Page 50 of Flight of Dreams

Something occurs to Max. Clearly she has been planning to leave Germany for some time. Her papers were in order. It must have taken several years to save as much as she has. And the plan alone is meticulous. So Emilie was planning to leave Germany long before she ever met him. She’s scared enough to leave everyone and everything she has ever known, and he goes and takes the decision as a personal slight. Stupid. Selfish. He’s ashamed, and now he’s angry with himself as well.

“Scheiße!”

“What now?” Wilhelm asks.

“I’m an idiot.”

“I’ve known that for ages.”

Max picks up his cap. Dusts it off. Places it back on his head with precision. “I’m going to set things right.”

THE AMERICAN

The American has been asleep for almost an hour—one hour only, he won’t allow himself more than that—when there is a rap at his cabin door. Four sharp knocks. Hard. Measured. Insistent. He knows immediately that this is the steward, and he is tempted to leave Wilhelm Balla standing out in the corridor. The steward isn’t overly fond of him. That much is clear. But neither does he appear to be a social creature, so there must be some legitimate reason for the visit.

The American eases from his berth and opens the door. He tries to look amiable. Alert. When in reality a desperate sort of exhaustion is creeping up his spine. As a young man he could go for days without sleep and sometimes up to a week on a drinking binge and still be able to function at a high level. But over the last day he has been deprived of one and indulged in the other, and he finds that his body is no longer capable of such abuse.

“Pardon me for interrupting your rest, Herr Douglas. But I have a message from Captain Lehmann.”

“Oh? How may I be of service to the captain?”

“He has requested the pleasure of your company at dinner tonight.”

Interesting. First the commander, now the captain.

He finds the appropriate smile to offer the steward. Surprised. Humbled. Just the right lift to his eyebrows, and his lips curved but closed. No teeth for this smile. “Please assure the captain that I will be honored to join him.”

Balla clicks his heels sharply. Nods his head. Turns to leave. The friendships of men are, by and large, less complicated than the friendships of women. They hinge on loyalty, territory, and tolerance. And the best way to get a man to deliver information is to threaten his friend. It’s an unfair tactic, to be honest. But he has never been all that interested in fairness.

“Hold on a minute!” he calls after the steward.

Balla returns to the door with a look of strained patience.

“May I ask you a question?”

“Certainly.”

“It is, I’m afraid, rather personal and none of my business.”

“Then I shall do my best to answer. If I can.”

The American feels the weight of his body settling into his joints. He would much rather return to bed than pursue this line of questioning, but he has a hunch it will pay off. The American does not ignore his hunches. It would be a mistake, however, to let the steward see how confident he feels about getting his answer. So he drops his gaze to the floor and shifts from one foot to the other, feigning awkwardness.

“Yes?” Balla is impatient. Irritated.

Good. The American will wring that out of him. He will make the steward reckless.

“Ah, how should I say this? You are good friends with the navigator, yes?”

“There are four navigators aboard this airship. Which one would you be referring to?”

“Zabel, I believe, Max Zabel.”

“Yes, Herr Zabel and I are quite well acquainted.”

“Then you would be somewhat privy to his personal life?”

He stiffens. “Perhaps.”