Several seconds passed as he tried to grasp what was happening. Where was he? Who were these men? He had to remember; it was important. Of course. He was drugged, and these men...
Time stopped. The tension drained from his muscles. He was drowsy and floating. A cocoon of exquisite pleasure wove its threads around him. He felt something being wrapped around his eyes. Didn't matter. Nothing could hurt him. Everything was perfect in the cocoon. No desires, no pains, no concerns.
The darkness was complete, but through its thickness Indy heard a jumble of words. Not Turkish. Not English. A woman's voice. Speaking softly near his ear. She was speaking Russian, and it took a while for him to make sense of any of it. Then he recognized a few words, enough to know that she was praying.
"Katrina," he whispered.
"Indy, are you all right?" she said in English.
"It's so dark."
"Wait."
Fingers on his face tugged at something and suddenly blinding light beamed in his eyes. He squinted and slowly his eyes adjusted. He saw Katrina staring intently at him. Her hair was loose and wild as straw, and right then, she was the most beautiful human being he'd ever seen. Then the pain hit him.
"God, my head feels like pulp. They must have drugged me."
"Shh. Not so loud."
The wagon had stopped. "What's going on? Where are we?" he whispered.
"They're outside. I think they're changing horses again."
"Again?"
He dimly recalled incidents with men moving about, incomprehensible activities that were just part of a long dream. He still felt groggy, but he was getting back in control of himself. He knew the morphine was wearing off because now he cared about what was happening to him and Katrina, and he wanted to do something about it.
"We've been traveling three days now. They only drugged me the first day.
"Who are, they, anyhow?"
Katrina looked away.
"What's wrong? Did they do something to you?"
She shook her head. "No, it's my fault that you're in this mess. We didn't tell you everything."
"What do you mean?"
"When we were in Athens, it wasn't for a family reunion. There was a big meeting of the NRM."
"What's that?"
"The New Russia Movement. They're the ones who are sponsoring the expedition. They're placing a lot of pressure on Papa to make sure that we find the Ark. They really think that its discovery will topple the godless Bolsheviks."
So there were things going on, as Indy had suspected, that she and her father had kept to themselves. He should've known. Zobolotsky had given him enough hints. "But what's that got to do with those guys in the church?"
"Don't you see? They must be agents of the Bolsheviks. They don't want us to get to Mount Ararat."
Indy nodded, but he wasn't so sure about the identity of the men. Something about them was vaguely familiar and he didn't think it had anything to do with Bolsheviks.
"Where are they taking us?"
"I don't know. But look outside." Katrina moved over to the canvas wall and held open a tear in the fabric that was several inches long.
Indy leaned forward, his face close to Katrina's. He blinked, then ran a hand over his eyes. He didn't believe what he saw. The drugs must be still affecting him. It was a dream landscape. It looked as if a giant had molded the land from white clay, creating mountains and hills and strange forms like nothing he'd ever seen. There were buildings made of the white clay, but they were like no buildings he had ever seen. Some were jagged and peaked, others smooth and egg-shaped.
The nearest one had walls that bulged out as if the giant had sat on the flat roof while the clay was still wet. The door was squat and arched, and two small children stood in front of it staring at the wagon. But what was even more peculiar was that to the right of the structure was the strangest monument Indy had ever seen. It looked like a ten-foot-high needle of white stone with a boulder resting on its tip. In the background, a cliff rose from the surreal landscape, and it appeared to have windows carved on its face.
He drew back from the slit. "Do you see what—"
"Yes. I see it, too. It's very unusual."
"Unusual? The place looks like a nightmare."
"Then it's my nightmare, too. I've seen this place when I've held the Ark wood. Several times. Now I know it's a real place."
"Let's not try to figure it out. Let's just get the hell out of this wagon."
"But how?"
Indy pulled off his left boot and twisted its heel. He shook the boot, but nothing happened. Then he hit the heel against the floor of the wagon, and this time a three-inch knife blade fell out. He slipped the boot back on and found the rip in the canvas covering. Carefully, he made a horizontal slit, then a vertical one, while Katrina held the canvas together at the top.
"You ready?"
"I don't know," Katrina said. "It'll be dangerous."
"It's dangerous staying here, too." He didn't want to leave her behind, didn't think he would do it. But he needed to cajole her into action. "You coming with me or not?"
"Well, yes. I guess so, but..."
"Then let's go. Run toward that house or whatever it is. We'll get it between the wagon and us and then head for that cliff."
He pulled the flap inside the wagon and stuck his head out. A man with a rifle stood about ten feet away, a complication Indy hadn't noticed when he'd peered through the tear. But the guard's back was turned to him, and Indy had the advantage of surprise. He somersaulted out of the wagon, sprang to his feet, and just as the guard turned he jabbed the blade against his throat. In Turkish, he ordered him to drop the rifle. The man followed his orders. Then Indy stuffed what was left of his blindfold in the man's mouth.
"One more thing," he said, and slammed his fist into the man's face. The guard staggered, but stayed on his feet. "Must be the drugs," Indy muttered, and leaned over to pick up the rifle. The guard dived and tackled him around the ankles just as Indy was about to scoop up the weapon. Indy kicked hard, and his boot caught the man under the jaw. This time he dropped to the ground, out cold.
Indy grabbed the rifle and helped Katrina, who was halfway out of the wagon. "Let's go," he hissed.
The house with the bulging walls was less than fifty yards away, and he was about to sprint for it when a shout from behind stopped him in his tracks. "Hold it right there. Drop the gun, Jones."
It was Hasan and he held Indy's own revolver to Katrina's head. Indy dropped the rifle and two other men moved around the other end of the wagon and grabbed his arms.
"So you didn't get enough morphine, Professor Jones," Hasan said. "We'll have to experiment a little with you."
Indy and Katrina were dragged back into the wagon, and a few minutes later Hasan reappeared. One of the men pulled up Indy's shirt sleeve. Indy struggled and slipped free, but two other men quickly pinned him to the floor of the wagon.
Hasan leered at him as he held up a syringe. "This should take care of you for a while. It's a mixture of morphine and a certain herb we call the beautiful lady."
Belladona, Indy thought, fighting a wave of panic. It was a hallucinogenic drug, and if he was given too much of it, he'd die, and lose his mind in the process.
"You might really like this, Professor, if it doesn't kill you."
Hasan had already promised to kill him, but Indy had never suspected it would be by an overdose of drugs. "You no good sadistic...."
"This is for the sultans of old." Hasan stabbed the needle into his forearm.
Indy tried to fight off the drug by talking, but a pleasant glowing feeling began to envelope him. He felt powerful, on top of the world, and drowsy at the same time. "I'll be whatever I want to be, thank you." His voice was slurred. He giggled; he couldn't help it. "Where are we going?"
"To my harem, of course. You'll be there soon enough."
Hasan's voice was a liquid bubbling of sound. Indy smiled and closed his eyes. He'd never felt so relaxed, so good. He
wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, but he couldn't quite remember what the situation was. It didn't matter. He felt like his being was in a million places at once and it all felt wonderful.
Shannon sat on the edge of his bed and opened his Bible to the place that was marked with the unopened cable he'd picked up for Indy. He wondered if he would ever get a chance to deliver it.
He read the short passage from the second book of Corinthians yet another time. They were the same words that had saved him from despair more than once during the last few weeks in Chicago. He'd memorized the words, but they seemed stronger to him when he read them.
My grace is all you need; for my power is strongest when you are weak.
That was exactly how he felt: weak and helpless. Indy and Katrina were missing, and he had no idea where to look for them. All that he could do was pray and hope that Zobolotsky would turn up some clue. The words blurred on the page. Got to do something, he thought. He knew damn well that if he was the one who had disappeared, Indy wouldn't be reading the Bible or any other book. He'd be out looking for him.
He stood up; the Bible slipped to the floor. He walked over to the window and stared down at the street. Someone out there must know what happened. He just had to find the right person. He turned from the window, intent on going out, but stopped before he reached the door. Who was going to listen to him? He and Zobolotsky had already spent two days scouring the market for them. He didn't speak Turkish, and even if he did, the chance of finding that one person who could help was like hunting for the proverbial needle in the haystack, and Istanbul was not the easiest haystack to dig through.
He looked down at the floor. The Bible had fallen open to a passage from the Acts of the Apostles. He picked it up and started to read a verse from Acts 8 in which an angel of the Lord spoke to Philip. Get yourself ready and go south to the road that goes from Jerusalem to Gaza. So Philip got ready and went.
Was that a message for him? Was he supposed to go south? But he was in Turkey, not Palestine. He kept reading.
En route Philip encountered an Ethiopian eunuch who was reading from the book of the prophet Isaiah. When Philip asked if he understood what he was reading, the eunuch asked for help interpreting the scripture, which read:
He was like a sheep that is taken to be slaughtered;
he was like a lamb that makes no sound when its wool is cut off;
he did not say a word.
He was humiliated and justice was denied him.
No one will be able to tell about his descendants,
because his life on earth has come to an end.
Shannon snapped the Bible closed. If that was a message to him, then Indy was dead. There was no reason for him to go anywhere. But the Bible had always given him hope, not despair. There had to be something here for him to grasp onto. His thumb was still in the book and he opened it again. The rest of the verse explained how Philip told the eunuch of the Lord and how he baptized him when they came upon water.
That was it. Indy could be saved. Shannon wasn't in Jerusalem and Indy wasn't in Gaza, but it didn't matter. He would go out in search of Indy, and the Lord would lead him. If Philip could save the eunuch, then just maybe Jack Shannon could save Indy.
He stuffed the Bible in his bag and started packing. This was going to be a true test of his faith, but he was looking forward to it. If he found Indy, he would know that the Lord worked miracles and that the Almighty was guiding him. Maybe that was the reason he had come to Turkey. Maybe it was what all of his troubles in Chicago were about. He was supposed to become a conduit for the word of the Lord.
Meanwhile, his troubles in Chicago were still multiplying. When he'd picked up Indy's cable, he'd also found one waiting for him. It was from his mother, who was happy he was alive. But the news had been bad. The Nest had been condemned by the city, and unless the owners answered the complaint in thirty days, it would be taken over by the city and sold at auction. There was no doubt in Shannon's mind that it was all a ploy and that Capone was behind it. But that wasn't his concern any longer.
His bag was almost packed when he heard a knock on the door. It was Zobolotsky, and he looked grim. "What happened?" Shannon asked.
The Russian ran a hand through his sandy hair. He was fatigued and distraught. "The police are completely baffled. I don't know what we're going to do. I should have been a better father and not brought Katrina here. It's just that I thought she was supposed to be here."
Shannon didn't ask what that last part meant. "Well, I'm going after Indy and Katrina. I'm heading south."
Zobolotsky looked surprised. "What are you keeping from me? What do you know?"
"I only know that the Lord spoke to me, and I'm supposed to leave the city. I don't know where I'm going, but He will guide me."
Zobolotsky studied him for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was resolute. "I hear the devil speaking to you, not the Lord. You are mocking me."
Shannon was startled by the Russian's harsh attack. He didn't know how to respond. "What do you mean? Why am I mocking you?"
"The Lord speaks through Katrina, not you. She has proven it over and over. What have you proven?"
"Only that I'm weak, but I believe the Lord is making me strong, and I'm going to go out there and look for Indy and your daughter whether you come with me or not."
Shannon picked up his bag and was about to leave when there was another knock on the door. "Who is it?" he snapped.
The door slowly opened and the girl from the next building stepped inside. She glanced between the two men. "Excuse me, can I speak to you?"
"Who are you?" Zobolotsky asked.
"Hello, Sekiz," Shannon said. "We're kind of busy right now, and I was just on my way out."
"But it's important. It's about your friend and the pretty woman."
"You know what happened to Katrina?" Zobolotsky asked.
"I have heard things on the street. They say that they were taken far away, but that they are still alive."
"What else do you know?" Shannon asked.
She shook her head. "That's all I know. Except..."
"Except what?" Shannon asked.
"There is a blind man I know. He is very old and has been blind all of his life. But he can see in strange ways. I think he might be able to see where they were taken."
"More heathen devil talk," Zobolotsky scoffed, and dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
Shannon turned to him and their eyes met. "You think so, Dr. Z? Are you so damn sure that you're going to ignore the chance that she may be right and the old man might just know where Katrina and Indy are?"
Zobolotsky looked away. When he spoke, it was in a voice that was hardly louder than a whisper. "All right. Let's go see him. I'll do anything to get Katrina back. Lord forgive me."
14
Cappadocia
Indy's thoughts were taking on a life of their own. All that really existed was thought. Everything was impressions, feelings, pain and pleasure. Indy himself was a thought, and that was all he needed to know.
He could see nothing in the darkness, not even his hand. Yet he could see the inside of his mind quite clearly. Old friends paraded across the invisible screen in front of him, and each one generated a flood of emotion from compassion to wrath, anger to joy. He saw Dorian Belecamus, his archaeology professor and lover, who wanted to swallow him. His old history professor said he was remarkable, but not profound. Madelaine from his past called his name and laughed hauntingly, and a girl named Marion said she was going to punch him in the mouth one of these days. Now Deirdre appeared, and with one look she wrung his heart, drenched it in sorrow and regret, then she looked to one side and was gone.
Indy turned to see what she had looked at and there was Colonel Fawcett. He was telling him something. His lips weren't moving, but Indy could hear his booming voice. "You haven't lost any memories. They are all there—veiled."
With that single word Indy recalled his experiences with Deirdre and Fa
wcett in the Lost City, the city called D. The people could veil themselves and the city. There was something about dreaming, too. They ruled themselves through their dreams, and he'd had a hard time telling when he was dreaming and when he was awake. But now he knew that Fawcett had died along with Deirdre in the plane crash. Though Indy had survived, his memories had been veiled. But no more.
The thoughts and images flowed together, washing over him. He had little sense of his surroundings or the passage of time. It was dark and cool, and he wasn't in the wagon anymore. He didn't know how he'd gotten here, where he was, or how long he'd been here. Yet there was something that he should know about this place. Was this the harem that Hasan had spoken of?
Harem. The word resonated within him, and Indy saw himself as a kid again visiting Turkey with his father. They were in the Topkapi Saray, the great palace where the sultan ruled. The power of the sultan was quickly disintegrating and his father was hoping to find a manuscript related to his lifelong study of grail lore before the palace records were destroyed or moved. They were walking through the second court and his father was deep in conversation with one of the sultan's deputies when Indy saw the tall men with swords and funny hats cross the courtyard.
"Dad, did you see them? Who are they?"
His father shook a finger at him. But the deputy, a corpulent man with a trim beard, stopped and placed a hand on Indy's shoulders. "Those men are from the famous Janissary Corps. They are great warriors and great soup eaters, too. It's a ritual for them. They're headed to the soup kitchen right now."
The deputy turned back to Indy's father. "Now, what was I saying?"
They moved on, but Indy lagged behind. When he saw that his father wasn't paying any attention to him, he wandered off in the direction that the two Janissaries had gone. He came to the first of several kitchens. The Janissaries weren't there and neither was the soup. But there were sweets, trays and trays of them. A cook saw him staring at the array of candies and baked goods and offered him a gooey honey-and-almond concoction, which he gladly accepted.
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