The Adventures Of Indiana Jones

by Campbell Black

  Nothing. For a long moment, nothing.

  He stared at the bag, then at the idol in his hand, and then he was aware of a strange, distant noise, a rumbling like that of a great machine set in motion, a sound of things waking from a long sleep, roaring and tearing and creaking through the spaces of the Temple. The polished stone pedestal suddenly dropped—five inches, six. And then the noise was greater, deafening, and everything began to shake, tremble, as if the very foundations of the place were coming apart, splitting, opening, bricks and wood splintering and cracking.

  He turned and moved quickly back across the tiles, moving as fast as he could toward the doorway. And still the noise, like desperate thunder, grew and rolled and echoed through the old hallways and passages and chambers. He moved toward Satipo, who was standing in the doorway with a look of absolute terror on his face.

  Now everything was shaking, everything moving, bricks collapsing, walls toppling, everything. When he reached the doorway he turned to see a rock fall across the tiled floor, setting off the darts, which flew pointlessly in their thousands through the disintegrating chamber.

  Satipo, breathing hard, had moved toward the whip and was swinging himself across the pit. When he reached the other side he regarded Indy a moment.

  I knew it was coming, Indy thought.

  I felt it, I knew it, and now that it’s about to happen, what can I do? He watched Satipo haul the whip from the beam and gather it in his hand.

  “A bargain, Señor. An exchange. The idol for the whip. You throw me the idol, I throw you the whip.”

  Indy listened to the destruction behind him and watched Satipo.

  “What choices do you have, Señor Jones?” Satipo asked.

  “Suppose I drop the Idol into the pit, my friend? All you’ve got for your troubles is a bullwhip, right?”

  “And what exactly have you got for your troubles, Señor?”

  Indy shrugged. The noise behind him was growing; he could feel the Temple tremble, the floor begin to sway. The idol, he thought—he couldn’t just let the thing fall into the abyss like that.

  “Okay, Satipo. The idol for the whip.” And he tossed the idol toward the Peruvian. He watched as Satipo seized the relic, stuffed it in his pocket and then dropped the whip on the floor.

  Satipo smiled. “I am genuinely sorry, Señor Jones. Adios. And good luck.”

  “You’re no more sorry than me,” Indy shouted as he watched the Peruvian disappear down the passageway. The whole structure, like some vengeful deity of the jungle, shook even more.

  He heard the sound of more stones falling, pillars toppling. The curse of the idol, he thought. It was a matinee movie, it was the kind of thing kids watched wild-eyed on Saturday afternoons in dark cinemas. There was only one thing to do—one thing, no alternative. You have to jump, he realized. You have to take your chances and jump across the pit and hope that gravity is on your side. All hell is breaking loose behind you and there’s a godawful abyss just in front of you. So you jump, you wing it into darkness and keep your fingers crossed.

  Jump!

  He took a deep breath, swung himself out into the air above the pit, swung himself hard as he could, listened to the swish of the air around him as he moved. He would have prayed if he were the praying kind, prayed he didn’t get swallowed up by the dark nothingness below.

  He was dropping now. The impetus was gone from his leap. He was falling. He hoped he was falling on the other side of the pit.

  But he wasn’t.

  He could feel the darkness, dank smelling and damp, rush upward from below, and he threw his hands out, looking for something to grip, some edge, anything to hold on to. He felt his fingertips dig into the edge of the pit, the crumbling edge, and he tried to drag himself upward while the edge yielded and gave way and loose stones dropped into the chasm. He swung his legs, clawed with his hands, struggled like a beached fish to get up, get out, reach whatever might pass now for safety. Straining, groaning, thrashing with his legs against the inside wall of the pit, he struggled to raise himself. He couldn’t let the treacherous Peruvian get away with the idol. He swung his legs again, kicked, looked for some kind of leverage that would help him climb up from the pit, something, anything, it didn’t matter what. And still the Temple was falling apart like a pathetic straw hut in a hurricane. He grunted, dug his fingers into the ledge above, strained until he thought his muscles might pop, his blood vessels burst, hauled himself up even as he heard the sound of his fingernails breaking with the weight of his body.

  Harder, he thought.

  Try harder.

  He pushed, sweat blinded him, his nerves began to tremble. Something’s going to snap, he thought. Something’s going to give and then you’ll find out exactly what lies at the bottom of this pit. He paused, tried to regroup his strength, rearrange his waning energies, then he hauled himself up again through laborious and wearisome inches.

  At last he was able to swing his leg over the top, to slither over the edge to the relative safety of the floor—a floor that was shaking, threatening to split apart at any moment.

  He raised himself shakily to a standing position and looked down the hallway in the direction Satipo had taken. He had gone toward the room where Forrestal’s remains had been found. The room of spikes. The torture chamber. And suddenly Indy knew what would happen to the Peruvian, suddenly he knew the man’s fate even before he heard the terrible clang of the spikes, even before he heard the Peruvian’s awful scream echo along the passageway. He listened, reached down for his whip, then ran toward the chamber. Satipo hung to one side, impaled like a grotesquely large butterfly in some madman’s collection.

  “Adios, Satipo,” Indy said, then slipped the idol from the dead man’s pocket, edged his way past the spikes and raced into the passageway beyond.

  Ahead, he saw the exit, the opening of light, the stand of thick trees beyond. And still the rolling sound increased, filling his ears, vibrating through his body. He turned, astounded to see a vast boulder roll down the passageway toward him, gathering speed as it coursed forward. The last booby trap, he thought. They wanted to make sure that even if you got inside the Temple, even if you avoided everything the place could throw at you, then you weren’t going to get out alive. He raced. He sprinted insanely toward the exit as the great stone crushed along the passageway behind him. He threw himself forward toward the opening of light and hit the thick grass outside just before the boulder slammed against the exit, sealing the Temple shut forever.

  Exhausted, out of breath, he lay on his back.

  Too close, he thought. Too close for any form of comfort. He wanted to sleep. He wanted nothing more than the chance to close his eyes, transport himself into the darkness that brings relief, dreamless and deep relief. You could have died a hundred deaths in there, he realized. You could have died more deaths than any man might expect in a lifetime. And then he smiled, sat up, turned the idol around and around in his hands.

  But worth it, he thought. Worth the whole thing.

  He stared at the golden piece.

  He was still staring at it when he saw a shadow fall across him.

  The shadow startled him into a sitting position. Squinting, he looked up. There were two Hovitos warriors looking down at him, their faces painted in the ferocious colors of battle, their long bamboo blowguns held erect as spears. But it wasn’t the presence of the Indians that worried Indy now; it was the sight of the white man who stood between them in a safari outfit and pith helmet. For a long time Indy said nothing, letting the full sense of recognition dawn on him. The man in the pith helmet smiled, and the smile was frost, lethal.

  “Belloq,” Indy said.

  Of all the people in the world, Belloq.

  Indy looked away from the Frenchman’s face for a moment, glanced down at the idol in his hand, then stared beyond Belloq to the edge of the trees, where there were about thirty more Hovitos warriors standing in a line. And next to the Indians stood Barranca. Barranca, staring past Indy
with a stupid, greedy smile on his face. A smile that turned slowly to a look of bewilderment and then, more rapidly, to a cold, vacant expression, which Indy recognized as signaling death.

  The Indians on either side of the traitorous Peruvian released his arms, and Barranca toppled forward. His back was riddled with darts.

  “My dear Dr. Jones,” Belloq said. “You have a knack of choosing quite the wrong friends.”

  Indy said nothing. He watched Belloq reach down and pick the idol from his hand. Belloq savored the relic for a time, turning it this way and that, his expression one of deep appreciation.

  Belloq nodded his head slightly, a curt gesture that suggested an incongruous politeness, a sense of civility.

  “You may have thought I’d given up. But again we see there is nothing you can possess which I cannot take away.”

  Indy looked in the direction of the warriors. “And the Hovitos expect you to hand the idol over to them?”

  “Quite,” Belloq said.

  Indy laughed. “Naïve of them.”

  “As you say,” Belloq remarked. “If only you spoke their language, you could advise them otherwise, of course.”

  “Of course,” Indy said.

  He watched as Belloq turned toward the grouped warriors and lifted the idol in the air; and then, in a remarkable display of unified movement that might have been choreographed, rehearsed, the warriors laid themselves face down on the ground. A moment of sudden stillness, of primitive religious awe. In other circumstances, Indy thought, I might be impressed enough to hang around and watch.

  In other circumstances, but not now.

  He raised himself slowly to his knees, looked at the back of Belloq, glanced quickly once more at the prostrate warriors—and then he was off, moving fast, running toward the trees, waiting for that moment when the Indians would raise themselves up and the air would be dense with darts from the blowguns.

  He plunged into the trees when he heard Belloq shout from behind, screaming in a language that was presumably that of the Hovitos, and then he was sprinting through the foliage, back to the river and the amphibian plane. Run. Run even when you don’t have a goddamn scrap of energy left. Find something in reserve.

  Just run.

  And then he heard the darts.

  He heard them shaft the air, whizzing, zinging, creating a melody of death. He ran in a zigzag, moving in a serpentine fashion through the foliage. From behind he could hear the breaking of branches, the crushing of plants, as the Hovitos pursued him. He felt strangely detached all at once from his own body; he’d moved beyond a sense of his physical self, beyond the absurd demands of muscle and sinew, pushing himself through the terrain in a way that was automatic, a matter of basic reflex. He heard the occasional dart strike bark, the scared flapping of jungle birds rising out of branches, the squeal of animals that scampered from the path of the Hovitos. Run, he kept thinking. Run until you can’t run anymore, then you run a little further. Don’t think. Don’t stop.

  Belloq, he thought. My time will come.

  If I get out of this one.

  Running—he didn’t know for how long. Day was beginning to fade.

  He paused, looked upward at the thin light through the dense trees, then dashed in the direction of the river. What he wanted to hear more than anything now was the vital sound of rushing water, what he wanted to see was the waiting plane.

  He twisted again and moved through a clearing, where he was suddenly exposed by the absence of trees. For a moment, the clearing was menacing, the sudden silence of dusk unsettling.

  Then he heard the cries of the Hovitos, and the clearing seemed to him like the center of a bizarre target. He turned around, saw the movement of a couple of figures, felt the air rush as two spears spun past him—and after that he was running again, racing for the river. He thought as he ran, They don’t teach you survival techniques in Archaeology 101, they don’t supply survival manuals along with the methodology of excavation.

  And they certainly don’t warn you about the cunning of a Frenchman named Belloq.

  He paused again and listened to the Indians behind him. Then there was another sound, one that delighted him, that exalted him: the motion of fast-flowing water, the swaying of rushes. The river! How far could it be now? He listened again to be certain and then moved in the direction of the sound, his energies recharged, batteries revitalized. Quicker now, harder and faster. Crashing through the foliage that slashes against you, ignore the cuts and abrasions. Quicker and harder and faster. The sound was becoming clearer. The water rushing.

  He emerged from the trees.

  There.

  Down the slope, beyond the greenery, the hostile vegetation, the river.

  The river and the amphibian plane floating up and down on the swell. He couldn’t have imagined anything more welcoming. He moved along the slope and then realized there wasn’t an easy way down through the foliage to the plane. There wasn’t time to find one, either. You had to go up the slope to the point where, as it formed a cliff over the river, you would have to jump. Jump, he thought. What the hell. What’s one more jump?

  He climbed, conscious of the shape of a man who sat on one wing of the plane far below. Indy reached a point almost directly over the plane, stared down for a moment, and then he shut his eyes and stepped out over the edge of the cliff.

  He hit the tepid water close to the wing of the plane, went under as the current pulled him away, surfaced blindly and struck out toward the craft. The man on the wing stood upright as Indy grabbed a strut and hauled himself out of the water.

  “Get the thing going, Jock!” Indy shouted. “Get it going!”

  Jock rushed along the wing and clambered inside the cockpit as Indy scurried, breathless, into the passenger compartment and slumped across the seat. He closed his eyes and listened to the shudder of engines when the craft skimmed the surface of the water.

  “I didn’t expect you to drop in quite so suddenly,” Jock said.

  “Spare me the puns, huh?”

  “A spot of trouble, laddie?”

  Indy wanted to laugh. “Remind me to tell you sometime.” He lay back and closed his eyes, hoping sleep would come. But then he realized that the plane wasn’t moving. He sat upright and leaned forward toward the pilot.

  “Stalled,” Jock said.

  “Stalled! Why?”

  Jock grinned. “I only fly the bloody thing. People have this funny impression that all Scotsmen are bloody mechanics, Indy.”

  Through the window, Indy could see the Hovitos begin to wade into the shallows of the river. Thirty feet, twenty now. They were like grotesque ghosts of the riverbed risen to avenge some historic transgression. They raised their arms; a storm of spears flew toward the fuselage of the plane.

  “Jock . . .”

  “I’m bloody well trying, Indy. I’m trying.”

  Calmly, Indy said, “I think you should try harder.”

  The spears struck the plane, clattering against the wings, hitting the fuselage with the sound of enormous hailstones.

  “I’ve got it,” Jock said.

  The engines spluttered into laborious life just as two of the Hovitos had swum as far as the wing and were clambering up.

  “It’s moving,” Jock said. “It’s moving.”

  The craft skimmed forward again and then began to rise, with a cumbersome quality, above the river. Indy watched the two warriors lose their balance and drop, like weird creatures of the jungle, into the water.

  The plane was rising across the tops of trees, the underdraft shaking the branches, driving panicked birds into the last of sunlight. Indy laughed and closed his eyes.

  “Thought you might not make it,” Jock said. “To tell you the bloody truth.”

  “Never a doubt in mind,” Indy said, and smiled.

  “Relax, now, man. Get some sleep. Forget the bloody jungle.”

  For a moment, Indy drifted. Relief. The relaxation of muscle. A good feeling. He could lose himself in this sens
ation for a long time.

  Then something moved across his thigh. Something slow, heavy.

  He opened his eyes and saw a boa constrictor coiling itself in a threatening way around his upper leg. He jumped upright quickly.

  “Jock!”

  The pilot looked round, smiled. “He won’t hurt you, Indy. That’s Reggie. He wouldn’t harm a soul.”

  “Get it away from me, Jock.”

  The pilot reached back, stroked the snake, then drew it into the cockpit beside him. Indy watched the snake slide away from him. An old revulsion, an inexplicable terror. For some people it was spiders, for some rats, for others enclosed spaces. For him it was the repulsive sight and touch of a snake. He rubbed at the sweat newly formed on his forehead, shivering as the water soaking his clothes turned abruptly chill.

  “Just keep it beside you,” he said. “I can’t stand snakes.”

  “I’ll let you in on a wee secret,” Jock said. “The average snake is nicer than the average person.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Indy said. “Just keep it away from me.”

  You think you’re safe, then—a boa constrictor decides to bask on your body. All in a day’s work, he thought.

  For a while he looked out of the window and watched darkness fall with an inscrutable certainty over the vast jungle. You can keep your secrets, Indy thought. You can keep all your secrets.

  Before he fell asleep, lulled by the noise of the engines, he hoped it would not be a long time before his path crossed once again with that of the Frenchman.

  TWO

  Berlin

  IN AN OFFICE on the Wilhelmstrasse, an officer in the black uniform of the SS—an incongruously petite man named Eidel—was seated behind his desk, staring at the bundles of manila folders stacked neatly in front of him. It was clear to Eidel’s visitor, who was named Dietrich, that the small man used the stacks of folders in a compensatory way: they made him feel big, important. It was the same everywhere these days, Dietrich thought. You assess a man and his worth by the amount of paperwork he is able to amass, by the number of rubber stamps he is authorized to use. Dietrich, who liked to consider himself a man of action, sighed inwardly and looked toward the window, against which a pale brown blind had been drawn. He waited for Eidel to speak, but the SS officer had been silent some time, as if even his silences were intended to convey something of what he saw as his own importance.