Indiana Jones and the Secretof the Sphinx (3 page)

He had almost stopped tumbling when the shaft curved downward again, and Indy found himself dumped on his hands and knees in a layer of mud and unidentifiable muck in a new chamber. This layer of soft but disgusting material lined the bottom and sides of a deep pit. Indy got to his knees and examined the palms of his hands. Mixed in with the slime were tiny shards of bone. He wiped his hands on his trousers, snatched the ivory moon up, and placed it in his satchel. He tied the broken strap of the satchel together and slipped it over his shoulder.

Then he examined the rest of the chamber.

On either side of him were massive stone cylinders, obviously meant to press together under the force of the water and crush the offender. Above the pit, on a jade throne positioned to oversee such gruesome justice, was Qin. The emperor wore an armored breastplate and ornate helmet. Bits of leatherlike flesh still clung to the skull, as well as some wisps of black hair. At his feet were a half dozen skeletal concubines.

The ceiling was domed, and in the center was an eight-sided aperture. There was a symbol on each side of the aperture, and Indy recognized them as the eight symbols used in the
I Ching,
the Book of Changes.

Indy climbed up over the killing wheels and into the chamber proper, where he paused before Qin and tipped his hat. "What an ego," Indy said. "You must have left yourself an escape route, just in case your corpse came back to life. After all, you were a god."

Indy searched carefully, then found what he was looking for. On the right side of the throne, within reach of Qin's dead fingers, were five bronze levers. Indy kneeled, then carefully inspected them. Odds were that only one of them would reveal a passage out; the other four were sure to be deadly traps. Even if an intruder reached Qin's throne, there was still an 80 percent chance of not getting out alive.

Indy stood and gazed into Qin's vacant eye sockets.

"What were you thinking?" Indy asked.

Numbers three and five, which Qin and his contemporaries probably considered divine, were the best choices, Indy decided. But which to choose?

Indy looked at his watch. The crystal was broken and the hands were frozen just shy of four o'clock. Time was running out when the watch had stopped, and Indy wasn't sure of how long ago that had been.

Indy reached for lever five, then hesitated.

"You wouldn't have made it this easy," Indy said finally. "Maybe it doesn't matter if you choose three or five. Perhaps it's more a matter of where you're standing—or
sitting."

There were five broad flagstones surrounding the throne—two in front, two on the sides, and one in back.

"Move over, Qin."

Indy climbed up onto the jade throne and sat as gently as he could in the emperor's lap. Still, a cloud of dust rose from the corpse. Indy winced. Then he reached down, grasped lever number one firmly in his right hand, and tugged.

The flagstones in front of the throne fell open with an explosive sound that reminded Indy of a trap being sprung on a gallows. At the same time, the aperture in the center of the domed chamber opened. A rumbling shook the throne room as tons of fine sand poured from the aperture and into the shaft that had been revealed.

Then, as the sand stopped, the throne began to rise.

Above, Indy could see a glimmer of starlight in a pinkish sky. Below, he could see the shaft beneath the throne as it rose from the floor. Indy fought an urge to jump down. Whatever happened, the safest place in the entire tomb was probably sitting with Qin.

The throne was rising at an angle of several degrees off center, so that even though the sand fell into the shaft in front of it, the throne would rise up through the same aperture.

As it rose, it gained speed.

The throne passed through the aperture in the ceiling, twenty feet above the floor, and continued up at the same slanting angle. Indy could smell the fresh night air, and he could see a wider circle of fading stars at the end of the shaft.

The throne was going even faster now, and traversed the last hundred feet of shaft in a few seconds. Suddenly it was thrust from the side of the mountain and stopped, in a cloud of corpse dust, with a jerk. Qin's skull rolled from his shoulders, bounced once on the arm of the jade throne, then disappeared down the mountainside.

Indy was thrown from Qin's lap, but managed to grasp lever number five on his way over. It was the wrong one. He felt the mechanical click, then the throne began to recede back into the side of the mountain.

Below him, Indy heard a gasp.

"Ai!"

A squad of Japanese soldiers, who had been holding Lo at bayonet-point, were looking up in slack-jawed wonder at the spectacle of the jade throne, what was left of the emperor, and Indiana Jones hanging in the morning sky. Lo made use of the moment to flee, and none of the soldiers turned to chase him.

Given the choice between the certain death of being crushed against the side of the mountain and probable death at the hands of these Japanese raiders, Indy choose the latter. He released his grip on the lever and dropped to the feet of the Japanese soldiers.

The mountain rumbled, and the shaft seemed to disappear. Then, the round door where he had entered—which Lo had replaced before the soldiers arrived—gave a shudder and was sucked inward as the tomb regained its original pressure differential.

Indy greeted the soldiers with a wry smile and a salutation in Japanese:

"Ohio gozaimash'ta."

One of the soldiers made a move toward Indy with his bayonet, but the squad leader knocked it aside.

"Not to tell us good morning!" the squad leader screamed at Indy in English. "Not to say anything! What is your name?"

Indy was silent.

"What is your name?"

"You told me not to say anything."

"Silence!"

The squad leader drove the toe of his boot into Indy's ribs.

"You didn't have to do that," Indy said, doubling over in pain.

"What is your name?"

"Babe Ruth," Indy said.

"Stand up."

Indy stood.

The squad leader took the Webley from Indy's holster and stuck it into his own belt. Then he took the satchel and removed the ivory moon from it. He held it up for the others to see.

"Hey," Indy said. "This is still China, and that belongs to the Chinese."

"Property now of Imperial Japanese Army," the squad leader said. "You have strayed into Manchukuo, you stupid American. Now we take you into custody to help you get back safely."

2
Master Sokai

The prison cell was dark, damp, lonely. Since his capture at Mount Hua, Indy had seen nothing but the back of an Imperial Army truck and the interior of the prison, which he had entered in the dead of night. They had taken everything from him, including his clothes and papers, and had given him nothing in return except a uniform that was little more than rags.

What light and fresh air that visited the cell came from a small barred window high above Indy's head. The prison had no electricity. When the sun went down and the light from the window died, the cell was plunged into darkness until the next morning. The cell was cold at night, and when it rained the water splattered down from the open window and dampened the pile of straw that served as a bed.

The latrine was a bowl that was emptied once a day.

Indy had no idea of his location, or what the Japanese intended to do with him. He saw no other prisoners. The guards brought a bowl of cold rice and a metal can of fetid water twice a day, and Indy was thankful they had thought to feed him at all. He suspected they were keeping him alive to learn more about the interior of the treasure tomb; otherwise, they would have killed him on the spot.

On the fifth day of his imprisonment, a pair of soldiers dragged him out of the cell. The soldiers differed from the slovenly, dim-witted provincial guards that brought the cold bowl of rice every day; these were well-groomed and sharp-eyed career soldiers. The younger was clean-shaven and had exceptionally fine features and jet-black hair, and even so it took Indy a moment to recognize that this soldier was a woman. She wore a heavy canvas flight suit over a tan service uniform, and at her collar Indy spied the yellow-and-red ribbon of a second lieutenant. The other soldier was heavier, a few years older, and powerfully built. He was bald, his jaw was heavy, and his eyes seemed to be furrowed in a perpetual scowl. He wore the dark brown coveralls of a warrant officer, and over his left arm was a white armband emblazoned with the rising sun. Both wore peaked caps with a gold star on the crown.

As these new soldiers dragged him down the corridor, the regular guards stepped oafishly out of their way and saluted, but refused to make eye contact with them.

That's a bad sign, Indy thought.

They threw Indy into a room that was bare except for a pair of straight-backed chairs and a wooden bench. There were no windows, and light was provided by a kerosene lamp that hung from the ceiling. The lamp's wick needed trimming badly, and the flame was ragged and belched carbon up the smoky globe and onto the ceiling.

The soldiers placed Indy roughly in one of the chairs, then stood at attention behind him.

On the bench were Indy's clothes, his satchel, his papers, the whip, holster, and revolver, even the ivory moon. The clothes had been cleaned and pressed.

Standing on the other side of the room was a man in a knee-length black trench coat. He was young—perhaps twenty-five—of average height, slightly built, with brown eyes and shortly cropped black hair. His cheeks were smudged, and even from across the room Indy could smell the odor of petrol and exhaust fumes. Around his neck hung a pair of aviator goggles, and beneath them were a white silk scarf. He was smoking a cigarette with such practiced nonchalance that he reminded Indy of a leading man in a Hollywood film.

He motioned for the soldiers to leave. They bowed and backed out of the room.

"Are you well?"

The man spoke English with no trace of an accent.

"Well enough," Indy said.

"Good."

The man reached into the pocket of his trench coat and casually drew out a pack of Lucky Strikes. He offered the pack to Indy.

"I don't smoke," Indy said.

"I did not think you did, Dr. Jones," the man said as he returned the cigarettes to his pocket. "I did not find any evidence of it in your things. But then, smoking is somewhat customary in prison. One of the few freedoms inmates enjoy."

With the cigarette dangling from his mouth, the man stepped up on the chair and adjusted the flame of the kerosene lamp. It burned more brightly now, with less smoke.

Indy blinked at the sudden brilliance. He ran a hand over his jaws, feeling a forest of stubble that was fast becoming a beard.

"Get to the point," Indy said.

The man smiled.

"Forgive me," he said. "This is somewhat awkward, isn't it? I must apologize for your treatment. I hope the squad that brought you in didn't hurt you too badly. No? Good. My name is Master Mishima Sokai. I work for the foreign office in Tokyo."

"So you're a spy," Indy said.

"Yes, and a rather good one," Sokai said with a smile.

"Then you can tell me why your goons dragged me here," Indy said. "I'm a professor of archaeology at Princeton University and was conducting legitimate research on Mount Hua when—"

Sokai held up his hand.

"Do not raise your voice, please," he asked pleasantly. "I am not easily intimidated, and I know more about you than even your colleagues on campus do. This secret life you lead is quite fascinating. Wherever Dr. Jones goes, trouble seems to follow. That cannot be a coincidence."

"Let's just say I have a talent for it."

"Indeed," Sokai said. "And I can appreciate your need for discretion."

"Since you seem to know so much about me," Indy said, "why don't you tell me something about yourself." Without asking, he reached out and pulled his clothes from the table. Sokai cocked an eyebrow, but did not stop him from changing.

"In addition to being regarded as Nippon's top spymaster by those in a position to know, I am also a fighter pilot, a
chutai
leader with the 24th Sentai of the Imperial Army Air Force."

"And I thought the goggles were just for fun."

"Actually, being a pilot has its advantages. No train or boat schedules to deal with, superior firepower, and the advantage of firsthand aerial reconnaissance."

"Fascists seem to be particularly fond of aircraft, I've found," Indy said. "What are those two that left the room? Your gunner and bombardier?"

"No, they are the other pilots in my
chutai,"
Sokai said. "Lieutenant Musashi and Warrant Officer Miyamoto. We fly Ki-10 Type 95 biplane fighters. The Type 95 flies at a ceiling of nearly 10,000 feet, has a top speed of 248 miles per hour, and is armed with a pair of 7.7-millimeter machine guns in the nose."

"Do you have a picture of it in your wallet?"

"I appreciate wit," Sokai said, "but only when used sparingly. Like a precocious child, you are beginning to try my patience. See that it doesn't break."