Free Airship Hunters by Jim Beard, Duane Spurlock Page A

it. In the middle of the length of fence was a gate. It was closed and padlocked.
    In front of the gate, and spilling out into the cobbled street, a throng of men in suits and hats milled about. In all, Valiantine counted at least twenty of them.
    “Reporters,” he said grimly. “It had to be reporters.”
    The duo stood where they’d stopped at the corner of a building across the street from the compound and assessed the small crowd in silence. Valiantine noticed the agitation that flitted about the group and wondered at it. Competition would cause that, of course, but there seemed to be an extra layer of unrest present. He turned to Cabot.
    “Word’s gotten out, apparently. This will make things more difficult.”
    “Carnavon doesn’t appear to have satisfied their curiosity,” Cabot remarked. “Can’t really blame him. Nasty creatures.”
    He appraised Valiantine with a raised eyebrow. “Back entrance?”
    “My thought exactly,” the lieutenant said.
    They turned and walked back the way they came, making a circuit around the block and coming up on its far side. From their new vantage point they could see a small alleyway that bordered Carnavon’s place, down which the high wooden fence continued.
    Crossing the street quickly yet still casually, they entered the mouth of the alley and made their way down it, looking for another way into the compound.
    “I suppose the reporters have already tried this,” Valiantine grumbled. He hoped all their missions would not be like this. He could see what was coming: roadblocks and hurdles. The writing was on the wall.
    “My guess is that they have,” Cabot said, “but perhaps they’ve been told they must wait outside the main gate.”
    “There.” The lieutenant pointed up ahead of them to a break in the length of fence. Sure enough, when they approached it, they saw it led to a small door in the side of the building. The door was metal, with one window set into it at eye level and darkened with crepe paper.
    Valiantine made a mock-graceful gesture at the portal. “After you,” he said to the Treasury man. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
    Cabot strode up to the door and applied a confident knock to it. Behind him, the lieutenant brushed lint off his coat and trousers.
    They waited a full minute before knocking again. Finally, the sound of someone approaching the door from inside came to them. A muffled voice called out.
    “Front gate! Not going to tell you again!”
    Cabot turned his head slightly to Valiantine and nodded, as if to say, I told you so .
    “Federal agents with credentials,” the young agent called out in return. “Please open this door.”
    After the sound of latches being thrown and a bolt pulled back, the door swung inward and a face materialized from the darkness beyond. It was a bespectacled man, his features sweaty and grimy. He blinked at the two agents, clearly confused.
    Both Cabot and Valiantine held up their new badges. The man squinted at them, trying to read the words embossed upon them.
    “Department A-13,” the Treasury man said soberly. “Aero-Marshals. We’d like to speak to Mr. Carnavon.”
    “He’s not seeing anyone at the moment,” the man said with a shake of his head. “I’m sorry, but I have it directly from him.”
    “And why would that be?” Cabot asked.
    “Why,” the man said as he blinked convulsively, “he’s about to speak, of course!”
     
    Back out on the street, they joined the crowd of reporters, feeling relatively certain they wouldn’t stand out much.
    Chewing on his distaste for the press, Valiantine discovered one pleasant surprise in the throng: a woman.
    Before he could study her comely features beyond a glance or two, a man came out from Carnavon’s building and, reaching between the gap between the gates, unlocked the padlock and removed the chains that held the gates in place.
    The lieutenant received an even greater surprise when another man stepped away from the building,