The train let Turtle and Ehioze off at Agata's father's office. They stepped through the portable door, and the world tilted slightly as they stepped into the study, still ransacked. Turtle motioned for silence.
The house seemed empty.
"We have to find someone. He controls the tracks. I don't know
where he is now, but I want to grab a map first. Maybe it will show us where they took Agata."
Turtle rummaged through the piles of papers until he found the map he had used when he decoded Mr. Llorente's message. It was still there, a little worse for wear, but intact.
He looked at it closely.
There was the whole of Europe, stop after stop. Some of the names were too big to fit on the map and were coded with numbers. Turtle noticed they were all prime, and "411" was somewhere in Russia, near Moscow. Was that 411's station? Or did it just connect to a longer list of stations elsewhere? Turtle didn't know and didn't have time to find out. They'd be on their way to the station soon enough.
"Whose home is this?" asked Ehioze. "It is very messy."
"It's Agata's. They broke everything here looking for something. Something we have."
"That thing you had? That made the ghost train?"
"Yes. They're bad men," said Turtle.
"There are always bad men in the camps. The bad outnumber the good too many times," said Ehioze. "But the good always win." He looked at the map, his fingers moving from station to station until he came to their camp on the heel of Italy's boot.
"That's where we were, yes?"
"Yes," said Turtle. He ran his finger over to Barcelona and pointed at the center of the city. "Now we're here."
"But how?" asked Ehioze.
"I have no idea."
Turtle scanned the map. Moscow? Is that where he would go?
411? Could he just say "411" and he'd go there? He doubted it. 411 was a code, not a station name. It was too risky.
Then, on the corner of the map, Turtle noticed a hand-written notation.
Didn't the Nayzun say that's where he was going? But why a Hangar? Where was it?
As they went over the map, they heard a train roll into the portable station. The door was ajar, and they heard someone move off the train, heavy shoes clomping on the stone floor.
Turtle looked around in a panic.
"Lads, lads, don't be afraid," said Mr. Adams, one of Mr. Goode's henchmen, from inside the station. "A chat, that's all."
Turtle slammed the door and wedged a broken wooden chair under the handle. Then Turtle closed the hasp and put an open padlock into the hole. The men on the other side pushed and pushed but couldn't get through.
Gunshots—three of them in quick succession. Then Mr. Adams began to try the door. He couldn't get it open. The chair held.
"We need to move this door. We have to get it out of here." "Is it heavy?" asked Ehioze.
"I guess we'll find out."
It was, they found, very heavy.
YOU ARE READING
Imagine if, right now, clattering underneath your feet was a secret train system that could take you anywhere in minutes. Imagine a trip full of mystery and excitement from New York to Barcelona to the wind-swept coast of Italy to the edge of space...