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"Know Thy Enemy"
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INDIANA JONES AND THE GOLDEN AGE #05
Written by D. David Lee
Edited by Tommy Hancock
The YesterYear Fan Fiction Group acknowledges that names, concepts, and images of characters used here and ALL related characters may be owned by others and that said owners retain complete rights to said characters. These names, concepts, and images are used WITHOUT permission for NO PROFIT, but rather a strong desire to peer into the potential these characters have in a combined setting. This also acknowledges that original concepts presented here are the intellectual property of the author.
***
France: Paris [August, 1938]
A well-dressed tourist was studying the Mona Lisa, wondering why she had no eyebrows. Several feet behind him, another tourist was taking photographs of that same portrait, and yet another was sketching that same famous painting. In point of fact, it was quite crowded, but no one paid that any mind as this particular section of the Louvre was frequently busy with such activity.
For their own part, the SS officers serving under Captain von Röhm were starting to wonder about his choice of locations for rendezvous. Naturally, tourist attractions such as these were ideal meeting places. No one paid any attention to those tourists who tended to linger near them, but it still seemed to some of them as if the Captain were treating their mission like a vacation rather than a clandestine operation of the utmost importance.
One by one, they all reported in, and for the most part, they all had bad news. No new leads to their objective had yet been acquired, and the men were starting to grow restless. Only young von Richthofen had anything new to report, and to him, it hardly seemed significant at all.
"There was a minor disturbance at the airport this morning," whispered von Richthofen to von Röhm, making it seem all the while as if he were simply asking directions. "A group of Americans arrived at the airport, apparently led by someone with some standing in academic circles. He and his traveling companions were met at the airport by several famous French dignitaries, including some professors at the university and the president of the historical society."
At this, von Röhm raised an eyebrow, wondering who this well-connected stranger might be. "Very curious," he said, opening up a map as if searching for something. "Have you any more details on this man or anyone in his party?"
"They arrived in a Ford trimotor, and from the look of the engines, it made a non-stop flight from the Americas all the way to Paris," said von Richthofen, who was much more interested in the plane than in any of its passengers. Pulling out a notepad, he opened it to the page where he had written down the name of the senior American in question. "The head of the group was one Dr. Henry Jones, Jr. He had with him only two other Americans."
Startled, von Röhm's eyes widened with recognition. "You know where he is? The faces of his companions?" he queried, forcing himself to remain calm.
"I do," answered von Richthofen, wondering why this man interested the Captain so much.
"Then show me where they are staying," said von Röhm, putting his map away, and smiling at von Richthofen as if making pleasant conversation. "I will follow Jones myself. We will take Wolfgang with us, and the two of you will each keep an eye on one of the good doctor's companions. Learn what you can, and report back to me. Is that clear?"
"Very clear, sir!" exclaimed von Richthofen in a harsh whisper, barely able to keep from standing at attention and clicking his heels at seeing his commanding officer finally taking what seemed to be decisive action. Perhaps this Dr. Jones had the answers they sought to the current location of the artifact they had been sent to retrieve.
***
"Could I have some ketchup, please?" asked Cliff, looking at the unusually lean steak on his plate and wondering why there wasn't any fat or gristle.
For his part, the waiter made a face as if he had been scandalized, turned up his nose, and stormed off.
"What's his problem?" asked Cliff, picking at his food. "I said the magic word, didn't I? And what's with all the wine? Haven't they ever heard of beer in this country?"
Kit and Indy just looked at each other and sighed, doing their best not to roll their eyes. They'd touched down in Paris only a few hours ago, and they were already settled in at a hotel along the banks of the Seine. However, settling Cliff into life in Paris wouldn't be quite so simple.
"This is France," said Kit, trying to be patient. "The people here take their cuisine seriously, and ordering ketchup to go with a filet mignon is tantamount to the gravest of insults. Especially to the Parisians."
"Besides which, there aren't that many Americans who travel abroad," said Indy, leaning back in his chair. "It's important that you try and make a good impression. It's like you're a diplomat representing your country. People will assume that all Americans are like you."
"Seriously?" asked Cliff, taking a bite of his steak and grimacing when he realized that it wasn't burnt the way he liked it. "C'mon, we saved their asses during the war, didn't we? I mean, it's not like they're going to think all Americans are rude and have no taste just because of me."
"Well... I suppose not," agreed Indy, who did find the idea a bit far-fetched. "Still, you should try to see things from the local point of view instead of complaining just because it isn't what you're used to. Got it?"
"Gotcha, boss," said Cliff, examining the label on the wine bottle, noting that it was a Chateau Lafitte Rothschild 1926. "Hey, this stuff isn't even new. It's like, twelve years old already. Don't they have anything fresher?"
In unison, Kit and Indy sighed yet again.
"Well, I've got things to do and people to see," said Indy, standing up and adjusting his hat. "I'll pay the check on the way out. You two have some fun and get a feel for the city. Try not to get lost."
That said, Indy took his leave and made sure to apologize to the waiter on his way out, leaving a somewhat generous tip.
***
Several hours later, Indy was walking through Montmartre in search of a particular café run by an old acquaintance. The area had yet to lose its quaint, village charm, which brought back a number of memories for from the days when he had been stationed in the city during the war.
Still a haven for artists of all types, the Bohemian atmosphere of this part of Paris still appealed to him on many levels. Allowing a moment of nostalgia to sink in, Indy smiled and continued on his way. He finally found the café that he was looking for near the Sacre Coeur church.
Overlooked by most Parisians, this particular café was noteworthy for two things. The first was that it could boast a very talented piano player who was practically the toast of the town. The second was that it was owned by an American with a very dubious reputation.
Smiling, Indy decided to make a grand entrance, wanting to give the owner a hard time. "I'm looking for a man named Rick Blaine!" exclaimed Indy as he stepped into the Café Americain. "He's wanted for crimes too numerous to mention in the State of New York, and I'm here to bring him in!"
All of the occupants took notice. The patrons raised their eyebrows and started whispering amongst themselves. Sam, the piano player, stopped in mid-performance, and the bartender froze in mid-pour. The man in question, Rick Blaine, just looked towards the entrance at the fool who would dare challenge him in his own place and smiled, but the singer, a woman, shrieked and reacted violently, drawing all eyes to her.
Indy couldn't place her at first, but recognition dawned on him quickly when she stormed towards him and slapped him in the face as hard as she could, knocking him off his feet and onto the floor. Her name was Willie Scott.
"Stop threatening the bosses of the places I sing at!" screeched Willie, storming up the stairs to her rooms.
"I see you still have a way with women," said Rick, chuckling as he helped Indy up off the floor. "I knew she could sing, but I had no idea she could slap a man off his feet."
"Well, she's had practice," grunted Indy, massaging his bruised cheek.
***
Only one of the many tourist attractions in Paris really interested Cliff Secord, and he'd made a beeline for it as soon as dinner was over. In fact, he was feeling a bit queasy due to a combination of the difficulties he'd had digesting the rich food and the speed with which he'd made his way towards the Salon Aeronautique.
Howard Hughes had recommended the place as something not to be missed, and Cliff was not disappointed. Awed by the fantastic pieces of aviation history, he lingered in front of one site that interested him in particular. Lost in thought, he failed to notice the blonde gentleman that had stepped up next to him.
"Fascinating, is it not?" asked the stranger, gazing upwards at the biplane jet that had been invented by Henri Coanda almost three decades ago in 1910. "The idea of a jet propulsion system for planes is quite intriguing, but it also, sadly, quite impractical."
"You think so?" asked Cliff, somewhat amused by the stranger's comments. He appeared to be a tourist like himself although somewhat less informed as to the progress that had been made in jet propulsion technology. "Well, as a pilot, I see great potential in it. Cliff Secord, from America."
"Rolf Christiansen, from Switzerland," said young von Richthofen, taking the American's proferred hand in his. He couldn't help thinking how easy it would be to conquer these Americans if they were all as easily duped as this one before him. "So you are a pilot? Then surely you must see that a plane becomes more difficult to maneuver the faster it goes. Don't you think flying is dangerous enough as it is?"
"Maybe, but speed can be an asset as well a hindrance," said Cliff, thinking about some of the plans that Howard had mentioned. "People will pay more to get places quicker, and travel flights aren't all that dangerous."
"Perhaps, but the true purpose of flight is not travel, but combat," said von Richthofen, hands folded behind his back. "And in combat, maneuverability is the key to victory."
Cliff couldn't help thinking that these last words were spoken in a manner more akin to that of a seasoned combat pilot than a Swiss tourist. In point of fact, these words had originally been spoken by von Richthofen's father, the Red Baron, who had become a legend during his own lifetime during the war.
"Do you fly?" asked Cliff, suddenly wary of this Mr. Christiansen but trying hard not to show it.
"I am familiar with the process," said von Richthofen, the false humility leaving a foul taste in his mouth. After all, had he not been trained personally by his father, the greatest pilot ever produced by the nation that had invented aerial combat? Flying was in his blood, and as far as he was concerned, this American commoner would never truly understand what it meant to be a pilot.
"Well, maneuverability isn't an issue if you can reduce the bulkiness of the plane," said Cliff, crossing his arms over his chest. "I've heard rumors that the Germans are working on a jet plane as we speak."
For his part, von Richthofen struggled to keep from showing any signs of surprise or dismay. How could this American know anything of the Heinkel Project? It was impossible, but the facts were plain that he did know. It could only mean that he was a pilot of considerable skill and station. Otherwise, he would not have been kept aware of such significant intelligence.
"I had not heard that," said von Richthofen, eyeing the American with renewed interest. To his surprise, he found himself hoping that they would have the opportunity to test their flying skills against each other before his mission was over. "Are you a scientist or something? How is it that you know so much about Coanda's theories and the progress being made in implementing them for practical purposes?"
"Me? A scientist?" asked Cliff, laughing out loud. "Sorry, but that's the last thing I ever expected anyone to say. No, I'm just a pilot who happens to know people who know people."
"Well, I must be off, but I will not be leaving Paris for some time," said von Richthofen. "I have enjoyed our conversation. Perhaps we shall meet again?"
"Maybe we will," said Cliff, who couldn't help thinking that there was something odd about Christiansen. It wasn't anything that he could rationalize but more of a gut feeling. Still, any good pilot knows to trust his instincts. "Maybe we will."
***
Unlike Cliff, Kit had visited Paris several times before. Indeed, his first trip there, which he'd made in the company of his father, was the one that he remembered most fondly.
When Kit had been only five years old, his father had been invited to take part in a fencing competition being held in France. It was one of the few times that young Kit had been able to watch his father in action, and he still treasured the memory. Tracking down the fencing academy at which that competition had taken place hadn't proved overly difficult.
Watching the young fencers at practice, Kit's memories flashed back to his father's last match against a German fencer named von Strucker. An aristocrat by birth, this particular opponent had been extremely arrogant, but deservedly so, it seemed. His skill with the blade had been extraordinary, but ultimately, Kit's father had been victorious.
From the far side of the sparring chamber, Wolfgang von Strucker was actually recalling the very same scene, but with considerably less pleasure. He had only been a boy then, but his youth had only made the sting of his father's defeat wound him even more deeply.
Young Wolfgang had been extremely traumatized by the sight of his father's first failure. The man had been like a giant, the perfect German soldier and the epitome of Prussian nobility. Up until that day, his father had seemed all but invincible, and he had never learned to deal with the shame of being defeated by a nameless commoner.
Surprised to find himself clenching his fists, von Strucker did what he could to forget about the past and concentrate on the task at hand, keeping an eye on this American, but the need to release his frustrations was too great. Seeing some spare sets of protective clothing and foils nearby, an idea came to him.
Quickly donning the protective gear, von Strucker carried a second set along with two foils towards the American he had been sent to watch.
"Excuse me, but you seem most intent upon the practice duels taking place," said von Strucker, presenting the second foil and suit of protective gear. "You watch with the eye of someone who knows his way with a foil, and I am in need of a sparring partner. Would you do the courtesy of indulging me?"
Under normal circumstances, Kit would probably have refused, but standing in this place, his memories being what they were, the idea of a practice bout appealed to him greatly.
"I think I'd enjoy that," said Kit, quickly donning the gear and testing the balance of the foil. "Kit Walker, at your service."
"Wolfgang," replied von Strucker, stepping backwards into one of the sparring lanes. Once his opponent was ready, he saluted with his foil sharply and expertly, and his sparring partner responded in kind.
Kit had been trained practically from birth in the use of all forms of weapons, including the art of epee, but von Strucker had been trained almost exclusively in the various arts of fencing prior to his military training amongst the elite of the Hitler Youth.
"En garde!" exclaimed von Strucker, beginning the match and striking with the speed and precision of a master fencer, but Kit parried the blow with equal skill.
Strike. Parry. Counterstrike. Riposte. On and on it went with neither opponent able to gain a solid hit. So amazing was the level of skill being demonstrated that the other students put a halt to their own matches, pausing to enjoy the spectacle.
As for Kit and von Strucker, they were each extremely surprised to find the other so skilled. Normally, a fencing match was over in a matter of seconds, but their bout had continued for almost fifteen minutes. Neither man was tired, but each knew it was only a matter of time.
Seeing an opportunity, von Strucker 'accidentally' allowed the tip of his foil to graze Kit's unprotected leg, distracting him long enough strike a winning blow into his chest. The movement was so quick that none of the onlookers noticed, and his victory was cheered by all those gathered there.
"A good match, Monsieur Walker," said von Strucker, pleased by his victory but unhappy with the manner in which he'd achieved it. He'd been trained to seek victory by any means, but his personal preference was to achieve it on equal terms. "Perhaps we might have another match at some future date."
"Perhaps," said Kit, ignoring the mild injury to his leg. He'd already drawn too much attention to himself as it was, and he didn't want to draw more by accusing his opponent of cheating. Still, if there were another match, he would be ready for this Wolfgang's more dishonorable maneuvers. "Perhaps."
***
"Of all the women I've ever been with in the world, why did it have to be Willie?" asked Indy as he sat at the bar, hunched over a shot of whiskey.
"C'mon, none of that," said Rick, ready to pour his old friend another shot as soon as he needed it. "You'd never catch me crying into a drink over some damned woman, even one as pretty as Miss Scott. Isn't that right, Sam?"
"If'n you say so, boss," said Sam, busily retuning his piano. He knew well enough that if Rick did have a weakness besides his own conscience, it was probably his fascination with women. Still, he also knew that was the last thing he should say in this situation. "But sure enough, I ain't never seen Miss Willie so riled up before."
"That's true," confirmed Rick, taking a drag on his cigarette. "The songstress is a real sweetheart. What'd you do to get her so upset?"
"Nothing much," said Indy, downing a shot of whiskey in a single gulp. "Just got her fired from a singing gig in Shanghai when I threatened to stab her with a dinner fork. Then I forced her to dive out of a plane in a liferaft and got her tangled up with some cultists who tried to use her for a human sacrifice."
"Oh, is that all?" asked Rick rhetorically, shaking his head. "I suppose a few days spent walking in your footsteps would be enough to get any woman bent out of shape. Anything else you forgot to mention?"
"Nothing particularly spectacular," said Indy, who could quite help being amused by how silly his story sounded. "Well, there was that incident with the bridge and the crocodiles, but I don't think that's just nitpicking compared to the rest of it."
Laughing, Rick poured himself and Indy fresh drinks, and they shared a silent toast. In many ways, they were kindred spirits, both men of action who lived lives too exciting for the average person to contemplate.
"Last I saw you, I was still running guns in Ethiopia," said Rick, knowing full well that Indy hadn't dropped in just to reminisce about old times. "What brings you to my little corner of Paris?"
"Business, I'm afraid," said Indy, leaning close to Rick so that he wouldn't be overheard. "I need information. I need to know about any unusual activity taking place in Paris that might involve things or places of historical interest. Unusual German activities if you get my meaning."
Rick's eyes widened just the slightest bit when Indy passed him a thick envelope, obviously full of francs. A considerable amount, Rick could tell just from the quantity that this was a 'no questions asked' type of transaction.
"I'll see what I can find out," said Rick, sliding the envelope into the inside pocket of his white, dinner jacket. "Check back with me in a few days."
From a far and dark corner of the Café Americain, Captain von Röhm watched the entire transaction with narrowed eyes.
***
End of Indiana Jones and the Golden Age #05
***
Dave's Homepage
http://home.hawaii.rr.com/shaxberd/
"Know Thy Enemy"
****************
INDIANA JONES AND THE GOLDEN AGE #05
Written by D. David Lee
Edited by Tommy Hancock
The YesterYear Fan Fiction Group acknowledges that names, concepts, and images of characters used here and ALL related characters may be owned by others and that said owners retain complete rights to said characters. These names, concepts, and images are used WITHOUT permission for NO PROFIT, but rather a strong desire to peer into the potential these characters have in a combined setting. This also acknowledges that original concepts presented here are the intellectual property of the author.
***
France: Paris [August, 1938]
A well-dressed tourist was studying the Mona Lisa, wondering why she had no eyebrows. Several feet behind him, another tourist was taking photographs of that same portrait, and yet another was sketching that same famous painting. In point of fact, it was quite crowded, but no one paid that any mind as this particular section of the Louvre was frequently busy with such activity.
For their own part, the SS officers serving under Captain von Röhm were starting to wonder about his choice of locations for rendezvous. Naturally, tourist attractions such as these were ideal meeting places. No one paid any attention to those tourists who tended to linger near them, but it still seemed to some of them as if the Captain were treating their mission like a vacation rather than a clandestine operation of the utmost importance.
One by one, they all reported in, and for the most part, they all had bad news. No new leads to their objective had yet been acquired, and the men were starting to grow restless. Only young von Richthofen had anything new to report, and to him, it hardly seemed significant at all.
"There was a minor disturbance at the airport this morning," whispered von Richthofen to von Röhm, making it seem all the while as if he were simply asking directions. "A group of Americans arrived at the airport, apparently led by someone with some standing in academic circles. He and his traveling companions were met at the airport by several famous French dignitaries, including some professors at the university and the president of the historical society."
At this, von Röhm raised an eyebrow, wondering who this well-connected stranger might be. "Very curious," he said, opening up a map as if searching for something. "Have you any more details on this man or anyone in his party?"
"They arrived in a Ford trimotor, and from the look of the engines, it made a non-stop flight from the Americas all the way to Paris," said von Richthofen, who was much more interested in the plane than in any of its passengers. Pulling out a notepad, he opened it to the page where he had written down the name of the senior American in question. "The head of the group was one Dr. Henry Jones, Jr. He had with him only two other Americans."
Startled, von Röhm's eyes widened with recognition. "You know where he is? The faces of his companions?" he queried, forcing himself to remain calm.
"I do," answered von Richthofen, wondering why this man interested the Captain so much.
"Then show me where they are staying," said von Röhm, putting his map away, and smiling at von Richthofen as if making pleasant conversation. "I will follow Jones myself. We will take Wolfgang with us, and the two of you will each keep an eye on one of the good doctor's companions. Learn what you can, and report back to me. Is that clear?"
"Very clear, sir!" exclaimed von Richthofen in a harsh whisper, barely able to keep from standing at attention and clicking his heels at seeing his commanding officer finally taking what seemed to be decisive action. Perhaps this Dr. Jones had the answers they sought to the current location of the artifact they had been sent to retrieve.
***
"Could I have some ketchup, please?" asked Cliff, looking at the unusually lean steak on his plate and wondering why there wasn't any fat or gristle.
For his part, the waiter made a face as if he had been scandalized, turned up his nose, and stormed off.
"What's his problem?" asked Cliff, picking at his food. "I said the magic word, didn't I? And what's with all the wine? Haven't they ever heard of beer in this country?"
Kit and Indy just looked at each other and sighed, doing their best not to roll their eyes. They'd touched down in Paris only a few hours ago, and they were already settled in at a hotel along the banks of the Seine. However, settling Cliff into life in Paris wouldn't be quite so simple.
"This is France," said Kit, trying to be patient. "The people here take their cuisine seriously, and ordering ketchup to go with a filet mignon is tantamount to the gravest of insults. Especially to the Parisians."
"Besides which, there aren't that many Americans who travel abroad," said Indy, leaning back in his chair. "It's important that you try and make a good impression. It's like you're a diplomat representing your country. People will assume that all Americans are like you."
"Seriously?" asked Cliff, taking a bite of his steak and grimacing when he realized that it wasn't burnt the way he liked it. "C'mon, we saved their asses during the war, didn't we? I mean, it's not like they're going to think all Americans are rude and have no taste just because of me."
"Well... I suppose not," agreed Indy, who did find the idea a bit far-fetched. "Still, you should try to see things from the local point of view instead of complaining just because it isn't what you're used to. Got it?"
"Gotcha, boss," said Cliff, examining the label on the wine bottle, noting that it was a Chateau Lafitte Rothschild 1926. "Hey, this stuff isn't even new. It's like, twelve years old already. Don't they have anything fresher?"
In unison, Kit and Indy sighed yet again.
"Well, I've got things to do and people to see," said Indy, standing up and adjusting his hat. "I'll pay the check on the way out. You two have some fun and get a feel for the city. Try not to get lost."
That said, Indy took his leave and made sure to apologize to the waiter on his way out, leaving a somewhat generous tip.
***
Several hours later, Indy was walking through Montmartre in search of a particular café run by an old acquaintance. The area had yet to lose its quaint, village charm, which brought back a number of memories for from the days when he had been stationed in the city during the war.
Still a haven for artists of all types, the Bohemian atmosphere of this part of Paris still appealed to him on many levels. Allowing a moment of nostalgia to sink in, Indy smiled and continued on his way. He finally found the café that he was looking for near the Sacre Coeur church.
Overlooked by most Parisians, this particular café was noteworthy for two things. The first was that it could boast a very talented piano player who was practically the toast of the town. The second was that it was owned by an American with a very dubious reputation.
Smiling, Indy decided to make a grand entrance, wanting to give the owner a hard time. "I'm looking for a man named Rick Blaine!" exclaimed Indy as he stepped into the Café Americain. "He's wanted for crimes too numerous to mention in the State of New York, and I'm here to bring him in!"
All of the occupants took notice. The patrons raised their eyebrows and started whispering amongst themselves. Sam, the piano player, stopped in mid-performance, and the bartender froze in mid-pour. The man in question, Rick Blaine, just looked towards the entrance at the fool who would dare challenge him in his own place and smiled, but the singer, a woman, shrieked and reacted violently, drawing all eyes to her.
Indy couldn't place her at first, but recognition dawned on him quickly when she stormed towards him and slapped him in the face as hard as she could, knocking him off his feet and onto the floor. Her name was Willie Scott.
"Stop threatening the bosses of the places I sing at!" screeched Willie, storming up the stairs to her rooms.
"I see you still have a way with women," said Rick, chuckling as he helped Indy up off the floor. "I knew she could sing, but I had no idea she could slap a man off his feet."
"Well, she's had practice," grunted Indy, massaging his bruised cheek.
***
Only one of the many tourist attractions in Paris really interested Cliff Secord, and he'd made a beeline for it as soon as dinner was over. In fact, he was feeling a bit queasy due to a combination of the difficulties he'd had digesting the rich food and the speed with which he'd made his way towards the Salon Aeronautique.
Howard Hughes had recommended the place as something not to be missed, and Cliff was not disappointed. Awed by the fantastic pieces of aviation history, he lingered in front of one site that interested him in particular. Lost in thought, he failed to notice the blonde gentleman that had stepped up next to him.
"Fascinating, is it not?" asked the stranger, gazing upwards at the biplane jet that had been invented by Henri Coanda almost three decades ago in 1910. "The idea of a jet propulsion system for planes is quite intriguing, but it also, sadly, quite impractical."
"You think so?" asked Cliff, somewhat amused by the stranger's comments. He appeared to be a tourist like himself although somewhat less informed as to the progress that had been made in jet propulsion technology. "Well, as a pilot, I see great potential in it. Cliff Secord, from America."
"Rolf Christiansen, from Switzerland," said young von Richthofen, taking the American's proferred hand in his. He couldn't help thinking how easy it would be to conquer these Americans if they were all as easily duped as this one before him. "So you are a pilot? Then surely you must see that a plane becomes more difficult to maneuver the faster it goes. Don't you think flying is dangerous enough as it is?"
"Maybe, but speed can be an asset as well a hindrance," said Cliff, thinking about some of the plans that Howard had mentioned. "People will pay more to get places quicker, and travel flights aren't all that dangerous."
"Perhaps, but the true purpose of flight is not travel, but combat," said von Richthofen, hands folded behind his back. "And in combat, maneuverability is the key to victory."
Cliff couldn't help thinking that these last words were spoken in a manner more akin to that of a seasoned combat pilot than a Swiss tourist. In point of fact, these words had originally been spoken by von Richthofen's father, the Red Baron, who had become a legend during his own lifetime during the war.
"Do you fly?" asked Cliff, suddenly wary of this Mr. Christiansen but trying hard not to show it.
"I am familiar with the process," said von Richthofen, the false humility leaving a foul taste in his mouth. After all, had he not been trained personally by his father, the greatest pilot ever produced by the nation that had invented aerial combat? Flying was in his blood, and as far as he was concerned, this American commoner would never truly understand what it meant to be a pilot.
"Well, maneuverability isn't an issue if you can reduce the bulkiness of the plane," said Cliff, crossing his arms over his chest. "I've heard rumors that the Germans are working on a jet plane as we speak."
For his part, von Richthofen struggled to keep from showing any signs of surprise or dismay. How could this American know anything of the Heinkel Project? It was impossible, but the facts were plain that he did know. It could only mean that he was a pilot of considerable skill and station. Otherwise, he would not have been kept aware of such significant intelligence.
"I had not heard that," said von Richthofen, eyeing the American with renewed interest. To his surprise, he found himself hoping that they would have the opportunity to test their flying skills against each other before his mission was over. "Are you a scientist or something? How is it that you know so much about Coanda's theories and the progress being made in implementing them for practical purposes?"
"Me? A scientist?" asked Cliff, laughing out loud. "Sorry, but that's the last thing I ever expected anyone to say. No, I'm just a pilot who happens to know people who know people."
"Well, I must be off, but I will not be leaving Paris for some time," said von Richthofen. "I have enjoyed our conversation. Perhaps we shall meet again?"
"Maybe we will," said Cliff, who couldn't help thinking that there was something odd about Christiansen. It wasn't anything that he could rationalize but more of a gut feeling. Still, any good pilot knows to trust his instincts. "Maybe we will."
***
Unlike Cliff, Kit had visited Paris several times before. Indeed, his first trip there, which he'd made in the company of his father, was the one that he remembered most fondly.
When Kit had been only five years old, his father had been invited to take part in a fencing competition being held in France. It was one of the few times that young Kit had been able to watch his father in action, and he still treasured the memory. Tracking down the fencing academy at which that competition had taken place hadn't proved overly difficult.
Watching the young fencers at practice, Kit's memories flashed back to his father's last match against a German fencer named von Strucker. An aristocrat by birth, this particular opponent had been extremely arrogant, but deservedly so, it seemed. His skill with the blade had been extraordinary, but ultimately, Kit's father had been victorious.
From the far side of the sparring chamber, Wolfgang von Strucker was actually recalling the very same scene, but with considerably less pleasure. He had only been a boy then, but his youth had only made the sting of his father's defeat wound him even more deeply.
Young Wolfgang had been extremely traumatized by the sight of his father's first failure. The man had been like a giant, the perfect German soldier and the epitome of Prussian nobility. Up until that day, his father had seemed all but invincible, and he had never learned to deal with the shame of being defeated by a nameless commoner.
Surprised to find himself clenching his fists, von Strucker did what he could to forget about the past and concentrate on the task at hand, keeping an eye on this American, but the need to release his frustrations was too great. Seeing some spare sets of protective clothing and foils nearby, an idea came to him.
Quickly donning the protective gear, von Strucker carried a second set along with two foils towards the American he had been sent to watch.
"Excuse me, but you seem most intent upon the practice duels taking place," said von Strucker, presenting the second foil and suit of protective gear. "You watch with the eye of someone who knows his way with a foil, and I am in need of a sparring partner. Would you do the courtesy of indulging me?"
Under normal circumstances, Kit would probably have refused, but standing in this place, his memories being what they were, the idea of a practice bout appealed to him greatly.
"I think I'd enjoy that," said Kit, quickly donning the gear and testing the balance of the foil. "Kit Walker, at your service."
"Wolfgang," replied von Strucker, stepping backwards into one of the sparring lanes. Once his opponent was ready, he saluted with his foil sharply and expertly, and his sparring partner responded in kind.
Kit had been trained practically from birth in the use of all forms of weapons, including the art of epee, but von Strucker had been trained almost exclusively in the various arts of fencing prior to his military training amongst the elite of the Hitler Youth.
"En garde!" exclaimed von Strucker, beginning the match and striking with the speed and precision of a master fencer, but Kit parried the blow with equal skill.
Strike. Parry. Counterstrike. Riposte. On and on it went with neither opponent able to gain a solid hit. So amazing was the level of skill being demonstrated that the other students put a halt to their own matches, pausing to enjoy the spectacle.
As for Kit and von Strucker, they were each extremely surprised to find the other so skilled. Normally, a fencing match was over in a matter of seconds, but their bout had continued for almost fifteen minutes. Neither man was tired, but each knew it was only a matter of time.
Seeing an opportunity, von Strucker 'accidentally' allowed the tip of his foil to graze Kit's unprotected leg, distracting him long enough strike a winning blow into his chest. The movement was so quick that none of the onlookers noticed, and his victory was cheered by all those gathered there.
"A good match, Monsieur Walker," said von Strucker, pleased by his victory but unhappy with the manner in which he'd achieved it. He'd been trained to seek victory by any means, but his personal preference was to achieve it on equal terms. "Perhaps we might have another match at some future date."
"Perhaps," said Kit, ignoring the mild injury to his leg. He'd already drawn too much attention to himself as it was, and he didn't want to draw more by accusing his opponent of cheating. Still, if there were another match, he would be ready for this Wolfgang's more dishonorable maneuvers. "Perhaps."
***
"Of all the women I've ever been with in the world, why did it have to be Willie?" asked Indy as he sat at the bar, hunched over a shot of whiskey.
"C'mon, none of that," said Rick, ready to pour his old friend another shot as soon as he needed it. "You'd never catch me crying into a drink over some damned woman, even one as pretty as Miss Scott. Isn't that right, Sam?"
"If'n you say so, boss," said Sam, busily retuning his piano. He knew well enough that if Rick did have a weakness besides his own conscience, it was probably his fascination with women. Still, he also knew that was the last thing he should say in this situation. "But sure enough, I ain't never seen Miss Willie so riled up before."
"That's true," confirmed Rick, taking a drag on his cigarette. "The songstress is a real sweetheart. What'd you do to get her so upset?"
"Nothing much," said Indy, downing a shot of whiskey in a single gulp. "Just got her fired from a singing gig in Shanghai when I threatened to stab her with a dinner fork. Then I forced her to dive out of a plane in a liferaft and got her tangled up with some cultists who tried to use her for a human sacrifice."
"Oh, is that all?" asked Rick rhetorically, shaking his head. "I suppose a few days spent walking in your footsteps would be enough to get any woman bent out of shape. Anything else you forgot to mention?"
"Nothing particularly spectacular," said Indy, who could quite help being amused by how silly his story sounded. "Well, there was that incident with the bridge and the crocodiles, but I don't think that's just nitpicking compared to the rest of it."
Laughing, Rick poured himself and Indy fresh drinks, and they shared a silent toast. In many ways, they were kindred spirits, both men of action who lived lives too exciting for the average person to contemplate.
"Last I saw you, I was still running guns in Ethiopia," said Rick, knowing full well that Indy hadn't dropped in just to reminisce about old times. "What brings you to my little corner of Paris?"
"Business, I'm afraid," said Indy, leaning close to Rick so that he wouldn't be overheard. "I need information. I need to know about any unusual activity taking place in Paris that might involve things or places of historical interest. Unusual German activities if you get my meaning."
Rick's eyes widened just the slightest bit when Indy passed him a thick envelope, obviously full of francs. A considerable amount, Rick could tell just from the quantity that this was a 'no questions asked' type of transaction.
"I'll see what I can find out," said Rick, sliding the envelope into the inside pocket of his white, dinner jacket. "Check back with me in a few days."
From a far and dark corner of the Café Americain, Captain von Röhm watched the entire transaction with narrowed eyes.
***
End of Indiana Jones and the Golden Age #05
***
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