“I’m glad to hear it.”
National pride can extend to so many bizarre things. Now that the Hindenburg has become irrevocably linked to the Third Reich it seems that serving any meal that falls short would mar the Führer’s reputation.
The American and Captain Lehmann have one of the smaller tables to themselves. Tonight’s flower is a dahlia the size of a soup bowl. A profusion of orange petals at the end of a long, thick stem. It’s quite lovely. But the American can’t fathom where they came by such a flower at this time of year. The tables are impeccable. Bright linens. Fine china. Shining silver. The tenderloin is soft enough to cut with a spoon, but the stewards have provided steak knives anyway. The American wonders at his chances of sneaking one into his suit pocket. Perhaps it isn’t necessary, but it might come in handy. All is going according to plan so far, but he learned long ago that things can go pear-shaped at any moment. It’s always good to be prepared. And armed. He thinks better of pocketing the knife when he notices the smallest Doehner boy watching him from the next table. He relaxes his hand, drawing it away from the knife. No point giving the little rascal any ideas. He will wait for a better opportunity. Hermann and Matilde Doehner are talking in the quiet, lazy drawl common to exhausted parents. Their children chatter and pepper them with questions while they hem and haw, offering noncommittal answers.
“I was surprised to get your invitation,” the American says, switching to English so as not to be overheard by his neighbors.
Lehmann adjusts his language to accommodate him with only the slightest sign of irritation. “How so?”
“I fear I did not make a favorable impression on Commander Pruss last night.” He pushes the haricots verts to the edge of his plate. Spears one. Eats it without much enthusiasm. It tastes like a plant. Nothing more.
“He did mention your peculiar theories.”
“I’m not the only person who holds them.”
“Perhaps not. But popularity and truth are not mutually exclusive.”
“You don’t seem concerned that Pruss and I didn’t manage to become friends.”
The steward sets a rich German red on the table beside Lehmann. Typical. Lehmann lifts the wineglass. Takes a sip. Nods in appreciation. “I can count on one hand the number of people Commander Pruss calls friend.”
“Are you among them?”
“We have mutual goals. That can constitute a friendship.”
“Do those goals include protecting this airship and its passengers?”
“Of course.”
“I’m very glad to hear it.” The American lifts his own wineglass, containing a French white.
Lehmann leans across the table. Lowers his voice. “Is there something I need to know?”
“That depends on how you feel about reciprocation.”
“I don’t like games, Herr Douglas.”
“Neither do I. My preference lies with information.”
“What kind of information?”
“A name. Nothing more.”
“And you propose an exchange of information?”
“I do. A name for a name.”
Lehmann pulls away and settles back into his chair. He has the smug look of superiority about him. “What sort of name could you possibly give me that would be of interest?”
The American forces down another bite of beef Wellington, then pushes his plate away. He sets his napkin over the knife, then dabs the corner of his mouth with the bright linen and deftly sets both napkin and knife in his lap. “The name of your crew member who is planning to remain in America.”
THE NAVIGATOR
As usual there is only a handful of men in the officers’ mess at this hour. Captain Lehmann dines with the other passengers—never here—then retreats to the bar. This has been his habit on every trip that Max has ever flown with him, whether the captain is on duty or not. So it comes as something of a surprise to see Lehmann enter the room. He leans against the door, arms crossed, chin tipped upward as he listens to the ongoing conversation. The officers are discussing the curious sport of American baseball, and the general consensus seems to be one of indifference and confusion.
“Good evening, Captain.” Max salutes. The other officers scramble to do the same.
Lehmann returns the salute and then motions Max forward. “May I have a word with you?”
“Of course,” Max says, but he hopes this won’t take long. He’s hungry. And exhausted. And mostly he wants to deposit today’s mail, find Emilie, and retreat to his cabin so they can enjoy the bottle of Armagnac he pilfered from the bar this afternoon. Max spent the better part of the afternoon trying to speak with Emilie, but she avoided him—either leaving the room entirely or ignoring his presence. To get her alone would have required making a scene, and that certainly wouldn’t help his cause. In the end their duties drew them apart and he hasn’t found another opportunity to make amends.