Indiana Jones and the White Witch

by Martin Caidin

  "Ask Gale. She can answer better than I can."

  They turned to her. "The second map," she said simply. "They wanted to know where it was. If we didn't know, they were going to kill both of us."

  "And they came too close for comfort," Indy added.

  "Excoosa," Di Palma said, a deceptively quiet tone to his voice. "This map. It is for the gold?"

  "Whoa, hoss," Indy broke in immediately. "We didn't say a word about gold. You did. I don't like being at this land of disadvantage."

  "I am willing to accept the fact that you know about the gold," Di Palma countered.

  "Sure," Indy admitted. "But I heard about it only yesterday. Seems to me you've known about it a lot longer."

  Di Palma looked to Treadwell. The British agent shrugged. "I told you he was quick."

  "Will you permit me to ask a few more questions before I answer what you have asked?" Di Palma said to Indy.

  Indy placed his empty coffee mug on the end table to his left. He studied the Italian, then shook his head slowly. "No. I don't think you understand something, Di Palma. I'm not part of this whole crazy caper. I never saw St. Brendan Glen before yesterday. I didn't know scratch about gold, or a map, or those people who came in shooting like madmen. I do know that last night I got myself used as a punching bag and a target by people I don't even know, and now I have what is obviously an international undercover team in my flat. I do not feel like joining your party."

  "I am very sorry to hear that," Di Palma answered.

  "That makes one of us, then," Indy told him.

  "Thomas?"

  Treadwell turned to Gale.

  "Why are you people here?" she asked.

  "Obvious, my dear. This flat is invaded, through a window by swinging cable. Professionals, obviously. They, ah, work over our good professor, try to kill you, and want a second map that is supposed to reveal a king's ransom in gold. Both men are now dead and we find out that one of them was likely in the pocket of the same group that committed such atrocities yesterday at St. Brendan's. Where, I have learned only this morning, they obtained a map through torturing the Old Mother of the Glen and threatening to—excuse me, Gale—slit the throats of children if they did not get it. They apparently knew a great deal about this map before they ever arrived at the Glen."

  Treadwell turned to Indy. "So far so good?"

  "You've got the microphone. Don't quit now," Indy murmured.

  "This isn't some simple robbery or just a gang," Treadwell said with increasing severity. He held up a cigarette and glanced at Gale. "Mind?"

  She shook her head. "Not at all."

  Treadwell lit up. "Any group with that many people and vehicles, heavily armed, represents a major organization. Which means power, political influence, financial backing, and—well, enough of counting pennies and reasons. You get the drift, I imagine."

  Indy clapped his hands slowly, a pantomime of sarcasm. "Veddy good, veddy bloody good," he said, lifting his upper lip to expose his teeth.

  "There's no need for that," Treadwell said brusquely.

  "Then go away and you won't have to hear any more of it," Indy offered.

  "Will you back off, Indy? Please?" Treadwell asked.

  "Sorry, old man. My head is killing me."

  "Thomas?" Treadwell turned at Gale's call. "What do you want of us? I mean, why this visit in this manner?"

  "Well, it's obvious. Bodies flung all about, and—"

  "Kill it before we need to put on high-top boots, Tom," Indy broke in. "You didn't need all these people here for that. Especially when one of them is a spy for the Italian Secret Service—"

  "A special agent, if you please," Di Palma said sternly.

  "A spy," Indy went on, "for Italia, and then you've got those three hoods with you—"

  "Hoods?"

  "Oh, come on. Bully boys. Torpedoes. Thugs. Gangsters."

  "They're part of the department, Indy," Treadwell protested. "Special operations."

  "Right. And my great-aunt Millie is really Queen Victoria."

  "Then why," Treadwell asked, obviously nettled, "would I bring along bully boys, as you so crudely put it?"

  "One, you're improving the social level of your company," Indy gibed, "or, two, they come from a nefarious background and association, which means you're hoping they might recognize somebody your people don't know."

  "Somebody like who?" Treadwell pressed.

  Indy shrugged. "Come on, Tom! You're going for a make on anyone from this organization you're after."

  "A make? I do not understand," Di Palma said.

  "Identification," Gale said quickly.

  "And why," Indy asked, pointing to one of the three men seated across the room, "did you bring along a hex man?"

  Treadwell's expression was pure innocence. "Which one?"

  "Remind me never to play poker with you." Indy pointed again. "Your man on the left. Jamaican or Haitian, I'll wager."

  Gale stared. A shudder passed through her as she locked eyes with the tawny-complexioned man. He was tall and thin, his skull as shining as a billiard ball, and his eyes seemed sunken into dark pools. He smiled at her. That smile said many things. Above all, it was a sign of recognition from one person who saw things "normal people" could not see to another.

  "Haitian," Treadwell said finally.

  "And?"

  "I know this is going a bit off the deep end, but—" Treadwell paused, looked to the Haitian, who nodded either agreement or permission. Impossible for Indy to tell.

  "I'll finish for you," Gale broke in. "He has farsight."

  Indy's interest quickened. He looked to the tall stranger. "I'm Jones. And you...?"

  "Antoine LeDuc. I would be pleased with Tony."

  "Farsight, right?"

  LeDuc shrugged. "So it is said."

  "Can you cut through all this? Tell us the people that Stoneface Treadwell is after? That we'd like also to know?"

  LeDuc rose slowly, like a segmented stick unfolding to a tall pole. "Now that I am here, feeling what is in your memories, I have made the connection. It is yet hazy. Miss Parker, ma'am, would you let me rest my hand on your forehead?"

  Gale looked to Indy. He kept his expression blank. This wasn't his decision. She took his silence as agreement; had he sensed even a touch of danger, he would have interfered. She nodded to LeDuc and sat in a chair as he approached. He stood behind her. His hand, with manicured nails and long sensitive fingers, slid to her forehead. She felt an astonishing coolness.

  LeDuc stood quietly. Then he turned to Treadwell. "You know the man you seek."

  "What?" The word chorused from Treadwell, Indy, and Di Palma in unison.

  "He is the same man we have sought." LeDuc studied the faces of the men staring at him. "There is confusion, but that is because this is the man with three names. For some time my own government thought we faced three different men. They were moving into the drug trade in the West Indies as well as Latin and South America. Our people in Haiti are poor, so they were easy to hire out. When they learned they were no more than slave laborers in fields that grew the plants for drugs, it was too late for many of them. They died of fever, beatings, starvation, and when they grew too weak to work, they were simply shot and thrown to the sharks."

  "The names," Indy said quietly. He felt a giant spring coiling within him. Whatever had been simmering was now coming to a boil.

  "What I am feeling through Miss Parker," LeDuc went on, "is different names. But only one person. So I will start with the name of the man who led the attack in the forest."

  He closed his eyes and concentrated. Then his eyes opened and he looked directly at Treadwell. "The name is Warren Christopher."

  Indy, Treadwell, and Di Palma exchanged glances. Indy shrugged. "Doesn't ring a bell."

  Di Palma shook his head. "English name," he said finally.

  "And the blighter's been dead for six years," Treadwell said angrily. "Tony, what the devil are you doing!"

  LeDuc didn't ba
t an eyelash. "I do not recall," he said carefully, "that I brought up the subject of alive or dead. But that is the name."

  "What say you?" Indy needled Treadwell.

  "Christopher was an international arms merchant. We'd been after him for a long time. We finally trapped him in Africa, selling heavy weapons to the Germans. When our people closed in on him, the Germans"—Treadwell emphasized this word—"gave him the quick. With Christopher dead he couldn't testify about who his customers were."

  Treadwell jabbed a finger at LeDuc. "The next name, please. Obviously, there is either a rare similarity of names in the arms and murder business, or—"

  LeDuc didn't let him finish. With a thin smile on his face he said quietly. "Konstantin LeBlanc Cordas."

  Treadwell slammed a fist into his palm. "Now we're getting somewhere!"

  "I thought you told us Cordas—or Halvar Griffin, as he was known then—was dead," Indy told Treadwell.

  "That was the information we received. The information was wrong. He not only survived, but he's been building up his organization again."

  "It starts to fit," Indy said, voicing his thoughts. He looked at Gale and LeDuc; the tall man had removed his hand from her forehead.

  "You gave us two names," Indy said.

  "You provided the third. Halvar Griffin," LeDuc answered.

  "You mean," Di Palma joined in, "these three people, Cordas, Griffin, Christopher, they're all one and the same person?"

  "Looks like it," Indy said, leaning back against the couch.

  Treadwell nodded.

  Indy snapped his fingers as he turned to Treadwell. "We heard a name last night. The guy who walloped me with the gun butt and then threw himself out the window rather than be captured. He told Gale the name of the man she dumped."

  "Dumped? I did more than that," Gale protested.

  "The story ends the same," Indy said to dismiss her complaint. "The point is, he called him Ahmed. Any good to you?"

  Treadwell scribbled notes in a pad. "Not at the moment. We'll run it through the mill." He looked around the room. "Any other names?"

  Gale gestured for attention. "Scruggs," she said.

  "Where did you hear that?" Treadwell said immediately.

  "I didn't hear it. During the slaughter at the Glen, several of our people heard someone call out that name. They told Indy about it."

  "Does that one mean anything?" Indy queried.

  Treadwell snapped his notebook shut. Finally he reached for a chair and sat down slowly. He was obviously unhappy with the name he'd just heard.

  "It most certainly does. One of the bloodiest cutthroats in the underworld. Goes by the name of John Scruggs. He's been with Cordas from the beginning." Treadwell sighed unhappily. "A totally immoral killer. Scruggs isn't his name, but he's got it on a Maltese passport. We know he has forged passports with various names. He's actually Spanish. Valdez Morato."

  "I know him," Di Palma added quickly. "He sells children for slaves." Di Palma grimaced. "Among other heinous crimes. He enjoys killing."

  Indy rose and stretched. "Well, that's the lot. Been nice seeing you, Thomas. Give my regards to Scotland Yard." He looked about the room. "What? You're all still here? Get out there and chase the bad people!"

  "A comedian you are not," Treadwell countered. "Look, Indy, and this includes Miss Parker as well, we're up against the wall. Blind spots everywhere. We've got to get to St. Brendan Glen and go over the place with a fine-tooth comb. Anything could prove valuable."

  Indy pointed to the window. "Then go! You're not going to find clues or catch anyone by staying here and jawing with me."

  "I also want to talk with Miss Caitlin about that map. We know about it now. The map her father had secreted. All I know so far is that there's some enormous amount of gold that can be found with that map, that it's been with the St. Brendan family for many years, that Cordas now has a copy or the original, and—"

  "Hold it, hold it," Indy protested. "Come on, Tom! Gale has already told your people that to save his wife and some children, Kerrie St. Brendan turned the map over to the people who invaded the Glen. The old man didn't know who they were, and at the moment it didn't matter. A map against the lives of his wife and some children. Of course he gave it up!"

  "I'm not faulting anyone, Indy," Treadwell countered.

  "The map is incomplete."

  Heads turned to Gale. Her words seemed to thrust themselves between the men like a physical blow. "What's that supposed to mean?" Indy asked.

  "Just what I said, ducks. The map is incomplete. And deliberately so. It may or may not lead Cordas, or anyone else, to where the gold might be. It's not as simple as it sounds."

  "You seem to know a great deal about this," Treadwell said with quickening interest. "Might I ask how you obtained this information?"

  "Caitlin and I grew up together virtually as sisters. For years she's been training to take over leadership of the Glen when her parents pass on. During her instruction, I was often with her."

  "For the moment," Treadwell said slowly, "strange as it seems, it's not the gold I want to talk about. It's the map."

  "That's different," Indy said.

  Treadwell ignored the dig. "Miss Parker, how did the St. Brendan family come into possession of the map?"

  Gale hesitated. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

  "Try me. Please," Treadwell urged.

  "Fifty, perhaps sixty years ago, it was brought to the Glen for safekeeping," Gale said.

  "I fail to understand," Treadwell said. "Why would it be brought to the Glen when, certainly, the vaults of the Bank of London would be security enough?"

  "I'm not arguing that," Gale told him. "You asked me a question, I answered it. Why the Glen was chosen makes perfect sense to me. I know almost nothing about the bank vaults."

  "Would you tell me why the Glen was preferred?"

  "I said you wouldn't believe me."

  "If you would...?"

  "Sometimes"—Gale hesitated—"well, it's not always possible to get to the Glen. And if you can't get there, you can't take anything from there."

  "Cordas and his people managed quite well."

  "I know. The St. Brendans weren't warned that they were coming. It's like Indy said, Thomas. A case of the horse galloping away before the barn doors are locked."

  Treadwell pushed the issue of the map. "You said the map was incomplete. How do you mean that?"

  "There are no names on the map. Only terrain features. The land where the gold was taken, where it is supposed to be to this day, must first be identified before the map has any value."

  "And where might that land be?"

  "I have no idea," Gale told him.

  "Who would know?"

  "Kerrie St. Brendan. Caitlin's father. And I believe she, too, would know."

  "Thank you, Gale," Treadwell said warmly. "Might I ask your further assistance with these people? They might be much more willing to cooperate with us if we're together."

  Gale shrugged. "I can't answer for them."

  "I understand." Treadwell's mood darkened. "I hope I needn't remind you that if this Cordas fellow fails to identify the land area, he'll return to the Glen, and this time whatever he and his gang of murderers do could be far worse."

  "There's no fear of that," Gale said. "They cannot return to the Glen. Not after what happened. They can never go back there."

  "Pray tell, why?"

  "He won't believe you," Indy told Gale.

  "Why not?" Treadwell said sharply to Indy.

  Indy smiled. "Magic," he said.

  "This is hardly a moment for humor, Indy."

  "I'm serious."

  Treadwell dropped the matter completely. "I am required to talk to the St. Brendans. I hope you will accompany us."

  "I'll go with you," Gale agreed. "But I can't help you unless Caitlin so wishes. Besides, she's not afraid of Cordas returning. She is going to find Cordas. To avenge her mother."

  "In what way?"

/>   "Cordas must die by the sword."

  Treadwell shook his head slowly. "Are we in some land of time machine? We seem to be leaping back and forth between the present and some ancient age."

  Gale smiled, but kept silent.

  "All right, Gale. Will you at least go with us?" Treadwell asked again.

  Gale nodded. "I will. I want Indy to go, too. But you won't be able to find the Glen. Not unless Caitlin lets you in."

  "You do baffle me, Miss Parker. May I say that I grew up in that region? I know every inch of it. I will most definitely find my way to the Glen."

  "Better look out for the magic," Indy said.

  "You're still not funny," Treadwell said grumpily.

  8

  Indy stood in a steaming shower for twenty minutes, the heat easing some of the strain from pulled and battered muscles. He knew Treadwell, Di Palma, and LeDuc waited for him with growing impatience. They could bloody well wait forever as far as he was concerned. He hadn't asked for their presence, he hadn't committed any crimes except in self-defense (and Treadwell wasn't arguing the issue), and sure as grass was green, he didn't want any part of the police investigation. These people were doing their best to snare him into accompanying them to chase around the globe for master criminals, and he'd already had more than his share of that. Indy was perfectly content with battling to solve the mysteries of the ages. He found dusty relics and buried tombs and learning of the wonders and marvels of ancient cultures and civilizations sufficiently fascinating. One thing special about mummified local gods from the past: They made great conversation. They spoke only the mute language of history, not the inane jabbering of the living.

  Besides, he was hungry, and Gale was a wonder in the kitchen. He'd already tasted the meat and local vegetables, none of which he'd recognized, she'd prepared in the New Forest. She was just as good in a London flat's kitchen as she was in the forest. He dressed in fresh clothes, pulled on his friendly, reliable, battered boots and a rough suede shirt. He toyed with the idea of taking his Webley, but that was inappropriate right now. However, old habits were difficult to break, and he slung the whip through his belt thong. In the Glen the whip hadn't brought so much as a second glance. Into his right boot went a long, slim killing blade, one he used far more for work and for small game than on any two-legged prey wearing clothes.