Indiana Jones and the Secretof the Sphinx

by Max McCoy

  "No," Faye said.

  "It's miserable," Indy said. "The smell alone is enough to drive you nuts. But if our timing is right, and our money holds out, we can rent a plane from one of the oil companies. If we're lucky, we might even find a plane that can still fly for more than fifty miles at a hop. The desert is notoriously hard on aircraft."

  "So," Mystery asked. "Is that the plan?"

  "Yes, Dr. Jones," Faye said. "What is our next move?"

  "The smart move would be to go home," Indy suggested.

  "Home," Faye said, "is where my husband is."

  "Look, Faye," Indy said. "You have nothing left to prove. Nobody would blame you if you gave up, declared him officially missing in action, and went on with your life. I'm sorry, but that's the size of it."

  "You just don't get it, do you?" Faye asked.

  "Get what?" Indy said.

  "We have to know," Faye said. "If he's alive, I want to find him. If he's dead, I can deal with that. But either way, I have to know—it's this purgatory of not knowing that I can't tolerate. If you're not going to help, then Mystery and I will do it by ourselves."

  Indy clenched his jaw and looked away.

  "You seem to be forgetting something, Dr. Jones."

  "Oh? What's that?" Indy snapped.

  "The long shot that Kaspar actually found the Staff of Aaron, and perhaps the Omega Book. You may be right, Dr. Jones: Kaspar may have died long ago. But his cold dead fingers may be clutching the Staff of Aaron, which in turn points to the Omega Book. It would be the greatest archaeological find and treasure trove of our age. Imagine, Dr. Jones. Your career could come into the daylight. You would no longer be forced to rob graves in the dead of night while dodging goons with machine guns."

  "I like my work," Indy said defensively.

  "Who wouldn't?" Faye asked. "You get to travel and meet new people with interesting and usually sadistic hobbies. When's the last time you brought anything of real value back to your museum in New York?"

  Indy coughed.

  "There were several items from Qin's tomb that were quite nice," he said softly. "And I've had other adventures, but I can't talk about most of them. Nobody would believe me, anyway."

  "So what's one more adventure," Faye continued, "just one more shot at the jackpot. You know you can't resist."

  "All right," Indy said as he rubbed his hand over his stubbled jaw. "We'll keep pushing on—keep hoping for the best, but expecting the worst. And one other thing: Since we will be sharing hardships equally on this expedition, we will also share equally in whatever rewards are unearthed. Agreed?"

  "Agreed, Dr. Jones." Then Faye paused. "With the provision, of course, that if I should not survive... Mystery will receive my full cut, and you will do your best to see her back safely to Oklahoma."

  "I could do no less," Indy said.

  "I can take care of myself, you old fossil," Mystery said as she batted Indy's fedora from his head. "As for Mother, she is just as capable as I, and nothing is going to happen to her. But in the unlikely event that it does, Dr. Jones, I will hold you personally responsible for making me an orphan."

  7

  Children of the Devil

  The big silver biplane with the red Standard Oil logo emblazoned on its corrugated sides glided down to within a yard or two of the desert floor. The 360-horsepower Wright radial engine sputtered and died as it sucked the last drop of fuel from the ninety-gallon tank. The big low-pressure tires bounced twice on the hardpan, leaving twin plumes of dust behind, and then there was a jolt as the tail wheel dropped to the deck.

  Sitting on the floor of the cargo hold of the PT6 transport, Faye Maskelyne lost her balance and nearly landed in Indy's lap.

  "Sorry," she mumbled, suddenly self-conscious.

  When the aircraft had rolled to a stop, Mystery unlatched the rear cargo door and jumped down to the ground. Both she and her mother were dressed in khakis they'd purchased two weeks earlier at a bazaar in an unnamed village along the banks of the Indus.

  The Iraqi sun blazed overhead, and with the exception of some hazy blue mountains in the north, there was nothing to see except the unforgiving desert.

  "Where are we?" Mystery asked.

  "Somewhere in the Upper Plain," Indy said as he emerged from the plane with a plank of wood. "Here—position this on the ground, would you?"

  Indy mounted one of the two motorcycles in the cargo bay, released the clutch, and rolled it down the board to the ground. Then he returned to the aircraft and did the same thing with the other motorcycle, which had a sidecar attached.

  Both motorcycles were red American-made Indians, and both had already been well-used by the time Indy had spent the last of the money to buy them from a trader at the oil company camp in the Pakistani desert the day before. The first motorcycle was a 1929 Indian 4, with four black exhaust pipes exiting on the left side and a broad seat that looked like it belonged on a tractor. The motorcycle with the sidecar was a 1928 Scout. On the sidecar was painted, in English and Arabic, Property of British Geologic Survey.

  Faye brought out the food and supplies, which they strapped to the motorcycles and packed into the luggage area of the sidecar. They hung the canvas water bags from the front fenders of the bikes.

  Indy and Mystery then hauled out the gasoline, ten cans of which were designated to get the aircraft back to the Indian border. The other eight cans would be strapped to the rears of the motorcycles.

  The pilot opened the big triangular glass-paned door and jumped down from the cockpit.

  "You cut that a little close, didn't you?" Indy asked.

  "This was the first flat spot I could find that wasn't strewn with rocks," the pilot said. "Besides, you said you wanted to get as close to Lalesh as possible. Well, it's about a hundred miles in that direction."

  The pilot jerked his thumb over his shoulder to the north.

  After they had finished refueling the aircraft, Indy took the map from his satchel and unfolded it on the ground, then placed his compass on it.

  "Okay," he said, sitting on his haunches. "The Tigris River is due west, the mountains are to the northeast, and you say Lalesh is a hundred miles north. That would place us about here."

  Indy jabbed the map with his index finger.

  "A little more over here, I think," the pilot said.

  "All right," Indy said. "If we average thirty miles an hour across the desert, we should reach Lalesh by nightfall. If there anything in particular we should know?"

  "Iraq is a British protectorate," the pilot said, "but up here on the Upper Plain you're on your own. Iraq does have its own army, but I wouldn't trust them if you meet them; the officers tend to lean toward fascism and they are busy brewing up a war with the British. They won't be fond of Americans. Stay away from the Yezidi tribes, because they have a nasty reputation."

  "I've heard," Indy said.

  "Baghdad is around three hundred miles to the south," the pilot said. "If you get lost, just find the Tigris River and follow it down. Also, there should be a couple of British oil company outposts where you can buy fuel on the way back."

  Indy folded the map and put it back in his pocket.

  "Thanks," he said as he stood and shook the pilot's hand.

  "This is the first time I've flown somebody out to the middle of nowhere and dropped them off," the pilot said. "Good luck, because I know you'll need it."

  Indy mounted the Indian 4 while Faye and Mystery argued over who was going to ride in the sidecar. They finally agreed to flip a coin for it, and Mystery won; she climbed into the Scout's saddle while her mother took the sidecar.

  "Do you now how to ride that thing?" Indy asked as he slipped on his goggles.

  Mystery just smiled at him and kicked the starter. The Scout's engines puttered to life, and then the rear wheel skidded in the dust as she dumped the clutch and twisted the throttle.

  "Hey!" he shouted. "That bike has to last us several hundred miles. There are no garages out here!"

&nb
sp; Mystery, however, could not hear him.

  "Kids," Indy said and shook his head.

  Then he started his own bike and followed.

  For an hour they rode across the plateau, occasionally steering around boulders or climbing a gully, their dust trails hanging behind them in the hot afternoon air.

  Indy checked the compass often to make sure they were still headed in the right direction. They stopped once for lunch, then Faye and Mystery switched places and they pressed onward. As the afternoon wore on, the terrain became rougher, and they found themselves approaching a high mound overlooking the Tigris River. At the apex of the mound was a group of ancient ruins, some of which had obviously been excavated in the not-so-distant past.

  Indy brought his motorcycle to a stop and Mystery pulled up beside him.

  "What is this?" Faye asked.

  "Nineveh," Indy said. "One of the oldest cities in the world, supposedly founded by Nimrod, great-grandson of Noah. It was destroyed by the Babylonians in the sixth century before Christ."

  "Where to now?" Faye asked.

  "There's an ancient road that leads from here to the mountains in the northeast," Indy said. "We take it."

  The road was little more than a goat path, and it was so rough that they were forced to reduce their speed to nearly a crawl for fear of breaking the springs of the motorcycles. Totally intent on negotiating the road, Indy did not notice that they had been followed for the last ten miles.

  Suddenly there were four riders on each side of them, and they easily kept pace with the motorcycles. The horses were white Arabians, sixteen hands high, and the riders wore dark robes and carried ancient muzzle-loading rifles. From their belts hung khanjers, the wicked-looking curved daggers of the desert.

  On flat ground the vehicles could have easily outrun them, but not here. Indy throttled down his motorcycle and brought it smoothly to a stop, and Faye did the same.

  "Don't make any sudden moves," Indy said with a smile, looking at the riders but talking to Mystery and Faye. "And whatever you do, don't speak to them, because that would be an insult. Only men speak to men."

  The leader was a big man with bright blue eyes that peered from a face as weathered as the landscape around them. His nose was like one of the larger boulders, and his hair and beard were the color and texture of steel wool.

  He jumped down from his horse and approached Indy. He had his flintlock rifle in the crook of his left arm, and his right hand was free to wield the khanjer if needed.

  He greeted Indy in Arabic, then said:

  "I speak English a little."

  "Good," Indy said, and he drew back his jacket a little so the holstered Webley would be evident. "I speak Arabic a little."

  "I am Sheikh Ali Azhad."

  "My name is Dr. Jones," Indy said in Arabic, knowing how much stock this part of the world put in titles. "These women are my assistants. They are unimportant, but I am fond of them. They are mine."

  Faye smiled pleasantly, unaware of the conversation.

  The sheikh nodded.

  "You treat sick people?" he asked.

  "No," Indy said. "I'm not that kind of a doctor—I'm a teacher, an archaeologist. I dig in the ground."

  "What do you look for?" the sheikh asked.

  "The past," Indy said.

  The sheikh nodded gravely.

  "We have been waiting three days for you," he said. "In a dream I saw you coming, upon your red machines. All three of you. But I thought you were three men. I was fooled, because your women wear pants. That is the way of dreams. They are true, but you do not know in which way until it comes to pass."

  "You are Yezidi?" Indy asked. "You live in Lalesh?"

  "We call it Sheikh Adda, in honor of our great prophet. It lies in the valley, yonder. We are a peaceful people. The world does not understand us. They try to kill us, to wipe us out. Why are you here?"

  "The dream did not tell you?" Indy asked, gambling.

  The sheikh grunted.

  "May I see your gun?"

  Indy took the Webley from the holster and extended it toward the Sheikh butt-first.

  "If I can see yours," he said.

  The sheikh handed him the flintlock and took the Webley.

  The rifle was old, perhaps a hundred years or more, but well cared for. It smelled of oil and black gunpowder. It was of about forty caliber, and a fresh flint was in the hammer.

  The sheikh opened the cylinder of the Webley, noted the brass cartridges, closed the revolver, and tested its heft by sighting on a mountain peak. Then he returned it to Indy, and Indy handed him the rifle.

  "Very nice," Indy said.

  The sheikh nodded in satisfaction.

  "I call you Jones."

  Indy nodded.

  "I'll call you Ali," he said.

  "I take you to Sheikh Adda," Ali said. "But first, rules: No spitting. No wearing blue. No making Shaitan angry."

  The sheikh mounted his horse and led the way down the road, followed by the other seven riders. Indy started his motorcycle.

  "Who's Shaitan?" Faye asked.

  "Satan," Indy said.

  The village of Sheikh Adda, the holiest of the Yezidi cities, was a collection of white, cone-shaped tombs and temples in the center of a few hundred huts situated in a green valley. Peacocks, symbols of one of the semideities that the Yezidi believed ruled the earth, roamed freely. There appeared to be little commerce other than the raising of goats and horses, and by Yezidi standards Ali was a wealthy man because he owned a gun, a horse, a khanjer, and his own little shop that dealt in tea and the cheapest of Western trinkets. Because he was considered the most powerful man in the village, other than the high priest, he had been allowed to learn and speak English.

  "How many Yezidi are there?" Mystery asked as she got out of the sidecar.

  "Nobody knows," Indy said. "Estimates range from a few thousand to perhaps tens of thousands. In an area in which religious war is the biggest industry, the Yezidi have the misfortune of being identified with the one personality that is nearly universally hated. They have been persecuted for centuries."

  "How long have they been around?"

  "Nobody knows that, either," Indy said. "But they appear to be one of the oldest religious groups in the world. Some have claimed they are a direct link to the religion of the Sumerians, but that hasn't been proven. They can be traced as far back as the mystery religions, however."

  "Do they really worship the devil?" she asked.

  "Worship is the wrong word," Ali told Indy as he approached. It would have been impolite for him to answer Mystery directly. "We believe that Allah is good. Because Allah is good, we have nothing to fear from Him. It is Shaitan you must watch out for and give respect."

  "What are the ways in which you give respect?" Indy asked.

  "In every aspect of life, of course," Ali said. "Come, are you hungry? We will eat."

  Indy followed Ali into his house, but stopped Faye and Mystery before they could enter.

  "Sorry," he said. "But you have to wait out here until the men finish. Then, you'll be brought the scraps."

  "The scraps?" Mystery asked.

  "She's right," Faye said. "That's barbaric."

  "Don't make a scene," Indy said. "It reflects badly on me. Look, I don't make the rules around here. Besides, it could be worse; at least you don't have to wear veils, which is considered pretty progressive in this part of the world. If you're hungry, there is plenty of decent chow in the sidecar."

  After the meal, Indy emerged wearing a white turban and a coarse zebun, the traditional Arab homespun robe. Over his arm were a pair of dark robes. He paused just outside the hut, put his hands on his stomach, and belched elaborately.

  Faye and Mystery were still sitting beside the motorcycles, since none of the other villagers, male or female, dared to express the slightest interest in them.

  Ali slapped Indy on the back and thanked him for the compliment. "Come," he said. "I will show you your house. Bring your wo
men."

  "Have a good time?" Faye asked.

  "You got the best end of the stick, believe me," Indy whispered. "Mutton and sheep eyes. I'd give anything for a ham sandwich right now."

  "Sorry," Faye said. "Mysti and I ate all the potted ham."

  "It was delicious," Mystery said.

  "Here, put these on," Indy said as he threw the robes at Faye. "They think it's indecent for a woman to wear pants."

  Ali led them to a modest hut not far from the village well. They left the motorcycles outside, after Indy removed the spark plug wires.

  "Don't you trust us?" Ali asked.

  "Of course," Indy said as he stuffed the plug wires into his satchel. "But would you leave your horse outside with a bit still between his teeth?"

  The dirt floor of the hut had been freshly raked, and there were two straw mats arranged for sleeping. Other than the mats, there was no furniture. A basket of fruit had been placed by the doorway, which was covered with a strip of canvas.

  "I hope you find it adequate," Ali said.

  "More than adequate," Indy said. "Thank you, my friend."

  Before dawn the next morning, Ali crept inside the hut and knelt beside Indy. Faye and her daughter were still asleep, sharing a straw mat in the far corner of the hut.

  Ali placed a hand on his shoulder.

  Indy's eyes snapped open, and his hand reached for his revolver. Ali's khanjer was at his throat before Indy's fingers could close around the butt of the Webley.

  "It is only I," Ali said as he sheathed the knife.

  "I thought somebody was trying to steal the bikes," Indy said, lowering the revolver.

  "Dress quickly, my friend," Ali said. "Here, put on this turban—the proper headgear for a man. You have been invited to our temple, something no white man has seen before—at least not one who has lived to tell about it."

  "Why me?" Indy asked as he pulled on his boots.

  "Because of my dream," Ali said, "and because the other sheikhs attach significance to your visit as well. This is a time of great portent."