You would think the two of them had known one another all their lives the way they fall into this easy familiarity. Talking. Joking. Sp?h recommends a wine for her, but the quick flicker of his glance gives him away: he’s guessing. He might be an entertainer, used to accommodating the wealthy, but he doesn’t run in their circles. Not really. If Margaret Mather realizes this she doesn’t let on. Despite her excessive wealth she is kind. The American notes all of these things, files them away, as he places his dinner companions into their proper slots.
Margaret is a woman of easy grace. She’s comfortable in her own skin. Yet he notices that every few moments she brushes her fingertips along her bare collarbone, searching for something that is not there.
“Have you lost something, Miss Mather?” he asks.
“Oh. No. I’m sorry. Do excuse me. Force of habit, I’m afraid. As it turns out I had a rather inept maid this morning.” She blushes at this confession, as though having a maid is something of which to be ashamed. “She packed all of my jewelry in my steamer trunk, and I feel rather naked without a bobble or two.”
The American assures her that she looks lovely nonetheless, but he files this bit of information away for future use.
The dining room is full, most of the seats taken, when Commander Pruss enters. He greets the occasional passenger. Shaking hands. Welcoming people. And then he makes his way to the back table. He’s too gracious to make it obvious, but he does not want to be here. The American can plainly see that the glad-handing is his least favorite part of the job.
No sooner has Commander Pruss taken his seat than the serving pantry grows busy. Dinner is ready. Chilled salmon in honor of the warm spring evening. Or the late castoff perhaps. Nonetheless it is delicious, and the four of them fall to it like they have not eaten in days. But while the American, Margaret, and Sp?h enjoy the Weinkarte’s better offerings, Commander Pruss drinks nothing but sparkling water, insisting that he will imbibe in the lounge after dinner. The others make plans to join him.
The meal is light and delicious. The salmon perfectly poached. The rolls are soft and bursting with steam as they are broken open. The meal is everything one would expect from a world-class airship. But as the American goes to eat his melon he summons Wilhelm Balla from where he stands against the wall.
“It seems I don’t have a salad fork.” He motions at the empty spot on the table.
Balla squints. “My apologies. I set the table myself.”
He turns on his heel, but not before the American catches the look of suspicion in the steward’s eyes. He feels a petty delight, certain that pestering Balla will be one of his most enjoyable forms of recreation over the next few days. The steward brings him a new salad fork moments later.
It is easy enough for the American to make his observations about the remaining passengers during dinner. The stewards have seated two Jewish men at a table together. They are the last to get their drinks. The last to get their meal. And yet both hold themselves with dignity and restraint, even when forced to repeat a request. They do not admonish their steward—an arrogant young man who seems to enjoy toying with them—or complain to anyone else. Counting the stewardess who lingers near the family with the children, there are eight women on board the airship. Only three of them are younger than fifty: the stewardess, the teenage girl, and the journalist from the Hof Hotel. She and her husband make an unusual and unnerving pair. He is clearly much older than she is. Tall. Broad. Entirely bald—the American guesses he shaves what little is left of his hair—and adorned with the small round glasses of an intellectual. Yet his wife is a different story. She oozes the brash sex appeal that has been the downfall of many a sedate, established man. Her hair is honey-colored and curly. Her eyes a bright and startling blue. When she smiles he can see every single tooth on top, all the way to the back of her mouth, and not a single one on bottom. There is a sharp, wicked, intelligent note to her laughter. Yet the thing that unsettles the American most about this pair is his certainty that he has seen them before. Not just on the bus and in the hotel but even further back. There is something important he must remember about them.
The American is puzzling over this when Margaret Mather turns the dinner conversation in an unexpected direction. “You don’t really think,” she says, spearing a sliver of salmon with her fork and looking at Commander Pruss with open curiosity, “that there’s anything to the bomb threats, do you?”
“I think that bomb threats should always be taken seriously.”
“I was raised by diplomats, Commander. I know politics when I hear it. What I’m interested in are your thoughts. Do you really think they could destroy this ship?” She looks around the dining room. Up at the ceiling. Considers the vastness of the structure that is floating six hundred feet off the ground and is carrying them through the darkness at over seventy miles an hour.
“They?”
She waves a hand dismissively. “Whoever.”
“There are two answers to that question, Frau…” Pruss searches for her name.
“Fr?ulein.”