“I will take you to the cargo hold.” Knorr glares at each of them in turn. “And then escort you back to the passengers’ quarters.”
Knorr leads the way with the air of a martyr, watching while the dogs are fed and their messes cleaned, standing apart from them, inconvenienced and determined to let them know. The American hadn’t intended to actually participate in this ritual, and he finds it distasteful. Dogs are not hygienic creatures. The way they eat and the way they defecate and clean themselves repulses him—Owens in particular with the little clods of shit clumped around his ass. But the American is keenly aware of Ludwig Knorr’s curious gaze, so he plays the part.
They are almost done when Werner Franz enters the cargo room door holding a paper bag filled with scraps. He eyes the men in turns—Sp?h and Knorr first, but upon seeing the American he cannot disguise his fear. The American gives him an almost imperceptible shake of the head. Don’t say a word, the look commands.
“Why are you here?” Knorr demands.
He points an unsteady hand at the wicker cage. “To feed the dog.”
Owens sees Werner and begins to leap around, pushing his nose through the narrow slats, begging for attention. Stupid, pathetic creature and his easily bought affections, the American thinks. When Werner offers his hand the dog licks it with devotion.
Knorr watches this display of affection for a moment. “Why?”
It’s a direct question from a superior, and the American cannot blame the boy for answering truthfully.
“I was paid to do so.”
Knorr’s voice drops lower. Curious. “By whom?”
There is no hesitancy in Werner’s voice when he answers. He has chosen his course and committed to it. “Him.”
Knorr’s full curiosity turns to the American now. “It seems you have a habit of being where you do not belong.”
The poker game. The cargo hold. Knorr’s curiosity turns to suspicion in an instant.
“It is a long flight and I am easily bored.”
“Is that dog yours?” Knorr asks.
He pauses, just long enough to choose the lie. But he speaks it plainly and confidently when he does. “Yes.”
Knorr doesn’t believe him. That much is clear. But he doesn’t argue while Werner and Sp?h are staring at the two of them with open astonishment.
“It is ugly,” he says and then turns to the cabin boy. “Finish what you’re doing and then escort these men back to the passengers’ quarters. They are not to come back again while this ship is in the air. Understood?”
“Yes.”
And Knorr is gone, walking back into the belly of the ship. The American watches his retreating back until the cargo hold door swings shut again. He allows himself the brief fantasy of driving a knife between those shoulder blades.
“What was that?” Sp?h asks.
“That,” he answers, “is a complication.”
THE NAVIGATOR
1:55 p.m.—five hours and thirty minutes until the explosion
Max fiddles with the key ring clipped to his belt. Making up his mind. Summoning courage. Fumbling for a plausible excuse should he be caught. And, he must admit, getting caught is the most likely scenario because Commander Pruss is standing ten feet away at the helm, arguing about the delay with Colonel Erdmann in barely hushed tones. They have not quite reached the point of gesticulation, but neither of them is happy. If Max is going to go through with this he must do it now.
Whatever fool decided that Faint heart never won fair lady clearly was not in possession of a pulse. Max can feel his blood pounding in his ears as he tucks the key to the officers’ safe into his palm. He can feel the cool weight of it against his skin like an indictment, a flagrant violation of protocol.
Max leans over the chart table, his forearms on the polished wood surface, as though studying something. In the end it’s easy. Max drops his right arm. He slides the key into the lock and turns it. The safe door swings outward a few inches without so much as a squeak, and Max only has to lean over a bit more to grab the manila envelope that Pruss took from Emilie’s cabin. There is no digging around the safe to make sure he has picked up the right thing. It is empty apart from this, and his fingers fumble only a little as he pulls the packet from the safe and slides it beneath his logbook. Locking the safe is harder now that Max’s hand is sweating. He holds his breath as he struggles to make sure the tumblers lock. He’s trying too hard. Forcing the key. Applying too much pressure. He lets go and stands back. Flexes his hand. When he dares a glance into the bridge, he sees that Helmut Lau has taken Commander Pruss’s place at the helm while Erdmann stares through the front windows as though willing the distance to lessen.
“Is something wrong?”