“You know him?”
“I know of him. He works for an American advertising company in Frankfurt. His paperwork checks out. According to our sources he is going home to visit family, a mother and four brothers, to be precise. We have no official reason to suspect his actions or his passage on board this trip.”
Leonhard tries very hard not to pounce on this information. Gertrud can see him tensing beside her, putting pieces together in his mind.
“And yet?” he asks.
“We are monitoring him.”
Leonhard laughs this off. “You’re monitoring everyone.”
Lehmann doesn’t deny it. He simply glances at Gertrud, offers a patronizing smile, and turns back to Leonhard. So that’s how it is. Lehmann will not speak freely in her presence. Fine. Gertrud isn’t a fool. Leonhard can get the job done. He has been prying information out of sources since before she was born.
Gertrud yawns and stretches, then lays a hand on Leonhard’s arm. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll join the ladies in the reading room. I’d like to finish my book.”
Leonhard is not fooled by her doe-eyed look. A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. He winks at Lehmann and says, “Do excuse my wife.”
Both men rise from the table, and Lehmann hands her the Maybach 12. “Good evening, Frau Adelt. Don’t forget your drink.”
Gertrud walks from the smoking room with an exaggerated, feminine sway, but once she’s alone in the corridor she tips her glass back and drinks the Maybach 12 in two long gulps. Then she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and swears.
THE CABIN BOY
Werner watches the last of the crew finish dinner and stack their plates in the middle of the table. He pulls out his pocket watch. Frowns. He holds it to his ear to make sure it’s still working. Sure enough, the steady tick-tick-tick sounds within. The watch is correct. It’s only eight o’clock but everyone is done with dinner. They normally linger, dragging out each free moment until their duties resume. But tonight the crew’s mess has emptied early. He gathers the dishes and carries them into the kitchen. The sink is his for fifteen minutes—Xaver’s routine will only allow for a short interruption—so the cabin boy makes quick work of the delicate china. Werner returns to the crew’s mess to put the dishes away and wipe down the tables. He sweeps. Checks the chairs and banquettes for crumbs and sticky patches, then declares the job complete. This gives him a moment to pause as he does a quick calculation. He now has half an hour of free time. A rare luxury.
Last year the Hindenburg carried a Blüthner baby grand piano in the lounge. It was custom-made to comply with flight requirements—weighing a mere 397 pounds—and instead of the standard wood shell was covered with yellow pig skin. While on break Werner would linger in the lounge listening to passengers play ragtime on the piano. He liked the raucous music and the gregarious singing that accompanied it. He misses it. Had it been up to him, he would have kept the piano. But the powers that be decided that the few hundred pounds of weight could be better used to store cargo. Freight brings a profit; pianos do not. So there is no music on this flight and, as a result, Werner thinks the atmosphere is too somber. He heads toward the lounge anyway. There’s no telling what the passengers will be up to, and there’s a good chance he’ll find some form of entertainment. A card game. Or perhaps a bit of storytelling. There are a number of Americans on board. They always seem to have the most outrageous stories. And a curious sense of humor.
Later tonight, when he finally crawls into bed, he will wonder if Irene Doehner lingered on the stairs because she was waiting for him. But now he only thinks that he is pleased to see her. That the gangway stairs are his favorite spot on the ship because he has the habit of running into her here. She is sitting halfway up the steps, a mess of needlepoint on her lap. She looks frustrated. And then delighted when she sees him. Irene rises to her feet, and he notes that there is nothing awkward about the motion. She is simply standing where a moment before she was sitting.
He offers a shy smile, and she returns it with one of her own.
Werner nods, polite. “Pardon me, Fr?ulein.”