by Hugh Ashton
“Alas, my hands are tied,” exclaimed Dowling theatrically, spreading them wide to indicate the opposite. “My instructions from London made it perfectly clear that our ex-agent was not to be employed by me in this business.”
“But if he were to be employed by someone else?” half-suggested Gatt, gazing out of the window at the street below. “Is that going to be possible?”
“He is, after all, an ex-agent of my Service,” Dowling reminded him. “He is no longer employed by us. We have no claim on what he can and cannot do after he leaves our employ.” This was not strictly true, thought Dowling, when he considered the manifold complexities of the British Official Secrets Act. Arranging for Christopher to leave the British Service and join the American counterpart, which would happen in a few weeks, had taken all of Dowling’s considerable skills in bureaucratic infighting.
“I hear you,” said Gatt, making an indecipherable hieroglyphic note in his notebook.
“Vernon?” asked Henry. “Don’t be offended, but I would like to know how many men you have in Cordele right now?”
“The only answer I am allowed to give to that question, my friend, is ‘not nearly enough of them’. And don’t ask me questions like that, or I might be tempted to ask how many agents you have in the White House. I sure envy you your people’s ability to get into the places where you’re not meant to be.”
“The man’s not one of ‘my people’ any more,” pointed out Dowling significantly. “And we had nothing to do with his being there right now.”
“How would you get in contact with him if you had to do so? I’m speaking totally hypothetically, you understand.”
“I think the easiest way would be to sound out Miss Justin when she comes up for Christopher and Virginia’s wedding next week and see if she would act as some sort of go-between on our behalf.”
“Ah, yes. That.” Vernon Gatt frowned. “Tell me, Henry, what do you really think about all this wedding business?”
“With all my heart, I’m delighted for Christopher. And Virginia, of course,” Dowling added quickly. “I don’t think you’ve ever had the pleasure of talking to him as I have. He’s a charming young man with a first-class mind, Virginia seems to be a delightful young lady who likewise enjoys a lively intelligence, and to my mind they make a wonderful couple. If anyone is stupid enough to make any criticisms on the grounds of his race or her race, that’s their affair. I have to admit that I am personally most curious to meet Miss Justin, who seems to be responsible for bringing out the best in Christopher.”
“I fear that you are a lot more tolerant about this matter than the Wassersteins’ friends and acquaintances are likely to be.”
“I don’t think we need to worry about that. Virginia is perfectly capable of giving as good as she gets in that regard. Speaking cynically, money is one of the great levelers, you know, and that’s something that they’ll never be short of.”
“I suppose you’re right there, Henry. Cigar?” Gatt offered a fine Cuban cigar, which Dowling accepted. The two men took their time preparing and lighting their cigars and sat back.
“So your advice is to do nothing until Miss Justin arrives next week?” Gatt broke the silence.
“Afraid so, old boy,” replied Dowling. “The worst part of this game is waiting, don’t you think? Knowing when to move and when to hold back is never easy, though.” He puffed at his cigar.
“So what would you be trying to do, if you could arrange things to your personal satisfaction?”
“What would I like in a perfect world, old boy? A bloody great fiery explosion, destroying the pride of the German airship fleet, and taking all the top Nazis with it.” He jabbed in the air with his cigar. “And all the Confederate politicians gathered to welcome them fried to a crisp as well. And the whole thing captured on Joe Goebbels’ film cameras and then shown around the world.” The cigar glowed again as he took a deep drag. “But it’s not a perfect world, though, is it? I’m not allowed to do any of this or even help it to come about, God damn it. And I’m sure you’re bound by similar rules.”
“You’re a bloodthirsty kind of guy, aren’t you?” Without waiting for an answer, “Our rules are even stricter, I reckon. We have to report to Congress, while as far as I know, your gang doesn’t even officially exist?” Dowling refused to rise to the bait. “But even if we’re not allowed to order any such thing, or help it happen, is there any reason why we can’t kind of encourage this sort of event to occur?”
“ ‘Encourage’, you say?” Dowling scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I suppose that we could make our desires known to those who might, conceivably, one day find themselves in a position where they might want to do something positive about making those desires a reality.”
“That sounds like a very complicated way of saying yes.”
“That’s exactly what it is.”
“So if I were to let you know what suggestions I might offer to your man—sorry, I kind of forget he’s not your man—”
“Take him, he’s all yours.” Dowling waved away the thought of Finch-Malloy and the cigar smoke in one motion.
“Thank you, sir. I surely appreciate the offer. So I pass my suggestions along to you, and you make sure that he gets them in the way that he would if he were still your agent? Secret inks or codes, or whatever? I’m not asking you for the details of how you do it, just that you do it for us, right?”
“Yes, we can at least manage that for you, I’m sure. Just give me a little time to work out how we can work things out quickly for you.”
Chapter 25: Friedrichshafen, near the Bodensee, National Socialist Germany
“A bigger gang of crooks and clowns never walked God’s good earth.”
Dr. Hugo Eckener looked from his working office at the end of the assembly shed through the window framing the massive duralumin skeleton of the new airship, as long and as wide as an ocean liner, with workers climbing up and down the scaffolding surrounding it. Several gasbags, fashioned from silk lined with goldbeater’s skin, had already been attached to the top of the frame, and hung limply, like empty balloons. Eckener’s heavy face, framed in its neatly trimmed graying beard, showed his anger.
“Look at this!” He waved the paper he held in his hand angrily. “It’s not enough that I have to take a band of Berlin lunatics with me. Look at what else they want to take!” He thrust the paper at his assistant manager, Hans Dietelbaum.
Dietelbaum took the paper, headed with two swastika flags flanking some impressive-looking gothic lettering, cautiously. “Herr Doktor,” he advised as he started to read it. “I do realize that there are only two people in this room, but with respect, your voice carries, and it might not be a good idea to refer to the current government in those terms. After all,” he added diplomatically, “it is they who give us the contracts and the money to keep going.”
Eckener snorted. It was an ugly noise, and contrasted with his elegant appearance. “If only those fool Americans hadn’t canceled their order for their naval LZ126, we could be free of these Berlin—” Dietelbaum held up a warning finger “—I was going to say ‘people’, you fool, what did you think?”
Dietelbaum was used to these outbursts and continued scanning the paper. Suddenly he gave a start.
“Aha!” cried Eckener. “You see? Now am I or am I not right in saying the decision to carry this cargo is lunacy?”
“On the maiden voyage of this airship? Risky, to say the least. But what a magnificent gesture, joining the modern world with the eternal legends of our civilization!”
“Pah! I don’t give a fart about eternal legends,” scoffed Eckener, coarsely. “I care about lateral stresses and lifting force, and gas venting valves. All the eternal legends in the world won’t make this thing,” waving his arm at the magnificent structure outside, “fly to America. So, young Dietelbaum, assuming that this special cargo is indeed going to accompany us on our flight to America, are we going to have to make any special arrangements for it?”
“What about the passengers? You only said the crew just now.”
“Well, Herr Doktor, the passengers will all be members of the Reich government.”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” retorted Eckener. He lowered his voice. “A bigger gang of crooks and clowns never walked God’s good earth. Look at that fool Goering who came to see us the other week. Just because he learned how to fly an airplane in the war, he thinks he knows everything about every aspect of aviation. I grant you that he’s not stupid, but I wish he would go away and leave us in peace to do our jobs. In any case, you’d better take a trip up to Berlin some time and find out exactly how big this cargo’s going to be, and more importantly, how much it’s going to weigh.”
Dietelbaum thought it was time to change the subject. “Have you thought of a name for her?” he asked, gesturing at the airship.
“Thank you for bringing up the subject. I’ve thought of many names. However, it’s not up to me to name her, it appears. I really wanted to call her Graf Zeppelin—it would be a fitting gesture towards his memory.” Ferdinand von Zeppelin had died some ten years previously. “But one of the latest suggestions from the people in Berlin was to name her Adolf Hitler.”
“Good God!”
“No, not God, Adolf Hitler,” corrected Eckener dryly. “I was able to put a stop to that fairly quickly. I pointed out that any storm damage or, God forbid, an accident, might be taken as divine providence by those who were foolish enough to oppose the divinely appointed Führer.”
“You put it in those very words?” asked Dietelbaum incredulously.
“Almost,” replied Eckener. “These Nazis are gluttons for flattery, and my experience in journalism has taught me how to present unpopular points of view. Anyway, I proposed the name of Bismarck, and we settled on that—a name no good German, Nazi or otherwise, can object to, and he’s safely dead and buried, so no omens can be attached to the Zeppelin bearing his name.”
“I like it,” replied Dietelbaum.
“Actually, so do I,” confessed Eckener. “And the old Count would have approved, I am sure, so we’re not disrespecting his memory in any way. I’d like you to draw up an announcement, and let everyone know the new name, so that we stop referring to her as LZ127 and give her her proper name.”
“Immediately, Herr Doktor. With pleasure.”
“And give some more thought to the special cargo. I think we’re going to have to make some arrangements for it, along with the silk sheets and the rest of the luxuries for our passengers.”
Chapter 26: The Willard Hotel, Washington DC, United States of America
“You could easily be arrested and imprisoned in the near future.”
Miss Henrietta Justin was tired and exhilarated at the same time. Tired, because the trip from Cordele had been a long and exhausting one, involving several changes of train, but chiefly on account of the officials, both Confederate and Yankee, who had scrutinized her papers on both sides of the border before grudgingly letting her out of one country and into the other. Travel between the two nations was extremely rare, and it was almost unheard of for elderly ladies such as Miss Justin to make the trip.
Once into the Union, however, she could relax. Life seemed, in so many ways she couldn’t quite put her finger on, to be much freer here. There were far fewer stern-faced men in uniform, for one thing and no boys in military uniform. In the South, even those boys who were not in the Army attended the Southern Cadet Corps from the age of ten, where they learned drill and basic shooting skills. There were more black faces on the streets, and though on the whole they were far from being prosperous, they didn’t have the downcast and pinched look that was almost universal on the face of the blacks, slave or free, in the Confederacy. Segregation didn’t seem to be a problem here, either. Although blacks and whites tended to sit at separate seats in the trains, this seemed to be a matter of choice, not law.
-o-
Her hotel room was large and comfortable, with a private bathroom, and best of all, someone else was paying for all this luxury. At the end of the letter from Christopher’s friend confirming her stay at the hotel had been the words:
PS Please pass this postscript and the rest of this letter, including the envelope, to your kinsman, Lewis. We send him all good wishes for his new life and work in Cordele.
Puzzled, she had complied with the request.
A smell of burning paper from his room about thirty minutes later strengthened her suspicions that this might well be a secret message that he had disposed of. How exciting! she had thought to herself. When he returned, he was smiling.
“A message from my uncle’s friend,” he had explained. She had a pretty good idea by now, she reckoned, of the identity of this uncle, but she had said nothing.
When he had first arrived to stay at her house, he had gone out most evenings, “to make some good friends in my new hometown,” he had explained, but that had abruptly ceased with the visit of his English friend bearing the wedding invitation. Following the letter, though, he had started going out again, that very evening, and every evening since then until she left for Washington.
He seemed to be universally liked in the city. When she went to the store, the other ladies referred to him as a “real gentleman”; an accolade not lightly bestowed by them upon newcomers to Cordele. She did, however, remark to herself that they had only started to refer to him in that way after she had persuaded him to dispense with the rather greasy ponytail, and get himself a proper haircut at Lester’s. His hair still seemed a little long to her eyes, and the strange little beard remained, though a little neater and tidier following his visit to Lester’s.
She had noticed that even the CBI agents tipped their hats to him as he walked in and out of her gate, but it didn’t stop them, she noticed with wry amusement, from having another agent follow him out and home again about half the time. If he was aware of being followed, he gave no sign, and he appeared content with his life at her house.
As for her, she was happy to have him there. Quite apart from the pleasure of having someone to talk to (and Miss Justin dearly loved her conversation, which had languished recently, thanks to the presence of her “protectors” at the gate), he was making himself useful. He got on well with Horace and Betsy, and he and Horace were often to be found out in the yard working together on some plan that would have been impossible for either one of them alone. One such project was the porch swing, which had broken shortly after Christopher had left, but was now restored to its former comfort, thanks to Lewis and Horace.
-o-
Now, as she sat in one of the Willard’s best rooms, she glanced at herself in the mirror and straightened the collar of her best dress. She shivered a little with anticipated excitement.
A tap on the door. She rose from the armchair and called “Come in.” The door opened, and in walked … Christopher!
He was dressed immaculately, in a suit that must have cost … she didn’t even like to guess the cost of a suit like that, and he was smiling from ear to ear.
“Miss Justin!” he exclaimed. “I am so pleased to see you.” A tear stole from each eye down his cheeks. “I can’t say how much I’ve—” and he rushed towards her to take her hand.
“Christopher!” She found that she, too, was crying. “I am so happy to see you so well and so successful.” She wrung his hand, and without thinking, suddenly threw her arms around him and hugged him. “Oh dear,” she exclaimed. “I am sorry, Christopher. What will your young lady say?”
“She won’t say anything,” answered Virginia, stepping from behind Christopher. “Miss Justin? I am Virginia Wasserstein, and I am delighted to be meeting you. Christopher has told me so much about you, and I am so very grateful to you for everything you have done for him in the past.”
“My dear!” exclaimed Miss Jus
tin. “I am so happy to see you. Mr. Dowling here,” looking at Henry, who stood slightly embarrassed in the doorway, “told me you were beautiful,” Henry blushed on cue, “but he never told me the half of it.” The two women kissed each other’s cheeks.
“Why don’t we all sit down,” exclaimed Miss Justin, hardly attempting to cover her excitement, “and I’ll call down for some tea or something. Tea for everyone? Mr. Dowling, you’re English, you’ll have tea, won’t you?” Her small talk rattled on until the tea arrived, telling Christopher about what had happened to her since his departure, and passing on news and congratulations from Betsy and Horace. Christopher did his best to explain exactly what had happened to him since he had left Cordele, but he wasn’t sure if Miss Justin was even listening. Somehow, the subject turned to music.
“I’m not a professional, Miss Justin,” remarked Henry Dowling, stirring his second cup of tea, “but I’ve heard Christopher’s playing, and he really is a remarkable performer. Don’t be modest, Christopher. I thought I’d stopped all this false modesty business some time ago. You really are very good. How much did you teach him, Miss Justin?”