“Just a hunch.”
It’s a military identification tag from the First World War. About twenty years old. Emilie runs her finger over the raised letters and numbers on each side of the tag, paying careful attention to the service number: 100991–K-455(-)6(-)8. Emilie’s father was in the Deutsches Herr during the First World War. He had a similar tag, and as a child she spent many hours curled on his lap playing with it. The first series of numbers represent a soldier’s birth date. The letter is the first letter in his last name. Three numbers to identify his home district. One number to show how many soldiers serving at that time have the same last initial and the same birthday. And then an error-checking number. Germany never prints the name of a soldier on his tag. Never. Regardless, Emilie knows this tag belongs to Ludwig Knorr, chief rigger serving aboard the Hindenburg. There are four crew men on this ship whose last name starts with K. Two of them are too young to have been born on October 9, 1891, and the other has never been in the military. That leaves Ludwig.
“Where did you find this?” Emilie asks.
“I came upon it by accident.”
“What do you intend to do with it?”
“That depends on who it belongs to. And what you can tell me about him.”
Emilie is very careful to manipulate her expression into one of general curiosity without a hint of understanding. She lays the dog tag back on the table. “I have no idea who this belongs to,” she says.
THE JOURNALIST
Gertrud knows that the stewardess is lying. Her pretty face is molded into an expression of bored indifference. As far as poker faces go, Emilie’s is rather good. Lips closed but not pressed. No crease in the forehead. Hands folded around the coffee cup. Her gaze fixed at a point behind Gertrud’s left ear as though she’s lost in thought. The conversation evaporates, and each woman takes a moment to sip her coffee. To think. Gertrud taps her cigarette against the ashtray, then puts the Chesterfield to her mouth. They regard one another but do not speak. Gertrud has spent many years learning the art of quiet observation, however, and everyone has a tell. Everyone. It takes a few long seconds for her to find the evidence of Emilie’s internal debate: a slow blink. Emilie is consciously delaying her physical movements.
Finally Gertrud asks, “Did you ever think of going into intelligence? You’re an excellent liar.”
A wry smile bends the corners of Emilie’s mouth. She bows her head slightly as though to say Touché. “Intelligence? I’ve been assured, on more than one occasion, that women do not possess such a trait.”
Gertrud snorts. “So have I. Though I’d wager that’s part of why women make such damned good spies.” She has known three, in fact, all of them alarmingly good. But she doesn’t share this with the stewardess.
The ground has shifted a bit with Gertrud’s challenge and Emilie’s admission, so she’s a bit less coy with her next response. “It has never made much sense to put my deficiencies to work for anyone other than myself.”
“I can drink to that.” Gertrud lifts her coffee cup in salute and they clink their cups together.
“The crew member who owns that tag. You know who he is.”
Emilie gives a noncommittal shrug.
“I need to speak with him.”
“Why?”
This is the trouble in Gertrud’s line of work. It’s rarely clear who she can confide in, and she usually has little time to make her decision. Lying tends to be the best course of action, followed by charm if she’s dealing with the opposite sex. But neither of those options will work with Emilie. She’s too shrewd. So Gertrud settles on evasion.
“I’m a journalist.”
“And I’m a brunette,” Emilie counters. The challenge is clear. Tell her something relevant. “Has he done something illegal?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Are you writing a story about him?”
“No.”
“And yet you’re very curious to know who he is?”
“Ridiculously so, yes.”
Again, the challenge. “Why?”
Gertrud debates for a moment, then says, “This tag was lately in the possession of a man I do not like or trust.”
“Did you steal it?”
“I found it. And I would wager a good deal that the man who had it would like to get it back. However, I’m not inclined to let that happen just yet. Nor am I inclined to let him locate the owner if that can be at all avoided. Which is why I need your help.”
Emilie’s blink slows again. Her hands grow still on the coffee cup. What is she holding back? Gertrud wonders. More than just a name. She knows this man. She wants to protect him.
“Are you going to return that tag to its owner?” Emilie asks.
Gertrud picks it up and cradles it in her palm. Returns it to her pocket. “Not just yet, if you don’t mind.”