“The jet stream picked up east of Nova Scotia. There was a block of low pressure offshore, and when we flew into it we lost a lot of speed.”
It’s amazing what can happen while a man sleeps. While Max tossed and turned in his cabin not twenty feet away, the ship practically ground to a halt without his knowing. Two, maybe three hours of sleep is all he got. But he has a plan now, and that’s more than he had yesterday.
Max doesn’t answer Nielsen. He’s afraid his voice will betray relief. He feared he wouldn’t have time to do the thing he needs to do, but this fortuitous delay has blown his plan wide open and given him the gift of unexpected time. Perhaps he is not doomed after all.
Nielsen’s shift is almost over, and he looks like a man with his mind bent on breakfast. Max cannot help but feel a certain amount of glee at the realization that Xaver Maier will be forced to cook a number of unexpected meals today. He makes a mental note to stop by the kitchen at some point and gloat.
When Werner announces the arrival of coffee a few minutes later, it’s Max who goes to fetch the tray. And if the cabin boy is surprised to see him in the control car so early he doesn’t let on. But neither does he make eye contact. Something about the boy doesn’t look right.
“What’s wrong?” Max asks.
Werner shakes his head. “Nothing.”
He lowers his voice to a near whisper. “Look at me and say that.”
Werner’s eyes are clear, and he doesn’t appear to be injured. His uniform is crisp and clean. His hair parted. But there is no light in his eyes. “I’m fine,” he says. But he meets Max’s curious gaze with reserve.
“I don’t believe you.”
Werner hesitates, then sighs. “You weren’t there last night when I came back to your cabin. You told me to come back. I waited as long as I could.”
The boy’s voice sounds hurt and accusing, and Max feels a stab of guilt. “I’m sorry, I—”
Werner pulls back from the hatch a few inches. Whispers. “There’s something I need to tell you.” But when Max leans forward, curious, Werner nods toward Commander Pruss at the helm. “Not now.”
THE AMERICAN
“Breakfast! For the bitches!” Joseph Sp?h thrusts a plate into the American’s face.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, come off it. You’re not a prude. And that is a perfectly correct reference for female dogs. Dogs which, I might add, are waiting to be fed.”
“Ulla is female. Owens is not. Therefore your plural usage is incorrect.”
“Owens?”
“We have to call him something.”
“Not something stupid.” The American looks at him with disdain, so Sp?h feigns an expression of mock supplication and a bad English accent. “My good fellow, would you care to accompany me to feed the hounds?”
Werner Franz has most likely fed the dog already, but the American isn’t about to tell Sp?h. “Might as well,” he finally says. “It’s not like I have anything else to do.”
It’s a familiar ritual by now. The American follows Sp?h through the security door and down the keel catwalk. The little acrobat looks wistfully at the cruciform bracing as they pass underneath. He tells the American that with a little practice he could make a real spectacle out of that climb. They are discussing the merits of such a display when a man moves toward them from the access walkway that leads to the first engine gondola.
“What are you doing here?”
The voice is hard and deep and commanding. It is the voice of Ludwig Knorr.
“The same thing I’ve done twice a day every day since this ship departed Frankfurt.” Sp?h takes a dramatic bow. “Feeding my dog.”
“Passengers aren’t allowed in this part of the ship.” He looks at the American and receives a disinterested shrug in return.
“Tell that to every crewman who has seen me traverse this stretch of catwalk for the last three days.”
If Sp?h has been intercepted on his solo trips he has not mentioned it to the American. Most likely he’s bluffing.
Knorr is unconvinced. “Names.”
“Joseph Sp?h and”—he looks at the American—“I don’t know his name. No one does. But he answers to Asshole in a pinch.”
“Not your names, your—”
“Right. You meant the dogs. Ulla and Owens. The latter is the dumbest name I’ve ever heard for a dog. But it’s what we’ve come to expect from Asshole here.”
“Listen, Arschmade, I meant the crewmen. I want the names of the men who let you back here.”
“I didn’t ask. And I wouldn’t remember anyway. There are so many of you. And you all look alike in your boring gray uniforms.”
The American does his best not to laugh. Sp?h is quick and clever. He has a rapier wit and the perfect timing of a man who is accustomed to heckling. He enjoys the game immensely. However, the banter is a nuisance to the chief rigger, and he raises a hand to silence the little man.