by Steve Perry
Where they were, it turned out, was not far from a dirt road whereupon a large and ancient flatbed truck was passing. Indy waved it down.
The driver, a dark-skinned native, had a cabful of passengers—three adults, two children, a dog, and a small pig, maybe a couple of chickens, which Indy heard but didn’t see. The cab was missing the windshield, side windows, and most of the roof, over which a dirty sheet had been draped to provide shade.
“Bonjour,” the driver said.
Indy could get by in various dialects of French, from Paris to New Orleans, and he asked if they could get a ride. The driver agreed. They’d have to sit on the back, which was piled high with bales of long, sword-shaped green plant stalks, but it would be better than walking. The driver was heading south to Saint-Marc, he said, a few hours away. That was the direction Indy and Mac needed anyhow.
“Merci beacoup, mon ami.”
The back of the truck had a fresh, peppery smell from the cut plants.
“What’s this lot, then?” Mac asked. He waved at the plants.
“Sisal. They use it to make rope. Not generally as good as the best hemp, but since many of the countries where that grows are still in Japanese or German hands, there’s a demand for it. It’s named for the Yucatan port where most of it used to be shipped from, though they don’t actually grow it there. In the New World, it’s believed to have originated in Chiapas, in southern Mexico. They raise it in tropical countries around the globe—South America, Asia, and the best grades come from Africa. Historically speaking, the crops are about—”
Mac cut him off: “Thank you, Professor Jones, for that fascinating lecture. Will there be an examination on Monday?”
“Hey, you asked.”
“No, I asked what the plant was, not for its bloody life story!”
“That’s your trouble, Mac—you have no depth. You need to expand your education beyond grave robbing. Learn some sociology, biology, anthropology. A little history would be good.”
Both of them smiled.
Indy stretched out, exhausted. He pulled his hat down over his face. It was warm, and the rutted road and bouncing ride were less than ideal, but it took only a few minutes for him to drift off to sleep. He had been looking forward to getting back to the States and taking it easy for a while, after all the long days and nights island-hopping in the Pacific and then the weeks behind the lines in Germany, but sometimes you just had to go where the trail led . . .
THREE
Port-au-Prince, Haiti
COLONEL DOKTOR EDWIN GRUBER sat at a rattan table outside a ratty little café off the Ruta de Delmas, half a mile from the sea, drinking bad schnapps. The afternoon was warm, the breeze had died, and the shade of the half-rotten canvas umbrella jutting up from the table was little help against the heat. His ice-cream linen suit was damp with sweat and humidity. A few miles offshore, a rain shower seemed to be forming. If it came this way, the umbrella wouldn’t stop much of the rain, either.
He hated the tropics.
That they had any schnapps, even low quality, was amazing. They called it eau-de-vie here, using the French name, but it was the same thing. Mostly, they drank rum, which was hardly a fit beverage for an educated European. Paint remover.
Indeed, he detested this island in particular even more than the tropics in general. Still, one did one’s duty; and in this case, Gruber, formerly of the Waffen-SS Medical Corps, one of the first officers to wear the serpent on his patch, as well as a founding member of Röntgensturmbann SS-HA, the beloved Hauptamt X-Ray Battalion, was certainly one to do his duty, wherever it led him.
It had, alas, led him a long, long way from good schnapps and Berlin . . .
But Gruber had been sent by the Führer Himself, and if Herr Adolf deemed it necessary, Gruber would march through Hell without question—which was good, since this spot surely wasn’t so far removed from that region. Gruber was perhaps not as good a Nazi as some, though he agreed with most of the party’s goals—there needed to be a German Reich ruling the world, and keeping the race pure was necessary. So many mongrels—all you had to do was look around, wherever you happened to be. First, they would clean up the Fatherland, then the rest of the world . . .
Of course, after the war was over and the Third Reich ran things, a man who had the Führer’s favor? Well, such a man would do very well indeed. At least he wasn’t off at the Russian front patching up wounded. If there still was a Russian front . . .
He looked up to see Henri approaching, a fat glass tumbler of amber-colored rum in hand. Henri was a local, and his loyalty was not to the Reich but to money; since Gruber had enough of that to spread around, Henri’s loyalty was his, at least as long as he continued to pay him well. The rum he could smell from ten feet away. The vile stuff was strong enough to etch the plate on a battleship.
“Henri.”
“Monsieur.”
They spoke French, since that was the local language. Haiti was aligned with the Allies and not the Axis, and Gruber’s cover was that he was a Dutch businessman here to facilitate export of sisal and assorted spices. Few, if any, of the savages on this island could tell the difference between a Dutch and German accent, and he spoke perfect if somewhat idiomatic Dutch, since his grandfather had often used that tongue at home, having taken a Flemish wife.
“What do you have for me today?”
“Two men, English or Americans, arrived in the city by the bus from Saint-Marc this afternoon.”
Ah. More spies, perhaps. “Do they have names?”
“The bus driver allows them to be ‘Jones’ and ‘Mac.’ ”
Gruber smiled. Obviously fake, those names. “And why do they concern me?”
“Word on the street is that they are looking for a guide to take them to Zile Muri-yo.”
That got his attention fully. Somebody else heading for the Island of the Dead? A coincidence? Unlikely. This needed more exploration. The formula Gruber sought was there, somewhere, and he did not believe these two just happened to be looking for something else on the same island . . .
“Monitor them. Find out who they talk to, what they want.”
“Oui.” Henri paused to sip at his drink. “There is one other thing, monsieur. These men have come to the attention of other people. Including the—ah—Chinese scholar.”
Gruber frowned, swallowing the curse he wanted to utter. It would be in German, and somebody might recognize that.
The man in question was no more Chinese than Henri here, though it was true that they did all look alike, the little Orientals. Chinese, Japanese, Korean, as matching as peas in a pod. This “scholar” was Dr. Yamada Hajime, a scientist like himself, respectable enough, but Japanese and working for the emperor. Nominally, they were on the same side, but in this instance Gruber was certain the Nipponese had come here seeking the same thing as he, and he did not intend to share it, once it was found. Of course, finding it was problematic in itself, but one step at a time . . .
This was not particularly good news, but he couldn’t let Henri know how important it was. Knowledge was power, and a smart man never gave power away. He affected a lack of interest. “Well. No matter, the Chinese. But keep me apprised.”
“Oui.” Henri upended his tumbler and drained the last of the rum. About 160-proof, Gruber had determined. Light a match to it, it would burn with a pure, blue flame . . .
Jones and Mac, whoever they were, would bear more scrutiny. And not just from Henri. Gruber had other agents, and he tried to keep one set from knowing what the others were about.
Trusting anyone outside oneself was dangerous.
In his library at a large rented villa south of the main part of the city, just off the Dessalines and close to the bay, Yamada Hajime sat in a wicker chair. The breeze had picked up, and the wicker allowed it to reach more of him. He nodded at the man, who had several names. As “Louis,” he worked for Yamada; when he reported to the German doctor Gruber, he called himself “Henri.”
They spoke in Fr
ench, one of nine languages in which Yamada was comfortable. He had already picked up a few phrases of Creole, a useful local dialect. “So, you think that the Dutchman considers these men to be of importance?”
“He did not say it as such, no, monsieur,” Louis said. “But my feeling was, yes. He asked me to find out more about them. I saw his eyes glitter when I mentioned their intended destination.”
“Then you must do as he asks. But before you report to him, I would appreciate it if you report to me first.”
“But of course, monsieur.” He smiled.
“You are a man of great skill and honor, Louis, and I much appreciate your diligent service.” Which I expect will last only as long as I pay more than the German. For you would, I believe, sell your grandmother for the right price.
“Perhaps you would consider accepting another bottle of the special rum before you leave?”
Louis Henri Whoever-else-he-was grinned. “Ah, oui!”
Yes, he paid more, but the small gifts also mattered. The German did not offer such, and a few gourdes’ worth of cane liquor, which meant nothing to Yamada, indicated that he valued Louis. All men wished to feel valued. Small respects could make a difference. Men, even dishonorable ones, wanted to be appreciated.
After Louis was gone, clutching his fresh bottle of dark rum, Yamada looked at the clock. He was supposed to send a radio transmission at ten past six o’clock local time. It would take most of an hour to get to where he had hidden the radio transceiver this week—he had to move it after each use, and that was not easy: The device was heavy, and the batteries even heavier. Well. He had plenty of time. A Japanese B-1 submarine was close enough to the island to receive the transmission, but it wouldn’t stay near the surface long. The aerial would go up at exactly six ten P.M., and if no transmission was forthcoming within two minutes exactly, down it would go again. There were not many enemy warships about, but there were spotter craft. An imperial sub here was a long way from home.
Yamada knew something of naval vessels—he had an uncle who was a vice admiral in the imperial navy. Just last year, one of the long-range B-1s, the I-25, had deployed its Yokosuka E14Y seaplane off the northwest coast of the United States, where it had dropped a firebomb that started a forest fire on the mainland that would have done much damage . . . well, had it not started to rain.
No one could blame the imperial navy for the rain. Not yet.
One of the reasons this mission was so critical was due to the unfortunate decision to involve the United States in this war. There were so many of them, and they had so many resources. It had not been Yamada’s choice, of course, but he had deemed it unwise to kick the sleeping giant. Some considered all Americans overfed and lazy, but Yamada had been to the country, and seen what they had accomplished there. They knew how to work with their hands as well as their minds, and the imperial army and navy were beginning to see what those overfed and lazy Americans could do once they turned their full attention to war. With much of the American fleet destroyed at Pearl Harbor less than two years earlier, they had built new ships in record time, and the battles at the Coral Sea and Midway had been disasters for the imperial navy. U.S. Marines had landed on many of the Pacific islands, and the Japanese army there was being pushed back into the sea or roasted alive in caves.
The Americans were barreling over the Germans in Africa and Europe, as well.
Too many enemies on too many fronts was a bad way to fight a war. Involving America had been a tactical error. Left alone, she might have stayed out of it, for at least a year or two more, and that would have given the empire enough time . . .
Except that the military had attacked Pearl Harbor, and time was running out . . .
His mission must succeed. The war itself might hinge on it.
To the navy, Yamada was but a code name, and their role was simply to pass messages back and forth. To them, he was a colonel. In truth, he worked for an organization known only as Himitsu, a spy group so secret that almost nobody in the military even knew it existed. And his goal here was critical. The Germans—albeit that they were allies in this war—could not be allowed to collect what Yamada had been sent here to find and obtain for the empire. If he failed, it was unlikely he would even be allowed to commit seppuku, so great would the shame be. To the grandson of one of the last samurai to carry two swords in the service of the shogun, an honorable death was much preferable to dishonor. Always.
But such worrisome thoughts were not necessary now. He had been on this island for only a short time, a few weeks, disguised as a Chinese scholar. It was amusing—the locals could not tell the differences among those from the Orient, and since he spoke Mandarin, Wu, and even a bit of Cantonese, how would they know? If a man has epicanthal folds and he speaks Chinese? Well, then, he must be Chinese . . .
He had gathered much information during his stay. The prize was not far off, and he would reach it before Gruber, a barbarian if a decent enough scientist. Honor demanded it.
FOUR
“UH-OH,” INDY SAID.
“What?”
Indy inclined his head slightly. “Move! We need to get behind that bush. Slow and easy.”
Mac complied, then asked, “Something?”
“There’s a guy over there, next to the shoeshine stand, front of the hotel. Tall, reddish hair, Panama hat.”
“I saw him.”
“I know him. That’s Joe Edmonds. He was army intelligence, moved over to the OSS—or he had when I met him in DC a few months after Pearl.”
“So, a colleague. What’s the problem?”
“I’m supposed to be going home for a six-week furlough, remember? Not running around Haiti looking for an ancient black pearl. The boys upstairs might not like it if they found out.”
“Bosh. You worry too much.”
“Plus, we don’t need to be getting tangled up in whatever he’s doing here. If he’s working in the field, his superiors might decide that he needs help. Mine. And yours.”
Mac frowned at that. “Oh, that won’t do, that would put a crimp in our plans. Perhaps it is best if we avoid your former colleague.”
“What did I just say?”
As they made their way elsewhere from the shoeshine stand, a small boy, shirtless and barefoot, maybe ten, came running up. “Monsieur Mac.”
Mac looked at the boy.
“Follow me, s’il vous plaît.”
Indy gave Mac a raised eyebrow. “Your agents are getting a little young, aren’t they?”
“Good help is ageless.” To the boy he said in French, “Lead on, young sir.”
Following the boy along a twisty path that led past market stalls, past tiled walls, and through a warren of back alleys, the pair moved farther from the bustle of the city and into a more residential area, with small houses jammed close together. Indy had a pretty well-developed sense of direction, but if it weren’t for the sun, he would have gotten totally lost.
They arrived at an unremarkable whitewashed house surrounded by a short picket fence. The boy stopped and pointed. “Mademoiselle Arnoux’s.”
“Good lad,” Mac said. He fished a handful of coins from his pocket and handed them to the boy.
“Merci!” The boy ran off.
“Old girlfriend?”
“Not at all. Never met. But that toothless woman at the fruit market mentioned that Mademoiselle Arnoux was the person to see if we wanted to travel to the Isle de Mort. I asked her to send a boy to set it up.”
“Island of the Dead? I was hoping to avoid that for a few years,” Indy said with a grin.
“Your humor skills are deteriorating, old sod. You need to work on them. How is your Creole?”
“I can order breakfast, as long as it’s steak and eggs. I can ask where the bathroom is. Beyond that . . .” He shrugged.
“The locals call the place Zile Muri-yo, which means pretty much the same thing as the French name. Since that’s where we are going, we need a guide who knows the area. It’s not even on the m
ap. Thus, here we are.”
The woman who answered their knock at the door was stunning.
She was tall, a few inches shorter than Indy, with black hair and dark eyes, and skin the color of heavily creamed coffee. Her face was handsome, with balanced features, and when she smiled, her teeth were even and white, save for one slightly crooked one that gave her expression character. Indy guessed she was in her early to midtwenties. She wore a white blouse with an off-the-shoulder cut, a long blue cotton skirt, and sandals. There was a small silver cross on a chain around her neck. She smelled like sandalwood.
Taken altogether, she was quite striking.
Indy was suddenly much aware that he was several days from a real bath, that he needed a shave, and that his clothes could stand washing.
And that he was old enough to be her father.
“Messieurs?”
“Good afternoon,” Mac said. “I’m George McHale and this is Professor Indiana Jones. Do we have the honor of addressing Mademoiselle Arnoux?” Mac’s French had a strong Belgian accent, no surprise given the amount of time he had spent there.
“Oui, I am Marie Arnoux.”
“Dr. Jones and I are archaeologists. We are seeking an antiquity that we believe is on Zile Muri-yo, and we understand that you are familiar with the island. We would like to engage your services as a guide.”
She smiled again, revealing that endearingly crooked tooth.
“Ah. Well, you must come inside,” she said.
The house was small but clean and neat, and somewhat cooler than the outside. The young woman led them to a wicker couch and bade them be seated.
Indy noticed a set of icons on the wall, but they were too small for him to make out the subjects of the tiny paintings. Catholic saints? There was also some kind of tribal mask he didn’t recognize on a narrow table next to the wall. He wanted to go and examine these more closely, but he held himself in check. Not everybody understood an archaeologist’s passion for snooping.
Arnoux left the room and returned shortly with a pitcher of liquid and three glasses on a copper tray. “Tea,” she said. “But I am afraid the ice has all melted this late in the day.”