by Steve Perry
Whatever Suzuki said? He couldn’t be trusted. He was a dead man, sooner or later; however, if he believed that he could gull Gruber into thinking they were allies, even for a few hours, it might lull the Japanese into a false sense of confidence. It might provide Gruber with an opportunity to strike when least expected. There were just two of them now, and three of the Nipponese. The time was not ripe, but it would be eventually. And any advantage he could get, he wanted . . .
“Yamada-san,” Suzuki said. “A few words in private?”
Yamada nodded. “There, by the fallen tree. We will not be overheard.”
The two men edged that way.
“What is it?”
“The German colonel speaks passable Japanese.”
“I suspected such. And . . . ?”
“He has offered me a bribe to aid him.”
“Really? How much?”
“Five million yen.”
“Ah. He thinks your honor worth that much?”
“That little,” Suzuki said. He spat on the wet ground.
Yamada smiled. “This is useful information, Suzuki-san. It would serve us to have Gruber believe that you will enter into such a bargain, hai?”
Suzuki nodded. “Hai. If he believes that I have become his agent, it could be to our advantage. He might turn his back at the right moment.”
Yamada nodded. “For now, there are but five of us, and we might need every man to survive and win our goal. A man chased by wolves might need to run with dogs. After we obtain our object, the Germans will no longer be our allies here on this island, nor do we need to treat them as such.”
“I understand.”
“Contrive to speak to him again on the trek. Let him think your greed is stronger than your sense of duty. We will show him that the Japanese know how to deal with treachery . . .”
Both men grinned.
Boukman waited. Victory was almost his. He had Marie—she was on the way—and with her, the key to the imen blan. They valued women, the whites did. They would not let her come to harm if they could help it.
Victory was almost his. He could almost taste it.
Green Pants was thirty feet ahead of them, wending his way through the forest. The zombi was behind them. It had gotten its foot caught in a fallen branch a way back and broken its ankle. It was continuing to walk, but the foot was crooked and its progress had been slowed. It was falling farther behind as they went.
“We have to hide the artifact,” Mac whispered.
“He’s got Marie,” Indy said. “It’s what he wants.”
“Yes. And if we march right into his hands, he’ll have what he wants and no reason to let her—or us—go.”
Indy considered that. Yes. Mac was right. They needed something with which to bargain. If they hid the wooden box with the pearl somewhere that only they could find it, maybe they could get Boukman to release Marie to learn where the treasure was. There was a chance that way.
Of course, he could try to torture it out of them, which wasn’t a particularly pleasant thought; still, just handing it over to the voodoo man and trusting to his sense of fairness didn’t seem like a particularly wise idea. They already knew he was ruthless enough to have men killed. Two more wouldn’t bother him.
At some point, they would have to slip away from Green Pants and the crippled zombi trailing them and find a spot to hide the box. That might be tricky.
Indy whispered as much to Mac.
“Don’t worry about that—I have a plan,” Mac said.
“What?”
“Well—” He stopped. Ahead of them, Green Pants had come to a halt, waiting for them to catch up. “Later,” Mac said.
The two of them moved on, stepping over fallen trees, skirting puddles that were probably hip-deep. Now and then, something would scuttle across the animal trail, small creatures still trying to deal with the aftermath of the hurricane. Indy saw a long green snake slithering past once.
Snakes!
Indy had been offered teaching fellowships across the length of his career, from various universities around the world. He was considering the idea of taking a couple of these: one in New Zealand, the other in Ireland. The two countries had some things in common. They mostly spoke English, which would make teaching easy. But, more importantly, there were no snakes in either country. None. Not even itty-bitty garter snakes.
Wouldn’t that be nice for a change? A stroll down any garden path in Dublin or Auckland, a trek through the countryside in either place, and not a chance of seeing one of the legless reptiles?
It was the kind of thought that made a man want to smile. This man, anyway.
One thing at a time, Indy. One thing at a time . . .
THIRTY-THREE
AS SUZUKI DROPPED BACK, Gruber smiled to himself. The man had taken the bait. If he was truly willing to sell out for the chance at becoming rich, or if he was simply trying to string the fool German along, either was to Gruber’s advantage. The way to defeat an enemy was to outmaneuver him, to have him dancing to your tune, reacting rather than initiating. The Japanese code of conduct, as Gruber understood it, allowed a man to stab an enemy in the back—treachery was considered both valid and useful. He could expect no less from them, and he had to assume that they would expect the same from him. Well and good—it had bought him an advantage. The Japanese would think it was theirs, and that was an error. He was a step ahead of them, and if he could maintain it, he would prevail.
Yamada thought of his home in Nagasaki, of his family, and was content in the knowledge that whatever happened to him, at least they would be safe there.
Gruber’s overture to Suzuki was unexpected, but not really that much of a surprise. The Germans used everything at hand to ensure their victories, and when you could print money? Such an offer as he had made was cheap. Not, Yamada knew, that the man would keep his end of the bargain even if Suzuki had agreed and meant it. If—no, when—they collected the box the American and Englishman had, Gruber would take his first opportunity to rid himself of his allies. Knowing this gave Yamada the advantage. He would be alert, and he would strike first.
The day wound down, but they were making good progress, moving west and north much faster than they had on the eastward trek. The island was not that large. They had come a fair distance, and with fewer men and supplies, and no need to keep hidden from the prey they had been following, it was likely they would arrive back at their starting place in mere hours—
The sound of three gunshots echoed through the jungle. Small caliber, he guessed, or a long way off. What did it mean—?
“Somebody’s shooting,” Gruber said unnecessarily.
“Hai. Best we see who. And why.”
Mac and Indy were working their way around a swampy area with Green Pants. “Much farther?” Mac asked him.
“No. We are not far from the plantation. There by dark.”
“Where is your friend, I wonder?” Mac said. Referring to the zombi.
Green Pants shrugged. “No matter,” he said. “He is not needed.”
“Right,” Mac said. “Say, what’s that there, in the trees to the left?”
Green Pants looked. “Where?”
Mac pulled his pistol from his pocket and shot Green Pants in the head. Three times—
“Whoa!” Indy said, as the chemically made zombi collapsed.
“See. Not so tricky as all that,” Mac said. “Shall we find a place to hide our artifacts?”
“That was your plan? Jesus, Mac—”
“Them or us, Indy, and they have Marie.”
Indy blew out a sigh. “Yeah. We better hurry before the other one gets here.”
Mac, adding more cartridges to the partially emptied magazine for his pistol, smiled. “Oh, I don’t think that is going to be tricky, either.” He held the pistol up and pressed the magazine into the butt. “I’ve got plenty of ammunition left.”
Yamada’s scout returned to where the four of them waited. He was excited. “Yamada-san! Th
e English and American! They are here! Alone!”
Yamada glanced at Gruber. There was no need to translate, he knew, but he continued the fiction. “Our quarry is not far. Just the Englishman and American, it seems.”
Five to two. Good odds, and not likely to get any better.
“Let us go and catch them,” Yamada said.
They moved out.
Boukman walked into the clearing. Darkness was near, and he ordered the torches lit. Around this part of the sisal plantation was a ring of makeshift torches, made of coffee cans nailed to posts. Each can held a roll of toilet paper drenched in kerosene. They put out a fair amount of light when there were thirty or so of them flaming at once. Plenty enough to see what he needed to see.
And that was Marie, being led into the clearing by his slave.
There were a dozen True Risen here now, and twice that many potioned ones—Boukman had expended most of his power to raise the dead, and had borrowed a few villagers for the others. They would be but a small number compared with those he would have once he obtained the talisman. Hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands, more. The power was coming to him.
“Ah, petite Marie. At last we see each other face-to-face.”
She spat on the ground at his feet.
Boukman laughed. Oh, he enjoyed her. Too bad.
“Just like your mother,” he said.
“Do not speak of her!”
He shrugged. “Why not? She is dead and I allowed her to stay that way. You should be grateful for that much.”
That got her attention. “You . . . killed my mother?”
“She was becoming dangerous. Just as you are.”
She struggled, but his slaves had her.
Too bad, for what he had to do to her would not be pleasant for her. Boukman knew that a man was not granted such as the talisman without payment. And that the loa or the gods—surely Maldye, for the good would not allow such a thing among men—would demand more from him than the sacrifice of a few chickens or a goat. No, they would want human blood. More, they would want some kind of power in exchange. A houngan or a mambo might be enough, along with a handful of less talented folk. A few Europeans, some of the Japanese, and the Englishman and American would probably be sufficient. If not, then Boukman would slay the entire village on this island, if need be. Whatever it took for him to deserve the talisman, and to bend it to his will.
Marie would open the door, though. She would have to be first. Once he had the talisman in his hands. And that should be soon.
“Tie her,” Boukman said. “Put her there.”
The True Risen shuffled her forward. She struggled, to no avail. In a few moments she was bound, trussed up, waiting for whatever Boukman would do next.
“What are they doing?” Gruber asked, his voice a whisper.
“Putting something into that hollow log,” Yamada said.
Gruber felt his heart beating with excitement. The treasure! What else could it be? “We should shoot them.”
“No,” Yamada said. “The sound might bring others. Our number is small. Better to see what they are hiding first. If we must shoot them, we can do it anytime. Alive, dead, they do not matter.”
Gruber nodded. Yes. Yamada had a point.
“Look,” Yamada said, “they are leaving.”
The two men moved out of sight.
The Germans and Japanese waited for a couple of minutes, to make sure they weren’t coming back. Then they headed for the hollow log.
Halfway there, something limped out of the jungle—
It lunged at Suzuki—
The Japanese pulled his sword, but the thing fell upon him and sank its teeth into his throat, ripping and tearing like a mad dog—
The other Japanese soldier raised his rifle—
“Don’t shoot!” Yamada said. He pulled his sword—it just appeared in his hand—and he ran three steps and slashed down, catching the thing behind the head, across the neck—
The thing collapsed—
Yamada stuck his sword into the ground and bent, rolled the beheaded thing off his officer, but—
Suzuki’s throat was gone, a ragged, pulsing wound, blood pooling everywhere—
“Suzuki—!”
The downed man could not speak, managing only a gurgle.
He was done, Gruber could see that.
Yamada could, too. He reached for his sword, pulled it free of the earth. Lifted it. Brought it down—
Gruber watched, fascinated.
Yamada raised his sword. Slung blood from the blade.
Nobody spoke. And now they were four. Alas, poor Suzuki. Gruber didn’t need his fake bribe anymore. Wasted effort now.
“Hard choices,” Gruber said, after a long moment.
Yamada nodded. “Hai.”
But in the end, it did not matter, for the artifact they had come to collect was inside a backpack stuffed into the hollow log.
At last!
There was a moment when it might have been dicey, but Gruber nodded at Yamada: “Your man can carry it, if it makes you feel better.”
Yamada nodded in return. “Or yours. We are allies, hai? What does it matter who holds the prize?”
“Shall we have a look?”
Yamada nodded again. He told his man to remove the box from the pack, and in a moment it was done. Inside, a wooden jar. And inside that—a large black pearl, wrapped in silk.
The men looked at the pearl. Very nice, worth a fortune, and nothing to sniff at, but it wasn’t the important thing. The runes carved into the boxes—those were the real treasure here. The formula for the chemical Herr Hitler had sent him to find.
Gruber couldn’t decipher them, of course, but there were experts in the Reich who could. All he had to do was deliver these boxes. Maybe he would keep the pearl for himself. Captain Doktor Edwin von Gruber, and richer than Croesus . . .
The Japanese soldier rewrapped the pearl, stuck it into the jar, and put that back into the box and into the pack. He shouldered it.
“We should get off this damn island as soon as we can,” Gruber said.
“Hai.”
They started off, Gruber and his man taking the lead. In a quick and quiet whisper, Gruber said, “Don’t lose sight of that backpack, on your life.”
“Jawohl, Colonel.”
In the jungle, they were still at risk. Once they got back to the boat, then would come the reckoning with Yamada.
THIRTY-FOUR
BOUKMAN FELT the surge of energy wash over him, as unexpected as the sun suddenly shining at midnight. The talisman! Somebody had taken it from its protective case!
Greedily, he tried to draw the power to himself, but after only a few seconds the energy vanished as quickly as it had come.
He frowned. What did this mean? The Englishman and American who had the talisman should be close by now. Why would they have stopped to look at it?
He glanced at Marie, tied up and sitting with her back against the wall of a storage hut. She had closed her eyes, and Boukman knew that she, too, had felt the talisman’s flux. No one with any sensitivity could have failed to sense it, and she had been exposed to it before, had drawn upon its energy to hide herself from him.
“Your friends are coming, Marie. Bringing the prize right to me.”
“Maybe,” she said.
He smiled, but it quickly faded. What did she mean by that? Of course they were coming!
Indy and Mac arrived at the edge of a cultivated area, and even in the dark, the star- and moonlight was enough so they could see that it had been planted with sisal. On the far side of the clearing, four, five hundred yards away, torches blazed against the night.
“This must be the place,” Indy said.
“I don’t think this is is one of your better plans. Which is not saying much.”
“It’s what we have to work with, Mac. If Boukman thinks you’re dead, you can sneak around and maybe be in a position to do us some good. If you walk in there with me, that gives us fewer opti
ons.”
“Yes, but—”
“Listen, I have my gun. Soon as I get close, I’ll shoot him. I’ll grab Marie, we light out for the coast and leave the zombis and Japs and Krauts to dance with each other.”
Mac sighed. “Yes, well, but—”
“I’m open to a better idea.”
“Would that I had one.”
“Yeah. Would that you did.” Indy took a deep breath. “Wish me luck.”
“Good luck, Jonesy.”
Indy squared his shoulders and stepped out of the jungle into the clearing.
Boukman’s slaves noticed the man before he managed two steps into the clearing, and several of them made as if to go and collect him. “Non,” Boukman said. “Wait.”
The man—the American—walked toward them.
Boukman opened his senses to the night. After a moment, he grinned. He waved a trio of potioned ones over, spoke a few words.
Then he waited.
Place was occupied pretty good, Indy noticed. Thirty or forty people, mostly standing around. He figured Boukman for the old, tall, and thin guy dressed in a black shirt and pants. In the torchlight, he saw Marie. She was tied up and sitting next to the shed behind Boukman.
The rest of the folks here were probably zombis or drugged—they weren’t moving, save for three of them heading away to the west.
It didn’t take long to get close. When he was twenty feet away, Indy stopped.
“Where is your comrade?” the tall man said. He had a deep voice, and he spoke good English.
“Dead,” Indy said. “Along with the guys you sent to fetch us. We were attacked by Japanese soldiers.”
Boukman laughed. “Plausible story.”
Indy figured this was as good a time as any. He snatched his revolver out of his holster, thrust it toward Boukman, indexing the whole gun against the man’s form, no time to line up the sights, he’d just shoot until he hit him—