The Adventures Of Indiana Jones

by Campbell Black

  A moment later, Elsa surfaced next to him. To his surprise, she didn’t even seem out of breath.

  He looked up. A shaft rose twenty feet up to daylight. Indy pressed his back against one side of it, his feet against the other and worked his way up.

  Elsa mimicked his style. “Don’t fall on me, Indy,” she yelled.

  “Wouldn’t think of it.”

  He glanced down only once. Elsa looked like a crab of some kind, working her way up the shaft beneath him, her blond hair wet and tangled. She sensed his eyes and tipped her head back. She grinned, and Indy chuckled and kept on climbing.

  When he reached the top, he pushed up on one side of the grating. It lifted a couple of inches, then fell back. He tried again with no better success. He could see feet walking by, and yelled. Someone looked down, and he called for the man to pull off the grating.

  The stranger complied and gave him a hand.

  As soon as he was out, he swiveled around and reached down inside the sewer, shouting for Elsa to grab his hand. She did, and he hoisted her up onto the sidewalk.

  The man looked at them and asked in Italian if they were all right.

  Elsa answered in a reassuring voice, telling him everything was fine.

  Indy glanced around. They were in the corner of Piazza San Marco a few feet from a sidewalk café, where the people were gawking and talking excitedly among themselves.

  Indy smiled broadly as he gazed at the postcard-perfect scene. “Ah, Venice.”

  His good humor, however, was short-lived.

  TEN

  Lethal Agents

  INDY TURNED from the gawking patrons of the café to the man who had helped him from the sewer. He was about to thank him when he realized something was wrong. Unlike everyone else nearby, the man’s attention was turned away from them. He was staring across the plaza toward the library. Indy followed his gaze and saw four men running in their direction. He noticed the one in front wore a fez. Then he saw something else. One of them was sporting a machine gun.

  “Oh, oh.”

  Suddenly several things clicked together: the clatter he had heard after Brody had lowered the tile; his question about the source of the fire; and the direction from which the men were running. Indy had the distinct impression that they were being hunted. He grabbed Elsa by the hand and ran in the opposite direction toward the Grand Canal.

  Elsa lagged behind him, confused by Indy’s abrupt sprint toward the water. “What are we doing now? Are you crazy?”

  He tugged on her hand. “We’ve got some company on our trail.”

  She glanced back, then suddenly surged ahead of him. “You’re right.”

  Indy leaped into a motorboat. He fired the engine. It sputtered and died.

  “Hurry, Indy. They’re almost . . .”

  He pulled again and the engine fired. He shoved it into gear, and at that moment the boat rocked violently and Elsa shouted.

  Indy pulled down on the throttle and glanced back just in time to block a punch. One of the men had boarded just as he pulled away. The boat veered wildly as the two men exchanged punches. Elsa crawled past them, grabbed the wheel, and turned sharply, barely missing several gondolas. Gondoliers stopped singing and shook their fists as they careened along the canal. One of the gondolas flipped over in the sudden backwash of the speedboat.

  “Sorry,” Elsa called out.

  Indy, meanwhile, battled as best he could on the bouncing speedboat. He took a savage punch to his stomach and doubled over, holding a rib. The attacker rose up, pulled his arm back for the finishing blow, but Indy struck first. He caught him squarely in the jaw, hurtling him over the side.

  He brushed his hands off, wiping them clean of the ordeal. He wished the man had stayed around so he could question him, but then again he hadn’t seemed very cooperative.

  “I guess that takes care of that,” he yelled forward to Elsa.

  “Think again.”

  Behind them a pair of speedboats was giving chase and gaining rapidly on them. He crawled toward the wheel. “Let me handle this.”

  “Wait until I . . .”

  He looked up, and his jaw dropped. They were moving toward an enormous steamship straight ahead. The hull of the ship was drifting toward the dock, and the gap ahead of them was narrowing.

  “Are you crazy?” he shouted. “Don’t go between them. We’ll never . . .”

  But Elsa only caught snatches of what he’d said. “Go between them? Are you nuts?”

  Indy shook his head, confused. He took another step toward the wheel, but Elsa had already committed the speedboat to the perilous course between the steamship and the dock. He frantically waved his hands. “No. Elsa, I said go around them!”

  “You said go between them.”

  “I did not.”

  At this point it no longer mattered. The hull of the ship and the side of the dock loomed on either side of them like cavern walls. Indy crouched down, grabbed the side of the boat, and squeezed his eyes closed, waiting for the impact.

  He heard a piercing screech of metal. But they were still in one piece. He opened his eyes and looked back. Just behind them one of the other boats had smashed into the hull.

  Indy breathed a sigh of relief. But a moment later he saw the other boat emerge from the far side of the steamboat. “Let me handle this,” he said, taking over the steering. “You scare me.”

  That said, he jammed the wheel to the right in a diversionary move. The boat swerved sharply, but the one pursuing them smoothly matched the turn. It was still gaining on them, moving up on their left side.

  “All right, guys,” Indy said through gritted teeth. “Let’s see what you’re made of.”

  He jerked the wheel to his left, hoping to drive the other boat into the side of the canal. Suddenly a machine gun chattered, and splinters flew away from the side of the boat.

  “Okay. I get your point.”

  He quickly changed his course, zigzagging ahead of his pursuers. But the machine-gun blasts battered the engine. It coughed, sputtered, and then it died.

  Indy grabbed his pistol and fired at the other boat until he was out of bullets.

  “Indy, look!”

  “What?”

  Elsa was pointing to the side of the boat. They were drifting and heading right toward the rotating blades of an enormous propeller on the stern of another steamship.

  The other boat drew close to them. One of the men held a machine gun on them. The other, who was behind the wheel, stood up and smiled at Indy. He was swarthy, in his late thirties, with a mustache and black, wavy hair protruding from beneath his fez. His dark, compelling eyes seemed to bore right through Indy. The boat bumped against them, pushing them closer to the churning propeller.

  Indy was almost too exhausted to think. He had unraveled the ancient code, battled rats in slimy water, found the Grail knight, and narrowly escaped a fire. Then the flight and battle on the water had followed in rapid succession. Now, as he stared eye to eye at the man, he just wanted to know what the hell was going on.

  Then he remembered Brody. “What did you do to my friend back in the library?”

  The man laughed; his eyes were now dark pools that revealed nothing. “Your friend will be okay. You better worry about yourself.”

  Indy glanced over his shoulder and saw they had drifted closer to the propellers. “Who are you, and what do you want anyhow?”

  “My name is Kazim, and I’m after the same thing you are, my friend.”

  “Your kind of friends I don’t need. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, I think you do, Dr. Jones.”

  The boat rocked in the turbulent waters near the propeller. Indy turned to Elsa and signaled her with his eyes that it was time to act.

  “Enough talk,” Kazim yelled over the noise of the propeller as it slapped against the water. “Better luck in the next world.” He motioned for the man with the machine gun to shoot them.

  Elsa jumped to the other boat, m
omentarily distracting the man with the gun. Indy leaped the gap, and his forearm came up under the machine gun, which fired harmlessly into the air. As they battled for control of the gun, the engine started.

  The boat sped forward, and Indy lost his balance. He fell over the side, pulling the man with the machine gun with him. He let go of the man and swam as fast as he could away from the pull of the propeller. The gunman, desperate and panicking, yelled for help.

  Behind him Indy heard a loud crunch as the other boat was dragged underwater. With a deafening crash the propeller blades of the steamship violently tore it apart like a piece of balsa wood, scattering shredded bits of the boat across the surface of the water.

  Kazim swung the boat about and edged as close as he could to the steamship. Indy swam for it as Elsa leaned over the side, stretching her hand until he grasped it.

  The gunman wasn’t so lucky. He was already floundering in the bubbling maelstrom a few feet from the slicing blades. He screamed again to Kazim, but it was too late. Indy looked back just as the man was sucked into the blades.

  The water abruptly foamed red.

  Kazim shoved the motor into gear, and the boat tore away from the pull of the steamship. He zigzagged, trying to shake Indy from the side. But Elsa clutched his arm, dragging him until he grabbed the side of the boat. Then, with a final burst of energy, he pulled himself out of the water and flopped onto the floor of the boat gasping for breath.

  He looked up and saw Kazim trying to load his gun and steer the boat at the same time. He crawled forward and shoved him against the wheel, causing the boat to spin a hundred and eighty degrees back to the direction of the steamboat.

  “Indy, we’re going back toward . . .”

  Before Elsa could finish, he switched off the ignition, and pulled out the key. He pressed his thumb against the man’s throat.

  “Okay, Kazim, you and I are going to have a little chat.”

  Kazim stammered as Indy let up on his throat. “You foolish man.” He tried to sound calm and dignified. “What are you doing, Dr. Jones? Are you crazy?”

  “Where’s my father?”

  “Let go of me, please.”

  “Where . . . is . . . my . . . father?”

  “If you don’t let go, Dr. Jones, we’ll both die. We’re drifting back toward the steamship.”

  Indy heard the chop of the blades cutting through the water. He didn’t even bother to look back. His eyes were wide and his voice sounded hysterical. “Good. Then we’ll die.”

  “My soul is prepared, Dr. Jones.” Kazim’s voice was even, smooth as cream. “How about yours? Is your soul ready, Doctor?”

  Indy grabbed the front of Kazim’s shirt. “This is your last chance, damn it.” Kazim’s shirt ripped open, revealing a tattoo on his chest in the shape of a Christian cross that tapered down like the blades of a broadsword.

  He stared placidly back at Indy, undisturbed.

  “What’s that supposed to be?” Indy asked.

  Kazim raised his head high. “It’s an ancient family symbol. My forebears were princes of an empire that stretched from Morocco to the Caspian Sea.”

  “Allah be praised,” Indy said quietly.

  “Thank you, and God save you too. But I was referring to the Christian empire of Byzantium.”

  Indy smiled gamely. “Of course. And why were you trying to kill me?”

  Elsa tapped him on the shoulder. “Indy, you’re going to kill all of us if we don’t get out of here.”

  “Hold on.” Indy sounded irritated. “Keep talking, Kazim. It’s just getting interesting.”

  “The secret of the Grail has been safe for a thousand years. And for all that time the Brotherhood of the Cruciform Sword has been prepared to do anything to keep it safe.”

  “The Brotherhood of the Cruciform Sword?” Elsa seemed to have forgotten about their precarious situation, her curiosity whetted.

  Indy’s eyes narrowed as he looked again at the tattoo on Kazim’s chest. Then he met the man’s gaze, held it for a long moment. The roar of the blades was as loud now as it had been when he was treading water. The boat rocked violently beneath them.

  “Ask yourself why you seek the cup of Christ, for his glory or yours,” Kazim said.

  “I didn’t come for the cup of Christ. I came to find my father.”

  Kazim nodded, glanced over Indy’s shoulder toward the steamship. “In that case, God be with you in your quest. Your father is being held in the Brunwald Castle on the Austrian-German border.”

  Indy suddenly pushed Kazim aside, jammed the key into the ignition. He felt the spray from the steamship’s giant propeller on his back as he turned the key. The engine sputtered and died.

  “C’mon. Start.”

  He tried again. This time the engine revved to life, and they pulled away just seconds before the blades would have chewed into the hull.

  “You’re dangerous!” Elsa shouted at him, her pretty face flushed red, as though she were sunburned. “You could’ve gotten us killed.”

  He smiled. “I know. But I got what I wanted. Ask Kazim where we can drop him off.”

  Indy’s thoughts were already miles ahead of him.

  ELEVEN

  Donovan’s Place

  AFTER A HOT SHOWER, food, and nine hours of sleep, Indy was ready to explore the apartment Donovan had allowed them to use during their stay in Venice. “Apartment,” however, was something of a misnomer: the place was a virtual palace.

  The ceilings were vaulted, and the floors were made of thick slabs of marble. The antique furnishings were worth a fortune. There was a courtyard and balconies and at least a dozen rooms altogether. Covering the walls were some of the finest paintings of sixteenth-century Venetian artists: Veroneses, Tintorettos, and Titians as well as a variety of works that were mostly of historical importance.

  It was obvious to Indy that most of the paintings were designed to bolster the egos of the sixteenth-century aristocracy, who spent most of their time showing off the riches of their independent state for visiting dignitaries. He smiled, thinking that Donovan was cut from the same mold, a twentieth-century patrician.

  Indy was impressed by it all, but at the same time found it too pretentious for a private home. Some of the works should have been in museums, where they could be appreciated by more people. In some ways it was even a little obscene that so much beauty should be enjoyed only by the people who came into these rooms.

  He wandered into the library. Shelves climbed from the floor to the ceiling on each of the four walls. Impressive, he thought. His father would’ve loved it. He perused the books and picked up a volume called The Common-wealth of Oceana, by James Harrington. It was an original edition and had been published in 1656. He flipped it open to a marked page and read a sentence describing Venice. “There never happened unto any other Common-wealth, so undisturbed and constant a tranquillity and peace in her self, as is that of Venice.”

  “Right.” Indy chuckled. Tranquillity, peace: things had changed a bit in three centuries. An image of the brutal Fascists he had seen flashed into his head. He rubbed absently one of his bruised ribs and tried not to think too much about his own less than tranquil experiences in the city.

  Maybe the city was still undisturbed for some people, but he wasn’t one of them.

  It was his second day in Venice, and he, Elsa, and Brody were all still recovering from the incidents of yesterday. An egg-size lump had risen on the back of Brody’s head where he had been struck. Indy was recovering from an odd combination of combat and travel fatigue. His jaw was tender, and two of his ribs were sore from a couple of punches that had connected. Elsa, meanwhile, was suffering from minor rat bites and a slight burn on one arm from the fire in the catacombs.

  Indy had been impressed that she hadn’t even mentioned the burns or bites until after they had found Brody wandering about the library in a daze and had made their way to the apartment. She was pensive today and kept looking at him as if she wanted to say something. But
every time he tried to start a conversation, she abruptly found an excuse to do something else.

  “Indy!”

  Brody stood in the doorway of the library. He held an ice pack to his head with one hand and had a sheet of rumpled paper in the other.

  “How’s the head, Marcus?”

  “Better, now that I’ve seen this. It finally dried. You’ve got to take a look.”

  In spite of the ice pack, Brody sounded as excited as Indy had ever seen him. He hurried into the library and dropped the piece of paper on the massive mahogany table that dominated the room. The paper was what remained of the rubbing from the knight’s shield. It was smeared and faded from the soaking in the tunnel, but was still in one piece. Now that it was dry, Indy could see that it was fairly legible.

  “We know that what was missing from Donovan’s Grail tablet was the name of the city, right?”

  Indy nodded.

  Brody pointed at the ancient lettering, and Indy leaned close. But Brody couldn’t contain himself. “You see, it’s Alexandretta.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  Indy walked to a shelf and searched until he found an atlas.

  “What are you doing?” Brody asked.

  “Looking for a map of Hatay.”

  Indy knew that the knights of the First Crusade had laid siege to Alexandretta for more than a year, and the entire city had been destroyed. Today, the city of Iskenderun on Hatay’s Mediterranean coast was built on its ruins.

  He found the page he wanted and stabbed at it. “Here. Look, Marcus, this is the desert, and this is the mountain range. Just the way the Grail tablet described it. Somewhere in these mountains must be the Canyon of the Crescent Moon.” He paused, studying it. “But where? Where in these mountains?”

  “Your father would know,” Brody said quietly.

  “He would?”

  “Let me take a look at the diary.”

  Indy passed it to him.