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.”
Chapter 11—The Secrets of the Rock
The inhabitants of Qasirkhan village were only slightly more interested in the quartet of foreigners than they were in the silhouette of the massive airship that had settled into place above nearby Alamut, which was to say, not at all. The women working in the fields, their faces covered by veils, did not look up from the their labors and the men squatting in small groups merely watched as Dodge and the others climbed out of Rahman’s car and in front of a building the Persian guide described as a “coffee house.” Only the village children seemed to notice them; as soon as they car doors opened, the young of Qasirkhan swarmed around them like flies. Rahman barked a few words in Farsi and the children retreated, but continued to observe them from a safe distance.
Dodge had been able to think of little else aside from the hovering mass in the sky as they finished their journey to the village that rested at the base of the mountain upon which Alamut had been built. Newcombe was almost certainly up there, separated from him by only a few hundred feet; the scientist might as well have been on another planet for all that Dodge could do anything to reach him.
Rahman stopped Dodge before they could enter the coffee house. “The women must remain outside.”
“Excuse me?” Nora said, indignantly.
Rahman made a placating gesture. “This village is very… traditional. The women still wear the hijab, even though Reza Shah has outlawed it. If you wish to have their cooperation, you would do well to respect their ways.”
Before Nora could offer further protest, Hurricane spoke up. “If it’s all the same, I think I’ll linger out here with the ladies.”
He took out a cheroot and fired it up, filling the air with fragrant smoke. Nora’s irritation gave way to a look of gratitude at the implicit expression of support. Anya seemed not to care at all.
Dodge followed Rahman inside, where three local men — one of them very old, if his leathery skin and long white beard were accurate indicators — were reclining at a low table. Dodge imitated his guide’s gesture of greeting and at a nod from the Persian, took a seat at the table. One of the younger local men decanted an amber colored liquid into two glasses and placed these in front of the new arrivals. As Rahman conversed with the old man, Dodge took a cautious sip and discovered that the beverage wasn’t coffee, but tea, flavored with honey and coriander seeds.
Rahman gestured to one of the old man’s companions — a black-haired, thickly-bearded man. “This is Dariush. He knows of many secret ways leading to the ruins. He will take us in the morning.”
Dodge glanced at the man, careful not to stare lest he commit some breach of local custom. “Would it be possible to go tonight, under the cover of darkness? Tell him we’d like to avoid being noticed by the people in the airship.”
Rahman delayed the message. Before he had even finished, Dariush broke into laughter and fired back a terse answer.
“What did he say?”
The interpreter’s face betrayed his own failure to understand the meaning behind the reply, but he translated nonetheless. “He says that won’t be a problem.”
Despite their initial aloofness, the village of Qasirkhan turned out that night for a feast to welcome the visitors. The fare was simple; locally grown vegetables and rice, flat bread baked on iron griddles, and a pair of goats, slaughtered and roasted to honor the guests. The congenial attitude went a long way in compensating for the greatly reduced comfort level. Even so, at the end of the night, Rahman explained that the women would have to sleep in a different house, and this separation did not sit well with Dodge and Hurricane, or with Nora, but there was no choice but to accept the arrangement.