Pruss stands in the door between the bridge and the chart room looking at Max with narrowed eyes.
Everything is wrong. Every damn possible thing. Max doesn’t break eye contact with Pruss, but in his peripheral vision he can see the key sticking out from the lock. It seems as obvious to him as a corpse lying in the middle of an empty room. A blinking arrow pointing to his guilt. And a corner of Emilie’s envelope is visible beneath the black leather logbook. It may as well be blood on the table for all the attention it draws to itself.
Have I answered? Max thinks. Shit. He’s not sure.
“No,” he says. “There’s nothing wrong.”
“Why are you holding your wrist?”
And so he is. Damn it. Max’s left hand is clamped around his right wrist while he continues to flex his fingers self-consciously.
Again, he takes too long to respond. His answer is a single word, the only explanation he can summon under Pruss’s intimidating stare. “Tendonitis.”
Whether or not Pruss believes him, Max can’t tell.
“If it’s giving you trouble, go to the kitchen and ice it when your shift is over. There won’t be time to have it seen to when we land. We’ll need to get in the air as soon as possible for the return flight.” Pruss lowers his eyes to Max’s collar, and Max fears that there must be a sweat ring there because the commander adds, “We won’t be staying for return laundry service either.”
Assuming that he actually had tendonitis, Max doubts that Xaver Maier would relinquish so much as one cube of his precious ice to aid him. He says none of this to Pruss, however. He simply nods and says, “I’ll see to it.” Then he drops his hand to his side as though to prove it feels better already.
Pruss looks away briefly as another navigator descends the ladder into the utility room to take Max’s place for the next shift. Max takes the opportunity to duck down and pull the key discreetly from the lock. Then he drops to his knee and tucks the key into the side of his shoe. He pulls the knot on an already loosened shoelace and ties it again. When he straightens, Pruss has moved back into the bridge.
Max never counted the money Emilie had stashed away, but it must be a decent sum because the envelope is thick and he has trouble tucking it between his dress shirt and the waistband at the small of his back. He pulls his jacket down to cover it, and feels as though everyone must notice the obvious bulk at his waist. He greets the officers who arrive for second shift and hopes the guilt isn’t evident on his face. As Max climbs the ladder into the radio room he waits for the damning signal that he has been caught. A shout. A command. His name yelled loudly and sharply like the report of a rifle. But it does not come, and Max ascends the ladder as calmly as possible, up and out and down the corridor.
He goes immediately to his cabin and places Emilie’s documents at the bottom of his closet, beneath his duffel bag. They will land in a few hours and he doesn’t have long to finish this task. But first he needs to find Werner.
THE CABIN BOY
3:00 p.m.—four hours and twenty-five minutes until the explosion
Werner Franz is in the officers’ mess preparing for afternoon coffee break when the New York City skyline rises into view. It’s such a sudden change in landscape that he is startled. For the last several hours they have been floating over fields and forests and small ambling towns that dwindle and melt into the countryside. Winding roads, often gravel, that loop and switch back and then disappear altogether into pine scrubs or sandy beaches.