“We can’t land in a storm,” the American says. And then, “What have you done to your hair?”
Feibusch lays his palm on the tangled nest. Laughs. “It’s a bad habit. I tug my hair when I’m nervous.”
“You’ve been twirling your hair like a schoolgirl for the last ten minutes. It’s disturbing,” William Leuchtenberg says.
The American wanders away, leaving the men to their good-natured jabs. He had not counted on the delay. He had not counted on the headwinds over the North Atlantic or the fact that the Hindenburg itself would not cooperate with him. When he sat in his office in Frankfurt all those months ago reading the telegram and considering, really considering, this opportunity and all it would mean for his life and his career, for the chance at revenge, he had never once taken into account that the airship would arrive twelve hours late, that there would be virtually no time between landing and the next takeoff. He has killed an innocent man—a fellow American—just for the chance to kill Ludwig Knorr. So the thought of abandoning his mission feels untenable. Wasteful. He could always dispatch Knorr and leave his primary orders unfulfilled, but that leaves the Nazi government in possession of the largest, most technically advanced airship in history. It leaves them in a position of worldwide aviation dominance. He may be a small, petty man hell-bent on personal vengeance, but he is also a zealot. He believes in this cause. So there is nothing left to do now but keep himself occupied. He must think. He must sort through all the available options and find the one—there has to be one—that enables him to accomplish what he came on board to do.
The American wanders through the passenger areas with restless energy. He creates a pattern without giving it much thought. The smoking room and then the bar. He chats with the passengers and then Schulze. He orders a gin and tonic but doesn’t drink it all. He ambles off with it in his hand, then leaves it two-thirds full on the first flat surface he can find. Next comes the dining room and the promenade. He drifts among the tables, initiating conversation, provoking arguments. He approaches this task as though he is conversational carbonation, forcing air and livelihood into the dialogue. But he’s quick to abandon the banter once it flares to life. He moves on to the lounge. The reading room. The observation deck. These areas are last. He finds them tedious. This is where the women and children are gathered, fretting over needlepoint and romance novels. But, still, he cannot afford to linger in any place for too long, so he adds these rooms to the rotation, then starts over, making sure to avoid Feibusch and Leuchtenberg on the second rotation. He does not want friends. Friends complicate things.
For now he will stay busy. He will keep his mind sharp. And when the moment is right he will make his move.
THE NAVIGATOR
6:00 p.m.—one hour and twenty-five minutes until the explosion
Max settles into his favorite booth in the crew’s mess as the Hindenburg flies low over Asbury Park, New Jersey. He can see the boardwalk directly beneath them and the small forms of lovers strolling hand in hand on this warm May evening. Some crane their necks and wave. Others whistle. A child jumps up and down, ecstatic, and Max can see a small dog spinning in circles, barking at them madly. For one short moment Max is captivated by the picturesque scene and grateful for his place in it. Then he presses back into his seat and feels the uncomfortable bulk of the envelope and he remembers what he must do. He has fetched the documents from his room, and he feels the weight of them like an anchor lashed to his waist.
But first, dinner.
Max has had so few opportunities to feel superior to Xaver Maier in the last seventy-two hours that he indulges the lesser side of his character now, grinning with delight as the chef pushes the swinging door open and drops a tray of finger sandwiches onto the table.
“Not a word,” Maier says.
Max doesn’t have to say anything. He simply plucks a roast beef sandwich from the tray and bites off a corner. The bread is fresh, the beef is perfectly seasoned, and the creamy horseradish sauce is perfect. It’s hard to hate a man who cooks so well, but Max gives it his best effort anyway. He won’t soon forget the image of Maier kissing Emilie.
In the end Max can’t resist. “Do you think she will remember your name? This girl who’s waiting for you?” Max asks as the chef stares longingly out the window. “Or does she even know it?”