The Transatlantic Conspiracy (17 page)

Charles moaned, struggling against the shelf, and the crates that pinned the bomb in place. “It's no use,” he said, gasping for breath. “I can't move it. And if I can't move it, it's not moving until the bomb goes off.”

“What are we going to do?” Alix called. “They ran for cover but I can't hold them off forever.”

Rosalind just had to think. There had to be a solution. Something.

The speakers crackled to life once more. When the captain spoke this time, his voice betrayed unease, if not outright fear. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain
. . .
We will shortly be passing through Columbia Station, though we will not be stopping. We encourage you to look out your windows and admire the view as it passes by. Again, we apologize for any inconvenience.”

Rosalind narrowed her eyes. A germ of an idea began to form in her head. “New plan,” she announced. “We decouple the baggage car at Columbia Station, hit the manual break, and escape on a submersible. All in favor?”

Charles blinked at her. He shot another glance at the bomb.

“That's
. . .
not half bad, as horrible ideas go—”

“I like it,” Alix interrupted. She leaned against the door with her pistol raised, breathing heavily. “It is a good plan. In it, we do not die.”

“I have always regarded that as one measure of a good plan, yes,” Rosalind muttered.

“How do we do this?” Charles asked. “The cars are joined by the connecting passage. Someone will have to go out there, pull up the false floor, and unhitch the car.”

“I think the choice is obvious,” Rosalind said.

Charles nodded. He straightened his collar. With a shrug, he limped toward the door. “For King and Country,” he said. “If I fall—”

“Not you!” Rosalind exclaimed, grabbing him by the jacket. “Me. I need you and Alix to shoot at them so they don't kill me.”

“Ah, of course.” Charles hesitated, but he did not argue. He smiled. “For the Stars and Stripes?”

“For Women's Suffrage,” she replied without thinking, unable to keep from smiling back. “But mostly for survival.”

She pulled open the door and threw herself onto the floor of the passage. Gunfire erupted—loud and scattershot and terrifying, echoing with the cracks of impact on the walls and baggage. Amid the noise, she heard Alix call after her, “Rosalind! I am so very glad that we have become friends! Please do not die!”

I hope I don't.

Rosalind's heart pounded in her ears. Bullets whizzed back and forth over her head. Good thing she had paid some attention to her father's sketches: she knew exactly where the heavy metal pin was located—the one she needed to remove. Keeping as low to the ground as she could manage, she pulled up the floor panel to reach the coupling that connected the two cars. Holding her breath, she reached down, wincing in anticipation at each bump and bounce of the train. Then, with as much desperation as courage, she yanked the metal cylinder free.

“Pull the break!” she shouted, and grabbed for the nearest railing.

Chapter Eighteen

T
he baggage car jolted with a violent lurch. Rosalind heard the unmistakable squeal of the breaks engaging against the wheels at the very moment she was flung forward by the force of the sudden stop. Squeezing her eyes shut, she clung to the railing with all her might. Her legs were thrown out from under her and for a few horrible moments they kicked helplessly in the air. Her fingers burned. If she lost her grip, she would be dead: either from the impact or crushed beneath the baggage car as it skidded forward, slowing one bit at a time.

Finally, after an agonizing eternity that was probably less than ten seconds, Rosalind fell back onto the floor, numb and wide-eyed, as the baggage car skidded to a halt in the center of Columbia Station. Ahead of her, the train's roar vanished into the tunnel. It was probably moving even faster now
. . .
a good thing.

Rosalind sat on the edge of the car. Her gaze wandered to a large stone eagle that overlooked the tunnel entrance.

Damnable eagles
, she thought.
Germany. America. One can't escape eagles anywhere, even under the ocean.

She felt a hand on her shoulder: Charles stood over her. Still in a daze, she stood with his aid, swayed a little, and fell against him. She slowly touched his cheek with her hand, running her fingertips along it to be certain that he was real.

“Rosalind
. . .
” Charles began.

Rosalind rose onto her tiptoes and pulled Charles toward her, pressing her lips against his. She closed her eyes.

In that moment, all she could think of was the kiss. The kiss and Charles, and how well the two went together. Pulling away, she gazed into his eyes.

Then she slapped him across the face.

“I
. . .
What
. . .
?” Charles stammered. He rubbed his cheek and looked at her hand, and then at her. “What was that for?”

“For bringing a bomb on my father's train and for getting Cecily killed,” Rosalind said. “But not for the kiss. The kiss was lovely, if ill-timed.”

“But you kissed
me
—”

“Bomb!” Alix shouted from behind them.

Rosalind and Charles exchanged another glance.

Charles released her and said, “Yes, right. Time to escape.” He jumped to the ground and then took Rosalind by the waist and lifted her down. He did not, however, help Alix, who had to be helped down by Rosalind, after which Rosalind swatted Charles on the arm for being so rude.

“Now then, where are these submersibles?” Charles wondered aloud, looking around. “Dear God, I do not believe it.”

Rosalind followed his gaze.
Oh, no.
Bauer and his men were charging down the tunnel toward them. They must have decoupled their own car and made their way on foot.

“Run for it!” she shouted. She pushed Alix and Charles ahead of her and together they made for the nearest staircase. Bauer's men began firing, though at that distance there was little fear of being hit. The more pressing concern was the bomb. Rosalind had no idea how long it had been since the timer was activated. Somehow they had to get to one of the subs before
. . .

As she had that very thought, the baggage car exploded.

Rosalind was flung off her feet. The world turned to a deafening shower of fire and metal and disintegrated luggage. She struck the floor, hard. Dazed from the blast and the impact, she rolled onto her back and struggled to rise. The station spun around her. Funny: it was rather like Brandenburg Station, only with everything draped in red, white, and blue rather than black, white, and red.

No: it was exactly like the Brandenburg station, because the eagles were there, too.

Damnable eagles, indeed
.

Turning away in disgust, she looked up at a great statue of Columbia: America personified as a beautiful woman draped in Greek robes, wearing a Phrygian cap, bearing the flag in one hand, her other hand outstretched—leading her people onward to claim new lands that probably didn't belong to them.

She looks like Mother
, Rosalind realized.
Did Father do that on purpose? And why is the ceiling cracking?

The force of the bomb had fractured the glass paneling in countless places. Even now, water was beginning to flow in. It was only a matter of time before the whole thing collapsed on top of them.

“Come along, Rosalind!” Alix shouted at her.

The girl grabbed Rosalind by the arm and pulled her to her feet. Charles lay a few paces away, also dazed, but he shook his head a few times and managed to stumble to his feet.

Rosalind grabbed Charles's hand and dragged him along behind her as she raced up the stairs with Alix. Below them, Bauer and his men began sloshing through the ankle-deep water. Two of the other men seemed injured; they lagged behind. But Bauer broke away from the pack and took the stairs two at a time.

Through the upstairs gallery she dashed with Charles and Alix past murals depicting the glories of Manifest Destiny.

“
Rosalind,” Alix said, “do you recall how you laughed at all the German pageantry in Brandenburg, and how you promised I could do the same here?”

“Yes?” Rosalind gasped, almost out of breath.

“Ha.”

They turned a corner into the hallway with the escape subs. A bullet struck the wall behind Rosalind and ricocheted away. Glancing back, she saw Bauer throw his empty pistol away and clench his hands into fists.

Rosalind stopped at the nearest sub she could reach and began tugging on the airlock door's wheel. Charles joined her. Together they unlocked the door and heaved it open. The submersible inside was a long, boxy contraption shaped like a surface boat. It was furnished comfortably, almost like one of the lounges on the train, but with seats arranged in neat rows and only a few tables.

Not exactly the most efficient use of space, Rosalind noted, and she wondered just how many subs the station had to accommodate all of the passengers and crew. Because surely everyone was expected to be able to escape in an emergency, weren't they? But even as she posed the question to herself, she knew the answer. Survival was First Class Only.

Rosalind pushed Charles in first and then stumbled in after him. Unless this was part of Charles's spy training, she was the only person with any understanding of how the thing worked, so she would have to be the pilot. She dearly wished she had paid more attention when she had tested one with Father all those years ago.

Glancing back, she saw that Alix had not entered.

“Alix!” she cried. “Come on!”

“This is where we part company, Rosalind,” Alix said, smiling pleasantly. “But do not worry, we will meet again. I do enjoy your company and I would like to have another philosophical discussion
. . .
under less trying circumstances, of course.”

“Alix, what are you talking about?” Rosalind demanded, hurrying back through the sub toward the airlock. “There's plenty of room.” She saw Bauer come into sight behind Alix and all but screamed, “Alix! Come on!”

“Safe journey, Rose,” Alix said.

With that, she gave the door a shove. The last thing Rosalind saw before the airlock closed completely was Alix, smiling wickedly, slowly turning to face Bauer as she pulled a hatpin from her hair.

Chapter Nineteen

T
he door closed with a heavy clang.

“Alix!” Rosalind shouted again.

But it was too late.

At the helm, Charles strapped himself into one of the seats. He looked at the array of controls around him and held up his hands.

“I don't know what button to push,” he said.

The urgency in his voice brought Rosalind back to the moment. Whatever became of Alix, they had to get away before the station collapsed.

She squeezed in next to Charles and looked over the controls. The array of brass levers, buttons, and dials were designed to confuse an intruder. Why someone would want to confuse anyone in the event of emergency, she hadn't realized until now—
Father might want everyone to sink.
She could just picture her father, poring over these details for security's sake. She took a deep breath, fighting to remember the launch sequence.

Top-right lever: up. Middle-level middle button: press. Bottom-middle dial: a turn to the left
. . .

No.

She swallowed, ignoring Charles's stare. Father had designed the procedure out of sequence
. . .

Top right lever: up. Bottom-middle dial: a turn to the left. Middle-level middle button: press—

The engine hummed to life. Water flooded the airlock.

“You did it, Rose,” Charles said. He didn't sound surprised, or even relieved. He sounded as if this were expected.

The outer doors opened.

At that moment, she relaxed. Charles de Vere—the man, the fool, the aristocrat, the spy—had expected nothing less of her. So she'd deliver nothing less. She'd steered this type of vehicle plenty of times. With sure hands and feet on the levers and pedals, navigating thrust and attitude, she maneuvered the submersible out into the ocean and up toward the surface, always mindful of the pressure gauge.

At first she concentrated on getting clear of the station, but once they were safely away, a perverse curiosity overtook her. She twisted the craft around to watch Columbia in its death throes.

The glass panels gave way first, shattering in a chaotic torrent. Then, as the water poured in, the metal structure began to buckle. After that, the entire ceiling gave way, collapsing beneath the unstoppable weight of the ocean. The observation lights on its surface flickered and went dim, leaving the station to die in darkness.

Rosalind's throat caught. Anger surged through her.

Goodbye, Alix
, she said silently.

Struggling to focus, she activated the command to surface. As the submersible drifted upward through the dark water, she spotted movement. She craned her neck at an odd angle to catch sight of whatever it was. It was almost certainly another escape sub.

But who was aboard? Was it Alix? Or was it Bauer and his men?

As Rosalind watched, the other submersible seemed to set down on something dark and indistinct.

It took Rosalind a few more moments of staring to realize what she saw. It was the great, long beast she had observed from the train at the beginning of the journey.

The thing was not a whale. It was a submarine. A submarine larger than any Rosalind had ever heard of or certainly seen, larger than any she could even imagine.

She sat back in her chair, gripping the armrests. She tried to fathom who or what could have built a machine so large, and what they could possibly want.

A few minutes later, the submersible occupied by her and Charles broke through the water and into the air above.

Beside her, Charles gave a loud gasp of relief.

“My God,” he said, “for a while there I feared I'd never see the surface again. Where are we?”

Rosalind took a few deep breaths herself and tried to make sense of things.

“We should be off the coast of Long Island,” Rosalind said. She looked through the nearest windows and finally spotted the outline of land, barely visible against the starry sky.

“There,” she said, pointing. “We should be able to make landfall within a few minutes.”

“Hmm.” Charles did not look pleased at that prospect. “What sort of distance can these things travel?”

Rosalind shrugged. “I have no idea, though they
are
designed to get people from the middle of the North Atlantic to land somewhere, so probably quite far.”

“Could we make it to Canada?”

“I expect so,” Rosalind said. She narrowed her eyes. “Why
. . .
?”

“Under the circumstances, I think I'd rather not be answering any questions for the German or the American authorities. Not until I've had time to report in to my father.”

“ ‘Under the circumstances'
. . .
” Rosalind repeated.

“Yes?”

She shook her head. Her eyes fell. She stared at her hands. “I don't even know if the train reached New York in time. All those people might be dead because of us.”

Charles rose from his chair and pulled Rosalind into his arms. “They must have,” he assured her. “The train was moving so quickly, and it took a while for the station to flood. They'll be safe and sound, you'll see.”

“I wish I believed that.” Rosalind rested her cheek against Charles's shoulder. “I am
very
angry with you, Charles de Vere,” she murmured. “I want you to know that.”

“I'm not all that pleased with myself at the moment. I never intended for it to happen that way. And I certainly never meant for you to be dragged into it all or for Cecily to
. . .
to
. . .
” His voice quivered a little and he fell silent.

Rosalind held Charles, wondering to herself whether she dared ever trust him again. So many lies, so much deception. And yet, her feelings for him
. . .
She pulled away. Now was not the time for self-doubt. Now was the time for clear thinking.

“Charles
. . .
” she said.

“Mmm?”

“Do you suppose Alix was telling the truth about that second tunnel?”

There was a long pause and then Charles said, “I don't want it to be true, but I suspect that it is.”

“That's what I thought.”

She needed to know the truth. A pity her father wasn't there: she had questions for him, and she sorely wished to give him a piece of her mind. All of this was
his
fault. If it hadn't been for his damnable armaments scheme, none of this would have happened. Cecily and Doris would still be alive; she would be on her way home with them.

Only Father wasn't there. He was in New York, awaiting the triumphant arrival of his Transatlantic Express. He was in for a nasty surprise. But Rosalind doubted that even the loss of the railway would stop him for long. If there really was a second tunnel, nothing had changed. Father would still eagerly deliver American munitions to whatever European power needed them, even more eagerly now, with the legitimate business slowly sinking to the bottom of the Atlantic
. . .

Father wouldn't just profit from war. Father would want one.

But perhaps there was a way for her to protest. And in the sweetest of ironies, Father's meticulous attention to detail would provide the means for her voice to be heard. All of the Transatlantic submersibles had been equipped with wireless transmitters to send distress calls.

Rosalind glanced at the control panel and quickly located the radio operator's station. She pulled away from Charles and switched the transmitter on.

“What are you doing?” Charles asked.

Rosalind scribbled a quick message on the operator's notepad and began transcribing it into Morse code. “I'm sending a letter to my father.”

“You realize anyone listening to our frequency can intercept the message,” Charles pointed out.

“Don't worry; I won't say anything about you.”

Charles smirked. He placed his hand over hers. “I'm more concerned about you, Rose. The newspapers are bound to learn about this.”

“I am counting on it,” Rosalind told him.

She switched on the wireless and hesitated for a moment, her finger hovering over the key. Father was going to be furious at her. Who knew how he would react to being publicly rebuked by his own daughter? It was terrifying. But it was also liberating.

Steeling herself, Rosalind began to transmit:

 

To: Mr. Alexander Wallace

c/o the Transatlantic Railway Company

New York

 

Dear Father,

Warmest regards from the cold Atlantic. My stay in London was wonderful. My journey on your train was not. I have given your best wishes to Lord and Lady Exham, but they are unable to return them, having just suffered a horrifying tragedy. They have you to thank for it. Your secret is not as safe as you thought it was.

 

Thank you for the ticket on the Transatlantic Express. I wore a hat and dressed respectably. I was nearly killed. Was that part of being the family's representative?

 

I know what you are doing.

 

Your loving daughter,

Rosalind

 

P.S. The public will judge you.

 

Rosalind repeated the message three times for good measure before sinking back into her chair in a sort of daze. She should have been terrified. Perhaps she was terrified. But she was also elated, dizzy with excitement. This
was
freedom—release from the anger she felt at the lies and betrayal and murder through a single message to the man responsible for it all.

Beside her, Charles looked over the message. He blinked a few times, and then he placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Your father will be furious at this,” he said.

“I am counting on that, too.”

“He might disown you.”

“I don't care. I don't care anymore.” Rosalind looked at Charles, her hands clenched into fists. “If he was willing to transport armaments—”

“He's not the man you thought he was?” Charles ventured.

Rosalind shook her head. “He is exactly the man I thought he was: a vicious, self-serving profiteer. All my life I have been lying to myself about that. I think I'm finally admitting what I knew all along.”

“Do you think there really is a second tunnel?”

“Only one way to find out,” Rosalind said. “Have a seat. We are going investigating.”

Charles strapped himself into his chair. “Are you certain about this?” he asked, but he'd started to smile.

“Not particularly,” Rosalind said, pressing on the lever for descent as the blue-green water rushed up over the windows. “But I want some answers. It seems the only way I'm getting them is by finding them myself.”

And with that, she plunged the submersible back into the murky depths.