Indiana Jones and the Secretof the Sphinx

by Max McCoy

  He motioned for the soldiers to leave. They bowed and backed out of the room.

  "Are you well?"

  The man spoke English with no trace of an accent.

  "Well enough," Indy said.

  "Good."

  The man reached into the pocket of his trench coat and casually drew out a pack of Lucky Strikes. He offered the pack to Indy.

  "I don't smoke," Indy said.

  "I did not think you did, Dr. Jones," the man said as he returned the cigarettes to his pocket. "I did not find any evidence of it in your things. But then, smoking is somewhat customary in prison. One of the few freedoms inmates enjoy."

  With the cigarette dangling from his mouth, the man stepped up on the chair and adjusted the flame of the kerosene lamp. It burned more brightly now, with less smoke.

  Indy blinked at the sudden brilliance. He ran a hand over his jaws, feeling a forest of stubble that was fast becoming a beard.

  "Get to the point," Indy said.

  The man smiled.

  "Forgive me," he said. "This is somewhat awkward, isn't it? I must apologize for your treatment. I hope the squad that brought you in didn't hurt you too badly. No? Good. My name is Master Mishima Sokai. I work for the foreign office in Tokyo."

  "So you're a spy," Indy said.

  "Yes, and a rather good one," Sokai said with a smile.

  "Then you can tell me why your goons dragged me here," Indy said. "I'm a professor of archaeology at Princeton University and was conducting legitimate research on Mount Hua when—"

  Sokai held up his hand.

  "Do not raise your voice, please," he asked pleasantly. "I am not easily intimidated, and I know more about you than even your colleagues on campus do. This secret life you lead is quite fascinating. Wherever Dr. Jones goes, trouble seems to follow. That cannot be a coincidence."

  "Let's just say I have a talent for it."

  "Indeed," Sokai said. "And I can appreciate your need for discretion."

  "Since you seem to know so much about me," Indy said, "why don't you tell me something about yourself." Without asking, he reached out and pulled his clothes from the table. Sokai cocked an eyebrow, but did not stop him from changing.

  "In addition to being regarded as Nippon's top spymaster by those in a position to know, I am also a fighter pilot, a chutai leader with the 24th Sentai of the Imperial Army Air Force."

  "And I thought the goggles were just for fun."

  "Actually, being a pilot has its advantages. No train or boat schedules to deal with, superior firepower, and the advantage of firsthand aerial reconnaissance."

  "Fascists seem to be particularly fond of aircraft, I've found," Indy said. "What are those two that left the room? Your gunner and bombardier?"

  "No, they are the other pilots in my chutai," Sokai said. "Lieutenant Musashi and Warrant Officer Miyamoto. We fly Ki-10 Type 95 biplane fighters. The Type 95 flies at a ceiling of nearly 10,000 feet, has a top speed of 248 miles per hour, and is armed with a pair of 7.7-millimeter machine guns in the nose."

  "Do you have a picture of it in your wallet?"

  "I appreciate wit," Sokai said, "but only when used sparingly. Like a precocious child, you are beginning to try my patience. See that it doesn't break."

  Sokai stared at Indy a moment to make his point, then continued: "Let's see, what are the usual questions I am asked? I speak English well because I was schooled in the West. My father was a foreigner, a gaijin, a diplomat. My mother? A geisha who had the misfortune to fall in love with him. I was born the day in 1904 he was executed as a spy during the Russo-Japanese War. So you see, I have grown up gaijin in my own land. I have become quite a fan of American films, American cigarettes, and American clothes."

  "But your politics are decidedly Imperial."

  "America is just a hobby," Sokai said. "But Japan is the land of my ancestors. Besides, we're on the same side. We aren't at war."

  "Tell that to the Chinese," Indy said.

  Sokai laughed as he dropped the butt of his cigarette on the floor and ground it out with the heel of a well-polished shoe.

  "Life is a struggle," he said. "I am a student of Bushido, the way of the warrior." Sokai reached inside his trench coat and withdrew a samurai sword. He held it front of him, upright, in a two-handed grip.

  "Often, the old ways are the best," he said. "This blade is more than five hundred years old, and still it is the sharpest edge known to man."

  Indy began to speak, but Sokai held a finger to his lips.

  "The swordsmith who made it devoted ten years of his life to the process. It was forged only after the workshop had been purified and offerings made to the deity that would inhabit the blade, which was made of a single lump of iron ore. The blade was heated, hammered, and folded five thousand times, and each time it was cooled in the snows of Fuji to temper it."

  "I've heard the stories," Indy said as he bent over to tie the laces of his boots.

  "The spirit that enters the blade is a reflection of the piety of the maker," Sokai continued. "Sometimes, when the swordmaker's mental state was marred by a bad thought, an evil spirit would enter the blade. But it would not be known until the blade had drawn its first blood."

  "I've got the feeling you've already found out."

  "That was known long ago," Sokai said. Then he nicked the ball of his thumb with the blade, drawing a sliver of blood. "One should never sheathe an edged weapon without its having tasted blood. Otherwise, the hunger can grow overpowering."

  In one graceful, practiced motion Sokai drew the back edge of the sword along the fleshy V between his left forefinger and thumb to guide the blade into the scabbard, then slipped the weapon home.

  Indy looked at Sokai without comment.

  "I always keep this blade on my person," Sokai said. "One never knows when the need for it will arise."

  "I prefer more modern methods," Indy said. Then he reached for the Webley.

  "Go ahead," Sokai said. "It's empty, of course."

  Indy broke open the cylinder. Sokai was right. Then he closed the gun, returned its familiar weight to the holster.

  "And what of this?" Sokai said as he plucked the whip from the bench. "Surely you don't consider this modern? Slaves have been feeling the lash of the whip since time began. What an odd choice."

  Sokai tossed the whip.

  Indy caught it.

  "Sometimes," Indy said, "the slaves turn the whip against the masters."

  "An idealist," Sokai said. "How charming."

  "What do you want?" Indy asked as he donned his hat.

  Sokai picked up the ivory moon.

  "From the tomb of Qin."

  "If you say so," Indy said.

  "Don't you wonder how Qin's astronomers knew the moon was round? And with such detail that they etched the craters and mares on the far side? We still don't know what that looks like. She never turns her back to us."

  "Get on with it."

  "I'm after not only treasure, Dr. Jones," Sokai said as he placed the moon in Indy's satchel. "I'm after power. Ancient knowledge. Magic. It is a force which all cultures before us understood. The ancient samurai, for instance, studied more than just the art of war. They also cultivated their talent for painting, music, literature, the play of positive and negative forces in the universe, and the use of incantations and spells. The soldiers told me quite a tale about your emergence from the mountain. Something about the ghost of the emperor dropping you at their feet?"

  "They must have been drunk," Indy said as he slipped on his jacket. "I was so excited after I found this thing that I tripped going back down the mountain to tell my guide about it. That's all."

  Then he picked up his hat, brushed some dust from the crown, and placed it in the satchel. He slung the satchel over his shoulder.

  "Preparing to leave?" Sokai asked.

  "Wouldn't you?"

  Sokai reached down, picked up a wooden crate the size of a hatbox, and placed it on the bench. The crate was painted black, a
nd the top was hinged and padlocked. Sokai produced a key from his pocket, unlocked the top, and swung it open.

  He pushed the box across to Indy.

  "Ever seen one of these?"

  Inside was a helmet-shaped device, made of very old-looking iron.

  "It's called the nutcracker," Sokai said. "Yes, that's right. It's used for cracking tough nuts." He tapped his own skull.

  "It's lovely," Indy said.

  "As I said, the old ways are often the best," Sokai said as he took the device out of the crate. It had thick screws protruding from the areas that would fit over the eyes, ears, and mouth. The halves were closed by a pin that slipped into the clasp from above. Sokai removed the pin and swung the halves open to reveal corkscrew spikes inside. They were black and crusted with dried blood.

  "And you intend to use that on me?"

  "If I must," Sokai said. "But I hope it won't come to that."

  "Don't hold your breath."

  "Very funny," Sokai said. "And very brave, in the face of being made progressively deaf, dumb, and blind. Ah, I see that I have your attention now. That is how it works—first one ear goes, and then the other. Then the tongue is ruined. Finally, because most of us prize our sight above all, first one eye is taken, and then comes the great darkness. But don't despair. Most nuts crack before it comes to that."

  Sokai looked sympathetically at Indy.

  "Or, you can avoid all of this unpleasantness and simply tell me the secrets of Qin's tomb," Sokai said. "I am particularly interested in getting in and out alive, as you apparently have."

  "Go fish."

  Sokai called to his aviators. When they came, he spoke softly to them in Japanese.

  "Hai," they each said and bowed curtly before beginning their work. They seized Indy's hands, wrenched them behind his back, and attempted to bring his wrists together so they could bind them with a cord.

  "What's wrong?" Sokai demanded when they were unable to bring Indy's hands together.

  "The gaijin is strong," Lieutenant Musashi complained.

  "How strong could he be?" Sokai snorted. "He's twenty years older than you, and he's been on prison rations for nearly a week."

  "Yes, Sokai Sensei," she said. "We will try harder."

  In the struggle, the lieutenant's hat was knocked from her head, and a cascade of silky black hair fell from beneath it.

  "Why do you look so surprised?" Sokai asked. "Did you not think the lieutenant's features were overly fine, that the voice was a little too feminine?"

  "I knew she was a woman," Indy said. "But I didn't know she was this beautiful."

  Then Sokai snapped his fingers.

  Warrant Officer Miyamoto struck Indy on the back of the head with his fist, hard enough so that Indy saw stars. Pushing Indy into a chair, Miyamoto seized a wrist in each hand, grunted, and brought them together while the lieutenant bound them with cord.

  "Good," Sokai said and drew close. "Hold his head."

  He opened the nutcracker wide, screwed the spikes out, then clamped it over Indy's head while the others held him still. Indy fought until the helmet was closed. He could feel the tips of the spikes scraping against his eyelids, his ears, and his bottom lip when he moved even slightly. The only direction he could move his head, he soon found, was backward.

  "There," Sokai said. "All set. Are you comfortable, Dr. Jones?"

  "No," Indy mumbled.

  "Of course you're not! Who would be?"

  The soldiers stepped away while Sokai moved behind the chair and placed a hand on the screw handle that drove the spike over the right ear. Sokai slowly turned the handle.

  "This is how it begins," Sokai said. "The anticipation of so much unnecessary pain. The sound of the screw turning, so close to your ear, followed by the feeling of the spike as it touches your outer ear—there, you jumped, you must have felt it—and then the awful agonizing seconds as it travels into the ear canal toward the tender membrane of the eardrum. And when the eardrum breaks, there is acute pain and a roaring sound—ironic, from an ear that has gone permanently deaf."

  "You're enjoying this too much," Indy tried to say without stabbing his lip or driving the spike farther into his ear, but it came out unintelligible.

  "Sorry," Sokai said. "You had your chance to—"

  Indy kicked out, catching the edge of the bench with the toe of his right boot. The bench tipped over, and as it did, a corner crashed into the lamp, bursting the globe and extinguishing the flame while dousing the room with kerosene.

  The room went dark.

  Indy tipped backward, and as the chair went over with him the back of the helmet caught Sokai in the chest. It knocked the air out of his lungs, and Sokai fell to the floor, gasping.

  Indy's right ear was ringing painfully and he could feel blood trickling down his neck, but he forced himself to keep moving. He untangled his arms from the chair back, got to his knees, and drove his chin to his chest while shaking his head. The pin slipped out of the clasp and the helmet fell to the floor with a bang.

  The soldiers called for their master in the darkness.

  Sokai was still struggling to draw a breath, but his hands were outstretched, searching.

  Indy got to his feet. He backed against the wall, so that he could search with his still-bound hands, and felt frantically for the door.

  Sokai clutched Indy's leg in the darkness.

  Indy tried to kick him away, but couldn't. Then, in the struggle, the cord binding his hands snapped, and he punched blindly toward where he thought Sokai's face would be. He was rewarded with the smack of knuckles meeting flesh.

  Sokai, however, did not stop. He caught one of Indy's jabs in his hands, turned the wrist, expertly locked the elbow, and drove him to the floor. With his face jammed against the floor and Sokai on top of him, Indy could not reach far enough with his right hand to defend himself. Then his groping right hand found a piece of broken chair leg.

  Indy swung the wood, haymaker style, and the extension was just enough to connect with his opponent's chin. Sokai's head snapped backward, he released his grip on Indy, and he swayed for a moment before he fell forward—into the open front half of the nutcracker lying on the floor.

  Indy could not see what was happening, but he was shocked at the sound it made, a wet hollow sound like that made by driving an ice pick into a watermelon.

  Lieutenant Musashi also knew the sound.

  "I am blinded," Sokai said matter-of-factly, as if it were someone else's eyeball that had been impaled on a rusty metal spike.

  Musashi's alarm for her master turned instantly to a thirst for revenge.

  "Stop!" she commanded, and the barrel of her semiautomatic pistol sought Indy in the darkness, wavering this way and that.

  A second before the shot rang out, Indy instinctively felt that a gun was being aimed his way, and he flattened himself against the floor. The report was deafening in the small room, and the orange muzzle flash froze their positions as if a photograph were being taken—Sokai on the floor with the mask attached to his face like a living thing, Miyamoto in a fighting crouch but unsure of which way to go, and the lieutenant with a 1914 Mauser pistol held in front of her with both hands. The round pockmarked the wall behind Indy, then the room went briefly back to darkness.

  Lieutenant Musashi squeezed off two more rounds, the sparks belching from the muzzle of her Mauser. The second shot missed, but her third found its mark. The slug hit Indy in the left shoulder, driving him through the wooden door and out into the corridor outside. A searing pain went from his collarbone down to the tips of his fingers.

  Indy scrambled to his feet, shaking off pieces of the broken door, and stumbled down the hall. There was a barred window at the end of the corridor, and a trio of guards in front of it. The guards scattered when they saw Musashi step out of the doorway and level the automatic handgun their way.

  She aimed carefully at the center of Indy's back and pulled the trigger. The trigger, however, was stuck; the gun had misfired,
with a casing jamming the chamber.

  Indy put his right arm over his face and plunged into the window. The bars gave way in a shower of old mortar and broken glass,

  Musashi cursed fluently in English and threw the worthless foreign gun down in disgust. She barked orders at the prison guards to form a squad and go after the American. Then she screamed for them to bring back the first doctor they could find and to send for the best doctor in the province.

  They looked at her blankly.

  She repeated the orders in Japanese, even more ferociously than before. Then she walked back into the room, where Miyamoto was cradling Sokai in his arms.

  "Is he dead?" she asked.

  Miyamoto shook his head.

  "But he might as well be," he said.

  3

  The Rope Trick

  Indy fell into the muddy street outside the prison and attempted a forward roll, but his nonresponsive shoulder left him on his back. His shoulder was throbbing and numb at the same time, the way your thumb is when you hit it with a hammer while trying to drive a nail. He didn't think the bullet had struck bone, but it was difficult to be sure. He grimaced and tucked his left arm protectively into his jacket, leaving the sleeve empty.

  Then he was on his feet and running.

  It was dusk and he made for the shadows that pooled beneath the gables of a deserted warehouse at the end of the street. Apart from a pair of chickens that scolded Indy for his rudeness, the street was deserted.

  Posters in Chinese and French tacked to the weathered fence declared that the warehouse had been seized by the Imperial Army, was the property of the emperor, and trespassers would be shot. Indy had some difficulty scaling the fence, and as he dropped to the ground on the other side, he could hear the steady tromp-tromp of boots coming down the street.

  The warehouse was a dark cave inside, and Indy could hear the cooing of pigeons in the rafters. He made his way quickly through the darkness, found a door at the rear of the building, shouldered his way past it, and discovered the end of a crooked, narrow alley.

  The alley was a makeshift home to many dozens of families who had been displaced by the Japanese, and Indy had to hurdle cooking fires, squeeze between packing crates, and duck beneath clotheslines. Once he had to flatten himself against a doorway as a squad of soldiers passed at the intersection of a nearby street, and he held his finger to his lips to urge quiet from a family living in a crate as they stared impassively at him and ate from bowls of cold rice.