The Empire of Night

50

“What would you have me do about the Englishman?” Colonel Ziegler asked.

I had two tasks now. Planting the bomb was one. But first I had to get Stockman out of the way. I briefly considered using Ziegler to accomplish this. But the crucial thing was to keep Berlin ignorant. Short of having the commandant arrest Stockman and prevent him from any outside communication, I had to expect Bauer would quickly become involved in any change of plans.

“I will take care of that, Colonel,” I said. “In due time. Meanwhile, you can serve the Kaiser and our country by speaking to no one about any of this. No one.”

“Of course.”

“I may even allow the Englishman to proceed for a time in ignorance of our suspicions.” I paused, leaned forward in my chair. And I added, “So we may be sure there are no matters of treason involved. Do you understand me?”

“Yes sir,” he said.

“If there are, then we must determine how far the crimes extend. Both up the chain of command and down.”

“Yes sir,” he said, his voice gone tight. It was best to let him continue to worry about his own behavior.

Which he began at once to defend by going on the offensive, good officer that he was. He said, “May I say, Colonel, that I am relieved this man will not fly with our brave crew?”

“Yes, Colonel, you may say that.”

“We choose to carry no parachutes, even though our airship has fixed launching hooks for the latest Paulus model. But each chute weighs fifteen kilos. We carry more bombs instead. And the men scorn even the temptation. If they cannot save their ship, they prefer to perish with it. But this man insisted on having a parachute.”

I thought how this was Stockman, all right. He admired my Schmiss. He wanted to fight the war against England somehow. But his satisfaction was to have me shave and so to share the honor vicariously. And his fight was to sneak in and dose them with poison. Of course he’d figure out how to save his own skin.

“Just so,” I said. “He is English.” That was for Ziegler’s consumption, but in my head: Just so. This is the man my mother loves. Another professional pretender. “Tell me, Colonel, what arrangement did you make with him last night? For his flight.”

“We are ready each day,” Ziegler said. “We await our final weather information. This comes to us by telegraph at about three o’clock each afternoon. If the weather seems favorable, I will contact him at his hotel.”

Even as I improvised along now, new challenges were presenting themselves. The weather. As far as I knew, the weather today looked good for the mission. But I had no idea what it was in England, which was the crucial question. And the weather could quickly change, could stop the mission. If I eliminated Stockman and then the flight was suddenly canceled, his fate would quickly come to light — surely before the next opportunity for the mission to fly — and my only chance to expose the poison gas strategy in a bad light to Berlin would be lost.

Ziegler said, “We must be in the air by five to arrive in London at the target hour.”

Another problem. Whenever I’d visualized planting the bomb on the Zeppelin, my mind had seen it as nighttime. But of course it couldn’t be night. The flight to London was upward of five hours. I had to do my work in broad daylight.

Ziegler and I sat for a moment, fretting in parallel, showing none of it to each other.

“Will you load the bombs at three?” I said.

“Yes.”

“But I presume the mission could be canceled in those last two hours.”

“Yes sir. If the weather changes abruptly. We’d be advised of that.”

So much could go wrong in all of this already. I didn’t want to be forced to destroy the Zeppelin on the ground. I didn’t know how far the phosgene would reach or how quickly from the larger explosion. Far enough and quick enough to be nasty. Far enough and quick enough, perhaps, to be inescapable. But if I’d already eliminated Albert and the weather changed and the Zepp didn’t fly, I would have no choice.

First things first.

I had to be sure of access to him.

“Are you picking him up when it’s time?” I asked.

“I am to telephone him. He wished to make his own way here.”

I thought: He’s bringing her to see him off.

I set that thought aside.

“You will telephone me first at the Boar’s Head Inn,” I said.

“Of course.”

“There is no instrument in my room,” I said. “You will make sure the innkeeper finds me. Leave no message. You must hear my voice.”

“Yes sir.” Colonel Ziegler punched each word.

I sat back in my chair.

I fixed my gaze firmly on him. I let him work all this over in his mind for a few moments under my steady scrutiny.

Then I said, “Perhaps it’s not too early, Colonel.”

His face muddled up. The gears ground in his head.

I gave him a faint smile. “To have that drink.”

He fairly leapt from his chair. “Sergeant Götz,” he boomed, happy to be back in command.

The door banged open behind me. “Sir!”

“Schnapps,” the colonel said.

And so the colonel and I drank together for a time.

He grew intensely nostalgic and even sentimental about the military action he’d seen, regretting having missed, because of his age, most of the wars of unification; cherishing the bit he had finally experienced as a freshly minted, nineteen-year-old lieutenant at the Siege of Paris; doing his most ardent fighting later on, in the African colonies. I listened quietly and he talked volubly and when I felt we’d secured our bond of uniform and rank and shared secret mission, I asked to see a little of the base.

He was eager to comply.

We stepped out of the administrative building.

“Our airship is only lately delivered,” Ziegler said. “The LZ 78. Modeled after the navy’s newest.”

And he led me first through a door in the freight-train-long row of contiguous lean-tos at the base of the near wall of the hangar — where maintenance supplies were kept and the ordnance and flying supplies were staged for the missions — and then through a sliding door into the hangar and into the presence of the Zeppelin itself, its long bullet-body darkly glowing from the massive bank of yellow-tinted windows in the ceiling.

The size of the airship staggered me even more than the hangar it sat in, as on the morning in New York a few months ago I was staggered by the Lusitania as I stood at the foot of its gangplank. These things were not simply vast, fixed objects. These things took you inside them and then raced upon the face of the sea or through the sky. This thing now before me, colossal as it was, actually flew. It was as if the Great Pyramid of Giza could suddenly lift up from the earth and soar away.

It seemed invulnerable, this Zeppelin. Even noble, somehow, intrinsically so. Apart from the terrible intentions its owners had for it, the airship itself seemed innocent. I was sad for what I had to do. And terrified that I might not be able to do it. I was tiny in the world of this thing. The bag on my shoulder — more importantly, the single device I intended to carry in it — was tinier still.

The air smelled of hydrogen. Even here. Even with the Zeppelin at rest. It was filled full already, its twilight-gray skin stretched taut with two million cubic feet of gas, anticipating this night. LZ 78 was ready to fly. And I had to find a way to destroy it at the very last moment.