Atlantis

DALE DASSEL
Across the room, Karl and Torsten watched the pair closely. They
had been following the Americans since sunrise, shadowing them
to the airport from Sophia Hapgood’s mid-town flat. Jones had
arrived by taxi cab, which indicated that he was not romantically
involved with the woman, although he seemed to regard her with
familiarity. According to the intelligence dossier provided by
Kerner, they had been colleagues in Iceland ten years previous
when Jones was field supervisor on the Jastro dig. Hapgood was
his assistant. They separated after the 1929 expedition, without
further contact or communication until now.
Consulting the profile, Torsten knew that Hapgood was
allegedly a clairvoyant medium with a passion for Atlantis lore,
while Jones was a certified archaeologist and tenured professor at
Barnett College, in upstate New York. He wanted to know more
about him to help anticipate any further trouble they might expect,
but the rest of Jones’ file was classified. Kerner, in typical fashion,
only gave them what minimal information was required for their
mission. They would have to regard Jones with caution until they
could learn more about him, because he would not underestimate
the American again.
An announcement broadcast over the intercom sent the room
into a burst of activity as passengers began to gather up their things
and move to the exit. Karl tapped him on the shoulder, nodding at
the redhead, who swatted the brim of Jones’ hat, and berated him
for being so lazy. The Abwehr agents were on their feet at once,
following the couple at a safe distance lest Jones recognize them
from their previous encounter. They trailed them to the boarding
gate, handed their passes to the smiling flight attendant without a
word, and moved outside to the waiting plane.
“What’s wrong with you, Indy? Don’t you want to see the
scenery?” Sophia asked as the newly-christened Yankee Clipper
taxied down the channel of the Long Island Sound.
“Sorry, I didn’t get much sleep last night,” Indy replied from the
seat beside her, his fedora pulled low over his eyes once more.
He’d resumed his nap immediately after boarding the plane from
the marine terminal dock.
“This is an historic occasion. We’re the first passengers ever to
fly on this plane!”
Indy didn’t share her enthusiasm. “I’m here. Isn’t that enough?”
“But you’re not enjoying the moment!”
“Yes I am. Just wake me up when we get there.”
The massive Boeing 314 accelerated into the wind under the
screaming thrust of four Wright Twin Cyclone radial engines,
rising from the water in a spray of cascading white foam. The
aluminum-skinned airliner gleamed in the late morning sunlight,
winging its way east for the tropical Azores Islands, where a
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