The Red Zeppelin (Hilary Manningham-Butler Book 2)

by Jack Treby

  I swallowed hard. This was it. The point of no return. ‘Into the belly of the beast,’ I muttered, gesturing the Irishman and his intended forward. I had to make a mental effort not to cross myself as I moved towards the metal steps.

  McGilton leaned in towards me. ‘Who’s the other fellow?’ He jerked a thumb back towards Maurice, who was bringing up the rear of the queue.

  ‘That’s my valet, Morris. He’s travelling with me.’

  McGilton stifled a laugh. ‘A valet? On an airship? Now there’s a novelty!’

  The steward pulled back the sliding door and gestured inside a rather cramped cabin. ‘It has no windows!’ I exclaimed, moving inside. The room was illuminated by a small electric light. It had the same bare coloured walls as the corridor outside. The floor was carpeted in a garish orange and there were two narrow beds, one above the other, a sturdy metal ladder connecting the two. The place had all the charm of a second class carriage on the London to Glasgow Express. ‘You can have the top bunk, Morris,’ I said. I had done enough climbing already on this trip.

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’ Maurice was hovering outside in the corridor. There wasn’t space in the cabin for three of us.

  ‘The beds are very comfortable,’ the steward informed me, pressing down on the orange blanket of the lower bunk. ‘And there is hot running water, if you wish to freshen yourself up.’ He pulled down a compartment in the wall on his right and sure enough there was a basin concealed within, with two taps for hot and cold water. ‘There is also a closet here for your clothes.’ Our suitcases had been deposited by the far wall. ‘I will leave you both to settle in.’ He moved through the door and back out into the corridor. ‘We will be taking off in approximately five minutes. There is a promenade on both sides of the deck which provide excellent views, if you wish to view our ascent.’

  ‘Not likely,’ I said, with a shudder. ‘Do I have to strap myself in?’

  The steward smiled warmly. ‘You will barely even notice we are moving.’

  ‘That’s what it says in the guide book, is it?’

  ‘You will see for yourself, sir. Most of the passengers will be assembling in the lounge. If you need anything else, there is a bell push by the side of the bed and I will be happy to assist you.’ He smiled once more. His accent grated a little, but I couldn’t fault his English.

  ‘What was your name again?’

  ‘Heinrich, sir.’ He was a handsome fellow. Perhaps nineteen or twenty years old.

  ‘Heinrich,’ I repeated, fixing it in my head. I have never been much good at remembering names, especially those of servants. I fumbled in my pocket for a couple of coins but the steward raised a hand.

  ‘There is no need for that, sir. Gratuities are included in the price of your ticket.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ I removed my hand from my pocket. I wasn’t about to offer a second time. ‘Well that’s handy.’

  Heinrich nodded and moved away.

  My valet was still hovering in the corridor. ‘Well don’t just stand there, Morris!’ I snapped. ‘Those bags are not going to unpack themselves.’

  The starboard corridor was filled with passengers. Most of them were simply passing the time of day but a few, like us, were settling in for the first time. The walls of the cabin were paper thin and, as I gave my face a quick wash in the basin, I heard Mr McGilton in the room next door introducing himself to his room mate. I pitied the poor devil who had been lumbered with him.

  The prospect of spending the better part of a week shacked up in a cubicle with my valet was doing nothing to raise my spirits either. ‘Do you snore?’ I asked him, absently. I hadn’t shared a room with him before, though we had been next door to each other at the hotel the previous evening.

  ‘No, Monsieur. Unlike you, I sleep very soundly.’ He pulled my wash bag from the suitcase and positioned it on the ledge above the sink.

  I glared at him. ‘What the devil do you mean by that?’

  ‘Nothing, Monsieur.’ He did not meet my eye but he unfastened the wash bag and pulled out the sleeping draught Lazenby had given me that morning. I would certainly need that if I was going to get any sleep on this trip. The bottle, however, was not what Maurice had been referring to.

  ‘I’ve warned you before about your attitude, Morris.’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’ He pulled out my tooth brush and my shaving mug and placed them neatly next to the glass bottle in front of the mirror.

  I pulled back the door of the cabin and moved out into the corridor. I needed a cigarette. I was sure the steward had said there was a smoking room somewhere on board.

  I spotted Miss Tanner heading in my direction, her eyes and her short black curls now free of the sun bonnet. She had a cabin somewhere at the far end of the corridor. There were two blocks of three rooms on the starboard side of the airship. The entrance to the lounge was in the centre of the corridor and several passengers were making their way through the doorway towards the promenade; but Miss Tanner moved past it to the cabin where her fiancé was berthed. It was the room next door to mine.

  McGilton’s door was open and he poked his head out as Miss Tanner arrived. ‘How are you settling in, darling?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s delightful,’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m sharing with Miss Hurst again.’ That, I assumed, was one of the women who had disappeared into the lounge. Perhaps the one McGilton had spoken to yesterday afternoon. ‘We’re going to look out the windows and see the take off.’

  ‘Sounds like a good idea,’ said McGilton. ‘I’ll be with you in a jiffy.’

  Miss Tanner turned to address me. ‘Will you be coming, Mr Bland?’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have much of a head for heights.’

  ‘You’ve come to the wrong place!’ the Irishman laughed, moving back into his cabin.

  ‘Oh nonsense!’ Miss Tanner exclaimed. She stepped forward and took my arm. ‘You simply must come. I insist on it. You will regret it if you don’t.’

  McGilton laughed again, from inside the cabin. ‘When Lucy insists on something, there’s no point trying to resist. She always gets her way.’ He would know, of course.

  ‘I shall hold your hand, Mr Bland, if you really are frightened.’ She was mocking me again, the damned woman. But I couldn’t see any way of declining her request. ‘And your valet should come too.’

  There I drew the line. ‘He has work to do,’ I muttered. ‘He’s not on holiday.’

  ‘I’m sure you can spare him for five minutes.’ And with that the infuriating woman manoeuvred me towards the door of the lounge. The morning sun was filtering in through the windows as we stepped across the threshold.

  The lounge room was a large, thoroughly modern space, bedecked with squat aluminium chairs and drably functional square tables. A baby grand piano sat incongruously in one corner, the only concession to history. The rest of the room was cursed with the same ghastly colour scheme as the cabins, the burnt orange of the carpet somehow failing to complement the orange of the table tops and the lightly padded chair covers. The bland cream coloured walls were relieved by random illustrations of native peoples from around the world. Beyond a set of low railings was the more obvious focal point of the room, the promenade stretching along the side of the airship with its windows angled downwards in six solid blocks, four panes of glass apiece. And it was here that the other passengers had assembled.

  They were a rum looking bunch, about a dozen of them, mostly men of varying nationalities, dressed as I was in jacket, tie and waistcoat of differing shades and textures.

  A shrill whistle from somewhere up front signalled the beginnings of the launch and Miss Tanner led me determinedly up to the middle window, where her room mate, Miss Hurst, had already found a place. Miss Tanner made the introductions.

  Annabel Hurst was a nervous, pale faced woman in her mid twenties. She wore a smart tailored dress with a pleated woollen skirt and matching beige coat. She smiled weakly at me but her eyes quickly returned to the windows. I was gla
d to see I was not the only one feeling apprehensive about the launch.

  The airship was still only a few feet above the ground. I could see the faces of the groundsmen, gripping tightly to the mooring lines, and to my left, towards the front of the ship, hands holding the gondola with equal firmness.

  ‘Looks like we’ve been detached from the mooring tower!’ somebody declared.

  The ship wobbled slightly beneath my feet and I felt a flutter in my stomach. There was another blow of a whistle and then, all at once, we were aloft. The ground started to recede at an alarming rate. One second, I could see the whites of the eyes of the groundsmen, the next we were so high I could barely differentiate one man’s cap from another. For all the sophisticated engineering, the launch procedure was like nothing so much as a little boy letting go of a piece of string and watching his balloon shoot upwards into the sky; except I was inside the balloon, looking down. I grabbed hold of a metal strut, separating two blocks of windows, and clung onto it for dear life. I am no coward, but if God had intended us to fly He would have inflated our stomachs with helium.

  Mr McGilton had joined his fiancée and was grinning broadly at the sight of the rapidly disappearing earth. We could see the whole airfield now, all the cars and horses and people milling about, all those victorious republicans looking like ants, no doubt conspiring to lop off the head of their queen. Miss Tanner was waving enthusiastically down at them and they seemed to be waving back, though we were too high now for any of us to really see each other. ‘You’re looking a bit green,’ McGilton observed, glancing across at me.

  I nodded. ‘Wishing I hadn’t had those eggs for breakfast. Or the whisky, come to that.’ In hindsight, it had not been an ideal combination and the contents of my stomach were now threatening to reassert themselves. ‘You’ll have to excuse me.’ I disentangled myself from the beam and lurched back towards the passenger cabins, past Maurice who had disobeyed my orders and followed us over to the promenade. A figure in a peaked cap and great coat was striding towards me through the lounge room door. I felt light headed. I was not sure of the ground beneath my feet. The whole craft seemed to be shifting in the breeze.

  The man nodded a greeting as I hurtled past.

  ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,’ I heard him say, his booming voice loud enough to be heard right across the ship. ‘My name is Herntz Albrecht. I am the captain of the Richthofen and I would like to welcome you all on board.’ His accent was slight, his manners impeccable. That the captain of the ship would introduce himself to the passengers mere seconds after lift off was a striking display of confidence. In other circumstances, I might have found that reassuring. At the moment, however, I had more important things to think about.

  The cabins had no facilities of their own and the water closets were on the far side of the deck. I flung open the door of the nearest cubicle.

  ‘We will soon level out,’ the captain continued, still audible across the length of the connecting corridor, ‘at an altitude of two hundred and ten metres.’

  The thought of that made my stomach lurch a second time. Why did I ever agree to this?

  ‘...and we will then make our way south towards Cadiz. The weather forecast is good and we should be over the Atlantic well before mid-day.’

  I sunk to my knees. pulling up the lid of the lavatory bowl. At that moment, my breakfast made an abrupt reappearance.

  ‘I wish you all a pleasant flight,’ the captain said.

  I closed my eyes and let nature take its course. I had a feeling this was going to be rather a long voyage.

  Chapter Four

  ‘The National Socialists are a spent force,’ Walter Kendall declared firmly. He was a small man in his mid fifties with a chubby face, thinning hair and rounded spectacles. From his photograph, and from what Lazenby had told me, I had pictured him as a cigar chewing, Randolph Hearst figure, a brash, no nonsense New Yorker, telling it like it was and not giving a damn what you thought of him. The reality was somewhat different. This fellow was altogether quieter and more considered. He spoke with an intelligent precision, his soft hands gently emphasising each point. ‘Herr Hitler made a grave error of judgement, leaving the Reichstag when he did. Now some of his allies are openly questioning his leadership. One or two have even joined the Communist party. It is difficult to see how the Nazi party can continue in its current form.’ Kendall had rolled himself a small cigarette, which he took a puff of now. He had taken considerable care over it, ensuring the cigarette had a uniform length and shape. Everything about the fellow spoke of attention to detail.

  I had made my way shakily down a set of metal stairs to the smoking room on the lower deck. After the undignified spectacle of my retreat from the promenade, I had badly needed a shot of tobacco to calm my nerves. I am not a heavy smoker; I get through maybe five or six cigarettes a day. Gambling and alcohol are my preferred vices and, as luck would have it, there was a bar adjacent to the smokers’ cabin.

  A smiling barman greeted me as I stepped through the double doors of the airlock into the pressurised outer room. The bar was small but well stocked. I ordered a Scotch with just a dash of soda. The barman was a friendly, muscular fellow. He had a big nose and the kind of moustache one would normally expect to see on an army recruitment poster. He fixed the drink with commendable alacrity and then showed me through another door into the smoking room.

  The saloon was a wide, dimly lit space with padded leather seats lining the length of two walls and the usual ghastly array of metal tables. The colour scheme was blue rather than orange and the walls were plastered with images of earlier Zeppelins. The far wall was white, however, and marked a centre point to the room, with a set of window panels at floor level and two large oval maps looming above them. Needless to say, this time, I kept well away from the windows. The room was large enough to accommodate all of the passengers, but I had been relieved to discover I was the first to arrive, and could settle my nerves in peace.

  There was an electric lighter attached to a cord on the far wall. I pulled out a Piccadilly – my preferred brand of cigarette – and lit it awkwardly, before finding a place on the leather sofa and taking a long slow drag.

  I had barely got halfway through the cigarette before my tranquillity was shattered by the arrival of Walter Kendall and his voluble companion. This was my first opportunity to study the American up close. He had a rather sober manner, but he introduced himself with a firm handshake. He really wasn’t like any kind of journalist I had ever met before. He seemed far more concerned with the minutiae of German politics than in the scandals and tittle-tattle that were the stock in trade of most of his fellow newsmen. Maybe that was why Gerhard Schulz had approached him with the stolen documents. The American would understand their true value.

  ‘If Herr Hitler had properly engaged in the democratic process,’ Kendall asserted, continuing his point, ‘none of this would have happened.’

  His companion, Karl Lindt, let out a snort of derision. ‘Democracy is for fools!’ Lindt was an oily looking fellow of about thirty-five, with slick black hair and a smug expression. He was a tin merchant, apparently. He had paid me no attention when the two of them arrived in the saloon and it had been left to Walter Kendall to conduct the introductions. After a brief, half-hearted enquiry into the state of my health – I had a feeling I would not be living that down for some time – they quickly resumed their discussion. ‘Look at these Spanish peasants,’ Lindt continued. ‘They have no idea what is in their best interests. Why bother to consult them? Far better to impose order from above. Strong leadership is in everybody’s interest.’

  ‘Is that what your Mr Hitler intends to do?’ I asked, reluctantly allowing myself to be drawn in to the debate. ‘Impose order from above?’

  ‘I cannot speak for him. But he has been underestimated before. I would not write him off just yet.’

  ‘There is certainly some residual support for the National Socialists, away from the cities,’ Kendall conceded. He
was a fair minded fellow, even when it came to the Nazis. ‘But most Germans are rational people. They will not be seduced by such naked opportunism. One can at least respect the sincerity of the Spanish republicans.’

  Karl Lindt snorted again. ‘They are just a rabble. They don’t know what they believe in. And they haven’t a hope of forming a coherent government.’

  ‘It’s King Alfonso I feel sorry for,’ I said, tapping out the end of my cigarette on the metal ashtray. ‘How on earth is he going to cope with a bunch of republicans in government?’

  Walter Kendall was very clear on that point. ‘He will have to abdicate. His position is untenable now.’

  ‘Good lord! Do you think it will come to that?’

  ‘I am afraid so.’ King Alfonso had lent his support to the dictatorship and the people were not likely to forgive him.

  ‘He will have no choice,’ Lindt agreed. ‘It is the honourable thing to do.’ Somehow, the tin merchant managed to make the word ‘honourable’ sound like an insult. ‘That is what comes of allowing the people their say. Alfonso was always a weak man. It is his own fault he is in this position. I will not mourn his passing.’

  ‘All the same, you can’t help feeling sorry for the fellow. I mean, all that history, abandoned over night.’ It was simply not cricket.

  Lindt eyed me with amusement. ‘You have a sentimental streak, Mr Bland. That is admirable, but in this case it is misplaced.’

  Before I could shoot back a reply, a heavy clunk announced the opening of the bar room door.

  Lucy Tanner moved into the smoking room, accompanied by a tubby, bland looking fellow of about forty-five. I recognised him vaguely from the promenade.

  Walter Kendall rose to his feet. ‘Miss Tanner. Herr Kaufmann. Please come and join us.’ I stubbed out the end of my cigarette and stood up beside Mr Lindt.

  The newcomers moved across the room towards us and Miss Tanner flashed the American a dazzling smile. She had changed out of her travel clothes into a rather more flattering two piece dress, light blue with white trimmings. She was carrying a small cigarette case in her hand, which she opened at once. It was no longer unusual for a woman to be seen smoking in public, though it was still considered a little vulgar. It did not surprise me that Miss Tanner indulged in the habit, though I was scarcely in a position to judge. Luckily, living as a man, people were less quick to judge my behaviour. Mr Kendall directed the young woman across to the lighter.