Indiana Jones and the White Witch

by Martin Caidin

  White-hot pain shot into his brain. His windpipe felt as if it had been pounded with a lead pipe. Even as knuckles mashed his Adam's apple, he knew what his attackers were doing. He was so desperate for air that he had no chance to cry out to Gale, or make enough noise for anyone to hear him and call the police.

  Indy was no stranger to physical punishment or to techniques to escape the battering he was taking. First and foremost was to get air into his lungs. He didn't know if two or six men were working him over. He managed a lungful of air and then thrashed about wildly. His foot, striking blindly, caught the man before him in the ribs. He heard the sharp cry of pain; the blows, at least for the moment, ceased. But the man behind the couch, both hands grasping his hair, was hauling Indy up over the edge of the couch. Even through his pain he recognized what they were doing; stretching him out, forcing him to struggle for air, unable to use his hands to defend himself.

  Again Indy thrashed on the couch. Free for the moment from frontal blows, his body twisted until he was on his side, and then he completed the half turn, his face mashed against the couch itself. For this moment, anyway, his eyes, nose, mouth, and throat remained protected. Then he felt himself in the air as one man pulled, the other grabbed his belt, and they heaved him behind the couch and fell on him like two madmen, raining blows against his ribs and kidneys. He recognized, again, the mark of the professional. They were beating his body painfully and expertly, but they hadn't drawn any blood.

  Hope flared in him. They're not out to kill... they're after information. Just as soon as they stop using me for a punching bag, they'll make their move. Be ready, Indy, be ready....

  The two men hauled him up suddenly to slam him backward with a jarring crash against the nearest wall. One man held his left wrist in a painful backward bend, keeping Indy from any sudden moves. Not that he wanted to get these people that upset as a large automatic pistol loomed before his face. The muzzle banged hard off his upper lip, then jammed against his nostril.

  I guess I look like Raggedy Andy with a mop handle up my nose.... The idiot picture flashed through his mind and he half choked with laughter.

  To the men using him for a battering ram, he sounded as if he were choking, and they relaxed. Indy seized the opportunity. He gasped and choked again, tried to bring saliva to his lips, and deliberately went limp. Now his attackers had nearly two hundred pounds of limp dishrag in their hands. That's not easy to hold up with just a pistol in one nostril for support.

  He heard one man bark commands to the other. Indy wasn't sure of the language, but it sounded middle European. He understood enough to know what was happening. The second man was being told to hold him up.

  Well, things were looking up. He was pinned against a wall, a heavy gun rammed into his nose, his body on fire from a hundred blows, but with one man holding him from falling and the other occupied with the gun, there wasn't much room to keep using Indy as a target for fists and feet.

  Then the leader was speaking English. His voice came out as a hiss, the other man close to Indy's face, spittle accompanying every word.

  "Professor Henry Jones." Clearly the masked intruder wanted to let Indy know he knew precisely who he was. Indy had regained his breath; wisely, he relaxed as much as he could to regain tautness and strength in his body. He was also adding up pieces of data and building larger blocks of information.

  They knew where he lived. They knew who he was. They came through his window because he'd double-locked, from the inside, the door to his flat. And he didn't need to be a rocket scientist to conclude that this was neither a social visit nor your everyday robbery.

  He had also gleaned another fact that could in an instant become vital. The contempt in the man's voice when he said the word "professor." So Indy was being held at gunpoint by a killer who judged teachers, professors—likely everyone in the whole educational system—as weak and inferior.

  Indy had to work that to his advantage. "Y-yes, sir," he stammered, his voice quavering.

  The man laughed. "We have a weakling here." He sneered to his companion. "I can handle this mouse myself. Go find the woman," he ordered.

  "Tell me about the Caitlin woman," the man said, his voice promising punishment if Indy failed to respond. "The witch. What is your relationship to her?"

  "I—I don't know her. She's a friend of—"

  "You speak of the one with the fire hair," the man snapped, referring to Gale.

  "Y-yes," Indy stammered.

  "Worm! We know there is another map! You will tell me where it is, or—"

  A voice carried from the bedroom. "She is not here! The woman is gone!"

  "Fool!" the man with Indy shouted. "The ledge outside! Check the ledge!"

  The man turned. The window was open, drapes fluttering in the night breeze. He ran to the window, climbed on his knees to the ledge, looked to his left. Empty. He turned to his right just in time to see Gale's foot coming toward his throat in a tremendous kick. He grasped his neck with his hands, choking, blood dribbling into his fingers. It was the moment Gale needed. She moved forward like a striking cobra, tightened her left hand, closest to the building wall, in a rigid fingers-extended position, and brought her hand down as hard as she could against the back of the man's neck. His hands flew from his throat. Now he was off balance, struggling to remain on the ledge.

  Leaning against the wall, Gale drove the heel of her right foot against the back of his head. With a bloodcurdling shriek he went off the ledge to certain death on the pavement five stories below.

  In the living room, the hooded man holding the gun to Indy jerked his head around at the sound of the scream. Cursing in that strange language, he slammed the pistol grip against Indy's head. Indy took the blow along the side of his head rather than frontally. He reacted as if struck with a sledgehammer, collapsing helplessly. The gunman dashed around the couch.

  Immediately Indy was on his feet, running to the coat-rack across the living room, then to the bedroom. Gale stood transfixed in the high window space, the man before her with the gun held steady on her.

  "You are a fool," he said scathingly. "You should have silenced Ahmed first." His finger began to tighten on the trigger.

  Gale stared wide-eyed as the man's head snapped back violently. She heard the sharp crack! of Indy's bullwhip, the leather flashed around his neck, and Indy jerked backward with all his strength. The gunman flew off his feet, his pistol tumbling away. Indy dragged him back toward the living room as the man struggled madly. Gale was down from the ledge, following closely.

  She watched, wide-eyed, as Indy pulled the whip free. Whoever the gunman was, he was also strong and a fighter to the end. He scrambled to his feet, fingers curled into claws, rushing at Indy.

  Indy smiled; a whooshing sound heralded the snap of the bullwhip. As fast as the sound cracked through the room, a deep slash opened along the gunman's cheek. He rocked backward and the whip snapped out again. Blood lined the opposite side of the man's face. A third time; skin split along his neck.

  "Indy! Don't kill him!" Gale shouted.

  "Oh, I'm not," Indy said, smiling. "Just paying back a little."

  Another skin slice. The man staggered. Indy moved forward slowly, deliberately. And heard pounding at the door to the flat. Blows with fists, loud shouts. "Open up in there! This is the police! Open this door, I say!"

  The intruder looked up, his eyes wild. Gale stepped up behind him, jerked the hood from his head and face. It spun away in a shower of blood.

  Indy smiled. "What do you know?" he said with deceptive calm. "It's our photographer from the Glen."

  They heard the door beginning to splinter.

  "And when they find out they've had a traitor in their midst, well..." Indy let it hang. If there's anything a policeman hates—no matter what country and under what name they wear the uniform—it's a dirty cop.

  The man's eyes widened. His fear grew swiftly. With a howl he turned on his heel and dashed for the window, running past Gale. "Indy
, stop him!" she shrieked.

  The bullwhip cracked hard, a pistol shot of sound. It mixed with the breaking crash of the door as policemen poured into the flat. Just in time to see the black-clothed intruder hurl himself through the window to his death.

  "Stay still!" Gale spread an evil-smelling salve along Indy's head, gashed open from the blow of the pistol butt. "You squirm like a cat in a boiling pot."

  "And I smell like one," Indy grumbled. "What is that putrid stuff you're smearing on me?"

  "Would you believe bat dung, eye of newt, crab intestine, and camel spit?"

  "No!"

  "Well, then, you'd be right. It's a mixture of herbs, roots, leaves, and lichen. It must be boiled for a specific period of time, the fire must burn only wood, the caldron must be cast iron, and the mixer must be—"

  Indy held up a hand to interrupt. "Must be a witch, I'll bet."

  "Right again. Have you seen yourself in the mirror? Your bruises have bruises, and—Indy, stay still!"

  "Easier said than done," he snarled. "What's next? This hurts you more than it hurts me?"

  She laughed. "Not quite. Those two knew what they were doing. If I don't get this what you call evil gunk where they clubbed and kicked you—"

  "Don't forget the punches. I think one of them was using brass knuckles."

  "Whatever." She moved her fingers across his shoulders and chest, caressing him gently as she spread her healing potion. Abruptly she withdrew her hand as if stung. I've got to watch myself, she thought. This is not the time to be affectionate....

  Quickly she began to speak. "You think very well on your feet, Professor Jones," she said with stilted courtesy. "Coming up with that scarab jewelry to show the police was brilliant. 'Why were those people here?' the policemen ask. Using you for a punching bag and trying to shoot me? 'Why, Constable'"—she mimicked Indy as he had addressed the police—" 'here is what they were after. See these scarabs? Worth a blinkin' fortune, they are.'"

  "Like I told you," he said, "I travel prepared."

  She reached to the table and held up the glittering jewelry. "It looks expensive. What's it really worth?"

  "The one you're holding? It's cosmetic jewelry. Fake. Worth the price of a good lunch."

  "All of them?" She held up four other scarabs.

  "No. One of them is worth a king's ransom."

  "Which one?"

  "Green."

  "It's gorgeous."

  "Gale, I'm whipped."

  She put aside the jewelry. "All right. We've got a makeshift door for the night. Smart of the superintendent to take one from the spare bedroom." She propped up several pillows. "You comfortable?"

  "Except for a hundred little demons jumping up and down my body, yeah, sure."

  "Sleep, Indy. Sleep?"

  "What?"

  She passed a hand across his eyes. A small bag in her hand released the barest trace of a rare and valuable powder.

  Witch's powder.

  He was instantly sound asleep.

  7

  Indy floated on a sea of gray foam. He felt almost weightless, a feathery drifting. He slept deeply.

  A deep bass groan sent the foam shuddering. Now he felt wet sand beneath him. He was lying on a beach, at the high-water mark of the incoming surf, waves sliding in to cover his body and then retreating to sea, leaving his skin free of the water. Another boom spasmed through his body.

  Gray foam again. It brightened in waves in a matching beat to the thudding booms. This is crazy? Where am I?

  He tried to force his eyes open. Confusion again. If he could see the gray foam, how could his eyes be closed? Slowly but steadily his subconscious mind withdrew as he fought his way up from the numbing grip of deep sleep. Instantly the foam exploded silently, without any physical effect, as he looked at a tall window of his studio, through which morning sun streamed with painful brilliance. He shut his eyes, groaned with the effort of turning his body on the couch.

  He forced his eyes open again. Clarity of vision and mind came rushing back to him. Last night... the fight, the beating he'd taken. Gale rubbing that strange salve on his body. He remembered wanting to sleep, the effort blocked by the pain inflicted by the two men who'd attacked him. Then—

  That was it. Gale, passing her hand across his eyes like a magic wand. That's when reality ended and he fell into a never-ending well of slumber.

  He saw Gale. At the door, talking to several men just outside in the hallway. He recognized one voice immediately. Indy groaned again, swung his legs to the floor. Somewhere between his ears was a nasty little troll hammering on a log.

  A tall man in a trench coat with a thin, perfectly waxed mustache came across the room to stand before the couch.

  Indy looked up slowly from the gleaming black shoes to the perfectly creased trousers and inevitable trench coat. Above the mustache and bright, intelligent eyes was perched an old and disreputable-looking tweed cap.

  "Well, well, well," came the booming greeting. "Unexpected and a pleasure to be seeing you so soon again, Henry!"

  "Bug off," Indy growled to Inspector Thomas Treadwell, ace agent for MI5, British military intelligence. He looked beyond Treadwell to Gale, gesturing to seats for two other men. Indy ignored them. The troll in his head was banging with renewed enthusiasm on the log. Each blow was a spasm of pain.

  "Gale? If you still have an ounce of mercy left in you, coffee, please," Indy groaned.

  Treadwell turned to Gale, doffing his cap. "Miss Parker, you look positively lovely—"

  "Watch it," Indy said. "He wants something. Where's that coffee?"

  "Coming right up. It's all made and waiting for you," she said quickly. "Black as usual?"

  "Stop with the questions. Just bring me—" Gale was already gone. She returned almost at once with a huge mug of steaming black coffee. If it had been larger, Indy would have climbed into the mug. He held it with both hands, surprised to see they were shaking slightly. The first sips went down slow and scalding. Wonderful...

  Halfway through the cup the troll began packing up his log and leaving. "I think I'm going to live," Indy mumbled.

  "Muffins?" Gale asked, her manner and voice disgustingly perky and bright. "Toast? Eggs? Oatmeal? Kippers?"

  "More coffee. Just bring the pot."

  "I'll have tea, if you'd be so kind, Miss Parker," Treadwell said. He brought a chair from across the room and sat directly before Indy.

  "You're right, Indy. He is too nice." She smiled at Treadwell. "Tea coming right up."

  Indy glared at Treadwell. Anyone listening to the two men, who didn't know just how tight and strong was their friendship, would have judged them about as cordial as two snarling dogs.

  "Now, just how did I know I'd be seeing your pasty face this morning?" Indy asked.

  "The chief wanted you brought in at the crack of dawn," Treadwell said quietly.

  "You came to my defense?"

  "Of course."

  "You can tell the chief where to get off," Indy growled.

  "Well, now, he certainly had good reason to—"

  "Hold it, hold it," Indy broke in. He grimaced with pain as he shifted position. "That scene at St. Brendan's. I had nothing to do with that. I didn't even get there until it was all over."

  "I know. You were in an airplane directly overhead when it all happened."

  "How'd you know that?"

  Treadwell paused as Gale brought him tea and refilled Indy's mug. "Join us, if you would?" the inspector asked her pleasantly.

  Gale nodded and sat on the couch with Indy.

  "For starters," Treadwell continued, answering Indy's query, "any machine flying overhead at that moment could have been part of the killing spree."

  "Could have, but wasn't. I suppose you already know I was taking a flying lesson."

  "You certainly need one," came the retort. "You, ah, ran out of cookie bags, I understand?"

  Indy looked to Gale. "You told him about that?"

  She nodded. "People who are bu
sy upchucking, Indy, have the perfect excuse for not being mixed up in—"

  "Forgive the interruption, Gale," Treadwell broke in. "We know how close you are to the St. Brendans."

  Gale looked down, nodding.

  "What attracted your visitors last night, Indy?" Treadwell asked, the levity in his voice gone.

  Indy's head was clearing swiftly. He studied the men seated across the room. Especially one man. Stocky, powerful, yet dressed crisply, a relaxed air about him. He had all the signs of a special operative. Indy gestured to him.

  "Who's he?" he said to Treadwell.

  "Roberto," Treadwell called. "Join us, please."

  "Professor Jones, my pleasure," the man said. His English sounded almost a bit too perfect for a foreign speaker.

  "Let me guess," Indy said. "Italian. Which, in this case, means the Vatican."

  "Roberto Matteo Di Palma, sir," the man identified himself. "Secret police, Italia. I am from Arce, southeast of Rome."

  "We've asked him to join our group," Treadwell explained. "And you haven't answered my question as to what brought those two men here last night."

  "You get identification on them yet?" Indy offered the question as his first "answer."

  "Only one. The police recognized him. That's what makes this a bit sticky, you know. He was a constable."

  "He was also a ringer," Indy said. He leaned back on the couch. "I'll lay even odds he's been with the force for some years, he's—"

  "Was. Past tense," Treadwell reminded him.

  "He needed money, and some people got to him to act as their eyes and ears within the police organization. He was also a photographer. In fact, he was very busy taking pictures of Gale and me yesterday. And everybody else."

  Treadwell nodded slowly. "So that's how he picked you. And finding where you live is simple enough. Your tie-in with London University, for example. But what were they after?"