tell her this. “A house in the country with a tennis court and stables, and rhododendrons all up the drive,” he went on. He could see it in his mind, and it seemed like the safest, most comfortable place in the world. “I’d walk around the grounds in brown boots and a tweed suit, talking to the gardeners and the stable boys, and they’d all think I was a real gent. I’d have all my money in rock-solid investments and never spend half the income. I’d give garden parties in the summer, with strawberries and cream. And five daughters all as pretty as their mother.”
“Five!” she laughed. “You’d better marry someone strong!” But she became serious immediately. “It’s a lovely dream,” she said. “I hope it comes true.”
He felt very close to her, as if he could ask her anything. “What about you?” he said. “Have you got a dream?”
“I want to be in the war,” she said. “I’m going to join the A.T.S.”
It still seemed funny, to talk about women joining the army, but of course it was common now. “What would you do?”
“Drive. They need women to be dispatch riders and ambulance drivers.”
“It will be dangerous.”
“I know. I don’t care. I just want to be in the fight. This is our last chance to stop Fascism.” Her jaw was set firm and there was a reckless look in her eye, and Harry thought she was terribly brave.
He said: “You seem very determined.”
“I had a ... friend who was killed by the Fascists in Spain, and I want to finish the work he began.” She looked sad.
On impulse, Harry said: “Did you love him?”
She nodded.
He could see that she was close to tears. He touched her arm in sympathy. “Do you still love him?”
“I always will, a little bit.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “His name was Ian.”
Harry felt a lump in his throat. He wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her, and he would have done so had it not been for her red-faced father sitting on the far side of the compartment drinking whiskey and reading The Times. He had to be content with giving her hand a quick, discreet squeeze. She smiled gratefully, seeming to understand.
The steward said: “Dinner is served, Mr. Vandenpost.”
Harry was surprised that it was six o’clock already. He was sorry to break off his conversation with Margaret.
She read his mind. “We’ve got lots more time to talk,” she said. “We’re going to be together for the next twenty-four hours.”
“Right.” He smiled. He touched her hand again. “See you later,” he murmured.
He had started out befriending her in order to manipulate her, he remembered. He had ended up telling her all his secrets. She had a way of overturning his plans that was kind of worrying. Worst of all was that he liked it.
He went into the next compartment. He was a little startled to see that it had been completely transformed, from a lounge into a dining room. There were three tables each for four people, plus two smaller serving tables. It was set out like a good restaurant, with linen tablecloths and napkins, and bone china crockery, white with the blue Pan American symbol. He noticed that the walls in this area were papered with a design showing a map of the world and the same winged Pan American symbol.
The steward showed him to a seat opposite a short, thickset man in a pale gray suit that Harry rather envied. His tie was fixed with a stickpin that had a large, genuine pearl. Harry introduced himself, and the man stuck out a hand and said: “Tom Luther.” Harry saw that his cuff links matched the tiepin. Here was a man who spent money on jewelry.
Harry sat down and unfolded his napkin. Luther had an American accent with something else at the bottom of it, some European intonation. “Where are you from, Tom?” Harry said, probing.
“Providence, Rhode Island. You?”
“Philadelphia.” Harry wished to hell he knew where Philadelphia was. “But I’ve lived all over. My father was in insurance.”
Luther nodded politely, not much interested. That suited Harry. He did not want to be questioned about his background: it was too easy to slip up.
The two crew members arrived and introduced themselves. Eddie Deakin, the engineer, was a broad- shouldered, sandy-haired type with a pleasant face: Harry got the impression he would have liked to undo his tie and take off his uniform jacket. Jack Ashford, the navigator, was dark-haired and blue-chinned, a regular, precise man who looked as if he had been born in a uniform.
As soon as they sat down, Harry sensed hostility between Eddie the engineer and Luther the passenger. That was interesting.
The dinner started with shrimp cocktail. The two crew members drank Coke. Harry had a glass of hock and Tom Luther ordered a martini.
Harry was still thinking about Margaret Oxenford and the boyfriend killed in Spain. He looked out of the window, wondering how much she still felt for the boy. A year was a long time, especially at her age.
Jack Ashford followed his look and said: “We’re lucky with the weather, so far.”
Harry noticed that the sky was clear and the sun was shining on the wings. “What’s it usually like?” he said.
“Sometimes it rains all the way from Ireland to Newfoundland,” Jack said. “We get hail, snow, ice, thunder and lightning.”
Harry remembered something he had read. “Isn’t ice dangerous?”
“We plan our route to avoid freezing conditions. But in any event the plane is fitted with rubber deicing boots.”
“Boots?”
“Just rubber covers that fit over the wings and tail where they tend to ice up.”
“So what’s the forecast for the rest of the trip?”
Jack hesitated momentarily, and Harry saw that he wished he had not mentioned the weather. “There’s a storm in the Atlantic,” he said.
“Bad?”
“In the center it’s bad, but we’ll only touch the skirt of it, I expect.” He sounded only half convinced.
Tom Luther said: “What’s it like in a storm?” He was smiling, showing his teeth, but Harry saw fear in his pale blue eyes.
“It gets a little bumpy,” Jack said.
He did not elaborate, but the engineer, Eddie, spoke up. Looking directly at Tom Luther, he said: “It’s kind of like trying to ride an unbroken horse.”
Luther blanched. Jack frowned at Eddie, plainly disapproving of his tactlessness.
The next course was turtle soup. Both stewards were serving now, Nicky and Davy. Nicky was fat and Davy was small. In Harry’s estimation they were both homosexual—or “musical,” as the Noel Coward set would say. Harry liked their informal efficiency.
The engineer seemed preoccupied. Harry studied him covertly. He did not look the sulky type: he had an open, good-natured face. In an attempt to draw him out, Harry said: “Who’s flying the plane while you’re eating dinner, Eddie?”
“The assistant engineer, Mickey Finn, is doing my job,” Eddie said. He spoke pleasantly enough, although he did not smile. “We carry a crew of nine, not counting the two stewards. All except the captain work alternate four- hour shifts. Jack and I have been on duty since we took off from Southampton at two o’clock, so we stood down at six, a few minutes ago.”
“What about the captain?” Tom Luther said worriedly. “Does he take pills to stay awake?”
“He naps when he can,” Eddie said. “He’ll probably take a long break when we pass the point of no return.”
“So we’ll be flying through the sky and the captain will be asleep?” Luther said, and his voice was a little too loud.
“Sure,” said Eddie with a grin.
