Indiana Jones & the Sky Pirates

THEY CAME TOGETHER TO SOLVE A DEADLY MYSTERY— AND STOP AN

INVINCIBLE ENEMY . .

INDIANA JONES —Whether slogging through steaming jungles, investigating ancient ruins, or chasing grave robbers, the worldrenowned archaeologist and adventurer has faced death many times. But he's never confronted anything quite so bizarre as the deadly "aircraft" terrorizing the skies.

WILLARD CROMWELL—The portly, hard drinking former RFC fighter pilot is known for his quick wit and command of languages. Armed to the teeth, he vows to protect Indy anywhere he goes— from back alleys to the Tibetan mountains.

GALE PARKER—The redhaired Ph.D. just happens to be the daughter of an English witch and is herself an expert in the black arts. Beautiful and daring, she has only one slight problem: taking orders from Indy.

TARKIZ BELEM —A former professional wrestler and bodyguard, the huge, swarthy man was as alert as a cat and eager to work any kind of deal. This time, however, has he sold Indy out?

RENE FOULOIS—The famed WWI fighter pilot ace had a dozen passports and his own personal arsenal. The darling of the international social set, he would find this mission "most amusing."

1

They watched the first train go by, laboring upslope, its wide stack spewing thick black smoke and glowing embers. It was a rolling fortress consisting of, first, an armored car built of inchesthick steel pierced with slits for machine guns, with a revolving turret on top mounted with a 57mm rapidfire cannon. Then came the roaring locomotive, and trailing that two flatcars built up with metal barricades and sandbags, behind which eight men manning machine guns scanned the heavy growth to each side of the train.

It was a killer train ready for anything, an advance scout meant to assure the safe passage of the second train a thousand yards behind, maintaining the same speed along the southwestern coastal flank of South Africa. The second train held within an armored car a thick safe, triplelocked, bolted to the floor and wrapped with chains. Within the safe was a single bag, triplelined with waterproof sealskin and thick leather. A bag holding more than a billion dollars of diamonds. Almost a hundred incredible stones, huge, perfectly formed, their destination fortresslike shops within a walled enclave of Amsterdam.

Diamonds were normally shipped directly from Cape Town. At least that's what the mine owners had everyone believe. But they might depart from Port Elizabeth or East London, or farther up the southeastern coast from the ports of Durban or Maputo. Troops of heavily armed soldiers always accompanied such shipments—again, so everyone was led to believe. Often the shipment was "rumored" to be gold, and attacking wellarmed gold shipments was an exercise in futility, if not stupidity, because of the defending firepower as well as the bulk and weight of the gold.

The name of the game in diamond shipments was subterfuge. One man could carry on his person a greater value in diamonds than several railcars jammed with gold bars, and Christian Vlotman, the Afrikaner charged with the safe passage of such bounty, always moved in mysterious and deceptive ways.

It was he who had sent the two trains rumbling northward toward Alexander Bay, edging the border of Namibia, what had been in earlier times SouthWest Africa. Alexander Bay lay at the spillage of the Oranje River.

Vlotman had had a deep bay entrance dug long before this moment, and waiting for his train would be a powerful, heavily armed cruiser that would continue the shipment to Amsterdam.

The warship captain would have a long wait, one that would not be rewarded.

As the lead train, its armed guards with trigger fingers at the ready for the slightest interference, came about a turn and began crossing a trestle spanning a rocky riverbed several hundred feet below, a man nestled between boulders on a nearby steep slope twisted a Thandle in his hand. Two hundred pounds of dynamite, wrapped with cables about the thick wooden beams of the trestle, vanished in a blaze of violent light and a massive concussion. Thick beams splintered, tearing away from one another, and even before the glare of the explosion faded away, the trestle began its collapse from the explosion and the weight of the heavy train above.

Thunder boomed down the riverbed and rolled between the flanks of the hills, and in a terrible slowmotion sunder the train twisted, rotating and shaking madly. Thin screams sounded above the growing roar of the downwardplunging trestle, pursued by the cars of the train now on their sides, still rolling, spilling bodies haphazardly in the fall.

The earth shook from the blast, shook again from the roiling shock waves, and seemed to heave painfully as the locomotive and the massive armored car smashed against the boulders below. Smoke and dust spewed upward, and then new blasts tore between the hills as the steam boilers exploded.

Well behind the catastrophic eruptions the ground rose and fell, moving the steel rails beneath the second train like writhing spaghetti. The train held, the shock waves passed through, but there was no mistaking the disaster that had taken the forward guard train. Immediately, the engineers slammed on the brakes, sending sparks showering away from steel wheels sliding along steel rails. The chief engineer tugged on the cord that blasted a steamdriven shriek to warn everyone aboard the train that disaster had struck and danger was immediately nearby. Moments later the train stood still, the engine puffing in subdued energy.

Then the guards looking down the tracks behind them saw the trap closing, as a series of fiery blasts ripped apart the railbed over which they had just traveled.

Now the train was caught. It could not go forward where there had been a trestle. It could not retreat, for its tracks were gone. It lay pinioned like some ancient dinosaur, its deadly spikes in the form of machine guns and other weapons. But like even the greatest predator it was frozen by its own mass.

The guards waited for the attack they knew was imminent.

No bullets; no mortar shells. No bombs. Instead, white smoke poured down from the high ridges inland of the railway. There was nothing to be seen at which they could shoot. Just . . . smoke? It made no sense as the smoke, heavier than air, rolled and flowed down the ridges to envelop the entire train.

Men breathed in the smoke that was not smoke. They gasped and struggled, hands clutching at their throats and chests, as the phosgene gas spilled into their noses and mouths and savaged their lungs. The cloying sweetness of newmown hay was everywhere; the sweet fragrance of choking death as the gas spasmed muscles and nerves. Men fell, convulsed, and died.

Phosgene poison gas in its persistent form dissipates in less than thirty minutes. But the men atop the ridges had no time to waste. Colonel Hans Stumpf spoke calmly but sharply to the men awaiting his commands; each man received the colonel's orders by radio through an earpiece clamped to his head.

"Move out— now," snapped Stumpf. The men rushed from concealment, protected by bodysuit armor they no longer needed, wearing gas masks to fend off any inhalation of residual phosgene. They scrambled down the embankment in wellrehearsed and perfectly executed moves.

Small packages of nitro blew open the heavy doors to the armored car. Inside, submachine guns at the ready, they found eight men in the twisted death agony of asphyxiation. They dragged one body aside, set explosive charges about the safe, and retreated outside. Again a handle was twisted and the muffled roar of an explosion sounded within the armored car. They went back inside immediately, ignoring the smoke boiling out the opened door.

The safe door lay hanging by a single hinge. One man removed a steel box, pried open the cover. Inside, wrapped in velvet bags, lay their quarry. Dazzling, an emperor's ransom and much more in huge diamonds of various shapes and colors.

The man kneeling by the safe with a fortune before him seemed transfixed. Not by the diamonds, but by a single cube, three inches on each side, and engraved with strange symbols. A cube of burnished copperbronze. Quickly he and another man placed the diamonds and the cube in sealed flotation bags. The leader gestured to one man, and the three men started down the hillside. At the water's edge Colonel Stumpf waited for them. He gestured at the flotation bag. "It is all there?" he asked, his usual hard tone pitched higher by concern.

The men removed their gas masks. "Yes, sir. It is all here. Everything from the safe."

"And the, ah, special item?"

A gloved hand patted the bag. "It is here, too."

The colonel managed a trace of a smile, then his lips tightened. "Excellent.

Berlin will be pleased. Proceed."

They moved quickly to a large rubber raft concealed in a cove. "It is getting dark," Stumpf remarked aloud, scanning the sky. "Have the men finish with the train. I want everyone aboard their rafts ready to move in twenty minutes."

Along the railroad the men remaining with the train set new explosive and incendiary charges. Everything happened with practiced efficiency, and soon they joined their comrades along the shoreline. Night was falling quickly as Colonel Stumpf scanned the open sea with binoculars.

"Ah!" he called aloud. "I see the blinker light. Move out! Everyone, move!"

Four rubber rafts pushed the two miles across the sea to where they saw the dim silhouette of a submarine conning tower. Remaining low in the water, the submarine swallowed the killing team. Stumpf was the last to slip through the waiting hatch. He stopped, turned to look at the train barely visible in the gloom of early night, and jammed his thumb down on a radio transmitter. Huge chunks of train and bodies ripped upward from a series of powerful explosions. In moments the dry brush along the radio line was also ablaze. Stumpf nodded with selfsatisfaction, and tossed the transmitter into the water to sink along with the rafts that had been stabbed with knives and were also sinking into dark water. Moments later the submarine was gone.

The rescue train appeared two hours later. Its crew stared in disbelief at the horrifying devastation that greeted them.

The next morning . . .

Seventyfour miles westsouthwest of Cape Dernburg, beneath a sky gray with rain squalls, the submarine rose to just beneath the surface. A high radio antenna rose below a balloon released from the conning tower. Two hundred feet high the balloon stopped, tugging at the antenna, holding it taut as a homing signal beamed outward.

A lookout called to Colonel Stumpf. "The aircraft, sir! On the port beam. Very low over the horizon and he is coming directly to us!"

Stumpf brought binoculars to his eyes. They were taking no chances. This would be the Rohrbach Romar of Deutsches Aero Lloyd or they would shoot it to pieces with machine guns and continue their voyage submerged.

The big flying boat engines throbbed unmistakably, the sound of heavy propellers slightly out of synchronization. It circled the submarine in a low, wide turn, confirming by coded radio signal its identification.

Colonel Stumpf turned to the sub captain. "The smoke, sir, if you please?" he requested.

The captain nodded and called out to crewmen on the deck. "Smoke! Two grenades! Schnell!"

Two men pulled grenade pins and placed the grenades on the sub deck. Flame hissed and thick smoke boiled out, marking wind drift and velocity. The flying boat turned in the distance for its landing run into the wind. Colonel Stumpf looked with pride at the great highwing monoplane, so perfect for this mission. Its rugged hull was flat on both fuselage sides above the contoured bottom, and its wings spanned more than a hundred and twenty feet from tip to tip. Three powerful BMW VLuz engines throbbed with a physical force. Those fourbladed wooden propellers, massive and thick, churned a heavy blow all about them. Stumpf knew that von Moreau was flying. He was the best, and to handle this fortythousandpound monster on the open sea demanded the highest skill. The Romar settled onto the water, skimming along as it felt gingerly for the surface, then lowering deeper as von Moreau came back on the power. The Romar taxied close to the submarine; close but safe. Deckhands lowered a raft into the water and held it by securing lines.

Three of the men from the attack forces came to the deck, one carrying the flotation bag. Stumpf motioned them to wait for him in the raft. He turned to the captain. "Thank you, Captain Loerzer. Your timing, everything, was splendid."

The two men shook hands. Loerzer smiled. "When I think of what this will do for our new Ger many . . . "

H e shook his head, almost overcome with emotion.

Stumpf offered a quick salute and climbed into the raft.

"Go," he snapped. The men paddled steadily, powerfully, to the waiting Romar and climbed aboard as Stumpf turned back to the raft and fired several pistol shots to assure it would sink.

He recognized von Moreau looking back from the cockpit. "Hello, Erhard!"

Stumpf shouted. "Waste no time, my friend!"

Von Moreau waved back as he nodded. Moments later deep thunder rolled across the darkened ocean surface. Flares from the submarine arced high overhead, their reflection providing von Moreau with the visibility he required. Well before the flares, drifting beneath their small parachutes, hissed into the sea, the great Rohrbach flying boat was in the air and climbing steadily. Von Moreau leveled off at seven hundred feet and swung into a turn that would keep the airplane at least one hundred miles off the coastline of South Africa. No one would expect a flying boat here at night, and certainly they would never expect a flying machine of any kind to be flying southward, a hundred miles out to sea from Cape Town. Only later would they begin the long journey eastward and then to the northeast.

Stumpf went forward to the flight deck. "How is the fuel situation?" he half shouted to be heard above the engine thunder.

"Excellent!" von Moreau replied. "Without full passengers and with no cargo, the extra tanks will give us a range of more than two thousand miles. We will meet the ship on time, but with plenty of reserve."

Stumpf squeezed his friend's shoulder. "Thank you. Now, I will get some sleep. Call me if anything unusual comes up."

Seventeen hours later . . . "The ship is approximately five miles ahead of us,"

copilot Franz Gottler said to Flugkapitan Erhard von Moreau. "Bearing three five two degrees. I have already made contact and the ship is steering into the wind as our marker."

Von Moreau nodded. He stifled a yawn, having been at the controls for most of the past twentyeight hours. Now he forced himself to again be alert, eased the Romar slightly left of his heading, and gently began to come back on the three engine throttles beneath his right hand. The huge flying boat began its descent, settled perfectly to the ocean where long gentle swells promised a good surface, and threw back a perfect bow wave and water plume as the hull went into the sea. Von Moreau taxied close to the merchant vessel, the airplane fended off from the ship by two lifeboats staffed with sailors working long rubbertipped poles. A hose snaked down and Romar crewmen quickly started refilling the tanks and the oil reservoirs. Other men passed along sealed containers of hot food and several kegs of dark beer. Finally a note was transferred to von Moreau from the ship's captain.

"Take off as soon as you are fueled and ready. The moment you are airborne we will file a position report as having recorded the passage overhead of Aero Lloyd Flight 977 on its scheduled commercial run from Lake Victoria, with your machine on time for its run. Congratulations on your visit to the south. All hell has broken loose down there among the dogs. Hals und Beinbruch!"

Von Moreau smiled. Break your neck and a leg. The captain must have been a pilot to know the final words of airmen just before they took off on their combat missions. He leaned from the cockpit window, saw the captain, and waved. Several minutes later they pushed back from the ship, taxied into takeoff position to accelerate into the wind, and thundered into the air toward the darkening sky. Now von Moreau went for greater altitude. The fewer people who had a close look at the Rohrbach as it closed the distance to Germany, the better. He climbed to fourteen thousand feet, near the limit for the heavy flying boat. He nodded to Gottler in the right seat. "You fly. I will sleep for a while. Wake me for anything unusual." "Yes, sir."

In moments von Moreau was fast asleep. The flying boat thundered northward.

Fourteen hours later, Flugkapitan Erhard von Moreau nodded in satisfaction and tapped the chart of the Mediterranean Sea on his lap. He glanced at his copilot.

"We are exactly on schedule," he said with obvious pleasure. "A remarkable flight!

Who would have imagined us crossing in the night over Uganda, up through the Sudan and across all of Libya, so smoothly, without a hitch to our progress."

Gottler smiled in return. "I see only water now, sir. What is our exact position?"

Von Moreau held up the chart. "See here? The Libyan coast? When we crossed over El Agheila we were then over Golfo Di Sidra, that took us over the open stretch of the Mediterranean, and right now," he tapped the chart, "we are, urn, here. Thirtyfive degrees north latitude and eighteen degrees west longitude.

Sicily and Italy are dead ahead, and if we hold our present course we will fly over the Strait of Messina, here, then over Livorno and right on home."

Von Moreau had held up the chart for his copilot to see more clearly. Now, his eyes still raised where he folded the chart, he saw clearly through the thick windshield. He lowered the chart slowly, staring into the sky, a look of amazement on his face.

"Franz! Look carefully. Almost dead ahead, thirty degrees above the horizon." Sunlight reflected off something in the sky, a flash of light.

"Sir, it looks like . . . like a zeppelin! But it is huge!" Gottler strained to see. "It is very high, Captain, and the reflection is so bright that I—"

"Hold our course and altitude," von Moreau snapped. "I'll use the glasses."

He reached down to his right side, to the pouch holding his flight gear, and his hand brought forth powerful binoculars. He adjusted the focus and swore beneath his breath.

" M e i n G o t t . . . "

"Sir, what is it?" Gottler called to him.

"It has a torpedo shape. I judge it is at least fifteen hundred feet long, but . .

." He was talking now as much to himself as to his copilot. "But that would be at least twice as large, or larger, than the biggest zeppelin we have ever built! At first I thought maybe we were seeing the Graf Zeppelin. It has been crossing the Atlantic for more than two years now."

"Captain, we're at fourteen thousand—"

"Yes, yes, I know. Whatever that thing is, it is at least at twice our altitude, and the zeppelins do not fly that high!

Besides—here," he interrupted himself. "I have the controls, Franz. You tell me what you see."

Gottler held the binoculars to his eyes. "It is as big as you say, sir. But . . .

that is not a fabric covering, like the Graf.

That vessel, sir, is metalcovered from stem to stern. And it is thick through the body."

"What else!" von Moreau demanded, wanting desperately to either have confirmation of what he had already seen—or be told his eyes were playing tricks on him.

"Engines, sir. I mean," Gottler stuttered with his disbelief, "no engines. I see no signs of engines, and that's impossible. Look, it is tracking at an angle across our flight path. Even though it is much higher, it is flying an intercept course. But how . . . how can it do that without engines?" He lowered the glasses, and studied von Moreau.

"Sir, I don't understand—"

"To the devil with understanding! Write down what you see, every detail, understand? Take notes!"

Von Moreau leaned to his right and half turned to look back into the radio compartment. "Stryker!" he shouted to his radioman. "Can you make shortwave contact with Hamburg? Try it at once!"

He turned back to Gottler. "Well? What else?"

"I cannot believe this, Captain, but even at this distance I can see that the vessel has accelerated. It is definitely moving faster, and—Captain! There are several shapes descending from the vessel! Can you see them, sir? They are shining like lights in the sun and . . . I have never seen anything like them. Look, Captain! Their shape! Like . . . like crescents. Look how fast they move! And . . . this is incredible, sir! No engines, no propellers!"

Von Moreau grabbed for the binoculars. "Take over," he snapped to Gottler.

"Hold course, hold altitude.

Stryker! What about that contact with Hamburg?"

Radioman Albert Stryker hurried forward to the cockpit. "Sir, something is blocking all transmissions from and to this aircraft. I can get only static. It is deliberate interference."

"Did you try the alternate systems?"

"Sir, I have tried every frequency we have. Nothing is getting through."

Stryker was looking through the windscreen now; he had caught sight of three gleaming crescentshaped objects curving down from high altitude directly toward them. His mouth gaped.

"What . . . what are those—"

"Back to your radios, Stryker," von Moreau ordered. "Keep trying, anything, everything, but get through."

"Yes, sir. I'll do everything I can." Stryker rushed back to his radio equipment.

"I have never seen anything like this before," von Moreau said to his copilot.

"It is amazing. A monstrous torpedo shape, now these crescents that race through the sky—they must be doing four or five hundred miles per hour." He shook his head.

"Something propels them. But what? And where are they from? Who are they?

What do they want?"

Questions burst from him without answers.

Stryker ran headlong back into the cockpit. "Captain, sir! Those things out there . . ." He pointed with a shaking hand to a gleaming crescent shape that hurtled past them with tremendous speed, curving around effortlessly, magically. The other two machines had taken up position, each off a wingtip of the Romar flying boat.

"They are in contact with us, Captain."

Von Moreau stared at Stryker. "What language, man?"

"Ours, Captain. German."

"What do they say, Stryker!"

Stryker swallowed before speaking. "Sir, they order us to land immediately on the sea below, or be destroyed."

Von Moreau ran the insanity of the moment through his mind. The huge shape above. Obviously a flying mother ship of some kind, an airborne aircraft carrier.

Impossible in shape and size and performance, but there it was, nevertheless. And now these even more incredible crescents, gleaming, impossibly swift and with no visible means of propulsion. So far advanced over their powerful Romar that they might as well have been in a rowboat. He had no doubt that the threat of destruction was real.

"Tell them we will comply," von Moreau said. Gottler stared at him disbelievingly.

"I cannot do that, sir," Stryker said. "Their orders were for us to begin our descent immediately. They also said there was no way for me to return the communication."

Von Moreau had no doubts. Instinct born of flying combat experience, years of controlling great airliners, what he was seeing of such incredible performance: All came together in unquestioned intuition. His right hand began easing back on the throttles to reduce power, the nose lowered, and they were on their way to a landing at sea in the middle of the Mediterranean.

They could not call anyone on their radios, but von Moreau knew they were being tracked on charts in Hamburg and in Berlin, and when they did not make landfall over Catania in Sicily, which lay directly beneath their projected flight path, the alert would be sounded. "Stryker, keep sending out an emergency signal with our position.

Send on every frequency we have. I know; the radios are jammed somehow.

But something may happen. Changing altitude may make a difference. Whatever; do your best."

"Yes, sir."

Von Moreau concentrated on their descent, preparing for the landing. Gottler peered ahead. "There is a low cloud layer moving in from the west, sir," he reported.

"There may be fog very soon on the surface."

"I hope so," von Moreau said sourly. "I do not like any of this. I feel like a rat in a trap."

"Yes, sir."

Now they were on the water, holding the nose of the flying boat pointed into an increasing wind that pushed the clouds toward them and sent the first wisps of fog swirling about the flying boat. But there was just enough light and visibility for them to see the monstrous vessel that had been far above them also descending, moving directly toward them.

"You know, Franz, when we get out of this madness— if we get out of it—and we tell people what we are seeing and what has been happening, nobody, absolutely nobody, will believe a word we say."

"I'm sure, Captain, we don't need to worry. Not with what we are carrying, sir. They won't stop at anything to find us. Berlin won't waste a moment."

Von Moreau studied the dismal weather closing in, the huge shape growing ever larger. "Except that no one knows where we are, and that what we are looking at cannot possibly exist. Other than that, my fine young friend, we haven't a thing to worry about, do we?"

Franz Gottler didn't attempt a reply.

2

He's aged. Good Lord, the years have been heavy on the old man. I never thought I'd see him in a wheelchair.

Unless, of course—Professor Henry Jones smiled to himself— he had a rocket tied to the back of it and went flaming about these hallowed halls.

Jones feigned a casual acceptance of the approaching presence of Dr. Pencroft.

Even in the wheelchair and at the age of seventy, Pencroft still carried with him his aura of authority and domination. He had been Chairman of the Department of Archeology of the University of London for more years than most people could remember, and now, with the years amassing against him, his hair a white shock above eyes gleaming behind thick glasses, he left no doubt that he remained in control of his office. The spectacles seemed to narrow his face even more than the constriction of parchmentlike skin. One expected a frail voice to accompany the body; whoever thought so was taken aback by Pencraft's strength and energy when he spoke. There was never hesitation, never a question of his experience and authority.

Professor Henry Jones—who much preferred his nickname Indiana—held old man Pencroft in great admiration. For his part, Pencroft treated Jones with a dichotomy of approach, seemingly intolerant of Jones for being so much younger and for committing the unforgivable sin of being an American, an interloper from the colonies, as it were. It was all facade, for he much appreciated Jones's enthusiasm and knowledge, his almost reckless willingness to pursue any goal set for him, as Pencroft so long ago had been guilty of the same hard drive. More than once Pencroft had intervened against the bludgeon of university authority as it sought to remove Jones from its staff and send him back across the ocean

"where he belonged, along with the crudities and crass manners of the Americans." Outlander Professor Jones might be in ancient and hallowed halls, but he was an outlander with a brilliant mind and an incredible intuition for finding whatever he sought in the secrets of the past. Pencroft would never admit that he thoroughly enjoyed acting as buffer for Jones; it was like watching himself decades past.

Pencraft's manservant stopped the wheelchair precisely six feet from Professor Jones. For long moments neither man spoke. This was Pencraft's way, to take his time when approaching a situation different from any other in the past.

Gather his thoughts, consider what was afoot, and speak not a word until he knew what he would say, not just at this moment, but in the exchanges to follow.

And certainly, from what Pencroft had been told in a very private conversation, different held a meaning he'd never before encountered.

Indeed, Pencroft didn't believe a word of it. Sheer nonsense and balderdash.

Frightened men and ghosts and goblins; that sort of rubbish. He'd been flabbergasted when the people from Number 10 Downing Street had come to meet with him, and the more those people talked the more grew his own amazement. Not at their outlandish tale, but that the highest levels of government would even bother with such rot. And he'd told them so in no uncertain terms. Representatives of the Prime Minister or not, he almost accused them of being sodden drunks.

They took it all in stride, which itself was a critical clue for the wily old Pencroft. It was immediately obvious to him that they had already gone through the very thoughts he was experiencing as they spun their outlandish tale. So they were quite serious, after all, and if they'd stepped down from their bureaucratic heights to visit Professor Pencroft, they must be desperate indeed.

Which had finally brought him to seek out Professor Jones. More precisely, Indiana Jones, that ridiculous name the man had attached to himself. He knew that Jones's closest friends had shortened his name to Indy, but Pencroft couldn't quite lower himself to do so. He pushed aside the peripheral nonsense in his head.

"What are you doing now?" he demanded suddenly of Jones. The moment he'd uttered the words he regretted the slip. Jones had too much fun with the thrustandparry.

"Unless I am sadly mistaken, sir," Jones cut back, "I am occupying a space in this hallway, as you are. It's a rather bleak place to meet, I would say."

"The devil you say!" Pencroft snapped. He tipped his head to one side.

"Listen to me, you troublemaker," he went on with a touch of gnarly affection. "Come to my office. Ten minutes from now and not a moment later."

"I have a class," Indiana Jones said quietly, aware that Pencroft knew his schedule.

"You have a class, but you lack class," Pencroft jibed. "Ten minutes." The smile faded. Pencroft coughed with pain, swallowed, and his hand gestured weakly. "I am quite serious, Indiana."

That did it. When Pencroft used that name in public he was bloody well serious. Jones nodded. "I'll get a substitute," he said. "I'll be there."

"I've already arranged for a substitute," Pencroft went on, pleased with even this diminutive oneupmanship. He waved to his servant to continue on to his office.

Jones watched him as they turned down a secondary hallway.

Pencroft's obvious discomfort intrigued Jones. It wasn't like him. In fact, if he didn't know better he might have judged that the old gaffer had been rattled by—by whatever it was that called for breaking into his teaching schedule.

In this emporium of education you shot your dog before you interfered with schedules. Something very big was up; that much was clear. But Pencroft hadn't given him so much as a hint. Well, he'd find out soon enough.

Jones went quickly to his own office and strode briskly through the outer waiting room where his secretary, Frances Smythe, held up a stack of telephone messages. He waved them away. "No calls. Nothing, understand?"

The darkhaired woman shook her head. "No, I do not understand. Elucidate, please."

"You sound irritable, Fran."

"I'm confused. By you," she retorted. "I know, I know. Pencroft's office in a few minutes. They called here looking for you. All very mysterious, the way they had the substitute teacher already set up for your class. Care for a cup of tea while you tell me what is going on?"

"I'll take coffee. Lukewarm. No time for a hot mug. Besides," Jones sighed, "I haven't so much as a nudge as to what's going on."

The coffee mug was in his hands almost at once. He never understood how she could do that, have his coffee ready at whatever temperature he requested. He checked to see that he had his glasses with him.

"I do wish you'd get something more appealing than those black wire rims," Frances sighed. "You look like a mongoose when you wear them in your class."

"It keeps the beautiful young ladies at a proper distance," Jones laughed. He glanced at his watch. "Here." He handed her the coffee mug. "Time to march."

"Good luck."

He stopped in his tracks. "What?"

She was flustered. "Indiana," she said softly, her tone so personal it was intimate. "The last time you were called in by Pencroft in this manner, well, you know, it was that trip to the Amazon, and—"

"Let it drop," Jones said brusquely. He didn't need reminders of the stunning young woman to whom he'd been married only a short time. My God, he mused as he walked along the hallway to Pencraft's office. It's been four years since Deirdre was killed and it still hurts like it was yesterday. . . .

He put aside everything but what he would hear from Pencroft as he entered the old man's outer office. "Go right in," Sally Strickland told him. Obviously even the secretary here was on edge about something. She hadn't bothered to smile or offer her usual friendly greeting. He stayed with the mood, nodded, and went into Pencraft's office.

"Close the door," Pencroft said unnecessarily. Indy edged the door shut with the heel of his shoe. The old man was testy for a reason, and it seemed to be a signal to Indy: Watch it; exercise care. He turned to take measure of the third man in the room.

If there was one word to describe the stranger, Indiana Jones had it immediately: severity. Whoever, whatever he was, this man was a true professional.

Demeanor, selfconfidence, piercing eyes, the cut of the suit, the catlike relaxation while the man remained fully alert, mentally

and physically . . . it was all there, and he had even managed to rattle Pencraft's cage of selfassurance.

"Professor Henry Jones," Pencroft said stiffly, "this is Mr. Thomas Treadwell.

Mr. Treadwell—"

Treadwell came to his feet in a single gliding motion, right hand extended to grasp Indy's. Once again, Indy was filled with the strength and presence of this man.

He spent a few precious seconds absorbing all that he had noticed by removing his glasses from his shirt pocket and cleaning the lenses with his handkerchief.

"Treadwell, is it?" Indy said casually. "Is that your real name, Mr., um . . ."

He let it hang.

"It's real enough," Treadwell said. Indy knew from his tone that he had all the proper cards and papers, identification to choke a horse if necessary, to "prove" he was Treadwell.

"Well, I see we've got a catandmouse situation here," Indy said to both men. Then he directed his gaze to Pencroft. "Do I find out where our visitor is from?"

Pencroft nodded. He had only a scratch of information himself and he didn't like it. You could feel and smell security

in the room. Anyone who regarded Pencroft as simply a doddering old professor was making a mistake of grand proportions. Long before his permanency at the university he had served the British army well, rising to the rank of brigadier through a halfdozen wars, large and small, before retiring from enough wounds to kill several men. Like Indiana Jones he knew when a professional was at hand.

"I won't play any games with you, Professor Jones," Treadwell answered. "I'm military intelligence. Not Scotland Yard, as I'm sure you already deduced on your own. You have certain body language that speaks aloud."

Indy smiled and nodded, waiting.

"For the record, I'm required to impose the highest level of secrecy on what you're going to be told," Treadwell continued. "I know that you're an American citizen, and I won't go through the formal blather of papers and all that. Your word will suffice for us."

"Wait, wait," Pencroft interrupted. "I'll be hanged if I'll sit here with a parched throat." He pressed a desk buzzer.

"Sally, tea. And brandy. A good measure of both."

They waited until the tea was poured and mixed with brandy and Pencraft's secretary had departed. Suddenly a radio blared from the outer office. Indy lifted an eyebrow toward Pencroft, and the old man smiled. No one would hear their conversation with the racket outside.

"First," began Treadwell, "I don't expect you to believe what I'm about to tell you."

Twenty minutes later Indy knew the other man was | right.

Treadwell related a story more fantastic than anything Indy had ever heard.

And he had trailed Indian spirits in South America, crawled through the tomb passageways of the pyramids, faced voodoo doctors and shamans who performed feats all science would consider not incredible, but impossible. He had seen the ghosts of ancient giants at Stonehenge, trod the thin vaporous lines that seemed to separate this world from other dimensions. He had—well, pay attention, he commanded himself harshly.

Treadwell gave the details of the ambush and hijacking in South Africa, the use of poison gas, the performance of a paramilitary team that left all the signs of professionals trained to the nth degree. A billion dollars' worth of diamonds was the estimate, but Indy's interest flared when Treadwell mentioned an ancient object with some form of symbols engraved on its surface—an object that could not have been created by any terrestrial energy or people if its historical dating were correct. Indy s u s p e n d e d further contemplation as Treadwell went on.

"We know this operation was German. Not only was there a certain Teutonic efficiency involved," Treadwell explained, "but we do keep tabs on how Germany is transforming itself from a beaten nation into a new power.

Officially, that part is nonsense, of course, because our leaders still believe in the goodness of men, including the Germans, which," he interjected, "I do not. They are too busy beating their plowshares into weapons. They have created an entire new secret service organization. We know that Hermann Goring has been making the rounds of industry. There are all the signs of rearmament."

"The diamonds," Indy broke in. "I imagine this is part of their program to finance a new military force."

Treadwell nodded. "But that's not the way it worked out, Professor Jones."

Something in his tone told Indy he'd soon find out why he'd been called in here with all this secrecy mumbo jumbo.

Pencroft gestured. "How did you confirm the Germans in all this?"

"Aside from keeping tabs on certain individuals," Treadwell said quickly, "we keep an ongoing record of Germany's movements within, to, and from Africa. They are unabashedly making their move to control most or all of that continent, just as they are doing through their Condor airlines and other groups in South America. I do not wish to get off the track, so to speak, but the more I can impress upon you that we know what Germany is doing, the better you may comprehend what follows.

"We know that a certain German airline captain, von Moreau, was flying a Rohrbach commercial flying boat on its regular run between Germany and South Africa. We, ah, obtained the passenger manifest without the knowledge of Aero Lloyd—"

"Skullduggery, is it now," Pencroft offered with a smile.

"Yes, sir. My point is that we checked on a number of the passengers listed on that manifest. They were not on the flying boat. Their names, reservations, passport numbers, everything was in order, except that they never made the flight.

Obviously, it was a covert operation of some kind. Also, we worked with the South Africans who went over the wrecked trains. Their chemists, working with us, have identified the type of explosives right down to the factory, the chemical plant, where they were produced. No one else we know of has that very particular chemical substance.

Enough small debris was remaining for absolute confirmation."

"There was something else I'd heard about," Indy said carefully.

"You heard about this affair? Before now, I mean?" Treadwell asked sharply.

"Not exactly," Indy said. "But there might be a connection."

"Please, Professor, if you would—?" Treadwell pressed.

"It's no secret between this university," Indy said, "and our associates at the Archeology Division of the South African university, that some sort of incredible find may have been discovered deep in one of the diamond mines.

They're very sticky about security when it comes to those mines, but what was found was so bizarre that even the mining company people had no choice but to make what they thought were discreet inquiries as to the nature of what they had in their possession. I must alert you to the fact that none of this might have even a grain of truth to it, but in our business, Mr. Treadwell, you never overlook any kind of a lead."

"What, ah, was the nature of this find, Professor Jones?"

"A cube, with markings of a type never seen before." i Pencroft broke in, looking aggrieved. "I hadn't heard any of this, Indiana. You must keep me better informed."

"It may be nothing but balderdash, sir," Indy responded, using one of Pencraft's favorite expressions.

"The cube supposedly came from a section of the mine being dug for the first time. It is deep. Very deep. The engineers estimate the surrounding quartz is anywhere from a hundred thousand to perhaps several million years old.

"And what," Indy went on softly, "is a cube with cuneiform markings doing in a diamond vein, while mankind was still climbing down from the trees?"

"You're that certain of the age?" Treadwell asked.

"No way!" Indy retorted. "All this is still unconfirmed. Normally it would be discarded as so much errant nonsense. But that cube, if it exists, could be only a thousand years old. Or, as some people in Rome seem to think, two thousand years old."

Treadwell showed his confusion. "Rome? Two thousand years old?"

"About the same time as Christ," Pencroft said, a touch of glee in his voice.

"You remember him, don't you, Mr.Treadwell? Jehoshua, Jesus, the Savior, by those names and others. As for Rome, I'm certain you know where the Vatican is located."

"That's why," Indy added, "even the slightest thread, the most tenuous possibility that the cube exists, that it is a cube, that it may have cuneiform inscriptions, that it might be two thousand years old, or that perhaps it has some connection with Christ, apparently has the highest levels of the Vatican almost frantic with desire to gain possession of this object. If it exists, with all the ifs, ands, or buts that I've mentioned to you."

Treadwell sank back in his seat. Finally he looked up, first at Pencroft and then back to Indy. "What you have just told me makes what I still haven't related to you even more incredible."

"This isn't a suspense show," Indy said, impatience in his voice. "Get on with it."

"Yes, yes," Pencroft pushed. "I'm out of tea and brandy and at my age that's more important to me than this conversation that seems to have no end to it." Indy knew the old man was in pain but was concealing it beneath sudden brusqueness.

Treadwell took a deep breath. "The flying boat, that Rohrbach with the diamonds aboard and perhaps this mysterious cube as well, never made it to Germany. "

That brought up both Indy and Pencroft, fully attentive. "Don't tell me that someone hijacked the German airliner!"

Pencroft said, on the edge of bursting out into laughter.

"What happened?" Indy asked quietly.

"We were told what happened," Treadwell said, hesitating.

"Speak up, man!" Pencroft shouted.

"There is one man we talked with," Treadwell said slowly and carefully, "who apparently was a member of the Rohrbach crew. The only survivor of an attack on that airplane. He told us they had flown the night through to cross Africa. The pilot kept the airplane high, at fourteen thousand feet, which is about the limit for a Rohrbach with a heavy fuel load. He also spoke about the cold at altitude, and some of the crew having headaches from the lack of oxygen."

"Yes, yes," Pencroft prompted. "Then what?"

"There was a great deal of excitement in the cockpit. He saw the radioman—he remembered him as Stryker, and we've confirmed that, by the way—anyway, Stryker was upset about his radios not working, and then after some more excitement in the cockpit, while they were

over what was apparently the center of the Mediterranean, von Moreau started his descent to land on the water."

"You haven't said why he'd do that," Indy said critically. "I don't want this to be a guessing game about engine problems or fuel or whatever. Why did the pilot start down?"

"The crewman—"

"Wait a moment," Pencroft interrupted. "You said one survivor. How'd you get this bloke?"

"A French airliner, flying low over the sea to stay beneath clouds at night, saw a fire beneath them. They didn't know what it was. It could have been a crashed airplane or a ship of some kind. They fired off a radio distress call right away. We were fortunate enough in having a British vessel nearby, and it went promptly to where the French had reported the fire. They found some wreckage in the water, and their searchlights picked out one man clinging to a section of wood. He was injured rather badly. Broken bones, burns, shock. The moment they had attended to him as best they could, the purser asked him if there might be any other survivors, lifeboats; anything. He said no."

"Go on. What did he say?" Indy demanded.

Treadwell took a deep breath. "He said they were forced down by some huge vessel in the sky, gleaming, silvery. That it was perhaps a thousand yards in length, very fast—"

"That couldn't be a dirigible," Pencroft murmured. "Nothing of that size—"

Indy gestured to Pencroft to let Treadwell continue.

"A lot of what he Said seemed to be babbling, and of course he was suffering from his pain and his injuries. But the purser said he was quite adamant about this vessel and its size, that it was very fast, and that several of the crew were amazed to notice that it didn't have any engines."

"That's one hell of a sausage balloon you're describing," Indy said, openly disbelieving.

"I'm not describing. I am telling you what we heard from this one man.

There's more."

"Go on, go on," Pencroft prodded.

"A number of silvery, or golden, the man wasn't sure, craft separated from the huge ship. They were shaped like scimitars, he said. Or perhaps crescents, or boomerangs. Whatever they were they moved with tremendous speed, whirling about the Rohrbach like it was stuck in mud." Treadwell paused. "And those didn't have any engines, either."

"Why did the airliner land?" Indy asked.

"Apparently there was a radio message from the larger ship telling them to land, or be destroyed. Then the scimitar ships took up close formation with the Rohrbach. They landed on the sea, the bigger vessel came down very low, and what appeared to be humanlike figures lowered from the vessel to the flying boat. They shot up the wings, first, then opened fire on the crew. The two pilots were killed immediately. That's all this man knew. He was hit, and tumbled from the Rohrbach into the water. He had on an inflatable vest, but didn't use it right away. Moments later, he said, the flying boat was burning and then it exploded. He was burned in the explosion, and just managed to get his vest inflated before he passed out."

"What happened with this great machine and the scimitars that fly about without engines?"

"We don't know."

"You're certain this isn't all a fairy tale?" Indy jabbed at Treadwell.

"Professor Jones, there are thirtytwo dead men in South Africa, two destroyed trains, and a railway trestle blown to smithereens. The South Africans are frantic with the loss of what they say was a billion dollars worth of gems. A Rohrbach flying boat is destroyed, or if not destroyed, most certainly it and its crew are missing. We have an eyewitness with incredible stories of what he claims to have seen, and you have not heard the hysteria within Germany about the entire affair.

And your rumor from South Africa did reach the Vatican; the Pope and his inner circle are in a dither about the artifact."

"Can I talk with this survivor?" Indy asked aloud.

"I'd like to talk to him as well," Treadwell answered, his tone showing clear disappointment. "Unfortunately, he did not live very long. Right now our people in Germany are using their special contacts to determine his identification, if that's still possible. You may imagine the tight security the Germans have thrown up about all this. They're fairly frothing at the mouth."

"There's a point you haven't gone into," Indy said.

"Which is, sir?"

"Who were the people in that flying whatchamacallit, or whatever it was?

And in those scimitarshaped machines as well?"

"We don't have the first clue, Professor Jones."

"You realize," Pencroft broke in, "that the machines you have described to us don't exist? That nothing of those descriptions exists, or has been made, by any country known to us?"

"Yes, sir."

An uneasy silence fell between them. Pencroft used the moment to have more tea and brandy brought in by his secretary. Then it was time to get to what Indiana would call the nittygritty.

"A few questions, please," Pencroft said abruptly, to bring events back to the fore.

"Of course," Treadwell acknowledged.

"You didn't come to this institution by accident."

"No, sir."

"I suggest you came here specifically to seek out and in some manner enlist the services of Professor Jones?"

"Yes, sir."

"Who sent you?"

Treadwell took a deep breath. "M.I. Two."

Pencraft's brows rose with confirmation of so high a level in the British government. He exchanged glances with Indy, then turned back to Treadwell.

"So now," Pencraft said slowly, "you pursue the services of our good archeology professor."

"Yes, sir."

"That," Indy interjected, "makes as much sense as your sky devils, or sky pirates, or whatever they are—if they even exist. People who've been blasted, burned, shocked, and dumped into the sea are capable of seeing anything.

But we'll let that go for the moment. Mr. Treadwell, I'm on sabbatical leave from Princeton University—"

"Where you are a professor of Medieval Literature and Studies," Treadwell finished for him.

"You're up on your homework," Indy said with a nod. "Which means your office at least knows how to look up people's names and titles in a university staff telephone book. But to continue. I am now teaching Celtic Archeology.

This isn't my first relationship here."

"We threw him out once before," Pencroft chuckled. "He'll tell you he became fed up with overstuffed, overbearing academic versions of our everlasting Colonel Blimp and left here of his own volition. Frankly, he's really quite insufferable, he breaks rules, he dashes off on wild goose chases, but," Pencroft said seriously, "he often manages to return with the golden eggs laid by the geese. Like bringing us the Omphalos of Delphi, for which we had searched for decades, believing it was always linked

somehow with Stonehenge. We were right, but getting nowhere. Our misfit colonist here," he nodded at Indy, "did the impossible, broke all the rules, but succeeded in what we thought was really quite impossible."

Treadwell didn't miss a beat. "And Professor Jones has a pattern."

"Oh?" Indy said.

"Yes, sir. He's subject to a disease the Americans call cabin fever. He can take just so much of academia and then he fairly bursts with the urge to get out in the field and rummage about antiquities, whether in deserts or mountain regions or jungles. I apologize, sir," he said to Indy directly, "if there is any seeming lack of consideration for the loss of your wife some years ago. None was intended."

"None was taken," Indy replied coolly. "I point out to you that my remaining time here is limited. I plan to return to Princeton or perhaps some other university that is involved in field missions."

"I don't believe you'll be doing that," Treadwell said.

"You fascinate me, Mr. Treadwell. Very few people have ever judged my future with such conviction."

Treadwell laughed. "No such control was intimated, sir. To use a favorite expression from your side of the ocean, Professor Jones, I believe we have an offer for you that you simply cannot refuse."

He leaned forward in his seat, and the other two men in the room knew he was coming down to the heart of the matter.

"We desire that Professor Jones undertake to learn the identity of the unknown aerial vehicles we have discussed.

To find out whatever is possible about them, identify their source. We are convinced there is more to this affair than the ravings of an airliner crewman in shock. For reasons that will be readily apparent, we also desire that Professor Jones continue a very public association with the University of London, so that he will arouse no special interest, no matter where he may go in the world for his, ah, archeological digs. He would, of course, be working for us, but completely sub rosa."

"Do you have any concept of the financial burden you're talking about?"

Pencroft broke in. "The university board of governors would never approve of—"

"No one outside this room is to know of our relationship," Treadwell said, a bit too sharply. He was all business now. "The only exceptions would be those Professor Jones at his own discretion chooses to inform. As for the costs, all will be taken care of. It won't cost this establishment so much as a tuppence."

"That's different," Pencroft said with open wonder.

"You said there was a gift," Indy reminded Treadwell. "You apparently have something very special up your sleeve."

"Oh, I do," Treadwell smiled. "It's the offer you can't refuse. There will be other teams on this mission, of course—men with other skills and connections. But if you are the first to find that cube, or whatever is the artifact rumored to have been with the diamonds—it's yours to keep."

"You mean it is ours!" Pencroft burst out.

"That is your affair, sir. My point is that the Crown will relinquish all claim to the object." Treadwell had almost a Cheshire cat smile on his face. "Professor Jones cannot turn his back on something that might have a direct relationship with Christ.

That is strictly an unfounded supposition about the cube, of course, and I am out of my depth as to what else it might be. But I do not need to know more. My interest is specific and unambiguous."

Treadwell rose to his feet to face Indy. "Your answer, sir?"

Indy extended his hand. Treadwell took it firmly to end the questions.

"Done," Indy said.

Treadwell turned to Pencroft. "Is there anything you wish to add or to ask, Professor?"

Pencroft pondered the issue. Then he shook his head slowly. "The entire affair seems quite mad, Mr. Treadwell.

My interest, however, also lies in that area you described as an offer that could not be refused. Such a find is beyond all monetary consideration. I also am agreed."

"Thank you, sir."

Treadwell opened his briefcase and handed a sealed packet to Indy.

"Everything you need is in there, including protected telephone numbers and a schedule of times you can reach me."

Indy took the packet. "I'm not sure if I should thank you for all this," he said.

Treadwell didn't smile. "Only time will tell, sir."

Suddenly, Pencroft began to cough harshly. He pulled forth a handkerchief with shaking hands and brought it to his mouth. Treadwell and Indy glanced at one another; by trading nods, they agreed to wait until the old man could catch his breath. Finally Pencroft dabbed at his watery eyes and took a deep lungful of air.

"You two," he wagged an accusing finger at them, "sound like a bunch of old women at a tea and crumpets party, the way you are gaggling at each other. Get out of my sight and let this school get back to its function of illuminating young minds!"

Treadwell and Indy left the room together. Without another word between them they went their separate ways in the corridor, Treadwell departing the university through the main entrance, Indy returning to his office. He waited fifteen minutes, finished the coffee Frances Smythe had waiting for him, closed his briefcase, and started for the exit.

Smythe stopped him with a piercing look. "It must have been quite a session for you not to say a word to me," she said with a touch of criticism to her voice.

Damn, she's right, Indy thought. Saying nothing is worse than any kind of story. He turned to her. "Some sort of government nonsense," he said airily.

"Like I'm hearing right now," she countered.

"You're too smart for your own good," he chided her in a compliment she couldn't miss.

"I'll ignore the poisoned blessings." She smiled. "You have forgotten, Professor, to give me whatever story it is you wish people to hear that will explain your continued absence from your classes."

He started to offer a spurious tale, stopped, started again, and thought better of storytelling to this woman. "Make up what sounds best," he directed her, "and leave a memo on my desk as to what it is I'm supposed to be doing."

"You are devious," she remarked.

"Enough, Sherlock. Just kindly attend to whatever fabrication passes through that lovely brain of yours."

"Tata!" she called as he left.

Twenty minutes later he slipped into the Wild Boar Pub. Indy stood at the bar, ordered an ale, picked up his mug, and wandered slowly toward a back door.

With no one paying attention to him, he slipped through the door to climb a narrow winding stairs to the private room that was his destination.

Thomas Treadwell greeted him with a wave of his own halffinished mug of ale.

Indy slipped into an easy chair. "I really hate doing this to the old man, you know," he said abruptly.

"It's necessary," came the immediate response. "The whole purpose of that meeting at the university was to keep Pencroft involved in a position of authority, but not

to let him know too much. At his age he could easily slip and give away the game. Besides, right now he feels completely justified in springing you free of your duties."

"I know," Indy sighed. "Do we bring him up to snuff before any more meetings?"

Treadwell shook his head. "We can't risk it. Professor Pencroft not only appears to be the soul of innocence, he is, and that's what we need from him."

Indy laughed without humor. "He'd kill me with his own two hands if he knew I was partly responsible for that blamed cube."

"You're being too hard on yourself. That was a masterful job you did with your cuneiform markings. Good Lord, Indy, that artifact is as real as anything from the past I've ever seen."

"I know, I know," Indy broke in. "When does the real word get out?"

"All in good time. Right now whoever it was that forced down the flying boat, the whole bloody lot you already know about, is still convinced the artifact is, or may be, real. That means they'll try to unlock its secrets. Failing that, as only you and I know they will, they'll try to move it to a highpaying buyer. So long as that pattern is followed, Indy, it remains our very best opportunity to start identifying people."

Indy raised an eyebrow. "That's your problem, Thomas. All that cloakanddagger dashing about isn't my game."

"But you're very good at it. Your background suits the situation perfectly, you know. And we do need somebody willing to become a target for this gang, whoever they are. You'll have to keep on the alert, just like any M.I. operative."

"I'll ignore your lumping me with spies and assassins, if you don't mind," Indy retorted. Then, in a more serious tone, "Do we have anything more on those saucer things?

I'm not even certain as to how to describe them. I've heard saucers, discs, crescents, a whole porridge of names."

"Tell me, Indy, what do you think of them?"

"Assuming that they're real and they perform as we've been told?"

"Yes."

"Well, all I can say is that they're really remarkable."

"Do I detect a note of subtle evasion there, Indy?"

"Not at all. Listen, Thomas, not being fully informed doesn't justify drawing conclusions based on a lack of data.

You can go dead wrong in a hurry that way."

"I'd like you to remember the name of an American you'll be meeting up with soon," Treadwell said abruptly.

"What's that got to do with those machines?"

"More than you may think. The name is Harry Henshaw. He's a colonel in your military flying force. Brilliant man, really. He's in technical intelligence. That means he's everything from a test pilot to an investigator of anything and everything that flies. He's part of our team. Hands across the sea, that sort of thing.

And right now he is turning heaven and earth upside down trying to find anything and everything in the present, and in the past, that may relate to disc shapes in flight."

"What's his opinion?"

"The things are real. They fly as we've heard. Blistering speed and all that."

Treadwell went infuriatingly silent. "And?" Indy pressed. "Are they, in his opinion, ours, or," he looked upward, "theirs? Whoever and whatever they may be."

"Too early for conclusions, but he leans to a huge leap forward in aerodynamics, not something flitting about in space."

"Why?"

"You'd better find out from Henshaw directly. By the by, he's given me a message for you. One with which I concur completely, I might add."

"Sounds serious."

"It is," Treadwell said. "Henshaw said for you to watch your step and to keep your eyes open. No matter how smart we think we've been, the people we're trying to identify know more about us than I like."

Indy's eyes narrowed. "How?"

"Henshaw suspects—no; he's convinced there's a traitor in our little group.

Which means as well, Indy, that you would be wise not to let your own people know too much of what we've discussed."

"My people are fine," Indy said defensively.

"I hope so." Treadwell was unruffled by Indy's sudden change in mood. "I dearly hope so. But I'll tell you this much from my own experience. You will always be surprised in this game."

3

Willard Cromwell lifted the bourbon bottle in a slow, deliberate motion to his lips, neatly surrounding the mouth of the bottle with his own, and took a long, gurgling swallow. He brought down the bottle slowly, smacked his lips, belched, and with the ease of long practice replaced the cork. His powerful hand banged the bottle on the table of the living room in the isolated farmhouse Indy had rented for a month.

They felt they were in the middle of nowhere, the fields and farmhouse nestled along the banks of the Maquoketa River in eastern Iowa. But for the moment his companions seemed fascinated with Cromwell's every move.

Cromwell had flown as a squadron commander in Britain's Royal Flying Corps against the best of the Kaiser's sharpshooters in their Albatross and Fokker and Rumpler machines. Flying the wickedhandling Sopwith Camel, he'd twisted and whirled through enough battles to send sixteen of Germany's finest spinning earthward, giving up their lives for the Fatherland in the Great War raging across the continent. Then some snotnosed young replacement, terrified by his first taste of combat and watching his comrades burning to death as their planes whirled crazily earthward, had panicked in the midst of battle and flown wildly through a huge dogfight. Cromwell saw him coming, knew he stood no danger from another Sopwith, but could hardly have imagined that the fearfrozen young man would in desperation have squeezed the triggers of his Vickers machine guns. And kept down the trigger handles, spewing fragments of death in all directions, friend or foe notwithstanding.

What the Germans could not do, a spindling youth in terror managed quite well, placing three of his bullets into the legs and one arm of Willard Cromwell.

He made it back to his home field only moments before he passed out from loss of blood. Four months in hospital, every single day of that time cursing the unknown blithering idiot who'd brought him down. Cromwell didn't know if that madman survived the battle. "Bloody good luck if he didn't, because I'd like to finish him off with my bare hands," he snarled at his visiting fellow pilots.

Cromwell earned goodnatured laughter for his toothy profanity, but he accepted the laughter along with the whiskey smuggled into hospital to him. Then he could walk again, a bit stiffly, and he had a magnificent long burn scar on his arm from the incendiary bullet that had nearly done him in. He insisted on returning to the fight, but fighters were out. "You're rather scrunged up, you know," his squadron commander told him. "A bit sticky trying to match the young men in maneuvering, eh? But I'm with you, Willard. I'm posting you to the navy."

Cromwell nearly choked. "You're putting me aboard a bloody ship?" he howled. He smashed his cane across the other man's desk, scattering papers and personal items throughout the office. "Never!"

"Come off it," his commander said affably. "No warships or ground duty for you, old man. You're being given command of a flying boat. It's an important job, Captain. You may not shoot down many aeroplanes, but see what you can do with a few of the Hun submarines, would you?"

Off to Coastal Command, to special training for the cumbersome huge machines. Not one to wallow—like his seaplane bomber in the air—in his own rotten luck, he applied himself to what could be either a lump of an assignment or, he judged well, a rare opportunity. No need to hone his piloting; he was one of the best. But now he learned the idiosyncrasies of heavy machines and the special touch they required. He spent his ground time with the mechanics and became as adept as any man with a wrench and wiring. He learned to repair and rebuild and in the process he became the equal of any aeronautical engineer.

All this, of course, to "see what he could do with a few of the Hun submarines." Most attacks against German Uboats were made in a careful, level approach for bomb dropping, which had the unfortunate result of providing the German gunners on the sub deck with an excellent steady target for their weapons.

The casualties were horrific.

Willard Cromwell considered all aspects of the situation, and at the conclusion of his survey, Madman Cromwell came into being.

He modified his own flying boat. With mechanics and his own flight crew working together, they strengthened the struts and wires and rigging of their machine, finetuned their engines for extra power, and stole stove lids from wherever they could be found to surround their crew positions with armor plating. Then they mounted a longbarreled 37mm recoilless cannon in the nose gunner position, doubled the number of machine guns on the flying boat, and went hunting.

No one had ever attacked a submarine before with a screaming plunge in an aircraft infamous for its plodding gait and painfully clumsy response. Infamous the other machines were; not this widewinged bird. As Cromwell dove against his target, the forward gunner pumped heavy shells against the submarine, supported by three men hammering away with machine guns.

Cromwell aimed to drop his bombs right into the conning tower of his target if at all possible, and the only way to do that was to go right down to the deck in a steep dive so that the bombs would follow a properly curving ballistic arc and explode inside the submarine.

He sank two submarines, fought off several more, saved ships and lives, and met his comeuppance once again through no direct action of the enemy. Attacking a German sub on the surface in his usual brash dive, his bow gunner pumping shells at the enemy machine gun crews on deck, he was short of his aiming point for the conning tower. One bomb struck the flat deck and bounced wildly back into the air to smash into the tail of Cromwell's flying boat. By the good graces of the angels who look after such madmen, the bomb fuse failed to trigger, but the heavy bomb ripped through the airplane's structure, severing the controls to the tail surfaces. Cromwell and crew tore past the submarine just as his first bomb exploded within the Uboat.

The explosion not only ripped outward from the submarine hull, but also struck the flying boat like a giant hand slapping a mosquito. Into the water they crashed. The airplane shed pieces in a rapid but steady progression, each structural collapse easing the shock of deceleration.

When the moment ended, the submarine was sinking in a spume of steam, smoke and spreading oil, and Cromwell and crew in life jackets were clambering onto a section of the hull still floating as a somewhat leaky lifeboat.

A British destroyer raced to their aid and hauled everyone from the sea.

Cromwell ended up in another hospital, this time with a broken shoulder, minor burns, and many lacerations about his body that produced scars he would spend years displaying to awed friends. In the years that followed, Cromwell added to his already distinguished abilities by becoming expert in weapons and demolition. Judged by his superiors to be the recipient of a charmed life, he was sent on missions to trouble spots where British control slipped into disrepute and no small danger. He was as adept in learning languages as he was blessed with an extraordinary memory, and he became as much at home in dark alleys and back streets as he was in the cockpit of any flying machine.

By now, with the war years well behind him, Cromwell was a portly man of large stature and a huge handlebar mustache, assuming the appearance of the typical

"Colonel Blimp" of colonial England. And it was all appearance, for Cromwell beneath his outer flab was massively muscled, adroit, and flexible, and a dangerous man indeed with weapons of any kind, as well as with his powerful hands. He had spent two years in Turkey training with their professional wrestlers, a field exalted and held in honor for multiple generations. They taught him well, soaking his hands and much of his skin in stinging brine so they became tough and as hard as boards.

This was the man Indiana Jones had selected as his "shotgun," able to perform duties as a mechanic or weaponeer, a pilot or a skulker among the alleys of almost any city in the world. He was lethal in handtohand combat and yet, strangely, well steeped in academic lore, master of a dozen languages and with a memory that forgot nothing. Those people who thought they knew Indiana Jones well found it hard to comprehend his friendship with the harddrinking, unpredictable Cromwell. But Indy had chosen very well indeed. Cromwell was worth a dozen men.

And at this moment, in this remote farmhouse, amid wide fields in every direction, Cromwell was thick with whiskey and impatience. He brought shudders to the others in the room with another gutwrenching belch. "When in the blazes is Indy getting back here!" he thundered, a question they all knew to be rhetorical.

Indy would return from Chicago when he had accomplished the needs of his trip, and he had insisted on going it alone. Something very special and secretive had them on edge. Even the powerful and tough Ford Trimotor hidden alongside the biggest barn nearby seemed chained to the ground. They wanted to do something. Waiting scraped against their nerves, and they would have been surprised to know that this was precisely the situation Indy had carefully maneuvered. His team had to be able to function in perfect harmony, whether in action or in stopmotion, waiting as they were now without knowing the reasons why. If there was to be friction or a falling out, this was the time to reveal the problem and remove the fault at once.

"Most men who drink as much as you do," observed Gale Parker, watching Cromwell with mixed distaste and admiration, "would have passed out long ago.

Instead, you just seem to get as nervous as a cat trying to get out of a cage. How do you do it?"

Cromwell blinked at her. The fiery redhead, quite beautiful in a most rugged fashion, had caught him unawares.

Women usually expressed some emptyheaded prattling criticism. But not this one. They knew little of her. Even her accent defied identification, but Cromwell, adept at many languages, recognized Parker's linguistic flexibility with her first words. She was feminine, but imbued with a strength he recognized and respected: a physical strength as well as some inner force. He saw quickly that in many ways she paralleled Indy's own style. She had long been a loner; Cromwell knew the look in the eyes, and he respected any woman strong enough to maintain her presence of self in a world where she was surrounded by men who regarded women as intruders in "their" world.

What Cromwell could not determine, but was so well known to Indy, was that her appearance as an American, or at least someone from eastern or northern Europe, had been carefully manufactured and nurtured. Gale Parker was the name she adopted when she decided that she wished neither her Mediterranean background nor her real name, Mirna Abi Khalil, to signal that much information about her. Her father was Muslim, but Gale, at the time still a youngster known to her friends as Mirna Abi, spent her formative years with her mother, Sybil Saunders, in England's New Forest. The elder Saunders was a bona fide witch of the Wicca religion, and was the senior of an unbroken line of witches and covens going back fourteen hundred years. Born in 1899, as was Indy, Gale had devoted her entire life to intense discipline in academics and skills in the field, living off the land and learning to "read" the signs of wildlife, as well as recognizing the artifacts of her mother's native land stretching six thousand years into the past.

She tripled up on her academics, took strange herbs from her mother that let her rest fully on four hours of sleep every night, and earned her doctorate in ancient cultures by the time she was but twentyfour years old. Living in the New Forest, trained by masters of ancient traditions, she was intensely athletic, but in the real world rather than in field and track competitions. Mountain climbing, swimming, hunter tracking, acrobatics, even expertise in jujitsu learned from an elderly Japanese who had adopted his own lifestyle to that of the Britons, all these had created a brilliant versatility in one so young.

It was on one of her trips into deep forest that she met Indiana Jones as he moved through ancient ruins in the thick woods. The encounter was one of instant competition between wills. This strange American fascinated her, for he knew as much of the Celtic past as she herself. When she learned he was a professor her admiration lessened rather than increased and she took no steps to hide her feelings. To her professors were stodgy, closeted behind ivyfestooned walls, and experts at talking rather than doing. Yet here he was in the thickets and, like her, living off the land.

An unexpected fight for life changed them both. Walking together through thick woods, Gale stopped Indy with a sudden touch on his arm. She had frozen in place; he did the same. Immediately she had her powerful bow in her hands, arrow strung, ready to draw and shoot. At that moment a huge wild boar erupted from nearby bushes, charging directly at them. Gale had the bow back fully and in one swift motion fired. The arrow went straight and true, burying the notched head deep into the animal's shoulder. The boar went to a knee, but was up, enraged, still able to run at them with a limping gait. The wound would not protect them against the fierce tusks. Gale had already snatched another arrow from her quiver and was ready to shoot. Too late! The animal charged her directly. Suddenly she felt herself lifted through the air and hurled to the side.

"That tree!" Jones shouted. "Shoot from there!" She saw the wisdom of his move. She would be out of range from the tusks and she could still release her arrows. But even as she clambered to the safety of a branch she was ready to come down again. Indy had no weapon she could see and now the enraged animal was turning on him. It was her turn to be amazed as she watched Indy pulling open his jacket; a moment later a huge bullwhip was in his hand and whistling through the air.

A crack like a pistol shot sounded as the whip end lashed across the eyes of the boar. It screamed in sudden pain, blood spurting as though a knife blade had sliced open its tough hide. It spun swiftly, charging again. Indy had time for one more slashing strike with the whip. He aimed at a foreleg. The whip whirled about the leg and Indy ran to the animal's side, jerking with all his strength on the handle.

"Shoot!" he yelled as the animal tripped and for a moment fell over onto its side, its vulnerable belly exposed. Gale sent an arrow deep into the animal, then another and another. The boar thrashed about madly. Gale found Indy seated calmly by her side on the tree branch.

"We'll just wait until it dies," he told her.

She stared at him in amazement. She'd never seen anything like that whip or the incredible speed and power he wielded against the beast. "Where . . . where did you ever learn . . . I mean, how did you do that?"

He held the whip handle easily. "I've had this since I was a kid. I learned to use it against snakes, mainly. When it was serious, that is." He hefted the handle again. "It'll slice a rattler or a copperhead in two just like a bowie knife." He offered a crooked grin. "You're no slouch with that Robin Hood outfit of yours, either. You saved both of us a nasty time when you fired that first arrow."

"There wasn't time to think," she said quietly.

"That's the rule in moments like these. Don't think. Acta non verba."

"Deeds, not words," she replied in translation from the Latin. "Whoever you are, you surprise me. An American, which is obvious, with a bullwhip and using an ancient tongue."

Again that lopsided grin. "We'll try languages later. In the meantime, I hope you're as good a cook as you are a bowman."

"Woman," she emphasized.

He scanned her from head to toe. "What's obvious doesn't need explanation."

She was amazed. She blushed. She slipped down from the tree, wary of the animal still twitching. In a moment he was beside her. "Take your choice—whatever your name is."

"Parker. Gale Parker."

He extended his hand. "Jones. Indiana Jones. You want to do the honors with dinner or gather firewood?"

"I'll cut, you gather."

Over the fire, dining on fresh meat, they talked well into the night. That first encounter sealed an unspoken relationship. Instant friendship, but with a mixture of exasperation, wit, brilliance, and a shared distaste for the social world. He marveled at her deep instinctual knowledge of ancient arts and cultures, her comfortable depth with the black arts of gypsies, and she had him wondering with her admitted research into the paranormal. But she was as good a scientist in the ancient worlds as she was a woodsman. Indy was more than familiar with the spirits and gods of cultures throughout the world, but he had never encountered such depth on a personal level.

In the years following their initial encounter in the deep woods, they kept in touch. They had worked together on several research projects, and she had, somewhat dubiously at first, even joined him with studies at the University of London.

And then had come that unexpected call. A special project, he called it. It meant fast travel, it promised danger, it was extraordinarily important. "That's all I can tell you now. You'll learn the rest later. But I want you as part of my inner group. No reservations. Yes or no?"

She sighed. She knew she couldn't turn him down.

Now she was waiting, bemused by what she didn't know, in an isolated farmhouse in a place called Iowa, waiting for Indy to return from Chicago or wherever to join his, well, unusual was a gentle term for this oddball mixture Indy had gathered about him.

And as complex and impressive as was Willard Cromwell, she had never met anyone quite like Tarkiz Belem. Except that on the moment of her first meeting with the swarthy Kurd, one word leaped into her mind: Danger.

Tarkiz Belem was one of the most amoral human beings she had ever met.

His connection with Indiana Jones confused her, for Tarkiz seemed his opposite in intelligence, compassion, wit, and just about everything else Indy represented. Yet Jones had personally sought out the swarthy Kurd— if that were true—for their special mission.

No one, Indy knew, was better qualified in the scummiest of dives and back rooms of the Middle East and the Mediterranean border lands than Tarkiz. He was at home in every language of those lands, from high political office to the dregs of the gutter. He seemed to have critical contacts at every level of those countries, including even roving Bedouin bands. And yet, he could also gain entry to the Vatican if that were his wish.

"He's got something on everybody," Indy had explained to Gale, "and no one knows better than you that in that part of the world there's no better passport.

If Tarkiz were to be assassinated, there'd be an explosion of scandals from the information he's placed in different bank vaults to be released on confirmation of his death. So it behooves the people he deals with to play ball with him, to meet whatever it is he wants. The man is greedy and grasping beyond belief, but he's also smart enough to know that you make deals that work both ways. It pays people well to do his bidding. He takes good care of them as well."

"You said he was smart," Gale said, irritated that Indy would even use that word in the same sentence with the name of Tarkiz Belem.

Indy grinned at her. "Okay, so he's got the intelligence of a goat. But it's a very shrewd goat."

"And he smells like one," Gale murmured.

Indy laughed. "So true! But think of it this way, Gale. Even if you can't see him, you'll always know when he's coming."

She couldn't help her smile. Indy never held a cup that was half empty; it was never less than half full.

"Is he really a Kurd? I mean, he could be from the original Iraqi clan, or Turkish, or Indian or Afghanistan. How can you tell? The man has more than one passport and—"

"Fourteen," Indy broke in. "Look, no one can survive the way he does in the places he goes. He's multilingual. He's as tough as nails. He grew up in gutters and back alleys and learned to survive by his wits. You seem to resent his lack of formal education, but he's got the best qualifications in the world for digging up information where no one else could even get the right time of day."

"He's a criminal, isn't he?" she pressed.

"No doubt about it. Officially, he's wanted in at least five countries for a list of crimes longer than your arm. But every time he's arrested, the charges are dismissed and he's back on the streets in an hour. He buys his freedom with money, blackmail, contacts; anything and everything. The word is that for years he was a professional assassin."

Gale shuddered. "No doubt. Women and children, too."

"If that's the job, I'd have to agree with you. What's crazy about this man," Indy continued, "is that he has his own code of ethics and he sticks to it like glue. I can't fault him for that. He's the product of an environment where skullduggery and killing are as normal as coffee and apple pie are to me back home. From where I sit, it's his religion that keeps me a bit on edge about him."

"His religion?" Gale sputtered.

"Gold. He's religious to the point of paranoia to the Great God of Gold. Not just money. I mean the metal. Gold in any form. Jewelry, ingots, coins; whatever."

"I wonder," Gale said darkly, "how many gold teeth he has in his hoard."

Indy didn't laugh. "No doubt, a bunch."

"Aren't you afraid that someone else will offer him more money than you're paying him?"

Indy caught her by surprise. "Oh, I'm not paying him in coin of the realm. No money, I mean."

"Then—?"

"There's an old saying, Gale. It says that every man has his price. It's not true that anyone can be bought if the payment is high enough. The reality is that everyone has a price— or a reason. Even to someone like Belem, there's something that transcends money. Or gold, for that matter."

"And you know that reason?"

He smiled at her by way of answer. She knew when to quit. Quickly she changed the subject. She directed her gaze to the fifth member of their group. "Our Frenchman. He seems the exact opposite to Belem."

Indy glanced at Rene Foulois. "Oh, he is. Decidedly. He can gain entrance to places just about impossible to the rest of us. Kings, emperors, presidents, dictators, just about anyone and anywhere."

"I don't know very much about him."

"He's a pilot. A master aviator. So is Cromwell. And having two pilots, each equally skilled, is insurance."

She never did learn his true background. Foulois had been a famed fighter pilot in the Great War, responsible for more than forty kills of German aircraft. That made him an ace eight times over, a sensational hero in France. It didn't hurt that he was tall and slender, with a whipline of a mustache, and that he was skilled in the social and diplomatic graces. He was the darling of the international social and diplomatic set. The Foulois family owned huge vineyards; their superb wines went to every corner of the world. Wealth is always a welcome passport, and Foulois was daring, brave, a national hero, wealthy, brilliant, and charming, openly granted

"welcome p a s s p o r t s " by a dozen governments.

It was all cover, but the cover was real. Which served perfectly to conceal Foulois's position as a special secret agent of the French Foreign Legion, which made all the world his assignment. By longstanding agreement with the national police of many countries, the legion's undercover arm had a "reach" into almost anywhere in the world. The group spread its tendrils everywhere, operating under the legal and profitable International Wine Consortium, Ltd., with offices in Bordeaux as their headquarters.

To Foulois, the Jones Project, as the special operation became known in high circles, was an amusing diversion from social and diplomatic functions. At heart, Foulois remained the quintessential fighter pilot, seeking action that would keep alive within him the flame of combat and the exhilaration of risk.

He also thought the entire affair was utterly ridiculous. Foulois had been assigned to Indiana Jones by none other then Henri DuFour, head of the French Secret Service. When he described to Foulois the crescentshaped machines and their huge mother ship, Foulois reacted with disdain. He simply did not believe a word of it, no matter what any eyewitness so claimed.

Yet he accepted his subordinate position without hesitation. DuFour had put the case convincingly. "It does not matter what we believe about these fantastic machines, Rene. What matters is that the war with Germany has been over only twelve years and we are faced with a Hun who is already rearming with a frantic pace.

You are aware of the training program in Russia for the Germans? For their navigators and pilots especially? Good; then you know how serious this may be. We must find out the specifics of what the Hun is doing. That is your task. You will work for this American fellow, and you will proceed as if you believe everything."

Foulois nodded. "It promises great sport. I understand they will modify one of their Ford aeroplanes. The trimotored machine. I look forward to flying it."

In the meantime, isolated in the lonely farmhouse, chafing at the bit, they all wondered what Jones could possibly be doing in Chicago that was so important to keep them on edge all this time.

They would simply have to wait.

4

The burly man wearing a heavy windbreaker and a seaman's cap snugged to his head walked briskly, with the sign of a slight limp, through the Chicago bus terminal. Anyone who saw the man would remember those salient points; the clothing, the cap, the aura of strength, and that slight odd walk tipping him to one side as he threaded through the crowds.

Outside the terminal he stood close to the building, watching lines of people disappearing within a slowly advancing stream of taxicabs. Soon the crowd had thinned, and he turned to walk along the line of taxis. He seemed casual or nonchalant in his movement, but his eyes moved carefully from one cab to the next until he saw the yellowandred markings of the vehicle for which he'd been searching. The seaman stopped, cupped a cigarette lighter between his hands, and pressed a button. No flame appeared, but a tiny bright light flashed rapidly. Almost at once the cab's headlights flicked on and off two times. The seaman slipped the

"lighter" back into a pocket, walked to the cab, and climbed inside. The moment the door closed the driver pulled out into traffic.

"Nice evening, sir," the driver said, studying his passenger through the rearview mirror.

"Except that the kitchen's too crowded," came the answer.

"More saucers than cups, I'd say."

"You prefer your tea hot or cold, sir?"

The passenger smiled to himself. "I like my coffee black."

That was the confirming line for Professor Henry Jones to make to the driver.

Now he had his final line to accept from the driver.

"As I do. Pour it into the saucer to cool it off quickly."

"Excellent," said Jones.

"Treadwell does overdo this backandforth a bit, doesn't he?" The driver laughed.

"Depends," Indy said noncommittally. "You know his routines. I hardly know the man. I didn't get your name," he added quickly.

"I didn't give it. Suppose you tell me what it is and we can dispense with all this secret palaver."

"Colonel Harry Henshaw, United States Army. Fighter pilot, test pilot, technical intelligence, experimental projects."

"Professor Henry Jones. Professor of Medieval Lit and Studies from dear old Princeton," the driver said. "How come they don't call you Hoosier instead of Indy?"

Indy laughed. No question now that this was the army officer Treadwell had set up for this meet. "Most people can't spell Hoosier, I guess."

Henshaw chuckled, then cut off his mirth as if with a switch. "Your plans still on for the train tomorrow night?"

Indy accepted the change in tone and attitude. They were down to business.

There was another confirmation that at this moment all was well: He hadn't told the driver —Henshaw—where he wanted to go, but Henshaw was making a direct line to The Nest nightclub that was Indy's destination.

"It is," Indy said brusquely.

"I'm supposed to ask you some questions," Henshaw said.

"Ask away."

"You've got a lot of people hanging on the fence, Professor, and—"

"Indy. No Professor."

"Okay. Like I said, there's a lot of fencehanging going on. Like what was so hot about that train cargo down in South Africa."

"Treadwell didn't explain?"

"No, sir. My instructions were to hear it from you directly."

"Colonel, let's start by your telling me what you've heard," Indy directed.

"Something about an artifact. The grapevine, which, by the way, is so hot the wires are glowing, has it that the artifact is either from an ancient civilization or,"

Henshaw hesitated, "I know this sounds crazy, but it may be extraterrestrial."

In the gloom of the cab's rear seat, Indy smiled. The plan he and Treadwell had put together well before this moment was working. Treadwell was a longexperienced investigator of both military intelligence matters and criminal activities. He believed firmly that it's easier to pass off a big lie than a small one, and when you combine skillful deception with the greed of others you can get people to believe almost anything you want them to believe.

Indy recalled what Treadwell had told him: "When there's a chance you may lose something very valuable, or it may be taken by force, you can't always defend yourself properly. So the trick is to put a tracer in with your valuables. In many cases you can't use chemicals or a radio signal. Distances, time, other complications; that sort of thing.

So you want to trigger an action in the people who've done you dirty, and that way they become the tracer."

Treadwell had also told Indy it was important for his cab driver—a.k.a. Colonel Harry Henshaw, U.S. Army— to be told the truth, that the artifact in the South African robbery had been engineered in concept by Treadwell. With Indy's unique talents in archeological mysteries, together they had masterminded a fake artifact that seemed to be of such extraordinary rarity that it was almost beyond price.

"Harry's a strange sort of duck," Treadwell had explained, "but the man is absolutely brilliant. Unique, too, in the way he works. He's like a, well, a walking encyclopedia of thousands of bits and pieces of information that he brings together to make sense out of things that baffle the rest of us. Tell him the truth about the artifact, but, please, Indy, do so when you two are very much alone and your conversation is secure."

Indy looked about him. Obviously the taxi in which he was riding didn't belong to any cab company. It had to be government property, used for just such "unusual transportation" as of this moment. And since Henshaw would be a very tight member of the group trying to find out what Indy was after, those incredible discs or crescents or saucers, or whatever they were, well, Treadwell was right. Get Henshaw started as soon as possible in his own special investigative way.

"Harry, is this cab secure?" Indy asked the man at the wheel.

"Secure? Indy, this thing is armored. So is all the glass. You could empty a Thompson submachine gun at this cab and the bullets would bounce off."

"I don't mean that," Indy said quickly. "Any recording equipment? Mikes, radios?"

"No, sir. She's clean."

"Harry, Treadwell wants you brought into the picture about that artifact."

The cab swerved suddenly; Henshaw was that taken by surprise. "I . . . I'm glad to hear that," he said. "I'd be a liar if I said I wasn't, well, hanging on the edge to know about it."

"Don't bother looking at the stars, Harry."

"What do you mean?"

"You know what the expression 'red herring' means?"

"Yes. A false lead. Something you plant to mislead other people."

"Well, that cube's a red herring."

The colonel kept his silence for a while. "You're certain of that, Indy? I mean, we've been hearing such wild stories—"

"You're supposed to hear them," Indy broke in. "That's been the plan from the beginning. Of course, you do not repeat this to anyone else. Treadwell's convinced there's a leak somewhere in his organization, so he's playing everything close to the vest. But it was his decision you be informed as to what's going on. If Treadwell is right, that cube could give us some good leads."

Henshaw laughed humorlessly. "You know something? I was hoping, you know, a wild sort of hope, I guess, that it really was from, uh," he gestured with one hand, upward, "from out there."

"Not this time, Harry." Indy studied the scene outside the cab. "We're almost there. I want you to let me off about two blocks away. Around a corner so no one at the club sees me coming from this cab."

"Got it. You want a backup?"

"No. This is a solo job. You know where our group is staying, right?"

"We'd had the place screened and covered before you landed there."

"Thanks. It's good to know." Indy gestured to the next street corner. "Let me off just ahead."

Henshaw eased the cab to the curb. Indy waited until no pedestrians were near the cab. Before Henshaw realized what was happening, Indy had slipped away and was just turning the corner.

The burly man wearing a heavy windbreaker, scuffed boots, and a seaman's knitted cap shuffled clumsily toward the entrance to Chicago's jazz and blues club, The Nest. Indy limped badly in a lurching motion as he approached the brightly lit awning and an entrance doorman about the size of a small grizzly bear. Mike Patterson was all show as a doorman. An exprizefighter who failed to make the big time, he was big and tough enough to handle his real job as a bouncer, and as an entrance guard to keep out the bums and riffraff like this shufflefooted geezer trying to get inside.

"Beat it, ya bum," Patterson growled at the figure before him. "Y'know something, Mac, y'stink. I betcha ya ain't had a bath in a year of Mondays."

Not even Henshaw had seen the beard that appeared on Indy's face moments after he left the cab. It was a perfect fit that Gale had prepared for him, using theatrical glue to secure it to his face. Whoever saw this miserable creature would never think of Indiana Jones or anyone who looked like him.

Stooped over, wheezing, the old "seaman" tried to push past Patterson. "I ain't botherin' nobody," he whined. "Just wanna hear the music, y'know?"

A massive fist hung threateningly before the disheveled bum. "Ya don't get outta here, y'creep, all ya gonna hear is da birdies singing, y'get me? Now beat it before I whack ya into da middle of next week!"

"Don't hurt me," the old man pleaded, cringing.

Patterson guffawed. This was going to be a pleasure. The beefy fist closed around the windbreaker, hauling the other man from his feet until only his toes touched the sidewalk. The other fist drew back to deliver a pulverizing blow.

It never got started. The old man pushed his face close to Patterson's features. With little effort, he blew a cloud of powder from his mouth into Patterson's eyes. Fire seemed to erupt in the vision of the doorman. He howled with sudden agony, reeling backwards, tripping over an awning stanchion, and falling clumsily to the ground. "I'm blind!"

he screamed. "I can't see! My eyes . . . I can't see!"

Several men rushed from the jazz club. They stopped short at the sight of Patterson groveling on the sidewalk, knuckles rubbing his eyes frantically. Jack Shannon of the Shannon Brothers, club owners and managers, took swift stock of the situation. Immediately he grasped the smelly bum by the arm, as much to hold him upright as to keep him on the scene.

"What happened here, old man?" Shannon demanded an explanation. He gestured to Patterson. "Did you do that?"

"I didn't mean no harm," the seaman whined. "Want to hear the music, that's all. Gotta listen to this guy, Shannon."

"How do you know his name?" Shannon barked. The question came without thinking. Shannon was known through the nightclub life of Chicago. But this creature—Shannon stopped abruptly as the old man leaned heavily against him. There was no mistaking the muzzle of the heavy pistol pressed beneath Shannon's armpit.

The old man placed his mouth almost against Shannon's ear. The smell of fish and garlic nearly overwhelmed Shannon.

"Inside," wheezed the old man, coughing a spray of garlicky spittle across the side of Shannon's face. The pistol nudged just a bit harder. "We go in like we was old buddies, got it? Friend of the family. Then we walk to the back of the club, see?

We goes into your office and you close the door and you don't let nobody else come in. You got it?"

Shannon, tall and slender to the point of cadaverous, nodded. This was wildly confusing and he was sure the old man was crazy, but you don't argue with a gun barrel in your armpit. "Okay, okay," Shannon told him quietly. "But take it easy with the hardware, old fellow, all right? You won't have any trouble."

"Button it, mister." The gun prodded again. "Start walking and don't forget to smile."

Another wave of fish and garlic prompted Shannon into obeying this crazy bum. Club waiters stared as Jack Shannon, the immaculate highsociety blues club owner, waltzed arminarm with some derelict along the dim recesses of the back of the club, but nobody said a word. Shannon was one of the master blues musicians, and everybody knew how many band members were down on their luck in the depression gripping the country. Shannon was a soft touch for his buddies who were down and out. So you minded your own business. They'd seen sights like this before.

Shannon stopped short of his office door. The gun jabbed against his ribs.

"Remember, nobody comes in," came the hoarse whisper of a warning.

"No problem, oldtimer," Shannon said gently. The trick was to keep the old guy from getting excited. A good meal and a shot of whiskey would straighten him out.

Shannon looked to a large man who eyed the scene suspiciously. "Hey, Syd, this is an old buddy of mine,"

Shannon told him. "Do me a favor. This is sort of personal and I don't want anyone to bother us, okay?"

"Yes, sir, I got it," the man said. Something didn't seem right but orders were orders.

Inside the office the old man turned Shannon back to the door. "Lock it."

Shannon turned the lock.

"Now, sit down in that easy chair. Over there." The stranger stepped back to place distance between himself and Shannon. Now the weapon was visible. Shannon stared down the barrel of a powerful sixshot Webley .445. That thing could take down even a moose with a single round.

Shannon's brow furrowed. There was something strangely familiar about the weapon he studied. Guns in Chicago were as common as cigarettes. But who carried a Webley? A Smith & Wesson, sure. Or a Colt auto. Even a longbarreled Remington, but—

Shannon's eyes widened as the old man tossed aside the knitted cap. A moment later he tugged the false beard from his face, and broke into a huge smile.

The windbreaker was tossed aside, and the Webley disappeared beneath a dark blue suede sport jacket.

"Hello, Jack," the nolongerold man said.

Shannon was halfway out of his chair, eyes wide. "I don't believe this," he whispered. "Good Lord Amighty, I don't believe this. Indy!"

"The one and only," Indy grinned at him. Shannon was on his feet, rushing forward, throwing his arms about his closest friend, hugging him fiercely. They pounded one another on their backs.

Shannon pushed Indy back, staring at him. "Man, you're a sight for sore eyes," he said, his delight unquestioned. "But . . . but why the routine?" He held up a hand. "Just hold it a minute, Indy. After what you put me through, I need a drink." He half turned as he took a bottle and two glasses from a wall bar. "And you, old friend, need some mouthwash and a bath!"

"All part of the show, Jack. Let's have that drink. I can hardly stand this garlic and fish smell any more than you can."

Shannon brought the glass to Indy, his friend from longgone schooldays, the same man who'd been his closest pal for years. They clinked glasses and for the moment drank in silence. Shannon poured again, but this time Indy sipped slowly.

"You look great, Jack. Still thin as a rail, but—" He shrugged. "How's your playing?"

"Better than ever. We got a regular crowd now. Some people have the idea I'm setting a new trend with the blues."

Shannon finished the second drink, put aside the glass, and dropped back into the easy chair.

"But I still don't believe all this!" he burst out suddenly. "Indy, what is all this? You didn't need to go through a routine to come in here! We've been pals forever."

Indy swilled a taste of whiskey around his mouth to cut down the fish and garlic and to remove the last of the powder he'd held in a capsule until he needed it to cut down the doorman. He put down the glass, still half full.

"It's simple, Jack," Indy said, his tone suddenly serious. "No one but you is to know that I've—that is, Professor Henry Jones—has been here tonight."

"I don't get it," Jack Shannon answered, as straight as Indy had spoken to him. "In the old days you were a fixture here every now and then. Something wrong, Indy? I mean, you've got to have a good reason for laying low like this."

Shannon thought of the past and chuckled. "But then again, you always had a good reason for anything you did. So what's the score, pal?"

Indy studied the man with whom he'd grown up in his Chicago days. "Jack, you still with the church?"

"What?"

"I mean, you always stayed with what your family felt was important. I don't remember you ever missed Sunday in church."

"I still don't miss it. Just like it always was. Why?"

"It could affect what I have to ask you."

"Only way to find out is to ask, Indy. But first, tell me: What did you do to Patterson?"

"Who?"

"The gorilla we keep at the front door. I've seen him take on a whole bunch of troublemakers and flatten the place.

You had him crying like a schoolgirl."

"Oh, that." Indy nodded. "Tiger Tears. It's a powder I had some chemists whip up for me. They put it in a capsule and you release it by biting down. Makes the eyes smart and tear. Your man won't see much before tomorrow, but he'll be fine after that."

"Thanks for telling me. I mean, Patterson's a pretty good guy. He never made it big in the ring and he works hard to protect us in here. Okay, that's all I'm going to ask you, Indy. The way you're talking I guess you're in town for a quick visit and then you're going to split, right?"

"Right."

"Same way you came in? Beard, limp, the old bum routine?"

Indy shook his head. "Uhuh. When I leave here I'll be a welldressed society heel, mustache, racing cap, the works.

You still have that private exit to the alley for your car?"

"Sure do."

"That's how I'll go, then. Want to give me a ride?"

"You got it. Now, look, Indy, you're not in trouble, are you? I know I asked you before, but, well, I'd do anything for you. You're the best friend I've got."

"Thanks, Jack. No, I'm not in trouble."

"You sure you've got to cut out? I mean, buddy, I could play you a couple of your favorite numbers, just for old times' sake, and that allnight joint is still open.

Ham, cabbage and beans, right, Indy? Just like we used to do."

"Just save those cornet numbers for me, Jack. Look, friend, I'm going to ask you for help. But it's not for me. Would it sound too corny for you if I said it was for your country?"

Shannon's eyes widened. "You a Gman, Indy?"

Indy laughed. "Nothing like that. I'd like to tell you more, but I can't. Maybe later but not now. You'll have to take my word for it."

"Okay; shoot."

"Your partners ran a newspaper delivery business. They still got their fleet of trucks?"

"Sure thing."

"Can you get them working if you call them in the middle of the night?"

"That's when they do most of their work, Indy."

"I need a bunch of them, Jack. Not tonight, so there's plenty of time."

"Where you want them?"

"Milledgeville."

"What's Milledgeville? Sounds like a home for midgets."

Indy smiled. "Not quite. It's a town about ninety miles west of here. Bunch of small towns in that area. Polo, Oregon, Chadwick, and Milledgeville. There's a rail line that runs right down a valley where they're located."

"Maybe you'll tell me why later. How many of my people do you need?"

"Enough to bring a train to a stop and hold it up tomorrow night."

Shannon's jaw dropped. For several moments he could hardly speak. Then he burst out laughing. "I thought this was on the level! What'd you do, Indy? Join up with Jesse James and his gang?"

Indy shared his laughter. "No. But it is on the level. It's a special job, Jack.

Like I said, it's for your country."

"If I was hearing this from anybody else I'd . . ." Shannon shook his head.

"Okay, Indy. I trust you.

What's in that train?"

"Gold. Artifacts. Some stuff like that."

"What are you after?"

"We don't care about the gold."

"Well, that's different. What happens with the gold after it's lifted? I got a hunch you'll be picking that up, too."

"You're right. But I want the gold returned."

Shannon's eyes narrowed. "So there's some sort of, uh, well, something you're after. I got to ask you this, Indy. Will you be keeping it?"

"Only for a little while."

"This is crazy. I suppose next you'll tell me nobody gets hurt in this caper."

"That's right."

Shannon sighed. "I got the right people for this. Okay. I guess you're after one car in particular. Will you have it marked for us?"

"I'll leave all the details with you."

"What about guards?"

"A detail. I don't mind noise and shooting, but nobody needs to get hurt. And I want you to use some special equipment."

"Okay. In for a dime, in for a dollar."

An hour later they were through. "Where do you need to go now?" Shannon asked.

"Farmhouse. Isolated. Twenty miles south of Dubuque, maybe a hundred miles from here."

"I know it."

"We'll need to stop at the bus station downtown. My stuff is in a locker there."

"Okay."

"I really appreciate this, Jack."

"I'll appreciate it myself when you tell me what's really going on, Indy."

Shannon held up a hand. "Okay, okay. I'll wait."

Indy clapped him on the shoulder. "I'll lay it all out for you one day. In the meantime—" He reached into his pocket and withdrew a leather bag. "Make absolutely sure this is with the take tomorrow night. Put it in the lift sack."

Shannon took the bag. "Do I look?"

"I'd prefer you didn't."

Shannon shrugged. "What's it worth?"

"Oh, a zillion bucks or so."

"When'd you become a comic, Indy?"

Three hours later the team heard the powerful car approaching along the river road leading to the farmhouse. Gale looked out between window drapes. "Looks like a limousine," she told the others.

"How many?" Tarkiz barked.

"I see only one set of headlights," she answered. "Douse the lights in here so I can—"

Rene Foulois had the lights off before she finished her sentence. "It still looks like just one. The car's stopping. One man is out from the passenger side. He's coming around to stand in front of the headlights."

"Good," Rene judged. "He's making sure we know who he is."

"It's Indy!" Gale exclaimed. "I didn't recognize him in that . . . that dandified outfit he's wearing. He looks like a racetrack tout."

"Never mind that. Is he still alone?" Tarkiz demanded in his heavy accent.

Gale heard the metallic thud of an automatic pistol loading a round into the chamber. She knew without looking that it was Tarkiz. She became aware she hadn't heard a sound from Willard Cromwell. How could so big a man be so silent? She turned to scan the room. He was gone.

Looking again through the window, her eyes now more acclimated to the gloom, she saw the hulking shadow by a tree trunk to the left of the car. No mistaking that portly figure, or the Thompson submachine gun in his hands. She knew if anyone from that car made a sudden move towards Indiana Jones it was all over for them. Willard would riddle the car with steeljacketed rounds that could punch right through a socalled bulletproof limo. But there was no need.

Indy gestured a goodbye to the figure behind the wheel, stepped aside, and stood on the roadside as the car made a wide turn in the yard and headed back in the direction from which it had approached.

Indy called out in the darkness. "Nice cover, Willard. I appreciate that."

Cromwell moved forward and became more visible. "And just how did you know where I was and who I was, if I may ask?" he said with goodnatured joviality.

"Easy," Indy told him as they walked to the farmhouse. "I just put myself in your place and said, now, if I was good old Willard and I was bored out of my mind, sipping warm whiskey in the middle of this godforsaken nowhere, and there's Indy, and maybe he's in a spot of trouble, I would—"

"Enough!" Willard laughed. Even from the house, Gale heard the distinctive click of Willard snapping on the safety to the Thompson.

When they were all gathered in the living room, Indy stopped the rush of questions with a raised hand. "Food, first," he told them. "Time enough for a round table after that, and then a good night's sleep. We'll be up all night tomorrow, and I want everything ready to go by sunset."

"Before we eat I want the dogs in place."

Dinner—steaks and frankfurters grilled across the open fireplace—was almost ready. Preparations for their evening meal had led them into small talk and, as Indy had hoped, they began to take a more relaxed attitude toward each other. He was pleased to see that Gale Parker showed no discomfort at being the only female in the group. Indy smiled to himself. Only he knew of her prowess as a hellion in a fight, that she was expert in the use of a wide spectrum of weapons.

Just as important to Indy was how the men regarded the fiery redheaded woman. He had rarely joined in a fraternity of this close nature, in which every man was a true and dangerous professional in his own right. So far, not one of the men indicated even a mild measure of contempt for the female in their midst. Either they had accepted the opinion of one Indiana Jones regarding Gale Parker, or two, they would judge for themselves just how she performed when the boom came down upon them all.

There was a third possibility that might measure the track of their thoughts: that Indy had his own personal interest in Gale Parker as a woman to be desired.

That was true in only one sense. Gale was most definitely one of the most outstanding women he had ever met, but his mind was anything but bent on romantic inclinations. There was this assignment, which more and more appealed to his curiosity as well as demanded a complex strategy. And strictly on a personal level, there was still a heavy measure of pain to be washed from his mind and emotions. He still had nightmares of Deirdre dying in that smashup in the Amazon—

He forced himself back to the moment. The dogs. They had four of them in the barn. Mastiffs: big, ugly brutes, all of them attacktrained. But also trained to obey commands instilled in them as younger animals. "You want to feed them now?" Tarkiz asked.

Indy shook his head. "No. We'll clip their cables to the ground posts. Put the biggest one by the plane. The other three will form a wide circle around this house and the barn. And leave them hungry. If we feed them they'll simply go to sleep.

Give them water; that's all. Okay, I'll go with you. Tarkiz, Willard, you come with me. Rene, you and Gale finish getting dinner ready."

Everyone complied. That was the value of a great team. No job was too important, no job too small. They moved the animals to their guard positions around the house and barn, then returned to the farmhouse where dinner waited for them all.

Then they burned the wooden plates and forks in the fireplace along with leftovers from dinner. The knives were no problem. Everyone used his own blade weapon as a utensil.

"We take off tomorrow night at precisely ten o'clock. That will give us plenty of time to use that Hollywood paint to cover our company sign and paint a false NC number on the tail. In fact, the more I think about it, we'll cover the Greatest Wines sign with one that reads Department of Public Works. Even if someone sees us they'll see that lettering and pay no attention to the plane."

Indy turned to Willard Cromwell. "Will, you fly this trip. Gale, you'll be up front with him, navigating and helping him in any way you can. We'll talk to each other with the headsets and helmet microphones for intercom.

Rene, I'll need you to work with me and the maps. Tarkiz, you'll work the snatch hook and the cradle reel. Everybody understand?"

They all nodded.

"And after we leave," Rene offered, gesturing to take in the farm, "what happens here? From the beginning you have stressed repeatedly, my friend, we leave nothing behind us, wherever we are, no matter what, that will be useful as personal identification."

"Right," Indy agreed.

"You do not mind elucidating for us?" asked the Frenchman.

"We feed the dogs just before we take off. Arrangements have been made for them to be picked up one hour after we're gone. Whoever retrieves them drives in, puts the dogs in cages in his truck, and leaves. He does nothing else but that."

"He won't come come into the house?" Cromwell asked lazily.

"Not if he knows what's good for him. No shillyshallying around. In and out.

And all trace of us is gone."

"How can you hide our flying machine!" Rene Foulois objected suddenly. "You have magic to do this?"

The group laughed. But Indy didn't want questions lingering. "Sort of," he told Foulois. "You're right, Frenchy.

We can't hide the airplane. No way to disguise a big machine like the Ford.

Not with three engines banging away. So what you can't hide, you disguise. I told you we'll paint that public works sign on the ship. And tonight, in fact, another Ford will be flying nearby. Tomorrow, during daylight, a Department of Public Works trimotor, the real thing, will be cruising around this area. It's on a highwayandfloodcontrol survey and it will keep right on flying for a few days after we're gone."

Tarkiz Belem had remained silent through the exchange. "What is all this for, Indiana Jones?" he asked, his tone showing some concern about a detailed plan that seemed to have nowhere to go.

"We're going to rob a train," Indy said. He laughed at the reactions about him.

"Rob a train?" echoed Gale Parker.

"That's right."

Tarkiz studied Indy with suspicion. "I know you do many things, but train robbery . . ." He shook his head.

"Well, I see I've got your interest," Indy said lightheartedly.

"For someone who is an archeologist," Foulois broke in with a touch of sudden jocularity, "you seem to be taking on a new persona. What will be next, Indy? Holding up a stagecoach?" He held out his hands with extended fingers and upraised thumbs in the manner of holding two sixshooters. "Bang! Bang!" he shouted. "The fearless international wine merchants blaze their way through hostile redheads—"

"Redskins," Indy corrected.

"Of course. We blaze our way through and hold up the stagecoach. Indy, we might as well have stayed in England and become bandits in Sherwood Forest!"

For someone who was connected with the highest levels of this operation, mused Indy, Foulois was doing a wonderful job of expressing doubts he knew were shared by the others.

He spread out maps on the dining room table and motioned for the others to move in closer.

"Tomorrow night," he said, moving his finger to a circled spot on the map, "this is where we make the hit. Figuring everything necessary to be ready, we'll take off precisely one hour before we're over the train. That way we'll have enough time to correct any problems—mechanical, weather, whatever it might be—so we can be right on time. That's necessary. The timing, I mean. There's a schedule we must keep."

Gale could hardly contain herself. "Indy, are you saying that we're going to rob a train from the airplane?"

He looked up at her, his face showing no sign of his thoughts. "Yes, I am."

She leaned back, bewildered, but obviously ready to wait for more of whatever wild scheme Indy had cooked up.

"May I ask a question before you go further?" Cromwell broke in. Indy nodded and Cromwell continued. "It's really a small matter, I suppose. But I'm a bit new to this wild and woolly America of yours, Indy. What happens, the consequences, I mean, if we're identified?"

"Oh, I have every intention of our being identified," Indy told him casually.

"Not under our names, of course, but as a group under a different name. Robbing the train wouldn't be worth the bother if we didn't get the blame that way."

Cromwell nudged Foulois. "You're right, Frenchy. I do believe he's quite mad."

5

"Ladies! Gentlemen! Your attention, please!" Dr. Filipo Castilano, Ph.D., antiquities investment counselor for museums throughout the world, director of the Office of Research and Confirmation for Antiquity Investments, Ltd., rang a delicate glass bell for attention. He faced a noisy crowd of newspapermen, radio reporters, and special correspondents from throughout the world, gathered in the Archeological Lecture Forum of the University of London.

Castilano waited patiently while the crowd settled down. It gave him a moment to gesture to the university guards to open windows to rid the room of thick clouds of cigarette smoke. It seemed you weren't worth a lira as a newsman unless you smoked like a fiend. Castilano, immaculate in striped pants, cummerbund, and vest beneath a pure Italian silk jacket, waved his hand before his face to move smoke from before him. He dabbed his upper lip with a silk handkerchief, providing the media crowd with a whispered agreement that he seemed just a bit limp in the wrist.

Castilano had perfected this foppish appearance

to a finely honed presentation. He was totally, completely unthreatening.

He wondered how many of these thickheaded news clowns had any idea that he was one of the secret members of the Board of Governors for the American Museum of Natural History in the City of New York. And maintained the same discreet invisibility in his role as Advisor to the Vatican where, in fact, he maintained an elaborate suite of offices with radio and undersea cable communications links to virtually the entire world. For Castilano was the man who was reimbursed an almost indecent sum by the Vatican to search for historical treasures the Church implicitly believed should be in their hands, not bartered for filthy lucre by dusty peasants and illmannered louts.

Castilano, public dandy and fop, had long been a member of the secret Six Hundred of the Vatican, a group of which no names were ever placed on paper, about whom no records were ever kept, and who were sworn to serve the Mother Church now and forever. Long before he accepted that role at the personal invitation of the Pope, Filipo Castilano had been one of the top men of the Italian Secret Service, and was as adept in secret operations, assassination, and espionage as he was now in manipulating the press and their avid readers and listeners.

His single greatest asset was his working relationship, a secret he guarded as tightly as his membership with the Six Hundred of the Vatican, with Thomas Treadwell of British Military Intelligence. As strange as that alliance seemed, it made great sense to the top authorities of the British government, as well as those of the Vatican. The latter judged the alliance to be a bulwark against the dangers of evil. If the British chose a more political position, it mattered little.

Both had the same goal in mind: cooperation. And Castilano, his true nature as an undercover agent so well concealed by his polished foppish appearance, had no doubts about his ability to control his audience.

With the room hushed finally, Castilano launched into a news conference intended carefully to surprise, shock, and excite his audience—who would then spread the word throughout the world, precisely as had been planned.

"An incredible treasure has been discovered in Iraq," he announced. "From what I have been informed by my government and the research teams of the University of London, as well as the National Museum of Egypt, the find was totally unexpected. As you well know, Iraq stands in the unique position of encompassing the magnificent ancient lands of Mesopotamia. I need not go into the details at this time. You will all be given the full report of the investigation team made up of scientists from the four countries that were involved in this discovery. Suffice to say the area was in the vicinity of Habbaniyah, which stands along the banks of the Euphrates River, and almost in the very epicenter of the country. The find, again I emphasize, was a stroke of incredible fortune. Heavy rains washed away the slopes of a low hill, and local farmers discovered a massive stone structure beneath the soil.

"You will also be provided photographs of the gold statuary that was found in deep tombs. These turned out to be not burial tombs, but a secret cache for the rulers of the time. What makes this find even more significant is that the artifacts are from the length and breadth of the former Ottoman Empire, and were brought to this one area to be concealed until the rulers of the time judged it was safe to retrieve them. In the wars that plagued those lands, records of the trove apparently were lost."

An uproar broke out, but Castilano stood quietly, both hands upraised until the news crowd subsided. "Everything in due time. I will be brief. The statuary is obviously from the artisans of different cultures. I would have you keep in mind this area was the very cradle of modern civilization in terms of technology of the day as well as historical records, including cuneiform and more identifiable languages.

"It is the latter that has caused the greatest excitement. Apparently—and I have yet to confirm this, so you will not find it in your press package—one or more small pyramidshaped objects with cuneiform markings are among the statuary.

"With the cooperation and agreement of all the governments and scientific institutions involved, the entire find is now en route to the United States—"

Another uproar, another wait; shorter this time. "To the United States," Castilano continued, "and, specifically, to the Archeological Research Center in the University of Chicago. For those of you unfamiliar with the United States, that is in the State of Illinois, on the shore of a very big lake. For more information I suggest you consult a map."

He paused, and the questions again came in a blizzard. The news crowd here didn't know a fig about historical finds. They had been selected most carefully for their lack of knowledge, which meant they'd ask many stupid questions and, more important, would write incredibly confused stories. And that's as it should be, Castilano thought to himself. He made sure to keep his answers to the point. When he had just what he wanted from this thickskulled mob, he would turn the press conference over to that wonderfully crusty Doctor William Pencraft.

"Where is the find now?" a German reporter called out.

"En route to the United States," Castilano replied.

"How is it being transported?" came another query. Before he could answer the next question was already being shouted at him. "What is the name of the ship carrying such a treasure?"

Perfect!

"The entire find is safely aboard the American heavy cruiser, the U.S.S. Boston. The cruiser is in the company of four destroyers."

"Why did they need a warship, for heaven's sake!" someone shouted.

"To prevent a repetition of the loss of other artifacts discovered in a deep mine in South Africa." Castilano stopped to let that sink in. That was another story all by itself. Rumors had been flying like locusts about some terrible loss from the South African mines.

"Artifacts? From South Africa? What kind, please!"

"I am not certain. Like you, I am much in the dark about details. However, I have heard that an artifact with cuneiform markings was lost in the missing South African shipment."

"Doctor Castilano, what language is cuneiform?"

It was the question he'd been waiting for. "Cuneiform is not, as some people believe, a language by itself,"

Castilano answered. "Think of it as an alphabet. The characters that make up this alphabet are shaped like wedges impressed in clay or metal. However, I would add that cuneiform actually stands as the foundation for the great ancient languages such as Sumerian, Babylonian, Assyrian, Persian—that sort of group. But I have heard reports that the identification of cuneiform is in error, that we are dealing with a language that predates any known level of civilization in this world."

There; he'd done it.

"Where is that American ship, this cruiser, now?"

"I do not know."

"Can you tell us its port of call?"

"I cannot, because I do not know."

"When will the treasure arrive in Chicago?" He was tempted sorely to say When it gets there, you idiot, but he held his tongue, smiled, and took the exit opportunity. "I'll see what I can find out for you," he told the reporter. "In the meantime," he paused as Dr. William Pencraft was pushed in his wheelchair to the edge of the stage, "this gentleman will attend to your other questions."

At nine p.m. sharp the next night the train with eight boxes of ancient artifacts, plus a pyramid three inches across at its base, four inches in height, began to move from a siding where it had been kept under heavy guard through daylight hours. It rolled slowly onto the main line stretching east from Waterloo and began to pick up speed, and soon thundered steadily toward Dubuque where it would cross the Mississippi River. From the east banks of the river the rail line swung southeast.

The train would roll on this track until it reached Savanna and then run eastsoutheast toward Milledgeville.

Beyond that unimposing railside town lay another community, Polo. Between the two the tracks ran alongside a small river, at the bottom of an appreciable valley nestled between hills.

"X marks the spot," Jack Shannon said to his men. His long thin finger tapped his map. "Right there. Now, we've got to do all this right on the money, y'know?

Split the seconds right down their backside, so to speak. When the train stops, Morgan, you and Cappy and Max, you come with me to the third car. Make sure you bring all the stuff, okay?"

"Yah, Jack, okay," came the reply.

They rolled a tank truck across the tracks and shone their headlights on the bright red gasoline—danger! sign painted on the tank. Then they built a fire beneath the truck. There was no way to tell, of course, that the tank was filled with only water. When the train engineer saw this giant bomb sitting on the tracks there was no doubt he was going to slam on the brakes like there was no tomorrow.

That's when they would make their move, and Jack would do just what Indy had given him by way of instruction. On paper, and with drawings, too.

"It's coming!" a lookout called. Far down the tracks they saw the locomotive headlight sweeping back and forth as the train began rounding the curve to the straightaway in the valley. From the engineer's station in that locomotive, the burning tank car and all those headlights would set up the next move.

It came off like clockwork. The locomotive pounded like echoing thunder between the hills. The engineer looked down the tracks, saw light reflecting on the steel rails, and then, as he came close enough to see the blaze beneath the tanker and that magic word gasoline, hauled down on the train whistle, locked the brakes, and tossed people in the following cars like tenpins dumped onto the floor.

Shannon's boys used an old trick. At the first car, the doors were thrown open. Armed guards froze when they saw one of their own gripped tightly about the neck, a revolver held to his head. A second man trained a Thompson on the guards.

The routine went the same way in each car. Shannon's men used heavy gangster accents.

"Y'make one wrong move, we blow his head off. Y'wanna see his brains splattered all over everywhere?

Throw down your guns! Right where we can see 'em! Now, get to the door at the end of the car, get off the train, see?

When you get outside I wants you should keep in mind youse is covered with Thompsons and a buncha doublebarreled hammers. Everybody does good, nobody gets hurt. When youse is outside, start walking. You'll see a road. Get on it and make pittypat with your feet, double time, like the devil hisself is gonna bite y'head off. Move!"

The guard, in the meantime, thrashed about as best he could, putting on an excellent show for the others, who had no way of knowing that the "prisoner" in the hands of the holdup crowd was actually one of Shannon's own men. It worked in the cars with the security teams, and the routine worked perfectly in the third car of the train where the priceless artifacts were kept behind doors barred with iron slats.

Shannon had never understood why they would secure the doors and so often forget the windows. A single burst with a Thompson "opened" the windows. Tear gas grenades followed, misty white swirled within the car, and men choking and with eyes burning hurled open the doors and jumped to the ground, stumbling as far as they could get from the train.

Shannon and his crew clambered into the transport car. Not a soul remained.

Quickly they identified the containers with the artifacts. Shannon searched for one with a small pyramid stenciled on its sides. Strangely, unlike the others, it lacked the heavy steel bars and hasps for security. He turned to his men, pointing to the other containers. "Get those things out of here, now!" He glanced outside. "And put out that dumb fire under the truck! Max, you stay here with me."

They opened the marked container. Gold statuary gleamed in the overhead lights. Shannon removed one statue of some kind of ancient god. It meant nothing to him. "Max, give me my bag. Move some boxes over here so we can open that sliding trapdoor in the ceiling." "How did you know about—" "Just do it!" Shannon opened the zippered bag. Everything had been prepared for use, including a thick leather case cablefastened to a line that stretched to a deflated balloon. He removed the small leather bag Indy had given him in Chicago, and placed that item, along with the gold figurine, in the larger bag.

"Max, help me up," he ordered the other man. They climbed the boxes, slid back the trapdoor, and soon were on the railcar roof. Shannon glanced at his watch.

Not a moment too soon. He glanced about him. They'd put out the fire by the truck.

In the distance he saw the guards running away.

Shannon sat on the roof. He looked about him until he found one of the security rings used atop these cars when security men rode shotgun up here. He snapped a heavy safety hook to the ring, then extended the raglike balloon.

"Hang on to this, Max. Whatever you do, don't let it go."

The deflated bag, the lines, and the heavy leather case were stretched out on the car roof. Shannon inserted a thin hose from the pressure container he'd carried with him, turned a valve to full on, and listened to the sharp hiss of gas flowing from the container to the balloon. Quickly the helium inflated, struggling to rise, but was held by Max's weight.

"Okay, Max, let it up slowlike, you got me?"