The Adventures Of Indiana Jones (51 page)

He looked familiar, but why? Then he knew. He was one of the major contributors to the archaeology museum. He’d seen him a couple of times at social events associated with the museum, and he had heard Brody fussing about him more than once. His name was Walter . . . Walter Donovan. That was it.

“Notice the eyes in the tail feathers,” Donovan said, nodding to the pot that Indy was still holding.

He carefully set the precious artifact back in place. “Yeah. Nice eyes.”

“You know whose eyes they are?”

Indy smiled. “Sure. They’re Argus’s eyes. He was a giant with a hundred eyes. Hermes killed him, and Hera put his eyes in the peacock’s tail.”

Donovan regarded him a moment. “I should have guessed you knew a bit about Greek mythology.”

Indy shrugged. “A bit.”

The study of Greek myths was an aberration of his childhood, one that he had undertaken at the insistence of his father. He had grudgingly enjoyed some of the tales, especially the ones about Heracles and his feats, but all the while he had despised his father for forcing him to read and learn them. Now, however, he was amazed that thirty years later the heroes and their stories returned so easily to him; it was as if he’d read them last week.

“I trust your trip down was comfortable, Dr. Jones.” Donovan smiled, exuding confidence and power. “My assistants didn’t alarm you, I hope.”

Indy was about to make a crack about the fascinating discussions en route, but Donovan extended a hand and introduced himself.

“I know who you are, Mr. Donovan,” Indy said as Donovan released the firm grip on his hand. “Your contributions to the Old World Museum over the years have been extremely generous.”

“Why, thank you.”

“Some of the pieces in your collection here are very impressive,” Indy added, looking around.

Now what the hell do you want with me?

“I’m glad you noticed.”

Donovan walked over to a table where an object was covered by a cloth shroud. It was one of the pieces Indy hadn’t examined. Donovan pulled back the cloth, revealing a flat stone tablet about two feet square. “I’d like you to take a look at this one in particular, Dr. Jones.”

Indy moved closer and saw letters and symbols inscribed on the tablet. He removed his wire-framed glasses from his pocket, slipped them on, and leaned over for a closer examination of the ancient artifact.

“Early Christian symbols. Gothic characters. Byzantine carvings. Middle twelfth century, I’d say.”

Donovan crossed his arms. “That was our assessment as well.”

“Where did you find this?”

“My engineers unearthed it in the mountain regions north of Ankara while excavating for copper.” He paused a beat, studying Indy out of the corner of his eye. “Can you translate the inscription, Dr. Jones?”

Indy took a step back. His eyes were still fixed on the tablet. He explained that translating the inscriptions wouldn’t be easy, even for someone like himself, who was knowledgeable of the period and languages.

“Why don’t you try, anyhow?” Donovan said in his most persuasive voice.

Why the hell should I?

“I’d appreciate it,” Donovan added.

Yeah, I bet you would.

Indy frowned as he stared at the inscription. Finally he cleared his throat and spoke in a slow, halting voice, like a child who was just learning to read.

“. . . drinks the water that I shall give him, says the Lord, will have a spring inside him . . . welling up for eternal life. Let them bring me to your holy mountain . . . in the place where you dwell. Across the desert and through the mountain . . . to the Canyon of the Crescent Moon, broad enough only for one man. To the Temple of the Sun, holy enough for all men . . .”

Indy stopped, looked up at Donovan with a startled expression, saw no reaction on the other man’s face, and continued with the final line “. . . Where the cup that holds the blood of Jesus Christ our Lord resides forever.”

“The Holy Grail, Dr. Jones.” Donovan’s voice was hushed, reverent. He was obviously impressed by what Indy had read. “The chalice used by Christ during the Last Supper. The cup that caught His blood at the Crucifixion and was entrusted to Joseph of Arimathaea. A cup of great power to the one who finds it.”

Indy rubbed his chin and looked dubiously at Donovan. “I’ve heard that bedtime story before.”

“Eternal life, Dr. Jones.” He emphasized the words, as if Indy hadn’t heard him. “The gift of youth to whoever drinks from the Grail.”

Donovan, it seemed, was taking the inscription at face value rather than considering it in a mythological context. Indy nodded but didn’t say anything, not wanting to encourage the man in a pursuit that had consumed countless lives. He was too well aware how the search for the Grail Cup had become an obsession for even the most rational scholars.

“Now, that’s a bedtime story that I’d like to wake up to,” Donovan continued.

“An old man’s dream.”

“Every
man’s dream,” Donovan countered. “Including your father’s, I believe.”

Indy stiffened slightly at the mention of his father. “Grail lore is his hobby.” He spoke evenly, covering the discomfort he always felt when the Grail and his father were mentioned in tandem, like parts of a rhyme or a riddle.

“More than simply a hobby,” Donovan persisted. “He’s occupied the chair of medieval literature at Princeton for nearly two decades.”

“He’s a professor of medieval literature. The one students hope they don’t get.”

“Give the man his due. He’s the foremost Grail scholar in the world.”

Indy gave Donovan a sour look and was about to say something when the door opened. The music and sound of chatter suddenly pumped into the room, and both men turned as a matronly woman in an expensive evening gown stepped through the door.

“Walter, you’re neglecting your guests,” the woman said in a tone that didn’t hide her annoyance. Her eyes shifted from her husband to Indy and back again.

“Be along in a moment, dear.”

Indy turned his attention to the tablet once more when it became evident that Donovan wasn’t going to introduce him to his wife.

Mrs. Donovan sighed, a sigh that said she was accustomed to this, and returned to the party, her gown rustling as she walked away.

In spite of his skeptical comments, Indy was fascinated by the Grail tablet. He wouldn’t swear to it, but he was almost certain the tablet was what it appeared to be. The fact that it existed was an important discovery. What it could lead to was something he didn’t even want to consider right now.

He had forgotten all about the way he had been picked off the street. It was inconsequential. The tablet, and what it said, was what mattered.

“Hard to resist, isn’t it?” Donovan commented, acutely aware of Indy’s interest. “The Holy Grail’s final resting place described in detail. Simply astounding.”

Indy shrugged and recovered his skeptical, scientific attitude, the one that dominated his classroom persona. “What good is it? The tablet speaks of desert and mountains and canyons. There are a lot of deserts in the world—the Sahara, the Arabian, the Kalahari. And the mountain ranges—the Urals, Alps, Atlas . . . Where do you start looking?”

Then he pointed out the obvious flaw in the discovery. “Maybe if this tablet was completely intact, you’d have more to go on. But the entire top portion is missing.”

Donovan wasn’t about to be easily discouraged. He acted, Indy thought, like a man who knew something he wasn’t telling—a
big
something.

“Just the same, Dr. Jones, an attempt to recover the Grail is currently under way.”

Indy frowned and shook his head. “Are you saying the tablet has already been translated?”

Donovan nodded.

“Then why drag me here, just for a second opinion? I could charge you with kidnapping.” His tone was deliberately gruff.

Donovan held up a hand. “You could, but I don’t think you will. I’m getting to the reason. But first let me tell you another ‘bedtime story,’ Dr. Jones. After the Grail was entrusted to Joseph of Arimathaea, it disappeared and was lost for a thousand years before being found again by three knights of the First Crusade. Three brothers, to be exact.”

“I’ve heard this one, too,” Indy interrupted, and finished the story himself. “One hundred and fifty years
after
finding the Grail, two of these brothers walked out of the desert and began their long journey home. But only one made it back, and before dying of
extreme
old age, he imparted his tale to a Franciscan friar.”

Donovan nodded, clearly pleased that Indy knew the story. “Good. Now, let me show you something.” He walked across the room and returned with an ancient leather-bound volume. He opened it carefully. It was obvious that the pages were extremely brittle.

“This is the manuscript of the Franciscan friar.” He paused a moment, letting that fact fully register. “It doesn’t reveal the location of the Grail, but the knight promised that two ‘markers’ had been left behind that would lead the way.”

Donovan pointed at the stone tablet. “This, Dr. Jones, is one of those ‘markers.’ This tablet proves the story is true. But as you pointed out—it’s incomplete.”

Seconds passed. Indy could almost feel them filling the room and felt his own body tense, waiting for Donovan to continue. “The second ‘marker’ is entombed with the remains of the knight’s brother. Our project leader—who has brought years of study to this search—believes that tomb is located within the city of Venice, Italy.”

“What about the third brother, the one who was left behind in the desert? Does the friar say anything about him in his manuscript?”

“The third brother stayed behind to become the keeper of the Grail.” Donovan carefully closed the ancient manuscript. “As you can now see, Dr. Jones, we’re about to complete a great quest that began almost two thousand years ago. We’re only one step away from actually finding the Grail.”

Indy smiled. “And that’s usually when the ground disappears from under your feet.”

Donovan sucked air in through his teeth and expelled it, a sigh that spoke of some minor inconvenience that had somehow become a burden. “You may be more right than you know.”

“How so?”

“We’ve hit a snag. Our project leader has vanished. So has his research. We received a cable from Dr. Schneider, his colleague. Schneider has no idea of his whereabouts or what’s become of him.”

Donovan looked down at the ancient manuscript, then back at Indy. His eyes seemed distant now, almost glazed, as though a part of him were as lost as Schneider’s colleague. “I want you to pick up the trail where he left off. Find the man and you will find the Grail. Can you think of any greater challenge?”

Indy held up both his hands, patting the air and shaking his head. He gave a small, uncertain laugh. Challenges were one thing; stupidity was quite another. Besides, he rationalized, he had a commitment to the university to fulfill. He couldn’t just run off, especially since he had just returned late from another little field trip.

“You’ve got the wrong Jones, Mr. Donovan. Why don’t you try my father? I’m sure he’d be fascinated by the tablet and ready to help out in any way.”

“We already have. Your father is the man who’s disappeared.”

I
NDY SPED ALONG
a tree-lined boulevard through an old neighborhood. He cranked the wheel of his Ford coupe, skidded around the corner, and almost hit a man who had stepped into the street.

“Indy, for the Lord’s sake and my poor heart, slow down,” Brody yelled, from the passenger seat.

A block later Indy pulled over, screeching to a halt at the curb. He gazed for a moment through the windshield toward the house partially hidden by a hedge and trees.

It was two stories, with numerous windows and a nicely landscaped front yard. It might have belonged to an ordinary family with kids and pets, the sort of family that had barbecues on weekends, the family Indy had never had. It didn’t look anything like the place where he and his father had lived when he was younger. But it elicited the same feelings of unease, of awkwardness, even though he hadn’t set foot here in at least two years.

But none of what had happened between him and his father mattered now.

He hopped out of the Ford and was halfway to the front door when Brody caught up to him. He was breathing hard from the burst of exertion; a frown creased his forehead.

“Your father and I have been friends since time began. I’ve watched you grow up, Indy. And I’ve watched the two of you grow apart.” He climbed the stairs to the porch a step behind Indy. “I’ve never seen you this concerned about him before.”

Indy strode across the porch. “He’s an academic. A bookworm, not a field man, Marcus. Of course I’m concerned about . . .”

The front door was ajar, and it silenced him. He and Brody glanced at each other, and Indy stepped cautiously closer, muscles tight, expectant. He touched his hand to the door and nudged it open. It creaked. The air that struck his face was cool—and empty.

“Dad?”

“Henry?” Brody called out as he followed Indy inside.

Their voices echoed hollowly. Indy’s dread bit more deeply. He called for his father again and moved quickly down the hall, peering into empty rooms, rooms that hadn’t changed all that much since they moved here from Utah when he was fifteen. The furniture was nicer, there was
more
of everything, but the air here was just as barren and devoid of character as it had been in the other house after his mother had died.

A clock ticked in the silence. The refrigerator hummed. The quiet mocked him. Gone, Indy thought, and flung back the curtain that separated the hall from the sitting room.

He grimaced, and Brody whispered, “Dear God.”

The room hadn’t just been ransacked; it had been decimated. Drawers had been pulled out and dumped on the floor. Shelves had been swept clean. The couch cushions had been torn away and hurled across the room. Books, letters, and envelopes were strewn through the mess.

For several long moments Indy just stood there, his eyes flicking this way and that, seeking something, anything, that would provide a clue,