“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.