Indiana Jones and the Genesis Deluge

by Rob MacGregor

  One of Capone's men lurched for the railing just as one of the Russians did the same from a different angle. The two men collided, tumbled to the platform, and their companions tripped over them.

  "See you, guys."

  Indy didn't mean it literally, but he was right in the case of the Russians. They would see them again.

  Katrina was peering forlornly out the window when she saw the Russians about to board the next car.

  "Look, Papa. It's those twins again."

  "Just what we don't need," he growled.

  The men hadn't harmed them. Hadn't done anything, but Papa was right about them. They must be Bolshevik spies. Then, to her surprise, one of them pointed to something along the platform and instead of boarding the car they hurried away. She craned her neck.

  "What are they doing?" Zobolotsky asked.

  "I can't tell."

  The train started to roll forward. Whatever the distraction was, it was working to their advantage. A few more seconds and they'd be free of them.

  "I see Indy!" She nearly shouted the words. "He's out there."

  Indy and another man were racing for the train, and the twins were chasing them. But so were two other men. She couldn't believe what she was seeing. How did they know about Indy, and who were the other men? For that matter, who was with Indy? She'd only caught a quick glimpse of him, but he looked familiar.

  She tugged at the window, but it wouldn't go up high enough for her to stick her head out. She squashed her cheek to the glass. She couldn't see Indy or the other man any longer.

  "What happened?" Zobolotsky asked.

  "I don't know. No, there they are."

  "Who?"

  "The Russians. They didn't make it. We're free of them."

  "And Jones?"

  "I don't see him, Papa. But I think he's on the train. He was with another man, too. He looked familiar. I know who it was. It was the man from the church—Jack. The one who played the cornet."

  "I don't like this. I don't like it at all."

  "Papa, don't you see? This is the way it was supposed to happen. They got rid of the Bolsheviks for us."

  Her father was a cautious man, but she could tell by his pensive expression that he was mulling over what she'd said. He reached for the door handle. "You wait here. I'll be right back."

  "You know, Indy, it's too bad this train isn't going to take us to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan," Shannon said as they moved along the aisle looking for an empty seat.

  "Okay, okay. So maybe it wasn't the greatest idea. But at least it was a destination."

  Indy stopped abruptly and Shannon bumped into him. Zobolotsky had just entered the car and was standing five feet in front of him. He was staring directly at him and he didn't look a bit surprised. "We seem to have a way of bumping into each other," Indy said.

  "You got that right," Shannon said, not realizing that Indy was talking to someone else.

  "What are you doing here?" Zobolotsky asked.

  "Right now Jack and I are just trying to find a seat."

  Zobolotsky nodded solemnly, then looked past Indy at Shannon. "I met you in the church the other day. You were talking to my daughter."

  "Right," Shannon said. "Is she here with you?"

  Indy heard the eagerness in his voice and gave him a sharp look.

  "Why don't you two join me and Katrina in our compartment?"

  "Sounds good to me," Shannon said.

  As Zobolotsky moved ahead a few steps Indy turned to Shannon. "Take it easy," he whispered.

  When they reached the compartment, Zobolotsky stepped inside first, then held the door open for Indy and Shannon. "I think you both remember Katrina."

  How could I forget? Indy thought. She looked between them and he swore she was blushing.

  "I saw you catching the train." She was looking directly at Shannon. "Jack. How are you? I didn't know you two knew each other."

  "We've met." Shannon's gaze was locked on Katrina.

  "It was quite a race to catch the train," Indy said as he settled into the seat across from her. Shannon started to sit down next to Katrina, but Zobolotsky directed him to sit next to Indy. Damn you, Shannon, Indy thought as Zobolotsky sat down next to his daughter, but he directed his words at the expedition's leader. "I guess you decided to leave early."

  When Zobolotsky didn't answer, Indy continued. "My guess is that it had something to do with those bald-headed twins. Am I right?"

  "They're Bolshevik spies. Trotskyites. I've had it up to here with them."

  "We would've contacted you from New York," Katrina said.

  Indy nodded, and wondered how they would've done that since he hadn't told them how to reach him.

  "We're glad you're here now, aren't we, Papa?"

  Zobolotsky stared at them, but didn't say anything.

  Indy cleared his throat. "I'm not too excited about getting involved in any political battles with Bolsheviks, but my friend here can help. Right, Jack?"

  Shannon still couldn't take his eyes off Katrina. "What's that, Indy?"

  "I said you can help with security."

  "Oh, yeah. Sure."

  Zobolotsky stiffened. "What makes you think I want to take you two with me to Ararat? This isn't a vacation, you know."

  "Because you need an archaeologist, and your time is running out. You've got some opposition, too, and you need protection. That's where Jack comes in."

  Indy didn't know whether or not Zobolotsky's time was running out, but he spoke as if he did and he hoped his dramatic flair would capture the ex-soldier's attention.

  Zobolotsky peered at Shannon, who was doing his best to pay attention now. "He doesn't look like someone who could protect himself, much less anyone else."

  "Are you kidding?" Indy responded. "I know you're living in San Francisco, but I'm sure you must have heard of the notorious Shannon gang of Chicago's South Side."

  Zobolotsky looked perplexed.

  "I think I've heard of them, Papa," Katrina said, and smiled at Shannon.

  "Jack is one of the brothers. He knows a lot about protection."

  "We do need protection, Papa." Katrina's voice was soft. "You've said it will be dangerous."

  Zobolotsky reflected a moment, then reached forward and patted his daughter's leg. "All right, you can both come with us. We can use the extra help."

  Indy and Shannon watched Zobolotsky's hand as it rested on Katrina's thigh, and both had the same thought: they wished it was their own hand.

  11

  Life in the Bazaar

  Two Weeks Later

  Istanbul

  "Nefis... simit, simit."

  The words echoed in Indy's head as he rolled over in bed. They were shouted from somewhere outside of their hotel room.

  "You awake?" Shannon asked.

  "Sort of."

  "Take a look at this." Shannon was leaning out the window.

  The view of downtown Istanbul was dramatic, a skyline of domes and minarets silhouetted in the orange glow of the early-morning sunlight. But that wasn't what had caught Shannon's attention".

  "Nefis... simit, simit."

  Across the street baskets were being lowered down on ropes from several windows to a waiting vendor. The man pulled donut-shaped objects from a stick and placed them in the basket.

  "You woke me to see that?"

  "What's he selling?" Shannon asked.

  "I don't know. Simits. I guess. Some kind of bread."

  Indy spotted a kid lowering a pail from the adjacent building. "What is it? Bu nedir?"

  The kid turned his head and gave Indy a puzzled look. "Ah, English. What time is it?"

  "Too early. What's he putting in your pail?"

  "Good morning. How are you today?" the kid responded in slow, accented English. "Is Turkey beautiful? Yes?"

  "He's avoiding your question," Shannon said, and laughed.

  Suddenly an arm shot out the window and the kid was yanked out of sight. A moment later, a girl of about eleven
or twelve leaned out and pulled up the pail. She glanced over at Indy and smiled. "My little brother does not know English, only phrases. Are you going to get simits for breakfast?"

  "What are they?"

  "Hot bread. It's very good. You will like it."

  "I wish I had a basket."

  The girl pulled her basket into the window. "That's okay. I will bring simits to your door."

  "You don't have to do that."

  "Oh, yes. You are misafir."

  "Okay. Tesekkur ederim."

  Indy pulled his head back in the window. "Breakfast is on the way."

  "What did you say to her?" Shannon asked, looking mystified.

  "She's going to deliver the simits because we're guests in her country. I said thank you."

  "I didn't know you spoke Turkish."

  "Enough to get by," Indy said as he pulled on his clothes.

  "Teach me something."

  "All right. Turkce bilmiyorum."

  "Teurk-chech bihl-mih-yohrum," Shannon repeated. "So what's it mean?"

  "I don't speak Turkish."

  "Oh, great. Just in case there's any doubt about it. Right?"

  "You got it."

  A few minutes later, there was a knock, and when Indy opened the door, the girl was holding a tray with tea and simits, donuts of hot bread covered with sesame seeds. She wore a ragged dress and her long, dark hair was braided.

  "I hope you like Turkey," she said as she set the tray down.

  Indy thanked her and handed her some change, which she slipped into her pocket.

  "What's your name?" Shannon asked.

  "Sekiz."

  "That's a number," Indy said.

  "Yes, of course. Number eight, because I am the eighth child in my family."

  "Lots of kids," Shannon said.

  "There are eleven."

  "Do you go to school?" Indy asked.

  "No, it is not possible now. I work in my father's leather shop in the bazaar."

  "Do you sell boots?" Shannon asked. "I need a pair of boots."

  "No, boots are on another street. We sell bags. We make them, too."

  "You like the job?"

  She shrugged. "Someday I want to be a tourist guide. I can tell you all the best places to see, if you want."

  Katrina suddenly appeared behind the girl, materializing like a ghost. "Am I interupting something?"

  "No, come in." Indy was surprised to see her.

  Katrina had said little to him or Shannon during their trip. She'd stuck close to her father most of the time and had spent hours alone in her cabin on the cruise from New York to Athens. His attempts at conversation usually ended with Katrina excusing herself for one reason or another. Shannon hadn't had any better luck getting to know her, and he was just as baffled by her behavior.

  "We're just getting our breakfast and a little conversation," Shannon said. "This is Sekiz. She lives in the next building."

  "Gunaydin." Katrina smiled at the girl.

  "Good morning to you, too, kiddo," Sekiz answered.

  Katrina laughed, then turned to the men. "I just want to tell you both that Papa and I are going out to arrange for our permits and transportation. He's hoping he can get all the paperwork done today or tomorrow at the latest."

  "Swell," Indy said.

  He was interested in seeing Istanbul, but he was even more anxious to get moving as soon as possible. They'd been waylaid for five days in Athens as the Zobolotskys had visited family members living in the city. Indy and Shannon had spent their days wandering around the city and most of their nights in tavernas drinking ouzo. With each drink they recalled another incident from the time they'd spent in Greece together a few years ago. They toasted Greece, their friendship, the mysterious Katrina, and the Zobolotsky family reunion. The Never-Ending Family Reunion, they'd dubbed it.

  But it had finally ended, and now they were in Istanbul. But that didn't mean they were ready to climb Ararat. Besides the matter of permits, they had to traverse the length of the country to get to the mountain. Turkey was shaped like a foot, with Istanbul located near the toes, and Ararat at the heel.

  "Do you need help?" Indy asked after a moment.

  "Papa said it will be best if it is only two of us so as not cause confusion." She smiled shyly at him. "I'll tell you all about it at dinner." She looked over at Shannon. "Both of you."

  "Aren't we lucky," Indy said when she'd left. "We're going to hear all about the Turkish bureaucracy tonight."

  "At least she's coming out of her shell," Shannon said. "It gives me hope."

  A man with a thick mustache that reached from ear to ear stood across the street from the hotel and munched on simits as he listened to a small clutch of men chatting near a storefront. His name was Hasan and he was enjoying the exchange of ideas. The men were arguing about the need to change the alphabet from Arabic to Latin and the value of becoming a Westernized nation. Most of the men, Hasan observed, had thought that modernization of the nation was a good idea, but now that it was actually taking place they were having second thoughts. He was glad to hear it. Even though he'd been educated in London, he was bound to Ottoman tradition and didn't appreciate the changes that had been sweeping through Turkey in recent years. He was a victim of the changes, but he was fighting back.

  Hasan's attention was distracted as an older man and a young woman left the hotel. He nodded to another man who stood in a doorway a few yards away and watched as the man followed the pair. Hasan would wait and see what the other two foreigners would do. He'd been waiting patiently for several days for the arrival of the expedition, and he didn't mind waiting another few minutes or even hours. The plan was ready. It was only a matter of exactly how and when it would be carried out.

  After breakfast, Indy and Shannon headed to the Covered Bazaar, a maze of tiny shops, restaurants, mosques, and workshops. As they entered one of the gates they passed under a huge gold armorial emblem. It was from the days of the Ottoman Empire, and a reminder that the old ways were still close at hand. In spite of the confusing array of narrow, winding streets that led into one another, there was an order to the market. On one street they passed dozens of vendors selling copper pots. On another street, the only product being offered was used Korans. Still another street was well stocked with thousands of yards of colorful fabrics. It went on like that, street after street, block after block. There were rows of stalls stocked with sheepskins, alleys of bangles and beads, and the world's only street that exclusively sold portraits of Mehmet the Conqueror.

  "I remember Zobolotsky saying that this wasn't a vacation, but I can't help feeling like I'm on a vacation," Shannon said glumly.

  "Enjoy it while it lasts."

  "But I don't like being a tourist. Not unless I was with Katrina. Then I wouldn't mind."

  Sometimes Shannon acted like a kid, and whenever he did, Indy just ignored him. He was as anxious as his friend to move on, but he didn't mind Istanbul. It was a vibrant, friendly city, if somewhat chaotic to a Westerner. In a way, it was more accessible to outsiders than the Northern European cities. The people here were more willing to stop and answer a question, even if they didn't know the answer, and more often than not they asked a few questions of their own. They didn't expect you to know their language and were pleased when you made an effort to speak it. He remembered Turkey from a visit he'd made when he was a kid, and he was pleased that his youthful impressions were still true.

  When they reached the cobblers' lane, Shannon just stared at the array of footwear that surrounded them. They were finally lured into one of the shops by a cup of mint tea, and while the aged proprietor helped Shannon try on boots his son tried to convince Indy to buy a pair. When Indy failed to show any interest, the dark-eyed young man moved his stool closer to Indy and told him about a special kind of boot.

  "You see, it has an extra layer of leather on the inside where you can hide things you don't want the customs people to see. You understand?"

  Indy had no idea what he wo
uld want to hide in a boot from customs. "Tell me about it."

  "I thought you would be interested. You see, I can sew the packets of powder right into the lining for you, and you can make big money when you get back to your rich country. You understand?"

  "What kind of powder?"

  "The heroin. You know, from the poppies."

  "No thanks." Indy set down his tea. "Jack, make sure you don't buy any boots with an extra lining inside."

  "That's the least of my concerns," Shannon said. "They don't make boots here for size-twelve feet."

  The proprietor's son wasn't ready to give up yet. "Look at this." He showed Indy the bottom of a boot, twisted the heel, and a three-inch blade slid out of a hidden groove.

  "Now, that's interesting." Indy examined the heel. "You think you could do that to my heel?"

  The young cobbler smiled. "Before you can say Ali Baba."

  A few minutes later, they moved on to another shop and then a third before Shannon finally found a pair of boots. They'd been offered cups of tea at every stop, and by the time Shannon made his purchase, they'd also attracted an entourage of onlookers who watched their every move.

  "I think we're the center of attraction today," Shannon commented.

  "They don't see tall, skinny guys with red hair every day."

  "I guess not. I wish I had my cornet. I've give them an earful of Chicago jazz."

  "I bet you would. Let's go look for a restaurant." As they moved on, the onlookers trailed after them.

  "You think we're in trouble?" Shannon asked, glancing over his shoulder.

  "Naw. They're just curious. That's all. The market's safe."

  "Then why are you carrying a gun and a whip, and why did you get a knife put in your boot?"

  "Just in case I'm wrong." Indy turned and everyone watched him as if he were about to perform a trick. "Where's a good restaurant in the Covered Bazaar?" he asked the man standing nearest to him.

  The Turk thought a moment and everyone was quiet. Someone made a suggestion, then all of them were suddenly talking at once as if the choice of restaurants was a serious matter of dispute. Finally, the man waved everyone back. "My name is Hasan," he said in accented English. "I will guide you to a very good restaurant on Kahvehane Street."