him and nodded.
“Where are you going?” He had a pistol in a black holster on his hip.
“Montreux,” Harry said. “To visit my grandmother.”
The Nazi glanced at the empty luggage rack. “What is your name?”
“Volker Spengler.” That was the name on his ID, the name his father had chosen for some reason. Probably because it sounded so German.
The Nazi said, “How old are you, Volker Spengler?”
“Fourteen,” Harry said, trying to stay calm.
The Nazi sat down next to him, and Harry felt his pulse take off. He leaned back against the window, trying to move away from the man, give himself a little room.
“Are you all right? You seem nervous.”
“I’m fine,” Harry said, heart pounding.
The Nazi said, “What do you have to be nervous about?”
“Nothing.” He could feel his palms sweat and rubbed them on his pant legs.
The Nazi was staring at the sleeves of his coat covering half of his hands.
“This is yours? It looks too big for you.”
“My cousin grew out of it and gave it to me.”
“Let me see your papers.”
Harry took the ID out of his shirt pocket and handed it to him. The Nazi opened it, looked at the photograph and back at Harry.
“Where are your parents?”
“My father was in the Heer, killed in action. The battle of Kutno.” Harry remembered his father talking about it at dinner one night. “My mother works at Dachau, secretary to the commandant.”
“What is his name?”
“Herr Weiss.”
The Nazi nodded and got up, keeping his eyes on Harry. Handed him his ID and went down the aisle.
Detroit, Michigan. 1971.
“He’s a voting member of the Christian Social Union of Bavaria,” Bob Stark said. “The CSU operates in alliance with the Social Democratic Party. Each maintains its own structure, but they form a common caucus in the Bundestag, the German parliament.”
“What the hell’re you talking about?” Harry said.
“Ernst Hess is politically well connected. I’m not saying he’s going to, but some day he could run for chancellor of Germany.”
They were in Stark’s office on the fortieth floor of the Penobscot Building. Stark was a friend, an international attorney, tenacious, self-made, put himself through law school working a fulltime job. Spoke fluent French and Italian, and passable German. The smoke from his cigarette drifted up toward the ceiling. Stark picked a piece of paper up from his desktop and started reading.
“The German government has a democratic constitution that emphasizes the protection of individual liberty, and division of powers in a federal structure.”
Stark looked over the top of the page, met his gaze.
“Protection of individual liberty, huh?” Harry said. “That’s not how I remember it.”
“They’ve changed,” Stark said with a grin.
“Seven hundred and fifty years of anti-Semitism and now they’re tolerant. What do you think was the big influence?”
“Got their ass kicked in World War Two.” Stark puffed on his cigarette.
“What was Hess doing in Washington?”
“Meeting with construction companies, selling the capabilities of his airships. Hess builds Zeppelins.” Stark put his cigarette out in the ashtray. “Claims he’s a distant relative of Count Ferdinand von Zeppelin, who invented the first one in 1900.”
“How do you know that?”
“I looked it up,” Stark said. “Remember the Hindenburg? Crashed and burst into flames over New Jersey in 1937. It was the largest flying machine of its kind ever built. Eight hundred and eight feet long. Almost three football fields.” He paused, straightening the knot of his red paisley tie. “Hess is trying to revive the concept. He’s developed an experimental line of airships that are smaller, lighter, faster and more practical. We’re not talking about the Goodyear blimp. Hess’ airships have an internal skeleton, built to carry more weight. Perfect for transporting heavy equipment and supplies to inaccessible areas: ski resorts, coastal
“Where are you going?” He had a pistol in a black holster on his hip.
“Montreux,” Harry said. “To visit my grandmother.”
The Nazi glanced at the empty luggage rack. “What is your name?”
“Volker Spengler.” That was the name on his ID, the name his father had chosen for some reason. Probably because it sounded so German.
The Nazi said, “How old are you, Volker Spengler?”
“Fourteen,” Harry said, trying to stay calm.
The Nazi sat down next to him, and Harry felt his pulse take off. He leaned back against the window, trying to move away from the man, give himself a little room.
“Are you all right? You seem nervous.”
“I’m fine,” Harry said, heart pounding.
The Nazi said, “What do you have to be nervous about?”
“Nothing.” He could feel his palms sweat and rubbed them on his pant legs.
The Nazi was staring at the sleeves of his coat covering half of his hands.
“This is yours? It looks too big for you.”
“My cousin grew out of it and gave it to me.”
“Let me see your papers.”
Harry took the ID out of his shirt pocket and handed it to him. The Nazi opened it, looked at the photograph and back at Harry.
“Where are your parents?”
“My father was in the Heer, killed in action. The battle of Kutno.” Harry remembered his father talking about it at dinner one night. “My mother works at Dachau, secretary to the commandant.”
“What is his name?”
“Herr Weiss.”
The Nazi nodded and got up, keeping his eyes on Harry. Handed him his ID and went down the aisle.
Detroit, Michigan. 1971.
“He’s a voting member of the Christian Social Union of Bavaria,” Bob Stark said. “The CSU operates in alliance with the Social Democratic Party. Each maintains its own structure, but they form a common caucus in the Bundestag, the German parliament.”
“What the hell’re you talking about?” Harry said.
“Ernst Hess is politically well connected. I’m not saying he’s going to, but some day he could run for chancellor of Germany.”
They were in Stark’s office on the fortieth floor of the Penobscot Building. Stark was a friend, an international attorney, tenacious, self-made, put himself through law school working a fulltime job. Spoke fluent French and Italian, and passable German. The smoke from his cigarette drifted up toward the ceiling. Stark picked a piece of paper up from his desktop and started reading.
“The German government has a democratic constitution that emphasizes the protection of individual liberty, and division of powers in a federal structure.”
Stark looked over the top of the page, met his gaze.
“Protection of individual liberty, huh?” Harry said. “That’s not how I remember it.”
“They’ve changed,” Stark said with a grin.
“Seven hundred and fifty years of anti-Semitism and now they’re tolerant. What do you think was the big influence?”
“Got their ass kicked in World War Two.” Stark puffed on his cigarette.
“What was Hess doing in Washington?”
“Meeting with construction companies, selling the capabilities of his airships. Hess builds Zeppelins.” Stark put his cigarette out in the ashtray. “Claims he’s a distant relative of Count Ferdinand von Zeppelin, who invented the first one in 1900.”
“How do you know that?”
“I looked it up,” Stark said. “Remember the Hindenburg? Crashed and burst into flames over New Jersey in 1937. It was the largest flying machine of its kind ever built. Eight hundred and eight feet long. Almost three football fields.” He paused, straightening the knot of his red paisley tie. “Hess is trying to revive the concept. He’s developed an experimental line of airships that are smaller, lighter, faster and more practical. We’re not talking about the Goodyear blimp. Hess’ airships have an internal skeleton, built to carry more weight. Perfect for transporting heavy equipment and supplies to inaccessible areas: ski resorts, coastal
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