Lieutenant Larko, or Blatz as he was known to his American friends, wanted to get his visit to the American headquarters of the Gerka over as soon as possible. He did not look forward to it with pleasure and was anxious to return to his friends. The deeper he got into the intrigue the less he liked the mission which had been assigned to him by the dictator of Rubania.

On leaving the hotel, he sank back in the cushions of the taxicab and marveled at the dexterity of the driver, who guided his car between the moving streams of traffic with amazing skill. They worked away from the mid-town section, getting over on the east side where the streets were narrower, the lights dimmer and the pavement rough and bumpy.

Occasionally the gleam of the headlights of another car flashed in the mirror over the driver’s head, but Blatz thought nothing of it until the driver leaned back as he slowed for a turn.

“There’s another cab been following us ever since we left the hotel,” he said. “Want me to try and shake them?”

“Not right now,” replied Blatz. “Keep going; I’ll watch them.”

He turned and looked out the rear window. There was no mistake on the part of the driver; another machine was following, making every turn they did, maintaining the same speed and keeping about a block to the rear. Had the American secret service become suspicious of him and placed him under surveillance?

The thought alarmed Blatz and he ordered the driver to attempt to lose the pursuing machine. For fifteen minutes they turned and twisted from one street to another, darted through alleys and doubled back onto thoroughfares. At last the lights of the other machine vanished and Blatz felt sure that they had lost their pursuers.

He gave the order to continue to the address he had given the driver and relaxed again. He would be glad to get back to the hotel and rejoin his friends.

The American headquarters of the Gerka were located on the fifth floor of a warehouse building on the east side, a district which was anything but reassuring after dusk had fallen. Street lights cast their feeble rays at infrequent intervals and there was no traffic on the street. One dusty electric globe hung in the little cubby which was marked “watchman’s office.”

“Want me to wait?” asked the taxi driver.

“That’s not necessary,” replied Blatz. “I’ll call a cab when I’m ready to return.”

The taxi lurched down the street and Blatz walked up to the watchman’s window.

The password of the Gerka was in Rubanian and Blatz spoke a guttural phrase.

The watchman, a middle aged man with distinct Rubanian features, stepped to a phone and made sure that Blatz was really an agent of the Gerka. Informed that the newcomer was to be shown to the headquarters, he took Blatz into the dim confines of the building and showed him into a freight elevator. They were lifted slowly to the fifth floor and when the door opened, Blatz stepped out into a comfortably furnished suite of rooms.

A secretary took his number and mission and five minutes later he was ushered into the inner chamber, to face Lothar Vendra, head of the American branch of the Gerka.

Vendra was an impressive individual. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and handsome in a bitter sort of way.

“I am most happy to greet you,” he told Blatz, extending his hand in welcome.

“I am happy to be here,” replied Blatz, with an enthusiasm that he did not honestly feel.

“Sit down,” motioned Vendra, “and tell me all that has happened since you arrived at Bellevue and how you happen to be in New York at this time.”

Blatz recounted in detail the events that had taken place since he had arrived at the home of the Goliath. When he mentioned the name of Boris Dubra, the mechanic who had been wounded in his attempt to damage the Goliath’s hangar, Vendra’s face clouded with anger.

“I had heard of that,” he said. “Dubra was a fool. We are just as well off without him. You will be able to accomplish the task alone.”

“I’m not so sure that I will fulfill my mission,” replied Blatz.

“What’s that?” demanded Vendra.

“I have a feeling that the Americans, especially Andy High, are suspicious,” explained Blatz. “When I left the hotel a few minutes ago I was followed and only by the amazing dexterity of my taxi driver was I able to elude my pursuer.”

“You must have been mistaken,” insisted Vendra. “Your papers are in perfect order.”

“I was not mistaken,” said Blatz, clearly and decisively. “Every precaution must be taken or I will find myself in an American military prison.”

“I agree that you must be careful,” admitted Vendra, “but His Excellency is most anxious that the Goliath be destroyed at once. In his latest communication he especially stressed this point. This air monster must never become the king of the skies!”

The words came to Blatz through a mist of memories. He could see the silver sides of the Goliath as the great ship lay in its hangar, hear the tap of hammers and cries of the workmen as they rushed it to completion, see the pride and joy in Andy’s eyes as the young engineer looked at the great skycraft he had helped to create. And his job was to destroy all this. The airman in him rebelled and Vendra, sensing the emotional conflict, moved closer.

“Remember,” he warned. “You are a Rubanian, a member of the Gerka, who is pledged to duty even unto death!”

Blatz nodded dismally. There was no getting away from the facts. He would have to destroy the Goliath.

“You may inform His Excellency,” he said, “that I will do my best.”

He was about to leave when a buzzer rang sharply. Vendra seized the telephone and a look of alarm came over his face.

“There’s trouble down at the entrance,” he said. “The watchman just found a man prowling around. He knocked him out and is bringing him up here.”

Andy’s pursuit of the German observer had not been successful for his driver had finally lost the cab in the maze of quick turns Blatz’s driver had made after being ordered to shake off pursuit.

But Andy was not easily discouraged and he ordered his own taxi to return to the street on which they had been when Blatz had started his zig-zig tactics. There was a possibility that the cab he sought might return and continue its journey from that point. His hunch was correct and within ten minutes the machine he had lost rolled down the street. This time his driver put out his lights and they followed, Andy in the meantime having agreed to fend off any police charges that might be brought for running without lights.

He was less than two hundred yards away when Blatz entered the warehouse and Andy was slipping into the building when the night watchman returned and caught him.

The challenge was in Rubanian, a language unfamiliar to Andy. He replied in American, explaining that he was looking for a friend who was to meet him at that address.

The explanation failed to satisfy the watchman, who ordered Andy out. The watchman was too anxious to get rid of him and Andy refused to leave. The attack followed almost instantly, and the burly watchman hurled himself at the slender airman with surprising speed.

Taken unaware, Andy went down in a heap. He struggled to his feet and turned to face the next rush by the watchman. He partially fended off the first blow but another, starting low and coming up with tremendous force, caught him on the point of the chin. His knees wobbled, a mist clouded his eyes, his mouth was strangely dry and he had a sensation of falling from a great height. Then a curtain of darkness descended.

The watchman picked him up carried him into the elevator, and finally walked into Vendra’s office with the unconscious Andy in his arms.

Blatz started back in white-faced amazement.

“Is he badly hurt?” he asked.

“No,” grunted the watchman. “He’ll come around in a few minutes. He struck his head against a door sill when I knocked him down.”

“This is terrible,” said Blatz. “Now Andy’s suspicions of me will be confirmed. It will be no use for me to return to Bellevue after this.”

“What do you mean?” asked Vendra.

“Just this,” explained Blatz. “Your bulldog watchman here has knocked out Andy High, son of Charles High, executive vice president of the National Airways who is in charge of the building of the Goliath. Andy is my ‘chaperon’ at Bellevue and the only one who has appeared to be suspicious of me. He must have followed me from the hotel.”

Vendra was silent for a minute, pondering the situation which confronted them.

“It is regrettable,” he said. “You must return to Bellevue to fulfill your mission of destroying the Goliath, the air monster.”

“But I can’t go back now,” protested Blatz.

“Return to your hotel at once,” said Vendra.

“When anyone asks where you have been, tell them on a long taxi ride through the city and Central Park.”

“Andy will never believe such a story,” protested Blatz.

“He won’t be able to disprove it,” countered Vendra. “As soon as you leave I’ll take him out of here. We’ll leave him in another street before he recovers consciousness. He’ll never be able to find his way back here and you’ll make a complete denial if he ever openly accuses you. It is ticklish, I admit, but it is the only way out.”

Blatz finally agreed and hastened from the room, to return at once to the hotel where he found Bert and Harry waiting.

“Where’s Andy?” asked Bert.

“I don’t know,” replied Blatz. “I’ve been on a long taxi ride.” Which, he told himself, was quite true.

An hour later Andy arrived in a cab, his clothes so dirty and disheveled that he attracted open attention as he walked through the fashionable lobby of the hotel. The clerks eyed him with disgust but they dared not protest at his appearance. When he appeared in his room, he was greeted with exclamations of astonishment.

“What under the sun happened to you?” asked Bert. “Did a taxi walk all over you?”

“Something, hit me,” said Andy, “while I was down on the east side. The next thing I knew I was lying in a street and a policeman was shaking me. I finally convinced him that I was sane and sober, and he let me come back here. I haven’t figured it out just yet; my head’s too dizzy.”

He looked straight at Blatz when he added:

“But I have a hunch I’ll get it straight when I get over this headache.”