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By Jonathan Michael
- Part III -
Journey to Ravenna
The Italian
luxury liner SS Conte Di Savoia
cut through the restless Atlantic surf on the first of its scheduled
six nights at sea. The destination of the two thousand passengers on board
was the ship’s homeport of Naples. Indiana Jones took leave from the lively
main ballroom to walk off a generous dose of venison and pasta, amid the
company of the night sky and the cool misty air. The deck stood quiet
and free of many passengers, with only a few clusters here or there taking
their brandy, small talk, and cigarettes al
fresco. Blending nicely with the soft jingle of some wind chimes were
the distant notes of an eight piece orchestra, entertaining in gala fashion
those still partaking in the festive dancing and dining that typified
the maiden evenings of such intercontinental voyages. As he walked along
the rail, Indy peered down for a moment to gauge how high the sea was
riding. He could hear the ship’s mighty keel thudding through the swells,
and feel the spray of the rolling whitecaps as the liner cut through their
every assault. The mild rock of the ship left him feeling woozy, so he
decided to focus on other things.
Indy
gazed at his wristwatch and then slowly over his shoulder.
Perhaps
it was because he was on a fascist nation’s vessel, or perhaps it was
due to a groomed and seasoned sense of danger, he held the suspicion someone
on board was watching him. He had embarked on this journey hoping to find
some relaxing and innocuous time to pick over some research material,
but in recalling
his
last trip to Italy, he was beginning to doubt he’d be granted such a holiday.
Thinking
it over, he offered himself a slight, comforting grin that he had chosen
to pack his 38 Webley and trusted bullwhip along with his clothes, literature,
field kit, and fedora. One could never be too cautious or prepared in
these days. Days of global depression, unstable governments, and an expanding
list of professional adversaries, whom for the most part he had managed
to keep at bay. He looked once more, failing to detect anyone ominous
lurking about.
“Relax,
doctor,” he mused. He adjusted his bow tie. “No one is there.”
But
someone of interest did stand ahead.
Indy made his way forward, where he detected the faint outline of a woman
standing alone near the rail. Her loose clothing fluttered in the mild
breeze. As he drew closer, he could see that her hands were clasped behind
her back, her gaze deeply fixed toward where they were destined for. Each
slight rise and fall of her body was not being caused by the sway of the
ship, but rather self-induced by a rhythmic rocking between her heels
and toes.
As
he moved closer, Indy took inventory of her long curly hair as it spun
and danced upon her back and shoulders. She was dressed in baggy black
pantaloons, tied off at the ankles over white socks finely embroidered
with gold thread. As she suddenly turned, he noticed a red silk sash layered
over her midriff, and above it a white blouse beneath a black waist coat
also embroidered with leaves of gold thread along the collar and lapels.
Her face was lightly colored with blush, a touch of lipstick, and mascara.
Features
so lovely, familiar, enticing.
He
thought her stunning, and it finally struck him they had met once before.
“Misses..?”
Not knowing her husband’s surname, Indy had no choice but to go less formal.
“Hope. Good evening. I’m not sure if you recall, but we--”
“Of
course I remember our meeting, Doctor Jones,” she assured, eliciting a
pleasure with his company in her tone, gaze and smile. “It’s so fine to
again see you. Why are you traveling to Italy? Business or pleasure?”
Indy
settled beside her. “I’m hoping for a bit of both. And you?”
She
coyly looked up to him. “I’m visiting family, one might say.”
“Is
your father with you?”
She
answered, “No,” and turned slightly to peer out to the sea. “Whenever
a storm hits New England, I always try to go to the ocean. The big waves,
the great roar of the wind and water as they seek freedom upon the loose
sands… I’ve always found it quite beautiful and exhilarating. But alas,
it was always from the safety of shore. Out here, adrift in its realm,
however, I cannot feel anything but vulnerable, weak, and small. I wish
my father was here with me.”
“Then
why are you out here and not below decks?”
She
dipped her head, and said with difficulty, “Because there comes a time
one needs to face those things which scare them so.”
A few distant chords of laughter interrupted a brief silence. Indy could
sense the wave of despair that had suddenly dampened her initial exuberance
in greeting him. Once again, he felt a sense of duty to protect this woman
from whatever demons that were haunting her. He tried to jostle what lay
at the core of such a sensation, but like trying in the dark to find the
right key on an overburdened chain, the door to such an answer remained
locked.
“If
you don’t mind me asking, what happened to your father?”
She
sighed with a seemingly eternal sadness in his plight. “Like so many other
good men, he was wounded in the war. Though he was beyond service years,
he wanted to show his love and loyalty for his new country, so he enlisted
in the American Army. He always had such a thirst for adventure, and due
to his linguistic skills and background, he was assigned as a liaison
officer to the British and French units stationed in Salonika. He never
saw action, but one day the lorry he was riding slid down a cliff. He
was laid up for years with a broken hip and other complications. For a
long time I thought he was lost forever, but fate was kind and we again
found one another.” She looked up, concluding with fortitude, “Fate is
like that sometimes. One can never lose faith that what is meant to be,
is meant to be.”
“You’re
a romantic,” he chose to comment.
“Actually,
I’m famished. Did you enjoy your dinner, Doctor Jones?”
Without
trying to pry, he said with a small smile he knew most women found charming,
“Dinner could have been better. I didn’t see you there. Though the ballroom
was crowded, I don’t see how I could have missed you.”
She
took hold of the flapping end of her sash. “I wasn’t dressed for the occasion,”
she smiled, self-consciously. “I don’t usually dress this way, but for
some reason, for this journey, it seemed appropriate. It brings me courage;
war paint, one might say. It’s been many years since I’ve ventured toward
home.”
Indy
raised an eyebrow. “I’ve traveled to Italy many times, and nowhere do
they dress as you are. It’s far more exotic, though no less lovely, than
anything I’ve seen in some time.”
Her
lips rose to his flirtatious gaze. “And what makes you think I’m Italian?”
He
tapped the tips of his brown shoes on the deck, quietly pondering her
take of him. “I heard your father speaking Italian fluently with a few
conventioneers. Please pardon my assumption.”
“Italian,
Greek, Turkish… He speaks them all quite well, and there is no need to
apologize,” she assured. “The Italians are a fine people, they are just
not my people, and on occasion we have failed to see eye-to-eye with them.
No.., my people once lived in Dalmatia.”
He said in Serbo-Croatian,
“Zemlja poznata po ljepoti
svojih ljudi.”
Assuming correctly that he had said something flattering, she thanked
him by uttering the only word in Serbo-Croatian she knew. “Hvala.”
Fortunately, it was appropriate, and he reverted back to English.
The
breeze was kicking up, and Indy noticed as she wrapped her arms around
her waist that she was shivering. He removed his beige jacket. “May I?”
To
her nod, he proceeded to place it over her shoulders. “Always the gentleman,
I presume. It suits you well, Doctor Jones. My father spoke very highly
of you on our train ride back to Boston. I think you reminded him of himself
in his younger years. At least before his accident. I then helped him
research your career. I was somewhat discouraged that the Antiquities
Journal and newspaper articles made you out to be a bit of a swashbuckler.”
He
said facetiously, “Well even us old swashbucklers eventually put away
our rum and swords. I’m afraid some of my exploits have been exaggerated.”
“A
woman in every port, no less?” she lightly teased. “A handsome and worldly
man such as yourself surely holds a trail of broken hearts behind him.”
Indy
gave her a disenchanted look. “But on occasion, it’s been me who has suffered
most, and for what it’s worth, I haven’t been to sea for some time now.”
She
was pleased with his answer. “It’s nice to know, that as a man, you’re
secure enough to admit that some things can be painful and difficult to
mend.”
Noticing she was staring over his shoulder, Indy turned his head.
The silhouette of a man wearing an overcoat and hat was partly visible.
He was smoking a cigarette, and failed to disguise his attentiveness towards
their conversation until it was too late.
He
turned back to Hope. “I’m sorry to have engaged you for so long. Your
husband, I take it?”
“My
husband passed away many years ago,” she shared. “I’m quite alone. I thought
that man was waiting on you. He’s been there for some time now.”
Indy
nodded and bit his lip, his intuition confirmed. “Wait here a moment.”
Indy turned to make his way toward the shadowy figure, but after a few
steps it was clear that the man was gone. He chose to shrug it off. Perhaps
the man was simply intrigued with his exotically dressed company, something
he could not begrudge any man, for he surely was.
Still,
some suspicion lingered.
He
returned to Hope. “Well.., since we’re both alone, I’d be honored if you’d
join me inside for a drink at the bar. This cold air is beginning to get
to me.”
His
smile was certainly enticing enough, but she chose to say, “That sounds
lovely, but not tonight. I’d like to retire for the evening.”
He
extended his arm in a gesture of escort. She took it after hesitating,
and they proceeded toward a door that led to the main promenade of the
five-deck luxury liner. She allowed him to take her as far as the master
staircase.
“I
can manage from here, thank you.”
Indy
reluctantly acquiesced. “Breakfast tomorrow, say eight o’clock?”
She glanced to him askance, a corner of her lip rising with anticipation,
and then slid her shoulders out of his jacket. As she passed it back,
she said, “You may reserve a seat for me.”
“And
please, you can call me Indy.”
She decided, that for now, it was best to keep things more formal. “Sweet dreams, Doctor Jones.”
* * *
Despite the best efforts of his car’s wipers and headlights, Wolfram Steiner
was having a difficult time steering his Mercedes Benz through the heavy
sheets of cold rain. The isolated road was narrow, and filled with sharp
curves as it winded itself through the black forests of the Bavarian high
country. He pulled a cigarette out of a monogrammed silver case and lit
it with his lighter, taking a long puff in an effort to dampen his souring
temper. It was a miserable night to be called to the lodge, especially
at this late hour. However his orders were clear and he was determined
to fulfill them, for that was part of his nature. Though Austrian by birth,
those who knew Wolfram Steiner considered him a renaissance man for the
new Germany. He looked physically pure in his Aryan features, was reputed
to be intellectually cunning, and his actions seemed morally blinded by
the depths of his fanatical loyalty to Adolf Hitler.
But
on nights like these, he realized it came at a price.
Only
a few other cars were parked nearby. “Blasted imbeciles,” he scowled,
as an attendant ran over to park the car for him. If this meeting was
important enough to drag him out on such a night, so it should be for
the others, especially since they took the lodge’s cryptic mission far
more seriously.
As
he approached the front door, Steiner was greeted by the fierce stares
of two burly stormtroopers. One approached and gave him a thorough frisking
while the other observed, his Luger drawn and ready to fire. After his
attaché case was inspected and handed back, Steiner tossed his cigarette
into a puddle and tightened the belt of his leather trench coat, now knowing
something big was stirring just beyond the door. He reminded himself that,
no matter what he thought of all these pagan rituals and the grandiose
hocus-pocus, it was the duty of a good Nazi to play along.
The Grand Order of Thor, like many of the Black Lodges of Germany, was
a secretive society immured in the mystique of the occult, the study of
cryptic powers, and the procurement of ornate artifacts believed valuable
to the pursuit of Nazi world dominance. Members of the various lodges
were among the elite of German society: Past nobility, doctors, entreupeners,
educators, and foremost the founders of the German Workers Party and the
advocates of National Socialism, Adolf Hitler and many of his inner circle
included. Among the dark callings of this particular lodge was Project
König Adler: The search for
the Lost Crowns of Illyria.
Rolf
Gruber, the estate’s proprietor, met Steiner at the door. His face was
fraught with perspiration, and a wisp of the outdoor air instantly fogged
his monocle. “You’ve kept him waiting, Wolfram,” he anxiously hissed.
Steiner
gave a cold stair to the rotund, balding man. “What is this all about?”
“A
very important visitor. Only a select few have been called to see him.”
Steiner
passed his hat and jacket to the butler, and calmly followed Gruber’s
trail of short, choppy steps down a corridor filled with hanging Swastikas.
They settled into a large room holding the mounted heads of elks, foxes,
and bears along the walls. A few lamps and the faint glow of a large fireplace
poorly illuminated the room. It left those sitting around a mahogany table
in mere shadow. Serving as the table’s centerpiece was a polished marble
statue of a muscular arm holding Mjolnir; the mythical Hammer of Thor.
Despite
the poor lighting, Steiner could discern the profiles of the lodge’s senior
members, the Grand Regents of Thor. Their tense postures were half-bowed
in worship to the back of a plush chair that faced away from the table
in the far side of the room. Steiner keened his eyes, but was only able
to detect the back of a man’s head. Seated next to this mystery man was
a woman with blonde hair, with whom he quietly conferred. To break the
tense silence filling the room, Steiner offered a restrained greeting
to the regents and claimed an open seat, thankful that a servant did not
delay in filling his goblet with cognac.
He
offered a toast to Adolf Hitler and took a pleasing sip.
“The
Führer!” the regents enthusiastically responded.
After
a few hushed words, Gruber left the mystery man’s side and escorted the
woman to the table. Steiner swallowed hard.
They had been sent to America together and
had instantly engaged in a torrid affair aboard the German liner SS Bremen. They had explored the decadent wastelands of America, and
then returned back to their home of exile. He had sent her packing soon
after. She was now a rising star in the SS Ahnerbe,
more popularly referred to as the Ancestral Heritage Society. The
Ahnerbe was made up of elite
archaeologists entrusted by Hitler to track down a vast array of antiquities--
including the Spears of Longinus, Illapu and Achilles, the Holy Grail,
the Lost Ark of the Covenant, Aaron’s Rod, the Philosopher’s Stone-- along
with the secret resting place of Atlantis. Anything that might grant incredible
powers to the Reich’s military legions.
As she took a stance at the head of the table
and opened a leather folder, Steiner could not help but be enthralled
by the sight of her.
Rolf
Gruber announced, “Gentlemen, I give you the Reichsführer’s
personal consultant in the Ancestral Heritage Society. Doktor Schneider, if you please.”
Elsa
Schneider curtly nodded to Gruber as he took his seat. “Grand Regents
of Thor, I am here tonight on the highest calling. As you know, I have
just returned from Egypt, and the Führer
is not pleased. We therefore shall change our strategy. Herr
Steiner. Be good enough to update the Order on our mission.”
Steiner
could sense her tone was patronizing. He had believed her to be cold-blooded
enough not to place any care in their illicit tryst, nor in his abandonment
of her. Alas, she was still a young thing, emotional, her heart yet forged
of iron.
He
gave her a cold, mocking glare, stating, “During
our trip to America, we obtained the desired information regarding the
Crown of Valor. However, it is far from conclusive or complete.”
“Did
you acquire it yourself?” a regent asked. “Did you miss something?”
Steiner
sneered to the questioning of his competence. “I am not a cat burglar,
Herr Frahmer. I enlisted one
of my more intriguing American operatives, Amsel,
for the job. Amsel, is one
most intimate with Herr Leka.”
He lit a cigarette, and took a triumphant puff. “And as you are aware,
my people are most thorough.”
Gruber’s
jowls swelled with anger. “Then why do they keep failing us?”
Wolfram Steiner wiped a fresh bead of perspiration from his forehead.
His last two assignments had not gone well, and he knew his status in
Berlin and among the regents was faltering. He also knew that those who
made a habit of disappointing such men had a way of turning up dead. The
artifact he had arranged to be stolen from the Vienna War Museum, purported
to be one of the Lost Crowns of Illyria, had turned out to be a worthless
facsimile. But far more damming had been his role in the recently failed
Nazi coup to gain control of Austria. As the German’s top liaison with
the Austrian Nazi Party, he had played a significant role in the debacle
that had left the Austrian Chancellor, Engelbert Dollfuss, assassinated
at the hands of Nazi henchmen. The popular backlash had left Steiner an
indicted criminal in his homeland, had cost Elsa Schneider’s father his
life, and had pushed back Adolf Hitler’s timeline for the Anschlüss:
Austria’s forced union with Germany.
The
collective glares of the others in the room left Steiner speechless.
“While
you have been loafing about the beer halls and brothels of Munich, Wolfram,”
Elsa Schneider sneered, “Amsel circumvented
protocol and contacted us with rather disturbing news.”
“And
what news was that?” Steiner questioned with annoyance.
Elsa Schneider slid across the table a bound leather folder. “It seems we have some newfound competition.”
Inside
the leather folder rested the SS Ahnerbe’s
dossier of one Doctor Henry Jones Jr. Steiner gave it a quick study as
the others talked amongst themselves. It stated the American’s age was
35, that he was a professor of archaeology at Princeton University, an
expert on the occult, and a man of some reputation for conducting adventurous
fieldwork. Foremost, the SS had already targeted him as a very capable
nemesis after his sabotage of one of their recent forays into the Arctic
as they searched for Ultima Thule.
Steiner
took the accompanying picture in hand, thinking the subject’s taste in
hats was uncouth. “What interest
is this man to me?”
Schneider
informed, “Amsel made initial
contact with Doktor Jones in
New York eight days ago. Jones had contact with Herr Leka, and he is now en route to Italy. We believe he will then
proceed either to Egypt or Albania.”
“And
you believe he has attained information that we might have missed?”
“That
you might have missed,” Schneider
hissed. “However, the true nature of Doktor Jones’ trip remains ambiguous. In the final communiqué, Amsel
assured us that Doktor Jones’
voyage will be closely monitored, and took the initiative to enlist assistance
in the surveillance. We hope to reestablish contact once the Conte
Di Savoia docks in Naples. It has thus become imperative that we pursue
both Crowns of Illyria with increased vigor.”
Steiner placed down the dossier, taking a moment to sip some cognac as
he contemplated this sudden change in strategy. All of their top people
were in Egypt, searching for the Sarcophagus of Alexander the Great, as
the Reichstag had prioritized the acquisition of the Crown of Vanity over
its lesser-known counterpart. He lit a cigarette, taking a moment to check
if the mystery man had moved. He hadn’t.
“Why not just kill the American interloper, and continue as planned?”
“The
dig in Egypt will continue unabated,” a thin and refined regent with beady
eyes and a hooked nose, informed. “We are sending you to Albania to initiate
a grander scheme.”
Though
he was highly qualified, being familiar with the culture, geography, and
language of the region, Steiner was displeased with such a proposal. He
had grown accustomed to the finer things in life, and knew he would find
none of them in that mountainous wasteland. He offered in mild protest,
“Truly, have circumstances become so imperative?”
“Most
definitively,” Elsa Schneider firmly stated. “This past August, the Führer
met with the Turkish ambassador. A discussion over The Lost Crowns of
Illyria ensued. Turkey’s great leader, Mustafa Kemal, is of Albanian origin,
and is fascinated with the prospect of attaining at least one of them.
It seems our former Ottoman allies want to lay claim to Cyprus, and they
are willing to defend it against the likely British and Greek interventions.
Knowing of our current search for the Crowns, the Führer has made an arrangement
to offer them the Crown of Valor in return for certain compensation.”
“And
what compensation might that be?” Steiner grumbled.
“The
compensation,” the unknown man sitting the plush chair proclaimed in a
high, very unpleasantly pitched voice, “is nothing more than a partnership
in the coming world.”
Wolfram Steiner’s face fell pale as the man stood and walked over to join
them. Heinrich Himmler, the chief of the SS
and Gestapo, was second only to Hitler in power, and the Führer’s
right hand executioner. Though he was an unimposing man with pale skin,
bookish glasses, a small mustache, and a shaved head, even devout party
members quaked in his presence. Himmler had recently orchestrated the
already infamous “Blood Purge” that had left hundreds of the Nazi Party’s most notorious founders
either executed, imprisoned, or simply vanished. He was reputed to be
fascinated with the occult, and always dressed in black.
Steiner
stood at attention. “We’re honored by your presence, Reichsführer.”
Himmler’s
face wrinkled with conceit to the feeble acknowledgment, the reflection
of the fireplace’s flames dancing upon his spectacles. He twisted a riding
crop in his hands as he walked to the table, and used it to tap Elsa Schneider
on the backside, granting her permission to sit down.
The
Reichsführer spat in his high-pitched shrill, “Picture in ten years a
Germany stretching from the Caucasus Mountains to those of the Pyrenees,
bordered at its poles by our Scandinavian cousins to the north, and a
revived Turkish Empire to the south. The Führer envisions such.”
“A
great vision, indeed,” Steiner responded. “How might I be of service?”
Himmler’s
lips contorted into a scowl, and then he cracked the riding crop upon
the table, straightening everyone’s back. “By completing this assignment!”
he rang maniacally. “Acquire the artifact! In return, Germany will be
given ports on the Black Sea, and eventually the Mediterranean for our
submarines. Turkey will become a long-term ally that will help us choke
off the Soviet Union, provide a bridgehead to the oil in the Caucasus
and Arabia, and an army to help us kick the British out of Egypt once
and for all. In return, we will eventually grant the Turks their lost
lands in the Balkan Peninsula, and thus secure the southern border of
our coming empire.”
All of the regents stood, applauding vigorously.
Elsa
Schneider’s gaze at Himmler was that of a star-struck protégé.
“I
will not let Germany down, your excellency!” Steiner assured. “I will
attain the Crown of Valor and eliminate the American interloper.”
“You
will attain the artifact,” Himmler corrected, “but by no means kill the
American. We have other plans for this Jones character. Such are your
orders as well, Doktor Schneider,
when you return to lead the digs in Egypt. ”
This
unsettled Steiner, for he had hoped that Elsa Schneider would be dispatched
to Albania with him. He wished to rekindle their affair. To again taste
her flirtatious lips, her soft skin, quench her animalistic appetites.
“I’m confused, Reichsführer. Is this Jones not an enemy of the State?”
Himmler
tapped his cheek with the handle of his riding crop. A malicious, demonic,
grin contorted his thin lips. “Doktor Jones,” he laughed, pausing until the others laughed with him.
Steiner
joined in, mesmerized with Elsa’s laugh; so beautiful, so teasing, so
misleading to men who might not know her as he did.
All immediately fell silent as Himmler said, “As for the fate of Doktor Jones, let me just say this: The cat does not kill the mouse if it is hungry for cheese.”
* * *
When Cabals Collide
Indiana
Jones peered into a mirror to fix his bow tie, his reflection offering
a clear image of his inner enthusiasm and peace of mind. He felt rested,
invigorated, upbeat, and light-hearted. As he made the final knot, he
hummed a light tune as he pondered how quick and smooth this Atlantic
crossing had passed. Tomorrow morning, the Conte
Di Savoia would dock in Naples, and after a brief stay in Rome, he
would take temporary leave of the capital and journey north to the ancient
town of Ravenna. His mission was to pursue any clues that might shed light
onto the possible resting place of the Holy Grail.
Business and pleasure, indeed!
And making the journey even more enjoyable had been the many hours
away from his books and cabin that he had spent in the company of Hope
Leka. They had rendezvoused often to converse over a light lunch or evening
cocktails. They had flirtatiously sparred during spirited rounds of gin
rummy, backgammon, and shuffleboard. And just last evening, they had danced
arm and arm to the soft and lulling chords of the grand lounge’s orchestra,
as the musicians serenaded them with the music of the ages.
A knock on the door disrupted Indy’s preparations. He stepped across
the expanse of his small cabin to free the door. “Marcus! Come in!”
Partially graying hair neatly parted and wearing a pressed blue
suit, Marcus Brody ventured in and took a seat on the bed’s corner. “My..,
what fine spirits I find you in this evening. I was afraid that
you’d been abducted.” He shifted a pile of books from the bed to a table.
“Have you been lost in your research.., or is Miss Leka, per chance, responsible?”
Outside of dinner each evening and a few hands of rummy in the card room,
he had not seen much of Marcus over the duration of the trip. Indy turned
to him, his face holding a boyish glow. The amount of expensive cologne
on him proved undeniable evidence for what was on his mind.
“I’ve
been trying to make heads or tails over these drawings.” He passed over
a few ruffled sheets of paper. Upon them were sketches of eight stained
glass windows of the apostles that stood the walls of the Basilica of
San Vitale. “I stopped by dad’s house and made copies of these from his
Grail journal. He seems pretty confident they hold a clue to the Grail’s
location.”
“Naturally, you couldn’t simply ask him,” Marcus said with a dejected
frown.
“He wasn’t exactly home when I stopped by,” Indy acknowledged.
Marcus shook his head with despair. He briefly looked over the
drawings, then settled them next to the desk’s lamp. “I don’t mean to
pry, Indy, but don’t you find it odd that Miss Leka is on this ship?”
Indy gave him a puzzled look. “Marcus…Whatever do you mean?”
A bit uncomfortable with his speculations, Brody tentatively said,
“It’s simply something… The way she initially reacted in seeing you at
the Plaza Hotel. I don’t believe you noticed, but she stepped back as
if seeing a ghost. And on top of that, her father knew we were taking
the Savoia on this passage, yet never mentioned that so was his daughter.”
“Marcus...” Indy laughed. “She’s a very traditional woman and there
is nothing devious about her presence here. I know you’re friends with
her father, but… Would it make you feel better if I told you we haven’t
even kissed?”
Marcus waved off his implications. “I’m not so concerned with all
that as with your well being,” he assured in a fatherly fashion. “Heaven
knows what I’m thinking. Mere foolish intuition, I suspect. It’s just
that, with your loss of Deidre, and then Alecia Dunstin, I don’t wish
to see you… The end of the curse, you must know, will not assure prosperity.”
Indy leaned against the cabin’s dresser. He nodded, commenting,
“That now that the Crystal Skull is back where it belongs, that I’m more
vulnerable? That the curse in itself assured my survival so that “only
those I love” could be placed
in mortal danger?” Indy patted Marcus’ shoulder. “I’ve given that some
thought myself, and in time I’m sure such a theory will be tested. But
not on this trip Marcus, and surely not at the hand’s of Hope Leka. Trust
me.”
Marcus rose and patted Indy’s shoulder. “Very well, Indiana. What
do you say we get a move on. Shall she be joining us for dinner?”
Indy placed on his glasses and opened the door. “She doesn’t seem
to like crowded ball rooms,” he said. “But perhaps we’ll be surprised.”
Dinner that evening proved a splendor to the pallet: Prime rib, lasagna,
salad, soup, a horde of vegetables, topped off with ample servings of
Sumatra coffee, sparkling champagne, and rich tiramisu. It was not until
after Indy settled into one of the lounges with Marcus that Hope Leka
appeared. Her black cotton dress was pleated below the waist and fit her
figure snugly. The low neckline exposed the seductive slope of her shoulders.
Black shoes, silver bracelets, earrings, and a laced shawl in her hands
filled out her wardrobe. Her long curly hair was styled high and wild
in a rather fanciful fashion.
Both men stood as she joined them at their table. “Mister Brody.
Indiana.”
Marcus pulled out a chair. “How good of you to join us.”
“Thank you,” she smiled, taking the seat. Around them, the well-dressed
crowd was sounding off with bursts of reverie. “It will be nice to feel
firm ground once more. I see that spirit is shared.”
“Just a good excuse to have one for the road,” Indy grinned, toasting
the crowd’s exuberance with his Martini. “Can I get you something?”
“I would sell my soul for a bowl of mint sherbet,” she childishly
admitted.
“So be it!” Indy waved with flair.
“Here, here,” Marcus insisted. “Let me go in search of such a treasure.”
With that, Marcus went off on his quest. Indy studied her elegant
look with admiration. He sampled his drink to wet his suddenly parched
whistle. “So, tomorrow you’ll be off and on your way.”
“As shall you be,” she confirmed. “To Rome with Mister Brody?”
“To Rome and then Ravenna to.., conduct research.” Out of nowhere,
he asked, “Would you care to join me? It’s on your way, and you can easily
pick up a ferry there to either Split or Dubrovnik.”
She appeared startled by his offer. “If you’re not careful, I might
take you up on that.” After a pause, she said, “Indy, there’s something
I need to tell-- “
“Success!” Marcus said with jubilance upon his return. He placed
a dish of green sherbet and a spoon to the table. “Now, mission accomplished,
I think I’ll retire to the card room. I’ve enlisted myself in a bridge
foursome with some rather pleasant Neapolitans. It will help me rekindle
my rustic Italian.”
Indy and Hope bid Marcus a pleasant night, then returned to their singular,
cozy cabal. As he sipped his Martini and she spooned her desert, they
shared talk of their many similarities. Both were teachers; Indy at Princeton
and Hope in a South Boston grammar school. Both had fathers who were absorbed
by a love for classical mythology and lore. Both had lost their mothers
at the age of twelve, though Hope and her father had only grown closer
through such a tragedy, while Indy and his own father simply further apart.
Both had been widowed early into their only marriages, and both held a
fancy for black coffee and mint sherbet. And now, here, they sat together
cruising the Mediterranean, peering eye to eye, chests nearly beating
heart to heart.
As the lounge’s pianist and singer commenced their evening medleys,
Hope Leka prayed they would not perform something soft and tender, for
she might cry. She was falling in love, and the pull of such a passionate
force could only complicate matters. The pianist chose to betray her,
sounding the initial notes of George Gershwin’s popular ballad, Someone
to watch over me.
“Would you mind if we stepped outside, Indy?” she said as the singer
kicked in with the lyrics. “There’s something I’d like to discuss with
you more--”
“Privately,” he finished for her, as the word seemed lost in her
pause.
She nodded, and they vacated the lounge. She placed her shawl over
her shoulders as they stepped onto the outer deck.
It was a calm and mild night, with solemn moonbeams dancing upon
the tranquil waves of the sea. They stopped at the railing and leaned
upon it, studying the beauty and aesthetic peace of it all. The ship
was moving at only a few knots as not to arrive prior to morning,
and in the far distance they could see the coastal lights of the Italian
mainland.
“I’ve had such a lovely time on this trip, Indy. Sharing time with
you. But I haven’t been fully honest about some things.” She turned to
face him so she could gauge his reaction, but a flush of conviction in
her cause fought back her more heartfelt sentiments, and again firmed
up her constitution.
“Go on,” Indy insisted.
Hope demurred. His invitation to accompany him to northern Italy
made any immediate need for disclosure less pressing. She chose to simply
say, “I’m not shy of crowds. I haven’t joined you for dinner because I
only purchased a third class ticket. Actually, I just bought this dress
from one of the girls I’m sharing my cabin with. It’s a size too small,”
she blushed as he examined her. “I didn’t plan for such a festive voyage.”
Indy dipped his head, dejected, having thought something big was
coming. “I understand,” he callously shrugged. “There’s nothing wrong
with that.”
“Could we go to your cabin to talk?” she asked suddenly.
His brows and the corner of his lips lifted with anticipation.
He nodded and took hold of her hand.
They
walked inside and through the central promenade, down the large circular
grand staircase, then through the softly lit passageways en route to his
cabin. As they approached, Indy ruffled his pockets for his key.
Upon picking up a noise coming from inside his cabin, he froze
his hand as he extended it toward the keyhole.
When he turned to warn Hope to step back he saw the fist coming.
Hope screamed as a darkly dressed man lurking just behind them
lunged forward, striking Indy flush in the jaw. The blow sent him stumbling
back, but he recovered enough balance not to fall to the deck. Indy shook
off the punch and tried to gather his shaken senses. The burly man retrieved
a blackjack from his overcoat pocket and began swinging away. Indy barely
averted the blow, leaving the assailant’s hand to smash into the wall.
It temporarily gave Indy time to take the initiative. He lashed forward
and connected with a solid punch to the man’s ribs, then followed it up
with a blow to the head.
“Guenther!” the man shouted in a gritty voice.
Indy flashed a look to Hope, who stood hands to cheeks, her expression
one of shock and horror to this sudden outbreak of violence. He grimaced
with anger as he lifted the assailant up by the lapels of his overcoat.
“Bye the bye, we’ve yet to be introduced. I’m the man whose cabin you’re
rousting.”
He popped the man firmly in the gut, keeling him over. As he reached
back to deliver another blow, the door to his room opened. Another man
stormed out, tackling him. Indy wrestled furiously with the one named
Guenther as the man’s wounded colleague began kicking him in the side
with his boots.
“The tide is again turned,” the first one shouted in a thick German
accent.
“Karl! Help me subdue him,” Guenther grumbled, still struggling
upon Indy.
The burly Karl nodded, then turned to a tap on his shoulder. His eyes
widened with surprise as Hope punched him flush in the nose. She recoiled
her hand and stepped back, holding her limp wrist with her other hand,
grimacing in pain. She looked to the startled and angry man. Though his
nose was red, swollen, and bleeding, she surmised the blow had hurt her
more than him. As he began to storm toward her, the sight of Guenther
tumbling through the air gave her some courage. He crashed to the floor,
and a second later, Indy was up and heading to save her. He tapped Karl
upon the shoulder, and to her surprise the thug turned again, not having
learned his lesson. His head buckled back with extreme force to Indy’s
firm punch.
“Indy! Behind you!” Hope shouted as the man crashed in front of
her.
Indy spun around, but was again tackled by Guenther. As they struggled,
the door to the cabin directly across from Indy’s opened. Marcus looked
out, his head covered with a nightcap. “Good lord, Indy. Must you make
such a racket?”
“A little help, please?” Indy pleaded laying flush on his back,
doing his best to block Guenther’s furious blows.
Marcus vanished back into his room for a moment, then returned
to the fracas. In his hand was Indy’s 38 Webley. “My good, man. If you
please.”
Guenther looked over and stopped his assault in seeing the drawn
gun. He rose to his feet, as did his groggy colleague. Both assailants
put up their hands.
Indy jumped to his feet. He leaned over to pick up his glasses
and fix his ruffled jacket. He looked over both men. They were in their
thirties, well dressed, physically fit, and more than imposing adversaries.
“You’re not thieves. What were you looking for?”
“We mistook the cabin,” Karl said firmly. “A simple misunderstanding.”
“You can tell it to the ship’s security officer,” Indy huffed.
He looked over to Marcus. “Nazi agents, I bet. I’m learning to hate these
guys.”
Hope said, “I’ll get the steward.” She ran off down the hall calling
out to any nearby crew members for assistance.
As she took a corner and vanished from view, Indy frisked Guenther’s
coat pockets and pulled free the small leather journal that had been taken
from his cabin. He held it up to the man’s face. “What’s so important
about this?”
Guenther held up his chin in defiance. “You will find no satisfaction
here.”
Indy said, “Be careful with that gun, Marcus. You better hand it
over.”
Marcus let out a little chuckle. “Don’t worry, Indy! It’s not loaded.”
Indy’s eyes rolled back, dumfounded. He firmed up his stance as both men
immediately started toward him, but the sounding of a whistle and closing
shouts filled the hallway. Guenther and Karl froze, then turned and sprinted
with vigor, seeking their escape. Within moments the hall was filled with
white uniformed members of the crew, including a cook waving a rolling
pin high over the tip of his chef’s cap. The chief steward made his way
to Indy as three others sprinted past in chase of the fleeing assailants.
“Sir,” the man beckoned with great concern. “Are you injured?”
Indy rubbed his sore jaw, but seemed no worse for the wear. “I
can still chew. They’re German. Two burly guys over six feet in height.
They’re wearing dark overcoats. Light brown hair, clean shaven, steel
for knuckles.”
“They shall be apprehended,” the man assured. “Do you require a
doctor?”
“Just a few cubes of ice from the pantry will do.”
The steward snapped his fingers. The feisty cook ran off to retrieve
some.
Two of his men returned from their pursuit. One reported, “Sir.
Both men jumped overboard. A small boat was waiting for them. They have
escaped.”
“I must report this to the captain and notify the closest ports.
Doctor Jones, I will place an armed man outside of your room until we
reach shore.”
“That’s not necessary,” Indy assured. “It was just a misunderstanding.”
“As you wish.” The steward bowed, then led his men off down the
hall.
“I say,” Marcus interjected. “I didn’t manage that very well. It’s
a good thing the baggage boy mistakenly left one of your suitcases in
my room. I just noticed it this evening. Are you sure you’re all right,
Indy?”
Indy took hold of the gun Marcus held and tucked it into his waistline.
He shrugged a shoulder. “You know me, Marcus. This is just par for the
journey. But I’m curious to know what German agents wanted with this book.”
He slid the leather journal into his pocket. Hope soon returned
to the scene. She rushed over and gently rubbed his cheek, pleased in
the sight of him safe and triumphant. “One of those men was the one watching
us the other evening.”
Noting the shakiness of her voice, Indy grinned, “Well, don’t worry.
They decided to take an evening swim and won’t be bothering us again.”
“Wake me if there’s any more trouble,” Marcus insisted.
“Will do,” Indy nodded, and with that things were quiet again.
He looked to Hope and gently lifted her lilt forearm. “You pack quite
a punch.”
She blushed to his teasing. “It was like slamming
an anvil with a feather. You faired a little better. I think you’re rather
brave. What were they after?”
He didn’t want to worry her any further. “Who knows. I just have
a tendency to attract trouble. Isn’t that what the Antiquities Journal
said about me?”
She facetiously said, “So, it’s true. You are a bit of a swashbuckler.
Scared those two right off the plank. Though I’m still shaking, I should
be going.”
“I’d like it if you stayed.” As she bit her lip in contemplation,
Indy held up his palms. “I assure you, I’ve had my fill of physical recreation
for the evening.”
Hope let out a deep breath. “I’d feel safer staying with you, but—”
“Stay. I can sleep on the sofa,” Indy bartered.
She agreed.
Indiana pushed open the door to his cabin. What awaited was the expected
mess; tossed clothes, tipped books, toppled luggage. But since it was
a small room and he had few personal belongings in it, putting things
back in order went quickly, and he was pleased that the two thugs had
gotten away with nothing but a few bruises for their trouble. When a crewman
returned with a bucket of ice, Hope did not hesitate to wrap a handful
in a towel and gently press it to his bruises. After nursing him for a
while, she tossed the wet towel upon the table, brushed her hand lightly
over his cold and firm cheek, then finally leaned closer and kissed him.
As they parted lips, she shyly looked away. “I haven’t kissed a
man for some time. Just consider that a reward for your gallant defense
of me.”
Still immured in the taste of her lips and the sensation of her
alluring frame against his prone body, Indy contentedly chimed, “Considering
the reward, perhaps I should engage someone else in some fisticuffs before
we part ways.”
Hope Leka smiled to his silliness, then moved across the cabin
and turned off the lamp. It left the room in the most fleeting of light.
“Good news, Indiana. That won’t be necessary.”
* * *
A hectic morning of travel and bureaucratic hodgepodge had left Indiana
Jones sapped of most of his energy. He finally arrived with Marcus and
Hope at the Le Grand Hotel, which was located in the heart of Rome. After
disembarking the liner and passing through customs, Indy had arranged
with Marcus for the transportation by freight train of the many large
crates of artifacts destined to soon be displayed at the Museo
Nazionale Romano. Once that had been finished, Indy had been obligated
by Italian maritime law to file a formal account of the previous evening’s
assault. The process was conducted professionally, but overdrawn and tedious
for one anxious to be on his way. The local captain of the Carabinieri
had informed him that the two assailants had yet to be captured, and with
each hour that passed, the likelihood of success dwindled substantially.
Once free of the matter, Indy had rejoined his party and they had taken
a passenger train to Rome. His informal plan was to leave that evening
for Ravenna, stay for two days, then return to rejoin Marcus and take
in a leisurely tour of the city’s many cultural and historical pleasures
before they set sail for America on the tenth of November.
Indiana’s heels clicked as he stepped across the polished marble floor
of the hotel lobby, an expansive room that was decored with plants, muralled
walls, and furnished with an array of baroque chairs, sofas, and coffee
tables. He settled into a seat as the luggage boy escorted Marcus to the
reception desk. Since Hope was off using the powder room, Indy took a
moment to reach into a pocket of his gray overcoat to further study the
leather bound journal.
What could they have been
after? he pondered. Out of habit he scanned the hectic room and adjoining
terrazzo for signs of anyone that might appear suspicious.
“Everything is set,” Marcus’ voice sounded, breaking off his inspection.
“We are in room 303. I’ll hold your luggage until you return… What’s wrong,
Indy?”
He flashed an apologetic look for his ill attentiveness. “It’s
just all of these black uniformed Carabinieri, Fascist Militia, and the
innumerable motifs and statues of Mussolini everywhere. It’s not the Rome
that I remember.”
“Cheer up, old top,” Marcus encouraged. “Dictatorships come and
go, but the majesty of Rome shall spring eternal. I see you’re examining
that book again.”
Indy sat up in his chair and leaned forward as Marcus took the
seat across from him. He tapped the journal in his palm. “I need to find
someone who can translate this for me. It may explain a lot about what
happened last night.”
“Let me see that.” Indy passed it over. As he skimmed through a
few pages, Marcus asked, “What language is this written in?”
“It’s in Albanian. It was given to me on a dig long ago.”
Marcus gave him a look of bemusement. “Why ever don’t you ask Miss
Leka to look it over. She’s Albanian, you know. Born and raised there.”
Indy’s reaction was that of a jilted lover. He chose to cover up
the swirl of emotions darting through his system. “Good point, Marcus.
I’ll do that.”
Marcus stood and informed the luggage boy to leave a black duffel
bag and a brown satchel with Indy, then headed off for his room. “I’ll
expect you in two days, Indiana. Good luck in your venture!”
Indy waved back, his thoughts burdened by this growing mystery.
Why would she lie about where she
is from? When his unease
with such a misrepresentation got to the point he questioned if she was
somehow in bed with the Nazi thugs of last evening, he broke out in a
laugh of self-ridicule and shook his mind free of the matter. Still, he
resolved to reassert some emotional distance from Hope Leka just to be
on the safe side.
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