A middle-aged man sat behind a desk labeled Pan American, and concern grew on his face.
“Excuse me, sir,” Paul said. “Are you in charge?”
“I am.” Concern turned to indignation. “May I ask what this is about?”
Paul pulled his passport and ticket from his pocket. “I’m Mr. Paul Aubrey with Aubrey Automobiles. I’m an American citizen with a paid ticket on today’s flight. I apologize for my appearance, but I had to sneak past the two German Abwehr agents outside your door trying to abduct me—tipped off by an informant in your ticket office, I might add.”
The man blanched, and he studied Paul’s ticket, passport, and face. “I—I see, sir. All is in order. However, I’m afraid I can’t allow you to board.”
Paul glared at him. “I beg your pardon.”
The man’s upper lip curled. “We have a dress code, sir.”
Holding a lid on his annoyance, Paul tipped his ratty cap. “Fifteen minutes in your restroom, and I’ll meet your code.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he said with a wrinkle of his nose.
“Thank you, sir.” Paul crossed the waiting room. No sign of the Abwehr, only startled passengers.
In the restroom Paul checked the stall. Then he shaved off his beard, shed the worker’s clothes, and stuffed them in the trash can. The cap, though, he put in his suitcase as a reminder.
Back in his gray flannel suit, he left the restroom.
The man from the desk stood by the door, and Paul gave him a bow. “Do I pass?”
“Ye—yes, sir. Yes, Mr. Aubrey, sir. I—I’ll check you in myself.”
In a few minutes, men in crisp blue uniforms and white peaked caps ushered the passengers out the back door.
Paul inserted himself between two men close to his age and build, in case the Abwehr was watching, aiming.
A narrow pier extended onto the Tagus River, and the Clipper floated at the dock, a large silver plane with pontoons below and wings above.
A steward helped the passengers inside, and Paul crossed the narrow gap between dock and aircraft.
He stood in an elegant dining lounge, each table set with tablecloths and flowers.
All at once his breath spilled out. Safely on board. The disguise worked.
“May I see your ticket, sir?” A steward smiled, held out his hand for the ticket, and read it. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Aubrey. You’ll be in the compartment directly aft.”
Paul followed him through a door into a compartment filled with plush chairs—more like couches, upholstered in medium blue.
“I’ll take your suitcase, sir.”
No. Paul clenched it harder, but he had to start thinking like a free man, soon to be living in a free nation, and he relinquished it and thanked the man.
Paul lowered himself into a luxurious seat by a rectangular window overlooking the Tagus. He’d never flown, but now he’d be in the air over twenty hours, with a stopover in Bermuda.
After the passengers were seated, the stewards told them what to expect in flight, and the engines came to life overhead, roaring and blustering.
The Clipper pulled forward, bobbing in the waves, picking up speed, sending out white wings of water on both sides.
Paul clenched the armrest and held his breath as the plane rose, escaping the water, escaping Europe, escaping the Nazis.
It took great work for Paul to relax, his muscles fighting the softening. For the next twenty hours he’d be pampered with all the food he desired, with exemplary service and luxury.
The journey would be a glorious adventure if it weren’t for the weight on his heart. Soon that weight would either be removed or cemented permanently in place.
