The Last Passenger

by Manel Loureiro

  “But what does it mean to uphold the legacy? What does the Valkyrie have to do with that?”

  Feldman looked her over and made a plea for patience. “Over the years, Wolf und Klee has become extremely wealthy and powerful. And secretive. They had funds at their disposal left behind by the Nazi regime, and they’d also managed to infiltrate important strata in German society. They dedicated part of those funds to financing neo-Nazi movements in Central Europe. But the majority went toward acquiring relics.”

  “Relics?”

  “Symbols. Nazis were the first to appreciate the power symbolism can have on the masses. They knew that sooner or later Europe would undergo a similar socioeconomic disaster as the one that had brought about the rise of the Nazis in the first place, and they wanted to be prepared. They wanted to have symbols that would help unite the malcontented. Symbols that would help revive National Socialism.”

  Kate’s mouth went dry. She had not anticipated any of this.

  “By buying, stealing, murder, and extortion, they managed to put together a genuine museum of horrors over time. They have Himmler’s and Goebbels’s ashes, Hitler’s skull, and God knows what else in some armored vault in Switzerland.”

  “That’s disgusting,” whispered Kate.

  “In some ways, they never stopped being a gang of old, loony antique collectors. That’s fairly harmless.” Feldman let out a bitter laugh. “I even took advantage by selling them a diary that supposedly belonged to Hitler. I managed it through a clueless Dutch art dealer. It wasn’t real, of course, but it was an extraordinary forgery, perhaps one of the finest ever made. They paid me a fortune, and I used part of that money to buy the Valkyrie. Plus, I knew they wanted the ship, and I was hoping to drain their funds before the auction.”

  “Did it work?” Kate asked.

  “It did, but they never gave up on the Valkyrie,” said Feldman, suddenly very serious. “At first I figured that a Jew owning the last Nazi ship on the face of the earth was something they couldn’t tolerate. But that wasn’t all. I didn’t realize the true reason until I found out that Mikhail Tarasov, a former member of Cherenkov’s research team, was working for them.”

  Kate sipped her coffee and thought about the implications of this detail.

  “That means they have access to the same data we do concerning the singularities and anomalies but with a different perspective,” Feldman continued, leaning forward and visibly shaken. “They’re willing to kill anyone and do anything to get the ship. I’d stake my life on it.”

  Terrified, Kate did not want to hear what Feldman might say next.

  “Those with Wolf und Klee and Tarasov believe the singularity points are actually able to produce spatiotemporal disturbances. It’s wildly difficult to explain, but . . .”

  “But . . .” Kate repeated.

  “The difference is they believe that if this ship is in the right place at the right time, we will wind up in the year 1939.”

  “What?”

  “If they can go back in time, they’ll be able to help Hitler avoid making the same mistakes that led to his defeat. Stalingrad. Normandy. None of it will have ever happened.” Feldman’s voice had become distraught. “Don’t you see, Kate? Germany will win the war. The Jewish population will be completely exterminated, and the course of history will be altered. Forever.”

  XXII

  For an instant the only audible sounds were the rushing of the wind across the main deck of the Valkyrie and the dull hum of the lights. Kate looked at Feldman in dismay.

  “You can’t be serious,” she finally blurted out. “Time travel isn’t possible. You said it yourself.”

  “I know what I said,” Feldman replied. “I stand by that. I’ve had many conversations about this with Cherenkov and continue to do so on a daily basis. We both think Tarasov’s approach is completely off. One cannot travel through time just as one cannot fall up. The laws of physics are intractable.”

  “So what’s this all about then?”

  “The question is not what we believe but what they do.” Feldman shook his head, looking dog-tired. “As long as those lunatics at Wolf und Klee are convinced that the Valkyrie is their ticket to a fucking interview with their beloved Führer, we will have serious problems.”

  “So there really was a bomb on the Mauna Loa,” Kate said in a hushed voice.

  Feldman nodded and waved his hand toward the interior of the ship. “If we tell everyone we have a band of lunatics on our heels, what do you think will happen, Kate?”

  “Total chaos. The end of the voyage. Everybody would immediately demand we return home.”

  “That’s right,” Feldman nodded. “And for that reason I ask you not to say a word to anyone. If Wolf und Klee has gotten to anyone on board, Moore will take care of it. Meanwhile, time is on our side.”

  “All right, Feldman,” she said after a slight hesitation. “But in return I want full disclosure from you. No more secrets. Deal?”

  “Isaac,” said Feldman, smiling.

  “What?”

  “Isaac. Call me Isaac. Everyone calls me Mr. Feldman, and it gets old. And yes, we have a deal. No more secrets. You have my word, Kate.”

  She nodded, satisfied, and they shook hands. Feldman’s hand was extremely frigid. Kate had the horrible sensation she was touching someone marked by the shadow of death. She tried to push the thought from her mind.

  “So what about the hit-and-run attempt on me? Or Carroll?” Kate asked.

  “Right. The incident with that poor old man from the Pass of Ballaster was their work as well. What I still don’t get is why they wanted his head and heart. That has me completely puzzled.”

  Recalling the walls covered in blood and the stench of burnt flesh made Kate tremble. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the same thing had happened to someone else in another time.

  “It certainly doesn’t seem very scientific or rational,” she said.

  “We’re not dealing with rational people here, Kate. We’re dealing with fanatics. They’ll do whatever it takes to seize this ship and prevent us from arriving to the Singularity first.”

  They were both sitting silently when Moore appeared, as if by stealth, and approached Feldman. He leaned over and whispered something in his ear.

  Kate watched them with unease. Knowing what she did now, the presence of Moore and his men on board the Valkyrie didn’t seem like such a bad idea. She remembered the crates of weapons that had been brought aboard. Maybe Feldman was right after all.

  “Kate.” Feldman’s skin had taken on an ashen color. “We should go to the bridge immediately. We may have a problem.”

  The bridge of the Valkyrie was a work of art in naval engineering. Its designers had provided the captain and the bridge crew with the best possible visibility for that time—the entire front wall was nothing but a giant window that overlooked the bow. Feldman and his staff had restored this area of the ship to be identical to how it was in the thirties, with the exception of the back wall, which was crowded with modern navigation equipment. Next to that same wall, a radar screen was connected to a chart plotter, two backup computers, sonar, and half a dozen other gadgets Kate was unable to identify. All of the twenty-first century technology contrasted oddly with the rest of the command bridge, but it made her feel a little more at ease.

  Passing by the radio room, Kate peeked in to see the communications operator sitting lazily in front of a modern console containing several monitors. Most of them showed various scenes being recorded by security cameras on board the Valkyrie. Others monitored all forms of communication arriving via satellite. Finally, one of the monitors played an NBA basketball game. The operator showed more interest in the game than in any of the other screens. Kate smiled. At least one place on the Valkyrie still lived in the present. Her smile faded, however, when she looked out the front window of the bridge.

  Immediately in front of them, an enormous fog bank hovered on the horizon, no more than a couple of nautical miles away
. It extended far and wide in its thick dirty-yellow cover. The outlines of the waves blurred at the brink of it, like a painting forced to end at the edge of the canvas. Kate had lived in London long enough to know something about fog, but she had never seen anything as thick and sticky as this. From time to time a lazy eddy swirled to the surface, almost as if an enormous prehistoric beast stirred below. A few wisps of fog were advancing over the water’s surface like long, rapacious fingers.

  Kate thought the fog had a certain look about it, ominous and disagreeable. Or maybe she was simply too open to suggestion after everything that had happened that day. Perhaps it was nothing but a common, everyday fog bank.

  She looked at the captain. He was a tall man with a kind face, gray hair, and a carefully trimmed goatee. Maybe fifty, he was dressed informally in a sweat suit, giving the impression that he’d been torn from slumber before he threw on the first clothes he could find. She noticed worry lines around the captain’s eyes.

  “Mr. Feldman,” he said turning toward him and extending his hand.

  “This is Captain Steven Harper, Kate,” Feldman said, introducing the two. “He has more than thirty years’ experience at sea with the last twelve captaining cruise ships.”

  Harper bowed slightly but looked tense. He did not have time to engage in social niceties.

  “What’s going on?” Feldman asked.

  “There’s a fog bank ahead,” answered Harper as he held out a pair of binoculars. “It appeared on the horizon sixteen minutes ago, and God knows where it came from. Given our course, I don’t think it will be more than a half hour before we run into it.”

  “It looks like any other fog bank,” Feldman said.

  “The forecast didn’t mention any fog,” replied Harper in a muffled voice. “In fact, we’re in the middle of a high-pressure front. It’s night, the middle of August, and it’s sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. These aren’t the right conditions for a fog bank. Certainly not one of this size.”

  “Sometimes predictions can be off,” grumbled Feldman like a grouchy dog, looking out with disdain. “It’s only a bit of fog.”

  “Predictions can be off,” said Harper, “but technology usually doesn’t fail in these situations. Have a look.”

  He turned toward the back with all its modern equipment and punched some commands into one of the consoles. After a few seconds a screen showed a satellite image of a small section of the ocean with a blinking dot in the middle.

  “That’s the Valkyrie. Do you see what I mean?”

  “I don’t see anything,” said Feldman.

  “That’s the problem,” answered Harper. “Neither the satellite nor the radar is picking up the fog bank or anything about what’s inside. It’s like it’s not there.”

  A few moments of excruciating silence ensued.

  “That’s impossible,” Feldman finally blurted out, signaling toward the window. “It’s right there.”

  Captain Harper opened his mouth as if to say, “I see it, you idiot,” but he closed it and pursed his lips instead. Even though the captain was usually the leader of a ship after God, in the case of the Valkyrie, Feldman occupied the space between the two.

  “The fog stretches out in both directions as far as the eye can see,” Harper said. “We won’t have sunlight for another six hours. The only way to avoid it would be to steer off our present course.”

  “We’ll stay the present course, Captain.” Feldman pointed to the navigation table. Kate saw a yellowed, ancient-looking book on top. It was the original logbook of the Valkyrie. The same logbook that had come to an abrupt halt after only four days of sailing.

  “With all due respect, Mr. Feldman, we cannot compromise the security of the ship and its passengers,” Harper said. “If we just make a quarter turn portside—”

  “We will not veer from our course, not one fucking inch,” Feldman roared. “We will follow the course indicated in this book. If you don’t like it, tell me right now, and I will begin an immediate search for your replacement. Have I made myself clear, Harper?”

  The tension on the bridge was as heavy as the approaching fog. All eyes, including those of the helmsman, were on Feldman and the captain.

  “Of course, Mr. Feldman,” answered Harper rigidly after a few moments of insufferable silence, “at your service. But I delegate all responsibility for what happens to you. Everyone here is witness to that.”

  Feldman made a vague gesture of assent that could have meant “all right” as much as it could have meant “I don’t give a shit.”

  “Then, we keep on,” murmured Feldman.

  “Forward two-thirds speed, no change in course,” the captain barked at the helmsman.

  “Forward two-thirds speed, no change in course,” the helmsman repeated mechanically.

  Like an enormous sea creature spewing smoke, the Valkyrie closed in on the fog bank. Slowly, the ship penetrated the thick mist. For a fraction of a second, if the passengers had been paying close attention, they would have heard a watery gurgle like life being snuffed out under water.

  Then, there was nothing.

  Only silence.

  XXIII

  Valkyrie

  Day two

  When Kate woke up the next morning, she immediately realized two things that were both quite unusual. The first was the complete silence that encompassed the Valkyrie. The only sounds came from the sea as it pushed past the ship’s hull. Nothing more. Not the wind across the rigging or the squealing of sea life or the splashing of waves. Nothing. Only silence.

  The second thing she discovered was the temperature had dropped at least ten degrees. The previous night she had been sipping coffee with Feldman on the deck of the ship in no more than a simple sleeveless silk dress. She had been neither hot nor cold. That morning, however, as she walked across the starboard deck toward the first-class dining hall, she was practically shivering in her wool sweater.

  The fog had wrapped around the ship like a shroud over a dead man. Visibility was no more than thirty feet in all directions. As she walked Kate could make out the shapes of empty lounge chairs as they slowly materialized before her eyes like dark shadows from the mist.

  Halfway down the corridor she spotted a man in a plaid suit sitting on one of the lounge chairs. He was smoking a cigarette and had a book in his hands. Before she could get close enough to see who he was, the man got up, flicked his cigarette over the railing, slapped a wide-brimmed straw hat on his head, turned away from her, and began walking in the direction of the bow.

  A straw hat? Who wears one of those in the middle of a fog bank? Something about it didn’t make sense. She quickened her step, but by the time she got to the chair where he’d been sitting, he was out of sight.

  Suddenly, she realized someone was running toward her. She almost panicked until she realized it was Carter.

  “Good morning, Kate,” he said as he approached. The physicist was wearing a sweat suit, as if he had just run a marathon. “If it even is morning. With this damned fog you don’t even know what time it is.”

  “It seems quite thick,” answered Kate. And someone’s wearing a big straw hat in spite of it, she thought to herself.

  “Our three meteorologists are going bonkers,” Carter said, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a sleeve. “They do nothing but pace back and forth between the weather station at the bow and the bridge’s radar. They’re so revved up I’m sure Captain Harper would love to toss them overboard. It’s a fog of intrigue, so it seems.”

  “The captain thinks so, but Feldman doesn’t,” Kate replied as she looked off into space. “By the way, who was that man you passed earlier? The one in the plaid suit.”

  Carter looked straight at her and blinked as if he had not heard correctly. “I didn’t pass by anyone.”

  “That can’t be. He was heading right toward you.”

  “I’ve been jogging this deck for twenty minutes, and you’re the first person I’ve come across,” said Carter. “I suppose it�
��s not a great day to go for a stroll. Nearly everyone’s inside. What did this guy in the suit look like?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t get a good look at him. He was probably just a figment of my imagination,” Kate answered, flustered.

  “Could be,” Carter said suspiciously.

  Mortified, Kate noticed the physicist watching her with that “you-are-not-right-in-the-head” look, usually reserved for those who hear voices or believe themselves to be alien ambassadors. Or those who see things that aren’t there.

  “I’m going to get some breakfast,” Kate said, trying to change the subject. “Would you care to join me?”

  “I can’t. I need to shower. I’m getting together with Cherenkov in fifteen minutes. I’m hoping he’ll show me his Singularity calculations. They looked promising yesterday.”

  “I’ll see you later then.”

  “If you see the man in the plaid suit, don’t forget to let me know.” Carter bid her farewell with a burst of laughter and began running down the deck.

  Kate was left alone on the walkway and felt thankful that, at the very least, the fog was hiding her blush.

  Congratulations, Kate. You’ve acted like a complete fool, she thought to herself.

  Infuriated, she continued toward the dining hall.

  Because of the fog, she nearly passed it by. But there it was stuck between the lifeboat stanchions and the deck railing: the straw hat with a blue sash around the cap. It was as if someone had stuffed it there so the wind would not blow it away.

  Seeing it startled Kate. She looked around to see if anyone was trying to play a joke on her. For a second she thought about Carter, but he did not seem like the practical jokester type.

  Carefully, she leaned out and grabbed the hat. It was surprisingly cold like it had been left outside all night. She held it in her hands, squeezing it to make sure it was real and not a product of her imagination. She turned it over and noticed there was a name embroidered on a label stitched inside the hat: Schweizer.