by Max McCoy
"It is because of my husband that we are here," Faye said. "We've been told that he may have visited you before his disappearance, some four years ago."
Jadoo puffed on his cigar.
"Yes," he said. "Of course I remember him. He spent the day with me, in 1930, I believe. He has disappeared? I am sorry to hear that."
"We were hoping," Indy said, "that you could share with us the substance of your conversation with him, to better inform our search."
"Ah, it was so long ago," Jadoo said. "And, I am sorry to admit, my memory is not what it once was. What strikes me most about the conversation now is how pleasant it was. We discussed the history of magic, of course, and he took notes for a book he said he was writing."
"A book?" Faye asked. "He never told me about a book."
"Now, let me think," Jadoo said and closed his eyes. "It does seem to me that a book was involved in the discussion. We talked of so many things."
"Kaspar was not the type to attempt a book," Faye said. "He was more the adventurer than the scholar. In fact, I only received three letters from him before his disappearance, and those were maddeningly brief. I have wished many times that he had been more inclined to document his activities, because it would have made the search for him that much easier."
"Now I remember," Jadoo said. "He was not writing a book about ancient magic, but looking for one. I was not familiar with it, because it seemed to deal more with religion than magic."
"Did you have any advice for him?" Indy asked.
"Yes. He asked me about ancient Hindu texts, and I was able to tell him something about Sanskrit. We also talked of the nearly universal belief among the world's religions of a book or tablet which contains the histories of every person who will ever live."
"The Omega Book," Faye said.
"That is what some cultures call it," Jadoo said. "The ancient Egyptians, for example, believed that in the city of Heliopolis, near Cairo, there was a great sacred pillar named Annu that stood before civilization existed, and contained secret knowledge on 36,535 scrolls hidden inside. The knowledge could only be revealed to the worthy, and for the benefit of the world."
Indy laughed. "That's a metaphor," he said. "The 36,535 scrolls represent the 365 days of the year, plus a fraction of the day, and there are some interpretations that the knowledge is not contained within the pillar, but in the sky—in other words, the stars."
"As above, so below," Jadoo said, quoting a common occult saying. "Plato supposedly visited the temple of Neith, where there were secret halls containing historical records which had been kept for more than nine thousand years. The historian Manetho, who provided the chronology of pharaohs and dynasties that is still used today, is said to have extracted his history from certain pillars which he discovered in underground places, upon which Hermes had inscribed the sacred letters."
"I've heard the myths," Indy said. "Including that of Edgar Cayce, the so-called sleeping prophet, who predicted that a 'Hall of Records' that contains the history of a lost civilization would be discovered beneath the paws of the Sphinx."
"Of course," Jadoo said. "We also talked of some of the great archaeological finds, and how many of them seemed more to do with magic than science. It is amazing, isn't it, how many discoveries involve three persons—a rogue archaeologist, his sponsor, and a teenaged daughter of one of the principals?"
"The Tomb of Tutankhamen," Indy said, "or the Crystal Skull of Lubantuun."
"Precisely," Jadoo said. "Surely there is some mysterious power at work there that science can never fully comprehend. After all, luck plays such a tremendous part in the act of digging in the earth, does it not?"
"In your conversation with Kaspar about this ancient book," Indy asked, "was there mention of using anything other than luck to find it?"
"Yes," Jadoo said. "The Staff of Aaron."
"Why did Kaspar believe the Staff would help him find these records?" Indy asked. "We're dealing with unrelated theologies."
"Because the Staff can find anything," Jadoo said. "It helped the Israelites find water in the desert, for example; strike a rock with it, and a spring flowed. Kaspar believed that such divine intervention was necessary to find the right spot to dig in the sand. After all, it is something like attempting to find a needle in a haystack, as you Americans say."
"Belief in the Staff is traditional in Islam, Judaism, and Christianity," Indy said. "Aaron was supposedly 123 years old when he died and was buried at Mount Hor. As to the final location of his staff, the texts are silent."
"Not all texts," Jadoo said.
"You have some information you'd like to share?"
Jadoo shrugged.
"Chasing rumors and folklore is like trying to catch the wind," he said. "But there is a persistent tale of the Staff still being worshiped by a tribe of devil worshipers in Iraq called the Yezidi."
"Devil worshipers?" Mystery asked. "Why would they worship something that is so connected with the biblical story of Exodus?"
"Because Aaron and his sister, a sorceress named Miriam, lost their faith while their brother Moses was on the mountain receiving the Ten Commandments from God," Indy said. "They urged the Israelites to construct the Golden Calf and to worship it."
"The Yezidi are an unusual people," Jadoo said. "They are located in a remote mountain area to the north of Baghdad, and foreigners are strictly forbidden to go there. I told Kaspar that he had better be careful if he reached them, because they anger easily and are not responsive to reason. What is the American expression? They would as soon slit your throat as look at you."
"So Kaspar was planning to go to Iraq?"
"Yes, I believe that was his plan," Jadoo said. "But I don't know, because I never heard from him after. Neither did he discuss his route with me."
"Thank you," Faye said as she knocked the ashes of her cigar into a tray. "You have given us our first real clue to my husband's whereabouts."
"I only wish I could be more specific," Jadoo said apologetically.
"I have one more question," Faye asked.
"Certainly," Jadoo said.
"There is a goblet made from a human skull in your collection in the next room," she said. "We observed that it was not dusty, like the other pieces, and it smelled of wine."
"Ah," Jadoo said and smiled. "You were wondering if, true to my name, I take refreshment from it. No, I'm sorry to disappoint you. I acquired that relic some years ago in Tibet, and through neglect a family of mice came to nest inside it. When I discovered it last week, I asked Pasha to clean it. He used vinegar, which accounts for the odor."
"That explains it," Faye said.
"What do you mean, 'true to your name'?" Mystery asked.
The magician looked uncomfortable.
"Jadoo," Indy explained, "means 'black magic.'"
"A stage affectation," the magician said.
There was a rap at the door, and Pasha entered. He was carrying a tray, and there was a heavy yellow piece of paper on it, folded so as to make it its own envelope.
"Excuse me," he said. "A message for Dr. Jones."
"Thank you," Indy said.
Indy opened the telegram and read it.
"It's from Marcus Brody," he said, and his voice nearly cracked. "He says that he is distressed to learn that I'm in India instead of China, but that he has directed a transfer of funds to the British Mercantile Bank here. All I have to do is go to the bank and give our usual code word."
"You seem surprised to hear from your old friend," Faye said.
"Not surprised," Indy said. "Simply nostalgic."
"You have a code word?" Mystery asked.
"Yes," Indy said proudly. "A mnemonic device we agreed upon, something from childhood. It certainly comes in handy."
"But what if somebody guesses it?" she asked.
"Oh, that won't happen," he said. "The word is part of a sequence, which progresses each time we use it. Oh, no."
"Dr. Jones," Faye said. "What's wrong? You look suddenl
y ill."
"I can't remember where we are in the sequence," he stammered.
"All right, Dr. Jones," the banker said cheerfully. "My name is Mr. Hyde, and I will be overseeing the funds transfer from America. One thousand American dollars."
They were sitting in a well-appointed office of the British Mercantile Bank, while Faye and Mystery waited in the lobby outside. The banker had seemed somewhat alarmed at Indy's disheveled condition, and had insisted that he leave the whip and the gun with Faye.
"Terrific," Indy said. "You don't know what a help this is."
"Sign this, please."
He pushed a form across to Indy.
Indy signed it and dated it, then handed it back.
"The date," the banker said.
"What? Oh, sorry. I'm always behind when the year changes."
"You are a quarter of a century ahead," the banker observed.
"There's a funny story behind that," Indy said.
"I'm sure there is," the banker said without emotion. "Now, do you have some identification? Your passport will do."
"I'm sorry, I don't," Indy said.
"You're traveling without a passport?"
"I lost it in the storm that sank our ship," Indy said.
"Something else, then. A birth certificate?"
"That's not something I normally carry with me."
"A library card, perhaps."
"I told you," Indy said. His eyes glistened and his cheeks were beginning to redden. "I lost everything in the typhoon. We are in a desperate situation here, or I wouldn't be wiring my friend Marcus Brody for money."
"All right, Dr. Jones, no need to get angry," Hyde said. "There is one last recourse here. I just need to verify your identity with the code word which Mr. Brody has given us."
Indy grinned.
"Another funny story," he said.
"I'll take your word for it," the banker said.
"Can I give you the entire phrase, of which—"
"The code word, Dr. Jones," the banker insisted.
Indy mumbled.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Boy," Indy said.
"No, I'm sorry."
"Does."
"Quite wrong."
"Fine," Indy said.
"Well," the banker said.
"That's it," Indy said. "I couldn't remember which note we used last. Every Good Boy Does Fine. The phrase stands for the lines of the great musical staff, and we used D last time."
The banker looked at him suspiciously.
"Look, I've just given you the code," he said. "Wire Brody if you must and ask him to confirm it—we'll have to change it now, anyway."
"Wait here, please," the banker said. "I'll get the money for you."
The banker left the office and Indy waited nervously. When the man returned, he was accompanied by a bank security guard.
"What's wrong?" Indy asked.
"You're under arrest for fraud," Hyde said. "The correct response was, 'Every.'"
"You're making a big mistake," Indy said.
"I'm afraid not, Dr. Jones—or whoever you are," Hyde said. "Our description for Professor Jones is of a man considerably younger than yourself. He would certainly have no gray in his hair. In addition, Mr. Brody told us that he believed you were in South America. We must conclude, therefore, that you are an impostor attempting to assume the identity of Dr. Jones in order to make some quick cash from Mr. Brody's museum."
"Get Marcus on the phone," Indy said. "Let me talk to him."
"That is quite impossible," Hyde said.
"Please," Indy said. "You don't understand."
"I'm afraid we do," Hyde said. "You will be held by the Calcutta police until we can sort this thing out."
"Behave yourself," the guard told him while he handcuffed Indy's hands behind his back. "There's a good fellow. No use struggling."
As Indy was led away through the lobby, Faye called out to him.
"Where are they taking you?" she asked.
"The Calcutta jail," Indy said. "They think I'm trying to rob them. They don't believe I'm me."
"You're making a mistake," Faye told them. "This is Dr. Jones."
"This bloke apparently has you fooled as well," the guard said. "How do you know he is Dr. Jones?"
"Because he told us he was."
"How long have you known him?"
"A few days," she said.
"You lied?" Mystery asked.
"No," Indy said.
"Do you have any other proof?" the guard asked.
"Well, no," Faye said. "But I trust him."
"Begging your pardon," the guard said. "But there's your first mistake, madam. I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to take you and the girl in for questioning as well. Let me have the gun."
"Indy," Faye said. "What do you want me to do?"
"Hand it to him," Indy said.
She gave the guard the holstered Webley. He tucked it under his arm, then drew a second and third pair of handcuffs from his back pocket.
"Since there's only one of me and three of you," he said apologetically as he held up the additional sets of cuffs, "the bloke here will go to jail, but you women will be released after the inspectors have a chance to question you."
"Let them go," Indy said.
"Sorry, mate."
The guard handcuffed Mystery's hands behind her back, then turned to her mother. Mystery was out of the cuffs in a few seconds, and she snatched the Webley from beneath his arm.
"I've had enough of this," Mystery said as she unholstered the revolver and pointed it at the bank guard.
"Now, miss," the guard said. "You could hurt somebody with that."
"That's the point," she said. "I'm not letting you take Dr. Jones. You know what they call the jail here? The black hole. People go in and never come out. Let him go."
"All right," the guard said and released Indy.
"Let's get out of here," Mystery said.
Indy took the gun from the guard's holster.
"Not yet," Indy said. "I'll have that money now, Mr. Hyde."
"You're robbing me?"
"No," Indy said. "That thousand dollars really is meant for me. It's not your money, it's Marcus Brody's—or at least his museum's."
"Very well," Hyde said. "It will take a moment."
"I don't care if it's in dollars, pounds, or rupees," Indy said. "Just hurry. And don't try anything, because we're desperate."
"Right," Mystery said.
"Give me that," Faye said and took the gun from her. "You're not going to shoot anybody."
"Faye," Indy said. "This is kind of a delicate situation. Would you please not undermine our position?"
"I won't be having my daughter waving guns around," she said.
"Fine," Indy said. "Then you wave it."
Hyde came back with the money, which was in pounds. Indy stuffed it in his jacket and tipped his hat.
"Remember," he said. "We only took what was mine."
Then all three ran for the door.
Sokai was still unaccustomed to the black silk patch over his eye, and he tilted his head back at an awkward angle as he looked at the old magician. Sokai, who was wearing a white suit beneath his black trench coat, lit an American cigarette and crossed his legs while Jadoo fidgeted with a cigar.
Musashi stood behind Sokai's chair.
"This man Jones," Sokai said simply. "Tell me what you know of him."
"He was here," Jadoo said. "And his two companions. A woman by the name of Maskelyne and her daughter. They should be well on their way to Baghdad by now."
"What did they want?" Sokai asked.
"They were searching for clues to the woman's missing husband," Jadoo said. "I told them that he was here, four years ago."
"Go on," Sokai said.
"I led them to believe that I was sympathetic to their search."
"Yes," Sokai said. "What else?"
"Jones received a telegram from New York. Money was waiting for him at the British M
ercantile Bank."
"That will make him harder to catch," Sokai said.
"Why do you want him?"
"Personal reasons," Sokai said and touched the eye patch. "Also, they search for something which interests me. Why are they on their way to Baghdad?"
"Because I told them the husband believed he would find the Rod of Aaron among the Yezidi of northern Iraq," Jadoo said. "That much is true."
"But they won't find the husband there," Sokai said.
"No," Jadoo said.
"Why have you never sought this fabled rod, if the husband shared its location with you?"
"Because the Yezidi are not a tribe I am anxious to visit," Jadoo said. "I have never been inclined to risk my life for an uncertain reward."
"Ah," Sokai said, "but what if someone else does the real work by locating the prize first?"
"Then it would be a prize for the taking," Jadoo said.
Sokai laughed.
"We seem to share compatible philosophies," Sokai said. "Let us join forces to bring about the destruction of Jones and his companions. We will have what is his."
"We've got a problem," Indy said as he sat down between Faye and Mystery in the crowded railcar bound for the heart of the Indian subcontinent. The conductor had punched their tickets without so much as a second glance.
"Other than being fugitives?" Mystery asked.
"Keep your voice down," Indy said. "No, I think we're safe now. The problem is that once we get to the Pakistani border—a week from now, or two weeks, depending on our luck and the whims of the Indian railway system—the rails end."
"All right," Faye said. "Then we hire a driver."
"There are no roads," Indy said. "At least not in the modern sense of the word. There are nothing but goat paths, switchbacks, and unmarked graves for fifteen hundred miles of rocks and desert. The two countries between us and Baghdad, Pakistan and Iran, belong more to the Middle Ages than to the twentieth century."
"So how do people cross it?" Mystery asked.
"Generally, they don't," Indy said. "When they have to, they go in caravans, just like they did a thousand years ago on the old Silk Road."
"Then we'll find a caravan," Faye said.
"It takes six weeks to cross that much desert on a camel," Indy said. "I don't know about you, but I don't think I can spare the time—or the trouble. Have you ever ridden a camel?"
