Neue Mainzer Strasse 56. The Frankfurt branch of the Ministry of Propaganda. Fourth floor. Three months ago.
Yes, it is all coming back to him now, confirmed in the curious glance Gertrud Adelt—for that is her name, he’s certain of it now—directs at him as he passes. He remembers her bellow of rage as she stood in the fourth-floor hallway before the Kulturstaatssekret?r. It was loud enough to draw the American from his desk on the floor below and up the stairs into the hall. She handed over her press card with a shaking hand, but her voice was calm and firm as she uttered such a string of profanities that every man present stood with mouth agape. It had certainly made an impression on the American. He’s quite certain that he had witnessed her inventing a new obscenity on the spot. And then her husband had deftly removed her from the building before she could be arrested. Had Leonhard Adelt not been a man of some import himself, the American is certain things would have gone quite differently for them that day.
The American debates whether to classify Gertrud as a threat or a hindrance as he leaves the dining room. She clearly has no love for the Nazis, but she is too curious for her own good. In the end he decides to label her as unknown. It will have to do until he can make a better assessment.
All of the passengers are either seated at the tables or in the promenade as he slips into the keel corridor. Most of the crew is either serving dinner or in the midst of flight operations, so he goes down the stairs, away from the restrooms, and into the corridor on B-deck without being seen. The American pulls the pilfered salad fork from his pocket and tucks it into his palm, the handle hidden in his sleeve, as he approaches the mailroom door.
The lock is harder to pick than he anticipated, and for one moment he fears the tine will break off, but the tumblers shift at the last moment and the door swings inward. When he pulls the fork out he notices that the sharpest point of the tine has indeed snapped inside the lock and is lodged within. No worry. He won’t need to do this again.
The American shuts the door behind him but does not turn on the light. He is accustomed to the dark. The letter in his suit pocket is standard size, thin, and cased in a thick paper envelope. Stamped express mail. The address typewritten. The single sheet of paper within contains a single line of print, also typewritten: On board. Collect load at Hof Hotel. Room 218. Will proceed as planned. There is no light other than what seeps in beneath the door, and it takes his eyes a couple of moments to adjust. But he quickly finds the bag marked K?LN hanging by the door and unties it. He tucks his letter inside and knots it again easily. The American is reaching for the door when he hears voices in the corridor outside. The doorknob jiggles. Someone curses. And he dives for the pile of mailbags on the floor.
THE STEWARDESS
By the time Emilie collapses into the banquette in the crew’s mess she is limp from exhaustion and shaking with hunger. A table is tucked into each of the four corners, and padded seats run the length of two walls. The banquettes create distinct nooks where small groups of crew members can eat their meals in peace. Emilie sits at one on the far side with her back to the observation windows, ignoring the darkened scenery below. She’s the only person in the mess, the rest of the crew having long since eaten their dinner. Emilie barely has a chance to settle into the upholstered cushions when Xaver Maier sets a plate of poached salmon in front of her. He arranges the utensils to accommodate her left hand.
“You remembered?” She wiggles her fingers and picks up the fork.
“It’s my job.” He shrugs. “The rolls were hot an hour ago.”
“I wouldn’t care if they were frozen. I’m starving.”
Emilie falls to her food as though it’s her last meal on earth, and Xaver watches like a hovering parent, making sure each item is sampled and appreciated.
“How is it,” Max asks, standing in the doorway once again, “that this chef knows every important detail about you—the fact that you’re left-handed, for instance—while I know so little?”
“She’s not a chart, Dummkopf. Stop trying to read her,” Xaver says, irritated, as he pushes against the swinging door that leads into the kitchen. He stops midstep and turns. “If you’d like coffee I’d be happy to make some.”
Emilie shakes her head and waves him off. She glares at Max. Her mouth is full of roasted potatoes, and she has to chew quickly then swallow before she can speak. “How do you do that?”
Max grins. “Do what?”
“Magically appear in the doorway every time I’m in the middle of a conversation?”
“It’s a gift, I suppose.”
“It’s obnoxious,” Emilie says, but she’s smiling anyway.
He settles into the seat across from her, arms on the table as though he’s got nothing else to do.