The Adventures Of Indiana Jones

by Campbell Black

  Indy shouted as one of the drums bore down on him. Panama Hat turned, saw the drum, and tumbled across the deck. Indy jerked away in the other direction, barely avoiding the drum.

  He struggled to pull the net away from him, but the cross was tangled in it. The only way to escape it would be to drop the cross, and he wasn’t about to do that. He looked up just in time to see another fuel drum rolling directly toward the explosives.

  There was only one thing to do, and he did it. He hurtled himself over the side into the stormy seas.

  The moment he hit the water, the ship split apart in a fiery blast. Bits of debris rained from the sky as if they were part of the storm, and what remained of the ship quickly sank beneath the waves.

  The concussion of the water and the blast tore the net away from him. He tumbled about in the water and finally bobbed to the surface like a piece of cork, still clutching the cross. His legs kicked frantically as he tried to keep his head above water.

  He grabbed for something to hold on to, went under, surfaced again, coughing and spitting out water. His hand found something—a preserver, one of the ship’s doughnut-shaped life preservers. He hooked one arm, then the other, through it.

  Then he saw something else floating by that looked familiar. He reached out and snatched it and held it up to his face. He recognized it as the shredded remains of a Panama hat.

  In the distance an American freighter sounded its horn. Indy waved his arm, hoping to get the ship’s attention, and realized he was waving the cross in the air. He wondered how the hell he would explain it. I’m a priest. I saved the cross. The cross saved me.

  What the hell did it matter? He wanted to laugh and to cry at the same time. He knew, damn it, that he was going to make it. And, hey, he had the cross.

  FIVE

  On Campus

  THE WARM SPRING afternoon had drawn students outside in droves. Young women in calf-length dresses and men in ties strolled along the tree-shrouded brick paths that twisted through the campus, past ivy-covered brick buildings. Books were bundled under their arms, pencils rested behind their ears, and none of the young people seemed to be in any hurry.

  A black raven soared silently above the students and landed on a window ledge on the second floor of one of the ivy-covered buildings. Inside, a professor wearing a tweed jacket and wire-rim glasses glanced toward the window, momentarily distracted by the bird, then turned back to his class. The students stared attentively, waiting for him to continue.

  Despite his professorial attire, there was an underlying ruggedness about him, a sense that when he took off his coat and tie and ventured out into the field in search of ancient artifacts, anything could happen and probably did. It was this mysterious air about him—as well as a certain shyness—that appealed to the coeds who seemed to dominate his classes. For his part he never complained about the profusion of attractive young women who showed up for his lectures.

  Those who knew him well were aware that he tended to understate his own experiences. Maybe it was because he felt he lived in the shadow of his famous father, the renowned medieval scholar, Dr. Henry Jones. Whatever the reason, he tended to say one thing about himself and his career but at the same time told you in other ways—gestures, sly looks, and hidden smiles—that what he was saying was only part of the story.

  He looked out over his class, hands jammed in the pockets of his pants. “. . . So, forget any ideas about lost cities, exotic travel, and digging up the world. Seventy percent of all archaeology is done in the local library. Research and reading—that’s the key. We don’t take mythology at face value, nor do we follow maps to buried treasure and never does X mark the spot! The Lost Continent of Atlantis! Knights of the Round Table! Nothing more than charming, romantic nonsense.”

  He paused a moment, feeling the weight of the jewel-encrusted gold cross that was resting in his coat pocket. He looked down, scratched behind his ear, and continued. “Archaeology is our search for fact . . . not truth. If it’s truth you’re interested in, ladies and gentlemen, Dr. Peterman’s philosophy classes are a good start.”

  The class laughed, and Professor Indiana Jones glanced at a pretty coed seated in the front row and smiled. He cleared his throat. “Next week: Egyptology. Beginning with the excavation of Naukratis by Flinders Petrie in 1885. Irene, my secretary, has the list of assigned reading for the semester.” Expecting a rush of students to the podium, he added: “If you have any questions, please see me in my office.”

  As the students filed out, Indy gazed toward the back of the lecture hall, where Marcus Brody, director of a prestigious archaeological museum and longtime friend of his father, waited for him. He stepped around the podium and headed down the aisle.

  Brody, who was discernibly English, was about sixty, a man who was incessantly caught between the tallies of the museum’s accountants and the whims of wealthy contributors. He had told Indy more than once that he saw him as a light in the darkness, a man with conviction who was willing to stand toe-to-toe with those who only saw quick profit in ancient artifacts.

  He had an expressive face that was filled with deep furrows and lines, each of which told a story. He nearly always looked worried, too, and Indy felt his usual compulsion to pat Brody on the back and assure him things were going to turn out just fine, really.

  “Marcus!” Indy slapped his pocket. “I did it.”

  Brody’s eyes lit up. “I want to hear all about it.”

  “Come on.”

  As they left the room and headed down the hall, Indy slipped the Cross of Coronado out of his jacket pocket and held it out for Brody to see.

  “You’ve really got it. Bravo. I’m elated. I’m more than elated. I’m overjoyed.”

  “How do you think I feel? Do you know how long I’ve been after this?”

  “All your life.”

  “All my life.”

  They had spoken at the same time, and both of them laughed. “Well done, Indy. Very well done, indeed. Now tell me how you did it.”

  Indy shrugged. “It wasn’t much. It just took a little friendly persuasion, that’s all.”

  “That’s all?” Brody asked skeptically.

  “Well, when the cordialities wore out, it took a bit of diplomatic arm twisting.”

  “I see.” Brody nodded. It was obvious he was interested in hearing more. But he was also worried that he would hear something that wasn’t up to the standards of the museum he represented.

  Before Indy could even begin his story, though, two of his colleagues approached them in the hallway. “Where you been, Jones?” asked the taller man. “Semester break ended a week ago.” The second colleague shoved a ceramic fertility goddess toward Indy. “Have a look at this, Jonesy. I picked it up on a trip down to Mexico. Possibly you could date it for me. What do you say?”

  Indy turned the piece of pottery over in his hands. A wry smile crossed his lips. “Date it?”

  The man adjusted his tie and looked uneasily at Indy. Then, with a false tone of self-assurance, he added: “I paid almost two hundred dollars for it. The man assured me it was pre-Columbian.”

  “Pre-October or November. Hard to say. But let’s take a look.” Before the startled professor could say a word, Indy snapped the figurine in two. “See, you can tell by the cross section. It’s worthless.”

  “Worthless?”

  “You got it.” He handed both pieces of the figurine back to the professor and walked off with Brody.

  “I should have showed them what a real artifact looks like,” Brody said, holding up the cross.

  Indy shrugged. “Why bother?”

  A moment later they stopped in front of Indy’s office. “This piece will find a place of honor among our Spanish acquisitions,” Brody assured him.

  “Good. We can discuss my honorarium later on over champagne.”

  “When can I expect you?”

  Indy thought a moment. He hadn’t been to his office yet and wasn’t looking forward to the stack of paperwork th
at was probably awaiting him as a result of missing the first week of the semester. “Let’s make it in half an hour.”

  Brody smiled, slipped the cross into his briefcase, and was still beaming as he walked off.

  Indy opened the door of his office and winced. The outer office was bursting with students, who immediately surrounded him.

  “Professor Jones, could you . . .”

  “Dr. Jones, I need . . .”

  “Hey, I was here first. Professor . . .”

  Indy shouldered his way to his secretary’s desk. The woman, a teaching assistant named Irene, looked as if she was suffering from shell shock. She sat transfixed, ignoring the bombardment of students. Then she saw Indy and was suddenly reactivated.

  “Dr. Jones! For God’s sake, I’m so glad you’re back. Your mail is on your desk. Here are your phone messages. This is your appointment schedule. And these term papers still haven’t been graded.”

  Indy nodded and took the papers, then turned to enter his private office. The students were still clamoring for his attention.

  “Dr. Jones.”

  “Wait, Dr. Jones. My grade.”

  “Sign my registration card.”

  “Listen, Dr. Jones. If I could just have . . .”

  Indy held up a hand, and suddenly the mob was silent and attentive. “Irene . . . put everyone’s name down on a list in the order they arrived. I’ll see each and every one of them in turn.”

  Irene glanced from Indy to the students. The horde immediately descended on her like a swarm of mosquitos. “Well, I’ll try,” she muttered.

  “I was first . . .”

  “No, I was here before you . . .”

  “I’m sure I was second . . .”

  “Hey, watch where you’re stepping there.”

  Indy slipped into his office and impatiently sorted through his mail: an assortment of college bulletins, archaeological newsletters, the current issues of Esquire and Collier’s, and a thick envelope with a foreign postmark on it.

  He stared at it a moment. “Hmm . . . Venice.” He tried to think of whom he knew in Venice and came up with a blank. Before he had a chance to open the envelope, Irene’s distraught voice squawked over the intercom.

  “Dr. Jones . . . there seems to be some disagreement out here about who arrived first, and I—”

  “Fine, fine,” Indy cut in. “Do the best you can. I’ll be ready in a moment.”

  Like hell I will.

  Indy stuffed his mail into his coat pockets, took a quick look around, then opened his window and crawled through it. He took a deep breath of the late-afternoon spring air as he stepped out into the adjoining garden. Roses, gardenias, grass. It was marvelous.

  “A fine day,” he said to himself, and headed across the garden away from his office. He walked swiftly and confidently. He was smiling, enjoying his freedom, and ignoring any thoughts about responsibilities. After what he had been through to recover the cross, he deserved a little break.

  If anyone complained, well, he never said he was as conscientious as his father. He was well aware that his father’s reputation was a double-edged blade. When it cut one way, it served to secure his position at the university. When it cut the other way, it made him feel like a second-rate scholar who never would measure up to the old man.

  Maybe that was why he was irresponsible and why he took chances. In his own way he wanted attention. What he couldn’t equal in scholarship, he could master in the field. And the field was forever a wide-open space full of adventure.

  As he reached the curb outside the building on the edge of campus, a long, black Packard sedan pulled up to him. Indy glanced inside and was about to continue on his way when the back door swung open and a man stepped out. He was dressed in a dark three-piece suit, with the brim of his hat pulled low enough so that his eyes were in shadow. There was a no-nonsense look about him. Everything he saw told Indy that he was a G-man.

  “Dr. Jones?”

  Indy met his gaze. “Yes? Is there something I can help you with?”

  “We have something rather important to talk to you about. We’d like you to come with us.”

  Indy hesitated, looking the man over closely. A bulge in the coat. Terrific. I need this. As if to justify his suspicion, the man let his coat fall open, revealing a shoulder holster. Indy eyed the gun, then the three men in the car. Each of them was cut from the same mold as the guy in front of him.

  He didn’t know what they wanted, and he didn’t care to find out. “I’m not sure I have the time at the moment,” he said in a halting voice as he tried to think of an easy way out.

  “There’s nothing to think over, Dr. Jones. I’m afraid we insist you come with us.”

  For the next half hour Indy was ensconced in the backseat of the Packard between two of his burly escorts. A couple of times he attempted to find out what was going on, but they said he’d find out soon enough. When he commented about the spring weather, the man to his left grunted. The one on his right just looked ahead.

  Real friendly bunch.

  It occurred to him that none of them had shown him any identification. He turned to the guy next to him and asked for his ID. The man acted as if he hadn’t heard him.

  “You guys are feds, right?”

  “We’re delivery boys,” one of them said, and all of them laughed.

  Indy laughed, too, and squirmed uncomfortably. Things were getting very funny.

  SIX

  The Crusader Tablet

  IT WAS NEARLY DUSK when the Packard pulled up to an exclusive Fifth Avenue building overlooking Central Park. Indy climbed out and was accompanied into the building by two of the men. He was whisked through the lobby and into a private elevator. When the door opened to a penthouse, he stepped out and looked around, impressed by the luxurious surroundings.

  “Come on,” one of the men muttered. “You can do your sightseeing inside.”

  They ushered him into a plush art deco penthouse and disappeared, leaving him in a room furnished with numerous museum-quality artifacts on display. Indy walked around, examining one after another. Whoever owned this place had money and taste, with a considerable amount of the former. He picked up a ceramic pot with a painting of a peacock on one side. He recognized it as Greek in origin, and even though it was over twenty-five hundred years old, the luster of its colors was incredibly well preserved.

  Indy’s inspection was interrupted when a door opened in front of him. He heard soft piano music and voices, and momentarily glimpsed a cocktail party inside before the doorway was filled by a tall, broad-shouldered man in a tuxedo. His jaw was square, his blond hair thinning. Even though he appeared to be well into his fifties, his physique was trim and muscular, like that of a much younger man. There was something regal about him as he strode across the room, and Indy had no doubt that he was about to meet the owner of the penthouse.

  He looked familiar, but why? Then he knew. He was one of the major contributors to the archaeology museum. He’d seen him a couple of times at social events associated with the museum, and he had heard Brody fussing about him more than once. His name was Walter . . . Walter Donovan. That was it.

  “Notice the eyes in the tail feathers,” Donovan said, nodding to the pot that Indy was still holding.

  He carefully set the precious artifact back in place. “Yeah. Nice eyes.”

  “You know whose eyes they are?”

  Indy smiled. “Sure. They’re Argus’s eyes. He was a giant with a hundred eyes. Hermes killed him, and Hera put his eyes in the peacock’s tail.”

  Donovan regarded him a moment. “I should have guessed you knew a bit about Greek mythology.”

  Indy shrugged. “A bit.”

  The study of Greek myths was an aberration of his childhood, one that he had undertaken at the insistence of his father. He had grudgingly enjoyed some of the tales, especially the ones about Heracles and his feats, but all the while he had despised his father for forcing him to read and learn them. Now, however, he w
as amazed that thirty years later the heroes and their stories returned so easily to him; it was as if he’d read them last week.

  “I trust your trip down was comfortable, Dr. Jones.” Donovan smiled, exuding confidence and power. “My assistants didn’t alarm you, I hope.”

  Indy was about to make a crack about the fascinating discussions en route, but Donovan extended a hand and introduced himself.

  “I know who you are, Mr. Donovan,” Indy said as Donovan released the firm grip on his hand. “Your contributions to the Old World Museum over the years have been extremely generous.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  “Some of the pieces in your collection here are very impressive,” Indy added, looking around.

  Now what the hell do you want with me?

  “I’m glad you noticed.”

  Donovan walked over to a table where an object was covered by a cloth shroud. It was one of the pieces Indy hadn’t examined. Donovan pulled back the cloth, revealing a flat stone tablet about two feet square. “I’d like you to take a look at this one in particular, Dr. Jones.”

  Indy moved closer and saw letters and symbols inscribed on the tablet. He removed his wire-framed glasses from his pocket, slipped them on, and leaned over for a closer examination of the ancient artifact.

  “Early Christian symbols. Gothic characters. Byzantine carvings. Middle twelfth century, I’d say.”

  Donovan crossed his arms. “That was our assessment as well.”

  “Where did you find this?”

  “My engineers unearthed it in the mountain regions north of Ankara while excavating for copper.” He paused a beat, studying Indy out of the corner of his eye. “Can you translate the inscription, Dr. Jones?”

  Indy took a step back. His eyes were still fixed on the tablet. He explained that translating the inscriptions wouldn’t be easy, even for someone like himself, who was knowledgeable of the period and languages.