The car was where it should be—but he did not know the two figures which were approaching him. He thrust a hand inside his leather coat and pulled out a stubby automatic and raised it. . . .
He did not fire. He saw a flash from the gun in the tall figure’s hand—and a great numbing blow took him in the shoulder and he spun around and fell. . . .
Consciousness came back to him—and then memory. He could not rise, but managed to prop himself up on an elbow. His gun was gone. He could not move: he could only watch.
He saw the shining silver plane, gleaming in the silver moonlight, move out of the hangar. . . .
He could not do anything: he could only watch. He saw the tail-lights gather speed and the silver tail itself flashing as the machine rushed away from him, bouncing jerkily over the shorn grass. . . .
And then, when the tail-lights were specks; when there came hope that the unknown pilot, not reckoning the weight of the extra petrol tanks, would not be able to clear the serried ranks of the pines which reared, suddenly, nine hundred yards away, like a monstrous barrier black against the moon-washed grass, he struggled somehow to his knees.
And then he saw the light-specks lift, and another flash of silver as the plane left the ground—and rose—and tilted sharply—and was over the tree-tops, almost scraping them—and began to climb less steeply—and made steadily eastward. . . .
America, dark and sleeping and quiet, unrolled its ever-changing immensity nine thousand feet beneath them.
Clare’s head was gently heavy against his shoulder, and Otto turned his head to peer at her. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was slow and deep.
He could not tell whether or not she slept.
He said softly: “Are you all right, Clare?”
She was not asleep. Her eyes opened and she looked up into his face.
She said: “Of course I am! How couldn’t I be?” Her voice was full and deep, and somehow richer than ever he had heard it.
“I’m much more than all right,” she said. “And I love you!” The voice changed a little. “Do you remember what he said, Nils? He said you’d win. He said you’d win—and you’ve won!”
“We have won,” Otto said.
15 CAPITOL
There was nothing in the news papers. Not even a reference to the strange radio calls from a stolen aeroplane which had electrified officials at the Washington Airport and through them not only the Police but also the topmost powers in the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Not even a mention—despite the forbidden chatter of airport, servants—of the strange reception accorded to the Lockheed Fourteen which made a perfect landing upon an outer runway and taxied to a standstill as police cars screamed out to surround it, followed by other cars in which were quiet men in civilian clothes, and yet others with men in uniforms of khaki. . . .
There was nothing in the papers—if by nothing is meant no connected and astounding ‘story.’ But there were many remarkable and apparently disconnected items of news, over the next three weeks or so, which, taken in conjunction with yet more remarkable omissions of news, crossed and dotted many T’s and I’s.
For instance: headlines screamed for twelve hours over the tragic death, caused by an accidental overdose of a sleeping-draught, of Mrs. Theodore Van Teller.
But: the hue and cry and general furore in California papers about the tragic firing of Los Robles died quickly away—and the strange talk and suspicions, which had been rife, came to nothing. . . .
For instance: Gunnar Bjornstrom was arrested upon charges kept secret for reasons of national importance and was held without bail. . . .
But: the death of Rudolph Altinger was attributed to accident—and there was no report whatsoever concerning certain other deaths. . . .
And there was no publicity, anywhere, concerning the marriage of Clare Katrina Ingolls to one Nils Jorgensen; nor any mention of the same Nils Jorgensen’s application for American citizenship. . . .
They did not leave Washington. They could not leave Washington because there was too much in Washington for Nils Jorgensen to do.
The day after his marriage, Nils was taken to an interview, also entirely unpublicized, which was the most momentous of his life. He came home and told his wife all about it; she kissed him and said:
“This is only the prologue, Nils.”