The American waits. He waits, buried under three canvas bags of international mail, as the navigator and his companion get the mail drop ready. He wonders at her identity. The American matches her voice against those he is already familiar with: the journalist, the heiress, the teenage girl, and a handful of other women he overheard at dinner. He has not heard this woman’s voice before. She speaks easily in German, though he notices she tosses in the random English word for good measure. And occasionally one in Spanish or Italian. She’s intelligent, clearly, and she doesn’t seem uneasy in this room. A crew member, then. But there’s only one of those that he has seen—a stewardess. Tall. Aloof. Pretty. So the navigator has himself a girl then? Yes. That will come in handy. By the time they leave the mailroom, the American is fully relaxed beneath his pile, quite content to have placed the stewardess in her slot.
He waits, breathing through his mouth to remain silent. He can feel the vibration from the engine gondolas faintly through the floor beneath him. A gentle hum through his cheek, chest, belly, thighs, each part of his body pressed against the floor by the weight of the mailbags. Still he waits.
Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.
Finally the navigator and the stewardess exit the door opposite the mailroom. They wander off down the hall toward the passengers’ quarters. Slowly, painfully, he pushes the mail aside to stand and stretch, allowing the circulation to return to his feet and to the tips of his fingers. The American is light-headed as the blood moves through his extremities again, but he does not lean against the wall or steady himself on anything. He simply closes his eyes, breathes evenly, and focuses on staying upright.
There will not be another mail drop during the flight, and it’s a good thing. The navigator will likely have to get the doorknob replaced in New Jersey. Or at the very least after the return flight to Frankfurt. The lock is broken. That’s his own fault, of course, but he is not concerned. One ruined lock is a small price to pay for having accomplished the first of his goals. Let the love-stricken navigator worry about how to protect his precious letters in the future.
The door closes behind him but barely latches. The tine has moved farther into the tumblers now. He does not hesitate in the hallway but moves off intently, as if he has every right to be here and will say so to anyone who questions him.
He’s passing the dining room, on his way toward his cabin, when Joseph Sp?h steps in front of him holding a plate filled with dinner scraps. It’s fish, mostly, but there are a couple of half-eaten rolls and bits of potato as well. The American stops abruptly so he won’t run over the small man.
Sp?h lifts the plate. “I have a dog,” he says matter-of-factly.
The American blinks but does not answer.
“You should come meet her.”
“You mean the dog is on this ship?”
Sp?h looks at him like he has sprouted a second head. “Well, you didn’t think this was for me?”
“I hadn’t a clue what it was for.”
“Good grief, man, where have you been? Didn’t you catch my arrival? It caused quite a stir.”
“I’m afraid I was rather indisposed. I hardly noted my own arrival. You could say I was quickly taken to my cabin and put out of the way.”
“Ah. Your hangover.”
The American shrugs but does not apologize. He’s not the sort of man to apologize for anything.
They stare at one another awkwardly for a moment before Sp?h says, “Well?”
“What?”
“Are you going to come meet my dog or not? She’s an honest-to-goodness European purebred Alsatian. Which is just a fancy way of saying German shepherd, but still, she’s impressive. Her name is Ulla. I trained her to perform with me onstage. She has been all over Europe. I’m bringing her home as a gift for my daughter. It won’t make up for missing her birthday, but at least she’ll have bragging rights at school, and that is damn near good enough.”
“Where is this mutt of yours? Surely they aren’t letting you keep it in your cabin?”
“Hell no. They’ve got the poor bitch stored back in the freight room.”
“And you’re allowed back there?”
Joseph Sp?h is odd. He’s the sort of man who is both insecure and absurdly arrogant. But he is also clever, manipulative, and fiercely intelligent. “It’s either they let me back there at my leisure or they’re the ones cleaning up dog shit twice a day.”
The American laughs. “I think I would very much like to meet the dog that has the Zeppelin-Reederei crew breaking their precious rules.” He looks at the plate, then around the empty corridor. “And we don’t need an escort?”