The Adventures Of Indiana Jones (56 page)

He smiled. “I know. But I got what I wanted. Ask Kazim where we can drop him off.”

Indy’s thoughts were already miles ahead of him.

A
FTER A HOT SHOWER
, food, and nine hours of sleep, Indy was ready to explore the apartment Donovan had allowed them to use during their stay in Venice. “Apartment,” however, was something of a misnomer: the place was a virtual palace.

The ceilings were vaulted, and the floors were made of thick slabs of marble. The antique furnishings were worth a fortune. There was a courtyard and balconies and at least a dozen rooms altogether. Covering the walls were some of the finest paintings of sixteenth-century Venetian artists: Veroneses, Tintorettos, and Titians as well as a variety of works that were mostly of historical importance.

It was obvious to Indy that most of the paintings were designed to bolster the egos of the sixteenth-century aristocracy, who spent most of their time showing off the riches of their independent state for visiting dignitaries. He smiled, thinking that Donovan was cut from the same mold, a twentieth-century patrician.

Indy was impressed by it all, but at the same time found it too pretentious for a private home. Some of the works should have been in museums, where they could be appreciated by more people. In some ways it was even a little obscene that so much beauty should be enjoyed only by the people who came into these rooms.

He wandered into the library. Shelves climbed from the floor to the ceiling on each of the four walls. Impressive, he thought. His father would’ve loved it. He perused the books and picked up a volume called
The Common-wealth of Oceana,
by James Harrington. It was an original edition and had been published in 1656. He flipped it open to a marked page and read a sentence describing Venice. “There never happened unto any other Common-wealth, so undisturbed and constant a tranquillity and peace in her self, as is that of Venice.”

“Right.” Indy chuckled. Tranquillity, peace: things had changed a bit in three centuries. An image of the brutal Fascists he had seen flashed into his head. He rubbed absently one of his bruised ribs and tried not to think too much about his own less than tranquil experiences in the city.

Maybe the city was still undisturbed for some people, but he wasn’t one of them.

It was his second day in Venice, and he, Elsa, and Brody were all still recovering from the incidents of yesterday. An egg-size lump had risen on the back of Brody’s head where he had been struck. Indy was recovering from an odd combination of combat and travel fatigue. His jaw was tender, and two of his ribs were sore from a couple of punches that had connected. Elsa, meanwhile, was suffering from minor rat bites and a slight burn on one arm from the fire in the catacombs.

Indy had been impressed that she hadn’t even mentioned the burns or bites until after they had found Brody wandering about the library in a daze and had made their way to the apartment. She was pensive today and kept looking at him as if she wanted to say something. But every time he tried to start a conversation, she abruptly found an excuse to do something else.

“Indy!”

Brody stood in the doorway of the library. He held an ice pack to his head with one hand and had a sheet of rumpled paper in the other.

“How’s the head, Marcus?”

“Better, now that I’ve seen this. It finally dried. You’ve got to take a look.”

In spite of the ice pack, Brody sounded as excited as Indy had ever seen him. He hurried into the library and dropped the piece of paper on the massive mahogany table that dominated the room. The paper was what remained of the rubbing from the knight’s shield. It was smeared and faded from the soaking in the tunnel, but was still in one piece. Now that it was dry, Indy could see that it was fairly legible.

“We know that what was missing from Donovan’s Grail tablet was the name of the city, right?”

Indy nodded.

Brody pointed at the ancient lettering, and Indy leaned close. But Brody couldn’t contain himself. “You see, it’s Alexandretta.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

Indy walked to a shelf and searched until he found an atlas.

“What are you doing?” Brody asked.

“Looking for a map of Hatay.”

Indy knew that the knights of the First Crusade had laid siege to Alexandretta for more than a year, and the entire city had been destroyed. Today, the city of Iskenderun on Hatay’s Mediterranean coast was built on its ruins.

He found the page he wanted and stabbed at it. “Here. Look, Marcus, this is the desert, and this is the mountain range. Just the way the Grail tablet described it. Somewhere in these mountains must be the Canyon of the Crescent Moon.” He paused, studying it. “But where?
Where
in these mountains?”

“Your father would know,” Brody said quietly.

“He would?”

“Let me take a look at the diary.”

Indy passed it to him.

“Your father
did
know. He knew everything except the city from which to start. He drew a map with no names. Here it is.”

He set the diary on the table and opened it to a pencil-drawn map that covered two pages. Indy had looked at it briefly on the airplane, but since there were no names, it hadn’t meant anything to him.

Brody’s fingers moved across it. “Henry probably pieced this together from a hundred different sources over the last forty years.”

“What is it?” Indy asked, even though he had a fairly good idea.

“It describes a course due east, away from the city, across the desert, to an oasis. Then turning south to a river which leads to a mountain range, here, and into a canyon. But because he had no names, he didn’t know
what
city. Or
which
desert. Or
which
river.”

And now they knew, for all the good it would do his father.

“I’m sure there’re enough details here to find it. Indy, I’m going after it.” Brody looked up at him, his spirits soaring after his discovery. “I hope you’ll come with me.”

Indy shook his head and closed the Grail diary. “I’m going after Dad. I’m leaving first thing in the morning for Austria.”

Brody nodded, understanding. “Of course. What was I thinking. I’d better . . .”

“No. You go ahead, Marcus. I’ll . . . We’ll catch up to you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Brody was quiet a moment, as if he was wondering if he had made the right choice. Then he brightened. “Well, we’ve got a few more hours in Venice. Let’s make the most of it. I’d love to visit the Galleria dell’Accademia. It has the best collection of Venetian paintings in existence. Let’s go, okay?”

“You sure you feel up to it?”

Brody took the ice pack from his head. “I’m feeling fine. Do you know that collection has Giorgione’s
Tempest,
Carpaccio’s
Saint Ursula Legend,
and Titian’s
Presentation of the Virgin
? Everything is there,” Brody gushed, “from the first masters of the fourteenth century to the great pieces of the mid-eighteenth century.”

Indy shrugged. “Let’s go. I’ll ask Elsa if she wants to join us.”

Elsa couldn’t seem to make up her mind about joining them. It was as if she were suffering from delayed shock or something, the aftereffects of their tumultuous experiences. Or maybe it was depression, as if their survival were a letdown somehow.

“I think I’ll skip the galleries,” she finally said. “I’m going out to buy a few groceries for dinner. I hope that’s okay.”

“You want company?” He wouldn’t mind one bit spending the rest of the afternoon alone with her while Brody toured the museum. Hell, he’d even help make dinner.

She shook her head. “You and Marcus go on. I’ll meet you back at the apartment.”

So much for a romantic dinner, he thought, and went off to get dressed.

After a five-minute walk from the apartment, Indy and Brody reached the Ponte dell’Accademia, a wooden bridge crossing the Grand Canal. There were four hundred bridges in Venice, but only three crossed the Grand Canal. The bridge had been built five years earlier, during the Depression, and supposedly was a temporary structure.

They stopped at the summit to take in the view. On their left, they could see as far as Basilica di San Marco—a Byzantine monument from the eleventh century. The exterior of the church dated back to the thirteenth century and the sacking of Byzantium during the Fourth Crusade. On the right was the Palazzo Balbi, a palace with obelisks on its roof.

“I’ve been thinking, Marcus. I don’t like the idea of you going off on your own.”

“Indy, I’m sure your father would approve. If we wait any longer, those violent people from that strange brotherhood might find it, and who knows what would happen to the Grail Cup.”

“I won’t stop you. But before you leave, contact Sallah. Have him meet you in Iskenderun.”

Brody nodded in agreement. Sallah was an old friend of both men. When Indy had pursued the Ark of the Covenant in Egypt, Sallah had saved his life more than once. He would feel a lot better about Brody chasing after the Grail Cup if he knew that Sallah was with him.

The two men spent the next hour wandering about the rooms of the Accademia. Brody was an enthusiastic and knowledgeable tour guide, pointing out the significance of one painting after another. He noted that the Renaissance for Venetians was something of a paradox. Unlike the rest of Italy, they had no Roman heritage. Founded on the cusp between East and West, antiquity and the Middle Ages, the city had preserved its traditions from the early Christian era. As a result, the Renaissance was more an adaptation of style and intention than a rebirth. Yet, Venice produced some of the best works of the Italian Renaissance.

Indy found them interesting but was less enthralled than Brody. He always told his students that there was an overlap between art and archaeology, but with the latter the remains of preserved feces could be as interesting and notable as painted ceramics or finely crafted gold.

Near the end of the hour Indy could tell that Brody was tiring and reminded him that his head injury was still fresh and he had better take it easy.

“I’m all right, Indy. Just a minor concussion and a bit of a headache. I’ll be fit in the morning.”

But he agreed that it was time to leave.

As they neared the apartment, Indy felt increasingly anxious. It was as if dozens of tiny needles were poking the back of his neck. Over the years he had learned to pay attention to that sensation. It was a sort of inbred warning signal, one that had given him a helpful edge more than once.

As soon as they reached the apartment, he knew the intuitive sensation had proved itself again. The door was slightly ajar. He peered inside, then cautiously entered the apartment and looked around.

“Elsa?” he called out tentatively.

The silence threw his own voice back to him, an empty echo.

“Elsa?” He raised his voice this time. Again there was no answer.

Just like Dad. A chill sped down his spine.

“I’ll check the kitchen,” Brody said.

Indy rushed over to his bedroom and swung open the door. The room had been ransacked. The mattress was on the floor, and the drawers had been dumped.

Oh, God. What happened to her?

He hurried down the hall to Elsa’s room. He paused, took a breath, and slowly turned the doorknob. Someone had rifled through her room as well. The intruder had tossed things from her drawers, jerked clothes from the hangers, torn the sheets away from the mattress.

But where the hell was she?

He backed out of the room and heard a distant, muffled voice. He crept down the hallway. The voice grew louder, more distinct. It was a woman’s voice, singing, and coming from the bathroom.

He opened the door a crack. “Elsa?”

“Hello, Indy.”

She was in a bathtub full of bubbles, smiling brightly at him. Bubbles encircled her throat like a necklace of translucent pearls. A smooth white shoulder lifted from the foam.

“Listen, kid. People are trying to sleep.” He backed out, relieved she was okay. He’d let her enjoy her bath.

“I’ll be right out,” she called after him.

He returned to his room and looked over the mess. Whoever had rummaged through the place must have been hiding when Elsa returned from her shopping trip. The intruder probably fled when she went into the bathroom.

He waited as he heard Elsa singing in the hallway en route to her room. He looked at his watch, estimating how long it would take her to change her tune.

She shrieked, and he smiled. He waited for her to run to his room. He heard footsteps. She swung open his door. She was dressed in a bathrobe; her hair was still wet.

Her jaw looked as though it had come unhinged. “Indy, my room . . .”

“Yeah, mine, too.”

She shook her head. “What were they looking for, anyway?”

“This.”

He took the Grail diary out of his pocket and tossed it onto the table.

“Your father’s Grail diary. You had it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You didn’t tell me.” She shook her head. “You don’t trust me.”

Over Elsa’s shoulder Indy saw Brody peeking into the room and signaled that everything was okay. Brody, sensing that matters were turning personal, quickly backed away, slipping out of sight.

“I didn’t know you.” He looked into her soft blue eyes; his thumb ached to trace the pout on her mouth. Christ, but she was hard to resist. “Or maybe I wanted to know you better.”

“It was the same for me.” Her voice was breathy now. “From the moment I saw you.”

“Does this sort of thing happen to you all the time?”

“No. Never. It’s a nice feeling.”

He moved closer to her, touched her face. “Don’t trust it, Elsa.”

“What do you mean?”

“Shared danger. Coming out of it alive. That’s what did it.”

“Yeah?” She smiled coyly, and Indy moved toward her, touched her chin, lifting it, and kissed her gently. Her mouth tasted faintly of toothpaste. He loved the scent of soap on her skin. She moved up against him, and suddenly he was kissing her harder, and she responded passionately, letting herself go.