Indiana Jones and the White Witch Page 14

  She had hesitated at first, then caught him by surprise. "I still don't understand, myself," she said carefully, "just how the scepter works. I mean, it's ancient. Yet it uses a battery. I've seen it. But"—she frowned with confusion—"that scepter was being used hundreds of years before batteries were even invented! Today, Caitlin's father could make anything work with electricity. Among other things, Kerrie's an electrical engineer."

  "What was the battery like?" he questioned her.

  "Sort of like a rectangular box. I think he once mentioned it was a dry-cell battery."

  He nodded. "That means it would be an acid-type battery, Gale. They're clumsy and heavy, but they work. Where did Kerrie install it?"

  "He mounted the scepter in a staff. I always thought it had to be an electrical system."

  "I'd bet a dollar to a doughnut," Indy said firmly, "that staff had two layers. The inside is wood, around which Kerrie wound thin wire to the battery and the crystals. That's how he set up his antenna."

  Gale studied Indy. "Where'd you learn so much about radios and batteries and all this electrical stuff?"

  "I needed radios in the field. No telephones out there." He laughed. "And you have to know how to repair that kind of equipment if you want any reliability." Indy shrugged. "But I learned more than I ever imagined I would. I also discovered that the ancients had electricity before the modern world ever dreamed of it. That's how I'm connecting. Caitlin's scepter with what could have happened centuries ago. Don't you see? If people before and during the time of Merlin had batteries, then that makes the wizardry of Merlin fit right into the known laws of energy."

  "If I heard this from anybody but you..." She left the sentence unfinished.

  "Hey, I didn't learn all this on my own. I owe a lot to a guy, Jack Silverstein. Jack was an inventor as well as a research scientist. If you mention the history of electrical power today, as we use it, and ask how it all got started, people come up with names like Edison or Tesla. It's only been thirty years since Edison produced a worthwhile light bulb."

  "Just how far back did you find electricity? You, or this friend of yours?"

  "More than two thousand years ago. In fact, we confirmed the presence of batteries in 226 B.C. the Parthinians, along the edge of the Caspian Sea, were using electricity on a daily basis."

  "You're talking about a time before the birth of Christ!"

  "Centuries before," he confirmed. "Ever hear of Wilhelm Kroner?"

  Gale shook her head.

  "Kroner was going through Parthinian ruins and stumbled across what looked like parts and pieces of a diy-cell battery. He got some engineers to put all the pieces together, they built a new battery exactly like the ancient pieces, and it generated electrical current. They used their electricity for plating statues and jewelry with gold."

  "This is amazing," she said in wonder.

  "I saved the best for last. Another four hundred years earlier. We found proof of electricity in ancient Greek writings. Thales of Miletus, about 600 B.C., described an electrical apparatus. We figured that was the absolute limit, back in time, I mean, but the ancients fooled us again. Turns out Egyptian priests built some really powerful electrical generators for their temples. That's how they controlled their followers. The common man really believed the priests had direct connections with the gods."

  "How long ago?"

  "Three thousand years. I checked the ruins myself. I could hardly believe what we found. Multiconductor electrical cables for their altars, operated by hand-cranked generators. They had their stoolies—"

  "Who?"

  "Underlings. They hid behind walls and cranked away like crazy to generate the electrical current. The cables ran to the altars where a priest held an insulated rod—what the adoring masses believed was a wand of magical power. If the priests wanted to frighten the mob, they'd point rods at the crowd and a bunch of people would get zapped. If they wanted to do someone in, they'd all aim at this one person to combine their current. There'd be a dazzling flash, an explosion, the stink of ozone, and some poor farmer would be a smoking corpse."

  Gale nodded slowly. "It makes a strange connection to Merlin," she said, looking up to Indy.

  "How so?"

  "Well, the stories tell of the different ways Merlin would dispatch his enemies. At times he'd point his finger at the miscreant, chant something nobody could understand, and a blast of fire—electricity, I understand now—would strike the man. Merlin had a discharge rod concealed in his sleeve. If he was hooked up to the kind of generator you said the Egyptian priests had, it all makes sense."

  "And," Indy added, "it always seemed that he was hurling thunderbolts out of thin air. Actually he was using the scepter."

  "I don't understand how that would work."

  "Energy is all around us. We get powerful radio waves from the sun all the time. It's just that we can't feel or detect them unless we build an antenna that's in a beat with those waves. It snatches the electricity out of the air, so to speak, and concentrates it. Merlin had a staff with precious stones. Kerrie has a staff with jewels and crystals. You need a crystal to get maximum power. But whatever you use, you need above all an antenna to capture the energy, and then boost it so it will blast right out of the scepter. It's like a lightning rod in reverse. But you can't always count on seizing energy out of thin air. So what you do is to store that energy. And you do that with a battery."

  "And what Kerrie has would work the way you described it?"

  "Sure. He uses a battery that has only one volt. It's a lead-zinc combination, a carbon rod and gunk in between. Techically, it's what you call an electrolyte that uses acid to carry the current."

  Indy snapped his fingers. "Of course! Inside that scepter is Kerrie's storage system. A capacitor. A device for collecting energy until you have enough to kick out a huge discharge. You build up power until you get a blast like lightning."

  Gale shook her head slowly. "It all sounds so complicated. I mean, Egyptians and Parthinians and Merlin—"

  "And now Kerrie and Caitlin," Indy finished for her.

  "There's that last question neither one of us has answered, Indy." He waited for her to continue. "The tunic," she went on. "That is a magic neither of us understands."

  "I know I don't," he admitted. "All I know is that it works, and nothing I know in science, past or present, lets me in on the secret." He shrugged. "I'm not into magic."

  He suddenly became serious. "But I'll tell you this. Tunic or no tunic, a heavy rifle slug into the heart or the brain will kill Caitlin. Instantly. She is not invulnerable. If she believes she is, that can get her killed faster than anything else, because then she'll take some really stupid chances."

  Gale nodded slowly, fearful for Caitlin's future. "I know," she said at last.

  11

  What in the name of...!

  Indy groped his way out of deep sleep. Instinctively his right hand dropped to the floor alongside the couch to grip the heavy Webley revolver. It took several moments to realize that the pounding noise booming through the flat came from the entrance door. He swung off the couch, approached the door from the side, Webley at the ready. It could be anything. The building on fire, someone with an emergency, but—Treadwell? His voice came through the door. "Open up, you nit! Open up, I say! It's Thomas!"

  Indy heard the bedroom door open behind him, glanced about to see Gale in pajamas. The woman had a powerful crossbow, cocked and ready to fire, in her hands. He motioned for her to stay back and spoke through the door.

  "Thomas!"

  "Open up, blast it!"

  "How many with you?"

  "Just Roberto."

  Indy opened the door and stepped back. Treadwell and Di Palma came in, stopped short at the sight of the Webley Indy was sliding into his waistband. He closed and bolted the door.

  "Sociable as always, I see," Treadwell told him.

  "Its four-thirty in the morning, Thomas."

  "Oh, good. Without your help I'd never know t
he time. I know, I know, Indy. We haven't been to sleep yet."

  Gale headed for the kitchen to put on coffee and boil water for tea. When she returned to the living room, the three men were sitting at a round table. "Gale, I want you in on this," Treadwell said. She nodded, sat, and sipped slowly at her mug of tea.

  Treadwell rubbed his eyes. "We believe we know where Cordas is going," he announced. "I didn't want to tell by telephone. Too risky."

  Indy offered ho criticism. Treadwell obviously wouldn't be here at this ungodly hour without good reason.

  "We confirmed," Treadwell continued slowly, "that Cordas and a small group, appear to be en route to Hamburg, Germany. We've been running checks on every ferry, private vessel, and aircraft crossing the Channel. Cordas and his group chartered a French airliner. So we didn't have records on any of our own aircraft, but customs was notified, of course, and that was how we saw the little red flag go up."

  "How many?" Indy asked.

  "Eight in Cordas's group. They passed through customs without problem, with a flight planned to Orly. Lots of traffic in and out of there in the morning, so they could get lost easily enough in the shuffle."

  "Customs tell you what kind of passports?" Indy asked.

  "Oh, to be sure. French. I'm quite certain," Treadwell added, "they can get passports from anywhere they want."

  "Did anyone pick up any information on Caitlin?" Gale broke in.

  Treadwell shook his head. "Not a word."

  Indy studied his friend. "You've got more than this."

  Treadwell nodded, took a moment to finish his tea. "They're using codes. Letters and numbers. Our telephone monitors working all outgoing traffic managed to get this message: seven, two, one ZL. We're working on it, of course. It might be as simple as reversing letters and numbers or it might also be a preset code. Verification of communications and everything going according to plan, that sort of thing."

  Di Palma drummed his fingers on the table. "What is puzzling, so far, is the choice of Germany. The map Miss Parker gave us doesn't match any coastline of Germany. It's certainly not Hamburg."

  "Hamburg makes sense to me," Indy said.

  "Explain, if you would," Di Palma asked.

  "Port of embarkation," Indy said idly.

  "We've had that in mind also, of course," Treadwell told him. "The problem is that there are exits everywhere. Will they take a steamship to Hamburg? Go by train? Fly from Orly by a circuitous route—well, we simply don't know."

  "Three men booked a flight from London to Rome," Di Palma added. "Also using this code of seven, two, one ZL. Thomas is convinced it's a blind, a decoy. I see no reason to disagree with him."

  "From my experience with Mr. Cordas," Indy noted, "you'll probably find a dozen people traveling all over Europe using that code just to give us fits."

  "Well, if experience is any guide," Treadwell said sourly, "he may well be teasing us. Or Miss St. Brendan, especially. Cordas always makes sure he is extremely knowledgeable about any area into which he gets involved. If he knows the history of the people of the Glen, and I'm certain he does, then he knows that this young woman will pursue him, no matter what the odds."

  "And he may be leaving just enough of a trail for her to follow," Indy said unhappily. He glanced at Gale. "Never ignore that possibility. Cordas is a man who enjoys a good opponent."

  "He'll bloody well get more than he's bargaining for," Gale said heatedly.

  "I would much rather we got to him first," Treadwell said, his voice leaving no doubt about his feelings about a young woman going single-handed against a murderous band. And if you don't mind my saying so—"

  Indy abruptly sat bolt upright. He gripped Treadwell's arm. "That code... let me have that again." He wrote down the sequence: seven, two, one ZL. He kept repeating it, then wrote it backward. He tossed down his pencil and rose to walk about the room.

  "I don't know why it took me so long to figure out something so obvious," he said angrily. "Cordas is clearly toying with us. All the translations of symbols and languages, codes and cuneiforms, and I couldn't see it until now. I feel like an idiot."

  "Whatever are you talking about?" Treadwell asked.

  "That code! It's a come-on," Indy said angrily. "Cordas made it so simple we didn't see what was under our noses."

  Di Palma shook his head. "I am as confused as Thomas, I admit."

  Indy stopped his angry pacing, returned to lean on the table with both hands balled into fists. "Cordas and his group aren't going east," he stressed. "They're going west."

  "Need I remind you Hamburg is very much to the east of here?" Treadwell retorted.

  "Sure it is, and it's a blind alley," Indy said immediately. "That gold shipment, during the Civil War, was headed for the southeastern United States, right?"

  Treadwell nodded. "Yes."

  "And every indication is that the convoy did arrive in that area?" Indy persisted.

  "In that general area, yes. But you already know," Treadwell added, "that our information on the destination is at best spotty. Besides, Indy, if Cordas plans to cross the Atlantic, to go where we believe the convoy landed, he has to travel in a westerly direction."

  "Sometimes," Indy said, smiling, "the fastest way between two points is the longest way around."

  "You're talking in riddles at this time of night?" Treadwell said, clearly irked at Indy's roundabout explanations.

  "No riddle," Indy retorted. "Look, that code. What do you get when you reverse the order?"

  "Well, that's easy enough. LZ one, two, seven."

  "That tells me they're headed for Friedrichshafen," Indy said.

  "But Hamburg's the main port of embarkation...." Treadwell's voice trailed off. He had a stupefied look on his face.

  Indy laughed. "So you see it, too, now."

  "Good Lord, yes."

  "These games," Di Palma complained to Gale. "Do they do this all the time?"

  Gale nodded. "They do. But there's always a reason for it."

  "Don't you get it yet?" Indy asked Gale.

  "No."

  "The code isn't a code at all," Indy said quickly. "It's a designation. LZ one, two, seven. That's the designation for the Graf Zeppelin—"

  "You mean—"

  "Of course! A commercial airship flies a lot faster across the ocean than a steamship sails." He went to his telephone. "Everybody, bear with me, okay?" He was on the phone for less than five minutes. He hung up and returned to the table.

  "That was a round-the-clock travel service in Friedrichshafen. It's confirmed. You see, LZ is the designation for the Zeppelin Transport Company, and one twenty-seven is the official company designation for the ship we know as Graf Zeppelin. It's crossed the ocean many times, and right now it's preparing to leave on a special flight. It's going to fly to America along a route that takes it over the North Pole. Some geographic societies want to shoot photographs and moving pictures of the flight. They're combining the expedition with a chartered flight. Remember I said Cordas was leaving a trail for us to follow?"

  "Yes, yes?" Di Palma was hanging on every word.

  "Well," Indy said, enjoying his revelation, "Cordas is on the passenger manifest under his own name."

  "Cheeky," Treadwell said quietly.

  Indy sat back. "The Graf leaves in two days, Thomas. That means you've got to have confirmed reservations on that zeppelin for Gale and me in the next few hours. Use the clout of the British government to make sure we're on that thing when it lifts off."

  Indy smiled. "Unless you want Cordas to get to the States a week or two before us."

  "I'll do my best."

  "Not good enough. We must be on that ship. Oh, and arrange seats on a commerical flight for us to Friedrichshafen."

  "When?"

  "Noon today. Stop sitting there, Thomas. Go!"

  12

  The force of the rain lashing the deck of the cross-channel cargo ferry stung Indy's face. He turned to one side, pulling his battered hat over his face, and w
as rewarded by a sudden spray of icy salt water thrown up by the steamer's bow as it plunged almost beneath the surface. He stared at the dim glow of yellow light from the cabin; Gale stood facing the wind and rain, reveling in the ferocity of the storm.

  "Are you enjoying yourself?" Indy shouted above the howl of wind, the pounding of water, and the steamer's engines. Every few moments the entire ship shuddered, as if it was coming apart at the seams.

  Gale turned, also shouting. "It's wonderful!" she exclaimed, as delighted as a child seeing open water for the first time.

  "You're nuts!" Indy retorted. His stomach growled; he felt as if cotton had been stuffed inside his head. He gripped a stanchion for support as the steamer rolled sickeningly to one side. Looking up at the cabin, he caught a glimpse of Treadwell behind a window, seated comfortably, legs locked around his chair for support, enjoying his pipe.

  Indy worked his way carefully along the narrow passageway, salt water sloshing about his feet. He pushed in the door, reeling for balance as it swung away. Treadwell and the ferry crew watched with amusement as Indy slammed the door and collapsed in a seat, water streaming from his clothes.

  "Remind me," he said with a snarl, "if I ever get out of this crazy trip alive, to kill you with my bare hands."

  Treadwell saluted him with a wave of his pipe. "This your first touch of the sailor's life? A sailing ship is a true wonder, Professor."

  "This isn't a sailing ship," Indy growled, hanging on to the seat arms as the ferry wallowed like a water buffalo sinking in quicksand. "It's a junk heap. Should have been scrapped years ago, or sunk before it got out of harbor."

  "'Ere now!" Bjorn McManus said loudy. "It's me charmer you're talking about, mate!"

  "You're calling this roach palace a charmer?" Indy sneered. He wasn't in the mood for pleasantries. The planned flight from England to Paris went up in smoke when they were ready to depart his flat. No one had bothered to check the weather and they stepped outside just as a storm moved across their part of the city. Rushing back inside, Treadwell called the big commercial field at the edge of London. "We're down," came the explanation. "Sorry, guv. Front's come in with nary warning. We've checked across the water. Same in France."