The truck bumped its way through the cobbled alleyways of inner Iquitos, jostling the prisoners who were restrained in the cargo hold. Irina Spalko leaned against the cool metal wall, keeping a neutral expression on her face. Behind her back, she twisted her hands fiercely in their restraints, trying to break the chain that held the manacles together. She had been working at it for the better part of twelve hours, ever since they left the ruins of Akator in the middle of the rainforest. Her wrists were chafed and covered with blood, and her fractured arm ached. When they'd found her at Akator, barely conscious and pinned under a pile of rubble, she'd had no feeling in that arm at all. Spalko, however, wouldn't be distracted by a bit of temporary pain. She tugged her wrists apart again, glancing warily at the American soldier who sat across the hold, automatic rifle in his hands.
In the hold, too, were a few unlucky members of her squadron, those who had survived the debacle at Akator. She counted six soldiers in total, all in various states of disrepair. The most grievously injured lay unconscious on the floor, blood soaking a bandage across his forehead. They were all willing to sacrifice for the Soviet Union, but she still felt a cold prick of guilt when she thought of what was coming. No doubt they would all be tortured when they arrived at their destination, and Spalko hoped that the men would die quickly. She was the only one who held information of value, but she expected the Americans to use her men as leverage.
With this grim thought in her mind, Spalko felt the truck start to slow. They were in a populated area, and she could hear the faint strum of Peruvian folk music, the distant clamor of voices and traffic. A light rain hissed against the canvas roof. She guessed that they were in Iquitos. The vehicle took a sharp turn and stopped; the guard snapped to attention.
"The prisoners will remain still." He repeated the phrase in crude Russian, probably for the benefit of her soldiers.
Spalko sneered. "My men do speak English."
"Shut up."
She struggled as the back of the truck flew open and a sack was placed over her head. Someone jerked her to her feet, and she was bundled out into the rain. She heard her soldiers disembarking behind her.
"Let's go."
Spalko found herself alone in a small cement room, shackled to a table. The soldiers had deposited her there after a short walk, yanking off the blindfold and slamming the door behind them. The floor was cold against her bare feet, and she still wore the dirty and torn fatigues from Akator. Her arm burned with a white pain.
Taking advantage of the solitude, she glanced around the room, noting the placement of security cameras, the typewriter in the corner. She estimated that it would take her ten steps to reach the door. Twenty to reach the end of the passageway. Her heartbeat was quick and erratic, and her throat felt dry. The Americans hadn't given her anything to eat or drink. Pushing the useless panic aside, she forced herself to continue her inspection. A telephone on the wall. A locked cabinet behind her. The room was otherwise empty.
The last thing Spalko remembered was the spinning of the dais in the throne room. She had approached the Being and asked for knowledge, the only thing she had ever truly craved. She remembered the elation, the raw power of staring into the eyes of the Being, feeling her own abilities dim in comparison. It had been the culmination of years of careful research, cultivating her own gifts and searching for an explanation for the mysterious phenomena she'd witnessed.
But the power of the Beings was too nebulous, too unwieldy to develop into a useful weapon. Trying to harness it had nearly killed her. When – if – she made it back to Moscow, Spalko would advise the directorate to terminate the special project. They would be interested to hear of her findings, and even more interested in the Americans' apparent foreknowledge of their plot.
Spalko heard the distant tap of footsteps. She schooled her face into an expression of cool disdain. Fear made a lump in her throat, but she ignored it, trying not to imagine what they would do to her. She would never betray the Motherland. The Americans could break every bone in her body, but her allegiance would always belong to the Soviet Union.
With a rattle, the door swung open. A balding, olive-skinned man stepped carefully through the door, smoothing his suit with one hand. A thick manila folder was tucked under his arm. Before speaking, he sat across the desk and laid the folder between them, almost casually. He glanced at his watch.
"I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Dr. Spalko."
Spalko just stared at him. "What do you want with me?"
"What do you think?" His voice was soft, with a slight American twang, but there was something about him that put Spalko ill-at-ease. Leaning back in his chair, he considered her, steepling his fingers before him.
She let the silence drag on for a moment. Then: "The matter with Jones."
"Yes, we'll start there. But first—" He sprung up from his chair, going to the door. Another man stepped in, carrying a plate of food and a cup of water. "Would you like something to eat?"
Spalko narrowed her eyes warily. The second man sat the meal down on the desk, just out of her reach, and then disappeared through the door. Her throat was raw with thirst, and she waited impatiently for the interrogator to undo her shackles.
"You may have this meal, Dr. Spalko, on one condition."
"Condition?"
"Yes. Tell us the name of your direct superior."
Her hopes plunged, but she forced herself to remain passive. "You know I cannot disclose that, Agent…"
"…Agent Marino. And yes, you'll need to give me the information first. Something for me, something for you."
"No."
"Suit yourself." He sprung up, retrieving the plate. "I will return in an hour. I expect you will have revised your decision by then."
Indiana Jones walked up the squat stucco building with a weary sigh. His boots slipped against the worn cobblestones, and he caught the familiar smell of wood smoke and cooking Tacacho. He didn't particularly like Iquitos, crowded as it was with scoundrels and fortune-seekers hoping to profit from the rubber boom, but he did like the local cuisine. When Ross had called him to the city a few days before, he hadn't argued, although he'd been bitterly disappointed by the change of plans. Marion Ravenwood and her son – his son - had gone ahead to Connecticut, and he was planning to join them as soon as possible.
Thinking of Marion lifted his gloom a little, and he stepped to the gate, tapping a button hidden among the swirls of wrought iron. The place looked more like a residential property than a bunker, and the lack of fortification surprised him. He tapped the button again; this time, a uniformed man emerged from the shadows, carrying an automatic rifle across his back.
"Dr. Jones?"
"I am," he grumbled. "Where's Ross?"
"Inside. Come with me." The guard opened the gate, and they crossed the short walkway to the door. The man keyed a series of notes into a keypad embedded in the door, then unlocked it with a conventional key. Noticing Jones watching him, he smiled slightly. "We make do with what we have."
"I see."
The inside of the building looked more menacing. There were no windows, only a series of locked doors and a dark stairwell leading to a lower level. The guard shepherded him away from the stairwell and towards the nearest door, underneath which faint light spilled into the hallway. The guard tapped twice on the door.
"General Ross, sir. Your visitor has arrived."
True to his word, Agent Marino returned an hour later, again offering her food in exchange for information. True to her word, Spalko refused.
"I don't understand, Dr. Spalko. Are you not hungry?" He paced the floor in front of her, wearing a puzzled frown.
Spalko listened to the tap of his dress shoes on the concrete, trying to ignore the now-cold plate across the desk. The combination of hunger and harsh fluorescent lights was beginning to make her dizzy. Slumping back in her chair, she waited for him to tire of the silence.
It didn't take more than a few minutes. "…Answer me, Spalko."
"I have nothing to say."
The agent stopped his endless circuit around the small room and approached her chair. "You know we can make you talk."
She scoffed at this and raised her eyebrows haughtily.
"We can." Marino flipped open the manila folder and paged through it. "We already know quite a bit about you. Your role in the Science and Technology Directorate, personal statistics, history of military service…"
"I have no doubt, agent. But you are not interested in those things."
"Correct you are. We know of your high rank within the Soviet bureaucracy, and we suspect you are involved in the development of experimental weapons."
She smiled thinly. "I expect you want to know what we are working on—"
"Yes."
"—But that is not information I am willing to divulge."
Marino slammed the folder shut and straightened up. Without a word, he crossed to the door and opened it.
"Good evening, sir."
With a nod, Marino ushered the other man inside. He was squat and well-muscled, with hair cut short against his scalp. A cudgel hung menacingly at his side. Unholstering the weapon, he took a few steps towards her, biting his lip.
Spalko felt dread settle in her chest, damp and heavy. She had passed her counterinterrogation training with flying colors, but she wasn't looking forward to testing her resolve. Her hands shook, and she fought to still them.
"…If you refuse to be reasonable, I will be forced to question you more aggressively. Tread lightly, Spalko." There was nothing mild in his voice now, and she felt the electricity of his anger.
She wouldn't be cowed. "You've put me in a difficult position, Agent Marino."
"Allow me to make it simple. Cooperate, or you will be beaten."
Before the agent had time to react, Spalko lunged forward, shoving over the table between them. Her hands and feet were restrained, which limited her range of motion. Stumbling backward, she managed to pull one hand free of the cuff, scraping off a good deal of skin in the process. Within a second, the guard had closed the gap between them. Swinging his club, he crushed the weapon into her fractured upper arm. Spalko went down, momentarily blinded by the pain.
The guard took the opportunity to subdue her, replacing the cuff.
Across the room, Marino got shakily to his feet, brushing off his suit coat. "You will…regret that foolish display."
Spalko barely heard him. Curled up on the floor, she hissed through her teeth, pulling the injured arm close to her body.
"…Guard McCrea, has Jones arrived?"
"Yes, sir. He arrived at 1100 hours, sir."
"Bring him to me."
"Indy, I'm so glad you're here! Come in."
Ross waved him into the small room and gestured to a chair in the corner. The room was spartan and clean, with a polished oak desk and neat stacks of folders. The sole window was covered over with tar paper.
"I trust you had a comfortable journey?"
Jones nodded, settling into the seat. Pulling off his battered fedora hat, he laid it carefully over his knees. "It was fine, thanks."
This was true. Ross' agents had stopped him at the small airport in Lima, directing him to a plush sedan waiting outside. He had been irritated at the interruption to his plans, but at least the journey to Iquitos had been bearable. He leaned forward, stroking his chin.
"Why do you want me here, general?"
Ross sighed and settled his lanky frame into the tiny desk chair. "Spalko. We've apprehended her."
"Really?" Indy's surprise was genuine. The last he'd seen of her, she had been planted stubbornly in the middle of the throne room, babbling about sight and knowledge. Her survival had seemed unlikely. Suddenly, his tiresome trip to Iquitos became a bit more interesting.
"Yes. Our patrols found her beneath the rubble. She is in remarkably good shape, but we don't think she'll cooperate with our interrogation."
Jones grimaced and shook his head. "No, I imagine she won't."
"We want you to assist with the interrogation." Ross stared at him through smudged glasses, as if he expected Indy to refuse.
"If you say so, general. But…"
"Why you?"
Indy nodded silently, crossing his arms.
"Well, simply put, you are the only one of us who knows her personally. She has expressed admiration for your work. You have a rapport."
Jones snorted at this, slapping his palms on the desk. Spalko had admired his reputation enough to kidnap him for the trip to Akator, luring him in by using his family as bait. He would hardly say they had a rapport. Still, he was eager to get back in the good graces of the Bureau. This whole affair had stained his reputation and nearly cost him his career at Marshall College. He supposed it would be wise to cooperate, if only to curry favor with Ross.
"Just tell me what I need to do."
A/N: Hello, reader! I'm so happy to be writing my favorite couple again. Let me know what you think.