"Cannonballs, for one. Archaic, heavy, monstrous pieces of artillery. Machines of war so massive and heavy they had to be abandoned. The horses and mules, for the most part, gone. Killed, eaten, or run away. But the wagons, well, the wood is likely all gone by now. Insects, sun, rain, that sort of thing. But we'll look for the iron that was placed around the wooden wheels."
"Iron wheels?"
"Right. Iron was secured around the heavy wooden wheels, and the iron was then shrunk to produce an extremely strong wheel. Most of that will be rusted, but with so many wagons abandoned in the field, well, there should be signs."
"Indy, from what you're saying, hasn't this occurred to other people?" Gale queried. "I mean, why wouldn't they have found just the things you're describing?"
"Oh, they have. But they've all been looking in the wrong places. I think, I just think," he said with a thin and enigmatic smile, "I know where we've got to do our search."
Gale mulled over his words. "What about Cordas? Does he have the same information?"
Indy shrugged. "I don't know. But I hope so. Besides, he'll be looking over his shoulder everywhere he goes, knowing that Caidin will be dogging his every step. And Cordas has an Achilles heel."
"Which is?"
"Try and think like him. If he were pursuing a group of heavily armed men, professional killers, would he do it alone? No way!" Indy laughed. "He's got to figure that Caitlin will have accomplices. Plenty of them and all spoiling for a showdown."
"And what she has," Gale said moodily, "is you and me."
"Which might be enough," Indy concluded.
19
The Graf Zeppelin cruised slowly beyond the eastern borders of New York City, over Nassau County on Long Island. Captain Eckener had planned his arrival with great skill, swinging the great dirigible southward over Long Island Sound. He had urged his passengers to move to the right side of the main lounge, where they had an extraordinary view of the great skyscrapers of New York. The morning broke with splendid clarity, a sky washed clean by an evening rain shower and light wind. The sun rose behind the left flank of the Graf to flood the world with crystalline golden light.
Of a sudden, Manhattan came ablaze with the glory of that sun splashing and reflecting brilliantly from thousands of windows. What had been a city of steel and concrete became a magic wonderland of golden light. Even the drab concrete flanks of the towering structures glowed. Then the Graf was droning along the south-shore beaches of Long Island, turning slowly to cross the huge bay area and head for its final destination of Lakehurst in New Jersey.
Lower Manhattan now passed to the right flank of the dirigible. The Hudson River stretched far out of sight to the north, and below the Graf, the port area of New York went wild with welcoming horns, whistles, all heard clearly at the Graf's height of barely a thousand feet. Fireboats in the bay sent up huge plumes of sparkling water; ocean liners boomed with their deep bass foghorns. Newsreel airplanes and curious sightseers in their private planes buzzed about the Graf like noisy but friendly little hornets, pilots and passengers waving at the faces visible in the lounge windows and control car of the German airship.
The Graf settled gently toward the long flat grounds of the naval air station. Bringing the huge mass down proved a delicate balancing affair of engines revving up and idling, water ballast being dumped when descent became too rapid. Mooring and grab lines tumbled like pencil-thin snakes from the airship; far below, men rushed to grasp the lines and pull them taut, their combined weight providing the ship with a solid balancing keel and continued slow loss of buoyancy. A heavy truck waited in position as hundreds of men walked forward, lines over their shoulders like Russian peasants hauling barges on the Volga River. Slowly and deliberately the Graf moved toward the mooring mast, then her nose was eased with precision into the locking cage. The Graf Zeppelin was down, the journey completed. A brass band played with enthusiasm, thousands of awed spectators cheered, and motorists blared their horns. It seemed like a holiday to mark the arrival of the amazing queen of the skies.
When the Graf finally emptied, there was no Japanese passenger to be seen. Instead, newsreel cameramen recorded Mr. and Mrs. Henry Parker leading a very old bearded gentleman, quite ill and supported by the Parkers, to a waiting limousine.
In the limo, a fretful and agitated Caitlin glared at Indy. "Get this bloody sheep mat off my face!"
Indy grinned. "Right away, Grandpa."
Indy leaned back in the thickly padded seat of the limousine, still chuckling at Caitlin's irritation with the scratchy false beard, thick eyebrows, and detestably long wig. She cared even less for the large dark glasses she wore, to say nothing of the thick padding about her body and the oversized trousers she'd donned only after a mixture of cajoling and growing impatience from both Indy and Gale.
"They'll be looking for a Japanese!" Indy said heatedly. "The last thing we want is for you to walk out in all your Oriental splendor, and—"
"You told us this Jaeger fellow was helping us," Caitlin protested angrily.
"Sure," Indy told her, "but I also cautioned Gale that Jaeger could be playing both sides of the fence."
"He said brook, actually," Gale quipped.
"Tell me what you mean," Caitlin insisted.
"He's being paid to do his job as a navigator for a German zeppelin. So that makes him a skilled, valuable, and likely very patriotic German," Indy answered. "But we also know that he's in league with Treadwell. But why? Is he really working faithfully for jolly old England? We don't know, which means we have no way of knowing if he'll sell out to the highest bidder. Most likely he's being paid by Treadwell's people, with the added fillip that if he rats on us—"
Caitlin raised an eyebrow. "Rats?"
"If he squeals. If he lets the Cordas people know who you really are. If he does the job for Treadwell but is also being paid by Cordas. They're not that certain it was you in that donnybrook aboard the Graf. There are still plenty of questions. So I'm not taking any chances, and that's why an old sick man, um, rather portly, too, came off the Graf with us."
"Could Cordas's people be following us?" Gale asked.
"I doubt it," Indy said. "First of all, three identical limos, all with the same license number as the one we're in, left Lakehurst at the same time. No way for anyone following to know who's in what. Second, why would he bother? We don't know what Cordas is thinking, so that's why we're going with this mystery-man routine."
"I do not know where we are going," Caitlin said finally, "but remaining here, somewhere in New York, is not what I want to be doing."
"I'm aware of that," Indy told her quickly. "It won't be for long. We're on our way to some very well-concealed quarters in the heart of Manhattan. We'll be there only a day or two."
"You seem willing to forget Cordas and what he might be doing," Caitlin said icily. "Or where he is going. I could lose track of him. I see no sense in staying here."
"We won't be losing track of him," Indy assured her. "Treadwell has been working with the American authorities from the beginning. There's full cooperation both ways. Our people—the Americans—have been sticking like glue to Cordas's tail ever since he climbed down the steps of that gasbag we rode here from Germany. And they'll stay with him."
Indy shifted in his seat. "Anytime we want to know where Cordas is, we can find out. The point is, Caitlin, you won't accomplish anything by trying to track him. First, that could take days. He could lay in a bunch of false leads that would have you going in circles. And if he does catch on to your shadowing him—"
"Do you mean my trailing him?" Caidin broke in.
"Sorry. Brutish colonial phrases and all that," Indy told her. "Yes, if he knows you're just a few steps behind him, it's a simple trick to lay in some nasty traps for you. You're in territory you don't know."
"He's right, Caitlin," Gale added. "You've never been in the United States before, have you?"
Caitlin shook her head.
"Then you'd stick out like a
sore thumb," Indy went on. "Not because you're British, but because you sound unmistakably British. You'd be on your way to where the clock acts like it stopped a hundred years ago, and you'd be like red flares on a dark night. Which only makes you extremely vulnerable."
Caitlin had never been one for long conversation. "We'll be here no more than two days?"
"Yes."
"Then we're going after Cordas?"
"Yes."
"How long is the train trip from here to this place in Florida where Cordas is going?"
"At least two days. It's a rotten ride. I don't recommend it."
"Then how—"
"We make like a bird when it's time to go, Caitlin. And that way we catch up to Cordas a lot faster than he'd ever dream possible."
For the next thirty-six hours the threesome of Indy, Gale, and Caitlin "vanished." They drove to one of Indy's favorite haunts in New York; he was both a professional associate and close friend of the curator and staff of the American Museum of Natural History, on the west side of Central Park in mid-Manhattan. The museum kept a sweeping underground chamber of private apartments and conference rooms for its guests from throughout the world. Privacy was assured in these secure chambers. Indy fired off a cable with the code name of Shiloh to Thomas Treadwell to "get things rolling."
Within an hour Indy was notified by the curator's office that several men were being brought down to their underground apartment. If they were "sent through" that quickly, it meant they were part of the combined operation of the American and British governments.
Indy almost laughed aloud when two men, carrying briefcases and large leather bags, entered their apartment. He had always wondered why undercover or secret-service agents could be spotted a half mile down any road. Dark gray suits, gleaming shoes, impeccable shirts and ties, and as clean-cut as a safety-razor. He pushed aside the unimportant judgment; what these people brought and what they had to say was what counted.
"Fred Carruthers, sir," said the first agent, extending his hand. "This is my partner, Ron Judson." The second man shook hands with Indy, who introduced the two women. Caitlin leaned back on the couch like a great cat, her eyes following every move. Indy had to force back a laugh. Caitlin was making the two federal agents uncomfortable with her air of total self-confidence, which seemed to tell other people how really insignificant they were.
Indy pushed aside these thoughts to concentrate on the serious matters at hand. He nodded to Gale and a notepad was in her hands immediately. She flipped open the cover and spoke two words. "Identification papers?"
Carruthers recognized impatience when it stared him in the face, and to his credit, he put aside whatever speeches he might have been instructed to present. He opened his briefcase and withdrew a sheaf of documents.
"You, sir," he said to Indy, "are once again Professor Henry Jones. Whoever was Henry Parker no longer exists with customs or immigration. Madam, you are once again Miss Gale Parker."
"The marriage was amusing while it lasted," she teased Indy.
Carruthers looked to Caitlin. "And you, madam, are no longer Japanese. That was an excellent performance on your part, Miss St. Brendan. I have here your British passport and whatever American documents you will need while you are in this country." He looked from one to the other. "And for the record, you all work for the American Museum of Natural History, and you are doing research for a new exhibit."
"Well done," Indy told Carruthers.
"Weapons?" Gale asked.
Judson opened one of the leather bags. Carruthers turned to the weapons Judson was placing on a table. He turned again and handed Indy a burnished, heavy revolver. "One of your specific choices, I believe. A Webley, and of four-fifty-five caliber. One hundred rounds of ammunition go with the piece, more if you desire."
Indy hefted the Webley. It was like handling an old friend. He examined the weapon closely. "This," he said, looking up at the two men, "is the finest Webley I have ever had in my hands."
"It is yours to keep," Carruthers told him. "Along with this particular document." He handed Indy a federal permit to carry the Webley. "There is a separate permit for Miss Parker and Miss St. Brendan."
"Don't stop now," Indy urged. "You're doing great."
"Thank you, sir." Another handgun appeared. "Since you had to leave this before boarding that German airship..." Carruthers said smoothly as he handed Indy a blue-barreled Schmeiser .32-caliber, flat automatic.
Judson held up two rifles with telescopic sights. "Excellent hunting rifles," he said.
Indy studied the rifles from halfway across the room. "British make, point-three-oh-three, six-power sights, I'd say from here. Magazines?"
"Excellent call, sir," Judson said. "A three-oh-three it is. You have your choice of eight rounds as standard in a magazine, as well as a special magazine that will hold twenty."
Next came a repeater pump shotgun for close-in work. Judson then displayed a half-dozen round metal balls. "Grenades," he explained.
"Indy!" This sharp exclamation came from Gale. "What in the world are we going to do with hand grenades? We're not going off to war!"
"Oh, but we are," Indy said quietly. "Besides, those aren't for killing."
Both women leaned forward, curiosity showing in every look and movement.
Judson picked up Indy's remark. "That's right, ma'am. These are flash grenades. They'll make a healthy racket, but there's no shrapnel or killing metal. The grenade jacket is very thin and it vaporizes when the charge detonates."
"Intended to temporarily blind people who are after us and have the upper hand," Indy said, as if he handled these explosive charges every day in the week. "I carried several of these in Africa. One day, when I was in the Congo doing my best not to upset the local wildlife, a leopard took an immediate dislike to my presence. He charged, and I tossed one of these little beauties at him. Covered my eyes, but the big cat didn't know about that. When the grenade went off, it blinded the animal. He got his sight back about twenty minutes later, but by that time I was gone. Besides, he was eager to go in the opposite direction."
"Do you have what we requested?" Caitlin asked.
"We certainly do, ma'am," Judson replied, opening the second leather case. "The finest, strongest hunting bows made in this country. You'll notice the arrowheads are what you asked for. Three-pronged, notched like a shark's tooth."
Caitlin and Gale were on their feet at once, testing the bows, pulling them back for the heft and feel. "Ma'am, if you don't mind my saying so," Judson said to Caitlin, "I am greatly surprised at what you're doing." Caitlin held his gaze, waiting. "I'm pretty good with the bow myself. But you brought that thing into position faster than I've ever seen anyone before."
"She's also an Annie Oakley with it," Indy offered.
"A who?" Caitlin asked.
"A famous American marksman," Indy answered.
"Thank you for the compliment," Caitlin replied.
Indy turned to the two agents. "Was there something said about a vehicle?"
Carruthers nodded. "Yes, sir," he said brightly. "It will be waiting for you on the northwest shoreline of Port Jacksonville. It's an army field truck, civilian license plates. The registration and other papers are all properly made out and waiting in the truck for you. It has a four-wheel drive that should get you through anything except swamp. It will take that pine-barren country real well."
Gale glanced again at her notebook. "Radio?"
"In the truck, ma'am. The frequency is preset to link up with our field outposts. Oh, yes, there are also emergency food rations and drinking water, extra fuel cans, first-aid kit. Just about anything we figured you might need."
"There is one more thing, please." They turned to Caitlin. "I am in need of several batteries, if you would be so kind."
Judson had a notepad in his hand. "What kind, miss?"
"I require a stand-up one-volt battery," Caitlin said. "It is an acid-type battery."
"No problem, miss. How many?" Carruthe
rs asked.
"Four, please. But let me be more specific."
"Of course."
"The batteries, for my purposes, must be no greater than three inches in diameter and nine inches tall."
"Excuse me, ma'am," Judson broke in, "but I'm pretty sure I know precisely what you want. Would those batteries have two screw terminals at the top?"
"Why, yes."
"The screw terminal at dead center is the positive, and the second one, at the edge, is a negative. I sure know them, ma'am. The outside casing is a lead-zinc combination, and the carbon rod is the center post, just about three quarters of an inch in diameter. And between the two, there's a mixture of what we call gunk. That's what becomes the acid-based electrolyte."
Everyone in the room was staring at Judson. Finally Carruthers found his voice. "How in thunder do you know all that, and how can you be so sure that this is what Miss St. Brendan needs."
"But he is right!" Caitlin exclaimed. "I am as surprised as anyone. Tell me, sir, how did you know all this?"
"Well, shucks, ma'am, there's no real mystery to it," Judson explained. "You see, my son flies radio-controlled model airplanes. Small gasoline engines. Powerful little things. And this battery you want is just what we use to start those engines, see?"
Caitlin nodded. "Quite remarkable," she said. "They are available?"
"They'll be in your hands tonight."
Indy could hardly wait to see just how Caitlin would use those batteries.
20
Caitlin held up the scepter Indy had seen only once before, at the Glen deep in the thick woods of the New Forest. The scepter that according to legend, Merlin himself had used to control powerful energies in the earth and the atmosphere. Ancient science and an affinity with nature explained for Indy many of the feats of wizardry ascribed to the ancient magician.
"As I have said before," Caitlin told him, "this scepter has been passed down through many generations of my family." She released a catch at the bottom to open a space within the scepter, and twisted free the top with a dull red ruby in its center. Indy and Gale watched Caitlin insert the battery, then twist a thick wire of pure gold to the screw terminals. She closed the top and then the bottom.
Indiana Jones and the White Witch Page 20
