Indiana Jones and the Genesis Deluge

by Rob MacGregor

  At the moment, they were the least of his worries. What the hell was he going to do? Where was he going to go? He couldn't go back to London, and Paris was out of the question. He was jobless and his savings wouldn't last forever. Damn, I shouldn't have stayed at the Blackstone, he thought. Maybe he should go to New York and see his father. But they hadn't spoken for a long time, and his present circumstances would just prove his father right. He could just imagine the old man telling him he knew all along that archaeology was not the proper field for him. "And now look at you, Junior: no job, no career. You're a disgrace."

  No. He wouldn't see his father. But maybe he would go to New York. He could stay with Marcus Brody for a while, and Marcus would probably give him a job working in his museum until he found something else. Marcus, after all, had helped him out of other jams. But that was the problem. He'd taken advantage of Marcus's kindness too many times already. He had to strike out on his own.

  He picked up a pebble and tossed it in the pool, shattering his reflection. He pushed off from the ground and continued down the path. He passed under the wrought-iron gate at the entrance to the campus and turned right on Fifty-seventh Street. One block down at the corner of Fifty-seventh and University, he paused to look at Mandel Hall, a massive building with an ornate theater filled with rich, dark wood and gold-leaf trim. It was also the home of the student union and was another spot where he'd spent a lot of time, especially during his freshman and sophomore years when he lived in a dormitory a few blocks from here.

  He recalled meeting a farm girl here, whose name he had forgotten. They'd talked awhile and then walked back to their dormitories together. He continued on, following the same route that he and the girl had taken. He remembered his heart thumping as they'd turned onto Woodlawn and headed along the dark street hand in hand.

  Grace. That was her name. He still remembered that she spoke with a south Illinois accent and that her parents had frowned on her moving to Chicago on her own. They'd been disappointed that she hadn't married her high-school sweetheart. The things you remembered.

  Stately brick mansions lined Woodlawn. They'd been built in the 1890s and were inhabited mostly by professors. Not much chance now that he would ever occupy one of these majestic residences, he thought. But then, it had never occurred to him that he would live here.

  If there was any house along Woodlawn that he would like to live in, it was the one built by Frank Lloyd Wright. It was a Prairie-style house that was built on a pedestal, instead of above a basement, and it had a cantilevered roof projecting out over the lawn.

  He remembered Grace saying that she would live in that house one day, and if he ever came by he should stop in and see her. Back then everything seemed possible. Now he saw things differently. Grace didn't live in that house, and even if she did, they wouldn't have anything to say to each other.

  He'd gone out with Grace a few times after that first night. Then the school year had ended and he'd never seen her again. She'd probably married that old boyfriend, or someone from her hometown. By now she had a couple of kids in school and maybe lived on a farm. The good life, he thought. But almost any life sounded good when you didn't have one. He didn't have much of anything.

  He was only a block from the dormitory where he'd lived for two years, but there was no reason to look at it. Besides, the sullen, leaden sky had finally started to drizzle. He turned on Fifty-eighth and walked over to University Avenue. On the corner was the Oriental Institute, another place where he'd spent numerous afternoons. Its exhibits focused on the history, art, and archaeology of the ancient Near East—Assyria, Mesopotamia, Persia, Egypt, and Palestine.

  He headed up the walk to the entrance, passing two men wearing trench coats and hats. He overheard one of the men. Indy didn't understand what he'd said, but knew he was speaking Russian. He glanced back at them as he opened the door, but both had turned away.

  He meandered past displays of statuary, pottery, and bronze busts, some dating back to the second millennium B.C. He was about to enter a room featuring artifacts from Mesopotania when he stopped short. Directly across the room from him stood Zobolotsky and Katrina.

  The pair was huddled to one side of a tablet and conversing in soft voices. Indy moved quietly into the room and acted as if he were examining a statue. He edged closer until he could hear them better. Zobolotsky was speaking Russian just like the man outside. Indy spent a few months in Russia when he was a kid, and he had spent his mornings studying the language. As a result, nearly twenty years later, he could still pick up words and phrases.

  Zobolotsky: "I just don't understand it."

  Katrina: "Don't worry. It'll work out."

  "But where do we look?"

  "Father, I think ..." The woman stopped in midsentence and turned toward Indy as she realized he was standing behind her eavesdropping. "What is it?" she snapped.

  Indy looked blankly at her as if he didn't understand. "Pardon me?"

  "What do you want?" she asked in English.

  He glanced at the tablet in front of them and saw it was inscribed with cuneiform. "I want to look at the tablet. It's cuneiform, you know."

  "I'm sorry." She stepped back. Her features softened as she smiled. "It's just that you surprised me."

  Now that he was so near her, he was suddenly curious about her. She had a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones and a narrow chin. Her skin looked baby soft, and her eyes were blue, watery, deep. Eyes that could cast a spell, and what man would fight it? Her lips were luscious and full and matched the color of the ruby silk scarf that was draped over her shoulders.

  "Can you read cuneiform?" she asked.

  "Nobody really reads it," he replied, noticing how her long black dress accented the flair of her hips from her wasplike waist. "A few people translate it. It's slow, painstaking work."

  "You sound like you know something about it," Zobolotsky said. The Russian looked older today. His sandy hair was tinged with gray, and his eyes were deeply creased at the corners. He was hunched over like a very old man.

  "A bit."

  "Do you know how important this tablet is?" Zobolotsky asked.

  Indy stepped forward and peered at it. He saw that it had been broken into two pieces and fitted back together. He had no idea what the cunieform said and started reading the printed translation next at it.

  "I caused to embark within the vessel all my family and my relations,

  The beasts of the field, the cattle of the field, the craftsmen, I made them all embark.

  I entered the vessel and closed the door...

  From the foundations of heaven a black cloud arose...

  All that which is bright is turned into darkness...

  The gods feared the flood,

  They fled, they climbed into the heaven of Anu,

  The gods crouched like a dog on the wall, they lay down. ..."

  He stopped reading and stared at the tablet, the actual cuneiform tablet with the story of Ut-naphishtim. "Well, this is quite a coincidence," he said, his tone hushed.

  "What do you mean?" Katrina asked. He took a step back, but kept his gaze on the tablet. "Just the other day I was telling a friend of mine about this very tablet. I had no idea it was here in Chicago. After I told him the story of how it was found and translated, he asked me to go to his church and hear a talk about the search for Noah's Ark."

  "You mean..." Zobolotsky began.

  "Yes. I was there."

  "I thought you looked familiar to me," Katrina interjected. "I must have seen you there. Who are you?"

  "Excuse my daughter," Zobolotsky said. "Are you an archaeologist?"

  "Yes." His voice seemed a bit too loud, as if he needed to convince them as well as himself. "I've been at the University of London for a few years. But I'm taking some time off now."

  "Interesting," Zobolotsky said, and stroked his chin as he studied Indy.

  "Wait a minute," Katrina said. "I know where I saw you. You were just now in Dr. O'Malley's offic
e."

  "That's right. I had a meeting with him right after you left."

  "We did not find him very cooperative," Zobolotsky said.

  "As a matter of fact, I didn't either," Indy said, and couldn't help but laugh.

  Katrina looked mystified. "What did he say about us?"

  "What makes you think he said anything to me about you?"

  "Because you were at the church. You must have said something to him."

  Indy nodded. "He's very skeptical about your expedition."

  "He doesn't understand how important it is," Zobolotsky said.

  "What do you think?" Katrina asked.

  "I have some questions about it."

  Indy tried not to sound too harsh. Katrina touched something in him that had been buried for months. He felt a magnetic attraction to her that was startling in its intensity. He'd forgotten all about Shannon's fascination with her. For every second that he remained in her presence, the strength of her magnetism doubled, then tripled, as though she were a mathematical law unto herself and he was nothing but a number she shuffled around in an equation.

  "What are they?" her father asked.

  For a moment, Indy didn't know what Zobolotsky was talking about. "Why do you want to go back there if you've already climbed the mountain and seen the ship?"

  "It's important that we document its existence."

  "You've already got the piece of wood," Indy said.

  "The wood means nothing to the nonbelievers. People like O'Malley look at it and tell me I'm lying, that I could have found it anywhere. It proves nothing to people like him. Do you understand?"

  "Perfectly."

  "But they cannot ignore photographs. Katrina is a very good photographer and will prove to the world that the Ark exists."

  So she was going along. That changed everything. He was no longer merely curious about their expedition; he needed to know about it.

  He tried to concentrate on Zobolotsky. "Why is it so important to you?"

  The former soldier straightened his back. "Because the world must know, and when it is known, all the false governments that have outlawed God and religion will collapse."

  "I see." So it was political as well as religious. Science took a distant third place.

  "I'm not saying the government under the czar was the best possible, but the Bolsheviks are taking away the freedom of the people to even think for themselves," Zobolotsky explained.

  "Yeah," Indy said without enthusiasm. "It's none of my business, but how can you afford this expedition?"

  "I am a successful doctor. I've saved my money for a long time."

  "So when are you leaving?"

  "Soon," Katrina said. "Do you think you might want to join us?"

  "Me?" Indy smiled. His better judgment told him to say no. But then again he didn't have anything else planned, and the allure of Katrina was unmistakable. "It sounds interesting, but you'd have to understand that my participation would be purely a scientific one." That comment wasn't entirely true, but Zobolotsky didn't have to know how Indy felt about his daughter. At least, not right now.

  "Of course," Zobolotsky said. "Are you ready to leave tomorrow morning?"

  "That's kind of short notice."

  "How long do you want?" Zobolotsky asked.

  He thought a moment. What else did he have to do except say good-bye to Shannon? He shrugged. "Tomorrow morning is fine."

  "Wonderful." Katrina was literally beaming.

  "We're staying at the Blackstone," Zobolotsky said. "Do you want to meet us there tomorrow at eight?"

  "The Blackstone? I guess I can manage."

  As Indy walked away he felt elated at the turn of events and amazed by the series of odd coincidences he'd encountered. He'd made two stops this afternoon, at O'Malley's office and the institute, and he'd found Zobolotsky and his daughter at both places. Now it turned out that they were staying in the same hotel. It must mean that he was on the right track, that he was supposed to join the expedition. At least, he hoped that's what it meant.

  He pushed the door open and headed down the sidewalk. A drop of rain struck his forehead, then another. He recalled the two men in trench coats and wished he was wearing one. But he didn't have far to go. He was going to walk over to Shannon's house and tell him the news. He was sure that Shannon would be pleased to hear that his so-called revelation about Indy and Noah's Ark was turning out to be true.

  8

  Bullets

  Boris Kaboshev stood near the entrance of a basement bookstore across the street from the Oriental Institute, and watched the man in the sport jacket head down Fifty-sixth Street. He'd seen him at the university when the man had walked into the same office that Zobolotsky and his daughter had disappeared into. He wanted to know who he was and why he had followed them here.

  "He was at the church, too," Boris said to his twin brother, Alexander. "That's where I've seen him before."

  "Come to think of it, I've seen him, too," Alexander asked. "He's staying at the Blackstone."

  "Get down," Boris hissed as he spotted Zobolotsky and Katrina leaving the Oriental Institute. They backed down the stairs and into the bookstore as the pair moved in their direction. When they were sure that the father and daughter weren't coming into the bookstore, they climbed the stairs back to the street and saw them flag down a taxi.

  "They're going to Turkey soon," Alexander said. "Then it will be over for us and we can go back to the shop."

  "Not necessarily, Alex. They may want us to stay on this one a little longer."

  In fact, Boris had been told that if Zobolotsky left the country, he and Alexander were to follow them and complete their mission in the appropriate way.

  "Let's see if we can catch up to the other one," Boris said. "I want to see where he's going."

  Alexander grunted and they stepped out into the drizzle and hurried after the man in the sport jacket. Boris knew that Alexander didn't want to follow the man any more than he'd wanted to watch the Zobolotskys. Alexander hadn't said anything lately against their work, but Boris knew that his brother would be happy living like a normal person. But Alexander kept forgetting that they weren't normal people.

  The two Russian immigrants operated a small printing plant on the South Side and actively kept in touch with other Russians who had come to the United States after the Bolshevik Revolution. But unlike most of the others, Boris and Alexander had not fled Russia because of their fear of the Bolsheviks. On the contrary, they were Bolsheviks and followers of Leon Trotsky. They were here in the United States on behalf of the revolution.

  Their job was to keep track of Russian immigrants who might be working to overthrow the Bolshevik government. Their current mission was to watch Zobolotsky and his daughter, and to follow them wherever they went in Chicago. Zobolotsky was a known associate of the New Russia Movement, a group of czarists who hadn't given up the idea of returning their homeland to the ways of the past.

  The father and daughter had arrived in Chicago five days ago, but had acted like tourists until the day before yesterday when the newspapers ran an article about Zobolotsky and Noah's Ark. At first, the news had puzzled Boris, but he'd soon realized that the whole thing must be a propaganda ploy by the NRM. The discovery of Noah's Ark would lend credibility to the Bible, and that was counter to the revolution. Religion was the opiate of the masses, and the discovery of a boat on Mount Ararat would only confuse people, which is just what these czarist dogs wanted.

  It would be easy to get rid of Zobolotsky and his daughter, but the orders were not to kill Russians in the United States. A murder would attract attention and might expose the network of spies who worked in the country. If the Zobolotskys left the United States, then it was another matter.

  "Where's he going now?" Alexander asked as the man disappeared into a park.

  "How should I know?"

  They crossed the street and followed him. Boris was almost certain that the man was not a Russian, even though he hadn't heard him
say a single word. When he knew for sure, he would act. After all, he was free to eliminate any non-Russian who might be aiding the enemy's propaganda efforts.

  If archaeologists in the distant future ever excavate Chicago, they might puzzle over the odd remains of buildings constructed in the style of ancient Greek architecture. No doubt someone would mistakenly hypothesize that the Greeks discovered America and built great structures in the middle of the country at least two thousand years before the birth of Christ. Indy mulled over the thought as he cut through Jackson Park and passed the Palace of Fine Arts. The museum, which from the air looked like a giant geometric bird, was one of several buildings constructed in the Greek Revival style for the World's Columbian Exposition of 1893.

  He walked down the drive to the entrance of the museum, crossed Fifty-sixth Street, and headed down Cornell Avenue. The Shannon family home was just a block away, a short walk from the University of Chicago and a few blocks from Lake Michigan. Indy knew the neighborhood well from his days at the university, but he'd never seen the Shannon home. It was built the year after he and Shannon had graduated, and Shannon's father had bought it a few years later.

  He figured it would be better to talk to Shannon at the house rather than wait until this evening when he'd be at the nightclub. Besides the fact that Shannon would be busy, the last thing Indy wanted was another encounter with the likes of Capone, and from what Shannon had said, that was a distinct possibility.

  Indy slowed his pace and looked around. He was sure he was on the right block, but he couldn't find the house. Where it should have been was a huge estate surrounded by an ominous-looking iron fence that resembled rows of upright spears. Barely visible through a wall of trees was an immense mansion, and at the entrance to a driveway was a gatehouse.

  He saw someone watching him from the gatehouse and decided to ask for directions. As he approached the gatehouse he saw a pair of German shepherds tied on leashes to the iron fence on either side of the driveway.