Main Page: Indiana Jones and the Monkey King
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Previous: Chapter Four
Chapter Five
“Hi, welcome to Dashiell’s American Bar and Grill,” said the handsome blond man, confirming the words of the flashing neon sign on the stylish Mozambique nightclub. “I’m Dashiell, obviously. What can I do for you?”
“Table for four, away from the hubbub, please,” Indy said, trying to hide the lump in his throat. He had forgotten how... terribly attractive his old friend was. He knew his intention to dine alone with Clare wouldn’t work even if she had forgiven him for the thing with Betsy, because she would be more anxious to hear Scraggy’s translation than he was. But now to have Dashiell involved on top of that...
“Coming right up. And if there’s anything else I can do to make your experience here more enjoyable, sport, don’t hesitate to ask.” Dashiell gave them a million-dollar smile that penetrated the smoky, dimly-lit air. His hair was wavy, his eyes dazzling powder blue, and his dimpled face had obviously never suffered a pimple. His physique was thin but muscular. They were the sort of looks that posed a great danger – carried one way, they made you insufferably cocky; another, and they exuded the sort of charisma that made everyone like you. Dashiell fell firmly into the latter category.
“Thanks,” Indy said. “Will do.”
“Right this way,” Dashiell said. He stepped out from behind the counter and began walking.
As they followed, Indy looked more closely at the room. It was filled with cloth covered tables and, in spite of its name, ornamental African furnishings. A nine piece black jazz band played the latest swing tunes while a few couples swayed on the dance floor. The place swarmed with mostly white tourists, but there was something strange about them, and Indy felt inexplicably nervous every time one of them looked at him.
“Right here,” Dashiell said, indicating the table at the back of the restaurant. He pulled out two chairs for the ladies first and gestured for them to sit. “What lovely creatures you have in tow,” he said to Indy and Scraggy. “Dates?”
“No thanks,” Scraggy said. “Raisins, yes, if you have them.”
“We’re colleagues,” Clare insisted before Indy could say anything else.
“In that case, forgive me –” Dashiell said, and he grabbed Clare’s hand and gave it a resounding kiss. Betsy stared, dumbfounded, as he did the same to her. “Colleagues have changed since my day,” he added, and handed them each a menu. “Would you like something to drink for starters?”
“Wine,” Indy said.
“Coke,” Scraggy said.
“Wine,” Betsy said.
“Coffee,” Clare said. She frowned at Betsy. “Are you sure you’re old enough to be consuming alcoholic beverages?”
Betsy made a face. “I’ll have you know I’m twenty-one years old, Dr. Clarke.”
“All right,” Dashiell said, “I’ll be back in a jiffy. I’m afraid it’s a busy night, as you see, but I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you,” Indy said.
As soon as the handsome blond man was out of earshot, Clare giggled like a schoolgirl. “He’s charming,” she said dreamily.
“Like the sun is hot,” Betsy agreed, her animosity forgotten.
“All right, all right,” Indy said. “We don’t need him sticking his perfectly shaped nose in our affair, you know. Get ready to order as soon as he comes back so we can get down to business.”
Clare raised an eyebrow at his transparent jealousy, but did study the menu. “Why’d we have to pick an American place? Are you Yankees too chicken to try some authentic cuisine?”
Before Indy could retort, Dashiell returned with a tray of drinks. “Here you are, folks,” he said, setting it between them. “How’d I do?”
Indy glanced at his watch. “I wasn’t keeping track,” he said, “but that couldn’t have been more than forty-five seconds.”
“Damn, I’m out of it tonight,” Dashiell said. “Well, here you are anyway. Have you folks decided?”
“In forty-five seconds?” Clare said incredulously.
“Let’s just all have steak,” Indy said. “Medium rare. That okay?”
“Fine,” Clare grumbled. “How this exotic fare doth tempt mine palate.”
“Is it zebra steak or something?” Betsy asked.
“No,” Dashiell said with a laugh. “Just boring old cows here.”
“Good. Zebras are cute. Cows are smelly.”
“Any appetizers?”
“We’re good,” Indy said .
“Come on, Dr. Jones,” Clare said, “God knows how long we’ll be eating in the jungle.”
“Fine. Breadsticks with marinara for everyone. If that’s all right?”
Everyone nodded or shrugged assent. Dashiell grinned. “Excellent choices,” he said. “I’ll get right on it.” He left again not a moment too soon.
“Holy smoke, Dr. Jones, the scroll isn’t going to run away on us,” Clare snapped as soon as he was gone. “Do you have to try to alienate everyone you meet?”
“Just anxious to discover the secrets of forgotten history,” Indy said. “Can we get a look at it now, Scraggy?” Scraggy nodded and brought it out. Indy put on his spectacles.
“What’s so special about this scroll?” Betsy asked as Scraggy unrolled it.
“Sun Wu-Kung run like fire,” Scraggy began. “He journey to Many Monkey Land, to build his final empire.”
“Who’s Sun Wu-Kung?”
“Many Monkey Land,” Indy said. “That’s a definite reference to Africa. They couldn’t have known about the Americas then.” Maybe this won’t be so hard after all.
“Africa?” Betsy asked. “He journeyed to Africa?”
“That confirms our suspicions that he may have formed his civilization here,” Clare said.
“What civilization?”
“Betsy, keep your trap shut,” Indy snapped. “This doesn’t concern you.” You ruined my first shot with Clare, and now you’re going to be a burden this whole trip so don’t get a head start now.
“Fine,” she said, sulking. “Terrific. Who cares about this stuff anyway! We’re in a nightclub. We should be havin’ fun.” She grabbed his hand. “C’mon, Indy. Let’s dance.”
“Later.”
“What a buncha’ stiffs!” she said, looking over the table in disbelief. She fixed her gaze on Clare and adopted a condescending tone. “Bet you can’t dance.”
Clare pursed her lips and decided to humor the girl. “Quite the contrary,” she said. “I spent several months studying dance.”
Betsy scoffed. “Oh yeah? Whatta you know? The Bunny Hop? The Jitterbug?”
Clare shook her head. “The Bondogea. The Kyebe Kyebe. The Dungumaro.”
“Huh?”
“African tribal dances.”
“Never heard of ‘em.”
“Of course not. They’re beyond the spectrum of your microscopic world.”
“Oh yeah, well –”
“Here you go, folks,” Dashiell said, setting their meals down. Indy quickly shoved the scroll under the table and tried to act casual, wishing he’d had time to take his glasses off. “Careful, they’re hot. Remember, anything at all I can do, just ask. Bom apetite.” He kissed his fingers like a French chef and sauntered off.
“Remind me to give him a huge tip,” Clare said. “He’s magnificent.”
Betsy glared at her. “Now, where was I? Oh yeah –”
“Trap. Shut,” Indy said firmly, not even looking at her.
Betsy gulped down her glass of wine in annoyance and refilled it. Her annoyance was completely directed toward Clare, not him. That stuck-up know-it-all bitch was driving a wedge between her and Indy at a time when she needed all the help she could get to be close to him again. She looked at him deeply concentrating on the scrolls. Under the table, her foot surreptitiously made its way across the floor and rested on his leg. She began to rub it back and forth, coming within an inch of the mechanical bug still attached to his trousers.
Indy glared at her. Not now, kid.
Clare reached for her cup of coffee and noticed it trembling slightly. She looked under the table and saw Betsy rubbing Indy’s leg. Disgusted, she looked back up and shot him a scowl of disapproval.
“It’s not what it looks like –” he began.
He was interrupted by a hand on his shoulder. Dashiell had approached without any of them noticing, and he flashed them his trademark smile again. “Enjoying your dinners?” he asked.
Everyone except Indy nodded and murmured, “Yes, very much, thank you.”
“I’m glad,” Dashiell said. “Let me know if – oh!” A piece of silverware fell from his tray and clattered to the floor at Indy’s feet. Before Indy could gloat at the waiter’s lack of absolute perfection, Dashiell knelt down to grab it and lowered his voice. “Watch yourself, sport. Most of the talk here tonight is about you. And it isn’t good.”
Indy’s eyes darted around the room at the various tourists. Many of them were looking in his direction while trying not to look like they were looking in his direction. And then he realized what was so odd about them. Aside from the couples dancing, almost all of them were men.
“I have no idea what you’ve done to all these people,” Dashiell continued. “But they are certainly no friends of yours.” He stood up with the fork in hand. Although he kept a smile plastered across his lips, his eyes betrayed worry. Then he spun on his heel and moved to another table.
As Indy pondered this information, the jazz band launched into a rousing rendition of “Night and Day”, the baritone lead crooning like a bullfrog. “I love this song,” Betsy said, swigging some more wine. “Music’s one thing nig– I mean Negroes are good at, anyway.”
“Betsy –” Clare warned.
Indy had been thinking the same thing, but he tried to avert the impending hostilities. “Maybe you’re right, we shouldn’t have come here,” he told Clare. “I know I didn’t travel halfway across the world to hear Cole Porter.”
***
Alvaro Njagi lit a cigarette, his second on this shift. He loved working with animals, and with Dr. Clarke, and recently, with Tyki. The little pygmy had stolen his heart as everyone else’s, and provided hours of entertainment. And while the zoo was hardly swimming in wealth, by this country’s standards he was earning a fortune. That was why he’d reluctantly moved to night shifts only, so some less fortunate sod could get a chance to support his family. He still enjoyed the feeling that he was doing something to help nature and the pursuit of knowledge, as well as his fellow man now, but he found the nights painfully boring. Tyki and most of the animals slept, and of course there were no visitors. Nothing ever happened.
He paced idly in front of the lion cage, watching the big cat snore, ruffling its mane with its own meat-scented breath. Such bliss, he thought. For all the violence and competition in the animal kingdom, its members knew no sin. They didn’t have to rely on arbitrary human creations like job markets and economies to fill their stomachs, and they did not have to annihilate each other to settle disagreements. This lion couldn’t have cared less about the Great Depression or, if he had been alive, the Great War before that. He ate and slept just the same.
Alvaro smiled self-deprecatingly. Such thoughts had been more commonplace lately, as he tried to occupy his mind. Maybe after Dr. Clarke finished her expedition, she’d have time to finish teaching him how to read.
He decided to go check on Tyki. The little fellow was so cute when he slept. Alvaro turned and started through the row of cages when a slight movement caught the corner of his eye. Probably just an animal stirring in its sleep, of course, but it was his job to make sure. He turned and waved his flashlight back and forth, squinting into the darkness. Nothing there. Probably one of the deer.
Before he knew what was happening, three humanoid figures loomed before him, walking purposefully in his direction. He was unnerved, but quickly scolded himself for his hesitance and found his voice. “Who’s there?” he demanded. “Zoo’s closed!”
The figures did not reply, nor did they slow down.
His hand went to his holster. He had never shot so much as a rabbit, but he was more than prepared to use his weapon now if necessary. “Hold it right there and identify yourselves,” he warned, “or I’ll shoot!”
Finally they stopped. He stepped a bit closer, trying to get them into focus, but still wary. Then, with a slight creaking noise, the middle figure raised its right arm and pointed an index finger straight at him.
“Who’s there?” he demanded again. “Speak or I’ll –”
His gun and flashlight flew from his fingers as he went into a spasm and flailed like a sailor in a whirlpool. His knees buckled and he collapsed to the ground. A moment later the pain registered, excruciating beyond anything he had ever experienced, and the fringe of the light’s beam heartlessly revealed to him his own blood spilling onto the dirt.
The three figures surrounded him, but he could not crane his neck to see past their jackboot-clad ankles. A voice, harsh not only because of its thick German accent, whispered “Verstecken des Körpers, schnell!” Even if the man had spoken in English or Portuguese, Alvaro Njagi would not have understood the words at this point. The last thing to register in his mind was that one of the men had a boot untied.
***
Tyki awoke with a start, a cold sweat covering his small body. He groped for one of the candles he had been provided with and struggled to light it in the darkness. Something was not right, he could feel it. He had been dreaming peacefully of a triumphant return home, and of telling his family and friends of his adventures in this strange world. Then the dream had been shattered by a distressed grunt he knew as Alvaro’s, and whispered words in a voice he had never heard before, but that had sent shivers down his spine. When one lived in the jungle, one’s senses became quite attuned to such things, and one learned quickly not to ignore them. Or one died.
The candle finally flickered to life, illuminating his nearly-finished tapestry and bringing him some small comfort. He would get there someday, and this night, whatever it entailed in the end, would be but an unpleasant memory. He stroked it fondly. Then he became aware of footsteps, nearly as silent as cat treads, making their way in his direction. Three adult humans, he calculated, walking together in a uniform rhythm. And with the sort of instinct that goes beyond the senses and can neither be taught nor understood by scientists, he felt something hostile in their gait. His hand reached for the stone dagger beneath his loincloth.
After what seemed an eternity, the men stood in front of his cage. Well, they couldn’t get in here, thank goodness. Only Clare, Alvaro and a few others had the key. But one of the men fiddled with the lock for a moment, and it snapped off like a stick and fell to the ground. The door swung open and they stepped in.
Gutterbuhg smiled as wickedly as he could at the pygmy. “Gute Nacht, mein Freund,” he whispered.
Tyki had no idea what that meant, but he knew he was in the presence of evil. Unable to articulate himself any better, he growled like a trapped tiger as he got to his feet and raised the dagger over his head.
Gutterbuhg ignored him and raised his arm again, eliciting another creak. Bullets flew from the muzzle of his index finger, fitted with a silencer for tonight; ripping a crooked, tattered line through the beautiful tapestry and the wall behind it. He fired until the cartridge was empty, then replaced it with another in a single, flawless motion and aimed at the stunned pygmy. A marvelous creation, indeed. After Dr. Hohlbein had done the tedious and difficult work of attaching the arm properly, it had been child’s play to add the gun. Mephisto had kept the poor Arzt in the dark about how his work was to be used, seeing as doctors were notorious pacifists.
Trembling, Tyki dropped the dagger and raised his hands as the Germans closed in on him.
***
Invisible to the others as they studied the map, Betsy poured herself the last of the wine. Indy hadn’t touched his portion and she had drunk for the both of them. Now she grew bold enough to sing along with the band: “Night and day, day and night, why is it so... that this longing for you follows wherever I go...” Beneath the table, she continued to rub her foot against Indy’s leg.
He ignored her with everyone else, as Scraggy continued to translate: “With his Golden Hooped Rod and its powerful lightning rays, Sun Wu-Kung build Water Curtain Cave, where he live for five hundred days.”
“The rhyming’s a nice touch,” Indy said.
“Thank you,” Scraggy said.
“The Golden Hooped Rod?” Clare asked.
“A heavenly staff with many different powers,” Indy recited. “Most notably, it had the ability to transform itself into hundreds of objects. If it were real, it would be the most priceless treasure of Sun Wu-Kung’s empire.”
“I know what it is,” she snapped. “D’you think I’d launch an expedition to find his bloody city without doing a little research of my own first?”
“Then why’d you ask?”
“I just can’t believe it, is all.”
“Look, the Pai Cho is a great find,” Indy said, “but you can’t assume everything in it is gospel truth. It’s quite possible this artifact exists, but its supposed powers are another matter.”
Clare didn’t argue. Instead she asked, “What about the Water Curtain Cave?”
“Sun Wu-Kung’s legendary hideout; an enormous secret cave hidden behind a running waterfall.”
Clare kneaded her eyebrows in exasperation. “I know what that is too, Dr. Jones. What I mean is, what do we make of it?” She reached for her coffee and found the cup and saucer still trembling. She peeked under the table and saw Betsy’s foot still rubbing Indy’s leg. She gave a revolted grumble to both of them, but Betsy continued to sing and Indy was too excited to notice either of them.
“This proves that the Water Curtain Cave exists in Africa,” he said.
“Brilliant, Sherlock,” Clare said. “I think we established that.”
He still ignored her, but bristled slightly. “Does it mention anything else about Sun Wu-Kung’s African travels?”
Scraggy scanned the scroll. He shrugged. “Not much. Only place called... ‘Twisted Snake Water’.”
“The Zambezi River!” Clare shouted. She smiled sheepishly at the glaring patrons and lowered her voice. “It has a reputation for its deadly water snakes,” she continued.
“But, could ‘twisted snake’ be a reference to a river’s shape, instead?” Indy wondered.
Scraggy shook his head. “Wrong context,” he explained. Clare gave Indy an “I-told-you-so” look. He made a face. It had been a matter of luck for her, this time.
“It would have been Sun Wu-Kung’s logical path,” she said.
“It will also be our logical path,” Indy concluded, and they shared a smile that made his heart skip a beat. Something else made him forget that almost immediately, though. “Scraggy, see if there’s any clues in the specific wording of stuff, you know, stuff that might have been lost in translation. Especially with the rhyming, impressive though that was.”
Scraggy gawked. “Indy, my Chinese not that good.”
“Well, at least try, if you could,” Indy said. Finally, he turned his attention to Betsy. Seeing she was clearly too drunk to pay him any heed, he tried to slap her foot away. But his hand brushed something else. What the –? He groped at his leg. Something tiny and metal was stuck on it. He tried to flick it off, then pull it, but it refused to budge.
Clare stared at Indy, who appeared from her angle to be playing with Betsy’s foot. Why was it that, just when they were on friendly terms again, he insisted on ruining it? “Please try to control that monstrous libido of yours!” she snapped.
The mechanical cockroach finally popped free of his trousers and he lifted it above the table. Now, what on Earth is this? Something out of a science fiction magazine... Though it was like nothing he’d seen before, he came to the conclusion that it had to be some sort of bug. In any case, it gave him the creeps. And he realized someone knew they were here, and probably what they were up to, and that someone was up to no good. Clare opened her mouth to ask him a question, but he motioned her to be silent. He grabbed a napkin and a pencil and wrote out, We have to get back. Tyki may be in danger.
He quickly shelled out a stack of bills that looked like it would cover the evening’s fare, and dragged Betsy to her tipsy feet as the rest of them got up. As they hurried out as fast as they could without looking suspicious, he contemplated the bug. We don’t want that little doohickey dogging our heels.
At the Nazi secret base, the radio officer had turned up the volume as far as it would go and was straining to hear them. Everyone had suddenly gone silently following some loud swishing and scratching noises, which suggested to him that the bug had been discovered, but he had to keep trying.
Indy nonchalantly sidled past the trumpet player and dropped the bug into his instrument as he hit a piercing high note. If the device had been two-way, they would have heard the officer on the other end screaming.
***
Bound and gagged, Tyki walked out of the compound with a pair of German Lugers and one very unnatural limb at his back. It pleased Gutterbuhg to see the fear in his eyes, to see the miserable creature put in its place. Most of the Fatherland was, fortunately, not so plagued with Negroes as with Jews, and it had been able to deal with that problem much sooner. Earlier this year, hundreds of children of mixed African-German descent - a parting gift from French soldiers occupying the Rhineland - had been sterilized. Their tainted blood would die with them.
How could anyone speak of racial equality? Their skin was a curse from God, leveled on them to mark them apart from true humans, that much was obvious. But creatures like the one before him were the worst. Hideously stunted in stature, and unbelievably unearthly and savage. It sickened Gutterbuhg to think that such a wonder as Sun Wu-Kung’s Garden of Eternal Peaches could be in the hands of such nightmarish disasters of evolution.
Suddenly Klaus tripped over something, and it wasn’t his own shoelace. The startled fawn blinked sleep from its eyes and rose to its feet as it stared at the intruders, but did not try to run. It was completely accustomed to receiving affection and handouts from the zoo visitors, and although this had never happened at night it decided to adapt to the situation.
A flash of inspiration hit Gutterbuhg. He latched on to Tyki’s arm with his good hand and shouted “Zugreifen!” to Arnold, who grabbed the baby deer by the neck. “Now,” he continued to Klaus, “shoot it.”
Klaus turned pale as he looked into the fawn’s suddenly scared and confused little eyes. “What for, Wachtmeister?” he pleaded. “It won’t hurt us.” Even Arnold looked slightly uncomfortable.
“Ach, so,” Gutterbuhg agreed. This was the reaction he had expected, and he would turn it into a teaching moment, to mold his men into more dedicated and unflappable pillars of the Reich. “Das Reh will not hurt us, you are correct. But I see it as a metaphor for the Jews, and gypsies, and all other non-Aryan races or inferior creatures. When they are not actively trying to undermine and subvert the Fatherland’s progress to its destined glory, they provide, like this animal, a treacherous obstacle by their mere existence. One cannot afford to have qualms about dealing with them, and I sense that you do. Bitte, prove me wrong.”
Klaus looked at the trembling fawn again; then, with a grimace, he leveled his weapon at its forehead and closed his eyes. His Luger too small to be outfitted with one of the bulky silencers, but they were almost home free. His finger tightened on the trigger.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
They spun around. Several yards away, peeking around the corner of Tyki’s cage with a gun pointed straight at Klaus, was Indiana Jones. Klaus dropped his Luger and raised his hands, trying to hide his relief. Arnold released the fawn, which ran away as fast as its hooves could carry it.
“Then again, maybe I would,” Indy continued, not moving from his protected spot. “You seem like utter bastards to me.”
Gutterbuhg laughed, a sound that chilled even his men. “It takes one to know one,” he said in perfect English, pointing his right arm at the American.
Indy heard the muffled sound of something splitting the air at high velocity, but at the same moment something grabbed him by the neck and yanked him behind the cage’s corner. He felt something part the hairs of his arm as it whizzed by.
Clare released him. He stared at her in disbelief, then annoyance. “I told you to stay in the car!”
It was her turn to be disbelieving. She opened her mouth, trying to come up with a suitably scathing retort, but Gutterbuhg’s voice boomed out at them. “Ah, Doktors Clarke and Jones!” he said. “Just the people I wanted to see. We found your little pet here and were just on our way to return him to you, for a small price.”
“They have Tyki?” Clare whispered, her eyes widening.
Indy nodded. “I’m afraid so.” To Gutterbuhg he called, “All right! What do you want?”
“Just a bit of compensation for our troubles. Say, the Pai Cho. Yes, I know it’s an irreplaceable artifact, but surely it’s nothing to the life of this – er, thing?”
Clare bristled. “Whoever these guys are, they need to be kicked in the balls.”
“Tell me about it,” Indy said, half to himself. He’d had his suspicions on the way here, and the accent had confirmed it. “Be glad you don’t have to deal with them on a regular basis.”
“My patience grows short, Doktors! Are these terms agreeable?”
“Yes!” Clare yelled. “I have the Pai Cho right here.” She pulled out the scroll and held it around the corner of the cage. “We’re coming out! Don’t shoot!”
They left their hiding place and headed toward the three intruders. Indy noticed that the right arm of the man who had been shouting was mechanical and apparently a machine gun. That explained what had happened, but how the hell was it possible? He looked at Tyki. The poor little guy was terrified. Looks like this expedition is over before it started, he thought.
Klaus smiled at the fact that their objective had been achieved without bloodshed. Well, except for that night guard, he thought with a twinge of guilt, but that was just a native. He brushed the thought from his mind and bent to retrieve his Luger, but it wasn’t there. He frowned and scanned the surrounding ground but it was nowhere to be seen. He hadn’t thrown it, had he?
Gutterbuhg practically licked his thin lips with anticipation. What fools these people were. As soon as the scroll was in his hands he would gun them both down and be rid of all witnesses. Then they would find that other fool who was with them – Scraggy, that was him – and force him to help translate for both the scroll and their little captive. The little girl – Betsy – she could stay and rot in this godforsaken country for all he cared.
Tyki saw Clare and the new man holding out the Pai Cho as they approached and he realized this was all his fault. He had given it to them, and now they were being forced to give it up because of him. He didn’t know who these men were, but he knew they could not be allowed to find his home. Whatever they did there wouldn’t be good. Something had to be done, and right now.
Clare stopped a few feet from the men. “You’ll need our help with this,” she said, but the last-ditch effort sounded pathetic even to her own ears.
“Don’t play games, my dear,” Gutterbuhg snapped, holding his gun arm straight at Tyki’s temple. “We have our own experts ready to tackle the job. They know every bit as much about these subjects as you think you do. Now please, hurry.”
Reluctantly Clare started forward again. Gutterbuhg released his left-handed grip on Tyki and reached out to take the scroll –
And then Tyki’s skull rammed into his solar plexus with all the strength the pygmy could muster. Still bound, he broke off into an awkward run, his impaired hands firing randomly behind his back with Klaus’s Luger, which he had picked up with his feet when no one was looking. The Germans dove to the ground, and Clare and Indy followed suit.
Gutterbuhg was the first to his feet. He fired a half-hearted volley at the pair that sent dirt spraying into their faces, then raced off after Tyki with his two men close behind. Indy struggled to get up himself and raised his gun, but the soldiers ran in and out of several rows of cages. “Shit,” he said, running after them.
“The car!” Clare shouted. “We can get them in the car!”
They ran to the zoo entrance, where Scraggy’s Model T waited. Scraggy looked up expectantly in the driver's seat. Betsy sat in the back seat by herself, starting her song over for the fifth time: “Like the beat beat beat of the tom-tom, when the jungle shadows fall...”
Clare nearly tore the door from its hinges as she jumped in next to Betsy. Indy leaped onto the running board where he could get a clearer shot. “Step on it, Scraggy!” he yelled. “We’ve got a pygmy to rescue and some nasty Nazis to run over!”
The noisy car tore through the compound, leaving a trail of sleepy and annoyed animals in its wake. Scraggy took a shortcut between two cages that scraped a layer of paint from one side of the car. Indy, on the other side, cursed again. And then they were at the edge of the compound, on the waterfront. Countless rows of long, wooden docks lined the marina, and on one of them they saw their three intruders fleeing to a waiting speedboat with its motor running. Tyki was in their possession once again.
Gutterbuhg looked up at the noise and headlights of the approaching vehicle. He couldn’t see who it was and assumed the authorities were already on their trail. “Los! Shnell!” he snapped at the driver, a pudgy man named Rudolf. He climbed into the boat and pushed Tyki to the floor. The boat shot forward, moving beneath the dock.
Scraggy’s car followed above before Indy could tell him to stop. The dock was in nearly as bad condition as the car, and he wondered which would shake to pieces first. He saw the speedboat through the wide openings in the dock’s slated boards and tried to fire at it, but it zipped by underneath and his bullets embedded themselves in the wood.
“What are you thinking?” Clare screamed hysterically. “You’ll hit Tyki!” Indy cursed himself. He hadn’t thought of that. Gutterbuhg, suffering no similar inhibitions, returned fire with his arm, sending bullets straight through the wood and and showering Indy with splinters. The side mirror in front of him went flying into the water and, inside the car, bullets pierced the floor and whizzed between Clare and Betsy. Clare was too terrified to speak. Betsy convulsed with laughter.
Scraggy swerved the car to present a more difficult target, nearly taking it over the edge of the narrow dock. But he did not take his foot from the gas, and they were less than twenty feet from the end. Gutterbuhg saw this too and smiled, knowing he was almost free. He would bring the boat back around and make short work of their pursuers.
Indy’s suitcase bounced around the car and burst open, spilling his bullwhip out the window all over him. As he struggled to disentangle himself without falling, an inspiration hit him. It wasn’t his craziest idea ever by a long shot, but it was plenty crazy, so he decided not to think about that or else it would certainly never work. “When I tell you,” he yelled to Scraggy, “hit the brakes!” Scraggy nodded.
The end of the dock came closer – closer – Clare covered her eyes, wondering if both men in their company had suddenly gone mad. Between giggles and hiccups, Betsy sang, “Night and day, you are the one, only you beneath the moon or under the sun...”
Indy looked down at the blur of the speedboat beneath, and back at the approaching dock edge. He tried to calculate their own speed and that of the boat and work something out from that, but he’d failed physics miserably in high school. Was it completely down to luck, then? He couldn’t believe he was doing this for a two hundred year old pygmy he’d met three hours ago. He waited until what seemed like the last possible moment, then he waited some more, then he yelled, “Now, Scraggy!”
Scraggy’s foot pushed the brake pedal to the floor. He nearly broke his face on the dashboard and Betsy and Clare both flew into the back of his seat. But Indy flew farther and faster. This isn’t working, he realized as the dark sea came up to meet him. What the hell was I thinking? Then the boat appeared underneath him and he landed on it.
He had no time to wonder why he hadn’t broken his neck before a Luger was raised to his face. He shoved it aside and punched the jaw of its owner. Arnold’s head cracked off the deck and, as he had already borne the brunt of a human projectile, he was instantly out cold. Indy lifted his own gun, but then a meaty fist landed in his own face, splitting both lips against his teeth and sending stars into his range of vision. Klaus pulled the American off of his comrade and tried to wrestle away his weapon; Tyki had disposed of the Luger somewhere before they caught up with him.
Gutterbuhg scowled at them. Dr. Jones was as persistent as his reputation, but this was a suicidal gesture on his part. Gutterbuhg raised his arm, but the combatants moved too quickly and he couldn’t get a clear shot. Rudolf looked over his shoulder at the scuffle, but Gutterbuhg yelled at him to watch where he was going and to bring the boat back around.
The Model T’s front wheels hung over the edge of the dock, and the slightest movement threatened to send it plunging the rest of the way. Slowly, cautiously, its passengers got out. This was rather more difficult for Scraggy, who had to climb over the front seats, but he managed with an agility shocking in one his age. Clare slumped to the dock and tried to catch her breath, knees shaking uncontrollably. Betsy laughed again. “About time we had some fun!” she said, and vomited into the water.
Scraggy saw the boat making a U-turn in the distance, and Indy fighting with a big man, both struggling to keep their balance. “Bad spirits have Indy!” he told the women. “He in trouble! Big trouble!” Before they could protest, he ran back toward the compound.
Indy had already used the big man’s own momentum against him to gain a momentary advantage, but Klaus overcame it through sheer strength and superior training. He forced the American to the floor of the boat and grabbed his wrist, bending it sharply. Indy cried out in pain and kneed him in the gut. Klaus barely felt it, but did release the pressure before Indy’s wrist broke. Then he slammed the American’s arm into the side so that his tenderized wrist made direct contact with the edge. Indy involuntarily released his grip, and his gun went flying into the sea.
A bound Tyki watched helplessly. He wished his friends wouldn’t try to rescue him. He’d already calculated that these men were far too powerful. Now Dr. Jones was going to die, and the rest would soon follow. The same thoughts crossed Gutterbuhg’s mind, but to him they were pleasing. With this impetuous fool out of the way, Dr. Clarke would surely see reason and hand over the Pai Cho before anyone else got hurt.
Klaus raised Indy by his neck and drew back a fist, preparing to belt him overboard. Gutterbuhg took careful aim. Rudolf turned around once again to see the American get his just deserts. Irritated, Gutterbuhg slapped him over the head. “Dummkopf,” he said, “I told you – Scheiße!”
Rudolf’s head snapped around and he took the boat into a sharp turn, inches from the side of an ocean liner. Klaus stumbled and fell into the sea, still gripping Indy’s neck.
The frigid water shocked them both. Indy felt something between his legs shrink significantly, and his whip, which he had forgotten was wrapped around him, contracted and squeezed all over his limbs and torso. Then he saw Klaus right next to him, in a similar state of shock. Their eyes met. Klaus’ seethed with rage. And then a dawning recognition came into them.
Indy realized the same thing a second later; they were being sucked into the ocean liner’s propellers.
They both swam for all they were worth, but neither got anywhere. Indy’s muscles started to scream almost immediately and he wondered, briefly, if he preferred this or the experience beneath Baron Seagrove’s castle. Klaus was stronger, but he quickly began to tire as well. Inch by gruesome inch, unable to surface, they were both drawn inexorably closer to the whirling steel blades.
Gutterbuhg watched the thrashing in the water from a distance in his idling speedboat. The loss of one man would be worthwhile to have gotten rid of that nuisance, he decided. And besides, once this mission was complete the Wehrmacht, and the whole of the Reich, would never suffer a loss again. He’d never be able to finish teaching Klaus now, but then, maybe he just wasn’t meant to be one of them.
The swimmers’ drift carried them past a dangling anchor, and they both grabbed it at the same time. The anchor line stretched and went taut, and Indy could feel that his feet were only about a foot from the propellers. But hey, a foot was something to be thankful for. His muscles sighed with relief but began to scream again almost instantly as the suction stretched them almost to their breaking point.
He smiled at Klaus. Well, pal, looks like we’re going to make it.
The big man said nothing, but simply pulled a switchblade from his pocket, being jerked back still further as the strength of his grip on the anchor was reduced by half, and hacked at the fingers of Indy’s left hand. Indy screamed as agony flooded through them, and he let go with that hand. Couldn’t this idiot hold a truce for a few seconds? Apparently not, as he raised his knife to finish Indy off.
Recognition dawned once more in Klaus’ eyes. This time it lasted less than a second before the propeller, caught on his shoelace, sucked him in.
Indy turned away from the blood red cloud surging through the water, grabbed back onto the anchor, and pulled himself up. He surfaced, taking a gulp of air, but had no time to think before the water in front of him erupted with machine gun fire. From the speedboat parked a few feet away, Gutterbuhg pointed his finger at the helpless archaeologist and smiled.
“Gute Nacht, Dr. Jones.”
Indy heard a gunshot, but not from a machine gun, and then pieces of spring, metal and sprockets flew from the Nazi's arm in a shower of sparks. Shocked, then furious, he spun around.
Dashiell zipped by in a slick speedboat of his own, its side adorned with the American flag, his pistol already aimed for another shot. Gutterbuhg ducked down and directed Rudolf to take them away, toward a cluster of docks, so Dashiell instead came back around next to the ocean liner where Indy waited patiently.
“Scraggy said you might be needing some help, sport,” he explained.
From anyone but you, Indy thought, but truth be told, right now he could have kissed the man's beautiful face himself. With an appreciative nod, he dropped into the boat. Dashiell hit the gas without waiting for him to get comfortable.
It figured, of course, that Dashiell would be good at everything – at least Indy hoped so, as his fate was somewhat out of his hands at the moment. Their pursuit of the Nazis took them beneath the docks, around a virtual forest of wooden poles that flew by at breakneck speed, invisible in the darkness until they came much too close for comfort. Fish hooks and nets jumped out at them too, and the handsome blond man had to veer left and right to avoid various abandoned rafts and rowboats.
Indy decided to calm his mind by taking Dashiell's gun and exchanging gunfire with the one German who, no longer unconscious, could still shoot back. The impotent Gutterbuhg had lost his calm demeanor as he radioed frantically for help.
The path ahead cleared of obstacles for a moment, and Dashiell pulled up alongside them, the edges of the boats scraping together with visible sparks. Arnold aimed his Luger at Indy, but the archaeologist was faster than his trigger finger. They fell, rolled, tumbled and struggled for the gun as beneath them, the crack between the speedboats oscillated back and forth in size. Up ahead, an enormous stone pole emerged from the darkness.
“Indy!” Dashiell screamed. “Roll out!”
Indy gave up on the Luger and rolled back onto Dashiell's boat. Arnold pointed the gun at him once more, a triumphant smile plastered on his face right up to the moment the boats separated and he smacked into the pole.
Dashiell turned away from the wheel for a moment. “You okay, sport?”
Indy forced himself to grin. Nothing some bandages and a good spa treatment wouldn't fix, but – Indy lost his grin and screamed. “Dash!”
Dashiell turned back. The speedboat was heading toward a solid wooden wall, with a sign reading FUTTERMAN'S FISHING WAREHOUSE. The Nazis had already made a sharp turn to avoid it, but even the perfect Dashiell had no time to follow suit. Indy hit the deck as they arched upward, at an angle, and crashed through the wall in a shower of splinters. The boat skidded across the warehouse floor and screeched to a stop near the opposite wall.
Shaken for probably the first time in his life, Dashiell stumbled out. “That wasn't so bad,” he said, “but I guess we've lost them.”
“Like hell we have,” Indy said, running to a window. I didn't come this far to let those other two bastards get away. Outside, close by, they shot out of the docks and sped across the open water.
With one solid motion, he kicked open the window as he released the now sufficiently airdried whip from his body with a snap of his wrist. With another snap it shot forward and attached itself to the rear of the speedboat. As Dashiell gaped, the whip tightened and pulled him out the window.
“See ya 'round, sport!” he called out behind him.
Gutterbuhg and Rudolf were exchanging a victorious laugh, and Tyki was sinking further into despair, when they both noticed their additional passenger at the same time. Behind them, Dr. Indiana Jones was water skiing in a most unconventional manner that he certainly hadn't learned in graduate school.
The red-faced Wachtmeister's mouth fell open, then he slammed his fist on the dashboard. He removed a sharp knife and began to slice through the whip. Indy saw what he was doing, but had an even more pressing concern when a shot whizzed by his head, then another, then another. From behind. He turned to see a second speedboat in hot pursuit, loaded up with five Germans and their various pistols and rifles, all being put to use.
They should have taught me this in graduate school, Indy thought as he swerved, spun and jumped to avoid the bullets. I'm adding it to my curriculum from now on. You never know when – His whip snapped and he plunged once more into the water, directly into the path of the second boat.
Tyki hid his eyes. Gutterbuhg laughed again. The other Nazis put down their guns and gave each other a round of handshakes.
None of them could have seen Indy, very much alive, straddling the bottom of the speeding boat, holding on with all his strength, climbing toward one side against the pressure of rushing water. They don't know who they're dealing with, and I'm not about to give them a chance to learn. He climbed aboard and moved like lightning toward the soldiers, their backs to him, still congratulating each other.
He moved like lightning, grabbing one and tossing him overboard like a sack of sauerkraut, then sending another after him with a swift punch to the stomach. The other two not busy driving the speedboat tackled him to the deck.
Gutterbuhg looked back at the commotion. A growl of frustration escaped his lips. Impossible. But looking forward again, something else caught his eye – two gargantuan ocean liners moving toward each other, the opening between them growing steadily smaller. He smiled. Dr. Jones' annoying persistence was about to come to an end. “Fahren Sie durch,” he ordered.
Rudolf swallowed hard, but complied.
One soldier pinned Indy down while the other removed a thick metal chain from his neck, a red swastika dangling from it. With a grin, savoring the luxury of doing things more slowly than with bullets, he wrapped it around Indy's neck and squeezed.
Through his fluttering eyes, Indy saw Gutterbuhg's speedboat up ahead approaching the ocean liners, saw the gap close to ten feet, then less. He was nearly unconscious, though, and far more distracted by the soldiers' giggling as they tightened the chain further. They must not realize how immature they sound, he thought.
With less than an inch to spare, Gutterbuhg's speedboat squeezed between the larger ships. The second speedboat didn't have such a luxury. The driver's scream distracted the other two Germans from their playtime, allowing Indy to break free and dive overboard an instant before their vessel was crushed with a shriek of rending metal. Flaming pieces of wreckage shot out the other side of the small gap into the night sky. The explosion lit Gutterbuhg's grinning, sadistic face and Tyki's fear-filled eyes.
Several feet away, Indiana Jones surfaced, swam for the nearby shore, and climbed out of the water. He rubbed his reddened neck as he caught his breath. The pain in the fingers of his left hand had now been numbed by the cold, so there was something to be thankful for, at least. He looked into the distance at the fleeing speedboat, too far away to catch now even if he still had his whip intact.
Gutterbuhg's rage at seeing the archaeologist's living, breathing silhouette quickly gave way to smugness. Perhaps this was for the better, after all. Let Dr. Jones survive to see his failure, to see the prize slip right through his verdammt persistent fingers. Let him go back to his friends and explain that after all his efforts, the little Ungeziefer was gone.
The Nazi's maniacal laugh reverberated through the open night air.
Next: Chapter Six
“Table for four, away from the hubbub, please,” Indy said, trying to hide the lump in his throat. He had forgotten how... terribly attractive his old friend was. He knew his intention to dine alone with Clare wouldn’t work even if she had forgiven him for the thing with Betsy, because she would be more anxious to hear Scraggy’s translation than he was. But now to have Dashiell involved on top of that...
“Coming right up. And if there’s anything else I can do to make your experience here more enjoyable, sport, don’t hesitate to ask.” Dashiell gave them a million-dollar smile that penetrated the smoky, dimly-lit air. His hair was wavy, his eyes dazzling powder blue, and his dimpled face had obviously never suffered a pimple. His physique was thin but muscular. They were the sort of looks that posed a great danger – carried one way, they made you insufferably cocky; another, and they exuded the sort of charisma that made everyone like you. Dashiell fell firmly into the latter category.
“Thanks,” Indy said. “Will do.”
“Right this way,” Dashiell said. He stepped out from behind the counter and began walking.
As they followed, Indy looked more closely at the room. It was filled with cloth covered tables and, in spite of its name, ornamental African furnishings. A nine piece black jazz band played the latest swing tunes while a few couples swayed on the dance floor. The place swarmed with mostly white tourists, but there was something strange about them, and Indy felt inexplicably nervous every time one of them looked at him.
“Right here,” Dashiell said, indicating the table at the back of the restaurant. He pulled out two chairs for the ladies first and gestured for them to sit. “What lovely creatures you have in tow,” he said to Indy and Scraggy. “Dates?”
“No thanks,” Scraggy said. “Raisins, yes, if you have them.”
“We’re colleagues,” Clare insisted before Indy could say anything else.
“In that case, forgive me –” Dashiell said, and he grabbed Clare’s hand and gave it a resounding kiss. Betsy stared, dumbfounded, as he did the same to her. “Colleagues have changed since my day,” he added, and handed them each a menu. “Would you like something to drink for starters?”
“Wine,” Indy said.
“Coke,” Scraggy said.
“Wine,” Betsy said.
“Coffee,” Clare said. She frowned at Betsy. “Are you sure you’re old enough to be consuming alcoholic beverages?”
Betsy made a face. “I’ll have you know I’m twenty-one years old, Dr. Clarke.”
“All right,” Dashiell said, “I’ll be back in a jiffy. I’m afraid it’s a busy night, as you see, but I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you,” Indy said.
As soon as the handsome blond man was out of earshot, Clare giggled like a schoolgirl. “He’s charming,” she said dreamily.
“Like the sun is hot,” Betsy agreed, her animosity forgotten.
“All right, all right,” Indy said. “We don’t need him sticking his perfectly shaped nose in our affair, you know. Get ready to order as soon as he comes back so we can get down to business.”
Clare raised an eyebrow at his transparent jealousy, but did study the menu. “Why’d we have to pick an American place? Are you Yankees too chicken to try some authentic cuisine?”
Before Indy could retort, Dashiell returned with a tray of drinks. “Here you are, folks,” he said, setting it between them. “How’d I do?”
Indy glanced at his watch. “I wasn’t keeping track,” he said, “but that couldn’t have been more than forty-five seconds.”
“Damn, I’m out of it tonight,” Dashiell said. “Well, here you are anyway. Have you folks decided?”
“In forty-five seconds?” Clare said incredulously.
“Let’s just all have steak,” Indy said. “Medium rare. That okay?”
“Fine,” Clare grumbled. “How this exotic fare doth tempt mine palate.”
“Is it zebra steak or something?” Betsy asked.
“No,” Dashiell said with a laugh. “Just boring old cows here.”
“Good. Zebras are cute. Cows are smelly.”
“Any appetizers?”
“We’re good,” Indy said .
“Come on, Dr. Jones,” Clare said, “God knows how long we’ll be eating in the jungle.”
“Fine. Breadsticks with marinara for everyone. If that’s all right?”
Everyone nodded or shrugged assent. Dashiell grinned. “Excellent choices,” he said. “I’ll get right on it.” He left again not a moment too soon.
“Holy smoke, Dr. Jones, the scroll isn’t going to run away on us,” Clare snapped as soon as he was gone. “Do you have to try to alienate everyone you meet?”
“Just anxious to discover the secrets of forgotten history,” Indy said. “Can we get a look at it now, Scraggy?” Scraggy nodded and brought it out. Indy put on his spectacles.
“What’s so special about this scroll?” Betsy asked as Scraggy unrolled it.
“Sun Wu-Kung run like fire,” Scraggy began. “He journey to Many Monkey Land, to build his final empire.”
“Who’s Sun Wu-Kung?”
“Many Monkey Land,” Indy said. “That’s a definite reference to Africa. They couldn’t have known about the Americas then.” Maybe this won’t be so hard after all.
“Africa?” Betsy asked. “He journeyed to Africa?”
“That confirms our suspicions that he may have formed his civilization here,” Clare said.
“What civilization?”
“Betsy, keep your trap shut,” Indy snapped. “This doesn’t concern you.” You ruined my first shot with Clare, and now you’re going to be a burden this whole trip so don’t get a head start now.
“Fine,” she said, sulking. “Terrific. Who cares about this stuff anyway! We’re in a nightclub. We should be havin’ fun.” She grabbed his hand. “C’mon, Indy. Let’s dance.”
“Later.”
“What a buncha’ stiffs!” she said, looking over the table in disbelief. She fixed her gaze on Clare and adopted a condescending tone. “Bet you can’t dance.”
Clare pursed her lips and decided to humor the girl. “Quite the contrary,” she said. “I spent several months studying dance.”
Betsy scoffed. “Oh yeah? Whatta you know? The Bunny Hop? The Jitterbug?”
Clare shook her head. “The Bondogea. The Kyebe Kyebe. The Dungumaro.”
“Huh?”
“African tribal dances.”
“Never heard of ‘em.”
“Of course not. They’re beyond the spectrum of your microscopic world.”
“Oh yeah, well –”
“Here you go, folks,” Dashiell said, setting their meals down. Indy quickly shoved the scroll under the table and tried to act casual, wishing he’d had time to take his glasses off. “Careful, they’re hot. Remember, anything at all I can do, just ask. Bom apetite.” He kissed his fingers like a French chef and sauntered off.
“Remind me to give him a huge tip,” Clare said. “He’s magnificent.”
Betsy glared at her. “Now, where was I? Oh yeah –”
“Trap. Shut,” Indy said firmly, not even looking at her.
Betsy gulped down her glass of wine in annoyance and refilled it. Her annoyance was completely directed toward Clare, not him. That stuck-up know-it-all bitch was driving a wedge between her and Indy at a time when she needed all the help she could get to be close to him again. She looked at him deeply concentrating on the scrolls. Under the table, her foot surreptitiously made its way across the floor and rested on his leg. She began to rub it back and forth, coming within an inch of the mechanical bug still attached to his trousers.
Indy glared at her. Not now, kid.
Clare reached for her cup of coffee and noticed it trembling slightly. She looked under the table and saw Betsy rubbing Indy’s leg. Disgusted, she looked back up and shot him a scowl of disapproval.
“It’s not what it looks like –” he began.
He was interrupted by a hand on his shoulder. Dashiell had approached without any of them noticing, and he flashed them his trademark smile again. “Enjoying your dinners?” he asked.
Everyone except Indy nodded and murmured, “Yes, very much, thank you.”
“I’m glad,” Dashiell said. “Let me know if – oh!” A piece of silverware fell from his tray and clattered to the floor at Indy’s feet. Before Indy could gloat at the waiter’s lack of absolute perfection, Dashiell knelt down to grab it and lowered his voice. “Watch yourself, sport. Most of the talk here tonight is about you. And it isn’t good.”
Indy’s eyes darted around the room at the various tourists. Many of them were looking in his direction while trying not to look like they were looking in his direction. And then he realized what was so odd about them. Aside from the couples dancing, almost all of them were men.
“I have no idea what you’ve done to all these people,” Dashiell continued. “But they are certainly no friends of yours.” He stood up with the fork in hand. Although he kept a smile plastered across his lips, his eyes betrayed worry. Then he spun on his heel and moved to another table.
As Indy pondered this information, the jazz band launched into a rousing rendition of “Night and Day”, the baritone lead crooning like a bullfrog. “I love this song,” Betsy said, swigging some more wine. “Music’s one thing nig– I mean Negroes are good at, anyway.”
“Betsy –” Clare warned.
Indy had been thinking the same thing, but he tried to avert the impending hostilities. “Maybe you’re right, we shouldn’t have come here,” he told Clare. “I know I didn’t travel halfway across the world to hear Cole Porter.”
***
Alvaro Njagi lit a cigarette, his second on this shift. He loved working with animals, and with Dr. Clarke, and recently, with Tyki. The little pygmy had stolen his heart as everyone else’s, and provided hours of entertainment. And while the zoo was hardly swimming in wealth, by this country’s standards he was earning a fortune. That was why he’d reluctantly moved to night shifts only, so some less fortunate sod could get a chance to support his family. He still enjoyed the feeling that he was doing something to help nature and the pursuit of knowledge, as well as his fellow man now, but he found the nights painfully boring. Tyki and most of the animals slept, and of course there were no visitors. Nothing ever happened.
He paced idly in front of the lion cage, watching the big cat snore, ruffling its mane with its own meat-scented breath. Such bliss, he thought. For all the violence and competition in the animal kingdom, its members knew no sin. They didn’t have to rely on arbitrary human creations like job markets and economies to fill their stomachs, and they did not have to annihilate each other to settle disagreements. This lion couldn’t have cared less about the Great Depression or, if he had been alive, the Great War before that. He ate and slept just the same.
Alvaro smiled self-deprecatingly. Such thoughts had been more commonplace lately, as he tried to occupy his mind. Maybe after Dr. Clarke finished her expedition, she’d have time to finish teaching him how to read.
He decided to go check on Tyki. The little fellow was so cute when he slept. Alvaro turned and started through the row of cages when a slight movement caught the corner of his eye. Probably just an animal stirring in its sleep, of course, but it was his job to make sure. He turned and waved his flashlight back and forth, squinting into the darkness. Nothing there. Probably one of the deer.
Before he knew what was happening, three humanoid figures loomed before him, walking purposefully in his direction. He was unnerved, but quickly scolded himself for his hesitance and found his voice. “Who’s there?” he demanded. “Zoo’s closed!”
The figures did not reply, nor did they slow down.
His hand went to his holster. He had never shot so much as a rabbit, but he was more than prepared to use his weapon now if necessary. “Hold it right there and identify yourselves,” he warned, “or I’ll shoot!”
Finally they stopped. He stepped a bit closer, trying to get them into focus, but still wary. Then, with a slight creaking noise, the middle figure raised its right arm and pointed an index finger straight at him.
“Who’s there?” he demanded again. “Speak or I’ll –”
His gun and flashlight flew from his fingers as he went into a spasm and flailed like a sailor in a whirlpool. His knees buckled and he collapsed to the ground. A moment later the pain registered, excruciating beyond anything he had ever experienced, and the fringe of the light’s beam heartlessly revealed to him his own blood spilling onto the dirt.
The three figures surrounded him, but he could not crane his neck to see past their jackboot-clad ankles. A voice, harsh not only because of its thick German accent, whispered “Verstecken des Körpers, schnell!” Even if the man had spoken in English or Portuguese, Alvaro Njagi would not have understood the words at this point. The last thing to register in his mind was that one of the men had a boot untied.
***
Tyki awoke with a start, a cold sweat covering his small body. He groped for one of the candles he had been provided with and struggled to light it in the darkness. Something was not right, he could feel it. He had been dreaming peacefully of a triumphant return home, and of telling his family and friends of his adventures in this strange world. Then the dream had been shattered by a distressed grunt he knew as Alvaro’s, and whispered words in a voice he had never heard before, but that had sent shivers down his spine. When one lived in the jungle, one’s senses became quite attuned to such things, and one learned quickly not to ignore them. Or one died.
The candle finally flickered to life, illuminating his nearly-finished tapestry and bringing him some small comfort. He would get there someday, and this night, whatever it entailed in the end, would be but an unpleasant memory. He stroked it fondly. Then he became aware of footsteps, nearly as silent as cat treads, making their way in his direction. Three adult humans, he calculated, walking together in a uniform rhythm. And with the sort of instinct that goes beyond the senses and can neither be taught nor understood by scientists, he felt something hostile in their gait. His hand reached for the stone dagger beneath his loincloth.
After what seemed an eternity, the men stood in front of his cage. Well, they couldn’t get in here, thank goodness. Only Clare, Alvaro and a few others had the key. But one of the men fiddled with the lock for a moment, and it snapped off like a stick and fell to the ground. The door swung open and they stepped in.
Gutterbuhg smiled as wickedly as he could at the pygmy. “Gute Nacht, mein Freund,” he whispered.
Tyki had no idea what that meant, but he knew he was in the presence of evil. Unable to articulate himself any better, he growled like a trapped tiger as he got to his feet and raised the dagger over his head.
Gutterbuhg ignored him and raised his arm again, eliciting another creak. Bullets flew from the muzzle of his index finger, fitted with a silencer for tonight; ripping a crooked, tattered line through the beautiful tapestry and the wall behind it. He fired until the cartridge was empty, then replaced it with another in a single, flawless motion and aimed at the stunned pygmy. A marvelous creation, indeed. After Dr. Hohlbein had done the tedious and difficult work of attaching the arm properly, it had been child’s play to add the gun. Mephisto had kept the poor Arzt in the dark about how his work was to be used, seeing as doctors were notorious pacifists.
Trembling, Tyki dropped the dagger and raised his hands as the Germans closed in on him.
***
Invisible to the others as they studied the map, Betsy poured herself the last of the wine. Indy hadn’t touched his portion and she had drunk for the both of them. Now she grew bold enough to sing along with the band: “Night and day, day and night, why is it so... that this longing for you follows wherever I go...” Beneath the table, she continued to rub her foot against Indy’s leg.
He ignored her with everyone else, as Scraggy continued to translate: “With his Golden Hooped Rod and its powerful lightning rays, Sun Wu-Kung build Water Curtain Cave, where he live for five hundred days.”
“The rhyming’s a nice touch,” Indy said.
“Thank you,” Scraggy said.
“The Golden Hooped Rod?” Clare asked.
“A heavenly staff with many different powers,” Indy recited. “Most notably, it had the ability to transform itself into hundreds of objects. If it were real, it would be the most priceless treasure of Sun Wu-Kung’s empire.”
“I know what it is,” she snapped. “D’you think I’d launch an expedition to find his bloody city without doing a little research of my own first?”
“Then why’d you ask?”
“I just can’t believe it, is all.”
“Look, the Pai Cho is a great find,” Indy said, “but you can’t assume everything in it is gospel truth. It’s quite possible this artifact exists, but its supposed powers are another matter.”
Clare didn’t argue. Instead she asked, “What about the Water Curtain Cave?”
“Sun Wu-Kung’s legendary hideout; an enormous secret cave hidden behind a running waterfall.”
Clare kneaded her eyebrows in exasperation. “I know what that is too, Dr. Jones. What I mean is, what do we make of it?” She reached for her coffee and found the cup and saucer still trembling. She peeked under the table and saw Betsy’s foot still rubbing Indy’s leg. She gave a revolted grumble to both of them, but Betsy continued to sing and Indy was too excited to notice either of them.
“This proves that the Water Curtain Cave exists in Africa,” he said.
“Brilliant, Sherlock,” Clare said. “I think we established that.”
He still ignored her, but bristled slightly. “Does it mention anything else about Sun Wu-Kung’s African travels?”
Scraggy scanned the scroll. He shrugged. “Not much. Only place called... ‘Twisted Snake Water’.”
“The Zambezi River!” Clare shouted. She smiled sheepishly at the glaring patrons and lowered her voice. “It has a reputation for its deadly water snakes,” she continued.
“But, could ‘twisted snake’ be a reference to a river’s shape, instead?” Indy wondered.
Scraggy shook his head. “Wrong context,” he explained. Clare gave Indy an “I-told-you-so” look. He made a face. It had been a matter of luck for her, this time.
“It would have been Sun Wu-Kung’s logical path,” she said.
“It will also be our logical path,” Indy concluded, and they shared a smile that made his heart skip a beat. Something else made him forget that almost immediately, though. “Scraggy, see if there’s any clues in the specific wording of stuff, you know, stuff that might have been lost in translation. Especially with the rhyming, impressive though that was.”
Scraggy gawked. “Indy, my Chinese not that good.”
“Well, at least try, if you could,” Indy said. Finally, he turned his attention to Betsy. Seeing she was clearly too drunk to pay him any heed, he tried to slap her foot away. But his hand brushed something else. What the –? He groped at his leg. Something tiny and metal was stuck on it. He tried to flick it off, then pull it, but it refused to budge.
Clare stared at Indy, who appeared from her angle to be playing with Betsy’s foot. Why was it that, just when they were on friendly terms again, he insisted on ruining it? “Please try to control that monstrous libido of yours!” she snapped.
The mechanical cockroach finally popped free of his trousers and he lifted it above the table. Now, what on Earth is this? Something out of a science fiction magazine... Though it was like nothing he’d seen before, he came to the conclusion that it had to be some sort of bug. In any case, it gave him the creeps. And he realized someone knew they were here, and probably what they were up to, and that someone was up to no good. Clare opened her mouth to ask him a question, but he motioned her to be silent. He grabbed a napkin and a pencil and wrote out, We have to get back. Tyki may be in danger.
He quickly shelled out a stack of bills that looked like it would cover the evening’s fare, and dragged Betsy to her tipsy feet as the rest of them got up. As they hurried out as fast as they could without looking suspicious, he contemplated the bug. We don’t want that little doohickey dogging our heels.
At the Nazi secret base, the radio officer had turned up the volume as far as it would go and was straining to hear them. Everyone had suddenly gone silently following some loud swishing and scratching noises, which suggested to him that the bug had been discovered, but he had to keep trying.
Indy nonchalantly sidled past the trumpet player and dropped the bug into his instrument as he hit a piercing high note. If the device had been two-way, they would have heard the officer on the other end screaming.
***
Bound and gagged, Tyki walked out of the compound with a pair of German Lugers and one very unnatural limb at his back. It pleased Gutterbuhg to see the fear in his eyes, to see the miserable creature put in its place. Most of the Fatherland was, fortunately, not so plagued with Negroes as with Jews, and it had been able to deal with that problem much sooner. Earlier this year, hundreds of children of mixed African-German descent - a parting gift from French soldiers occupying the Rhineland - had been sterilized. Their tainted blood would die with them.
How could anyone speak of racial equality? Their skin was a curse from God, leveled on them to mark them apart from true humans, that much was obvious. But creatures like the one before him were the worst. Hideously stunted in stature, and unbelievably unearthly and savage. It sickened Gutterbuhg to think that such a wonder as Sun Wu-Kung’s Garden of Eternal Peaches could be in the hands of such nightmarish disasters of evolution.
Suddenly Klaus tripped over something, and it wasn’t his own shoelace. The startled fawn blinked sleep from its eyes and rose to its feet as it stared at the intruders, but did not try to run. It was completely accustomed to receiving affection and handouts from the zoo visitors, and although this had never happened at night it decided to adapt to the situation.
A flash of inspiration hit Gutterbuhg. He latched on to Tyki’s arm with his good hand and shouted “Zugreifen!” to Arnold, who grabbed the baby deer by the neck. “Now,” he continued to Klaus, “shoot it.”
Klaus turned pale as he looked into the fawn’s suddenly scared and confused little eyes. “What for, Wachtmeister?” he pleaded. “It won’t hurt us.” Even Arnold looked slightly uncomfortable.
“Ach, so,” Gutterbuhg agreed. This was the reaction he had expected, and he would turn it into a teaching moment, to mold his men into more dedicated and unflappable pillars of the Reich. “Das Reh will not hurt us, you are correct. But I see it as a metaphor for the Jews, and gypsies, and all other non-Aryan races or inferior creatures. When they are not actively trying to undermine and subvert the Fatherland’s progress to its destined glory, they provide, like this animal, a treacherous obstacle by their mere existence. One cannot afford to have qualms about dealing with them, and I sense that you do. Bitte, prove me wrong.”
Klaus looked at the trembling fawn again; then, with a grimace, he leveled his weapon at its forehead and closed his eyes. His Luger too small to be outfitted with one of the bulky silencers, but they were almost home free. His finger tightened on the trigger.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
They spun around. Several yards away, peeking around the corner of Tyki’s cage with a gun pointed straight at Klaus, was Indiana Jones. Klaus dropped his Luger and raised his hands, trying to hide his relief. Arnold released the fawn, which ran away as fast as its hooves could carry it.
“Then again, maybe I would,” Indy continued, not moving from his protected spot. “You seem like utter bastards to me.”
Gutterbuhg laughed, a sound that chilled even his men. “It takes one to know one,” he said in perfect English, pointing his right arm at the American.
Indy heard the muffled sound of something splitting the air at high velocity, but at the same moment something grabbed him by the neck and yanked him behind the cage’s corner. He felt something part the hairs of his arm as it whizzed by.
Clare released him. He stared at her in disbelief, then annoyance. “I told you to stay in the car!”
It was her turn to be disbelieving. She opened her mouth, trying to come up with a suitably scathing retort, but Gutterbuhg’s voice boomed out at them. “Ah, Doktors Clarke and Jones!” he said. “Just the people I wanted to see. We found your little pet here and were just on our way to return him to you, for a small price.”
“They have Tyki?” Clare whispered, her eyes widening.
Indy nodded. “I’m afraid so.” To Gutterbuhg he called, “All right! What do you want?”
“Just a bit of compensation for our troubles. Say, the Pai Cho. Yes, I know it’s an irreplaceable artifact, but surely it’s nothing to the life of this – er, thing?”
Clare bristled. “Whoever these guys are, they need to be kicked in the balls.”
“Tell me about it,” Indy said, half to himself. He’d had his suspicions on the way here, and the accent had confirmed it. “Be glad you don’t have to deal with them on a regular basis.”
“My patience grows short, Doktors! Are these terms agreeable?”
“Yes!” Clare yelled. “I have the Pai Cho right here.” She pulled out the scroll and held it around the corner of the cage. “We’re coming out! Don’t shoot!”
They left their hiding place and headed toward the three intruders. Indy noticed that the right arm of the man who had been shouting was mechanical and apparently a machine gun. That explained what had happened, but how the hell was it possible? He looked at Tyki. The poor little guy was terrified. Looks like this expedition is over before it started, he thought.
Klaus smiled at the fact that their objective had been achieved without bloodshed. Well, except for that night guard, he thought with a twinge of guilt, but that was just a native. He brushed the thought from his mind and bent to retrieve his Luger, but it wasn’t there. He frowned and scanned the surrounding ground but it was nowhere to be seen. He hadn’t thrown it, had he?
Gutterbuhg practically licked his thin lips with anticipation. What fools these people were. As soon as the scroll was in his hands he would gun them both down and be rid of all witnesses. Then they would find that other fool who was with them – Scraggy, that was him – and force him to help translate for both the scroll and their little captive. The little girl – Betsy – she could stay and rot in this godforsaken country for all he cared.
Tyki saw Clare and the new man holding out the Pai Cho as they approached and he realized this was all his fault. He had given it to them, and now they were being forced to give it up because of him. He didn’t know who these men were, but he knew they could not be allowed to find his home. Whatever they did there wouldn’t be good. Something had to be done, and right now.
Clare stopped a few feet from the men. “You’ll need our help with this,” she said, but the last-ditch effort sounded pathetic even to her own ears.
“Don’t play games, my dear,” Gutterbuhg snapped, holding his gun arm straight at Tyki’s temple. “We have our own experts ready to tackle the job. They know every bit as much about these subjects as you think you do. Now please, hurry.”
Reluctantly Clare started forward again. Gutterbuhg released his left-handed grip on Tyki and reached out to take the scroll –
And then Tyki’s skull rammed into his solar plexus with all the strength the pygmy could muster. Still bound, he broke off into an awkward run, his impaired hands firing randomly behind his back with Klaus’s Luger, which he had picked up with his feet when no one was looking. The Germans dove to the ground, and Clare and Indy followed suit.
Gutterbuhg was the first to his feet. He fired a half-hearted volley at the pair that sent dirt spraying into their faces, then raced off after Tyki with his two men close behind. Indy struggled to get up himself and raised his gun, but the soldiers ran in and out of several rows of cages. “Shit,” he said, running after them.
“The car!” Clare shouted. “We can get them in the car!”
They ran to the zoo entrance, where Scraggy’s Model T waited. Scraggy looked up expectantly in the driver's seat. Betsy sat in the back seat by herself, starting her song over for the fifth time: “Like the beat beat beat of the tom-tom, when the jungle shadows fall...”
Clare nearly tore the door from its hinges as she jumped in next to Betsy. Indy leaped onto the running board where he could get a clearer shot. “Step on it, Scraggy!” he yelled. “We’ve got a pygmy to rescue and some nasty Nazis to run over!”
The noisy car tore through the compound, leaving a trail of sleepy and annoyed animals in its wake. Scraggy took a shortcut between two cages that scraped a layer of paint from one side of the car. Indy, on the other side, cursed again. And then they were at the edge of the compound, on the waterfront. Countless rows of long, wooden docks lined the marina, and on one of them they saw their three intruders fleeing to a waiting speedboat with its motor running. Tyki was in their possession once again.
Gutterbuhg looked up at the noise and headlights of the approaching vehicle. He couldn’t see who it was and assumed the authorities were already on their trail. “Los! Shnell!” he snapped at the driver, a pudgy man named Rudolf. He climbed into the boat and pushed Tyki to the floor. The boat shot forward, moving beneath the dock.
Scraggy’s car followed above before Indy could tell him to stop. The dock was in nearly as bad condition as the car, and he wondered which would shake to pieces first. He saw the speedboat through the wide openings in the dock’s slated boards and tried to fire at it, but it zipped by underneath and his bullets embedded themselves in the wood.
“What are you thinking?” Clare screamed hysterically. “You’ll hit Tyki!” Indy cursed himself. He hadn’t thought of that. Gutterbuhg, suffering no similar inhibitions, returned fire with his arm, sending bullets straight through the wood and and showering Indy with splinters. The side mirror in front of him went flying into the water and, inside the car, bullets pierced the floor and whizzed between Clare and Betsy. Clare was too terrified to speak. Betsy convulsed with laughter.
Scraggy swerved the car to present a more difficult target, nearly taking it over the edge of the narrow dock. But he did not take his foot from the gas, and they were less than twenty feet from the end. Gutterbuhg saw this too and smiled, knowing he was almost free. He would bring the boat back around and make short work of their pursuers.
Indy’s suitcase bounced around the car and burst open, spilling his bullwhip out the window all over him. As he struggled to disentangle himself without falling, an inspiration hit him. It wasn’t his craziest idea ever by a long shot, but it was plenty crazy, so he decided not to think about that or else it would certainly never work. “When I tell you,” he yelled to Scraggy, “hit the brakes!” Scraggy nodded.
The end of the dock came closer – closer – Clare covered her eyes, wondering if both men in their company had suddenly gone mad. Between giggles and hiccups, Betsy sang, “Night and day, you are the one, only you beneath the moon or under the sun...”
Indy looked down at the blur of the speedboat beneath, and back at the approaching dock edge. He tried to calculate their own speed and that of the boat and work something out from that, but he’d failed physics miserably in high school. Was it completely down to luck, then? He couldn’t believe he was doing this for a two hundred year old pygmy he’d met three hours ago. He waited until what seemed like the last possible moment, then he waited some more, then he yelled, “Now, Scraggy!”
Scraggy’s foot pushed the brake pedal to the floor. He nearly broke his face on the dashboard and Betsy and Clare both flew into the back of his seat. But Indy flew farther and faster. This isn’t working, he realized as the dark sea came up to meet him. What the hell was I thinking? Then the boat appeared underneath him and he landed on it.
He had no time to wonder why he hadn’t broken his neck before a Luger was raised to his face. He shoved it aside and punched the jaw of its owner. Arnold’s head cracked off the deck and, as he had already borne the brunt of a human projectile, he was instantly out cold. Indy lifted his own gun, but then a meaty fist landed in his own face, splitting both lips against his teeth and sending stars into his range of vision. Klaus pulled the American off of his comrade and tried to wrestle away his weapon; Tyki had disposed of the Luger somewhere before they caught up with him.
Gutterbuhg scowled at them. Dr. Jones was as persistent as his reputation, but this was a suicidal gesture on his part. Gutterbuhg raised his arm, but the combatants moved too quickly and he couldn’t get a clear shot. Rudolf looked over his shoulder at the scuffle, but Gutterbuhg yelled at him to watch where he was going and to bring the boat back around.
The Model T’s front wheels hung over the edge of the dock, and the slightest movement threatened to send it plunging the rest of the way. Slowly, cautiously, its passengers got out. This was rather more difficult for Scraggy, who had to climb over the front seats, but he managed with an agility shocking in one his age. Clare slumped to the dock and tried to catch her breath, knees shaking uncontrollably. Betsy laughed again. “About time we had some fun!” she said, and vomited into the water.
Scraggy saw the boat making a U-turn in the distance, and Indy fighting with a big man, both struggling to keep their balance. “Bad spirits have Indy!” he told the women. “He in trouble! Big trouble!” Before they could protest, he ran back toward the compound.
Indy had already used the big man’s own momentum against him to gain a momentary advantage, but Klaus overcame it through sheer strength and superior training. He forced the American to the floor of the boat and grabbed his wrist, bending it sharply. Indy cried out in pain and kneed him in the gut. Klaus barely felt it, but did release the pressure before Indy’s wrist broke. Then he slammed the American’s arm into the side so that his tenderized wrist made direct contact with the edge. Indy involuntarily released his grip, and his gun went flying into the sea.
A bound Tyki watched helplessly. He wished his friends wouldn’t try to rescue him. He’d already calculated that these men were far too powerful. Now Dr. Jones was going to die, and the rest would soon follow. The same thoughts crossed Gutterbuhg’s mind, but to him they were pleasing. With this impetuous fool out of the way, Dr. Clarke would surely see reason and hand over the Pai Cho before anyone else got hurt.
Klaus raised Indy by his neck and drew back a fist, preparing to belt him overboard. Gutterbuhg took careful aim. Rudolf turned around once again to see the American get his just deserts. Irritated, Gutterbuhg slapped him over the head. “Dummkopf,” he said, “I told you – Scheiße!”
Rudolf’s head snapped around and he took the boat into a sharp turn, inches from the side of an ocean liner. Klaus stumbled and fell into the sea, still gripping Indy’s neck.
The frigid water shocked them both. Indy felt something between his legs shrink significantly, and his whip, which he had forgotten was wrapped around him, contracted and squeezed all over his limbs and torso. Then he saw Klaus right next to him, in a similar state of shock. Their eyes met. Klaus’ seethed with rage. And then a dawning recognition came into them.
Indy realized the same thing a second later; they were being sucked into the ocean liner’s propellers.
They both swam for all they were worth, but neither got anywhere. Indy’s muscles started to scream almost immediately and he wondered, briefly, if he preferred this or the experience beneath Baron Seagrove’s castle. Klaus was stronger, but he quickly began to tire as well. Inch by gruesome inch, unable to surface, they were both drawn inexorably closer to the whirling steel blades.
Gutterbuhg watched the thrashing in the water from a distance in his idling speedboat. The loss of one man would be worthwhile to have gotten rid of that nuisance, he decided. And besides, once this mission was complete the Wehrmacht, and the whole of the Reich, would never suffer a loss again. He’d never be able to finish teaching Klaus now, but then, maybe he just wasn’t meant to be one of them.
The swimmers’ drift carried them past a dangling anchor, and they both grabbed it at the same time. The anchor line stretched and went taut, and Indy could feel that his feet were only about a foot from the propellers. But hey, a foot was something to be thankful for. His muscles sighed with relief but began to scream again almost instantly as the suction stretched them almost to their breaking point.
He smiled at Klaus. Well, pal, looks like we’re going to make it.
The big man said nothing, but simply pulled a switchblade from his pocket, being jerked back still further as the strength of his grip on the anchor was reduced by half, and hacked at the fingers of Indy’s left hand. Indy screamed as agony flooded through them, and he let go with that hand. Couldn’t this idiot hold a truce for a few seconds? Apparently not, as he raised his knife to finish Indy off.
Recognition dawned once more in Klaus’ eyes. This time it lasted less than a second before the propeller, caught on his shoelace, sucked him in.
Indy turned away from the blood red cloud surging through the water, grabbed back onto the anchor, and pulled himself up. He surfaced, taking a gulp of air, but had no time to think before the water in front of him erupted with machine gun fire. From the speedboat parked a few feet away, Gutterbuhg pointed his finger at the helpless archaeologist and smiled.
“Gute Nacht, Dr. Jones.”
Indy heard a gunshot, but not from a machine gun, and then pieces of spring, metal and sprockets flew from the Nazi's arm in a shower of sparks. Shocked, then furious, he spun around.
Dashiell zipped by in a slick speedboat of his own, its side adorned with the American flag, his pistol already aimed for another shot. Gutterbuhg ducked down and directed Rudolf to take them away, toward a cluster of docks, so Dashiell instead came back around next to the ocean liner where Indy waited patiently.
“Scraggy said you might be needing some help, sport,” he explained.
From anyone but you, Indy thought, but truth be told, right now he could have kissed the man's beautiful face himself. With an appreciative nod, he dropped into the boat. Dashiell hit the gas without waiting for him to get comfortable.
It figured, of course, that Dashiell would be good at everything – at least Indy hoped so, as his fate was somewhat out of his hands at the moment. Their pursuit of the Nazis took them beneath the docks, around a virtual forest of wooden poles that flew by at breakneck speed, invisible in the darkness until they came much too close for comfort. Fish hooks and nets jumped out at them too, and the handsome blond man had to veer left and right to avoid various abandoned rafts and rowboats.
Indy decided to calm his mind by taking Dashiell's gun and exchanging gunfire with the one German who, no longer unconscious, could still shoot back. The impotent Gutterbuhg had lost his calm demeanor as he radioed frantically for help.
The path ahead cleared of obstacles for a moment, and Dashiell pulled up alongside them, the edges of the boats scraping together with visible sparks. Arnold aimed his Luger at Indy, but the archaeologist was faster than his trigger finger. They fell, rolled, tumbled and struggled for the gun as beneath them, the crack between the speedboats oscillated back and forth in size. Up ahead, an enormous stone pole emerged from the darkness.
“Indy!” Dashiell screamed. “Roll out!”
Indy gave up on the Luger and rolled back onto Dashiell's boat. Arnold pointed the gun at him once more, a triumphant smile plastered on his face right up to the moment the boats separated and he smacked into the pole.
Dashiell turned away from the wheel for a moment. “You okay, sport?”
Indy forced himself to grin. Nothing some bandages and a good spa treatment wouldn't fix, but – Indy lost his grin and screamed. “Dash!”
Dashiell turned back. The speedboat was heading toward a solid wooden wall, with a sign reading FUTTERMAN'S FISHING WAREHOUSE. The Nazis had already made a sharp turn to avoid it, but even the perfect Dashiell had no time to follow suit. Indy hit the deck as they arched upward, at an angle, and crashed through the wall in a shower of splinters. The boat skidded across the warehouse floor and screeched to a stop near the opposite wall.
Shaken for probably the first time in his life, Dashiell stumbled out. “That wasn't so bad,” he said, “but I guess we've lost them.”
“Like hell we have,” Indy said, running to a window. I didn't come this far to let those other two bastards get away. Outside, close by, they shot out of the docks and sped across the open water.
With one solid motion, he kicked open the window as he released the now sufficiently airdried whip from his body with a snap of his wrist. With another snap it shot forward and attached itself to the rear of the speedboat. As Dashiell gaped, the whip tightened and pulled him out the window.
“See ya 'round, sport!” he called out behind him.
Gutterbuhg and Rudolf were exchanging a victorious laugh, and Tyki was sinking further into despair, when they both noticed their additional passenger at the same time. Behind them, Dr. Indiana Jones was water skiing in a most unconventional manner that he certainly hadn't learned in graduate school.
The red-faced Wachtmeister's mouth fell open, then he slammed his fist on the dashboard. He removed a sharp knife and began to slice through the whip. Indy saw what he was doing, but had an even more pressing concern when a shot whizzed by his head, then another, then another. From behind. He turned to see a second speedboat in hot pursuit, loaded up with five Germans and their various pistols and rifles, all being put to use.
They should have taught me this in graduate school, Indy thought as he swerved, spun and jumped to avoid the bullets. I'm adding it to my curriculum from now on. You never know when – His whip snapped and he plunged once more into the water, directly into the path of the second boat.
Tyki hid his eyes. Gutterbuhg laughed again. The other Nazis put down their guns and gave each other a round of handshakes.
None of them could have seen Indy, very much alive, straddling the bottom of the speeding boat, holding on with all his strength, climbing toward one side against the pressure of rushing water. They don't know who they're dealing with, and I'm not about to give them a chance to learn. He climbed aboard and moved like lightning toward the soldiers, their backs to him, still congratulating each other.
He moved like lightning, grabbing one and tossing him overboard like a sack of sauerkraut, then sending another after him with a swift punch to the stomach. The other two not busy driving the speedboat tackled him to the deck.
Gutterbuhg looked back at the commotion. A growl of frustration escaped his lips. Impossible. But looking forward again, something else caught his eye – two gargantuan ocean liners moving toward each other, the opening between them growing steadily smaller. He smiled. Dr. Jones' annoying persistence was about to come to an end. “Fahren Sie durch,” he ordered.
Rudolf swallowed hard, but complied.
One soldier pinned Indy down while the other removed a thick metal chain from his neck, a red swastika dangling from it. With a grin, savoring the luxury of doing things more slowly than with bullets, he wrapped it around Indy's neck and squeezed.
Through his fluttering eyes, Indy saw Gutterbuhg's speedboat up ahead approaching the ocean liners, saw the gap close to ten feet, then less. He was nearly unconscious, though, and far more distracted by the soldiers' giggling as they tightened the chain further. They must not realize how immature they sound, he thought.
With less than an inch to spare, Gutterbuhg's speedboat squeezed between the larger ships. The second speedboat didn't have such a luxury. The driver's scream distracted the other two Germans from their playtime, allowing Indy to break free and dive overboard an instant before their vessel was crushed with a shriek of rending metal. Flaming pieces of wreckage shot out the other side of the small gap into the night sky. The explosion lit Gutterbuhg's grinning, sadistic face and Tyki's fear-filled eyes.
Several feet away, Indiana Jones surfaced, swam for the nearby shore, and climbed out of the water. He rubbed his reddened neck as he caught his breath. The pain in the fingers of his left hand had now been numbed by the cold, so there was something to be thankful for, at least. He looked into the distance at the fleeing speedboat, too far away to catch now even if he still had his whip intact.
Gutterbuhg's rage at seeing the archaeologist's living, breathing silhouette quickly gave way to smugness. Perhaps this was for the better, after all. Let Dr. Jones survive to see his failure, to see the prize slip right through his verdammt persistent fingers. Let him go back to his friends and explain that after all his efforts, the little Ungeziefer was gone.
The Nazi's maniacal laugh reverberated through the open night air.
Next: Chapter Six
