This isn’t entirely true, of course. But it’s what Sp?h wants to hear. He’s experiencing withdrawal. He needs to perform. The man hasn’t heard applause in at least three days. He hasn’t been able to sit still for hours. It’s a wonder he hasn’t broken into song or started tap-dancing on the tables yet.
“If I go to jail, you go to jail.” He slips out of his suit coat and hands it to the American.
“Fear not, I’m good behind bars.” Good at getting what he wants. Good at making sure his throat doesn’t get cut in the middle of the night.
Sp?h doesn’t stretch or roll up his shirtsleeves. He simply leaps. Had he not witnessed it himself, the American would never have believed that such a short man could get so far off the ground. But he squats, coils, and springs. He is four feet in the air before the American can blink. It’s like watching a monkey or a squirrel or a lemur—one of those creatures with a preternatural sense of balance. He bends, flips, swings up the cruciform bracing, leaping from beam to beam. He doesn’t make it look easy; he makes it look like destiny. As if humans ought to abandon their time as dirt dwellers and take to the sky. As if Sp?h might actually throw himself off, sprout wings, and fly.
For the first time since meeting the strange little acrobat, the American feels a twinge of jealousy. Sp?h is halfway up now, just below the axial catwalk, and he slows, lifts his head up to make sure the way up is clear, then continues the ascent. The American assumed that Sp?h would do the minimum necessary to prove that he could climb the girders. But he has proven he can climb whatever the bloody hell he wants. The American concedes a begrudging respect.
It is 135 feet from the base of the Hindenburg to its highest point. And Joseph Sp?h climbs all sixteen stories with such ease that he appears bored. And there, at the very top, he leans out at a near ninety-degree angle and waves. Then because he’s a damn showoff he reaches out and lays a hand on one of the hydrogen gas cells. Maybe to say, Here I am and I’ve conquered this bastard. Or, most likely, just because he can. But that single intimate touch gives the American an idea. He feels another piece of his plan snap into place.
Sp?h comes down just as easily—perhaps more so—and the American steps aside to give him room to land. He takes a bow. “Well?”
“Impressive.”
“I was going for spectacular.”
“Hungry for applause?” He hands Sp?h his jacket and the plate loaded with dinner scraps, then turns toward the cargo area where Ulla is waiting for her dinner.
“Recognition. There’s a big difference.”
No, the American thinks, there is only the matter of motive. The why behind our actions. He will make sure that Joseph Sp?h gets recognition for what he has just done. But it won’t be in a way the acrobat likes or will even be aware of. At some point tonight when he relaxes with the other passengers in the lounge or the bar, the American will mention this tremendous feat, that gentle touch on the gas cell, and they will remember these details later. They will repeat them. They just won’t remember how they came by this knowledge.
The art of disinformation lies in placing suspicion elsewhere. Leave a trail of breadcrumbs that lead nowhere. Create a distraction. Provide reasonable doubt. Coerce a man into performing an acrobatic feat when he feels safe and unseen, and then make sure others know he is capable of the act. Slowly, subtly, constantly cast suspicion on everyone but yourself. Do this and there will be so many questions, so many possibilities, that no one will ever connect the dots.
THE JOURNALIST
As Leonhard sets the Maybach 12 onto the lacquered table in front of Captain Lehmann, the frosted glass immediately begins to sweat. He pulls out a chair for Gertrud first, directly across from the captain, then settles in beside her.
Lehmann raises the glass in toast, takes a sip, and says, “To what do I owe this honor?”
“We need to talk,” Leonhard says.
Gertrud scrapes a bit of frost from her glass with a thumbnail. She listens. They agreed on this earlier. She will listen. Nothing more. Leonhard and the captain have known each other for over twenty years and have developed a legitimate friendship in the course of co-writing Lehmann’s biography. Lehmann does not know Gertrud at all, and he will not appreciate any contribution she could make to this particular conversation.
Lehmann’s biography—simply titled Zeppelin—has done well in Germany, and all signs suggest it will be a hit in America as well when it is released next month. Leonhard has earned Lehmann’s trust the old-fashioned way, with time and consistency. Yet Gertrud itches to interrogate the captain anyway. She has questions and she wants answers, but she has promised Leonhard that she will chew on her tongue if necessary.
“What do we need to talk about?” Lehmann asks.
Leonhard rests his elbows on the table. “The American passenger on board this flight.”
“Which one? There are many.”
“Edward Douglas.” Leonhard says the name slowly and watches Lehmann’s face for any sign of duplicity.
“Ah. That one. I suspected as much.”
“Do explain.”
“Edward Douglas is something of an anomaly.”