The Adventures Of Indiana Jones

FOR THE FIRST TIME IN A SINGLE VOLUME—
THE THREE THRILLING NOVELS INSPIRED
BY THE BLOCKBUSTER FILMS

With bullwhip in hand, Indiana Jones has unearthed a wealth of ancient treasures. In
Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark
, the fearless archeologist journeys from Nepal to Cairo to the Mediterranean, dodging poisons, traps, and snakes, battling rivals old and new—all in pursuit of an ancient artifact that holds the key to dazzling, invincible power.
Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom
finds our intrepid hero in a remote village in India, where a mysterious old shaman tells him that his arrival has been foreseen—and that he must retrieve a stolen mystical stone. And finally, Indy must face the most challenging and personal endeavor of his life: rescue his estranged father, the eminent professor Dr. Henry Jones, from a Nazi’s lair, and recover the legendary Holy Grail. Yet
Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade
doesn’t mean the adventure is over . . .

INDIANA JONES
AND THE
RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK
™

Campbell Black

Adapted from the screenplay by Lawrence Kasdan
Based on a story by George Lucas and Philip Kaufman

INDIANA JONES
AND THE
TEMPLE OF DOOM
™

James Kahn

Adapted from the screenplay by Willard Huyck & Gloria Katz
Based on a story by George Lucas

INDIANA JONES
AND THE
LAST CRUSADE
™

Rob MacGregor

Adapted from the screenplay by Jeffrey Boam
Based on a story by George Lucas and Menno Meyjes

Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom,
and
Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade
are works of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

A Del Rey Trade Paperback Original

Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark copyright © 1981 by Lucasfilm Ltd. & ® or ™ where indicated.

Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom copyright © 1984 by Lucasfilm Ltd. & ® or ™ where indicated.

Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade copyright © 1989 by Lucasfilm Ltd. & ® or ™ where indicated.

All Rights Reserved. Used under authorization.

Published in the United States by Del Rey Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark
was originally published as
Raiders of the Lost Ark
in 1981 in paperback in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., in 1981.

Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom
was originally published in paperback in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., in 1984.

Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade
was originally published in hardcover in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., in 1989.

DEL REY is a registered trademark and the Del Rey
colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

ISBN 978-0-345-50127-1

Printed in the United States of America

www.indianajones.com

www.delreybooks.com

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Book design by Katie Shaw

INDIANA JONES AND THE
RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK

INDIANA JONES AND THE
TEMPLE OF DOOM

INDIANA JONES AND THE
LAST CRUSADE

About The Authors

T
HE JUNGLE WAS
darkly verdant, secretive, menacing. What little sunlight broke the high barriers of branches and twisted vines was pale, milky in color. The air, sticky and solid, created a wall of humidity. Birds screamed in panic, as if they had been unexpectedly trapped in some huge net. Glittering insects scurried underfoot, animals chattered and squealed in the foliage. In its primitive quality the place might have been a lost terrain, a point unmapped, untraveled—the end of the world.

Eight men made their way slowly along a narrow trail, pausing now and then to hack at an overhanging vine or slice at a dangling branch. At the head of this group there was a tall man in a leather jacket and a brimmed felt hat. Behind him were two Peruvians, who regarded the jungle cautiously, and five nervous Quechua Indians, struggling with the pair of donkeys that carried the packs and provisions.

The man who led the group was called Indiana Jones. He was muscular in the way one might associate with an athlete not quite beyond his prime. He had several days’ growth of dirty blond beard and streaks of dark sweat on a face that might once have been handsome in a facile, photogenic fashion. Now, though, there were tiny lines around the eyes, the corners of the mouth, changing the almost bland good looks into an expression of character, depth. It was as if the contours of his experience had begun, slowly, to define his appearance.

Indy Jones didn’t move with the same caution as the two Peruvians—his confidence made it seem as if he, rather than they, were the native there. But his outward swagger did not impair his sense of alertness. He knew enough to look occasionally, almost imperceptibly, from side to side, to expect the jungle to reveal a threat, a danger, at any moment. The sudden parting of a branch or the cracking of rotted wood—these were the signals, the points on his compass of danger. At times he would pause, take off his hat, wipe sweat from his forehead and wonder what bothered him more—the humidity or the nervousness of the Quechuas. Every so often they would talk excitedly with one another in quick bursts of their strange language, a language that reminded Indy of the sounds of jungle birds, creatures of the impenetrable foliage, the recurring mists.

He looked around at the two Peruvians, Barranca and Satipo, and he realized how little he really trusted them and yet how much he was obliged to depend on them to get what he wanted out of this jungle.

What a crew, he thought. Two furtive Peruvians, five terrified Indians, and two recalcitrant donkeys. And I am their leader, who might have done better with a troop of Boy Scouts.

Indy turned to Barranca and, though he was sure he knew the answer, asked, “What are the Indians talking about?”

Barranca seemed irritated. “What do they always talk about, Señor Jones? The curse. Always the curse.”

Indy shrugged and stared back at the Indians. Indy understood their superstitions, their beliefs, and in a way he even sympathized with them. The curse—the ancient curse of the Temple of the Chachapoyan Warriors. The Quechuas had been raised with it; it was intrinsic to their system of beliefs.

He said, “Tell them to be quiet, Barranca. Tell them no harm will come to them.” The salve of words. He felt like a quack doctor administering a dose of an untested serum. How the devil could he know that no harm would come to them?

Barranca watched Indy a moment, then he spoke harshly to the Indians, and for a time they were silent—a silence that was one of repressed fear. Again, Indy felt sympathy for them: vague words of comfort couldn’t dispose of centuries of superstition. He put his hat back on and moved slowly along the trail, assailed by the odors of the jungle, the scents of things growing and other things rotting, ancient carcasses crawling with maggots, decaying wood, dying vegetation. You could think of better places to be than here, he thought, you could think of sweeter places.

And then he was wondering about Forrestal, imagining him coming along this same path years ago, imagining the fever in Forrestal’s blood when he came close to the Temple. But Forrestal, good as he had been as an archaeologist, hadn’t come back from his trip to this place—and whatever secrets that lay contained in the Temple were locked there still. Poor Forrestal. To die in this godforsaken place was a hell of an epitaph. It wasn’t one Indy relished for himself.

He moved along the trail again, followed by the group. The jungle lay in a canyon at this point, and the trail traversed the canyon wall like an old scar. There were thin mists rising from the ground now, vapors he knew would become thicker, more dense, as the day progressed. The mists would be trapped in this canyon almost as if they were webs spun by the trees themselves.

A huge macaw, gaudy as a fresh rainbow, screamed out of the underbrush and winged into the trees, momentarily startling him. And then the Indians were jabbering again, gesticulating wildly with their hands, prodding one another. Barranca turned and silenced them with a fierce command—but Indy knew it was going to be more and more difficult to keep them under any kind of control. He could feel their anxieties as certainly as he could the humidity pressing against his flesh.

Besides, the Indians mattered less to him than his growing mistrust of the two Peruvians. Especially Barranca. It was a gut instinct, the kind he always relied on, an intuition he’d felt for most of the journey. But it was stronger now. They’d cut his throat for a few salted peanuts, he knew.

It isn’t much farther, he told himself.

And when he realized how close he was to the Temple, when he understood how near he was to the Idol of the Chachapoyans, he experienced the old adrenaline rushing through him: the fulfillment of a dream, an old oath he’d taken for himself, a pledge he’d made when he’d been a novice in archaeology. It was like going back fifteen years into his past, back to the familiar sense of wonder, the obsessive urge to understand the dark places of history, that had first excited him about archaeology. A dream, he thought. A dream taking shape, changing from something nebulous to something tangible. And now he could feel the nearness of the Temple, feel it in the hollows of his bones.