Free Tapestry of Spies by Stephen Hunter

platitudes in answer to any query. Tell them their hair was on fire or some fellow had stuck a knife between their shoulder blades and they’d have answered the same: All is well, all is well, and praise to Allah.
    “I suppose I shall have to ask the bloody steward,” Florry said. “At least he’s European.”
    “Good heavens,” said the count, “if you consider
that
chap European, Mr. Florry, you have extremely low standards.” He made a face as if he’d just swallowed a lemon, and followed it with a quick wink.
    “Keep the pirates off Miss Lilliford, will you, count?” Florry called, leaving them.
    He set out in search of the steward, but of course the old fellow was not always that easy to find. He was a seedy but kindly chap officially charged with attending to their needs on this short voyage from Marseilles to Barcelona and, more important, charged with helping the cook. He was not the sort of man who took duty seriously, however; he spent his time affixed to a secretflask of peppermint schnapps, for he wore the odor of the liquor about him like a scarf.
    Florry climbed down through the hatchway and made his way into the oily interior of the craft. Twice, he stopped to let jabbering Arabs by. They salaamed obsequiously, but he could see the mockery in their bright eyes. He pressed on, and the temperature rose and the atmosphere seemed to thicken with moisture; it was actually steamy.
    He finally found the old man in the galley, where he sat hunched in his filthy uniform, slicing onions into a large pot and weeping copiously. As Florry approached he realized Gruenwald had really been on a toot this morning, for he smelled like a peppermint factory. He also gleamed with sweat, for the temperature in this room was even more grotesque than in the passageway. Florry mopped his face with a handkerchief, which came away transparent.
    “I say, Mr. Gruenwald. The ship is no longer moving. Do you know why?”
    “Hah?” replied old Gruenwald, scrunching up his face like a clown’s. “No can I quite hear.”
    “We’ve stopped,” Florry shouted over the clamor of the engines. “In the water. No propeller. No move. Understand?”
    “Stopped?
Wir halten, ja?”
    “Yes. It’s upsetting. Is anything wrong?”
    “Ach. Nothing is. Is nothing.
Nein
, is nothing.”
    Old Herr Gruenwald leaped out of the galley—the Arab cook cursed him to Allah as he rose, but he paid no attention—and pulled Florry out through a hatchway onto a rusty lower deck—ah, fresh blast of salt air!—where he settled into the lee of a rotting lifeboat and bade Florry collapse beside him.
    “Hah. You some schnapps want, ja, Englischman?”
    “No, I think not. Awfully nice of you though,” Florry said. Take a swig of
that?
Revolting!
    “Ach. You should relax, no? Relax. Old Gruenwald, he take care.” He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his flask, swiftly unscrewed the lid, and took a swallow. His bony old Adam’s apple flexed like a fist as it worked. He handed the flask to Florry. “Go on. Is
gut.”
    Florry looked at the thing with great reluctance but in the end didn’t want to seem an utter prig, and so took a swift gulp. It was awful. He coughed gaspingly and handed it back.
    “Good,
nein?”
    “Delicious,” Florry said.
    “We stop because the Fascists sometime bomb docks in daylight. We stop here until five, ja. Then we go in in dark. So? Is okay?”
    “Yes, I see.” Florry looked out across the flat, still water.
    “Not so long to wait, eh, Herr Florry?”
    “Not if safety’s the issue. I’d hate to think of what a bomb would do to this old tub.”
    “Boom! No more tub, ja?” The old man laughed merrily, took another swig from his flask. “The
Queen Mary, nein
, eh, Herr Florry?” he said conspiratorially, gesturing down to the paint-flecked, rust-pitted deck.
    “Nor, I trust, the
Lusitania.”
    The old man laughed.
    “I had a brother killed in the
Unterseeboots. Ja
. 1917.”
    “I’m sorry to hear