The Adventures Of Indiana Jones (64 page)

The Sultan studied the map with superficial interest. The fact that the cup was in his territory didn’t surprise him. Nothing really did, not since he had realized as a child that he had been born into a wealthy, powerful family in a land where most people were born into families with little or nothing. He was privileged. He accepted that as fact.

He folded the map and casually handed it back. “And where did you obtain this map?”

Donovan turned and nodded toward the group standing near the entrance of the courtyard. Among them were Elsa Schneider, several Nazi guards, and Marcus Brody. It was obvious that Brody was being guarded.

“The man in the center is an emissary to Dr. Jones. He was given the pages by Dr. Jones’s son, Indiana Jones.”

“And what was he doing with them?”

“We captured him in Iskenderun. He was on his way to steal the Grail Cup from your territory.”

“I see.”

The cup didn’t mean much to him. He had heard of it, of course, and was aware there was an old story that it was supposed to possess great power. But he didn’t believe in superstitions—as far as he was concerned, it was just another gold cup destined for a museum or a private collection. He was a modern man and much more interested in newer, up-to-date things, objects with real, believable power.

But he was also well aware of the law of supply and demand. It was obvious that Donovan was interested in the Grail Cup himself. With more than one party pursuing it, the cup’s value was greater than if only one party was after it. He knew exactly where he stood in the matter—right in the middle—and if Walter Donovan wanted to go into the desert and find the old cup, it was going to cost him dearly. The sultan had no doubt about that.

“And what do you want to do?” he asked, as if he didn’t already know.

Donovan cleared his throat. “As you can see, the Grail is all but in our hands. However, Your Highness, we would not think of crossing your soil without your permission, nor would we remove the Grail Cup from your borders without suitable compensation.”

The sultan looked past Donovan. “What have you brought me?”

Donovan turned and signaled the Nazi soldiers. “The trunk, please.”

Two of them lugged a huge steamer trunk to the feet of the sultan.

Donovan motioned them to open the lid.

They unlocked the trunk and lifted the top. When the sultan made no move to inspect its contents, Donovan told the soldiers to empty it. For the next several minutes, they removed a wide-ranging assortment of gold and silver objects. There were goblets and candle holders, bowls, plates, and cups, precious boxes of varying sizes, and swords and knives.

“These valuables, Your Highness, have been donated by some of the finest families in all of Germany.”

The sultan rose from his chair and walked right past the trunk and the “donations.” He headed directly to the Nazi staff car parked in the corner of the courtyard and began to inspect it.

“Daimler-Benz 320L.” He lifted the hood and studied the engine. “Ah, 3.4 liter, 120 horsepower, six cylinders, single solex updraft carburetor. Zero to one hundred kilometers in fifteen seconds.”

He turned to Donovan, who had trailed after him, and smiled. “I even like the color.”

Donovan quickly sized up the situation. It was obvious the sultan wasn’t going to settle for the gold and silver, and since they needed his help, there was really only one choice. However, he could still bargain. “The keys, Your Highness, are in the ignition and at your disposal. It is yours, along with the other treasures. I would only ask that you loan us some of your men and equipment.”

The sultan smiled appreciatively. “You shall have camels, horses, an armed escort, provisions, desert vehicles. And a tank.”

Donovan nodded, pleased with the agreement.

Elsa hurried across the courtyard toward Donovan. “We’ve got no time to lose. I’m sure Indiana Jones and his father are on their way.”

The proceedings at the sultan’s court had not been overlooked by another party interested in the Grail Cup. Standing off to one side under an arch was the man who nearly killed Elsa and Indy in Venice, the same man who told Indy where his father was being hidden.

Kazim slipped a hand inside his tunic and ran a finger over the outline of the cruciform sword tattooed on his chest. No one was going to take the Grail Cup from its hiding place as long as he was alive.

The train arrived in Iskenderun at dawn. Despite the early hour, the platform was crowded with arriving and departing passengers. Indy glanced around. He hoped to see Marcus waiting for them but knew that was unlikely. Even if he was in Iskenderun, he would have no idea they were arriving at this hour.

Henry apparently was thinking along the same lines. “I wonder where we’ll find Marcus.”

“No sign of—Look!”

Indy pointed at the heavyset bearded figure bounding through the crowd toward them.

“Indy,” Sallah bellowed. “How I have missed you.” He embraced him, lifting him off the ground.

He put Indy back on the ground and turned to Henry. “Father of Indy?”

“Why . . . er . . . yes.”

“Well done, sir! Your boy has blessed my life. He is a wonderful man.” He threw his arms around Henry, who looked as if he didn’t quite know what to make of Sallah, or any of the rest of it. “I’m so glad I have met you.”

Indy noticed the bruises and lumps on Sallah’s face. “What the hell happened? It looks like a camel kicked your face.”

“Something like that. I’ll tell you all about it very soon.”

Indy frowned, almost not wanting to ask. “Sallah, where is Marcus?”

“We can’t talk here, Indy,” he whispered, leaning closer. “Hurry. Into the car.” Sallah pointed at a battered, dusty coupe parked at the edge of the market.

After they had all climbed into the car, Sallah gunned the engine, and the coupe shot forward. A moment later they were racing through the crowded, narrow streets, threading through animals and cars, bicycles and wagons, and throngs of pedestrians. He honked, accelerated, downshifted, and swerved.

Henry was speechless with terror; he gripped an armrest in the backseat, certain that at any second Sallah was going to smash into a cart or plow through a crowd, killing everyone.

He finally found his voice and sat forward. “Please,” he gasped. “Please, slow down. I’ve had enough crazy driving for a lifetime on my way here.”

“Sorry, father of Indy.”

He motioned frantically with his hand and stuck his head out the window. “Move that goat!” he shouted at someone in the street.

The goat moved, they sped forward, and Sallah looked over at Indy. “About Marcus. There were too many for me to handle.”

“Watch out!” Henry bellowed from the backseat.

Sallah slammed on the brakes and cursed as a man with a cart pulled into their path. “Get a camel!” he yelled, poking his head out the window.

The man ignored him, and Sallah veered around the cart and sped on again. He returned to the matter of Marcus. “My face will tell you I did what I could with what I had.” He raised a bruised fist. “I am not the only one who is feeling sore.”

“What about Brody?”

“They set out across the desert this afternoon after getting supplies and soldiers from a sultan. I fear they took Mr. Brody with them.”

Henry jerked forward, leaning over the front seat. “That means they have the map and are on their way. They’ll reach the Grail Cup before us.”

“Calm down, Dad. We’ll find them,” Indy reassured him. At the same time he worried they were too late, for Marcus, and for the Grail.

“There’s no silver medal for second place in this race, my boy.” Henry had suddenly changed his mind about Sallah’s driving and patted him on the shoulder. “Faster. Go faster, please.”

Sallah grinned, pounded the horn, and stuck his head out of the window. “You blind Ottoman rug merchant. Out of my way.”

Henry rolled down his window and joined in the haranguing. “Road hog! Move along now.”

Indy was pensive. He knew that once Donovan and his gang of Nazis were certain they were on the right trail to the Grail Cup, Marcus’s life would be worthless. “Can we catch them?”

Sallah gave Indy a knowing smile. “There are always shortcuts.”

He leaned on the horn, shaking his head and cursing in three languages. He turned to Indy “You’ll see.”

M
ARCUS BRODY
pushed his head up through the hatch of the World War I tank and peered into the blazing sun. He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and muttered, “Nazi mad dogs.”

They were moving through a desert canyon that looked just like the last one. To Brody, who thrived in urban environs, it was the end of the world—barren, harsh, ugly, and relentlessly hot. The irony didn’t escape him: there was a good chance that this ghastly, forsaken land would be the end of
his
world.

“Care to wet your whistle, Marcus?”

Brody turned at the sound of Donovan’s voice. An open-topped car trailed the tank. Seated with Donovan was Elsa Schneider, the betrayer, and a Nazi whom Elsa had called Colonel Vogel. Behind the car was the remainder of the caravan—camels bearing soldiers from the sultan’s private army, each of whom was armed with a saber and carbine and garbed in billowy desert dress; spare horses; a supply truck, a German sedan, a jeep; and a couple of troop carrier trucks packed with Nazi soldiers.

Donovan thrust the canteen at him and grinned. Brody felt like spitting in his face rather than accepting his offer. But since he didn’t have any spit, he caught the canteen when Donovan tossed it up to him, and took a swallow. They had stopped briefly at an oasis a couple of hours ago, but he was already parched. The sun had turned the inside of the tank into an oven, and up on top it was like a broiler.

The water ran down his throat, and he couldn’t remember anything having tasted this good in a long time. He took a breath, turned the canteen to his lips again, and drank deeply.

Donovan held out his hand for the canteen, evidently worried that Brody was going to deplete it. “According to your map, Marcus, we are only three or four miles from the discovery of the greatest artifact in human history.”

Brody wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and considered hurling the canteen into the bastard’s face. But he knew that would only reduce his chances of surviving even further. Instead, he simply lobbed the canteen to him.

“You’re meddling with powers you cannot possibly contemplate, Walter.”

Donovan started to say something about power but stopped.

Brody followed his gaze. In the distance, somewhere in the hills, he glimpsed a reflection. He had a good idea what it was, and figured that Donovan did, too.

The sun glinted off the binoculars as Indy spied on the caravan moving across the canyon basin. Sallah and Henry were on either side of him, and the car containing their supplies was parked beside a rock outcropping thirty yards behind them.

“They’ve got a tank . . . six-pound gun. I see Brody. He looks okay.”

Henry shaded his eyes and squinted. “Be careful they don’t see you.”

“We’re well out of range.”

At that moment they saw a flash as the tank fired a shell in their direction. Indy dove to the ground and covered his head. The others did the same. The shell whistled past and exploded less than a hundred feet away. Pieces of Sallah’s car, destroyed by the direct hit, rained down on them.

Sallah groaned. “That car belonged to my brother-in-law.”

“Bull’s-eye,” Colonel Vogel shouted. “Let’s go claim the bodies.”

Elsa took the binoculars and looked for herself. Part of her felt like weeping at the possibility that Indy might be dead. But another part felt immensely relieved: if he was dead, her own internal conflict would be over. She could get on with finding the Grail and wouldn’t constantly be battling with herself. Ever since she met Indy, she had been on an emotional roller coaster. One moment she hated him, the next moment she didn’t want to live without him. If he was dead, so be it.

The Grail, she reminded herself, was her true passion. Men and politics were simply means to another end. She would go along with Donovan, but only to a point. She needed Donovan to get her to the Grail, but somehow she had to get the cup away from him. The promises the cup held were too wondrous to pass up. It would be hers, or she would die trying to get it.

When they arrived at the spot where the car blew up, Elsa saw that there were no bodies. Oddly, she felt better. Indy was alive.

As Vogel hurriedly organized the soldiers to begin a search, Donovan walked over to her. “Well, maybe it wasn’t even Jones.”

“No. It’s him, all right. He’s here.” She looked around, feeling that they were being watched. “Somewhere. I’m sure of it.”

Donovan must have felt it, too. He looked around anxiously, then told one of the soldiers to put Brody in the tank. He turned back to Elsa. “In this heat, without transportation, they’re as good as dead.”

Suddenly, a bullet ricocheted off a nearby rock, and the crack of gunfire filled the air. Donovan ran for cover, forgetting about Elsa. She scrambled after him, angered more by the possibility that Indy might be firing at her than by the fact that Donovan had only been concerned about saving his own neck.

“It’s Jones,” Donovan yelled. “He’s got guns.”

Indy was hiding behind a massive rock when the gunfire began. He saw Elsa and Donovan rush to cover and the soldiers return the fire.

He exchanged puzzled looks with his father and Sallah. Who could be firing on them?

“C’mon. Let’s take a look,” Indy said.

They climbed down from their hiding place and, after a couple of minutes, reached a rock overlooking a chaotic scene, as Nazis and the sultan’s soldiers exchanged gunfire with an unseen enemy positioned in caves on the canyon wall. Sallah gazed through a pair of binoculars, then passed them to Indy.

One of the figures emerged from the shadowy mouth of a cave, and Indy saw the man had a symbol on his shirt, a cross that tapered down like the blades of a broadsword. The man stepped boldly into the open, defying death. Indy focused on his face and recognized him. It was Kazim.