Page 101 of Flight of Dreams

She checks her watch. Ten minutes. That’s all the time she has to spare for this task. Best to get it over with before she can change her mind.

Emilie descends to her cabin on B-deck and places the pillowcase with Matilde’s clothing and the newly returned documents on the bed. A pen. An envelope. One sheet of paper. She sets these things flat on her writing desk. Emilie Imhof, stewardess, widow, brokenhearted woman, picks up the pen with her hand and begins to write, her left wrist bent at an awkward angle, her fingers clenching at the first stroke of ink.

Max.

His name and three more words—I am sorry—before her hand begins to tremble. She drops the pen and flexes her fingers. Summons every ounce of courage. And then she continues. Two short paragraphs. Her answer. Her reasons. Her heart splattered on the clean page, as bold and plain as the ink itself. It will have to be enough. She does not have time nor heart for more than what she has written.

Emilie folds the letter in thirds and slides it into the envelope. She seals it and writes his name on the front. Then she goes in search of Kurt Schönherr.

Like Max, he has been called to the control car for landing, and she finds him entering the radio room.

“Kurt!”

“Fräulein.” He nods his head. Smiles. The older man has always been kind to her. Always respectful. “How can I help you?”

“I need you to do something for me.”

He turns his wrist. Glances at his watch.

“Please,” she says before he can argue. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

“What do you need?”

“Do you still have your mailroom keys?”

A hesitant nod. “I do.”

She pulls the letter from her pocket. Holds it out to him. “Will you put this in the lockbox? For Max. Please?”

“I can take it to him in the control car. He’s there now.” Kurt takes the letter from her hands and holds it between two fingers the way he would a cigarette or a playing card.

Emilie smiles, sad and winsome. “He asked me to send my answer by post.”

Kurt appraises her with keen, sharp eyes. “Then we wouldn’t want to disappoint him, would we?”

Too late for that. She doesn’t say it out loud, but he can see the sadness in her eyes. “Very well, then,” he says, and Emilie watches him step across the hall and enter the mailroom.

THE AMERICAN

6:55 p.m.—thirty minutes until the explosion

The stewards pass around trays of finger sandwiches, cheese, and fresh fruit while the passengers hover beside the windows watching Lakehurst come into view once again. They see the mooring mast first, its black triangular form rising above the airfield like a crane, and then the arched form of Hangar No. 1. Members of the ground hover at the edge of the landing circle, waiting to secure the lines.

The American is hungry, but he doesn’t eat. He likes the hollow feeling in his stomach, this base, human craving. He savors it. Focuses on it. Denies himself the ability to meet it as his thoughts, so erratic all day, finally begin to settle and focus into a single point of action. It is time to kill Ludwig Knorr.

The American would have preferred his original plan. He would have preferred to wait in his cabin in the dark recess beneath the berth, letting the ship empty and lie quiet through the long daytime hours. He would have preferred to find the chief rigger in the belly of the ship and dispatch him quietly. To hide the body and then send a spark hurtling into this giant, combustible bag. It would have been better for things to play out like that. He would have truly enjoyed watching the airship burn to ash.

But the airship is late, and it will not sit in this New Jersey field over- night. It will not lie empty for hours. He doesn’t have the luxury of time. He must adapt. The American leaves the other passengers at the window, then winds his way around the corner, down the gangway stairs, into the keel corridor, and to his cabin. He does not spare a glance at the window but goes straight to his berth and pulls the green canvas bag from where he has kept it hidden for the last three and a half days.

He lifts the pistol and checks the cylinder. Five bullets. He will need only one. The Luger of a Hindenburg officer. That’s what he requested. The mechanics of delivering it were rather complicated, he suspects. He was told only that the Gestapo would inspect the ship prior to liftoff as part of security measures due to the bomb threats, and that one of those men had been paid to locate a gun and place it in this cabin. He knows nothing of motives or payments involved. All men have secrets they want kept. All men have pressure points. And he doesn’t care how his employers persuaded or bribed that young Gestapo officer to comply. He provided the gun and the American has it now. He tucks it into his waistband. He straightens his jacket. He pulls the door open.

Captain Lehmann stands before him, accompanied by an officer so young and clean-shaven the American doubts he has finished puberty.

“Herr Douglas.” A nod, not the least bit polite.

“Captain.”

“May I have a word with you?”