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double bass. The orchestra, however, had moved on to a medley from Der Rosenkavalier. It seemed to be working its way through all the Führer’s favourites. Nothing with any Negroid syncopation, which pretty much ruled out anything that might set your feet tapping. Perhaps they saved the Wagner for cocktail hour.
    As he passed the reception desk Denham saw that he’d caught the eye of a young man sitting with a group of four others in the corner of the lobby, and was immediately on his guard. He walked into the deserted bar, sat at a tall stool in front of the barman, and glanced in the mirror behind the crystal and bottles. Sure enough, the man followed him in, accompanied by the others, and they all sat at a table nearby.
    Were they watching him?
    He ordered a large whisky. The young man glanced again at Denham, but the others, deep in some boisterous discussion, didn’t seem to be looking. Nothing unusual if the local police were keeping a tab on him, he supposed. Especially after he’d come so spectacularly to the attention of the area Brownshirt division on his arrival. He lit an HB and watched the reflected smoke coil into the air. Couldn’t a man have a quiet drink without being spied on?
    Before he could even sip his whisky, the young man was standing next to him at the bar, waiting to order. He turned to Denham with a broad smile.
    ‘You’re American?’
    First Greiser, now this. Why hadn’t he stayed in his room?
    ‘English, actually.’
    ‘Wonderful. I love your Cary Grant.’
    The remark was more unexpected for being spoken in English.
    ‘So what do you like about Friedrichshafen?’ the man said, still smiling. ‘The friendly locals?’ This he said with a slight tip of his head towards the barman, who was polishing a glass and eyeing them both with suspicion.
    It was hearing the actor’s name pronounced with a German accent that made Denham smile, despite himself. ‘I’m here as a guest of the Zeppelin Company.’
    The man’s eyes widened. ‘That’s why we’re here,’ he said, ‘for the Hindenburg , I mean. We’re the movie crew filming the opening ceremony of the Olympiad on Saturday. We were just arguing about how to set up the shot as we fly over.’
    Denham turned to look properly at him. He was quite young, perhaps about twenty-seven, slender, good-looking, and dark for a German, with glossy black hair sleeked stiffly back. His features were delicate, Italian almost, with a straight nose and long eyelashes. He had on a white sports sweater over an open-necked shirt, like a tennis player.
    ‘Friedrich Christian,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘But everyone calls me Friedl.’
    Denham introduced himself. ‘You’re a cameraman?’
    ‘I’m training to be one. I used to be an actor,’ he said with a shrug, ‘but there are not so many roles for dark-haired boys these days . . . I write poetry, too. And you? You must be a reporter. You don’t look like a tourist.’
    ‘Is it that obvious?’ Denham said with a wink and straightaway wished he hadn’t. The young man gave him an odd, private smile.
    Denham shifted on the bar stool and mentioned that he’d be on Saturday’s flight, too.
    ‘Excellent—then together we’ll descend through the clouds to Olympus, like gods.’
    ‘Where did you learn such good English?’
    ‘In Berlin. I lived with a poet from Corpus Christi College, Cambridge. He taught me. But so did Agatha Christie and John Buchan . . . and Jean Harlow, Bessie Smith, and Cab Calloway.’
    Denham felt sorry for him. He would have to hide his nature a bit better if he was to avoid a visit from the Gestapo’s queer squad. All the same, there was something not wholly trustworthy about him—in the hustlerlike way he grinned and stood a fraction too close for comfort.
    ‘Who’s starring in the film?’
    ‘It’s a documentary, called Olympia. The athletes are the stars I suppose . . . although in a way I don’t think the film is about sport at all. May