CHAPTER 13

Fes, Morocco—October 11th, 1965

Indy paced down the stairs of the backstreet hotel. He felt better for having had a shower, and had even managed to get hold of a new bullwhip at the town's market—a decent one, too.

He walked through the mosaic-tiled lobby, and out into a small pretty courtyard garden. There were a few people enjoying the afternoon sunshine. A young European couple giggled as they chugged on a hookah pipe; an elderly British gentleman tossed them irked glances as he tried to read his newspaper.

In the far corner of the garden, Talia was still poring over the thirteenth tablet. She hadn't touched the glass of mint tea Indy had poured for her over an hour earlier.

Indy took a seat opposite Talia. A waiter hurried over and Indy ordered a fresh pot.

He watched Talia's fingers dance over the clay indentations, occasionally pausing to retrace her digits lightly across the cuneiform, or to jot something in her notebook.

"I've never seen anyone translate like this before." Indy smiled but Talia didn't break from her work to respond. Indy continued. "Reckon you could read that thing with your eyes closed."

The waiter placed a fresh pot of tea and two glasses on the table.

"Shukran," Indy smiled at the waiter, then turned back to Talia. "So, what's your secret?"

Silence hung for a second, then Talia replied, her tone level, her manner matter-of-fact.

"When I was seven my little brother, Sammy, disappeared," Talia didn't look up from her work as she spoke. "For fifteen endless days and nights we searched the town, the woods, along the river. Everywhere. The whole neighbourhood turned out to help. Those fifteen days ripped the heart from my mom. She was never the same again, not really. But my dad—he was the town pastor—and true to form, he never lost faith." Talia's fingers stopped moving over the clay tablet and she looked to Indy. "Old Man Johnson found him, well his dog Barney did. Sammy was in the the old well, miles from home, deep in the woods. Sammy would never have gone up there on his own, the place was supposedly haunted; kids told ghost stories about a witch who lived down the well. We were terrified of the place. Turns out a couple of local boys—white boys, just a few years older than Sammy—had lured him up there and then pushed him in. They wanted to see if the monkey could climb his way out."

"Jesus... I'm sorry."

"Sammy survived. Somehow. Kept himself alive for over two weeks in that hellish place. It was a miracle. He's never spoken about it, about what happened down there, says he can't remember. More like he doesn't want to."

Indy shifted uneasily.

"The thing is, since that day—the day we found him—Sammy has been completely blind. The doctors were scratching their heads, couldn't explain why or how it had happened. But Dad reckoned it was a mercy. God made sure Sammy didn't see things down that well that no eyes should have to see." Talia paused, then turned her attention back to the tablet. "Sammy and I used to read together all the time, and I was damned if anything was gonna change that. So we learnt braille together," She shrugged. "I've been using my fingers to read for as long as I can remember. Second nature, I suppose."

Indy took the copper teapot and poured Talia a fresh glass, then filled a glass for himself. He couldn't help but be impressed by this strong, beautiful young woman; she just kept on surprising him. Indy wondered how Mutt had managed to let her slip away.

Mutt, shit. His only son was held prisoner by some Nazi lunatic with a God-complex, while he sat sipping mint tea in the sunshine. They had work to do, and there wasn't a second to spare.

Indy leant forward to get a better look at the tablet. "So, have you managed to get anything from this thing?"

Talia smiled. "It's a treasure trove!"

"But is it a map? To Irkalla? Could Cavendish get the directions from here?"

Talia nodded and traced her finger over the cuneiform as she read aloud. "Gilgamesh carried the Sword of Irkalla through the great cedar forest. The Forest of the Gods."

"The cedar forest of Sumerian mythology supposedly lay in Elam..."

Talia nodded. "Modern day Iran."

Indy snorted. "Pretty vague."

"There's more," Talia read from a passage further down the tablet. "Gilgamesh journeyed to Mashu, a great mountain which... touched the heavens. Here the rising light of Shamash revealed the hidden path to the Palace of Ganzir. Gateway to Irkalla."

"Shamash is the Sun God. Presumably the sunrise will reveal a pathway or something," Indy went on. "But Mount Mashu is in Japan, it's the local name for Mount Kumui. There's no way the Sumerians would be aware of this..."

Talia shook her head, "The Mashu of Sumerian mythology was supposedly in Elam too. Its name means two or twins..."

Indy's eyes alighted. "Mount Dena has twin peaks. It's the highest point in Iran, in the Zagros Mountains."

"Cedar forests surround much of the Zagros, they once provided wood for much of ancient Mesopotamia." Talia smiled widely, "Mount Dena, that's it! It has to be!"

Indy nodded. "And that's where Cavendish will be headed."

Tehran, Iran—October 12th, 1965

Pezeshkpour's secretary—a nervous, smartly dressed young man in his early twenties—pushed open the double doors to the large, opulently furnished office which occupied the entire top floor of the Pan Iranist Headquarters. Cavendish entered, followed by Wolff. The room stood in stark contrast to the rest of this drably utilitarian building.

Mohsen Pezeshkpour sat at an ornate mahogany desk at the far end of the room, the Pan Iranist flag raised behind him; red with a white central circle containing a black line through an 'equals' symbol, the flag's design evoked uneasy parallels with the swastika.

Pezeshkpour was a short, pudgy little man; he wore a khaki green shirt, his tie loosened at the collar and beads of sweat gathered along his thick moustache. The leader of Iran's nationalist movement poured over paperwork, mumbling in disapproval. He then stubbed out his cigar and glanced up at his visitors for the first time. He looked past them, and barked at his secretary in Farsi. The young man turned, exited and closed the doors behind him.

Then Pezeshkpour turned to Cavendish, his command of English was impressive, words flying from his lips like bullets.

"Every day my country is dragged deeper into the sewer." Pezeshkpour gestured to two seats opposite his desk. Cavendish and Wolff sat as the Persian continued.

"The Shah, he is obsessed with modernisation!He speaks no longer for his people. And Hoveyda," Pezeshkpour spat out the Prime Minister's name and jabbed a finger toward his visitors, "he will kill my beloved Iran, you see if he doesn't."

Cavendish nodded. When he spoke, traces of his native German accent bled through the adopted received pronunciation.

"Your fears are well founded. Fears shared by many proud Persians, I dare say."

Pezeshkpour glanced to the Nazi pin badge on the lapel of Cavendish's beige suit. He scoffed. "And so, you come to offer our cause assistance? With what? A Fourth Reich?"

Wolff remained stoney faced—was he capable of any other expression? But Cavendish offered an accommodating smile.

"The idea may not be so fanciful. But today, it is I who must beg your assistance."

"Ah yes... so I believe," Pezeshkpour wiped the droplets from his moustache. "Like thieves, you intend to swoop in and take a prize from Persian soil. And expect me to be party to this theft?!"

Cavendish's smile remained painted on. "Not take, Mr Pezeshkpour, but deliver." Cavendish leaned forward. "We are in possession of information that could deliver to you a great Persian army. One to rival that of Cyrus himself."

Pezeshkpour's bird like eyes darted from Cavendish to Wolff and then back to Cavendish again. He paused for a beat, then laughed. A deep, throaty laugh which moments later morphed into a spluttering coughing fit.

Cavendish stood, picked up a glass of water from Pezeshkpaur's desk and offered it to his host. Pezeshkpaur took it and sipped. As he composed himself Cavendish continued.

"Our situations are not dissimilar. We are hostages to nations which have lost their way. A million heroes are dead before their time. And for what? A world run by capitalists and communists, to who patriotism is a dirty word." Cavendish leaned on the desk and looked down at Pezeshkpaur. "Well, I say, let the heroes rise once more. Let them come forth from their graves and reclaim their Fatherlands."

Pezeshkpaur dabbed his lips with a handkerchief as his eyes locked with Cavendish's. Neither man averted his gaze. Pezeshkpaur smiled.

"You sound like a madman to me. But then, I have found that madmen can have their uses. What is it you want?"

Cavendish retook his seat. "Safe passage. That is all. The mountain people have a reputation for being somewhat hostile to outsiders. But they are loyal, to you and your cause."

The Persian glanced to Wolff and snorted. "I'm sure you're capable of handling a few bandits."

Cavendish nodded. "Alas, there are others, who seek our prize. Others who would wish to use it against us."

Pezeshkpaur nodded and lit another cigar. Then he picked up the telephone and barked out a few words in Farsi before slamming it down.

"There are many in the army who see Hoveyda for what he is, a puppet for the West. They too dream of a pure Persian race, a return to glory for this once great nation." He drew on the cigar, savouring its rich flavour before exhaling with a little cough. "I will provide the arms, manpower and transportation that you need. But this prize you seek, it must be for the glory of Iran."

Cavendish smiled warmly. "You have my word, it is my bond."

The doors opened and a Major of the elite Iranian Imperial Guard marched in and stood to attention. The guy was in his prime, approaching seven foot tall, broad chested with a scowl to rival Wolff's. Pezeshkpaur nodded to the Persian Major then turned to Cavendish.

"Major Meški will ensure your... bond is not broken."

Foothills of the Zagros Mountains, Iran—October 15th, 1965

Snow topped mountains towered above dense, untamed forest. This was wild country; the mountain roads ahead were treacherous and the mountain people—with their AK47s—weren't exactly known for their hospitality.

Indy and Talia had arrived in Tehran two days earlier and hitched their way east to the Zagros foothills. But the roads ahead were impassable for conventional vehicles, and that's why Indy was currently bartering with a local farmer. Indy was pretty fluent in Farsi, but the mountain dialect was tricky and he wasn't making much progress. The elderly Persian wasn't particularly accommodating. Indy held out a handful of twenties but the guy was waving his arms and snapping the same phrase, which meant either "Go back home to America, asshole!" or "American asshole makes love with goat." Either way, Indy didn't feel like the old-timer was particularly interested in loaning him a few horses. He thought about pulling his gun and showing him how goat-loving Americans do business, but he glanced to the guy's house and clocked the scrawny, feral looking kids peeping through the window—Indy reckoned the horses had a better deal sleeping in the stable. Indy put up his hands in concession and backed away. He walked up to Talia who was sat on a fence at the edge of the dirt track road.

"The guy's crazy, he won't listen to reason."

Talia didn't say anything, she just shot Indy a look, snatched the twenties from his hand and sauntered over to the stable owner.

Indy turned and watched as Talia approached the old man. He smiled to himself. Dr. Wells might know her way blindfolded around 5,000 year old clay tablets, but out here, in the real world, things weren't so neatly written down. You had to feel your way from moment to moment, know when to hold 'em, and when to fold 'em. She wasn't gonna get anywhere with this joker.

Indy shook his head and looked to the mountain peaks. It was a good two day trek to the base of Dena, and Cavendish likely had a jump on them, that's if his contact had been able to translate their copy of the tablet. Indy had mailed the original to Charles Stanforth before they'd left Fes. He hoped that might go someway to getting himself back in Charlie's good books after his fracas at the museum. Just thinking back to that night and Indy felt his heart contort in his chest.

Staring out toward Dena, Indy knew that two things had to happen, for Marion's sake, for her memory. He had to rescue his son, and he had to kill Cavendish. He wasn't particularly bothered about which order the two events occurred.

"He's just getting the horses ready." Talia was stood beside Indy again, she placed most of the twenties back in his hand and shrugged. "You just need to know how to relate to people."

Half an hour later and Indy and Talia were saddled up and heading toward the mountains. A third horse was lead by a rope attached to Indy's mount. Indy wasn't leaving these mountains without his son.