Von und zu Aschenburg made an It’s unnecessary gesture.
“We expected you yesterday,” Cranz said. “Something went wrong?”
“Headwinds,” von und zu Aschenburg said.
“Pardon me?”
“When we shot our position just before the fuel gauges indicated half remaining, we weren’t nearly as far across the Atlantic as we should have been. I turned back. And tried again last night.”
“Would you explain what you just said? ‘Shot our position’? What does that mean?”
“Did you ever notice, on the Condor, that there is a sort of plastic bubble on the fuselage? Just over the rear of the flight deck?”
“No,” Cranz said with a chuckle. “I confess I haven’t.”
“Are you really interested in all this, Herr Cranz? Any of it?”
“Fascinated.”
“Okay. In exactly the same way as the master of a ship shoots the stars with a sextant . . .”
The door opened again. This time it was Fräulein Ingeborg Hässell, von Lutzenberger’s secretary.
“The ambassador would like to see you, Herr Cranz.”
Cranz smiled at von und zu Aschenburg.
“Well, we’ll have to get back to this. And soon. I’m really fascinated.”
“Any time.”
Cranz walked quickly out of the room. He did not close the door behind him.
Von und zu Aschenburg got to his feet and closed the door.
“What the hell was that all about?” he asked.
Von Wachtstein shrugged.
“I have no idea, but whenever Cranz smiles at me the hair on the back of my neck stands up.”
“If you can rely on that, Hansel, you just might live through this war.”
“I wonder what the chances of that really are?” von Wachtstein asked seriously.
Von und zu Aschenburg met his eyes, then shrugged, holding up his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
“Changing the subject, I really would like to have a look at that airplane.”
“That might just be possible,” von Wachtstein said. “I think I know how that can be arranged. It’ll cost you, though.”
Von und zu Aschenb
urg asked, with his eyebrows, what he meant.
“I’m not sure you’re up to it,” von Wachtstein said. “You’re probably very tired from flying that far.”
“Come on, Hansel!”