“Of course. Thank you for the information.”
And then Lehmann is gone, back to the control car and his observation duties, but the American stays where he is, unmoving in the corridor. His mind spins, countermoves and contingencies crashing against one another, fighting for dominance. He is confused. Frustrated. The American is trying to find a course of action when Joseph Sp?h rounds the corner with Hermann Doehner. What he really wants is to take the acrobat into the belly of the ship and see if he can, in fact, climb anything. But he doesn’t. Instead, he drops to one knee and pretends to tie his shoes. He gives the men a cordial greeting as they pass and lets them walk away. That part of his plan will have to wait.
Heinrich Kubis. Ludwig Knorr. The chief steward. The chief rigger. He has just been lied to—either by Captain Lehmann or by Gertrud Adelt, but he can’t be sure which. Perhaps both. That would be worse. That would make him angry. And when the American gets angry, people tend to suffer as a result.
THE JOURNALIST
Leonhard shuts the door to their cabin and tosses his suit coat on the bed. “Gout? Of all the diseases at your disposal you went with gout? If it had been up to me I would have given him herpes.” He clenches his jaw. Growls a bit at the back of his throat. “He is a herpes. Big. Festering. Pustule of a man.”
Her voice is high and tight when she answers. “It was the first thing that came to mind.”
His eyes narrow. He can hear the frantic note at the edge of each clipped syllable. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“People keep saying that. It’s not true. I happen to be an excellent liar.”
“No. You’re just really good at diversion. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“I’m fine.”
“Your hands are trembling.”
Shit, she thinks, that’s the second time today. Gertrud raises her hands to eye level and dispassionately studies the tremor running through her fingers. She is good at holding things together. She doesn’t let circumstances get to her, damn it. Gertrud has, through force of will, taught herself to stand in a maelstrom and function at a high level. But this is too much. She’s beginning to crack. “How long have we been on this ship?”
“A little less than forty-eight hours.”
“It feels like it’s getting smaller. Like it’s closing in on us.” She presses two fingers into the hollow of her clavicle. “Schei?e! I want off this damned thing. I want to go home.”
“There’s nowhere to go but down at the moment, I’m afraid.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I wasn’t going for humor, Liebchen.” He crosses the room and points out the observation windows. “We are six hundred feet in the air at some godforsaken point over the North Atlantic. Nothing out there but icebergs.” He leans over the window. Looks down. “And a few whales.”
Gertrud joins him at the window. There are more than a few whales below. An entire pod—fifteen or twenty maybe, she can’t tell from this height—is swimming west, right below them. They have the slow, loping movements of great animals moving at leisure. She has seen elephants travel that way in Africa. A quiet, dignified assurance that they rule their territory. That they face no threat. Gertrud is no expert on marine life, but if she had to wager she would guess the whales are humpbacks. But only because she catches the occasional glimpse of their broad, silver bellies when they breach. They look like children in a wading pool, splashing and jumping, and she can’t help but wonder if whales laugh. And if they do, what must that colossal joy sound like beneath the waves? And then Gertrud is weeping, because the very thought of laughter reminds her of Egon and her heart cannot shut out the memory of his laughter. She is afraid she will never hear it again.
Leonhard pulls her to his chest and lets her wring herself out. He might have more than twenty years of life experience on her, but he is no different from any other man in that the thing he fears most is a woman’s grief. She knows this about her husband and does her best to spare him, but the dam is broken and she cannot hold back the flood. Gertrud heaves and sobs into the crook of his shoulder. He pulls off her hat and tosses it onto the bed. He runs his fingers through the tangled mass of her hair. He shushes her. Wraps his arms tighter.
Leonhard’s shirt is soaked by the time she pulls away, but Gertrud feels a great deal better. Once she is composed he places the hat gently back on her head.
She twists her face into a pout. “That bad?”
“You are beautiful, Liebchen, but today your hair is opinionated.”
Gertrud looks in the mirror and adjusts the brim so that it’s slanted across her forehead. She tucks a frizzy curl behind one ear. “The stewardess made me wear it.”
“I fear I’ve lived to see the end of days if my wife has become a woman who cries spontaneously and takes orders from other women.”