“Will not that be a little dull for such a pilot as you?”
“No,” replied Reading. “There will be much for me to see which I have not seen before. I have not been abroad since the war, and passenger flying on scheduled airways has, as you know, only been developed since the armistice.”
For the remainder of the voyage Reading met Perez casually once a day or so, usually in the smoking room or on the promenade deck. The latter’s companions seemed to be casual acquaintances met on shipboard.
He enjoyed himself with the air of a man in easy circumstances going abroad for the summer pleasures of Europe. He talked readily of previous visits to European cities, but did not mention having been in Moscow.
Reading spent a day in London, mostly under the wing of the American Air Attaché, Colonel Barry Scott, and established contact with the ambassador, with whom he briefly discussed his mission.
“Probably it will be best,” said the ambassador, “if you are not seen too much at the embassies over here before you go to Moscow. An industrious branch of the Soviet political police operates in the European capitals.
“Because you are well known as an aviator it will do no harm, I suppose, to be seen about with the air attachés; you are naturally interested in aviation over here; but, so far as possible, you will, of course, let it appear that this is the sole reason for your contact with the embassies.
“When you return from Russia we shall try to make proper amends for our present necessary lack of hospitality.”
“I understand, Mr. Ambassador; thank you,” replied Reading as he rose to go.
Not altogether to his surprise he found himself a fellow passenger with Manuel Perez in an Imperial Airways plane in a pleasant Channel crossing to Paris. They parted at Le Bourget Airdrome.
“Perhaps we shall meet again in Paris,” said Perez. “I expect to remain some little time before going on to the Mediterranean.”
“I’m sorry, but I expect to fly on to Berlin by way of Amsterdam. I am specially interested in having a look at the Lufthansa organization, which seems to be spreading faster than any other airways development in Europe.”
“Ah, that will be interesting, I am sure,” agreed Perez politely. “I, too, intend to travel by airplane as much as possible this summer. Perhaps we shall meet again at one of the airdromes.”
“I trust so,” responded Reading.
He called briefly at the Embassy, where Major Henry Harrison, the Air Attaché, promised to inform him, through the embassy at Berlin, as to Perez’s movements. He took off the next morning for Berlin.
On the way to Amsterdam he flew over country in northeastern France and Belgium which brought back, to him memories of flying that had not been accomplished in limousine cabin planes. It was near Amiens that he had bagged his fifth German and his aceship.
The windmill country of Holland, with its dikes and canals, charmed him as a traveler, but not as an aviator. The riparious terrain offered few emergency landing fields.
At the Schiphol Airdrome near Amsterdam he changed to a Lufthansa plane for Berlin. It took off on schedule thirty minutes after the arrival of the ship from Paris. The pilot was a veteran of the German air force. For all Reading knew, he was now confidently trusting his life to a man who had earnestly tried to kill him a few years since.
The plane sailed over the picturesque Zuider Zee coastland and headed for the German border. Not far to the south of their course was Doom, where the pilot’s former boss was comfortably interned on a delightful estate that had belonged to a Dutch country gentleman.
Then over the German frontier and across the quietly flowing Ems River to Hanover, from which, after a brief stop for fuel, the plane took the air for Berlin. Soon Potsdam, and then the pleasant suburbs of Berlin. Reading reflected that since luncheon, and before dinner, he had traveled a path that had marked an epoch in history.
When he sailed from France after the Armistice he had thought — at least hoped — that he was through with international difficulties. Now he found himself mixed up in another, and in peace time. An unpredictable world!
He remembered that as an eager young cadet in wartime he had hoped to fly to Berlin ahead of a victorious army. Now he was flying into the German capital — with a former enemy pilot at the controls.
The plane half circled the big Tempelhofer Airdrome — the Tempelhofer Feld of imperial maneuvers — and glided down to a gentle landing before the Lufthansa hangars and waiting room.
A neat little lad in a dapper gray uniform took his bag to the waiting room, where customs officers only casually inspected his baggage.
His passport was examined and visaed, he signed the register of air passengers, and was ready to enter the service bus bound for Unter den Linden when his right arm and hand were grasped.
“Captain Reading, aren’t you? My name’s Patterson, air attaché at the embassy here. Harrison at Paris wired me you would be in on this bus.
“You must have had a good tail wind; your ship is twenty minutes early, and so I am a few minutes late. I welcome you.”
“Thanks, major. Good of you to come.”
“I’ve reserved a room for you at the Adlon, and we’ll drive there now, if you like. You’re to have dinner with me there, unless you’ve made another engagement.”
“No; I’ll be glad to accept.”
Major Patterson turned toward a stocky spectacled man in mufti who bowed slightly and smiled as he approached. The attaché greeted him.
“Good afternoon, Herr Direktor. Let me present Captain Reading, who has come from America on leave to observe the operation of your excellent airways. Captain Reading, this is Herr Mueller, a director of Lufthansa.”
After an exchange of compliments, during which Reading found the airways official spoke a more meticulous English than his own, an invitation to inspect the airdrome and the maintenance plant at Staaken was accepted for the following afternoon.
“During the war our friend Mueller was superintendent of one of the Fokker factories here that kept us so busy in France,” remarked Patterson as they drove away from the field. “Your pilot got five or six of us in northern France. Charming fellows to get along with now, though. Their planes and their beer and Rhine wine will be at your disposal while you’re here.”
Patterson swung his Lancia to the right, through the Brandenburg Gate and along Unter den Linden to the Adlon.
“Call for you in an hour, Reading,” said the attaché, and departed, to allow his guest time to bathe and dress for dinner.
III
The following morning Reading was presented to the ambassador, who told him that, operating through Deruluft, the Königsberg-Moscow branch of Lufthansa, the embassy had found no difficulty in arranging for a Russian vise of his passport.
“A year ago it would have been different — much different,” he said. “But now that they are expecting recognition and financial credits from the United States they are anxious to please.
“The Soviet Embassy here — it is near your hotel — seems satisfied that you are over only to study commercial aviation. They will learn that you are pitching right into it here, and that will help to avert suspicion. Patterson will look after you while you are in Germany, and he will arrange your contact with our sub-rosa agent in Moscow.
“In the Soviet capital you will, of course, be entirely on your own, as we have no embassy there, and if you get into trouble, and they find out what you are there for, you will have to rely mainly on yourself.”
Reading reflected that he had frequently got into and out of tight places without diplomatic assistance, but he realized the position of the ambassador, one of whose duties, during the breach with Russia, had been to warn American travelers that they entered that country largely at their own risk — when they were permitted to enter at all.