CHAPTER 6

Samawah, Kingdom of Iraq—October 22nd 1926

The muslim call to prayer washed over the riverside market, carried on air thick with the scent of cumin and bahārāt, turmeric and paprika. In spite of his catholic upbringing, or perhaps because of it, Indy had yet to be sold on any religion. But listening to the impossible, transcendent beauty of the adhan, Indy found himself hoping there was a God. This was song worthy of a deity's ear.

He negotiated the haphazardly arranged stalls, draped in shadow by the mosque's looming dome. Indy was pacing the oldest part of the city, and could glimpse fragments of the original byzantine architecture; part of a tiled mosaic here, the base of a column there, though much had been destroyed by centuries of war. The city's most visible scars were from the uprising, six years earlier, and the streets retained a strong military presence. Among the first faces Indy had seen when he stepped off the train from Baghdad were those of British soldiers.

British control had meant an influx of westerners, and the market vendors had grown accustomed to bulging European wallets. Traders hungrily vied for Indy's attention, offering spiced fish and kebabs, baskets, rugs and ceramics. He waved most away, but couldn't resist the sweet allure of freshly baked kleicha, and bought half a dozen.

Indy munched on the date cookies as he entered the Suq Al Masgoof, a lively covered market and the beating heart of Samawah.

He passed a stall piled high with brass trinkets, and caught his reflection in a polished bowl; once again he glimpsed the hooded wraith lurking behind him.

Cloaked in black, the deathly figure had been stalking Indy across Iraq, though the young archaeologist had felt eyes on him ever since he'd boarded the Mauretania ten days earlier. It didn't make sense. If Ziegler's goons had been on his tail since he left New York, why hadn't they made a move already?

Indy continued along, casually weaving through the market; then abruptly side stepped between two stalls. He hurried past the lively merchants, taking cover behind their assorted wares, until he reached the far end of the hall. Indy peeked out at the thoroughfare through a stack of rolled up rugs. He scanned the crowd, but there was no sign of the hooded figure. Maybe the guy really was a ghost.

A hand slammed over his mouth. Indy felt the muzzle of a gun pressing into his back.

"Don't move, Jones!" the voice was muffled, but American, and familiar. "Hands in the air. And turn around. Slowly!"

Indy did as he was asked, the hand slowly moved from his mouth as he turned to face the wraith. The guy's face was veiled in black, and he was short, a good foot shorter than Indy. He was slight, too.

Then it clicked. He was a woman.

Indy glanced down. The gun was just a brass candlestick. The figure started to laugh. Indy ripped away the veil.

Marion. Once again the girl rendered him speechless.

"Surprise!"

"How... ? I mean... what are you—"

Marion leant forward and kissed him, deep and tender. The million questions zipping through his brain evaporated. For a few blissful seconds, he didn't care how the hell she'd got here, or what Abner would do to him when he found out.

Marion caressed his face as she pulled away. "You left without saying goodbye."

Indy smiled, but just for a moment. Then his brain started working again. He grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her out into the market.

"Hey!"

"We're getting on the next train back to Baghdad."

"Fine by me." Marion smirked."But that's not 'til Monday."

Indy stopped. He cursed himself. She was right.

Shoppers hurried around the couple as Indy turned to face her.

"So we've got two days to kill." Marion put her arms around his waist and pulled him close. "I can think of a few ways we could pass the time."

Indy realised. "That's why you didn't show yourself until now. You knew I'd pack you straight back home."

"I can help, with your work. It'll be just like last year, in the desert." she smiled suggestively. "You remember the desert, right?"

Indy shook his head. "Jesus Marion, I'm not here to translate some goddamn tablets!" He glanced around the market; despite having unmasked his stalker, Indy couldn't shake the feeling he was still being watched. He pulled away from Marion, took her wrist again and pushed through the crowd, marching her outside. They moved through an archway and into a quiet, garden courtyard. A couple of old men briefly looked in their direction, before continuing their game of checkers. Indy swept the fedora from his head and massaged his brow.

"You've got no idea what you're getting yourself mixed up in here."

"Look, I'm not a kid, okay."

"Coulda fooled me! Playing dress up and hide and go seek."

"I can help you, I know I can!"

Indy snickered.

"I made it this far, didn't I?"

She had a point.

"I don't suppose you squared this with Abner, before setting off?"

"I'm eighteen, I can do what I want, I don't need Abner's say so."

"Right... and I s'pose you funded this... vacation out of your own pocket?"

"So, I dipped into his research fund. He won't even notice, and I'll pay him back, I promise."

Indy snorted. "I'll remind him of that when he's nailing my balls to his blackboard."

Marion moved to Indy, held his hands and pulled him firmly towards her. "Look, I know coming here was stupid, impulsive, whatever."

"No kidding."

"But that night, in Chicago. It was... kinda special, right?"

Indy looked away. "You're crazy."

"Maybe. But when you left, the next morning with Abner, I got this feeling. A feeling right here." She slowly moved his hand to her breast. Indy looked to his hand, then raised his eyes to meet her's. "A feeling like I wasn't ever gonna see you again."

Indy sighed.

"I've only had that feeling once before. The night before mom was killed." She had Indy's attention. "Indy, I had to come after you. Something was screaming that if I didn't, you wouldn't be coming home at all."

Indy took a beat to take in what she'd said, then smiled softly. "You really are crazy."

Marion shrugged. "Yeah, well, you're the one running halfway around the world after some useless piece of jewellery."

"I guess I don't like to lose."

"Me neither."

Indy moved in and kissed her.

He polished off the last mouthful of the delicious grilled fish and contemplated ordering another portion. Why not? He rubbed his belly. After all he'd been through, he should at least try to enjoy his last couple of days in the country. He caught Yasin's attention across the cafe terrace with a wave of his hand, and the chef responded with a tilt of his head—the pair had developed a useful shorthand.

Of course, Iraqi food paled in comparison to his native cuisine, but he'd grown fond of their masgouf, and Yasin's was the best he'd sampled in the six months he'd been in the country. The smoky flavour brought to mind Fayah's samak washwi; his tastebuds offering an unnecessary reminder of just how much he missed his wife and children. Still, he hoped to be with them again in less than a week's time, and what stories he would have to tell.

The ambitious young excavator's Mesopotamian adventure had started out so promisingly. Sallah had worked briefly with Leonard Woolley a few years earlier, excavating a temple at Armana, along the Nile. The digger had clearly impressed the British archaeologist, as Woolley himself had written, inviting Sallah to be part of his team excavating the Royal Cemetery at Ur.

When measured against that of Egypt, the dust had barely been blown from Mesopotamian history, and Ur had promised to give up secrets that would shape the world's understanding of this most ancient of civilisations. The five thousand year old city had certainly come good on that promise.

Within days of joining Woolley's team, Sallah had helped unearth an entrance to the most spectacular of tombs. He'd stood at Woolley's side as their torchlight fell upon Queen Puabi and riches beyond imagination. Golden jewellery and tableware, a chariot adorned with silver, and—most spectacularly of all—a royal lyre decorated with a solid gold bull's head. Woolley believed the animal represented the sun god, Utu; Sallah wouldn't have been surprised if the creature had been crafted by the deity's own hands.

The subsequent months had lead to further astonishing finds; antechamber after antechamber packed with treasures.

Then they'd uncovered the death pits. Graves containing dozens of Puabi's servants; each had willingly taken a lethal cocktail of opium and hemlock before being ceremonially buried alongside their queen. Death loomed heavily over life for these early city builders.

Sallah believed things happen for a reason. The death pits laid bare life's fragility, jolting into focus what was important in his own life. It pained him that he'd missed little Moshti's first birthday, and he was determined to be home before the baby was born.

He'd been all set to return to Egypt. That's when one of the German's associates had approached Sallah, and made him an offer he found impossible to refuse. A few weeks' work for the equivalent of six months' pay. Of course, he realised now that the German never intended to make good on the offer.

The Egyptian had fled Warka a few days earlier—the location where his Mesopotamian dream had morphed into something altogether more nightmarish. Sallah considered himself lucky to have escaped with his life.

He dug in his pocket and removed his wallet, flipping it open to a picture of his wife and three children.

A shadow fell across the photograph.

"Sallah Faisel el-Kahir?"

Sallah's heart sank. He'd hoped the British wouldn't get wind of his association with the German, but now it appeared even the Americans were onto him. He cursed himself for ordering a second lunch. Sallah looked up and saw a man wearing a wide-brimmed felt hat with a bullwhip hanging from his belt, the man could have stepped straight out of a Wild West picture. The revolver resting in his holster completed the look.

Sallah painted on a smile. "Not me, my friend."

Yasin arrived and deftly switched Sallah's empty plate for another filled with the steaming, marinated fish. Suddenly, Sallah had lost his appetite. "Here you go—no charge for favourite customer," he looked to the American. "You eat? Carp fresh from river today! Best in Samawah, eh Sallah?" Yasin placed a friendly hand on Sallah's shoulder as the Egyptian shifted uneasily.

The American smiled. "Just a bottle of arak, shukran."

"Very good." Yasin headed back to the kitchen, the American watched him leave. Sallah seized his chance and sprang to his feet—but before he could run, a young woman appeared beside him, blocking the Egyptian's path. She was about twenty years old, if that, and dressed in a long black Iraqi abaya; yet her pale skin and the striking blue eyes now fixed on his, set her apart from the locals. She was likely an American too. The girl smiled sweetly as she gently pushed Sallah back toward his seat.

The American's hand rested over his revolver. "Sit down, please. We don't wanna cause a scene."

Indy had to hand it to Marion, she sure had a way of making men do what she wanted. The Egyptian sat back down and Indy took a seat opposite him. He didn't want to mess with this guy. Sallah was a little older than Indy and a few inches taller, well built with arms used to cracking stone. He was jumpy as hell, too, but Abner had been adamant Indy could trust him.

"You recently did some work for a German, Wilhelm Ziegler?"

The Egyptian glanced around; the cafe was quiet—just a few men puffing on hookah pipes, sat on the far side of the terrace—but he clearly wasn't taking any chances. Marion sat down beside Indy as Sallah leaned in close. "I'm just a digger, trying to earn an honest living. For my family in Cairo," he slid his wallet across the table. "See?"

Indy glanced down at a photograph of a pretty—if tired looking—woman in her early thirties, and three little children.

Marion picked up the wallet. "Your children are beautiful."

"And we have another, arriving in just a few weeks."

Marion smiled and passed the wallet back to Sallah.

"Listen pal, we're not looking for trouble," Indy continued. "I just need you to answer a couple of questions."

The chef arrived and placed down a bottle of arak, three glasses and a jug of iced water. He motioned to fill Indy's glass, but Indy waved him away. "Shukran."

Indy slid a glass over to Sallah.

"No, thank you, I don't—"

"Trust me, you look like you need it." Indy half filled Sallah's glass. He looked to Marion, hesitated, then emptied a splash into her glass, before pouring himself a healthy measure. Indy took the jug of water, but Sallah had already necked the liquor neat. The Egyptian's cheeks reddened and he coughed and spluttered as Indy topped up Marion's drink, and then his own, with ice water.

Sallah looked up and wheezed into. "Allah, forgive me."

"So where's Ziegler now?"

The arak worked quickly, it emboldened the Egyptian. He glanced from Indy to Marion then back to Indy. "You don't looklike army intelligence. British or American. Who are you working for?"

"Let's keep it to us asking the questions—"

Marion suddenly leant forward. "Oh my God! I remember you!" she grabbed the Sallah's hands warmly, he looked as taken aback as Indy. "You were the singing guy! Every night, by the campfire, you had all the men laughing and dancing! Aw Jesus, what was the song?" then she remembered. "I am the very model of a... modern... Major... General."

Sallah's face lit up and he started to sing, quietly at first. "I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral." Sallah grew more confident and continued with gusto in a strong baritone. "I know the kings of England, and I quote the fights historical..."

Marion joined in and they sang together. "From Marathon to Waterloo in order categorical." Sallah let out a great boom of laughter. He noticed the hookah smokers staring over and tried to compose himself.

"I could hear you, from my tent," Marion was beaming. "God, I used to beg Abner to let me sit up with you guys, but he never would."

A broad smile of recognition spread across the Egyptian's face.

"No, it cannot be! This angel sitting before me is Doctor Ravenwood's little girl?"

"It was a long time ago."

Sallah kissed Marion's hands and squeezed them affectionately. "It's so wonderful to see you again. And Abner, he is here too?"

Marion shook her head. "But Doctor Jones is his good friend."

"Then he is a friend of mine, also." Sallah thrust his hand across the table. Indy took it with some reluctance.

"Swell. So maybe we can start again."

Sallah nodded and leant toward Indy, his voice hushed, his tone grave. "Yes, I worked for the German," he looked to Marion. "Though I had no idea of the man's true nature when I wrote to your father. He is a snake who mustn't be trusted."

Indy thought that sounded about right. He threw Marion a side glance, the girl was starting to get a sense of what she'd gotten herself involved in.

Sallah's eyes snapped back to Indy. "Why do you seek him out?"

"We have some unfinished business."

"Well be careful. He hired the strongest backs, but we were all foreigners and vagrants. People who would not soon be missed, people he could easily... dispose of. After we broke through, my team was rounded up. We were held as prisoners. I was the only one to escape. I fear I may have been the only one to survive. Ziegler is obsessed with secrecy, paranoid the Brits will learn of the discovery and snatch away his prize."

"Discovery?"

"An entrance, to a series of underground chambers and tunnels, right in the heart of Warka. Only the German and a few of his closest associates were allowed to enter, but rumours abound that they led to a tomb. A king's tomb."

"Warka? The ancient city of Uruk." as Indy spoke the significance of Sallah's words hit him. "Gilgamesh?!"

Sallah nodded. "Ziegler believes he has discovered his final resting place."

"Who?" Marion asked.

Indy sighed. "Gilgamesh was supposedly a great king. A ruthless warrior with an insatiable thirst for power and riches. His life is the stuff of legend, recorded on twelve ancient tablets from the Old Babylonian Period; the world's oldest written text."

Sallah continued. "For four thousand years people have been searching for the remains of King Gilgamesh. But he is said to have made an... unnatural pact with the gods, and those who have attempted to seek out his tomb have found only tragedy. Perhaps some things are best left undiscovered."

Indy sensed Marion's unease. "Don't worry about it, Gilgamesh is just a myth, a legend."

"Perhaps," Sallah continued. "But clearly Ziegler doesn't think so."

Narrow, bloodshot eyes peered out through the wooden latticed oriel window. Omar drew hard on a cigarette as he watched the two men on the cafe terrace on the far side of the street. The American archaeologist had sought out the digger, just as General Ziegler had predicted. Omar had been wise to listen, and his patience had paid off; he'd be bringing the German two scalps instead of one—and collecting twice the fee.

Omar had followed the Egyptian from Warka, and taken a room in the same hotel, across the street from the cafe. The girl was a surprise, though, and a welcome one. A pretty little thing, she'd prove a very agreeable bonus for all his hard work. The German need not find out, though Omar doubted General Ziegler would object even if he did. Omar ran his fingers through his thick moustache as he considered the possibilities. He then snapped his crooked, rodent face to Wajid and Lut; the useless pair arguing like children as they played cards on the bed. Omar barked at them in arabic, flashing brown, misshapen teeth. The former labourers were slow-witted but strong, inexpensive and pliable; they immediately quietened and got to their feet.

It was time.

Omar dropped his cigarette to the floor and stubbed it out, just inches from the face of the owner of this fetid hovel—a man who'd attempted to overcharge Omar by three paisa. The greasy little con-man squirmed like a pig, his chubby hands and feet bound tightly, the rag shoved in his mouth smothered the irritating sobs.

Wajid and Lut crouched and held the man still. Omar removed a large blade from the leather sheath that hung from his waist. He knelt beside the man on the floor and rested the blade against his fleshy neck. The man's eyes bulged in fear.

Omar wiped clean and then replaced the blade as he stepped from the hotel. The American and the Egyptian were still deep in conversation. The cafe occupied a corner plot at a bustling junction. Omar gestured for Wajid to go right and Lut to head left; they had their prey surrounded. Omar stepped into the road—a horn blared as a pair of British military trucks hurtled past. Omar quickly stepped back, he spat at the vehicles and yelled abuse. They'd passed in a couple of seconds, and Omar dashed across the street, his hand gripping the handle of the sheathed blade.

No. It couldn't be so.

Wajid and Lut arrived on the terrace, too; the American, the Egyptian and the girl had vanished. Omar pointed for Wajid to look inside, he hit Lut across the back of the head and yelled for him to hurry and search the street. Omar scanned the area—the trio were nowhere to be seen.

Wajid emerged from the cafe and shook his head. Omar cried out in fury and kicked over a table. Amongst the shattering tableware, a freshly cooked plate of masgouf smashed on the floor.