EIGHTEEN

ZEPPELIN

“FRÄULEIN LILLE? FRÄULEIN LILLE?”

Roxy was distracted by the mirrors in the Frankfurter Hof’s ballroom. They were vast, gilt framed, opulent, as befitted one of Europe’s finest hotels. They were also vintage, which meant that there was significant corroding and some distortion of her reflection. Either that, or she truly wasn’t looking her best. Her mirror image seemed to accentuate the side of her face where she’d had the plastic surgery. Her hair, dyed midnight black now, had looked reasonable in the cut she’d gotten in London before catching the night train from Victoria Station. But tossing and turning all night on the narrow bunk had sculpted it into strange spikes. That, together with the dark glasses she wore for her new-found light sensitivity and her extremely pale skin, gave her a ghoulish quality. What was that German movie she’d seen, the last of the great silents? Nosferatu? That was it—she was one of the Undead.

She looked up. Aside from the customs officials in their uniforms, there were two other men standing by, scanning the passengers, appearing uncomfortable in their dark suits. Military or police, she guessed, posing as civilians. They returned her stare and she looked away.

The whisper came from right beside her. “Excuse me! Miss? Isn’t that you?”

She turned to the whisperer. She couldn’t remember his name, though he’d introduced himself just two minutes before. A fellow Yank, she knew that, though he had a German name. Hans? Wolfgang?

He was jerking his head, indicating the table about ten feet away before which they sat. She looked and saw the official in his tight black uniform beckoning her. “That’s ‘Frau Lille’ to you,” she said, rising, moving forward to sink again into the chair right before the customs table.

“ ‘Frau’?” The officer lifted her passport and peered at it. “It is written here—”

“I know, I know! But ‘Fräulein’? At my age? May as well call me ‘spinster.’ ” She beamed at the official. “Know anyone round here who might care to change that status?” She glanced at the youngest of the two military men in mufti. “How about you? You married, sweetheart?”

The man just stared back before turning to whisper to his colleague. The customs man waved at her. “Please to take off your glasses.”

She took off her glasses. She’d been smiling in the photographer’s store near Victoria Station when the picture was taken, so she smiled now. She’d rather the guy focused on her face, not the photo. She wasn’t sure she’d done her usual bang-up job replacing the old one.

He studied her for a long moment before closing the passport and handing it back. Then he nodded to a uniformed porter standing to the side, holding a small valise. “This is all you have?” the official asked.

There hadn’t been a lot of time to shop in London—she’d arrived at noon and had had to be on the night train by eight. She’d hit Harrods and bought a few items, but they weren’t up to Bochner standards. “And this,” she replied, putting her satchel up. He frowned at the burned canvas, the dirt. Shaking his head, he opened it and tipped it upside down.

“Hey!” she snapped. “Go easy there.”

The man just grunted.

Only a few essentials fell out of the bag. Lipstick, compact, her small penknife, cigarette case, a carton of Player’s Navy Cut, change purse. A few essentials—and one weapon.

“What is this?” the official said, holding the derringer up by its pearl handle.

“Cigarette lighter.”

“This?” He peered at it, turning it every way.

“It’s a novelty, uh, a keepsake,” she said, praying that he wouldn’t attempt to bring forth flame. She’d removed the bullet as a precaution, had that stashed somewhere she felt sure no gentleman would ever look. But the lie could be pretty speedily exposed, nonetheless. “May I keep it?”

“Fräulein, you are going on an airship filled with hydrogen gas. There are no open flames allowed.”

“You’re telling me I can’t smoke?”

“No. Yes, you can smoke. In the sealed smoking room. Using an electric lighter. Everything else—verboten.” He dropped the gun into a separate cloth bag, with “Deutsche Zeppelin Reederei” printed on the front, before slipping the rest back into the satchel. This he then slid across the table. “Your suitcase will be searched and any other unsuitable items removed and also placed here.” He tapped the cloth bag.

“But—” She wasn’t happy with the idea of her only weapon being taken away. “If I promise not to use it?”

He shook his head. “Nein. This will be returned to you in America.” He gestured to a woman standing at his right. “Now, you will please to go with Frau Gruber.”

Watched by the two men she was now convinced were military, Roxy followed Frau Gruber. The woman led her into a curtained cubicle and ordered her to take off her dress, then searched it before running her hands up and down Roxy’s slip. She was rough and thorough.

As they exited the cubicle, Frau Gruber nodded, and the male officer rose, clicked his heels together and handed her the passport. Even managed a smile. “Enjoy your flight, Fräulein Lille. Heil Hitler.”

“Yes, indeed,” Roxy replied, grabbing her satchel. The young American man she had spoken to earlier was waiting there. “Your turn,” she said.

“Oh, I’ve already been. I was just waiting for you and wondering if you wanted to travel on the coach to the airship together.”

He smiled bashfully and she looked at him a little more closely. Tall, about her age, floppy hair, a wide grin, blue eyes behind bifocal glasses, tweed suit. Willie, she remembered now. He was a little Ivy League for her tastes. But since her sole plan so far was to keep a low profile and surprise Munroe only once they were in flight, when neither would have anywhere to go, she realized she might stand out less in a couple.

“Let’s,” she said, linking arms.

Willie grinned and led her through the revolving doors—he was one of those who liked to go two per cubicle—and onto the second of the two coaches that waited beyond, just as the first one pulled away. They were seen aboard by another uniformed guard.

The coach was nearly full—she’d been one of the last examined. But keeping her head down as she made her way back, she could not see Munroe anywhere. The size of him, he’d be kinda hard to miss. First coach or…

Please, she thought, don’t tell me he’s changed his plans. She knew she didn’t have a solid one, not yet. She just trusted that since God and Jocco had placed them on an airship together, something would come up. Odds had a way of evening out and she was owed some luck.

They found seats near the back. The coach was just starting to roll, when the two soldiers in poor disguise ran up. One hit the side, the driver opened the doors, they came aboard and then the vehicle moved off again.

“Those guys?” said Willie, pointing with his chin. “They must be security of some kind.”

“Think so?”

“Yeah. I’ve been on Zeppelins twice and never been searched before. Bags, yeah, but everyone seems a little more on edge. Hope nothing’s up.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. “You gotta figure there are some pretty crazy types around in Germany right now.”

“You mean someone might try to sabotage the airship?” When he only shrugged, she laughed and said, “Well, thanks a lot. I’m nervous enough about my first flight without that.”

“Oh,” he said quickly. “I wouldn’t worry. Germans, right. Too efficient to allow that to happen.” He smiled. “Where did you say you were from again, uh, Madeleine Lille? French name, right?”

“French father. French passport. US born and raised. You?”

“Philadelphia. German parents. Though I live in DC now.”

The short journey to the airport passed in a swift exchange of information. Hers was all false, the story she’d made up to go with the passport. His sounded ordinary, a little dull—commerce degree, rich dad, in paper. Then again, she thought, he could be lying too.

She looked away as the bus stopped a short time later under a sign that read FLUGHAFEN: FRANKFURT AM MAIN. It always gave her a little lift, an airport. She sought out the window for a plane, any plane. She saw one landing in the distance, but once through the gates the coach was driven at speed past several buildings and finally into a hangar that was larger than any she’d ever seen. Which was necessary, she supposed, as gasps arose all around her from adults, kids, old and young, bound together in wonder. Because this hangar also housed the biggest bird she’d ever seen.

The Hindenburg.

Roxy couldn’t help her own gasp. She knew her aerodynamics, the physics of flight. So how the hell anything as huge as this could ever get into the air was beyond her. And she’d seen it in the air, at the Olympics opening ceremony. On that occasion, though, it had just been up above; she didn’t know how high; there had been no way to contrast it with anything. Here, people moving about below it looked like ants beneath a giant slug. A locomotive engine was opposite her, near the behemoth’s tip—and it resembled a kid’s toy. She was good at calculating distance—she needed to be for some of the landings she’d made in less than ideal circumstances. So now, as she stepped down from the coach steps, she didn’t look up any more but along. Reckoned that the fuel truck to her left was one hundred yards away—a football field. The set of stairs even now being wheeled up to a gantry near the ship’s aft was another gridiron away, perhaps a little more. “Two hundred twenty yards long,” she murmured.

“You doing the stats?” Willie had followed her out, and stood beside her now. “They do metres here, of course, but you’re close. Two hundred forty-five metres makes, uh, about 268 yards. Or eight hundred feet.” He pointed. “The diameter is 41.2 metres. That’s, uh, uh—”

“One hundred thirty-five feet.” She looked up at the height, whistled, then smiled at his surprise. “Oh, I do metres. Have to when—” She broke off. She’d decided to keep her flying, and everything else personal, to herself. “When you’re raised partly in France,” she explained, then looked back up. “So that makes it about, what, ten storeys high?”

“Uh-huh. Quite something, ain’t she?”

“Sure. Apart from one thing—there’s no possibility that something that size could ever fly.” She shuddered. “So I’m not going on board.”

“On board it gets even better.” He grinned. “You just wait till you see her on the inside.”

Roxy didn’t have to wait long. She and Willie joined the mob of passengers—mainly older, mostly men, a few women, and there was a family with younger boys. Munroe was still not among them.

Willie touched her arm, and they headed toward the set of stairs just being driven up to meet those lowered from the ship. Despite the encouragement of the attendant, she felt strange stepping onto them, leaving the ground—she, who would pilot anything, eagerly, without a qualm. Truth was, she never much liked being flown. And in something so unfeasible…

Then she forced herself to remember why she was there. Who she was there for. This wasn’t a jaunt; it wasn’t about pleasure in any way. She was there for her enemy. What she would do about him she hadn’t figured out yet. She just assumed that the answer would be somewhere at the top of these metal stairs. Where Munroe was.

She was wrong. She realized it when she reached the platform and glanced back before entering the body of the ship. A Hispano-Suiza J12 roared into the hangar. Laughing at its wheel was Hermann Göring. Grinning back at him was Sydney Munroe.

The flight attendant urged her on. But Roxy didn’t move, only stood and stared as the two big men levered themselves from the vehicle. The Reichsmarschall was dressed as if for hunting, in a cap with pheasant feathers in the band, a grey jacket with leather shoulder patches, and tweed trousers. A white linen suit swathed Munroe’s bulk. The two men shook hands, slapped each other’s backs, and the impression of Tweedledum and Tweedledee returned. But she couldn’t find a smile now. Nor could she find that place inside where her courage usually lay. The sight of Munroe, the memory of all he’d done, all he’d meant to her and her family over the years, made her dizzy.

“Shall we?” said Willie, offering his arm.

“Gladly,” she replied, taking it. Turning away from the two monsters, she entered the belly of the third.

Five stewards in white coats and black ties awaited them. A sixth man, in a dark suit, was speaking as she and Willie came onto the platform within the hull. His English was clear, lightly accented. “…accompany you to your cabins, where your luggage has already been placed. Once you are situated, we encourage you to unpack, and make yourself at home, as you say. Very shortly a steward will come by to explain about the cabin. Again, my name is Chief Steward Kubis.” As someone spoke, he raised a white-gloved hand. “Please, Captain Lehmann has indicated that he wishes to make a speedy departure. Save all questions for later—perhaps over a nice glass of chilled Riesling in the salon, ja?” He smiled. “Tickets, please.”

The passengers shuffled forward. All were asked again if they had any lighters, though none did, those having been taken away at the hotel. Cameras were also confiscated.

“Air regulations,” murmured Willie, handing over a Leica. “They are given back once we pass the three-mile limit beyond Frankfurt. Germans don’t want snaps of the air base being built.”

Having no lighter and no camera, Roxy held out her ticket. It was studied and handed back. She took a step after the other passengers up the next flight of stairs, but Chief Steward Kubis halted her. “You are on this deck, mademoiselle. The B deck,” he said, his French as flawless as his English. “We added these cabins only this year and they have several advantages. Larger, and they also have windows to look out from, as they are on the side of the vessel, not in the centre, as above.” He glanced down at her yellow-stained fingers. “Also, the smoking room is on this deck, if mademoiselle and monsieur are smokers.”

“Mademoiselle sure is,” she replied. “Not sure about monsieur.”

“Oh. I am sorry, I—” Kubis looked at Willie’s ticket, adding in German, “Ah, apologies, sir. It is A deck for you.”

“Come again?” Willie replied in English, putting a hand behind his ear. “German name, no German. Got ‘A deck’—that’s about it.”

The family and she were the only ones who were bound for B deck. As Willie headed up the stairs, he called back, “Drink later?”

“Drink soon,” she answered, and followed the white coat of a younger steward around a corner and down a corridor. Her cabin was the fifth down, opposite the WCs. The steward opened the door for her, and said, in heavily accented French, “I will return in a moment, mademoiselle.” Then he took the family on to the end of the corridor.

She went in, closed the door behind her and leaned against it. If this was a larger cabin, what the hell size was on A deck? It was perhaps a hair bigger than the train compartment she’d taken from London. About seven feet deep, five and a half across. The walls were lined in pearl-coloured fabric. No bunk beds like on the train, but a single to her left, running along and flush to the outer wall; her suitcase was on it. She flung her singed satchel beside it. What gave the sense of more space was the window, which ran the width of the cabin, alongside the bed. She was startled to look out and see the sides of the hangar passing; she hadn’t felt any movement at all. But the chief steward had said that the captain wanted a speedy departure. Within ten seconds, the hangar wall had given way to a different shade of grey—drizzle. They passed a marching band, the men’s blue-and-yellow uniforms dulled by the wet. Beside them, in their brown shirts and shorts, was a troop of Hitler Youth. Both troops fell into their ranks and, at a shouted command, began to march beside the ship.

Roxy sank onto the end of the bed. She suddenly felt queasy, and she wasn’t sure if it was motion, exhaustion, her ongoing balance problems or the sight of Sydney Munroe. Her course had seemed so clear when she’d read about his return to the States. She was certain that he’d be accompanied by the booty he’d stolen from them. She’d also read the omens to boost her certainty: a ticket for the Hindenburg had arrived in the same mail as money from Herr Bochner, for god’s sake. But the journey had taxed her diminished strength to its limit. And her faith had waned with the simple sight of her nemesis saying farewell to the second most powerful man in Germany, the man who’d nearly caused her death. Who was she to oppose these guys? And, truly—what did she intend to do now that she was on board? Kill Munroe? He certainly deserved it, for her father’s death alone, for all the pain he’d caused since. But she’d had that chance in a Madrid cellar and hadn’t taken it. Roxy knew that she was not a killer. A thief, though? She’d helped steal the Bruegel once. Could she steal it again? It didn’t seem likely. Seeing how she could barely lift herself, she wasn’t sure how she would manage that hefty slab of wood. She could recruit—her new friend, Willie, appeared taken with her. But enough to be her accomplice in grand larceny while she kept him at arm’s length?

A knock. “Come in,” she called.

Her young guide—he couldn’t have been more than nineteen—put his head around the door. She’d spoken English so he replied in the same, which was better than his French. “Is all clear with your cabin, miss?”

“Uh, not really.”

He took her on a swift tour: the basin, with its hot and cold taps; the narrow closet, curtained off on the corridor side, with a rail from which she could hang her dresses. There was a fold-down writing table. “The shower is opposite in the corridor, but I should warn you it is not so strong and it is on a timer. The yellow light goes off and—phft!—the water stops, no matter how much soap you have still on your head. On this deck, at the very end of this corridor, you also find the smoking room and the bar. Restaurant and lounges are upstairs.” A bell sounded and he smiled. “Excuse me, but I must get to my station for departure. Any other questions you will be kind enough to keep for later? Most passengers meet in the promenade on A deck—” he pointed to the ceiling “—to watch the ‘up ship.’ ”

“ ‘Up ship’?”

“It is the command. It is logical, no?” He laughed. “ ‘Up, ship.’ ” He turned to go. “Wait,” she said, standing and reaching for her purse.

“No, miss. All tips included in your fare. We are forbidden.”

“Well, let it be our secret, eh?” she said, and crammed a five-dollar bill in his hands.

He stared at it a moment, then pocketed it. “Auf Wiedersehen,” he called cheerfully as he left.

Outside, the band began to play and the Hitler Youth to sing. Some folk song—she didn’t know it. She sat again. She could do without Munroe for a little longer. Hell, she thought, maybe I’ll spend the entire trip in the cabin and get off quietly at the end. It’s about all I have the strength for.

The song changed tempo and mood. This one she recognized: the “Horst Wessel.” Jocco had told her that it was named for some thug killed in a street fight with the Commies. The first Nazi martyr. This one piece of patriotism led to the next. From below and, chorused within the structure, she heard the national anthem:

“ ‘Deutschland, Deutschland, über alles’…”

It was reprised. It ended with drums and timpani. And then the cheering began. There was no other sound, no motor. There was barely any movement. Except there was, because she looked out the window and people began to recede.

“Up, ship,” she murmured.

She’d lain down and slept. When she woke, it was past ten, the voyage already three hours in. She still could hear only the faintest purr of an engine. Below, the lights of some city shimmered; the airship was flying low enough and she could see the bulk of buildings.

Waking brought its usual pangs. Once she’d smoothed down her dress—which did about as much for the wrinkles as her fingers did for her crazy hair—she slipped into her shoes, grabbed her purse and followed the corridor. Quite soon she came to a small room on her right. There was a counter, a man in a white jacket. He was wielding a cocktail shaker. “Madam needs a drink?” he inquired.

What she most needed was nicotine. But alcohol sounded good too. “Can you make me a Rusty Nail?”

“Of course. Which whisky would madam like?”

“Johnnie Walker, if you’ve got it. And shaken, straight up.”

“Lemon twist?”

“Sure. Where can I smoke? Here?”

“No, madam.” He pointed to another door. “This takes you to the airlock. Close it behind you before you open the next door. No leaking hydrogen to get through to fire, yes?”

“Does hydrogen leak?”

“Never. But we do not take this chance.” He finished shaking and poured white frothy liquid into two stemmed glasses. “I will bring your drink,” he said.

Roxy opened the door, stepped into the small space and closed the door behind her. There was noise from beyond the next one, a party heard through a thick wall. When she opened the door, that sound exploded, and though she was craving a smoke, she was almost overcome by what hit her.

She entered a head-height cloud. She didn’t know how big the room was since she couldn’t see the other walls. Big enough, she realized, as there were at least half a dozen pairs of trousered legs over stools. A few were unoccupied and she took a step toward one.

The door opened behind her. The action swirled the smoke as the bartender walked in, and he parted it, heading toward the vacant stool she’d spotted. On the other side of the stool was a table and banquette, currently occupied.

“Hello, Roxy,” said Sydney Munroe. “I’ve been expecting you.”