“Take me home.”
It’s the closest she will come to begging, and he flinches at the desperate note in her voice. “I’m trying.”
“We seem to be going in the opposite direction.”
“No way out but through, Liebchen. You want to go home to Egon? Home is through Lakehurst and then New York, and then this godforsaken book tour. We miss a single one of those steps and we won’t have a son to go home to.”
Leonhard has never said the words so plainly, though she has known the truth of them for some time.
“Is that what Goebbels told you?”
“That and more.”
The breath catches in her throat. “I’m so sorry. I caused this trouble.”
“No. You were just a handy excuse. I have co-written a book about German aviation and the Nazis’ recent grasp for power. I have become a public figure now that the book will be published internationally. I have put this target on our backs.”
“I certainly didn’t help things.”
“No. But you made them a hell of a lot more interesting.”
Leonhard moves across her body, tucking his head into the crook of her neck, as though protecting her from an assailant. “I am sorry, Liebchen.”
The mood is heavy, too much for Gertrud. She tickles him in the ribs until he curses and slides away.
“You can’t help yourself. You’ve been making mischief with your words since the beginning. I’d be rather disappointed if you stopped now.”
“So mischief is what you want?” He slides a hand over her bare hip, down her thigh.
“Tempting.” Gertrud yawns. “But at this particular moment I’d rather have sleep.”
“Come home to me, then.” Leonhard loops an arm around her and pulls her into his chest as he whispers their pet saying. The first time they made love, Leonhard told her that having her in his arms felt like being home. And so now every time he wants her near him he asks her to come home. And she obediently backs herself into the warmth of his broad chest. As Gertrud sinks a few degrees toward unconsciousness, a single question tugs at her mind.
“What do we do about the American? Lehmann listened to you. But he’s stalling. We both know that.”
Leonhard lies there, silent for a moment. Then he pulls the blanket high over their bare shoulders. “First we rest. Then we bide our time and get off this damned airship when it lands tomorrow. With any luck we won’t have to do a thing about the American. We’ve planted the seed with Lehmann. He can take it from here.”
“And the cabin boy?”
“What about him?”
“He never came back last night.”
Leonhard’s voice is heavy with sleep. “Look for him in the morning. See what he learned.”
And so she drifts toward that blissful void known as sleep. And as she goes she thinks of Werner. How she needs to find him. She thinks of the peculiar absurdity of the adolescent male. She thinks of boys. Boys and brothers. Something about brothers. One or four or what was it? Some inconsistency she has heard. And then the thought has slipped from her and her frantic mind is suspended in temporary peace.
THE NAVIGATOR
Max drops into the control car exactly twenty-five minutes early for his shift. It’s not like him, and Christian Nielsen squints in his direction, his tired eyes pinched at the corners, suspicious.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Max says as he makes his way into the chart room. He stands beside the window, hands crammed deep into his pockets, and surveys the landscape for nearly five minutes before something obvious occurs to him. “That isn’t New Jersey.”
“Maine,” Nielsen says.
“We should be over New Jersey.” Max looks at the clock above the chart table. “We’re supposed to land this morning.”
“More headwinds,” Nielsen says by way of explanation. “Pruss just radioed Lakehurst to let them know they should expect us around four this afternoon. Hopefully we can make up some time now that we’re over land. But if so, it won’t be much.”
Commander Pruss is at the helm, looking out the front windows of the control car into the early morning gloom. The persistent cloud cover that has plagued the entire trip is present here as well—but with a more sinister look. Pruss doesn’t comment on the delay or greet Max. He simply stands there, hands on the rudder wheel, glaring out into the mist, daring the weather to turn adverse. They can’t afford to lose any more time.
They’ve been fighting headwinds since the first night, but this is an even more significant delay than he expected. Max assumed they were five or six hours behind schedule, but not—he looks at the clock again to double-check his mental calculations—ten.
“How?” he asks Nielsen.