The American shifts the contents of the pile around until he’s able to slide out the designer trunk and wrestle it to the floor in front of him. There isn’t much space to work in the small cargo area, so he has to open the lid and pull out the compartments carefully. He feels certain Margaret Mather would approve of his delicate handling of her belongings if not the indecency of his digging through them. He finds what he’s looking for in the third drawer down. It’s cliché, really, the amount of jewels, but she is an heiress after all. Although, from the time he spent with her the evening before it seems as though she really doesn’t suit them. She’s too humble for this lifestyle.
Three items catch his eye. He goes for the smaller, less obtrusive pieces, the things that won’t be immediately missed. A diamond solitaire ring. A delicate gold choker with a ruby pendant. A pair of simple pearl earrings. Anything gaudier than this and he won’t be able to trade them for the information he needs. If she misses them at all, it will take some time to detect their absence. He deposits the jewelry in his pocket, then restacks the freight exactly as it was before.
The cargo room is small, square, and unheated. Apart from the dog crates and the steamer trunks, there are some heavy cardboard shipping boxes and a large, wrapped piece of furniture but nothing else. In one corner of the room is a pile of packing blankets, and in the other a stack of old newspapers. They’ll have to do. He cleans up the mess inside the crate as best he can using a handful of wadded papers, then lines the bottom of the crate with a few others. The American curses himself for the display of sympathy even as the dog throws itself at his feet in gratitude. He scratches between its ears and under its chin.
“Stupid mutt,” he says as the dog submits itself completely and lies on its back, belly exposed, adoration pooling in its dark eyes. The American can’t remember the last time anyone or anything trusted him so quickly or so completely. “Well, no wonder. You’re a boy.”
He has always maintained that female dogs are smarter. He wouldn’t pick a male dog from a litter to save his life. They destroy everything. They piss on themselves and on everything around them. And they escape at the first sign of a bitch in heat. Not so different from many of the soldiers he has known, now that he thinks about it. But still, given the choice, he would pick a female every time.
“What are we going to do with you? Tragic little fucker. And unlucky too. No name. Shit owner.”
He scoots the reluctant dog back into the crate with his foot, then wipes his fingers on his trousers. He doesn’t want to smell like a kennel for the rest of the day. He has already showered and changed his clothes and has no interest in repeating the process. The airship has only one shower, and it doesn’t offer much in the way of water pressure or warmth. It does feel good to be clean though, despite the fact that his hair is still damp and his scalp is starting to get cold in the unheated room.
When he locks the crate the dog looks at him as though it’s being abandoned.
“You’re not my problem,” he says. But the American knows better. He points an accusatory finger at the dog. “Damn it. Pathetic lazy owner. I don’t have time for this.”
The dog presses its nose between the wicker slats and whines in response.
“Well, I can’t look after a nameless mutt. What should I call you?” He mentally scrolls through every dog name he has ever heard, but they feel trite under the circumstances. So he studies the lean body. The narrow snout. The dappled gray coat. The huge floppy ears. Its keen, intelligent eyes. The way its muscles quiver with anticipation and the longing for freedom. “I bet you’re fast,” he mutters.
And then he has it.
“Owens,” he says. “Can’t do much better than that. Let’s just hope you give these fucking Nazis as much trouble as your namesake. Yes? Good.”
The dog appraises him solemnly.
“I’ll make sure you get something to eat soon.”