Page 59 of Flight of Dreams

“Perhaps not. But popularity and truth are not mutually exclusive.”

“You don’t seem concerned that Pruss and I didn’t manage to become friends.”

The steward sets a rich German red on the table beside Lehmann. Typical. Lehmann lifts the wineglass. Takes a sip. Nods in appreciation. “I can count on one hand the number of people Commander Pruss calls friend.”

“Are you among them?”

“We have mutual goals. That can constitute a friendship.”

“Do those goals include protecting this airship and its passengers?”

“Of course.”

“I’m very glad to hear it.” The American lifts his own wineglass, containing a French white.

Lehmann leans across the table. Lowers his voice. “Is there something I need to know?”

“That depends on how you feel about reciprocation.”

“I don’t like games, Herr Douglas.”

“Neither do I. My preference lies with information.”

“What kind of information?”

“A name. Nothing more.”

“And you propose an exchange of information?”

“I do. A name for a name.”

Lehmann pulls away and settles back into his chair. He has the smug look of superiority about him. “What sort of name could you possibly give me that would be of interest?”

The American forces down another bite of beef Wellington, then pushes his plate away. He sets his napkin over the knife, then dabs the corner of his mouth with the bright linen and deftly sets both napkin and knife in his lap. “The name of your crew member who is planning to remain in America.”

THE NAVIGATOR

As usual there is only a handful of men in the officers’ mess at this hour. Captain Lehmann dines with the other passengers—never here—then retreats to the bar. This has been his habit on every trip that Max has ever flown with him, whether the captain is on duty or not. So it comes as something of a surprise to see Lehmann enter the room. He leans against the door, arms crossed, chin tipped upward as he listens to the ongoing conversation. The officers are discussing the curious sport of American baseball, and the general consensus seems to be one of indifference and confusion.

“Good evening, Captain.” Max salutes. The other officers scramble to do the same.

Lehmann returns the salute and then motions Max forward. “May I have a word with you?”

“Of course,” Max says, but he hopes this won’t take long. He’s hungry. And exhausted. And mostly he wants to deposit today’s mail, find Emilie, and retreat to his cabin so they can enjoy the bottle of Armagnac he pilfered from the bar this afternoon. Max spent the better part of the afternoon trying to speak with Emilie, but she avoided him—either leaving the room entirely or ignoring his presence. To get her alone would have required making a scene, and that certainly wouldn’t help his cause. In the end their duties drew them apart and he hasn’t found another opportunity to make amends.

“After you.” Lehmann follows Max from the officers’ mess.

Once in the corridor the captain takes off without an explanation, and Max has to increase his pace to match Lehmann’s long stride.

“May I ask what this is about?”

“You’ll see.”

They go straight down the keel corridor, through the passenger quarters, and into the short hallway that houses the domestic crew: cooks, stewards, cabin boy, and bartender. Lehmann stops at the last door on the left and Max pulls back in alarm. Emilie’s cabin. Lehmann doesn’t knock but rather pulls a key ring from his pocket, unlocks the door, and steps in without announcement or invitation.

“I don’t think—”

“I assure you that Fräulein Imhof is not here.”