The Adventures Of Indiana Jones

by Campbell Black

  She decided she was being stupid, crying, all because Mr. Big Shot Archaeologist comes strutting through the door. The hell with him, she said to herself. He’s only good for the money now.

  Confused, she went to the bar. She slipped the chain from her neck, laid the medallion on the bar. She picked up the money Indy had left and, reaching behind the bar, put it inside a small wooden box. She was still staring at the medallion, which lay in the shadow of the huge taxidermic raven, when she heard a noise at the door. She whipped quickly around to see four men come in, and at once she understood that there was trouble and that the trouble had come in the wake of good old Indiana Jones. What the hell has he landed me in? she wondered.

  “We’re closed. I’m sorry,” she said.

  The one in the raincoat, who had a face like an open razor, smiled. “We didn’t come for a drink,” he said. His voice was heavily accented, German.

  “Oh.” And she watched the razor’s companions, the Nepalese and the Mongolian (dear God, he has a machine gun), poke around the place. She thought of the medallion lying on the surface of the bar. The guy with the eye patch passed very close to it.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “Precisely the same thing your friend Indiana Jones is looking for,” the German said. “I’m sure he must have mentioned it.”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “Ah,” the man said. “Has he acquired it, then?”

  “I don’t think I understand you,” she said.

  The man sat down, drawing his raincoat up. “Forgive me for not introducing myself. Toht. Arnold Toht. Jones asked about a certain medallion, did he not?”

  “He might have done . . .” She was thinking about the gun that lay on the ledge behind the stuffed raven, wondering how quickly she could reach it.

  “Don’t play silly games with me, please,” Toht said.

  “All right. He’s coming back tomorrow. Why don’t you come back then too, and we’ll hold an auction, if you’re that interested.”

  Toht shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I have to have the object tonight, Fräulein.” He rose and looked in the fire, bending, lifting the poker from the embers.

  Marion pretended to yawn. “I don’t have it. Come back tomorrow. I’m tired.”

  “I am sorry you’re tired. However . . .” He motioned with his head. The Mongolian caught Marion from behind, pinning her arms at her back, while Toht pulled the red-hot poker from the fire and moved toward her.

  “I think I see your point,” she said. “Look, I can be reasonable—”

  “I’m sure, I’m sure.” Toht sighed as if he were a man weary of violence, but that sound was misleading. He advanced toward her, still holding the poker close to her face. She could feel its heat against her skin. She twisted her face to the side and struggled against the grip of the Mongolian, but he was too strong.

  “Wait, I’ll show you where it is!”

  Toht said, “You had your opportunity for that, my dear.”

  A sadist of the old school, she thought. The medallion doesn’t matter a bit to him, only the sight of that poker searing my face. She struggled again, but it was useless. Okay, she decided, you’ve lost everything else, you might as well lose your looks, too. She tried to bite the big man’s arm, but he simply slapped the side of her face, stinging her with an open palm that smelled of wax.

  She stared at the poker.

  Too close. Five inches. Four. Three.

  The sickening smell of hot metal.

  And then—

  Then it all happened too quickly for her to follow for a moment, an abrupt series of events that occurred in a blur, like an ink drawing that has been caught in the rain. She heard a crack, a violent crack, and what she saw was the European’s hand go up in the air suddenly, the poker flying across the room to the window, where it wrapped itself in the curtains and started to smolder. She felt the Mongolian release her and then she realized that Indiana Jones had come back, that he was standing in the doorway with that old bullwhip of his in one hand and a pistol in the other. Indiana Jones, just like the damn cavalry coming at the last possible moment. What the hell kept you? she wanted to scream. But now she wanted to move, she had to move, the room was filled with all manner of violence, the air was charged like the atmosphere of an electrical storm. She swung over the bar and reached for a bottle just as Toht fired a gun at her, but the bullets were wild and she rolled over on the floor behind the counter in a rage of shattered glass. Gunfire, deafening, loud, piercing her ears.

  The Mongolian, cumbersome, leveled his submachine gun. He’s aiming for Indy, she realized, directly at Indy. Something to hit him with, she thought. She reached instinctively for her barman’s ax handle and struck the Mongolian across the skull as hard as she could, and he went down. But then there was somebody else in the bar, somebody who’d come crashing through the door like it was made of cardboard, and she raised her face to see somebody she recognized, a Sherpa, one of the locals, a giant of a man who could be bought by anybody for a couple of glasses of booze. He came through, a whirlwind, tackling Indy from behind, crushing him to the floor.

  And then Toht was shouting, “Shoot! Shoot both of them!”

  The man with the eye patch sprang to life at Toht’s command. He had a pistol in his hand and it was clear he was about to follow Toht to the letter. Just as she panicked, a strange thing happened: in an unlikely conspiracy of survival, Indy and the Sherpa reached for the fallen gun simultaneously, their hands clasping it. Then they turned it against their assailant and the weapon fired, striking Eye Patch, a direct hit in the throat with a force that threw him across the room. He staggered backward until he lay propped against the bar with an expression on his face that suggested a pirate keelhauled during a drunken binge.

  Then the struggle was on again, the unnatural joining of forces, the weird truce, brought to an end. The pistol had fallen away from the hands of Indy, and the Sherpa, and they were rolling over and over together as each tried to grab the elusive gun. But now Toht had a clear shot at Indiana. She picked up the submachine gun that had dropped from the Mongolian’s shoulder and tried to understand how it worked—how else could it work, she thought, except by pulling the trigger! She opened fire, but the weapon kicked and jumped wildly. Her shots sizzled past Toht. Then her attention was drawn to the flames spreading from the curtains toward the rest of the bar. Nobody’s going to win this one, she thought. This fire is the only thing likely to come out ahead.

  From the corner of her eye she watched Toht crouch at the end of the bar as the flames were bursting all around him, searing the bar. He’s seen it, she thought. He’s seen the medallion. She watched his hand snake toward it, saw the expression of delight on his face, and then suddenly he was screaming as the fire-blackened medallion scorched his palm, burned its shape and design, its ancient words, deep into his flesh. He couldn’t hold it. The pain was too much. He staggered toward the door, clutching his burned hand. And then Marion looked back toward Indy, who was struggling with the Sherpa. The Nepalese was circling them, trying to get a clear shot at Indy. She tapped the submachine gun, but the weapon was useless, spent. The pistol, then. The pistol behind the stuffed raven. Through flame and heat she reached for it, turned, listened to the bottles of booze explode around her like Molotov cocktails, took aim at the Nepalese. One true shot, she thought. One good and true shot.

  He wouldn’t keep still, the bastard.

  Now smoke was blinding her, choking her.

  Indy kicked the Sherpa, rolling away from him, and then the Nepalese had a clear target—Indy’s skull. Now! Do it now!

  She squeezed the trigger.

  The Nepalese rose in the air, blown upward and back by the force of the shot. And Indy looked at her gratefully through the smoke and flame, smiling.

  He grabbed his bullwhip and his hat and yelled, “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

  “Not without that piece you wanted.”

  “It’s here?”
>
  Marion kicked a burning chair aside. From overhead, in a spectacular burst of flame, a wooden beam collapsed, throwing up sparks and cinders.

  “Forget it!” Indy shouted. “I want you out of here. Now!”

  But Marion darted toward the place where Toht had dropped the medallion. Coughing, trying not to breathe, her eyes smarting and watering from the black smoke, she reached down and picked up the medallion in the loose scarf that hung round her neck. And then she looked for the wooden money-box.

  “Unbelievable!” Ashes. Five grand up in smoke.

  Indiana Jones grabbed her by the wrist, dragging her through the fire toward the door. “Let’s go! Let’s go!” he screamed.

  They made it out into the chill night air just as the place began to crumble, as smoke and fire poured upward into the darkness in a wild display of destruction. Cinders, glowing embers, burning timbers—they danced through the fiery roof toward the moon.

  From the other side of the street Indy and Marion stood and watched it.

  She noticed he still had his hand around her wrist. That touch. It had been so long, so much time had dwindled away, and even as she remembered the contact, the friction of his skin upon hers, she fought the memory away. She took her arm from his hand and moved slightly away.

  She stared at the bonfire again, and said nothing for a time. Timbers crackled with the sound of pigs being scorched over spits. “I figure you owe me,” she said, finally, “I figure you owe me plenty.”

  “For starters?”

  “For starters, this,” and she held the medallion toward him. “I’m your partner, mister. Because this little gismo is still my property.”

  “Partner?” he said.

  “Damn right.”

  They watched the fire a little longer, neither of them noticing Arnold Toht slinking away through the alleys that ran from the main street—slinking like a rat heading through a maze.

  In the car Marion said, “What next?”

  Indy was silent for a moment before he answered, “Egypt.”

  “Egypt?” Marion looked at him as the car moved through the dark. “You take me to the most exotic places.”

  The silhouettes of mountains appeared; a pale moon broke the night sky. Indy watched clouds disperse. He wondered why he felt a sudden apprehension, a feeling that passed when he heard Marion laugh.

  “What’s the joke?”

  “You,” she said. “You and that bullwhip.”

  “Don’t mock it, kid. It saved your life.”

  “I couldn’t believe it when I saw you. I’d forgotten about that ratty old whip. I remember how you used to practice with it every day. Those old bottles on the wall and you standing there with the whip.” And she laughed again.

  A memory, Indy thought. He recalled the odd fascination he’d had with the bullwhip ever since he’d seen a whip act in a traveling circus as a seven-year-old kid. Wide-eyed in wonder, watching the whip artist defy all logic. And then the hours of practice, a devotion that nobody, himself included, could truly explain.

  “Do you ever go anywhere without it?” she asked.

  “I never take it to class when I have to teach,” he said.

  “I bet you sleep with it, huh?”

  “Now, that all depends,” he said.

  She was silent, staring out into the Himalayan night. Then she said, “Depends on what?”

  “Work it out for yourself,” Jones said.

  “I think I get the picture.”

  He glanced at her once, then returned his eyes to the pocked road ahead.

  SIX

  The Tanis Digs, Egypt

  A HOT SUN scorched the sand, burning on the wasteland that stretched from one horizon to the other. In such a place as this, Belloq thought, you might imagine the whole world a scalded waste, a planet without vegetation, without buildings, without people. Without people. Something in this thought pleased him. He had always found treachery the most common currency among human beings—consequently, he had trafficked in that currency himself. And if it wasn’t treachery people understood best, then its alternative was violence. He shaded his eyes against the sun and moved forward, watching the dig that was taking place. An elaborate dig—but then, that was how the Germans liked things. Elaborate, with needless circumstance and pomp. He stuck his hands in his pockets, watching the trucks and the bulldozers, the Arab excavators, the German supervisors. And the silly Dietrich, who seemed to fancy himself overlord of all, barking orders, rushing around as if pursued by a whirlwind.

  He paused, watching but not watching now, an absent look in his eyes. He was remembering the meeting with the Führer, recalling how embarrassingly fulsome the little man had been. You are the world’s expert in this matter, I understand, and I want the best. Fulsome and ignorant. False compliments yielding to some deranged Teutonic rhetoric, the thousand-year Reich, the grandiose historic scheme that could only have been dreamed up by a lunatic. Belloq had simply stopped listening, staring at the Führer in wonderment, amazed that the destiny of any country should fall into such clumsy hands. I want the Ark, of course. The Ark belongs in the Reich. Something of such antiquity belongs in Germany.

  Belloq closed his eyes against the harsh sun. He tuned out the noises of the excavations, the shouts of the Germans, the occasional sounds of the Arabs. The Ark, he thought. It doesn’t belong to any one man, any one place, any single time. But its secrets are mine, if there are secrets to be had. He opened his eyes again and stared at the dig, the huge craters hacked out of sand, and he felt a certain vibration, a positive intuition, that the great prize was somewhere nearby. He could feel it, sense its power, he could hear the whisper of the thing that would soon become a roar. He took his hands from his pockets and stared at the medallion that lay in the center of his palm. And what he understood as he stared at it was a curious obsession—and a fear that he might yield to it in the end. You lust after a thing long enough, as he had lusted after the Ark, and you start to feel the edge of some madness that is almost . . . almost what?

  Divine.

  Maybe it was the madness of the saints and the zealots.

  A sense of a vision so awesome that all reality simply faded.

  An awareness of a power so inexpressible, so cosmic, that the thin fabric of what you assumed to be the real world parted, disintegrated, and you were left with an understanding that, like God’s, surpassed all things.

  Perhaps. He smiled to himself.

  He moved around the edge of the excavations, skirting past the trucks and the bulldozers. He clutched the medallion tight in his hand. And then he thought about how those thugs dispatched by Dietrich to Nepal had botched the whole business. He experienced disgust.

  Those morons, though, had brought back something which served his purposes.

  It was the whimpering Toht who had shown Belloq his palm, asking for sympathy, Belloq supposed. Not realizing he had, seared into his flesh, a perfect copy of the very thing he had failed to retrieve.

  It had been amusing to see Toht sitting restlessly for hours, days, while he, Belloq, painstakingly fashioned a perfect copy. He’d worked meticulously, trying to recreate the original. But it wasn’t the real thing, the historic thing. It was accurate enough for his calculations concerning the map room and the Well of the Souls, but he had wanted the original badly.

  Belloq put the medallion back inside his pocket and walked over to where Dietrich was standing. For a long time he said nothing, pleased by the feeling that his presence gave the German some discomfort. Eventually Dietrich said, “It’s going well, don’t you think?”

  Belloq nodded, shielding his eyes again. He was thinking of something else now, something that disturbed him. It was the piece of information that had been brought back, by one of Dietrich’s lackeys, from Nepal. Indiana Jones.

  Of course, he should have known that Jones would appear on the scene sooner or later. Jones was troublesome, even if the rivalry between them always ended in his defeat. He didn’t have, Belloq thou
ght, the cunning. The instinct. The killing edge.

  But now he had been seen in Cairo with the girl who was Ravenwood’s daughter.

  Dietrich turned to him and said, “Have you come to a decision about that other matter we discussed?”

  “I think so,” Belloq said.

  “I assume it is the decision I imagined you would reach?”

  “Assumptions are often arrogant, my friend.”

  Dietrich looked at the other man silently.

  Belloq smiled. “In this case, though, you are probably correct.”

  “You wish me to attend to it?”

  Belloq nodded. “I trust I can leave the details to you.”

  “Naturally,” Dietrich said.

  SEVEN

  Cairo

  THE DARK WAS warm and still, the air like a vacuum. It was dry, hard to breathe, as if all moisture had evaporated in the heat of the day. Indy sat with Marion in a coffeehouse, rarely taking his eyes from the door. For hours now, they had been moving through back streets and alleys, staying away from the central thoroughfares—and yet he’d had the feeling all the time that he was being watched. Marion looked exhausted, drained, her long hair damp from sweat. And it was clear to Indy that she was becoming more and more impatient with him: now she was staring at him over the rim of her coffee cup in an accusing fashion. He watched the door, scrutinized the patrons that came and went, and sometimes turned his face upward to catch the thin passage of air that blew from the creaking overhead fan.