Page 92 of Flight of Dreams

“I certainly didn’t help things.”

“No. But you made them a hell of a lot more interesting.”

Leonhard moves across her body, tucking his head into the crook of her neck, as though protecting her from an assailant. “I am sorry, Liebchen.”

The mood is heavy, too much for Gertrud. She tickles him in the ribs until he curses and slides away.

“You can’t help yourself. You’ve been making mischief with your words since the beginning. I’d be rather disappointed if you stopped now.”

“So mischief is what you want?” He slides a hand over her bare hip, down her thigh.

“Tempting.” Gertrud yawns. “But at this particular moment I’d rather have sleep.”

“Come home to me, then.” Leonhard loops an arm around her and pulls her into his chest as he whispers their pet saying. The first time they made love, Leonhard told her that having her in his arms felt like being home. And so now every time he wants her near him he asks her to come home. And she obediently backs herself into the warmth of his broad chest. As Gertrud sinks a few degrees toward unconsciousness, a single question tugs at her mind.

“What do we do about the American? Lehmann listened to you. But he’s stalling. We both know that.”

Leonhard lies there, silent for a moment. Then he pulls the blanket high over their bare shoulders. “First we rest. Then we bide our time and get off this damned airship when it lands tomorrow. With any luck we won’t have to do a thing about the American. We’ve planted the seed with Lehmann. He can take it from here.”

“And the cabin boy?”

“What about him?”

“He never came back last night.”

Leonhard’s voice is heavy with sleep. “Look for him in the morning. See what he learned.”

And so she drifts toward that blissful void known as sleep. And as she goes she thinks of Werner. How she needs to find him. She thinks of the peculiar absurdity of the adolescent male. She thinks of boys. Boys and brothers. Something about brothers. One or four or what was it? Some inconsistency she has heard. And then the thought has slipped from her and her frantic mind is suspended in temporary peace.

THE NAVIGATOR

Max drops into the control car exactly twenty-five minutes early for his shift. It’s not like him, and Christian Nielsen squints in his direction, his tired eyes pinched at the corners, suspicious.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Max says as he makes his way into the chart room. He stands beside the window, hands crammed deep into his pockets, and surveys the landscape for nearly five minutes before something obvious occurs to him. “That isn’t New Jersey.”

“Maine,” Nielsen says.

“We should be over New Jersey.” Max looks at the clock above the chart table. “We’re supposed to land this morning.”

“More headwinds,” Nielsen says by way of explanation. “Pruss just radioed Lakehurst to let them know they should expect us around four this afternoon. Hopefully we can make up some time now that we’re over land. But if so, it won’t be much.”

Commander Pruss is at the helm, looking out the front windows of the control car into the early morning gloom. The persistent cloud cover that has plagued the entire trip is present here as well—but with a more sinister look. Pruss doesn’t comment on the delay or greet Max. He simply stands there, hands on the rudder wheel, glaring out into the mist, daring the weather to turn adverse. They can’t afford to lose any more time.

They’ve been fighting headwinds since the first night, but this is an even more significant delay than he expected. Max assumed they were five or six hours behind schedule, but not—he looks at the clock again to double-check his mental calculations—ten.

“How?” he asks Nielsen.

“The jet stream picked up east of Nova Scotia. There was a block of low pressure offshore, and when we flew into it we lost a lot of speed.”

It’s amazing what can happen while a man sleeps. While Max tossed and turned in his cabin not twenty feet away, the ship practically ground to a halt without his knowing. Two, maybe three hours of sleep is all he got. But he has a plan now, and that’s more than he had yesterday.

Max doesn’t answer Nielsen. He’s afraid his voice will betray relief. He feared he wouldn’t have time to do the thing he needs to do, but this fortuitous delay has blown his plan wide open and given him the gift of unexpected time. Perhaps he is not doomed after all.

Nielsen’s shift is almost over, and he looks like a man with his mind bent on breakfast. Max cannot help but feel a certain amount of glee at the realization that Xaver Maier will be forced to cook a number of unexpected meals today. He makes a mental note to stop by the kitchen at some point and gloat.

When Werner announces the arrival of coffee a few minutes later, it’s Max who goes to fetch the tray. And if the cabin boy is surprised to see him in the control car so early he doesn’t let on. But neither does he make eye contact. Something about the boy doesn’t look right.

“What’s wrong?” Max asks.