PART 4: ATLANTIC ADVENTURE

Chapter 37

Indiana Jones leaned on the rails of the tramp steamer Santo Thomas and gazed into the distance as the green hills of the island of Sao Miguel drew closer. A flitting mid Atlantic breeze warmed by the Gulf Stream disheveled his light brown hair and reminded him that among other things he needed a haircut. Jones wondered if he could find a barber in Ponta Delgada, the Capitol city, and destination of the Santo Thomas.

Pedro Gonsalves, the ship's master, exited the bridge and approached him. "Si Senhor, there she is," Pedro gestured with his hands, as if presenting the island as a gift. "The beautiful island of Sao Miguel, 'Isla Verde', my home."

The Portuguese master of the Santo Thomas beamed at Jones, who smiled back.

"It certainly is pretty," Jones said as he continued to look off in the distance at the green volcanic hills rising up out of the azure waters of the Atlantic Ocean.

"Si Senhor, the last remnants of the great continent of Atlantis," Pedro spoke and nodded his head. "The highest peaks of the highest mountains, that's all that remains, eh?"

Jones looked at him, smiled more broadly, and shook his head slightly. He and Pedro had discussed at length the legends of the lost continent of Atlantis several times over games of chess during the six days since they'd departed from New Orleans.

While he had initially been reluctant to let Jones book passage on his ship for the paltry sum of money the archaeologist had to offer, the Portuguese skipper was later delighted to have him aboard. In fact he would probably have let him travel for free once he discovered his skills as a chess competitor. Chess was one of Pedro's passions in life, and there's nothing a chess player likes better than good competition.

"I don't know Pedro, I'm still not convinced," Jones replied.

"Senhor I grew up on this island. I can tell you, there are many mysterious things about Sao Miguel and the other islands of the Azores, many mysteries that cannot be explained."

Jones nodded. "Some day I'd like to investigate some of those mysteries Pedro, some day in the future. Right now it's another island, in another ocean that's got my attention."

Pedro raised one eyebrow and nodded. "Si Senhor Indy, your Nan Madol mystery. But in the future when you are ready to explore the mysteries of the Azores, just call on me, your friend Pedro Gonsalves."

"You can count on it Pedro."

Ponta Delgada now came into view as the ship came about and made for the city's large rectangular harbor. In the distance Jones could make out the graceful lines of a four engine Boeing B-314 flying boat tied up to a passenger wharf. It was Pan Am's 'Atlantic Clipper' on a one day layover in the Azores before completing its route to Lisbon, and then on to Marseilles. That would have been the transportation of choice Jones thought wistfully, if he'd only had the money. But the Santo Thomas wasn't too bad. She was faster than she looked, and the games of chess with Pedro had served not only as a diversion, but a chance to sharpen his mind too.

The Santo Thomas carried a mixed cargo of rice, grains, and petroleum. She would off load most of her cargo in the Azores before making for Lisbon, Portugal. There to take on a new cargo of manufactured goods bound for the Americas. It was from Lisbon that Indiana Jones would depart the ship and make his way to England.

It wasn't the most direct route, but it had been the only one Jones could afford. After the events of Morton City and Rattlesnake Bayou he'd made his way back to New Orleans where he'd found himself nearly out of money. He'd tried to contact Marcus but was unsuccessful; though he was able to leave a message with Sarah at the museum, and mail off an important package. In it he'd given some brief details, and said that he'd contact Marcus once he reached England.

He'd then headed for the New Orleans waterfront where he'd finally found a ship that was leaving that day, and was willing to take the meager amount of money he could offer for passage to Europe.

Jones turned to Pedro again and held up his index finger. "One day in Ponta Delgada?" He asked.

"Si Senhor, my crew is very efficient. We'll have all the cargo unloaded before nightfall, and then leave for Lisbon in the morning."

Jones looked up into the clear morning sky. "Well, I can't waste a beautiful day like this. I guess I'll just have to go into town and get a good meal and a haircut."

Pedro laughed and clapped him on the back. "Please Senhor Indy; enjoy yourself on my beautiful island. I would be glad to show you around myself but this will be a busy day for my crew and me," Then Pedro winked at him. "But Senhor, just be back before dawn eh? The girls of the Azores are very beautiful."

Jones just smiled.

A short time later the Santo Thomas finished tying up to a long stone quay wall that ran along the main harbor road. Before she was even secured there was already a bustle of activity on the waterfront as the dockworkers prepared to unload the small ship. Jones returned to his cramped cabin to change clothes and wait for the gangplank to go down.

A quarter of an hour later he stepped down on to the quay wall, slung his field pack over his shoulder, and crossed over Ponta Delgada's main street, the 'Avenida'. The wide cobblestone Avenida, which closely hugged the harbor, was made of a mix of white and black volcanic stones arranged artfully in geometric patterns.

The typically Portuguese red roofed houses and shops, and the ancient whitewashed churches lent the city a charming Old World European feel to it that Jones liked. Narrow cobblestone streets led off the main Avenida, and every other block seemed to host a cozy seaside café where old men sipped coffee, gazed out at the wide Atlantic, and discussed the news of the day, the meaning of life, or maybe something in between.

As he made his way along the street Jones didn't hear the pitter-patter of little sandaled feet that tried to catch up to him. Nor did he hear the imploring voice of the child who clutched a scrap of paper and called out to him.

"Senhor Jones! Senhor Jones!"

Eventually the archaeologist found a particularly picturesque little café near to the famous 'Arch' of the Avenida. He sat down and ordered a cup of coffee. As the waiter brought the steaming freshly brewed demitasse, an out of breath child ran up to his table.

"Senhor Jones?" He stared at Indy with wide eyes beneath a straw brimmed hat as his chest heaved in and out.

Jones studied the child curiously for a moment. "Yes, I'm Senhor Jones."

The boy thrust a scrap of paper into his hand. "For you Senhor," he said, and then took off again.

Jones looked down at the crumpled note, and then up again. The child ran off down the Avenida, his little sandals slapping on the cobblestones.

Jones stood up. "Hey! Wait!" He shouted after the boy, but as quickly as the child had appeared, he now disappeared down an alleyway.

A confused look registered on the archaeologist's face. He sat back down, unfolded the small paper, and read the note, which was written in impeccably neat handwriting.

I have important information for you. Meet me at 12 noon exactly, 234 Via Pico.

Jones studied the two sentences and the paper they were written on for several moments. The sentences were simple, but the message was cryptic. And why was it delivered the way it was? He looked around suspiciously for a moment before folding up the message and slipping it into his pocket.

He sipped his dark coffee and peered around again, deep in thought. Who knew he would be in the Azores? When he'd spoken with Sarah he'd simply told her to tell Marcus that he was travelling to England. He hadn't even booked passage on the Santo Thomas yet.

The waiter returned with a menu and Jones looked at his watch. It was still early, and even though the note had unnerved him somewhat it hadn't affected his appetite. He ordered a big, local style omelet and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

As he ate, the questions continued to turn over in his mind. Who could have known that he would be here? He wished he could find the boy who had delivered the note. Perhaps he would try. But who would choose such an unusual method to deliver the message to him? Something didn't quite add up. Could it be someone on the Santo Thomas…but why? The only other explanation was that either Marcus or someone else had done some pretty good detective work. Brandt maybe? Perhaps Brandt had changed his mind. And Brandt would probably go for this type of 'cloak and dagger' approach.

Whatever the explanation, Jones enjoyed the rest of his breakfast and his morning coffee without hurrying. He had plenty of time. But when he finished he stood up and placed his fedora purposefully on his head. He resolved to locate the address on the note, 234 Via Pico, well in advance of the hour of noon.