"But what happened to the gold!" Di Palma exclaimed.
"That, my dear fellow," Pencroft replied, "is a question to which no answer has been provided since 1863."
"You mean... the bullion, the coins, just disappeared?"
"Not quite as simple as that, I daresay." Pencroft shrugged. "But the answer is we do not know." He turned to Gale Parker. "Have you ever seen the map that seems to be at the heart of all this—I mean, before these past few days?" he asked.
Gale shook her head. "No. Nor do I know how this Cordas learned about the map, or where it had been concealed all these years."
Indy gestured to the papers on the table. "Sir William, is that an accounting of all the gold?"
Pencroft pushed the documents to the center of the table. "Examine them, if you will."
Treadwell remained in his seat. "The papers are mere records of the past. What matters now is Cordas. If he deciphers the map, then we know he will move swiftly to recover the gold."
"And he'll need plenty of manpower to move whatever he finds. We're talking tons of gold," Indy noted.
"Except for the coins," Di Palma offered. "They are beyond any price."
"So the issue is Cordas," Indy said aloud. "Nothing else matters. All this is confirmation that the gold exists, that it left England, that it was headed for America, and then—" He threw up his hands. "Poof! Gone!"
"And so is Cordas," Treadwell added.
"And Caitlin," Gale said quietly.
Every head in the room turned to her. "What?" That was all Treadwell could say for the moment.
"You refer to Kerrie St. Brendan's child?" Pencroft asked.
"Not child. A woman. A warrior" Gale said sternly.
"Of course," Pencroft said, his voice just above a whisper. "The oath of the Glen. Just retribution for a life of their clan." His expression showed his pain and concern. "I fear for her life," he told Gale.
"Fear for the life of Cordas," she replied.
"That," Treadwell interjected, "is a very tall order."
"You don't know Caitlin," Gale retorted.
"Then I've got to find her," Indy said, his words catching the group by surprise.
"And why you?" Pencroft demanded. "This isn't your affair. You're here to teach!"
"I don't know why, sir," Indy said, as surprised with himself as were the others. All but Gale, I'll bet, he told himself. "Somehow I don't seem to have much say in all this. It's as if I'm drawn to her. Look, Sir William, if there's even the slightest chance that she'll find Cordas and I'm there—"
"It could be our only chance to recover the coins!" Di Palma said, his excitement growing.
"Wouldn't do the Bank of England any harm to recover that bullion," Treadwell said, directing his remark to Pencroft. "Make a hero out of this university for making it possible."
"Make us bloody fools if Indy gets killed chasing a murdering gang, you mean!" Pencroft said angrily.
Indy sighed. "Then I'll resign my position, Sir William. That way the university will be absolved of any blame."
"And any credit," Treadwell added quickly.
"The Vatican would be most grateful," Di Palma offered.
Pencroft folded his hands in his lap. "Indy?" He rarely used that name with Professor Henry Jones. "You are quite serious about all this?"
"Yes, sir. Maybe I'm a fool—"
"No question of that," Pencroft said icily.
"We're wasting time," Indy said to Gale. "We need to go with Caitlin because—"
"She is already gone," Gale said.
Silence hung heavily in the room. Indy drummed his fingers on the table. "Where?"
"After Cordas."
"That I've figured out myself," he said. "But when?"
"Indy, all I can tell you is that she is following Cordas. And none of us will recognize her. She is a master of disguise. You already know what forces she controls."
Treadwell was on his feet. "You're wasting time." He turned to Pencroft. "Sir, my apologies. And my gratitude, and that of Scotland Yard, for your splendid assistance tonight."
"You're a liar, Thomas. I didn't tell you a thing you didn't already know."
Treadwell turned to Indy and Gale. "I suggest you come with me." Then, to Di Palma: "I would appreciate you and LeDuc returning to your hotel so I can contact you later."
Both men nodded. Treadwell left with Indy and Gale.
When they were gone, Di Palma turned to Pencroft. "Do you know where they are going?"
The old man laughed, a dry cackle that became a knowing smile. "Of course."
"Where would that be, sir?"
Pencroft slapped his knee. "You're the secret agent here, my friend. You find out."
10
Indy held out his hand to Gale. No words passed between them. They had learned to read the moods and needs of the other through facial expressions and body language.
Gale nodded. For a moment she hesitated as she took a long second look at the cavernous room in which she, Indy, Treadwell, and an unnamed group of men and women were gathered. Who the faces-without-names were was obvious to Gale: highly skilled professionals in the upper echelons of MI5, that bastion of British military intelligence. The room seemed to muffle all sounds. Something this huge should have echoed at the slightest report or word. But the walls and roof and ceiling swallowed sounds like living things, eating greedily at whatever pulses came their way.
Nothing spoken in this cryptographic section of MI5 could be heard outside these walls. Gale was taken aback when she noticed the windows along those walls. It took a sharp eye to recognize that the windows were false, woodwork and metal and glass through which nothing could be seen. And Gale's eye was that of the hunter.
Now Indy held forth his hand. There was but one thing he would ask of her in this room, so words were unnecessary. She reached within her leather jacket, unsealed an inside pocket, and withdrew the folded leather parchment she had carried now for several days.
Indy spread out the parchment on the table beneath bright lights. Treadwell motioned to his staff. "Gather 'round, gentlemen," he told them.
"I know this is obvious to you"—Indy spoke to the group—"but just for the record, you'll notice there are no names or coordinates on this map."
"Makes a ruddy good mystery," one man remarked.
"It does that. Your job is simple. Treadwell says you're the best. All you need to do is match the features here—the coastline, rivers, whatever."
"That's all?" The question came with disbelief. "You could do a jigsaw puzzle easier in the dark, sir."
Indy stood straight. "Not as difficult as it looks."
A chorus of "Oh?" met his statement. "No names, no towns, nothing but those lines."
"Look, I'm no cartographer," Indy said quickly, "but I do have some experience with maps and charts. You learn that quickly in archaeological digs." He leaned forward, tracing outlines along the map. "But there are clues. This is obviously a coastline, here." He tapped the parchment. "The map doesn't give us a fix for north of south, so it's a guesstimate at best. But the odds are that whoever made this thing followed the common rule of placing north at the top."
"Well, sir"—one man stepped in—"if that's so, then we have us a west coastline."
"Wherever that might be," another man murmured.
"Okay, we've got a coastline, and it runs along a western shore. What else?"
"What else can you tell us, sir?"
Indy looked up and grinned. "If I told you the United States, would that help?"
Treadwell resisted this conclusion. "You don't know that, Indy, and—"
"No, hold it, Tom," Indy broke in. "Here are the best cartographers in all England, right?"
Someone laughed. "Cheers."
"Could diis be anywhere in the British Isles?"
The men leaned forward, spoke among themselves. A short man with a bristly beard stood up to look at Indy. "No way, governor. Not Scotland or Ireland or anywhere in the U.K., for that matter."
Indy looked about him. "Any arguments?" They shook their heads. "Okay, let's say, for the moment, at least, that it's the United States, and the date is somewhere between 1863 and 1870."
Someone whistled, long and low. "Mr. Treadwell, sir, is this Yank deliberately trying to stick the prod to us?"
Treadwell laughed. "Gentlemen, he's dead serious. But I know what you mean." Then to Indy: "Coastlines change over a period of fifty to sixty years. Rivers change course, too."
Indy nodded. "But not that much." He looked to the cartographers again. "How about the southern United States? That help?"
"Blimey, does it ever," he was told immediately.
"Well, you've got a time period, a better crack at the location, and—" Indy paused to scratch chin stubble, then went on. "The area along the coastline, um, anywhere from thirty to sixty miles, I'd say, needs some deep water. Not for a port, but to anchor a seagoing vessel, or vessels, and enough room for longboats to work to the shore."
"You wouldn't happen to have the name of such a vessel or two, now, would you?" The query was a serious stab at humor.
Indy laughed. "Not today." Abruptly he grew serious and turned to Treadwell. "You know, Tom, he's right. There should be a full registry in the Admiralty and we can—"
"I'm way ahead of you, my friend. We'll get on those records immediately. It will take some digging, but"—he shrugged—"we are on the right track." Treadwell turned to the group. "Get cracking, gentlemen. Whatever turns up, leave word at my office, day or night."
They drove to Treadwell's favorite pub in London, the gathering place for people who wanted great food, great beer, and assured privacy: Hogsbreath Inn, announced by a large swinging sign illustrating a particularly ugly boar. Besides its large barroom, the inn also had private rooms well concealed by a long hallway and several doors. Willy Consers, who'd owned the pub for longer than Treadwell could remember, welcomed the patronage of Scotland Yard. They assured him a hand in the courts when some of his customers consumed excessive amounts of ale or bitters and fell back on their favorite pastime of bashing each other about, bringing the bobbies on a now familiar route to the pub.
Consers greeted Treadwell without a word, caught the inspector raising his eyes, and led him and his two companions down the hallway, through a private doorway, and up a narrow flight of winding stairs to a secure second-floor dining room. "I'll have Molly with you right off," he told them, and left.
"Molly's his wife," Treadwell explained as he eased into a comfortable padded chair. "Discreet, and quite hard of hearing."
They waited until they were served pitchers of ale and helpings of shepherd's pie. Treadwell locked the door from the inside. "We'll take our time with dinner and catch up on all the small details," he announced. "I'm as hungry as a bear," he added as he fell to his meal with relish, as did Indy and Gale. Then Treadwell pushed back his seat and displayed a pipe. "Mind?" he asked Gale.
She shook her head. "Not at all. Go ahead, please."
It was a comfortable shift to the business at hand. Behind a cloud of smoke, Treadwell looked to Gale. "I need, first off, to confirm that Caitlin St. Brendan has truly gone off," he said.
"She has that," Gale confirmed.
"Where?"
"I don't know. Not yet," Gale replied. "But when Caitlin is ready, she'll let me know."
"This may seem indelicate, and I intend no slight with this question, but will she, ah, use her special talents to reach—"
Gale broke in with a laugh. "No magic to it, Thomas. And no long-range mental telepathy, either. We're not quite that talented. But the covens, which are worldwide, do need to communicate with one another. It stands us well to know what is going on in different countries. Among other things, the Glen has powerful shortwave radio transmitters and receivers. When it's necessary to exchange sensitive information, the people on the radios use one of the ancient languages. To anyone listening in, it sounds like gibberish."
"Clever, clever," Treadwell complimented her. "What might be some of the other means?"
"Carrier pigeons in certain areas."
"Marvelous."
"Couriers. Even cablegrams with our own codes. There are all sorts of magic out there in the world, Thomas. We try to make the best use of the most modern equipment available."
"So I see," Treadwell answered. "You haven't mentioned the telephone, I note."
Gale laughed. "I save that for Indy. He doesn't like pigeons beating at his windows in the middle of the night."
Treadwell turned to Indy. "You, and Gale, of course, are planning to follow Caitlin. I assumed you were, but I must hear it from you directly."
Indy nodded. "For all the reasons you've heard, Tom."
"We can stay in touch with one another just as we did during that wild affair with the disks and that giant zeppelin. Using the transatlantic cable of course, but also high-powered shortwave radio that will go directly into my office."
"Which one? MI5 or the Yard?"
"People know me as an inspector from the Yard, of course. But everything goes through MI5. If it's sensitive, it stays there waiting for me. Otherwise it's brought immediately to the Yard, where I also maintain an office."
"I'll have to lean heavily on you, Tom. Contacts, government pressure if necessary. And money. We don't know what we'll run into or how much we might need."
"You'll have a very substantial letter of credit from the Bank of England, for starters," Treadwell told him. "And coded numbers for wiring funds wherever you need. Indy, I can best support you if I know what's happening from day to day."
Indy shrugged. "I'll do my best." He sat up straight, leaning on the table. "Question, Thomas."
"At your service."
"After all the things that have happened, and what you've seen and experienced, tell me, do you now accept the reality of magic?"
A humorless laugh escaped the inspector. He tamped his pipe, relit it, and blew out a cloud of smoke. "I have recently been in a place," he said slowly, "where people manipulate time, or what we call time, as if it were a substance they could shape in any form they desired. That's a shock to the system of an orderly man."
"And if nothing else"—Indy laughed—"you are most orderly."
"In my business, that's a necessity," Treadwell countered. "However, I also must balance incredulity against the reality of what I experienced. I don't really understand time. I don't know if anyone does. But I do know you can work with certain forces, use them for your own purposes, even if you don't understand them."
"Like gravity?" Gale offered.
"Precisely. We know what it does, we can measure its force and effect, and excuse me if I sound ponderous, but the reality," Treadwell said, his expression serious, "is that no one knows what gravity is."
"Point well taken," Indy added. "The astrophysics people at Princeton start their discussions on gravity pleasantly enough and usually end up screaming at one another."
"Well, back to the Glen. I told you I spent most of my younger years on the Salisbury Plain. I often hunted in the New Forest, I made close friends among the Romanies, places like Stonehenge were playgrounds. Youthful exuberance and all that. Then I watched that most unusual young woman, Caitlin... well, you were there with me. Roads that twisted in upon themselves. Strange forces she describes as absolutely natural earth energies which can be manipulated like steam or electricity."
Again he paused to relight his pipe, which he'd been waving about like a baton as he spoke. "Now we come to that sword she was wearing. I am a fanatic about our legends of King Arthur and Sir Galahad, Morgan the Fay and Merlin, and the whole lot of people clanking about in armor and muttering all sorts of incantations. Wizardry and all that. And I swear that sword she carries is straight out of myth and legend—"
"And folklore and history," Gale said quickly.
"Well," Treadwell harrumphed, "I'm no longer in a position to argue the point. I feel left out of things I should have known since I was a mere stripling. The
point is I consider Excalibur a convenient fairy tale, likely created to confuse the issue of the real sword, Caliburn. The fighting sword. Those fellows were always naming things to gain spiritual value. They named their swords, their shields and horses, even their helmets. It gave them strength and confidence. So who am I to say that Caliburn was a commonplace or ordinary sword rather than one endowed with magic powers? In short, my friends, my world of reality, in which I have rested securely, has been shaken quite severely. I don't know what to believe anymore."
"Believe in Caitlin," Gale said sternly.
Treadwell studied her as if he could find hard truth behind her words and expression. "She truly is going after Cordas, then."
"Absolutely. And she will provoke him until he tries to kill her," Gale added.
"Which won't be too difficult," Indy offered. "Cordas won't hesitate to cut her down like a dog. One more killing won't mean a thing to him."
Gale's lips tightened. "He might find that more difficult than he anticipates."
Indy nodded in silent confirmation.
Which irritated Thomas Treadwell. He hated when the people he wanted to protect deliberately kept him in the dark.
Indy went through his flat to give it a meaningful defensive posture. He rigged a framework with steel rods by each high window, extending at an angle against the glass. Anyone trying to swing in by rope would be impaled as he came through the glass.
Only one door led from the flat to an outside corridor. Indy rigged an electrical line from a wall outlet so that when the power was on, just moving the door inward would ring an alarm bell he'd hung on the inside.
On the floor by the couch went his Webley revolver. He had only to drop his arm to have the gun in hand and aimed at the door. Then he rechecked Gale's—his—bedroom, closed the door, and sprawled on the couch.
Sleep eluded him. His mind whirled with the idea that Caitlin's sword and tunic possessed earth energies gathered from the planet itself. But how it all happened was a curious nut he had only partially cracked. He didn't know the transfer medium from the earth to the sword and tunic. But there was a key in what Gale had said to him; he reviewed her words.
Indiana Jones and the White Witch Page 13