Indiana Jones and the Army of the Dead (5 page)

Too much to ask that it would be easy,
Indy thought. Aloud, he said, “Three miles by a mile and a quarter, that’s not an inconsiderable piece of real estate. I don’t recall ever seeing this island on a map before.”

“Perhaps no one who made maps saw it. Or perhaps it was not there when the maps were made.”

He started to reply, but just then Alain hit a particularly deep rut and said “Damn!” Indy shut his mouth to keep from accidentally biting his tongue off. What did
that
mean? Wasn’t
there?

“Two or three hours of this, I’ll need new kidneys,” Mac said. “Bladder, too.”

Indy nodded.

Marie chuckled.
“Mes amis,
this is the
good
part of the road. Wait until we go to the rough stretch.”

Port-au-Prince

Yamada looked at the spy. “You have done well, my friend. Please, take the remainder of the case of rum as part of my thanks.”

Louis/Henri/Whoever grinned.
“Oui,
monsieur, I am most grateful.”

“I expect that we will do much more business in the future. I would take it as a personal favor if you would not pass this information along to the Dutchman.”

The man shrugged. “No reason he needs to know.”

“Thank you, my friend. I am in your debt.”

After he was gone, Yamada sent a boy to bring Captain Suzuki—ostensibly another Chinese scholar, but actually an agent of the imperial army and his own second in command. Suzuki had men standing by—more fake Chinese—and they would be ready to move at an instant’s notice. Men from good families, willing to do whatever was asked of them. And of course, the way of the samurai was found in death.

It was only a few minutes before Suzuki arrived in the rented car, a 1938 Packard 8, a powerful and well-built automobile. Yamada was fond of big American cars—the Japanese had nothing like them, and it was doubtful the
zaibatsu
like Nissan, Toyota, or the new Hino truck maker would ever produce vehicles of such quality. It didn’t seem to be in the Japanese nature to do that kind of mechanical work. A pity.

After the required polite greetings—manners and honor had to be observed, even here—Yamada came to the point.

“The two
gaijin,
along with a local woman and man, have headed south on the Pétionville Road.”

“Ah. As you surmised. The craft will be ready by the time we get to it, Yamada-san.”

“Excellent, Captain.”

They set off for the airport. Suzuki had a chartered plane standing by. They would have needed it eventually, and sooner was better than later. Likely their quarry were heading for Marigot or Depòt, on the south coast, or perhaps Jacmel on the river. There were many villages with boats there, and it didn’t really matter which one. Yamada knew where they were going to wind up eventually; the stops in between? Not important to know.

There were no aircraft landing sites on the Island of Death, as he understood it, but there was a packed-dirt strip along the river at Marigot near the southern Haitian coast that was long enough for a large plane to land. That was where he was going.

Yamada’s plane would get them there, and a boat from there would put them on Zile Muri-yo long before the two men, whom his man Louis had determined were American and British archaeologists. This confirmed his suspicions. They had come looking for the same thing as he. Well, perhaps not precisely such, but the result would be the same. That they had come meant they either knew where it was or had some way to find it, and the Japanese had learned long ago that if you could follow a bee to its hive, it would save you much work in collecting honey . . .

When he and Suzuki arrived at the Port-au-Prince airport, the plane, a Boeing 247, was already warming up its twin engines. The craft was loaded, since Yamada had known he would be needing it sooner or later. Plenty of room for his men, since it could easily carry ten passengers, along with a three-man crew and several hundred pounds of supplies. The flight would take only a few minutes, and they would be well ahead of Jones and McHale and their local contact.

The sword had been drawn, the edge glistened in the hot sunlight, and now it was time to address the cutting . . .

Gruber said, “And what do you have for me, Henri?”

The little brown man appeared to consider the question as he sipped from his glass. “Nothing today, monsieur, I am afraid.”

“Ah, well. So it goes. Listen, Henri, I have left my wallet in my car, behind the market there. Come with me and I shall pay you for this week.”

“Oui,
monsieur.”

Henri finished his drink and stood.

The car, bought locally, was an old but well-maintained Ford, parked in the quiet alley behind the market. Nobody was around.

Gruber double-checked to make certain they were unobserved. He opened the passenger door, reached under the seat, and came out with an American .45 pistol. Of course, he preferred the Luger, which was a much better-made weapon, sleek, perfectly machined, and using the smaller and more elegant 9mm round. Even the Mauser HSc pocket pistol in 7.65mm issued to doctors was much better, but it would not do to be found here with a German sidearm. There was the tiny hideaway single-shot Swiss pistol in his pant pocket, but the Swiss were neutral . . .

Henri’s senses were not so fogged by the rum that he didn’t know what he saw.

“Monsieur? What is this?”

“It’s a Colt, I believe. Very nasty. A real manstopper.” He pointed the gun at Henri.

“But—why menace me this way?”

“Because I don’t care for liars. You saw the Chinese scholar today, only a few minutes ago. And yet you did not mention it.”

“But—but—there was no need! I had nothing to tell him!”

“I don’t believe you. I am certain you did have something to tell him. I’ve had men watching you, my friend. You are being devious. I will know why, or you will not be drinking any more rum, you understand?” He waved the gun. “If I think you are lying again, I will shoot you dead, right here and now.”

Henri didn’t go pale, but he certainly began to sweat. “It—it slipped my mind. Nothing of importance, monsieur, I swear!”

“Let me decide that.”

“The two men. Dr. Jones and McHale, they—”

“Doctor
Jones?”

“They—they are, how do you say?
Archéologues?”

Archaeologists? Damn! This was unexpected and bad news.

“And you told this to the Chinaman?”

“Y-y-yes.”

“What else?”

“Nothing! Only that they had engaged a local woman and that they had left town today, driving south in an automobile, through the mountains.”

“Gott im Himmel!”

“Monsieur?”

“All right, Henri, I believe you. I am going to let you live. Go on now, before I change my mind!”

Henri relaxed and turned away—

Gruber shot him in the back of the head.

The noise was quite loud, it made his ears ring, but could be mistaken for a truck backfiring, and pinpointing the location would be difficult if anybody bothered to wonder. Most of the locals here wouldn’t turn a head to look at an erupting volcano if it might interrupt them dozing, eating, or drinking. Yes, the heat and all, but still, they made sloths look energetic. Haiti-time, they said when they were late for a meeting. It meant they got there when they got there. Clocks and watches were wasted here.

Haiti-time. Uncivilized beyond measure.

Quickly he climbed into his car and started the engine. He had to get to the airport and rent a plane. It would not do that Yamada was ahead of him. He also had to send a coded wire. He would need help, and there was a group of dedicated German soldiers in the Dominican Republic standing by, waiting for his order. They could meet him in Marigot in a matter of a couple of hours, perhaps less.

Even so, he was behind, and he hated it. It would not do.

As for Henri? He simply could not have been left alive to tell tales. Gruber wasn’t planning to return to this city or country ever again if he could help it, but, better that there weren’t any loose ends. He doubted if anybody really cared about the death of a ne’er-do-well like the late Henri anyhow . . .

With any luck, in a week or two he would be on his way home, and in charge of a project that would give Germany the victory in this war. If he never saw a tropical country again, it would be fine by him.

SIX

Terre Rouge, Haiti

“W
E ARE GOING
to cross a couple of bloody miles of the Caribbean in
that?”

Marie looked at Mac. “Unless you would rather swim?”

“No, I won’t be swimming in these waters, thank you.”

Indy could see what Mac saw. The “that” in question was a boat, but it looked neither sturdy nor large enough to carry four people. Not much longer than the shark that had chased them ashore, the thing was open-topped, its wood lacking much in the way of paint or varnish. The outboard motor on the back looked like it would have been more at home on a sewing machine.

Indy shook his head. Yeah, it was bad, but he had been in worse.

“My cousin André has been fishing these waters for fifteen years in this
bateau.
It will get us there—unless a storm comes along.”

Indy grinned. Well. There was one more thing to worry about, wasn’t there? This was the Caribbean, after all. Wouldn’t that be fun? The sky was free of clouds at the moment, but the tropics were volatile when it came to the weather.

“It will only take a few minutes. You can see the island from here, look.”

Indy had already spotted the place, a green blob on the sea less than two miles out.

He looked at Mac.

“In for a penny, in for a pound.”

“I suppose.” To Marie, he said, “What about supplies? We can’t carry much in that.”

“There is a store on the island. We can get what we need there.”

Indy shrugged. “Fine. Let’s go.”

“In a bit. André and I must first offer a small sacrifice to assure our safe journey.”

“Sacrifice? Aren’t you a Catholic?”

“Among other things, yes. It is traditional when André takes the boat out to sea to ask for a blessing.”

“God has pretty good ears, I expect He can hear you as well from here.”

She smiled. “We have our ways, Indy. Surely a man of your experience understands?”

Indy sighed. “Yeah, I suppose. Go, do what you need. Mac and I’ll wait here, make sure the boat is shipshape.”

Marie and her cousin André approached Alain and spoke to him. Her brother waved at Indy and Mac and headed back for the Chevrolet.

“Lad seems to be in a bit of a hurry. Must have left the water running back home.”

“Might as well have a look at this tub,” Indy said. “We don’t want to see a snout sticking up through the bottom halfway there.”

Mac laughed. “That’s my line, isn’t it?”

As they headed toward the water’s edge, Indy caught a movement in the trees to the left of the fisherman’s house.

Mac caught the look. “Something?”

“I thought I saw somebody there, in the woods, watching us.”

Mac glanced that way. “I don’t see anyone.”

Indy shook his head. “Gone, now. All I got was a glimpse. A face. Not real healthy looking.”

“Maybe a trick of the light,” Mac said.

“Maybe.” But his impression was that it was somebody sneaking around, and there was something odd about them . . .

Well. He’d check it out, but they wouldn’t be here that long. Maybe on the way back.

Zile Muri-yo

When Boukman spoke, it was with the voice of Baron LaCroix—called here Lakwa—of the Guédé, the Spirits of the Dead. To grant Boukman power, the Guédé demanded much of their horse—though the rider was inside rather than without, and they rode him hard. Often after such a ride, Boukman was too tired to move for hours, sore for days. Lakwa was not as fierce as Cimetière, the Guardian of the Cemeteries, and neither was as hard on him as Samadi’s wife, Maman Brigitte, who liked to drink hot pepper sauce and curse long and loud, burning his belly, roiling his bowels, and turning his voice into a hoarse whisper.

He shared his body with Lakwa now, and the voice coming from his lips was that of the loa:

“Kill the black rooster and bathe in the blood! The dark of the moon comes, and thus the Risen will flourish!”

There were half a dozen
zombi
servants gathered around Boukman in the small clearing. These were the True Risen, not the Children of the Potion, and their powers were much greater. No thirst, no hunger, they were bothered not by the heat of day nor the insects at night; their hearts did not beat, nor their souls yearn, for their souls were passed on, leaving them empty, existing only to serve the bokor who commanded them.

They took much power to raise and hold, the true ones. At his peak, too many years ago, he had been able to keep two score animated, and those able to travel the length and breadth of Hispaniola even while he himself slept. These days? Half that many were all he could manage, and when he was really tired some of them dropped and lay still. Age wanted to rob him of everything, and fighting it cost more and more power each year. Despite being weaker, the Children of the Potion were so much easier to make and control than the True Risen. Administering a drug was easier than bringing someone back from the dead . . .

There was a change blowing, he could feel the herald winds brushing against his lips, could taste the coming of it . . .

Abruptly the baron left him, and he felt himself sag as the loa’s spirit flew away.

The Risen stood silently, waiting.

“Go,” he said. “Watch. Learn. Come back and report.”

The half a dozen dead—five men and one woman—shambled wordlessly toward the forest.

Boukman already knew the white men were on their way here. One of his servants had seen them by the sea on the mainland, and he knew they were coming. He did not know why yet, but that knowledge drew nearer. He would uncover it soon.

For now? He needed to rest. He was exhausted.

The hut on the edge of the clearing beckoned. It was rude—walls, a roof, a straw mattress on a new bamboo floor already half eaten by mites—but it would serve. It would keep off the rain when it fell, shade him from the sun. Nothing alive, no bug, no animal, no man would bother him as he slept and regained his strength. Later, one of the Children of the Potion would come with food, and to attend to his other needs. He was old, but having a young, pretty, and pleasingly plump woman come to bathe his face, rub his body with scented oils, and do anything else he might deem necessary—anything at all? That was part of his power, albeit only the smallest part.