“Good. I’ll tell him we want two tickets. I’m going with you.”
They motored to the airport in style, seated in the rear of an opulent limousine, accompanied by its owner, Walter Donovan. Indy had taken an emergency leave of absence from the university. At first, when he had made the request, the dean had stared at him askance. How could he even think about petitioning for a leave when he’d just missed the first week of the semester? Then Indy had informed him of the details, and the dean’s attitude immediately changed at the mention of his father’s name.
He had nodded solemnly, glanced out the window, and told Indy a story about his father. Indy had heard it before, but this time the story had a different twist at the end. It dealt with an incident in which a particularly arrogant colleague of Dr. Jones held an exhibition of his latest archaeological finds. Because of his prominence and his power in academic circles, the reception was attended by scholars and archaeologists from several eastern universities. They had attended not because they admired the man but because they feared him.
When the moment came to unveil the most significant find of the collection, Dr. Jones had stridden to the front of the room, ripped the covering from a piece of pottery that supposedly predated anything ever discovered in the New World. He then smashed it on the podium and declared it fraudulent. He had been quickly ushered away by guards, but the evidence left behind proved him right, and the professor’s reign of terror ended.
The dean had turned from the window and looked Indy in the eye. “That professor had been my adviser and had been on the verge of having me expelled because I’d disagreed with him on the dating of an artifact. What your father did inadvertently saved my career. Yes, by all means, go and find Dr. Jones. The world needs men like him.”
Indy spent the trip to the airport quietly mulling over what he knew about his father’s disappearance. The problem was that there were still too few facts. What he suspected was that the man’s passionate interest in the Grail Cup could very well have led him to undertake an uncharacteristic expedition. Considering his age, he had probably felt this would be his one and only opportunity to find the Grail and to complete his life’s quest.
Damn that old man and his obsession.
If only they had been on better terms, this never would have happened. He blamed himself. He always had a bad attitude about anything that dealt with his father. But now, somehow, he was going to make up for his past shortcomings and rectify things.
As the limo pulled over to the curb outside the airport entrance, Donovan shook Brody’s hand. “Well, Marcus. Good luck.”
Like luck’s got anything to do with it, Indy thought.
“Thank you, Walter.” Brody nodded nervously. “Now, when we arrive in Venice . . .”
“Don’t worry,” Donovan assured him. “Dr. Schneider will be there to meet you. I maintain an apartment in Venice. It’s at your disposal.”
“I appreciate that, Walter.”
Brody climbed out of the car, and Indy was about to follow, when Donovan touched his shoulder. “Be careful, Dr. Jones. Don’t trust anybody. You understand?”
Indy met his gaze. “I’m going to do whatever is necessary in order to find my father.”
The plane soared through bright sunlight, past clouds that clung to the sky like tiny white commas. The Atlantic stretched below them, an endless stretch of blue, a desert of blue, brilliant and blinding. But Indy saw none of it. For most of the trip he was preoccupied with his father’s Grail diary.
He went through it, carefully reading each entry, each page, seeking clues. “ ‘The word Grail is derived from graduale, which means step-by-step, degree by degree,’ ” he read on a page near the beginning. “ ‘There are six degrees or levels of awareness in the Grail quest, and each one is represented by an animal.’ ”
The raven was the symbol of the first degree and represented the messenger of the Grail and “the finger of fate” that initiated the quest.
The peacock signified the second degree and symbolized the search for immortality. It also suggested the colorful and imaginative nature of the quest.
The sign for the third degree was the swan, because the one who took up the Grail quest sang a swan song to selfish and indulgent ways. In order to succeed in the quest, one must overcome weaknesses of the mind and heart and move beyond petty likes and dislikes.
The fourth degree was signified by the pelican, a bird willing to nurture its young by wounding its own breast. It symbolized the quality of self-sacrifice and the willingness to endanger self for the sake of saving one’s own people.
The lion was the sign of the fifth degree. It stood for leadership, conquest, and the attainment of high goals.
The sixth and highest level, represented by the eagle, was achieved at the end of the quest. At that time the seeker of the Grail would have gained the power and knowledge necessary to understand fully the significance of the search.
Indy looked up from the book and shifted his position in the tight quarters of his seat. It was typical of his father to couch things in symbols and metaphors. As a scholar, he worked in the abstract. He suspected that the Grail diary was almost as mystifying as the Grail Cup itself.
The mention of the animals reminded him of something he hadn’t thought about for a while. When he was eighteen, he had returned to the Southwest and undertaken a vision quest under the guidance of an old Navajo Indian. He had climbed a mesa in New Mexico alone and without food. There he had built a shelter and waited.
The Indian had told him that he must wait until an animal approached him, and from that time on it would be his protector, his spiritual guardian. Two days passed, and his stomach was empty, his throat dry. He wanted more than anything to climb down and find water. He stood up and walked to the edge of the mesa and stared down. Whatever had possessed him to do something so crazy?
He was about to start his descent when he thought he heard the voice of the old Indian telling him to wait. Startled, he turned around. No one was there. His hunger and thirst were causing him to hear voices, he thought. But instead of climbing down the mesa, he headed back to his shelter.
He had taken no more than a dozen steps when suddenly an eagle swooped out of the sky, skimming low over the flat, rocky surface. The majestic creature landed on the wall of his shelter. He had found his protector. When he had told his story, the old Navajo nodded and said that the eagle would always guide him on his journeys.
Indy snapped out of his reverie as the steward tapped him on the shoulder and asked if he’d like a drink. He nodded, and as he adjusted himself in the seat, a folded piece of paper fell from the diary into the aisle. The steward picked it up and handed it to him along with a drink. He set the glass down on the tray in front of him and unfolded the paper.
It was a rubbing that he immediately recognized as an impression of Donovan’s Grail tablet. The top part of it was blank, as if space had been left for the missing section of the tablet.
“Look at this, Marcus.”
He held it out to Brody, then realized his traveling partner was fast asleep.
He refolded the paper and was about to slip it into the diary when he noticed the drawing on the page that had fallen open.
It was a sketch of what appeared to be a stained glass window of a knight. Below it was one word: Venice. He wondered about its significance.
It wouldn’t be long before he would find out.
EIGHT
Roman Numerals
“AH, VENICE.” Indy sighed, looking around, nodding to himself, drawing a kind of sustenance from his surroundings. Venice was like no other city on earth and was a perfect balm for his dark mood. As he and Brody traversed the city by water bus, the gloom that had hovered over him ever since he found out about his father’s disappearance lifted.
The air smelled sweetly of water, the sky overhead was a soft cushion of blue, and Indy’s spirit soared. It’s going to be all right, he told himself. He would find his father. He had to bel
ieve that.
“Think of it,” Brody said, “a city built in a lagoon on a hundred and eighteen islands.”
Indy nodded. “And look what they built.”
Venice’s heritage was visible along virtually every street and waterway. The city was a harbor of culture and knowledge, of history and romance, and no doubt intrigue and adventure as well.
As he and Brody disembarked from the water bus at a boat landing, Indy’s sense of euphoria abruptly evaporated. A band of Fascist militiamen passed by with a civilian suspect in tow. At the sight of the boat, the civilian started struggling to escape. The militiamen reacted swiftly and harshly. They struck the man with their clubs, kicked him with their heavy boots, and the man whimpered and cried out and tried to get away. He finally collapsed against the cobblestones, his face bloody, his body as still as a dead man’s.
It disturbed Indy at a level too deep for words. He sensed a vengefulness in the militiamen’s attitude that far exceeded military code. They obviously enjoyed their work, and reminded him of the sailors he had tangled with on the cargo ship.
“Ah, Venice,” he said again. But this time his voice was heavier, thicker, reflecting his concern for what was taking place in Italy and throughout Europe. Fascists and Nazis had thrown the continent into havoc. Who the hell knew where it would all end? Or when? Or how? Or if?
Some of his earlier gloom returned.
“I find that sort of thing very disturbing,” Brody remarked as they made their way across the dock. “I hope we don’t encounter any more violence on this trip.”
Indy glanced at him; Brody wore his fretful expression again. “Yeah, me, too.” But he had the feeling that wouldn’t be the case.
As they looked around, Indy wondered aloud how they would recognize Dr. Schneider when they saw him. Donovan hadn’t given them any description of his father’s colleague. He just said he’d be there waiting.
“Maybe he’ll be holding a sign,” Brody suggested hopefully.
A woman suddenly approached them from the crowd, and smiled. She was an attractive blonde with high cheekbones and a slender figure. Her lapis-colored eyes were bright and intelligent.
“Dr. Jones?”
“Yes.” Indy smiled. Schneider must have sent his secretary to pick them up, and he didn’t mind one bit.
“I knew it was you.” Her manner was brazenly flirtatious. “You have your father’s eyes.”
Indy was instantly attracted to her. “And my mother’s ears. But the rest belongs to you.”
He expected her to be flustered. Instead, she laughed. It was a light, beautiful sound, full of life, and for a second, he thought she was laughing at him. What the hell, he thought. So it wasn’t the most original line. Who cared? He would have said it again just to hear her laugh once more.
“Looks like the best parts have already been spoken for,” she said.
Indy grinned, enjoying the repartee.
The woman turned to Brody. “Marcus Brody?”
“That’s right.”
“My name is Elsa Schneider.”
Indy’s grin faded.
Brody tried to cover his surprise but without success. “Ah, Dr. Schneider. I see.”
He shook her hand as she extended it. He cleared his throat, glanced at Indy as if hoping he would pick up the conversation, then looked back at the woman. “It’s nice to meet you. Walter didn’t, ah . . .”
She smiled and turned. “I thought as much. I guess Walter likes to surprise people. This way, gentlemen.”
They entered the vast Piazza San Marco, and she directed the conversation immediately to the matter at hand. “The last time I saw your father we were in the Marciana Library. That’s where I’m taking you now. He was very close to tracking down the knight’s tomb. I’ve never seen him so excited. He was as giddy as a schoolboy. He was certain the tomb would contain the map leading to the Grail.”
Dr. Henry Jones—Attila the professor—giddy as a schoolboy? That was a side of him he’d never seen, Indy thought. “He was never giddy, even when he was a schoolboy.”
Maybe working with Elsa Schneider had deranged the old man, Indy thought. Indy couldn’t take his eyes off her, and he had to admit he felt a bit giddy himself. As they strolled along, he noticed a vendor selling flowers from a cart. He reached back and pulled out a red carnation from a corner bouquet. The vendor was busy with a customer and missed his quick fingers.
He held out the flower to Elsa and smiled. “Fräulein, will you permit me?”
She eyed the flower, then glanced up at Indy. “Well, I usually don’t.”
“I usually don’t, either.”
She regarded him a moment longer. “In that case, I permit you.”
“It would make me happy.”
She took the carnation from Indy. “I’m already sad. By tomorrow it will have faded.”
“Then tomorrow I’ll steal you another. That’s all that I can promise.”
She laughed again, that beautiful laugh, that laugh Indy suddenly craved. He started to say something else, but Brody spoke up. “Look here, I hate to interrupt, but the reason we are here . . .”
“Yes, of course,” Elsa said in a serious voice, and reached into her purse. “I have something to show both of you. As I was saying, I left Dr. Jones working in the library. He sent me to the map section to fetch an ancient plan of the city. When I got back to his table, he was gone, and so were all of his papers. Except for one thing.”
She held up a scrap of paper and looked from Brody to Indy. “I found this near his chair.”
Indy took the paper from her and unfolded it. The only thing that was written on it were the Roman numerals III, VII, and X.
Indy contemplated that bit of information.
Elsa pointed her gloved hand to her right. “Here’s the library.”
They climbed the front steps, and Elsa led the way inside. Their shoes clicked against the polished marble floor. It was the sort of place, Indy thought, that encouraged you to speak in hushed, almost reverent tones. “I’ve been trying to figure out those numbers all week,” Elsa whispered. “Three, seven, and ten. They don’t appear to be a Biblical reference. I’ve checked every combination of chapter and verse in the gospels.”
Indy glanced up at the ceiling fifty feet overhead and at the stone walls interspersed with towering stained glass windows. The library was immense and shadowy, huge enough to get lost in.
Maybe his father was still here, he mused, absorbed in some ancient manuscript. He wouldn’t even know he was missing.
“Now I’m looking into the Medieval Chronicles of Jean Froissart,” Elsa continued. “This library has copies of the original text. Perhaps three, seven, and ten represent volume numbers.”
Indy nodded. He was impressed with the library, but he also felt uneasy here, knowing this was where his father vanished.
It was ironic in a way. He recalled Professor Henry Jones lecturing him about libraries. Storehouses of knowledge, Junior. Spend more time in libraries, and you’ll be the wiser for it. His father thrived in libraries, immersed himself in books, but he didn’t lose himself. Indy was sure of that. He had disappeared under duress, not voluntarily. He wasn’t the type who ran from trouble. He was too stubborn for that.
They walked between two massive granite pillars and entered a room with tall rows of bookshelves. Elsa led them to the corner of the room and stopped by a table, where she ran her hand lovingly over a couple of precious leather-bound books.
“Your eyes are shining,” Indy commented.
“A great library almost makes me cry. Even a single book. It’s almost sacred, like a brick in the temple of all our history.”
“Yeah. I like a good book,” Indy quipped.
“Like being in a church, I’d say,” Brody chimed sympathetically.
“In this case it’s almost the literal truth. We’re on holy ground. This used to be the chapel of a Franciscan monastery.” Elsa pointed toward several marble pillars. “Those columns
were brought back as spoils of war after the sacking of Byzantium during the Crusades.”
Indy noted the columns, but at the moment he was more interested in the window above the table. It was stained glass and depicted a knight of the Crusades. He walked around the table to take a closer look at it, then turned to Elsa. “Is this the table where you last saw my father?”
She nodded, moved her fingertips over the edge of it. “He was working right here. That reminds me. I have to check with the reference counter. I left a picture of Henry. They said they’d be watching in case he showed up again.”
The moment Elsa was out of sight, Indy grabbed Brody by the arm and pointed at the stained glass window. “Marcus, I’ve seen this window before.”
Brody frowned. “Where?”
Indy took out the Grail diary and opened it to the sketch he had noticed during the plane flight. He tapped the diary. “Right here.” Brody studied the sketch, looked up at the window, down at the sketch again, and nodded slowly. “Good God, Indy. It’s the same.”
“Do you see it?”
“Yes, the Roman numerals are part of the window’s design.”
“Dad was onto something here.”
Brody handed the diary back to Indy. “Yes, but what? We know where the numbers came from, but we still don’t know what they mean.”
Indy saw Elsa approaching and quickly tucked the diary back into his pocket. “Dad sent me this diary for a reason. So until we find out why, I think we should keep it to ourselves.”
“Agreed,” Brody said.
Elsa shook her head. “No sign of him.” She frowned slightly, looking from Indy to Brody and back again. “You two look like you’ve found something. What is it?”
“Is it that obvious?” Indy asked.
He was scanning the walls and the ceiling. Somewhere around here there had to be a clue; he was sure of it. He had never been as sure of anything in his life.
Brody pointed to the window. “Three, seven, and ten. There it is, the source of the Roman numerals.”
“My God, you’re right.”
“Dad wasn’t looking for a book, but the knight’s tomb. He was looking for the tomb itself.”
The Adventures Of Indiana Jones Page 41