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.”

The American laughs awkwardly. Purposefully. “So you would know whether he is in a romantic relationship?”

The look that flashes across Wilhelm Balla’s face is first confusion. Then alarm. Then something that could be either fear or disgust. The American isn’t certain which. It’s too fleeting.

Balla holds up a hand. “I can assure you that Max is not—”

“That’s not what I meant.” He is quite pleased to hear the perfect note of surprise and admonition in his voice. He waits a moment to let the steward’s face color fully with embarrassment before he continues. “Please, let’s do be clear on that.”

Balla rubs his nose with the back of one finger. “Yes. Of course. Forgive me. What might you have meant, then?”

“Well. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I am rather curious about whether or not Max Zabel is romantically involved with the stewardess. Emilie…”

“Imhof,” Wilhelm finishes.

“Yes. Miss Imhof. Are the two of them involved?”

The steward opens his mouth slowly. And then reverses the action. This delayed response is all the answer the American needs. The two are clearly dating and trying to hide it from their fellow crew members.

The American is tired of maintaining his drunk and boisterous act. Now he wants to throw the steward off-kilter. He wants information. “I see,” he says. “It’s not public knowledge?”

“I don’t think—”

“Or perhaps it’s not official? In all truth I’d much rather that be the case as I’d planned to invite Miss Imhof to dinner once we reach Lakehurst. So you can see how I would rather save myself the embarrassment of rejection if her affections are engaged elsewhere.”

He’s not keen on the girl, of course. It’s been a long time since a woman turned his head for any reason other than physical gratification, and he certainly doesn’t need to go to the trouble of setting up a dinner to find that. No. The stewardess is irrelevant. But the American is quite interested in discovering any weaknesses the navigator might have. And learning how to exploit them.

The steward takes his time in answering. When he comes to a decision there is a sharp, conniving slant to his mouth. He chooses his words carefully—one at a time—and in such a manner that they are both loaded and innocuous. “The only thing I am at liberty to say is that the relationship between Max Zabel and Emilie Imhof is…complicated.”

The American leans into this morsel of information. “Complicated how?”