‘It’s unlike you to drink at this time, John,’ she said quietly.
Alice Badrick was a gentle person, long resigned to her role as a business widow. She preferred to lead her own life, pursue her own interests and enjoy her husband’s company when he could spare the time. She made no demands on him and accepted the long separations as a matter of course.
Badrick shrugged and poured himself a shot of malt whisky.
‘I think we’ll go on vacation after we get to London, Alice,’ he said suddenly.
She stared in astonishment.
‘Vacation? But you’ve been saying it was out of the question this year — what with the merger of Brasil Airfreight with Fan Continental and the AIbatross project … ’
Badrick tossed back his whisky.
‘I reckon it’s about time I decided to take a vacation, don’t you? Here am I, fat and sixty and with one coronary down. Hell, I’ve made a pile, Alice. It’s time I started slowing down.’
Alice Badrick smiled a little. She knew her husband well. It was his way of saying that he was damned scared. She was not a stupid woman. She had heard the scuttlebutt; she knew all about the mad bomber and the threat to the Albatross. She shivered slightly. Still, if John wanted to play it this way. She smiled evenly.
‘Where do you suggest, dear?’
Badrick frowned, his mind obviously elsewhere.
‘What’s that?’
‘Where do you suggest we go for a vacation?’
‘Oh … maybe a cruise in the Med. Maybe a Greek island or something.’
Alice Badrick nodded calmly.
‘Yes, we could book from London and go straight on.’
Badrick smiled but it was clear her words had not registered.
‘I’ll just go and have a word with Harry Maclaren, dear,’ he said, setting down his empty glass.
She watched him leave the cabin with a worried sigh.
*
Danny Macmillan had seized the opportunity to go to Claire Ashton’s cabin before he went on watch.
The girl was half-lying, half-sitting on her bunk, red-eyed and ugly. On a side table stood the food which had been brought to her some hours before lay untouched. Macmillan sat down and kissed the girl gently on the forehead.
‘Come on, Claire,’ he admonished her lightly. ‘You must eat.’
She gazed at him through bloodshot eyes.
‘I feel awful, Danny,’ she muttered.
‘That’s natural,’ he replied. ‘But you’ll feel even worse if you don’t get some food down you. I’ll ask the purser to bring you something light and hot.’
Without waiting to hear her protests, he telephoned Olsen and ordered a hot snack.
‘Have you spoken with your mother?’ he asked her.
She nodded.
‘Things are pretty incoherent,’ she said. The reporters said that my father survived the crash but insisted on going back into the blazing wreckage to look for survivors. A policeman identified him.’
Macmillan pressed her hand gently.
‘Your father sounds quite a guy.’
He felt her stiffen.
‘He was … a pig!’
His eyes widened at the vehemence in her voice.
‘He never loved me, never displayed any affection towards me. He always wanted a boy — he tried to make me into a boy when I was little and hated it because I was a girl. Him with his silly discipline. I … I wanted to be close to him. I wanted to love him. He rejected me. He was a pig!’
She started sobbing again.
‘I wanted to love him, Danny. I wanted to love him!’
There was a gentle tap at the door. It was Olsen with a tray. Macmillan took it and placed it by her bed, then persuaded her to eat the food. She did so reluctantly, mouthful by mouthful, forcing each piece down. When she had finished, Macmillan glanced at his watch.
‘I’ve got to go, Claire. I’m on watch.’
The girl nodded morosely.
‘Thanks for coming by. Danny. I don’t know what I’d have done without your support.’
She lay back, pale, withdrawn and distant. He wished he could touch her. really touch her, mentally. Communicate. He sighed and smiled softly.
‘I’ll be back to see you soon.’
Macmillan bent and kissed her lightly on the forehead but she made no response.
Chapter Eleven
Art Stein glanced at his watch. He had half an hour to go before the start of his next flight deck duty and he had a sharp, needling pain in his lower jaw. He realised that he should have had the filling seen to before leaving Portland. He had just never found the time. Now he was having to live with a god-awful toothache. He swung himself from his bunk, showered, dressed and went in search of the Chief Purser, Olsen. The man was apologetic.
‘We’ve only a few aspirin in the emergency kit. Captain Stein,’ he said.
‘That isn’t going to do me any good,’ groaned Stein. ‘Surely you have something stronger on board?’
Olsen thought for a moment and then broke into a smile.
‘Yes; there’s some pain-killers in the medical store-room on level seven, abaft the food storage rooms. But I won’t be able to get them at the moment. Mr. Badrick has just called for me.’
‘Never mind,’ said Stein, ‘I’ll get them.’
Olsen reached into a cupboard.
‘Well, here’s the key … the container number is marked on the label.’
Art Stein grimaced with gratitude and made his way to Deck Level Seven. He had no trouble in finding the store-room nor locating the container. He took out a strip of pain-killers, relocked the container and store-room and made his way to the nearby washroom. He threw back a couple of pills with the aid of the drinking fountain.
As he was coming out he heard a muffled clatter and peered cautiously along the corridor. This area of Deck Level Seven was basically a stores area, containing store-rooms for the ship’s in-flight maintenance, food, ancillary items and other supplies. Theoretically, the Chief Purser was in charge of this deck area and no one other than the purser and his staff had business there.
His inquisitive instincts aroused, Art Stein walked down the corridor and found a store-room door half-open. He reached out a hand and pushed it slightly. It swung inward.
Stein was in no way prepared for what happened next.
As he made to grasp the door handle, the door flew wide open and, with an inarticulate cry, a figure leapt upon him, punching and kicking him. In the initial momentum, Art Stein was carried backwards and only by colliding against the far wall of the corridor did he manage to remain upright. Stein was fairly athletic and once he had recovered from his surprise, which was the main cause of his being bowled backwards, he was able to push the attacker away. As he did so he gaped with astonishment.
‘Nieman!’
The project’s chief electrical engineer was beetroot-red in the face. It was contorted with a fury such as Stein had never seen before. In the man’s right hand he grasped something which glittered. It was a knife.
‘Swine! Swine! Swine!’ screamed Nieman. ‘Spy! You saw me! You saw me!’
He swung the knife up but Art Stein rocked away and, almost in the same movement, kicked out at Nieman. His shoe caught the engineer’s thigh. The man screamed in agony. The knife went clattering across the corridor.
‘I’ll get you! I’ll get you all!’
Before Stein could do anything, Nieman had turned and fled up a service ladder.
Art Stein stood for a moment to catch his breath, puzzled and a little shocked. What in hell had come over Nieman? Was he crazy or something? The polite little engineer had never displayed temperament before. He had always been quiet, courteous and respectful. What in blazes had caused him to launch an unprovoked attack? Frowning, Stein moved to the door of the store-room. It was full of electrical equipment. He gazed about as if seeking an answer to Nieman’s incredible behaviour.
There was a work-bench in the corner with
a lamp hanging over it. Kurt Nieman had obviously been working at something when Art Stein had disturbed him. Curiously, the pilot walked forward and peered down at the collection of odds and ends on the bench. A box, a battery, a clock and wiring and … God! Art Stein had never seen sticks of dynamite before, but he had seen enough bad ‘B’ movies to know what they looked like. Slowly, he backed out of the store-room and peered around. His foot caught something. It was Nieman’s knife. He gazed down at it. No, it wasn’t exactly a knife. It was a chisel, a long, sharp chisel, equally as wicked and deadly as a knife. It was then the realisation hit him.
He turned to the nearest intercom and demanded Terrasino.
‘This is Stein,’ he said quietly, giving his location, ‘I’ve found your mad bomber … yeah, that’s what I said. Get up here immediately.’
In a few moments Terrasino was staring at Art Stein in amazement.
‘Nieman?’ he asked slowly.
Stein was leaning back against the store-room wall.
‘I feel lousy,’ he said. ‘You haven’t got a drink on you by any chance?’
Terrasino shook his head.
‘Are you sure it was Nieman?’
‘Sure, I’m sure,’ replied the pilot indignantly. ‘The guy’s cuckoo, out of his skull.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘He went up the service ladder to Deck Eight.’
‘Damn it, we’ve got to find him,’ muttered Terrasino.
The intercom buzzed.
‘Terrasino,’ snapped the security chief, grabbing the receiver.
It was Billy Heath.
‘I’ve a priority one signal from the FBI in Portland. I’m patching it through.’
Hayes’s voice came on the line.
‘We’ve been re-running the checks on the Hindenburg and Albatross personnel,’ he said.
‘And?’ prompted Terrasino as Hayes paused.
‘We’ve come up with something interesting. There was a rigger named Schmidt on the Hindenburg. Just before the last voyage of the airship in ’37 this guy Schmidt moved his wife and kid to the States. His kid was about eight years old. Schmidt didn’t like the way things were shaping up in Germany. He was a member of the Socialist Workers’ Party which had been proscribed in 1933. Schmidt had seen its leaders and many of his fellow members being taken off to concentration camps in the mid-thirties. He apparently felt his time was going to come. So he made plans to emigrate with his family. However, having smuggled his wife and kid out, Schmidt decided that the Hindenburg trip of ’37 was to be his last on the airship. He was right, but not in the way he planned. His wife and kid were waiting at Lakehurst when the Hindenburg began to land … and burst into flames.’
Terrasino interrupted impatiently.
‘What has this to do with Anglo-American personnel?’
‘Hold your horses, son,’ went on Hayes imperturbably. ‘Frau Schmidt remarried during the war years. Like most of the German nationals, she and her son were interned from 1941-45. In the camp she met a man and married and her son was legally adopted, changing his name from Schmidt to … ’
‘Kurt Nieman,’ interposed Terrasino.
There was a long pause at the other end of the wire.
‘How did you know?’ gasped Hayes.
‘Because Nieman has just crawled out of the woodwork. We are searching for him now.’
‘It seems you were right about Keller,’ said Hayes. ‘Keller was just playing with industrial sabotage. But Nieman … Nieman has lost his marbles. Seeing his father burnt to death when the Hindenburg went up must have affected the boy, and that is why he signs his notes with the name of the Hindenburg’s captain. The trouble is, after the war, something else happened to the kid. He became attached to his mother, of course. But he had a good relationship with his step-father who, by coincidence, was also an aeronautical engineer. Nieman Senior became involved in the experiments being conducted by the U.S. Navy Department into non-rigid airships. There was an accident. He was killed when the ship he was working on burnt up in 1949. The mother was unable to cope and committed suicide. Although we can’t be sure, reports say that she did so in front of the boy; flung herself off Brooklyn Bridge just like a bad movie story.’
‘Which places Nieman around the age of twenty at that time?’ mused Terrasino.
‘A very immature twenty with a strong attachment to his mother. He was broken up and had to spend a year in a sanatorium. That’s where we managed to track down the early records.’
‘So I was right? Nieman is a paranoiac and now he is a very dangerous one.’
‘Can you handle it?’
Terrasino grinned wryly.
‘Ain’t no one else up here to do it. I’ll be in touch.’
He put down the receiver and took his Walther PPK out of its holster, checked a cartridge clip and thrust it back.
Stein watched him with a frown.
‘Art,’ said Terrasino, ‘you better go and tell Saxon what’s happening. Tell him that I’m trying to find Nieman.’
Stein nodded.
‘He’s crazy — watch out.’
‘Yeah,’ replied Terrasino shortly as he turned to call his security team.
*
When Stein reported to Saxon on the flight deck, he was met with incredulous stares from Danny Macmillan and Billy Heath. Saxon’s face was imperturbable.
‘You’re joking? Kurt Nieman?’ Macmillan was saying.
Terrasino has gone after him. He told me to tell you, skipper,’ replied Stein.
Saxon nodded.
‘Are you fit enough to stand watch?’ he asked Stein.
‘If you can give me five minutes to wash up, I’ll be okay.’
Danny Macmillan smiled cynically as Stein left.
‘Looks like flight deck crews need extra insurance on this trip, skipper.’
Saxon didn’t reply but re-checked the auto-pilot setting before relaxing. He glanced at Macmillan.
‘Did you know Nieman well, Danny?’ he asked.
‘No, not really,’ replied the flight engineer. ‘He always kept himself to himself. We only spoke to exchange technical data. Even so … he seemed such an ineffectual person; wouldn’t say boo to a goose.’
‘Guess someone said that about Mr. Hitler once,’ observed Billy Heath.
The intercom buzzed and Saxon reached forward.
‘What?’ His tone caused Macmillan and Billy Heath to glance up. ‘Right. I’ll be with you in a moment.’
Art Stein came on to the flight deck as Saxon was putting down the intercom.
‘The con is all yours, Art,’ said Saxon, easing himself from the command chair. ‘Terrasino and his men have cornered Nieman up on Deck Level Fifteen by the gas compartments. Nieman has a gun and has already wounded one of Terrasino’s men. I’m going up there.’
Billy Heath held up a hand, thumb upwards, while Macmillan muttered a soft ‘Good luck, skipper.’
Chapter Twelve
Terrasino came crouching low along the corridor and halted beside the prone figure of one of his guards. It was Parish.
‘He’s up at the end,’ whispered Parish, ‘just behind Number Seven Tank.’
Terrasino squinted along the corridor.
In the darkness there came a blinding flash, the report of an automatic and a bullet whined dangerously close to his head. Beside him Parish grimaced.
‘Careful. He knows how to shoot. Lindsay took a slug in the arm and he’s in sickbay.’
‘Bad?’ asked Terrasino.
‘Naw. A flesh wound.’
Terrasino glanced around.
‘I want this section completely sealed off. Go tell Maclaren to keep everyone away from here.’
Parish nodded and began to slide backwards along the corridor. Another shot pinged into the fabric near his body.
Terrasino brushed his hair back from his forehead and squinted again into the darkness.
‘Kurt!’ he called softly. Then, more loudly. ‘Kurt! It’s me — Terry Terra
sino. Can you hear me?’
There was a silence before Nieman’s voice echoed hollowly along the corridor.
‘I hear you perfectly, Terrasino,’ came his precise voice.
‘Can we talk?’
‘Well?’
Terrasino sighed, trying to remember all the text-book advice he had learnt about dealing with psychopaths.
‘Come on, Kurt. This is no way to behave. People are going to get hurt.’
He knew it sounded ridiculous. After all, Nieman had already killed Alec and Jane Westbrook and Garry Carson and Jack Lane. What did he care if people were going to get hurt?
‘They brought it upon themselves. I am sorry that people have to be hurt but there is no other way.’
Terrasino tried to adopt a sorrowful father attitude.
‘But what do you hope to achieve by this, Kurt?’
‘My wishes were made plain all along, Terrasino. By ignoring them you have brought death upon yourselves. It is nothing to do with me.’
Kurt Nieman’s voice was even, conversational. Terrasino shuddered slightly.
‘You said you want us to destroy the Albatross … ’
‘Work on these terrible engines of destruction must cease.’ For the first time Nieman’s voice rose in anger. ‘It is God’s will! His hand was raised against these airships from the beginning. Man ignores God at his own peril.’
‘If you want to destroy the Albatross why do you kill people — why the Westbrooks, why Jack Lane, why Garry Carson? Surely God does not approve of destroying people?’
‘It is sad that people must die but God understands. When there is a greater good to be achieved, people do not matter. Didn’t God destroy the people of Sodom and Gomorrah for the greater good? Fire must root out evil. Those who refuse to obey the commands of God must perish.’
Terrasino bit his lip.
‘Okay, Kurt. But how do you know that God commands man not to work on airships?’
Nieman’s voice rose a fraction, almost pityingly, like a teacher trying to explain a simple problem to a particularly dumb pupil.
‘God speaks to me, Terrasino. He tells me. Did he not send all the great airships of the past crashing to a fiery doom as a sign of his displeasure? Was he not ignored? And the French ship, yesterday? Is that not his sign? Yet man does not heed him. My own father, my step-father … they did not heed the signs. Innocent people suffered. No more shall the innocent suffer. No more … ’
Airship Page 36
