Indy grunted, sipping coffee. "Studied most of the night."
"All fired up to get at the controls, no?"
"Something wrong with that?" Indy challenged.
"Perish the thought. I admire your spirit. Where's Colonel Blimp?"
Cromwell slouched into the room, wobbled before the coffee urn, filled his mug, and dragged himself to the table.
He eased into a chair. "I tried your guaranteed, moneyrefunded, can'tmiss wakeup system, Professor Jones."
"I would like to hear what that is," Foulois said.
Cromwell looked at the Frenchman. "He," he started, pointing at Indy, "said the way to come awake is to stand bloody naked in the toilet bowl and pour hot coffee over your head. I tried it. My scalp is scalded, the hair is burned off my chest, and not a drop made it down to my feet. The only problem is that while it is somewhat agonizing, it doesn't wake you up. It just sent me rushing into a cold shower."
Indy nodded to Foulois. "See? It works." He turned back to Cromwell. "Drink coffee. Eat if you can. Then we fly"
"Ah, but you are to be disappointed," Foulois said with a gesture of defeat.
"Not today, mon ami. Have you looked upon the world outside?"
Indy stomped into the hangar and headed for a window. Before he reached it he knew the bad news. A hissing roar, a sudden flash of light, and a deafening crack of
thunder from the lightning bolt. At the window he stared at a monsoonlike downpour.
He stomped back into the mess. "All right," he said grimly to Cromwell,
"we'll do ground school then."
"Not with me, bucko," Cromwell deferred. "I've got a schedule to keep with our iron bird. But first I'm going to get some more sleep. Then I'll fill in the missing items we should have put on our checklist."
"Like what?" Indy demanded.
"For starters, parachutes," Cromwell said.
"Life jackets," Foulois added.
"Survival rations," Cromwell chipped in. "Never mind. We'll take care of it. I'm sure Miss Parker, now identified as our secret ace flyer, can teach you some of the salient points of aeronautics."
Colonel Henshaw joined them in the midst of their exchange. He held his coffee mug to warm his hands. "No schoolwork for you today, Indy."
"Schoolwork! Is that what you call flight training?"
"Every bird must be dumped from its nest, Professor." Cromwell smiled.
"We all went through it, Indy," Henshaw said to mollify the obviously disgruntled Jones. "I know I did when I was a flight cadet."
Indy glared at the group. "Does everyone around here fly except me?"
Tarkiz lifted his head from the next table where he seemed to have been sound asleep. "Indy, my good friend! You, me, we are only two sane people here. We leave flying to the birds and the crazies. Sensible, no? Allah wants us to fly, we would have airline tickets from heaven."
Foulois looked at Belem with surprised respect. "And I always thought the mountain man was a humorless clod." Indy waved them to silence. "Harry, what's up?"
"Coded message." The quiet hung in the room. A coded message and Henshaw's unexpected appearance meant something heavy had come upon them.
"The prefix is notification of a yet unspecified action," Henshaw continued.
"Some travel, it appears. That's simply to alert us. I mean, you."
"And?"
"We're decoding the full message. Finish your coffee. We have at least twenty minutes."
"Who's it from, Harry?"
"First I need to know your handle."
Eyes locked on Henshaw, then turned to Indy. "No offense," Henshaw said quickly. "Those are your rules."
Indy smiled. "Very good, Harry." He had set up the system with Treadwell.
He wrote the coded "handle" on a slip of paper and handed it to the army officer.
Henshaw read, Lone Banger. "Thank you."
Twenty minutes later they were in the message center. A sergeant handed the decoded sheet to Henshaw, who glanced at the name on top and in turn gave it to Indy.
MUST SEE YOU IN PERSON SOONEST POSSIBLE. FACETOFACE
MEETING IMPERATIVE. WE HAVE RECEIVED OFFER
FROM THE PANARAB ARCHEOLOGICAL INSTITUTE OF JORDAN TO
SELL US AN EXTREMELY RARE
ARTIFACT. DESCRIPTION IS CUBE, METALLIC ORIGIN UNKNOWN, UNDECIPHERED CUNEIFORM MARKINGS, THREE BY THREE INCHES. YOUR
JUDGMENT REQUIRED. FUTURE ACTION REQUIRES YOUR PRESENCE
BEFORE WE RESPOND. ADVISE ASAP WITH TRAVEL PLANS. ST.
JOSEPH.
Indy gave the paper to Henshaw. He read it quickly, then looked up with a puzzled expression. "St. Joseph?"
"That's St. Joseph of Copertino. A monk who could levitate. It's the handle for Castilano."
"He's one of us?" Henshaw was wideeyed.
"Sure is. Harry, they want me there now. I want Gale along as another set of eyes, with Tarkiz for backup. How long will it take the Ford to make it to New York? That seems like the fastest way."
"No dice, Indy. Even the birds are walking. That weather front, and it's a mean one, has stalled out over this area. I can get you two compartments on the Silver Streak Special. Fastest train in the country. It leaves this afternoon and you'll be in New York tomorrow morning. I can also have private transportation arranged. I'll have the details ready for you in an hour."
Indy nodded. "Thanks. Do it."
"You," Indy said through gritted teeth, "are sleeping with me."
Gale responded with a joke. "Do I take that as an order or an invitation?"
"You know what I mean," Indy snapped back. "I don't want you sleeping alone."
"So I gathered. But your technique is somewhat Stone Age, just in case you're interested."
"Confound it, woman, I'm not asking you to sleep with me!"
Gale studied her nails. "You could have fooled me."
"With me, too," Tarkiz grunted. "Sound like invitation to—"
"Shut up," Indy snarled, stabbing a finger at Tarkiz. He turned back to Gale.
"You are not going to sleep alone in a compartment on this train. Take that as an order if you want. You'll sleep in one bunk and I'll sleep in the other. We have a direct telephone connection with Compartment E right next door where Tarkiz will be staying. We can be in touch with each other at any time. Do I make myself clear now?"
"You disappoint me, Professor," Gale said lightly, "but, yes, I get your drift."
"We'll stay out here in the passageway while you do whatever you do at night," Indy told her. "When you're ready, open the door. If you don't open it in five minutes, we'll break our way in."
She studied him carefully, the teasing gone from her words and her expression. "You really are concerned," she said softly.
He nodded. By now she could recognize the signs on his face, the slight furrowing of the brow, his heightened tension.
It's more than a sixth sense . . . my God, he knows we're vulnerable. He's expecting something bad tonight.
"All right," she told him quietly. "Whatever you say. I don't need to be in the compartment alone." She swiftly drew a conclusion. "I'm sleeping in my clothes."
Indy seemed relieved. "Good. Tarkiz, you all set?"
The Kurd nodded. He waited until Indy and Gale had closed their door behind them, then switched the nameplates on their door with that from his own. He slipped into his compartment, and tried the telephone line to confirm its working.
Then he tied a string about his own door latch, at the end of which was a small prayer bell. Its sound was barely audible, but to the man who had prayed all his life to the sound of that bell, it would serve as an instant alert to any movement of the door latch. He smiled.
Shortly after three in the morning, the train rolling steadily through the stormy night, he heard the whispered sound of his prayer bell. Immediately he moved to one side of the door, just before it opened smoothly. In the gloom he made out two forms. The moment the door
closed behind them, Tarkiz flung his net, studded with fishhook
s, over their bodies. Shouts and cries of pain answered the hard yank he gave to the net, sending barbs into flesh. Tarkiz moved swiftly with a flexible metal rod, bringing it down with terrible force. He turned for a moment, and shoved open the compartment window.
Above the yelps of pain and cursing from the men struggling within the net, he heard pounding on the door. He shouted, "I be right there! I—"
A knife blade stabbed into his leg, a white fire of pain. Tarkiz ignored the wound as one man freed himself from the net, looming before Tarkiz with the knife stabbing downward. It never reached the maddened Kurd. A single sideswipe with the metal rod smashed the knife into the wal.
Indy kicked open the door, the Webley in his hand, just in time to see Tarkiz heaving his attacker through the opened window space. In an instant he was gone, the train speeding onward. He turned to see the other assassin bringing down a curved blade.
Indy was already there, smashing the barrel of the Webley across the man's wrist. Bone cracked audibly, and the man screamed. Tarkiz spun about, but as he grabbed for the man his wounded leg gave way and he fell to all fours.
Indy moved forward, grasped a handful of hair and the belt of the killer, and hurled the man through the window.
Gale slipped past Indy and snapped on the lights. In a moment she took in the bloody leg. "Tear me some bandages from the sheets," she ordered Indy. She helped Tarkiz to his bunk. "Your whiskey. Quickly," she told him.
"Whiskey? I do not—"
"Shut up and give me the flask," she snapped.
Silently, he handed her the flask from his pocket. She put it onto the bunk, soaked a towel in the sink, and washed away the blood. Indy had already tied a tourniquet above the wound. Gale opened the flask and poured whiskey into the wound to sterilize the exposed flesh, then wrapped the makeshift bandages about the wound.
"Only woman would waste good whiskey," Tarkiz complained. But his eyes showed his gratitude.
"So you changed the nameplates?"
Tarkiz nodded. "It worked, no?"
"You have any idea who they were?"
"Brown skin. One had turban. That means they were professional assassins.
Somebody not like you, Indy."
"Yeah. I must have missed out on the popularity contest. By the way, that's a neat trick with that net of yours."
Tarkiz beamed through his pain. "Old Roman trick. Very old. Also popular with Mafia."
"With me, too," Gale added.
"Well, the lock on your door is gone," Indy observed. "You'd better stay with us the rest of the night."
"No need. I sit here on bunk so I can see door." He reached behind his back and withdrew a sleek .32 automatic from a concealed holster. "Besides, Gale is good woman. She does not waste all my whiskey. Sometimes I like to drink alone. Good night."
"Gale, take the upper berth."
She climbed up and sat crosslegged. "How did those people know who we were, where we were on this train, when we'd be here?"
He smiled. "You haven't figured there's a big fat leak in our security?"
"I have now," she said angrily. "Any ideas?"
"Some," he shrugged. "I'm working on it."
"But why would they want to kill you?"
"Us," he reminded her.
She shuddered.
"They'd have to kill you also," he went on, checking the Webley. "We're a team. If they don't get you, they could be identified later. So, you're also a target."
"You still didn't say why they want to kill you. Us," she amended.
"Tomorrow."
"You expect a lot tomorrow."
He nodded.
"Indy, you can't go around New York with that cannon hanging from your belt."
"I know." He was already removing the Webley from the belt holster to slip it into an underarm holster.
Abruptly he slammed a fist into his hand. "Sometimes I feel like an idiot. I've been carrying that thing loaded and ready to shoot, and I never took any pictures when I had the chance. Those people in Tarkiz's room, I mean."
"That's bothering you? You didn't take pictures? Just saving our lives wasn't enough? You're upset because you didn't use your camera?"
"That's what cameras are for!"
She sighed. "Good night, Indy." He heard a muttered "Good grief . . ."
They moved through Pennsylvania Station in the midst of the early morning crowd rush. Normally, Indy disliked being shuffled along with cattle herds of people, but this time it served his purpose by swallowing up his group of three.
Indy and Gale walked together, Tarkiz several steps behind them, maintaining their pace despite a swollen leg and a painful limp. They departed the station on the north side, where a long line of taxicabs queued up. Indy saw what he wanted across the street: a Yellow Cab with the number 294 on its side. He nodded to Tarkiz.
"That one's ours."
"His sign says he's taken," Gale noticed.
"He is. By us," Indy said in clipped tones. The driver leaned back and opened their door. Inside, they took stock of the man in the front seat. He was a huge black fellow with a heavy beard and dark glasses that concealed his eyes, and he spoke with a melodious British accent. "Welcome to New York," he said with a hearty laugh.
Gale nudged Indy and mouthed the word Jamaica. He nodded.
The big man before them adjusted his rearview mirror. "You are right, miss.
Jamaica it is." Laughter greeted her expression of surprise. "I do not read minds, Miss Parker. I read lips very well."
"And you know my name," Gale said cautiously.
"But of course!" came the reply. "Yours, and that of Professor Jones, and that very ugly fellow with the strange name of Tarkiz Belem. Ugly with a strange name.
His mother must not have liked him very much."
Tarkiz started forward. Indy motioned for him to sit quietly. Whoever this man was, he was incredibly cocky and selfconfident. "You were sent, no doubt, by the man from Copertino," Indy offered, referring to the coded message Henshaw had given him.
White teeth flashed in a wider smile. "Saint Joseph has assigned me to your good health and needs. My name is Jocko Kilarney. While you are in New York, I am your guide, your friend, your driver, and your protector."
Indy felt right about this man. He was big and he was powerful, and even under his shirt musculature rippled across huge shoulders. Indy would have bet a dollar to a dime he also knew his way about the sordid underworld of this city.
"By the way, Professor, your man, this big ugly fellow with you, he is really very good," said the driver. "Sometime this morning two bodies were found along the railroad tracks over which your train brought you here. Before you find the need to ask, Professor, they were both quite dead, and neither body had any identification.
The police will simply dispose of the bodies in Potter's Field."
"What's that?" Gale whispered.
"Cemetery for the unknown and unwanted," Indy said to Gale. He directed his attention to the driver. "Any connections of any kind?"
"Nobody knows anything, mon, and you may forget about anyone claiming those two." He turned to look at Indy and Tarkiz. "That was quite a technique. I admire efficiency. A net studded with fishhooks. Very original."
He started the engine and depressed the clutch to shift into first gear.
Indy felt pressure from Tarkiz's hand, a signal. Indy nodded. The big man was still steaming from Kilarney's playful insults, and Indy decided to let him have his head.
"Hey, you fellow, Jocko!" Tarkiz called out.
"What may I do for you, goatkeeper?"
"You listen to me, black Irish, maybe you live longer."
"Do I hear the voodoo drums, llama man?"
"Soon you no more hear. You listen good. There is deadly snake in front of cab with you. Little snake was in my bag, somehow get out. Back home we call snake a twostep. Nice name, huh?" Tarkiz offered a wide toothy grin to Jocko. "Snake bite man, he take one step, feel bad. Take two step, he fall down dead. No antido
te. If you do not get out of cab right now, snake going to bite you, and we send home your head in basket."
Jocko looked about warily, then his eyes grew huge as a bright yellowandorange snake wriggled toward his foot.
In a flash he had his door open and stood in the street several feet from the taxi. "You crazy, mon!" he shouted.
Indy and Gale leaned forward, ready to abandon the cab if necessary. "Good God, it's really there!" Gale said in a hoarse voice. She stared in disbelief as Tarkiz leaned into the front of the cab and snatched up the snake. He petted it gently along its back and dropped it into a side pocket of his jacket. Gale screeched and threw her arms about Indy.
Indiana Jones & the Sky Pirates Page 15
