Disclaimer: I don't own anything, it seems. Oh, wait! Except... Yes, in this chapter we find the Bingham Metropolitan (yada yada), which isn't a real museum in New York City - although it'd be cool if t'were - Alicia Porter, and Ivan... Ivan... Oh, just ask Marcus (who, we've found isn't mine).
Indiana Jones and the Shadow of Death
VI
The companions stepped from the apartment building with Indy leading the way south down the street. There was a paved sidewalk running parallel to the road, decorated with small trees every few hundred feet, budding blossoms in pink and red. Summer floral displays swayed at their feet. The two men merged into the crowd and followed the flow of people toward their destination.
"So what's this all about?" Indy asked quickly, raising a quizzical eye from the cracks in the sidewalk passing underfoot to look at Marcus.
Indy's friend looked at him with an absentminded smile that reflected the warmth of the late-summer sun that brightened the bustling streets. He answered somewhat slowly, not caught up in the rush of the big city; it was obvious he was currently more concerned with the enjoyment of the walk rather than the pace. "I thought you'd catch on," Marcus said, shielding his eyes from the glare as they passed from the shadow of a tall building. "It's a proposition of sorts — one I thought you'd be perfect for, considering your recent... slump." Marcus cleared his throat in the pause. Indy endured the discomfort the comment had given him begrudgingly, conceding that it was the truth. Marcus became more serious, instantly filled with a sudden urgency and excitement, drawing closer to Indy. He spoke as if he were confiding a well-guarded secret.
"Indy, if what I've been told is correct, this is a project of unbelievable — astronomical — proportions." Marcus looked to Indy, anticipating the remark that would prove he'd sated the archaeologist's interest.
The young Jones was suddenly jostled by the crowd, and nearly tripped over a businessman who seemed concerned with little else than the front-page of the Wall Street Journal. Shrugging off the shove, Indy regarded Marcus warily. His experience and his gut affirmed the magnitude of what his friend was saying. But whatever it was, and whoever was looking for it, wouldn't matter... unless he chose to delve deeper. At this point, Indy wasn't convinced this was a drama in which he wanted to play a role.
"Are we talking about having another Ark on our hands?"
Marcus spoke in a voice quiet with the promise of danger and the glimmer of opportunity. "Dare I say, this could be bigger."
Indy let out a low whistle. The archaeologist in him pleaded for a chance to pursue the prospect, to find out more. The sense in him — newfound and struggling for a toehold — argued and forbade.
The subtle struggle did not go unnoticed.
"Though it's nothing you couldn't handle, I'm sure."
Indy accepted Marcus's reassurance as sincere. Few people believed as much in him. Asking a few questions won't mean I have to do anything, the Archaeologist considered.
"Are you being vague because you don't want to scare me, or did they just not tell you any of the details?"
This comment Marcus took as an open invitation for divulgence. "I was called to the museum this morning," Brody said, swallowing, "and found myself in the presence of a roomful of IAPA people, among others."
"The International Archaeology and Preservation Association," Indy mumbled thoughtfully. So the government was getting involved, hands-on. Although they may have been more than qualified in the field, the Professor was skeptical of any fed agents brought into the mix, as any self-respecting archaeologist should be. Luckily Indy was about as good at dodging red tape as anything. "Who else?"
"Hardly any others of particular interest." Marcus paused, visualizing the events of the morning. As the memory played through, Marcus suddenly recognized more faces. "Ah, I do remember that the last two to arrive were Alicia Porter and her advisor, Ivan…" He snapped his fingers as if he believed the impact would spark further recall, until the withdrawn revelation gave into his coaxing. "Hastings, yes, that's it."
"Alicia," Indy uttered with a long, drawn out breath. The professor remembered her well, though they had only connected briefly when he'd had business in France. That was a year ago. Alicia Porter wasn't a woman who slipped many minds, and Indy was finding it difficult to fulfill the want to push her from his thoughts. In light of Marion's all too recent disappearance, thinking about another woman – in any capacity – now, made him feel uncomfortable and guilty. Yet, involuntarily Indy's heartbeat quickened and his footsteps fell with more anxious purpose.
At five minutes to ten o'clock, Indy and Marcus came within sight of their target: a fairly tall, wide building that commanded the cityscape not with architectural intimidation but with mystery and poise. The pedestrian mob had thinned quickly as people trickled off in different directions, preoccupied with engagements of business, pleasure, a flighty cocktail of both, or – in duller cases – neither. Parting the sea of briefcase-laden stragglers, the professor and his gray-haired fellow found themselves nearly on the front steps of the hallowed establishment, revealing its entire front to their eyes. The structure was hewn from pure granite, heavy and majestic, that among the monsters of the metropolis seemed so incredibly timeless that it once might have been a mighty temple of the gods, standing in solitude and splendor on some peak sired by Mount Olympus. Here, torn from its lofty foundation and implanted into modern civilization, the building was the sole monastery of a seemingly dying religion.
The columns that held up the enormous stone façade had always reminded Indy of the titanic arms of Atlas, corded muscle taught beneath the weight of the earth that rested in his immortal palm. But there were interesting things about its form other than columns: On the surface of the granite, chiseled illustrations depicted legends and stories, the enigmatic history of archaeology at a glance, a sight which never ceased to take Marcus's breath away.
A museum officer stepped toward Indiana and Marcus as they cleared the last stair. "Good day Dr Jones. Mr. Brody." At each name the uniform-clad man stretched out his hand in greeting and politeness. With a professional slight inclination of the head and a curt smile, the officer produced the number of the boardroom and its location and left them to enter alone. Walking close to one another Marcus and Indy passed under an arch leading to the mammoth doorway. The young Jones extended his hand, letting his fingertips brush gently over the surface of the intricately embossed masonry. At the end of the passageway a plaque was worked into the wall. Engraved with silver, the inscription upon it read: Bingham Metropolitan Museum of Antiquity, in large gothic print. Beneath in smaller script was Antiquitas Aeturnus, history eternal.
The door beneath the plaque, hung on gilded hinges, was slightly ajar. Marcus tugged it open with relative ease, and seconds later the men were engulfed by the building's labyrinth of exhibits and corridors.