On the High Road to Oblivion

Chapter 10—Catching Up

Like I didn’t have enough to worry about, Dodge thought as he read Nora’s telegram again. The note had been waiting for him when he and Anya had arrived in New York, and now, almost several hours later, he was still trying to digest it.

That was the whole of the message; no explanation, no context. Dodge’s first impulse was to fire off a request for more information, but he knew that the best course of action was to keep moving. At least he knew where Hurricane and Nora were. The same could not be said for Newcombe and Lafayette.

And so, with Anya in tow, he had gone to the seaport where the Catalina boat plane was moored, and set out across the Atlantic.

Dodge had known the flight from New York to the Azores would be a physical ordeal, but he was unprepared for the emotional toll the journey was exacting. In his relatively brief experience as a world traveler, Dodge had always been accompanied by friends — and sometimes enemies posing as friends. Now, even though Anya sat in the co-pilot’s seat, he felt completely alone.

She did not know how to fly, and even if she had, Dodge wasn’t about to trust her alone at the controls — there was no telling where they might end up — so there would be no relief from the task at hand, but there were other ways that she might have helped alleviate some of the stress. Yet, she seemed completely uninterested in conversing with him. She answered his direct questions with monosyllabic replies, and his casual attempts at conversation with nothing more than a shrug. Less than an hour after lifting off, he looked over to find her apparently napping in the co-pilot’s chair. Anya’s aloofness, though, was only a very small part of what troubled him.

Flying reminded Dodge of Molly.

Molly Rose Shannon, the adopted daughter of Captain Falcon’s one-time teammate, Father Nathan Hobbs, had taught Dodge how to fly. She had also won his heart.

Then she had broken it.

He didn’t blame her for her decision to remain in India, where she was working to help the outcastes known as ‘the untouchables.’ It had been the only way she could think of to cope with the grief of losing her father, and Dodge would not have dreamed of taking that away from her. In the weeks since, he’d managed to stop thinking about her all the time, keeping busy with writing the Captain Falcon serial and helping Dr. Newcombe get back on his feet after losing his job with the War Department. He had come up with some very effective strategies for coping with the times when he felt her absence more acutely. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much he could do now to get her out of his head.

Except perhaps worry about his other friends: Doc Newcombe, abducted, whereabouts unknown; Hurricane Hurley, arrested on an island in the middle of the Atlantic… What hornets’ nest did you poke a stick in this time, Hurricane?

Worry about my friends, or mope over a lost love? Not much of a choice. He glanced over at Anya and wished that she would say something, talk about the weather, which was mind-numbingly becalmed, or pontificate about the evils of colonialism and capitalism… anything, but she remained as still and quiet as the Sphinx.

He shook his head and checked his chronometer. Time for a navigational radio check. Just six more hours until they reached their destination.

It was late afternoon when the Catalina finally set down near Horta harbor. Dodge felt almost too tired to leave the pilot’s chair, but when he caught sight of a pair of familiar faces waiting on the dock, he shook off the fatigue and hastened to meet them.

“Hurricane!” he called. “Where are the handcuffs?”

The big man smiled broadly, sweeping Dodge into a bear hug. “Rumors of my incarceration have been greatly exaggerated.”

Nora blushed in embarrassment. “Sorry. I got a little excited when the gendarmes detained Brian.”

“So you did get arrested?”

“Not exactly.” Hurley cast a suspicious eye toward Anya as she strolled along the dock to join them, but then returned his attention to his friend. “You must be tuckered out. We’ve got a room at the hotel. I’ll tell you the story as we walk.”

Dodge wasn’t a bit surprised to learn that Hurley and Nora had been shadowed by Japanese men — spies, no doubt, working for or with Uchida.

“After that fella skedaddled, the gendarmes didn’t know what to think, so they locked me up until they could sort it out. Once I explained that we were just innocent victims of an unprovoked attack, they let me go. Unfortunately, the clipper had already flown on without us.”

“Did the police find the man that attacked you?”

“Vanished off the face of the earth. He and his friend also missed the plane, so they’ve got to be somewhere on the island.” Hurley rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You know, the way that fella fought… it was like the Padre. He knew exactly where to hit me to take me down.”

Dodge winced a little at the memory of his friend who was both a Catholic priest and master of Oriental martial arts. Father Hobbs had made the ultimate sacrifice to protect humanity from an otherworldly horror, and while Dodge honored his choice, the priest’s decision had cost Dodge two friends.

“Something else, too,” Hurley continued. “I think these Jap fellows could be almost invisible if they wanted to.”

Dodge looked around reflexively, wondering if the Japanese spies were perhaps lurking nearby, listening to everything they said. Finally, he turned back to Hurley. “I’ve got a lot to tell you, but I’m beat. We’ve got a lot more flying ahead of us, and since I’m our only pilot, I need to sleep in a bad way.”

Hurricane smiled broadly. “You mean you’re going to leave me to entertain these lovely ladies all by my lonesome? How will I ever manage?”

“I’m sure if anyone is up to the task, it’s you.” Dodge laughed along with the big man, but secretly he wondered just how well Hurley’s charms would fare against Anya’s inscrutable nature. Would he have better luck cracking her shell?

Early the next morning, the Catalina took to the skies bearing four travelers instead of two. Dodge was grateful to have Hurricane at his side once more. Not only was the big man considerably more conversational than Anya, he also provided some much needed perspective on their situation and what to do next.

Not surprisingly, Anya had been as forthcoming with Hurricane as she had with Dodge, but at least she had brought him and Nora up to speed on all that had transpired since their parting in New York. And while Dodge slept, Hurley went to work establishing their itinerary. Thanks to the advent of the telephone, he was able to make arrangements for refueling the plane, lodgings and a guide to take them to the ruins of Alamut.

The trip from New York to Horta harbor covered a distance of more than 2,200 nautical miles. The distance separating the Azores from their destination in Persia, the modern nation of Iran, was nearly twice that, so the decision was made to break the journey into two legs. The first stop, not quite halfway, was in Naples, Italy. Late the following day, the Catalina set down in Pahlavi Bay near the port city of Bandar-e Pahlavi.

As they disembarked, they were greeted by a middle-aged man wearing a black suit that perfectly matched his hair and bushy mustache. He drew close, then held his right hand over his heart and inclined his head. “Ba drood. Welcome, my friends. I am Rahman Gilani.”

Dodge mirrored the gesture and introduced himself and his companions. Rahman was the expediter recommended to Hurley by the American consulate in Tehran.

“I have made all the necessary arrangements to depart in the morning,” Rahman explained. “The journey to Qazvin will not take long, but to reach your destination — the ruins of Alamut castle — it will be difficult. It is only about sixty miles from Qazvin, but the roads through the mountains are not well maintained.”

“Then I guess we’d better get an early start,” Hurricane said.

Rahman nodded. “I will take you to your hotel.”

The Persian drove them to a hotel and joined them for dinner in order to review the details of their expedition. Over a meal of caviar, olives, sturgeon kebabs and a stew which Rahman called fesenjen, Dodge broached a subject that had been lurking in the back of his mind ever since Anya had established their destination.

“So what are we going to do once we get to Alamut?” He put the question out for general discussion, but his eyes were on Anya; she was calling the tune, and he hoped she had something more specific to offer than simply ‘go there and look around.’

The statuesque blonde met his gaze, but offered little useful information. “Barron believes there is a hidden repository somewhere in the ruins. Scrolls and other documents that were concealed from invaders long ago, and then forgotten.”

“If they’re hidden so well,” Hurricane intoned, “then we’re not likely to find them under a rock.”

Rahman inclined his head. “You are correct. I fear you will have a long and possibly fruitless task ahead of you.”

Nora, who had been preoccupied with taking notes in her journal for most of the journey, now jumped in. “Maybe I can narrow things down a bit. I’m a pretty fair researcher.”

“There are some historical documents in the library here at the hotel,” Rahman replied. “But I suspect you will find little that will be useful to you in your search.”

“Well, I’ll take a crack at it anyway,” Nora said, confidently.

“It is also possible that the villagers in Qasirkhan, which lies just below the Rock of Alamut, may have information that is not recorded in the histories. I have made contact with the village elders, requesting their assistance. Perhaps they will know something that can help you narrow your search.” The Persian then smiled from beneath his mustache. “Of course, if you should find something, it would belong to the people of Iran.”

Dodge returned an affable grin. “We’re not treasure hunters, Mr. Rahman. We’re just looking for the next stop on our world tour.”

Hurricane had been wrong about one thing. While it was true that the seats assigned to the two “Chinese businessmen” had been vacant when the Yankee Clipper left Horta, one of the pair that had shadowed Hurley and Nora from New York was aboard, concealed in a storage area below the passenger deck. When the plane set down in Lisbon, Portugal, Hiro Nakamura, the shinobi-trained kempeitai commander, slipped stealthily from his hiding place and made his way into the city, to meet with one of the Aum River Society’s underworld contacts.

Nakamura’s partner had remained in Horta, quietly observing the activities of the American pair. He noted the arrival of Dodge Dalton and the blonde woman that his superior, Ryu Uchida, had been following, and dutifully relayed this information by short-wave radio to his comrade in Lisbon. He had also spliced a portable receiver into the telephone lines and eavesdropped as Hurley made inquiries and travel plans for their group.

When the Consolidated Catalina bearing the four travelers left the next day, the Japanese agent’s mission was complete. Stranded in the middle of the Atlantic, he would have to await an opportunity to stowaway on a ship or plane, and knew full well it might be days or weeks before he would be able to rejoin his teammates.

Nakamura however, was under no such constraints. Even before the Catalina left the Azores, he had chartered a flight that would take him on to the Americans’ final destination.

Iran.

Alamut.

He would be waiting for them.

The next morning, they bundled into Rahman’s car and began the long road trip to their destination. Iran, at least what little of it Dodge saw passing by along the roadside, looked nothing at all like his expectations. The region near the Caspian Sea was lush and fertile, with forests and farmlands which gave way to magnificent mountains cut through with river valleys. As promised, the first part of the journey to the inland city of Qazvin passed quickly, but soon thereafter, they turned onto a rugged road that wended back and forth across the mountain’s flanks.

As their progress slowed, Nora shared the results of her research. “The name Alamut means ‘Eagle’s Nest.’ The fortress sits on a mountaintop at an elevation of more 6,000 feet above sea level, overlooking the river valley below. The site was first utilized over 1,500 years ago, but it really became famous when a revolutionary leader named Hasan-i Sabbah took over management in 1090 AD. Hasan was a missionary from a mystical Muslim sect known as the Nizari or Ismailis, but evidently he had bigger ambitions.

“As soon as he took over, Hasan started fortifying the castle, building storehouses and generally preparing it to withstand a long siege. He also made it a center for learning — sort of a college for these Ismailis. But what he’s really famous for is his secret army of trained killers who carried out political murders all over the Middle East. According to most accounts, his acolytes were given hashish so that they would know the joys that awaited them in paradise, should they die as martyrs. From this practice, they got the nickname ‘Hashshashin’ from which we get the word… anybody?”

“Assassin,” Dodge murmured.

“Mr. Dalton wins a prize,” she quipped. “Actually, there seems to be some dispute over whether the Ismailis really used hashish at all, but the name certainly stuck. Alamut was the headquarters of the Assassins for more than two hundred years. During the Crusades, an Assassin leader named Rashid ad-Din Sinad, also known as The Old Man of the Mountain, left Alamut to head up a group of Assassins in Syria, sometimes fighting for the Crusaders and sometimes fighting with Saladin.

“In 1221, under the leadership of Imam Ala al-Din Mohammad, there was another renaissance period in Alamut, with books and scrolls being added to the library from all over the world, but by 1255, the Mongols were on the doorstep. Mohammad was murdered and his son, Rukn al-Din, capitulated to the Mongols. He was forced to abandon Alamut, and only a few of the works from the library were preserved. The Ismailis everywhere were massacred and their teachings deemed heretical. Once the Mongols had control of Alamut, they tore it down and it’s been in ruins ever since.”

“Doesn’t sound like there’s much reason to think we’ll find anything,” Hurricane said, in his customary low rumble.

Nora grinned. “Don’t be too sure, big guy. I told you that Alamut was a center for learning and knowledge. The Assassins spent centuries preparing Alamut for a siege. You don’t think they could have excavated some secret rooms to hide their most precious treasures? And by that, I mean knowledge?”

“You said the Mongols tore it down,” countered Dodge. “If they didn’t find this hypothetical secret room, then it would be buried under the rubble. Don’t suppose you could narrow it down a little? We can’t dig up the entire mountain.”

“Scholars have never quite been sure how Alamut got its water. The fortress sits eight hundred feet above the valley, and there’s still a cistern at the western end of the ruin. I’d be willing to bet that the scientists and engineers that lived at Alamut for a hundred and fifty years found a way to get water up the hill to that cistern. I think the Rock of Alamut might be riddled through with tunnels, leading into and out of that cistern.”

“Assassins and plumbers,” Hurley remarked. “Well done, Miss Nora.”

Dodge was not as sanguine as his friend. They had traveled halfway around the world on the barest of information, to find a map that might not even exist, and their next move would be based on the slim hope that a group of men who had died eight hundred years before had taken extraordinary measures to preserve that specific document.

“Stop!”

Anya’s shout was so unexpected that Dodge instinctively braced for a crash and ducked for cover at the same time. Everyone else in the car had a similar reaction, including Rahman, who slammed on the brakes. Fortunately, the car had been creeping along at only about twenty miles an hour, and when the wheels locked tight, the car merely skidded forward a few feet before the engine stalled and died.

“What?” Dodge demanded, scanning the road ahead and to the side for any signs of danger.

The blonde woman pointed forward, to a point in the sky high above their destination. There, floating like a second moon, was a massive shape that Dodge recognized immediately even though he had never actually laid eyes on it: Walter Barron’s airship, the Majestic.

Anya’s words echoed Dodge’s own sinking realization. “We’re too late.”

The atmosphere aboard Majestic seemed almost festive as their destination hove into view below. Despite the many creature comforts available to the crew and passengers of the airship, Newcombe was strangely pleased that the long journey had come to an end. He glanced over at Fiona, who seemed almost giddy, and realized that maybe what he was feeling was a sense of shared anticipation. For the last four days — as long as he had known her — Fiona had been merely one more passenger, albeit a very interesting and participatory one, aboard the dirigible; now, she was about to come into her own, and the thought of her success was very pleasing to the scientist.

Lafayette did not seem quite as enthusiastic about their arrival, but he was certainly in better spirits than he had been during the first twenty-four hours aboard Majestic. The red-haired writer had accepted Barron’s invitation to stay onboard and write the industrialist’s biography. No actual writing had yet taken place. Lafayette had insisted that Barron locate his assistant, Nora Holloway, and bring her aboard before work could begin, and Barron had evidently agreed to that demand. Newcombe got the impression that, despite his professed desire to tell the tale of his personal, somewhat quixotic mission to forever end wars among men, the industrialist wasn’t in that great of a rush to create a permanent record. In fact, following the meeting with Newcombe and Lafayette, Barron had been strangely reclusive.

Newcombe certainly had not been idle as Majestic cruised through the skies over Europe and the Middle East. He had immersed himself in information, poring over the technical schematics for Barron’s wave generator until he felt certain he could reproduce the device from memory. He also studied Majestic herself, and was fascinated by the many innovations Barron had utilized in the airship’s design. As he had earlier surmised, Barron had turned the airship into a solar energy generator, harvesting electricity from the sun by day, and storing that energy in a bank of massive batteries. The ship was propelled through the air by six lightweight electric motors, not petroleum burning internal combustion engines, so the added weight of the batteries was offset by the fact that Majestic did not need to carry a fuel supply.

Newcombe’s fascination with Barron’s many technological advances was somewhat dampened by the fact of General Vaughn’s almost constant presence. The retired military officer had persisted in questioning him about possible military applications for Barron’s machines. Newcombe had indulged Vaughn, partly because of Barron’s earlier comment about the necessity of tolerating the War Department’s involvement in order to facilitate his research, and partly because Vaughn’s questions often presented him with an opportunity to look at the technology in different ways.

“There it is,” Fiona cried. “Alamut fortress. The ruins, anyway. Walter, we need to move directly over the site so that I can take photographs.” She turned to Newcombe, as if to imply that he alone would have any interest in the details. “I created a floor plan of the fortress based on every historic account I could find. By comparing it to aerial photographs of the real fortress, I should be able to pinpoint where the library was.”

“Not much of a castle.”

Lafayette’s remark prompted Newcombe to take a longer look at the massif that was slowly passing beneath the airship. He could see the artificially straight lines crisscrossing the brown stone, evidence of human habitation, but these were merely the foundations of structures that had disappeared many centuries before.

The scientist felt a cloud of disappointment gathering on the horizon of his earlier enthusiasm. “Even if you can locate the library, how will you find the treasure room?” He kept his voice at a whisper, careful not to undermine her authority in front of the others.

If Fiona took umbrage at the question, she did not show it. “Trial and error. We’ll make some exploratory excavations, and hopefully get lucky.”

“Get lucky?” Lafayette said. “And how long do you expect this business to last?”

“It’s hard to say. Heinrich Schliemann spent two years excavating the ruins of Troy before he found anything of value.”

“Years?” Lafayette face was suddenly almost as red as his hair.

Fiona patted him on the arm. “Don’t fret, Rodney. I’m sure it won’t take more than a few weeks.”

The writer was not mollified by her assurance.

Newcombe wasn’t overjoyed by the news either, but unlike Lafayette, his first impulse was to treat the matter as yet another problem to be solved. “I have an idea.”