He only hoped that he would also pick up Dalton’s trail. While it was evident that the writer knew nothing of consequence pertaining to the mission, his escape was a blemish on Uchida’s otherwise impeccable record of service. It was a blemish he intended to erase completely.
The electric motor became sluggish as the battery’s charge ran down, so at the next opportunity, they ditched the electric locomotive on a siding and continued on foot. Fortunately, the ghost train had brought them to within a few miles of a town with a train station. Dodge telephoned the Empire State Building, checking for messages from Hurricane — there were none — and then sent a telegram to Pan-American’s offices in Lisbon, to be delivered to Hurley as soon as the clipper ship arrived. The note, of necessity brief, outlined Dodge’s plan to reach Persia — the modern nation of Iran — ahead of Barron. Following that, there was nothing to do but await the arrival of the eastbound Broadway Limited.
As they sat in the depot, Anya returned to her state of almost cat-like stasis, leaving Dodge to wonder what sort of schemes and machinations she was formulating. Was she biding her time until she could elude him once again?
That didn’t make any sense. She had already escaped him once, and her decision to return — to save him from Uchida’s bomb — had been entirely voluntarily, albeit by her own admission, self-serving. Dodge didn’t know what to make of that. He wasn’t about to take her statements at face-value. Was Barron truly the villain in the drama? He had only her say so, and it was she, not Walter Barron, who had participated in the bombing of the Clarion Building and the abduction of Newcombe and Lafayette.
Still, it seemed evident that Barron was up to no good. The complex in the secret valley and his evident interest in Newcombe’s expertise lent credence to the idea that he was trying to develop some kind of terrible weapon, and perhaps more importantly, bore witness to a complete lack of moral or ethical concerns.
But was Anya any better?
When the train arrived, Dodge eschewed the comfort of a Pullman berth, and opted for steerage fares. He was tired and desperately needed rest, but if Anya secretly desired to do him harm, she would have less opportunity to do so in the crowded and public environs of the third class compartment. And if she wanted to escape again… well, that was fine with him.
Dodge wondered if his best course of action was not perhaps to turn the tables on her, give her the slip as soon as they arrived back in the city, or perhaps just turn her in to the authorities. But he kept recalling the old adage: “Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.” Anya certainly hadn’t earned his friendship, but was she an enemy?
Until he saw irrefutable evidence otherwise, Dodge decided he was going to treat her as one.
Chapter 9—From Fire to Frying Pan
As he slid down the icy surface of the platform, Findlay Newcombe felt a strange calm. This was not a moment of terror, with life and death in the balance; it was simply a mathematical problem, a conundrum to be solved before time ran out.
The pieces of the puzzle flashed through his head in an instant: the diminishing distance to the end of the platform; the slope of the platform and the rate at which he and Lafayette were sliding; the amount of resistance from friction. Into this equation, he began plugging variables. What will happen if I…?
The solution appeared. With just twenty feet of platform separating the two men from a long free-fall, he twisted around and pressed his gloved palms flat against the metal surface.
The effect on their speed was negligible, but Newcombe’s intent had never been to arrest or even slow their doomward slide. Rather, he sought only to effect a very slight change of course. He had chosen the spot at which to attempt the braking maneuver with utmost care. Where his palms made contact with the metal surface, a sort of pivot point was created, and as they continued forward, he and Lafayette also swung just a little bit to the left.
Close enough.
Newcombe threw one arm out and looped it around the last upright post of the guard rail at the edge of the platform.
A flash of pain shot through his body as the combined mass of Lafayette’s weight and his own pulled sharply against his arm, but he endured. What other choice was there? His legs and lower torso were dangling out into space. Lafayette had both arms wrapped around Newcombe’s waist, hugging him for dear life, and even if the writer could have pried himself loose, there was nothing for him to grab onto.
Thankfully, the ordeal was short-lived. A few moments later, the slope of the platform began to diminish as the airship leveled out. Newcombe heard shouting — Sorensen and Fiona, ordering the crew to close the tail section — and then he felt the chief pilot’s strong grip dragging him back from the brink. In a matter of only a few seconds, the dirigible was sealed up tight and the platform was level once more.
Fiona impulsively knelt and hugged Newcombe. “Goodness, that was so very brave of you.”
Newcombe laughed, feeling strangely exhilarated. “Yes, it rather was. I think perhaps Dodge is having a bad influence on me.”
Sorensen clapped Lafayette on the shoulder and then hauled him to his feet. “I told you to watch your step.”
Lafayette’s normally fair complexion was positively transparent. He nodded, a series of short, staccato head bobs, but said nothing.
“Let’s get below,” Sorensen declared. “I want to find out what just happened. We must have nosed into an updraft. Rotten timing, wouldn’t you say?”
Without waiting for them, the saturnine pilot stalked down the length of the platform to the staircase. Fiona took the other two men by the arm, one on either side, and headed in that direction.
“Rotten timing, indeed,” she said. “I’ve never seen the Majestic do that.”
“How long have you been aboard?” inquired Newcombe.
“A few weeks. Walter picked me up in London and flew me back to the United States. We ran into weather once or twice, but nothing like that.”
“Your first crossing probably followed a polar route. At this latitude, the weather is much less predictable. We might have bumped up against a tropical depression — a hurricane in the making.”
When they reached the staircase, Lafayette abruptly broke his silence. Although he managed a smile, there was a quaver in his voice as he said: “After you, madam.”
Fiona trilled laughter. “Why thank you, Rodney. But call me ‘madam’ again, and we’ll have words.”
Newcombe started to follow, but Lafayette’s hand gripped his bicep, holding him back. As Fiona dipped out of view, the writer leaned close. “Listen to me. The pilot, Sorensen… I think he pushed me.”
Newcombe felt a chill that had nothing to do with ambient temperature on the landing deck. “Are you sure? Maybe he was trying to catch you as you fell.”
“I didn’t fall.” Lafayette squeezed Newcombe’s arm tighter, his paper-white face grimly insistent. “Sorensen tried to kill me.”
The blade descended like a lightning strike, passing close enough to Hurley’s scalp to lop off a curl of his dark hair, and struck the pavement in a ringing spray of bright yellow sparks.
By all rights, the steel weapon should have removed Hurricane’s head completely from his shoulders, but at the very instant the swordsman had begun his strike, Nora had hurled her clutch purse at him. The bag, weighted by her thick notebook, hit the man’s forearm, deflecting the chop just enough to spare Hurley.
It was a brief reprieve. Cursing in his native tongue, the Asian man recovered and tried again.
Nora screamed.
The shrieked alarm caused Hurley’s would-be executioner to hesitate, and gave the big man on the ground time to recover from the numbing nerve-strikes. Although he still didn’t possess anything remotely resembling fine motor control, Hurricane managed to roll out from under the poised sword, and in the same motion, lashed out with a kick that caught the distracted blade-wielder off guard.