The American is hungry, but he doesn’t eat. He likes the hollow feeling in his stomach, this base, human craving. He savors it. Focuses on it. Denies himself the ability to meet it as his thoughts, so erratic all day, finally begin to settle and focus into a single point of action. It is time to kill Ludwig Knorr.
The American would have preferred his original plan. He would have preferred to wait in his cabin in the dark recess beneath the berth, letting the ship empty and lie quiet through the long daytime hours. He would have preferred to find the chief rigger in the belly of the ship and dispatch him quietly. To hide the body and then send a spark hurtling into this giant, combustible bag. It would have been better for things to play out like that. He would have truly enjoyed watching the airship burn to ash.
But the airship is late, and it will not sit in this New Jersey field over-night. It will not lie empty for hours. He doesn’t have the luxury of time. He must adapt. The American leaves the other passengers at the window, then winds his way around the corner, down the gangway stairs, into the keel corridor, and to his cabin. He does not spare a glance at the window but goes straight to his berth and pulls the green canvas bag from where he has kept it hidden for the last three and a half days.
He lifts the pistol and checks the cylinder. Five bullets. He will need only one. The Luger of a Hindenburg officer. That’s what he requested. The mechanics of delivering it were rather complicated, he suspects. He was told only that the Gestapo would inspect the ship prior to liftoff as part of security measures due to the bomb threats, and that one of those men had been paid to locate a gun and place it in this cabin. He knows nothing of motives or payments involved. All men have secrets they want kept. All men have pressure points. And he doesn’t care how his employers persuaded or bribed that young Gestapo officer to comply. He provided the gun and the American has it now. He tucks it into his waistband. He straightens his jacket. He pulls the door open.
Captain Lehmann stands before him, accompanied by an officer so young and clean-shaven the American doubts he has finished puberty.
“Herr Douglas.” A nod, not the least bit polite.
“Captain.”
“May I have a word with you?”
It takes every ounce of self-control for the American not to shoot the captain or his companion. He cannot afford this delay. “Can it wait a few moments? I’d like to watch the landing.”
Lehmann smiles. “You’ll need to do so from your room, I’m afraid. You have a window after all. A luxury most of the passengers don’t enjoy.”
A bristling anger begins to heat his blood. He flexes his fingers. Struggles to stay calm. “I don’t understand.”
“We’ve had complaints from the crew that you have been wandering into areas of the ship that are prohibited to passengers. We will need to look into these accusations. And until the matter can be cleared up you will remain here.”
“You are placing me under…what? House arrest?”
Lehmann surveys the small room and, upon seeing nothing out of place, replies, “Arrest is a strong word.”
“Arrest is the word used for detaining a man against his will.”
“Ah. I see you’re familiar with the process at least. Then this should be easy. I have ordered Captain Ziegler here to wait outside your cabin until my return.”
Ziegler rests the heel of one hand on the pistol at his waist. It’s the first time the American has seen any of the officers armed since the ship left Frankfurt. The captain tries to look menacing, but the threat is lost on the American.
“Is he going to shoot me if I leave?”
Lehmann shrugs, as though leaving that possibility entirely up to him. “I’d rather that it not come to that.”
The American pauses, recalculates. “May I know the name of the man who has accused me of this behavior?”
“I think you know his name already. You’ve had a very keen interest in him during the entire flight. And that is something I plan on discussing with you as well. When I return.”
THE CABIN BOY
7:03 p.m.—twenty-two minutes until the explosion
The naval air station in Lakehurst, New Jersey, is surrounded by empty fields and dotted with scrub brush, patches of grass, and bright, colorful pinpricks that Werner guesses to be wildflowers. And there, on a dirt path, are two young boys peddling beneath the airship on their bicycles. The frantic pumping of their arms and legs looks comical from above. But they wave and whoop, trying desperately to keep up with the Hindenburg as it loops around the massive airfield, getting into position. Like much of the population of Lakehurst, the boys have come to watch the landing.
In moments the children are out of sight, and Werner turns back to his work, eager to get the crew’s mess clean so he can go watch the landing on A-deck with the passengers. He blushes, even though the room is empty and no one can see him, as he imagines the delight on Irene Doehner’s face when the airship lands. He knows it’s silly and he knows he will never see the girl again after today, but Werner wants to witness her awe. It’s how he wants to remember the first girl who ever kissed him.
THE NAVIGATOR