God’s sake, point that gun elsewhere unless you plan on using it right now.”

Hardas let the gun slip into the folds of his creased overcoat. “No tunnels, Martin.” He glanced across at Kennedy with a twisted smile. “Anyway, who the hell would want to go to Jersey?”

Shine swung the sedan onto 13th Street. The last of the sun’s rays were setting behind them, but the horizon ahead glowed faintly. They drove through a confluence of shadows, the husks of tenements lining the narrow road to either side.

Lightholler had given up trying to process the day’s events.

When he’d first encountered Kennedy at the Waldorf, the man had exuded an aura of quiet confidence and control. What had happened between then and the Lone Star?

And when Hardas had drawn his pistol in the back room of the café, it seemed more like an afterthought than any planned action. If they had wanted to abduct him, they’d had ample opportunity at their first meeting. More to the point, his participation in Kennedy’s scheme seemed to have been planned for at least a year. That was when he’d been informed that he would captain the new
Titanic
.

So no matter how bizarre their goal was, they hadn’t intended to recruit him by violent means. Something must have forced their hand.

There was no point trying anything now, he decided. They were improvising—he was certain of it—and that meant they would eventually slip up. Perhaps in the park, perhaps later. Then he would steal away and contact London. Contact Admiral Lloyd and find out what the hell was going on.

Their sedan encountered little traffic as it barrelled up Second Avenue. They crossed over to Lexington at 57th. A jeep was pulled up on the kerb. Through the fogged window Lightholler made out four soldiers. Two of them were Imperial Watch; the one still seated in the vehicle was shouting, his hands striking the steering wheel repeatedly. The other two men were Union reserves. They stood before the jeep’s hood while thick streaks of smoke curled up from the engine block. All four turned to face the passing sedan, their expressions lost between misted windowpane and the escaping fumes.

They entered Central Park via 79th Street. The trees sparkled with fairy lights, their illumination spilling into the dark places beyond the reach of streetlamps. It gave the place an ethereal quality so that Lightholler felt as if by entering the park they were leaving more than the city.

Kennedy leaned forwards to tap Shine on the shoulder.

Shine put the car in neutral and they coasted to a gentle stop near a clump of low bushes. Lightholler asked Hardas for a cigarette as they spilled out of the back seat. Hardas eased the gun into his shoulder holster and handed his packet over.

“When was the last time you were here, Captain?” Kennedy asked.

“At least ten years ago,” he replied, lighting up.

“I think you’re in for a little surprise.”

“More surprises? Be still my heart.”

Shine opened the trunk and they removed their belongings.

“Why are we leaving the car here?” Morgan asked, frowning.

“We’re going in by the back door. I’d rather we see anyone before they see us,” Kennedy said, hefting a bag over one shoulder.

He led them away from the paved road towards a shallow hill. Lightholler could see a bright glow through the trees ahead. Two spotlights were aimed skywards; their beams swung scouring the night, trying to pierce the heavy clouds the evening winds had gathered. As they crested the rise, Lightholler saw her and stopped dead in his tracks.

“She’s the
Shenandoah
.” Kennedy halted at his side. “What do you think?”

The massive airship lay nestled in a long wooden cradle in the small valley before them. It hadn’t been visible from the transverse.

“When did they build the terminus?” Lightholler asked.

“Last year,” Morgan replied.

They walked down the grassy knoll, the cigar-shaped dirigible growing before their eyes.

“How big is she?” Lightholler asked.

“Seven-hundred-and-ninety feet long,” Kennedy said. “That’s just a little shy of the
Titanic
. It’s difficult to make out from here, but she carries two gondolas beneath her.”

Lightholler thought he could see the living compartments suspended below the airship’s massive frame. “I see them, fore and aft,” he said finally. “But what’s that between them?”

“She carries a hangar between and below the living quarters,” Kennedy said. “It’s a special feature of the Cavalier-class dirigibles. She’s capable of accommodating up to five aircraft, with cargo. They can be released or taken aboard while in flight.”

“But why?” Lightholler asked, astonished.

“I think they use them for supplying the stratolites,” Morgan said.

“Impressive,” Lightholler murmured. He could now see the details of the terminus that lay spread below the airship. It was surrounded by a high wire fence that enclosed the entire perimeter. The vehicles that raced around the building were playthings next to the
Shenandoah
’s conspicuous bulk.

Lightholler’s suitcase was becoming heavy in his arms. They were now about two hundred feet from the wire fence. He said, “There’s a lot of traffic down there.”

At least seven vehicles were arrayed beside the aft gondola. The soft thrum of the
Shenandoah
’s engines was apparent now, it seemed to come from everywhere. He thought he could feel the vibration in the soles of his tired feet. He heard distant thunder punctuated by the occasional sound of a brittle crack.

“What’s that smell?” Morgan asked.

Lightholler sniffed at the air. He watched as a vehicle broke away from the small motorcade and tore through the gates towards them. A small beam wavered in their direction as they stood in the penumbra of the terminal’s floodlights. “So much for the back door,” he muttered.

Hardas growled, “Get back.” He dropped his bag, slipped a hand beneath his jacket flap and planted his feet.

Kennedy assumed a similar stance.

Lightholler glanced at both men, then back at the oncoming vehicle, obscured in the glare from the terminal beyond.

“Oh, shit,” Morgan said.

Shine, down on one knee, was reaching into one of the suitcases.

The vehicle skidded to a halt, showering them with tufts of grass and soil. It was black with irregular grey shading on all of its steel-plated surface. Its turret swung lazily towards them, the muzzle of its cannon coming to bear on them. A black iron cross emblazoned the vehicle’s side.

A goggled face emerged from the top of the half-track. “
Hände hoch!
”

All five men dropped what they were carrying. A machine-gun clattered at Shine’s feet. Morgan looked at his companions, in shock. The others raised their hands slowly.

“Morgan, for God’s sake put your hands in the air,” Lightholler said under his breath.

“
Sind Sie Amerikaner
?” The soldier removed his goggles in a swift motion and clambered from the vehicle, dropping to the up-turned soil with a heavy thud.

Kennedy took a slight step forwards, peering at the insignia on the man’s uniform. He said, “
Jawohl, Herr Leutnant. Wir sind Amerikaner. Aus dem Suden
.”