boat” made Rotwang’s heart sink. When Rotwang outlined the New York mission to Lohman, they had agreed to a support team of three men: Eichel, the first mate of
Haifisch squad; Kurt, the young cadet; and, finally, his mole. Sticking Hagen on him at the last second stated the obvious, but still unfortunate, fact: Lohman didn’t trust him.
Rotwang hid his disappointment by turning quickly and climbing the ladder. The ocean rolled and splashed the side of the
Dunkelstar
, spattering the bottom of his fashionable slacks. Hagen
reached up a hand to steady Rotwang by his elbow, then guided him down to the motorboat’s deck. Funny. Not so long ago, Hagen’s hand had bloodied his face. Now it assisted him like he
was a dear old relative. In spite of Rotwang’s resentment, he was glad for the help.
“I’m glad to see you coming along for this mission, Commander.”
“I’m sure you are,” said Hagen, with very little sarcasm.
“No hard feelings,” Rotwang continued, lifting his bruised chin toward the taller man. “I know what it is to be under orders. I do not fault you. Neither can I demand your
respect, but I hope you will agree to this: to stand with me as a fellow soldier on this mission, and to see it through.”
For a second, Rotwang thought Hagen might laugh at him, but he only nodded and took a seat on the edge of the cockpit.
As their boat pulled away from the
Dunkelstar
, Rotwang sought out the pilot, his man inside Plus Ultra. He was a short man with a waxed black mustache and youthful good looks. His own
clothes were even more elegant than theirs, and he wore them with an easy confidence that Rotwang envied. The gold chain of a pocket watch swayed out as the man offered his hand.
“Doctor Rotwang,” he said with warm American English.
“Mr. Duquesne. A pleasure to finally meet you in person.” Their handshake turned into another grip for support as Fritz Duquesne gunned the throttle and the motorboat jumped through
the swell toward Manhattan.
“Have a seat there,” said Duquesne, indicating the bench to his right. Rotwang leaned toward it and the seat came up to meet him as the boat’s hull met the peak of another
swell. A fine spray covered everything now. “So where are we headed today?”
The question took Rotwang by surprise. For a moment, he wondered if Duquesne hadn’t received their communication on the mission details, but then he saw the smirk on the American’s
face. He was a jester, playing tour guide to the new arrivals. Rotwang answered in kind. “The Empire State Building, please.”
“Yes, sir!”
They pulled into an unused freight dock on the edge of Hell’s Kitchen. Rotwang hated New York City. No: resented. So much filth. So much decay. So many stupid, stupid people. During his
early years with Plus Ultra, Rotwang had been part of a committee tasked with brainstorming urban renewal projects for major American cities, using the group’s forward-thinking innovations in
the areas of architecture, alternative energy, and sustainability to give metropolises like New York a viable utopian makeover. They submitted their plans through proxies to local governments, and
they were spurned.
Too ambitious
, they were told.
Too expensive
, they all said. Some on the committee became so disillusioned they quit. Their resignation bothered Rotwang as much as
the rejection, and it proved to Rotwang that the world was not only beyond saving, it didn’t want to be saved. New York may have been a hell of a town to some. For Rotwang, it was just the
noisiest, biggest corner of the hell he yearned to escape.
Fritz led them up the gangplank to a black car with suicide doors, and Rotwang got in next to Hagen. A young woman in a smart red dress sat cross-legged on the car’s opposite bench,
smoking. The clear air had been so good for fifteen minutes.
Duquesne climbed in and sat opposite Rotwang, next to the woman, and the car pulled away. The American pulled on one side of
Haifisch squad; Kurt, the young cadet; and, finally, his mole. Sticking Hagen on him at the last second stated the obvious, but still unfortunate, fact: Lohman didn’t trust him.
Rotwang hid his disappointment by turning quickly and climbing the ladder. The ocean rolled and splashed the side of the
Dunkelstar
, spattering the bottom of his fashionable slacks. Hagen
reached up a hand to steady Rotwang by his elbow, then guided him down to the motorboat’s deck. Funny. Not so long ago, Hagen’s hand had bloodied his face. Now it assisted him like he
was a dear old relative. In spite of Rotwang’s resentment, he was glad for the help.
“I’m glad to see you coming along for this mission, Commander.”
“I’m sure you are,” said Hagen, with very little sarcasm.
“No hard feelings,” Rotwang continued, lifting his bruised chin toward the taller man. “I know what it is to be under orders. I do not fault you. Neither can I demand your
respect, but I hope you will agree to this: to stand with me as a fellow soldier on this mission, and to see it through.”
For a second, Rotwang thought Hagen might laugh at him, but he only nodded and took a seat on the edge of the cockpit.
As their boat pulled away from the
Dunkelstar
, Rotwang sought out the pilot, his man inside Plus Ultra. He was a short man with a waxed black mustache and youthful good looks. His own
clothes were even more elegant than theirs, and he wore them with an easy confidence that Rotwang envied. The gold chain of a pocket watch swayed out as the man offered his hand.
“Doctor Rotwang,” he said with warm American English.
“Mr. Duquesne. A pleasure to finally meet you in person.” Their handshake turned into another grip for support as Fritz Duquesne gunned the throttle and the motorboat jumped through
the swell toward Manhattan.
“Have a seat there,” said Duquesne, indicating the bench to his right. Rotwang leaned toward it and the seat came up to meet him as the boat’s hull met the peak of another
swell. A fine spray covered everything now. “So where are we headed today?”
The question took Rotwang by surprise. For a moment, he wondered if Duquesne hadn’t received their communication on the mission details, but then he saw the smirk on the American’s
face. He was a jester, playing tour guide to the new arrivals. Rotwang answered in kind. “The Empire State Building, please.”
“Yes, sir!”
They pulled into an unused freight dock on the edge of Hell’s Kitchen. Rotwang hated New York City. No: resented. So much filth. So much decay. So many stupid, stupid people. During his
early years with Plus Ultra, Rotwang had been part of a committee tasked with brainstorming urban renewal projects for major American cities, using the group’s forward-thinking innovations in
the areas of architecture, alternative energy, and sustainability to give metropolises like New York a viable utopian makeover. They submitted their plans through proxies to local governments, and
they were spurned.
Too ambitious
, they were told.
Too expensive
, they all said. Some on the committee became so disillusioned they quit. Their resignation bothered Rotwang as much as
the rejection, and it proved to Rotwang that the world was not only beyond saving, it didn’t want to be saved. New York may have been a hell of a town to some. For Rotwang, it was just the
noisiest, biggest corner of the hell he yearned to escape.
Fritz led them up the gangplank to a black car with suicide doors, and Rotwang got in next to Hagen. A young woman in a smart red dress sat cross-legged on the car’s opposite bench,
smoking. The clear air had been so good for fifteen minutes.
Duquesne climbed in and sat opposite Rotwang, next to the woman, and the car pulled away. The American pulled on one side of
Similar Books
