by Max McCoy
"What about the weapons?" Indy asked.
"It's up to your second to procure them," Belloq said. "You had better get busy, my dear. My time in New Orleans is almost up, but I think I have just enough left to show one very beautiful Danish visitor some of the more famous sights in the French Quarter, and perhaps even an antique dealer who will accommodate your needs."
"Do I have to jump off the balcony with you?" Ulla asked.
"Of course not." Belloq offered his arm. "This time I will take the stairs." He paused, then saluted Indy with his sword. "Adieu, Dr. Jones. Until the dawn. Oh, and don't bother waiting up."
"Don't worry," Indy promised as he finished his coffee.
"Oh, and Dr. Jones," Belloq added. "Tonight is the last of the revelry. I do hope you haven't decided to give up something precious for Lent—like your life, perhaps."
Indy unlocked the door to the Pontalba Suite and unbuckled the rapier as he entered the room. He threw the weapon on the couch in the sitting room, then squirmed out of the doublet and folded it beside it.
He sat for a moment on the couch, his head in his hands.
"What have I done?" he mumbled.
Indy was tired. He knew he needed sleep, but he also knew that he didn't have time for sleep. He wearily got up, walked into the bedroom, and searched for the pile of old clothes he had shed earlier in the day. They had been washed, and pressed, and were laid in a neat bundle on top of the newly made bed. His fedora, freshly cleaned and blocked, was next to the bundle.
"Swell," Indy muttered as he unwrapped the twine around the package. He shook out the shirt, found the left sleeve, and held it beneath the light. The number he had penciled there was still visible, but barely.
He reached for the phone, got the hotel operator, and gave her the number. The operator said she would ring when she had made the connection.
Indy eased himself down on the bed and closed his eyes. A few minutes later the phone woke him.
"Jones?" a crisp voice asked. "This is Colonel William Markham. We've been trying to reach you. What in thunder are you doing in New Orleans?"
"Business," Indy said. "Get to the point."
"I understand you may be able to help us," Markham said. "You're an expert on this hokum that the Nazis believe in. True?"
"I'm an archaeologist," Indy explained tiredly. "But sometimes my research does take into account ancient beliefs that can seem rather strange to us today."
"Well, the Germans are flying about the Arctic in one of their dirigibles," Markham said. "They seem to be looking for some kind of lost civilization. But the cables we have intercepted seem to suggest they are looking for something of military and not historical importance."
"Go on," Indy said.
"They keep referring to some obscure power source, something called Vril. Are you familiar with it? Is it a kind of mineral or something?"
"I don't know for sure," Indy said.
"Well, their cables to Berlin indicate that this stuff has the ability to manipulate matter, to transform or control it in some way. If they find it, that would fulfill their dream of becoming some type of super race."
"Look," Indy said. "You seem to know as much about all of this as I do. I really can't tell you much more. It seems like fairy tales to me, except—"
"What is it, Dr. Jones?"
"Well, there are some who believe fervently in the legend. It is a matter of national pride, I suppose. I've had a couple of run-ins with them, and even if the story is a myth, they're treating it as gospel. They are prepared to kill for their beliefs, even if Vril has no basis in fact."
"I agree," Markham said.
"Then why are you asking me about it?"
"Because we'd like you to lead an American expedition into the region where the Nazis are searching," Markham said.
"Why me?"
"Because you have some unique talents that other scholars seem to lack," Markham said. "In the remote event that the Nazis find something up there that would be better off in our hands, we'd like to know about it."
"Spy on them, you mean."
"Spying is a nasty word," Markham said. "Just dog their heels. Consider it research, if you like. After all, much of that territory is unexplored, and it wouldn't be the first time that a scientific expedition had a military component."
"I'm not prepared to lead a land expedition into the Arctic," Indy said. "I don't have the experience. It would be suicide."
"This is the twentieth century, Dr. Jones," Markham said. "Who said anything about dogsleds and frozen toes? What we had in mind was polar aviation. We have the prototype of a new bomber, the Douglas B-18, at your disposal. Twin engines, a crew of six, and a range of more than twelve hundred miles. From your base camp on Greenland, or Spitsbergen Island, you could survey the area in relative comfort."
"Polar aviation scares me," Indy said. "Too many people have never been seen again."
"Like Amundsen?" Markham asked. "Well, that was years ago. Flight, even in the Arctic, has become as safe as driving your Ford to the corner store."
"Why don't I believe you?" Indy asked.
"I may be exaggerating a bit," Markham said, "but the fact remains that this would be the safest expedition to that area, ever. What do you say, Dr. Jones?"
"It sounds insane," Indy said.
"There's something else," Markham said. "It's the real reason I have tried so desperately to reach you. I hate to mention it, because I have always hesitated to introduce any emotional component—"
"I already know that Alecia Dunstin is on board that zeppelin," Indy said. "And yes, that is the reason I will lead your infernal expedition, because I can't stand the thought of her being left for dead on some ice floe after those bastards are through with her."
"Given the choice," Markham said, "I felt you would rather be in a position to help her than not."
"I have a few conditions, Colonel."
"I'm listening," Markham said. "Name them."
"I want complete control over what you have so loosely defined as my research. And I want a friend of mine as the pilot. Or, at least, copilot. I trust him."
"Understood," Markham said.
"I also need the best radioman the army has," Indy said. "He must have the latest direction-finding technology and be able to improvise in a crisis. Fearlessness wouldn't hurt, either. Do you have anyone that meets those requirements?"
"Of course," Markham said. "I will send you my own radio operator from the cryptography office. He is by all accounts a genius with anything electric and I know he is fearless."
"How do you know that?"
"He's seventeen," Markham said. "All teenagers think they'll live forever. And I know he'll gladly volunteer, because he's bored to death by the daily routine around here. What else?"
"You're welcome to whatever we find or can take from the Nazis up there—and I doubt if that will be anything at all—but I want my participation in the expedition kept quiet. After all, I have an academic reputation to protect."
"Some would say it's too late for that," Markham said. "But yes, all right. I agree to every condition. And get some sleep. The aircraft will be on the field at Shushan Airport at zero nine hundred."
An hour after Indy had hung up the phone, the light came on in the room. Ulla had returned from her tour of the French Quarter, and she had a large wooden box and a book beneath her arm.
Indy was lying on the couch, his fedora over his eyes. He was dressed in his khakis and had his leather jacket on.
"Have a good time?" he asked.
"Rene is quite charming," Ulla said.
"Monsters often are," Indy said.
"Look what I found." She placed the wooden box on the coffee table and opened the lid. "A matched pair, a forty-five-caliber, real museum pieces, circa 1840. Rene knew the owner of a quaint little antique store on Rampart Street that opened for us."
Indy picked up one of the pistols and examined the barrel, which was covered in a splotchy brown patina of r
ust and gun oil.
"Sure they won't blow up in our faces?" Indy asked.
"Quite sure," Ulla said. "I insisted that the gentleman test-fire both of them first. With all the commotion and fireworks tonight, nobody gave the shots a second thought. Also, he had a copy of this splendid little book—the Code Duello
"Splendid," Indy said halfheartedly.
"Why are you dressed?" Ulla asked. "You need your sleep. Dawn will be here in just a few hours. I know I am anxious to hit the hay myself, as you Americans are fond of saying."
"I've been busy," Indy said.
"What on earth with?"
"Making travel arrangements for points north," Indy said. "It seems I'm going on an air expedition of the Arctic in search of the Nazi dirigible that Alecia's on."
"So you're going, just like that," Ulla said.
"Well, I'm going to kill Belloq first," Indy said. "What is it that you want me to say?" He replaced the pistol in the case.
"I want you to ask me to go with you."
"What?"
"You need me." Ulla crossed her arms. "You just don't know it yet. The Nazis are going after Thule, and they're not going to find it from the air. They're not going to find it on the surface, either. Sooner or later they are going to lead you underground, and for that you need me."
Indy paused.
"That's what Baldwin's journal said, wasn't it?"
"I don't know," Indy stammered. "It was stolen before I got a chance to—"
"But he was descending into the mouth of a volcanic crater," Ulla said. "You told me that much. Now, how far down do you think he went?"
"The Nazis won't even find the right—"
"They have the journal," Ulla said. "You don't. Your only hope is to find them, and then to follow where they lead. If you would only have put some thought into it, you would have realized that meant far beneath the surface." Indy ran a hand across the stubble on his jaw.
"All right," he said. "But we have to get one thing straight. I'm the leader of this expedition. I will listen to your advice, but you must not argue with me. It's too dangerous."
Ulla nodded.
"And another thing," Indy said. "To hell with Ultima Thule. My primary objective is to get Alecia back alive. Then, and only then, do we deal with this Nazi fantasy."
"Superb," Ulla said. "This is the chance of a lifetime."
"Yeah," Indy said. "Or the chance to end a lifetime."
"What are you worried about?" Ulla asked. "Belloq may kill you before you get a chance to board the plane."
7
The Silver Ship
The mist seemed to seep from the very graves as Indiana Jones and Ulla made their way past the narrow mausoleum-lined alleys at St. Louis Cemetery No. 2. The sky was overcast and, in the east, was beginning to take on the color of burnished brass. A light rain was falling as they emerged in a small clear space in the center of the cemetery, dominated by a huge oak that wept with Spanish moss.
"This place gives me the woollies," Ulla said as she rested the boxed pistols on a low headstone.
"The slaves used to hold their voodoo rituals here," Indy said. "And the word is willies."
"Woollies, willies," Ulla said, and suddenly her Danish accent became thicker. "It just plain gives me the creeps."
"Bonjour," Belloq said, causing Ulla to jump.
The diminutive Frenchman, dressed in a black frock coat, was sitting atop the unmarked concrete grave of Marie Laveau and drinking a cup of chicory coffee. Scattered around the grave of the voodoo queen were offerings of food and hoodoo money—curious two- and eleven-cent combinations—and a dozen or so candles that had burned away to nothing but pools of colored wax.
Belloq produced a red candle from his coat, struck a match on his heel, and carefully lit the wick before placing it at the base of the grave and making a cross on the concrete with a shard of red brick.
"For luck," he explained.
"You're going to need more than that," Indy said.
"Ah, Dr. Jones, I'm glad to see you haven't lost your spirit." Belloq laughed. "At least, not yet. Would you care for some coffee?"
"No, thanks," Ulla said, and opened the case. "I took the liberty of loading the guns back at the hotel. Each has forty grains of powder, one patched ball, and fresh flints. I hope that was all right with you."
"Of course, my dear," Belloq said.
"I also have a first-aid kit here in case it is needed."
"Doubtful," Belloq said. "I shoot to kill." He jumped down from the gravestone, walked across the muddy ground to where Ulla stood with the pistols, and picked one up.
"Magnificent pieces, really," he said.
"According to the book," Ulla said, thumbing through the pages, "I believe this is the point where the seconds attempt to negotiate a peaceful reconciliation of differences. Because I am the only second, I will begin by playing the devil's advocate for Rene."
"What a nice choice of words," Indy remarked.
"Also," she said, "it is my duty to remind you both that dueling is against the law in Louisiana."
"A felony, in fact," Belloq said.
"Yes," Ulla continued. "That means that if we're caught, we all could be facing criminal proceedings and possible jail time. The charges would be more serious for you, as participants, of course, but I believe I am clearly guilty of aiding and abetting the crime."
"And how well you do it." Belloq bowed with a flourish. "If you get tired of—well, doing whatever it is that you actually do, Miss Tornaes—there is always a place for you in my organization in Marseilles."
"On the other hand," she continued, "some may argue that there is a higher law at stake here, that of a person's honor, and that the breaking of the laws of the state of Louisiana is simply an unfortunate, but unavoidable, detail. Since I take it that the illegalities of your intended act are a mere nuisance, I will go on to the gist of the matter."
"Do hurry," Belloq said. "Dawn is nearly upon us, and being caught in the cemetery in full daylight by the local police is an even more unpleasant prospect than sneaking in under cover of darkness."
She nodded. "Dr. Jones. Will you not apologize to Rene Belloq for casting aspersions on his character, his family, and his country? Will you not give him the benefit of the doubt concerning his motives for selling you the information?"
"For that," Indy said, "and a thousand other slights, no."
"Monsieur Belloq," Ulla called. "Will you not reconsider your challenge? Does your heart not soften when you think of your association with Dr. Jones? Is forgiveness not possible?"
"It is not," Belloq said.
"All right, then," Ulla concluded. "Let's get on with it. I see that you gentlemen have already chosen your weapons. The rules of engagement are as follows: You will stand back-to-back beneath the oak, and on my count you will stride off ten paces. Twenty would be more sporting, but we have room only for ten. At the conclusion of the last pace, you are to turn and take aim. You will fire simultaneously. Understood?"
"Clearly," Indy said.
"Quite." Belloq smiled.
"If satisfaction has not been achieved after the first round of shots, you may mutually agree to reload. Gentlemen, assume the position and ready your pieces."
They marched to the center of the clearing and pressed their backs together, their weapons held in the air. The rain was falling a little harder now. It dribbled from the brim of Indy's hat and plastered Belloq's hair against his skull.
"One," Ulla counted.
The pair strode away from each other, backs straight, eyes forward.
Ulla continued to count through five.
Belloq thumbed back the hammer, a harsh clockwork sound that exposed the priming pan. Indy heard the sound, but pretended he didn't.
"Six," Ulla counted.
Another step forward. Mud clung to Indy's boots and stained the cuffs of his pants.
"Seven."
Forward still. Indy wrapped his thumb around the top of the hammer, ready to
cock the weapon a moment before firing. To do so too long before, he was afraid, would give the rain a chance to dampen the primer.
"Eight."
While Indy strode forward Belloq turned quickly, the tails of his frock coat billowing out. In an instant he had turned sideways to Indy, his left hand behind his back and his pistol hand extended, taking aim at the spot between Indy's shoulder blades.
"Foul!" Ulla cried.
Belloq pulled the trigger as Indy turned. As if in slow motion Jones saw the hammer descend and scrape against the frizen, the flint in its jaws sending a shower of sparks into the priming pan.
Indy sucked in his breath for the blast of fire and lead that was sure to follow a fraction of a second later, but none came. Instead, the powder in the pan fizzled weakly.
Belloq's powder was wet.
Belloq continued to hold the pistol at arm's length, incredulous. Suddenly the embers found a dry pocket, blazed brightly to life, and a moment later the pistol belched fire, smoke, and lead at Indy.
The ball passed through the upper right sleeve of his leather jacket, cutting a furrow in his flesh, and exited the back side of the jacket to go whining off into the trees lining the cemetery. Blood began to trickle down his arm to the wrist, and where it fell upon the cool ground, it steamed.
"Dr. Jones," Ulla announced. "You may now take your shot, at your leisure."
Indy held the pistol high in the air, cocked it, then lowered it until the heavy barrel was wavering over Belloq's heart. Belloq closed his eyes and his lips went thin. Then Indy jerked the pistol to the right and fired, sending the ball thudding into the side of the nearest tomb.
Belloq breathed a sigh of relief.
"Do you desire another round?" Ulla asked.
"No," Indy said. "I have satisfaction. I have proved that Belloq is a liar, a coward, and an unworthy opponent. Nothing would be gained by killing him."
"Merci," Belloq said sheepishly, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of the frock coat. "The affair, then, is over."
"It's over," Indy said.
"I lost count...." Belloq insisted as he replaced the still-smoking pistol in the wooden case. "I believed we were to turn at eight instead of ten. It was a simple mistake. My, I hope that you are not seriously hurt."