Revised. Enjoy.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Jack… I mean, Indy, etc. I do own Alicia Porter, etc.
VII
Marcus and Indy emerged from a hallway into a large, dimly lit chamber, heralded only by the hollow echo of their footsteps. Glass cases filled with thousand-year-old relics appeared ghostly in the shadows of the room; this place held a heavy antiquated feeling – hallowed and reverent, archaic and musty. Indy's nose tickled threateningly from the stale and lingering dust that hung perpetually in the air, but he stifled the urge to sneeze automatically, as if adhering to some cardinal rule kept deep within himself that to disturb the atmosphere of the room would be blasphemy. Marcus, appearing to govern himself by that same secret code, nodded his head silently toward the far end of the chamber indicating that the boardroom lay just on the other side. In passing from the room of artifacts Indiana fondly acknowledged an article encased on the wall, tracing his fingers lightly over the surface of the case. Wearing a private smile, the archaeologist departed for the boardroom; the Cross of Coronado shone softly beneath the glass, suspended behind him in the semi-darkness.
The moment Indy's hand contacted the doorknob, he had the odd impression he was shaking hands with Fate. If this was in fact Destiny's decree, Indy decided reluctantly he had no reasonable choice other than to accept. Entering, Marcus and Indy let the door click shut behind them. An ominous quiet permeated the space of the boardroom broken by the intermittent rustling of papers. It was as if those assembled – and there were far less than Marcus had described, they both noticed – had been waiting anxiously for them to arrive. Alicia looked up with what Indy thought was a slight smile. Her advisor, Ivan, sat to her right, looking sullen and serious with his elbows on the table, his fingertips pressed up against each other, resting together contemplatively in front of his face. The awareness of a new presence in the room came upon him like awakening from a dream.
A young man who was standing to the side, against the wall, addressed Marcus and Indy as they tentatively approached two open chairs at the slate blue conference table. "Greetings, Mr. Brody and Dr. Jones," he said, suavely articulating each syllable. An impeccable dresser, the man wore his hair neatly cropped and slicked back; Indy knew him at once as a fed. "Take your seats, gentlemen, please" — he motioned as they slid into their seats — "and we will get to introductions. My name is Michael Hatfield," he paused, running a hand over his tie although it was already pressed to perfection, "from the government intelligence division of the International Archaeology and Preservation Association." Again, a hesitance, as if Mr. Hatfield were giving them all a chance to be sufficiently impressed. Indy's attention slackened slightly as Mr. Hatfield continued, letting his eyes wander around the room. His softly scrutinizing gaze roved over Alicia's face and found her just as beautiful as he remembered her, if not more so. Her attention was elsewhere, but she disengaged her hazel eyes from Mr. Hatfield in time to catch Indy's and smiled faintly in his direction.
"— and lastly, Dr. Addison Rawls, renowned Archaeologist and Professor of South-American Civilization," said Michael Hatfield, indicating the portly, middle-aged and balding man sitting at the head of the table whom Indy recognized only by reputation. The corners of Hatfield's mouth turned slightly upward with the effect of a cold, curt and professional smile. "We have been working closely with Dr. Rawls concerning an area of great interest to national security — as well as, I'm sure you'll soon see — Archaeology. I may take this moment to note that, given the seriousness of this matter," said Hatfield, raising an eyebrow and regarding those in the room closely, "we must all be agreed that no information shared within this room be transferred to anybody else." Marcus stared intently at Hatfield, his hands folded underneath his chin, and Indy glanced at Marcus, increasingly wary of what was being said. Unless this Hatfield was just acting important for the sake of a first impression, it looked like this could be messy.
"Now, Dr. Rawls, if you would please illustrate our purpose," said Hatfield, inviting the portly professor to stand with a fluid gesture of his hand. He slid carefully into the nearest chair, across from Indy and Marcus and down from Alicia, transferring his focus fully to Dr. Rawls.
The man rubbed his balding head nervously, as if used to brushing hair that was no longer there away from his eyes. Clearing his throat and nodding to the assemblage, he began the task of explanation, a slight glint of excitement playing around his eyes that was not noticeable in his voice, which was staid with the significance of the information he was about to impart.
"Our purpose," opened Dr. Rawls, glancing furtively at Michael for approval, "concerns a find of extreme importance. I'm sure you're all familiar with Hiram's discoveries in the Incan Valley?"
Indy cleared his throat. He felt like he was about to participate in a poorly scripted dialogue. What did this Rawls think, that he was an idiot?
"You're referring to Hiram Bingham uncovering Machu Piccu, the singular groundbreaking find of 1911?" said Indy with a touch of curtness.
"Why, certainly."
"So?" Cut to the chase, already. I teach history; I don't need a seminar on it.
Addison Rawls was flustered by Indy's brusque tone, and hid it poorly. His pair of absurdly busy eyebrows appeared to trip over each other as he formulated a response.
"Precisely. Thank you, Dr. Jones. If anyone else has anything to add at any time, please, do so." Dr. Rawls' attempt at a gracious smile dissolved before it solicited any benefit.
Suddenly his voice went hollow with memory. "During my tenure as co-professor with Hiram, I caught glimpses in him of things he hadn't revealed about his discovery."
Those gathered beheld Dr. Rawls with wary attention. Was this one long drawn-out attempt at dramatics and suspense, or would it actually go somewhere? All who wondered looked to Michael Hatfield, who nodded encouragingly toward Addison.
The portly archaeologist's countenance darkened to a more somber shade. "Alicia," he said, targeting her with his words and his eyes, but addressing them all, "your uncle Gregory might have even more insight into this than I."
"Why Gregory Hamilton," Marcus interjected, apparently out of the loop. " I wasn't aware he…"
"My uncle worked with Hiram for quite a long time, partly during the Machu Piccu dig. At least until Bingham's disappearance." Alicia placed her hands on the table, her long fingers flexed against its polished surface. "Uncle Gregory might have been here today, if I could have persuaded him, but I think he's past even listening to me now. I haven't seen him in over two years, and the last I heard, he was living secluded somewhere in Belize." Judging by the slight tensing of her body and the look in her eyes, Indy could tell this separation was bearing down hard on her. Gregory Hamilton had been her second father, when her own had been killed. Even before his death, Jonathan Porter was hardly paternal: a drunk, paranoid, mostly out-of-work journalist, and so his daughter was forced to turn to another, for her own emotional welfare. Gregory had received her with open arms and heart, and had taught her nearly everything she had ever learned. Without even attending college for the subject, Alicia could give a lecture on archaeology that would impress most professors.
A grave silence formed in the midst of the conversation. Indy was more than accustomed with the idea of sudden disappearances; to the others in the room, the idea was unnerving, especially in connection with someone like Hiram Bingham, who was hard-pressed to stay out of the spotlight.
"Hiram's documentation of the find is incomplete," continued Dr. Rawls after a few moments. "There is an entire section of the city that he neither made notes on, nor mapped. When I visited him on site, the man was not himself half the time. Occasionally when we were walking together and I neared one of several seemingly commonplace structures or inquired about some markings, Hiram would immediately draw my attention elsewhere. His mannerisms often alarmed me, but as his good friend I tried to be understanding."
"What reason would Bingham have had to act like that?" Indy probed, sensing something amiss – something unordinary – but not knowing quite why.
"In his sleep sometimes, he'd ramble and have fits. I'd be up writing notes and couldn't help listening. The words were predominantly incomprehensible, but one thing I did catch repeatedly was 'Shem, the guardian.' He repeated it over and over. Then Hiram would be taken by a short fit of convulsion, and sometimes I would go over to him, fearing for his health. If I ever got close enough to touch him, he snapped awake – eyes wide open and staring upward, his body completely still. The first time I thought he might be dead… but then he would take a sudden gasping breath and sit up, completely fine, knowing nothing that had happened." Dr. Rawls swallowed. His gaze had become straightforward and glassy. "When I asked about the guardian, he seemed genuinely confused. It perplexes me still."
Marcus stirred from the light slumber he'd slipped into, raising himself from where he'd been slumped, cradling his face in his palms. The sound of Indy's voice had propelled him into consciousness. "The guardian Shem? The concept of 'Shem' is Sumerian. I don't see why that would tie in at all during a Machu Piccu dig." Indy's expression was pensive as he searched for a connection.
The man beside Alicia, Ian, broke his pattern of silence. "You seem to know a little of everything, Dr. Jones." There was a moderate accent to his words that was unexpected to everyone except Alicia. Indy felt it had a Slovakian flavor. "Does the word 'Shem' have a particular meaning in Sumerian?"
"It's the name of a pictograph. Shem and the character Mu – actually, they're counterparts of a whole – translate to 'fiery rockets' or 'sky ships.'" Jones shrugged, still striving to complete the puzzle. "Odd that something from the Crescent would carry so far."
Indy turned to Rawls, for the first time addressing him objectively. "Did Bingham do any extensive research on the Crescent?"
"Not to my knowledge. His focus was always Mesoamerica."
Michael Hatfield stirred, rising to adjust the shutters. Indy tired to ignore the visual distraction; the archaeologist's mind was avidly searching for the illusive connection between Sumeria and the Incas. It shouldn't exist, yet there it was… unexplained…
"Dr. Jones," said Alicia, politely but with an imperative edge, as if on the verge of impatience. He got the impression she'd said it more than once, attempting to catch his attention.
"Hmmm?" Indy snapped out of his preoccupation, mildly annoyed at being interrupted. He knew he'd made no real progress, but still there was the feeling of a ghosted premonition waiting on the other side of what would have been his next few thoughts, and the feeling irked him.
"Do you have any light to shed on why Hiram would be mentioning the pictograph in Machu Piccu – assuming it wasn't even there on site, as it obviously shouldn't have been? I suppose it's possible that he picked it up somewhere and was confusing it with something in his sleep."
Indy shook his head. "No clue. It seems kind of fishy, though."
"I see." Alicia paused, chasing her former train of thought. "Well then, after that, I think Uncle Gregory was the last to hear from Bingham. He wrote several letters, never saying where he'd gone, always including portions of his discovery notes. As time went on I suppose he became more eccentric; the letters became shorter and more cryptic. The last few were just pages of notes on the dig. We never quite understood it." Her countenance darkened as she became quiet and pensive.
"And so legend became obscurity," added Marcus, filling in the silence with something odd, as he always did. But even Marcus's strange takes on things had their dose of profundity and truth.
Indy meant not to vocalize the idea that was bouncing around his head, but it came out anyway. "Would you mind if I took a look at those notes – if you still have them? Maybe I could figure something out."
"Yes, I do, actually. Uncle Gregory left them to me when he departed the city. You're welcome to them."
Ivan twitched slightly, but nobody noticed. He seemed engrossed in toying with his cufflink while everyone else looked to Indy.
Damnit, I just hooked myself. Indy sighed inwardly. So be it.
"Supposing you find something," said Michael Hatfield, amusedly pressing his fingertips together. "All this mystery and conspiracy… there has to be something behind it." The look in his eyes nearly dared Indy to back down. It was playful, dangerous and challenging.
Indy was too practiced at this game to be intimidated. "Supposing I do. I guess I'll have to do something about it," said Indy, his jaw set.
Marcus raised his eyebrows, although he'd figured this would be the outcome all along. Not surprising. I'd have had good odds if only there had been someone to bet against, he entertained.
Hatfield stood up again, apparently about to say something, but froze with his mouth agape. The rest noted his tense poise and followed the path of Hatfield's stare. The boardroom door was creaking open by miniscule degrees. No light entered from the outside; the corridor was as dark as formerly.
Indy's body was rigid, his attention intent. He thought he heard something on the other side. Glancing at Hatfield, Indy could see that the agent was assuming the same.
"Hello?" the fed ventured, trying to see further into the darkness. His hand slid inconspicuously to the holster beneath his suit coat.
Indy glanced toward the door once more, catching Alicia in his line of sight. She seemed alarmed and confused. Ivan's hand was clasped onto her right forearm, and he leaned close to her to whisper something into her ear.
Marcus began to rise, a little unsure. Indy reached out a hand to stop him. The door continued to swing open after its initial suspension. The dim light revealed nothing out of the ordinary, but still there was something unsettling.
Hatfield drew his pistol and clicked the safety off, moving toward the door. A raspy wheezing greeted him from the corridor. Still several feet away, the fed spoke into the shadows. "I'm sorry, sir; this is a private meeting." His voice was tense but not nervous as he spoke through half-gritted teeth.
There was no spoken answer; instead a low, masculine growl issued from the hallway, and simultaneously the door sprang open. Hatfield faced the burly and imposing silhouette, which came toward him with violent force.
Alicia screamed and she, Ivan and Dr. Rawls threw themselves under the table. Indy pulled Marcus downward and left him with the others and crept around the side, close to the floor. He had to remind himself that he was unarmed.
The unidentified visitor charged Hatfield, who tried to jump out of the way, but instead bumped the wall. The man hit him as he pulled the trigger of his pistol, causing a misfire. Indy had maneuvered himself at the man's back and jumped, wrapping his arms around the intruder's neck. The burly man was caught by surprise and responded by slamming Indy backward and firing his semi-automatic in Hatfield's direction. Michael, recuperating quickly, responded with two blasts from his pistol. One hit the wall near Indy, who suddenly thought better of being on the man's back and threw himself off. "Geez!" he exclaimed, shaken from nearly being shot.
Hatfield hardly noticed. Within moments, he was backed into a corner and nearly intimate with the intruder. He had been hit in the leg by the bullet spray and was nearly immobile. The agent raised his gun again, but not in time. The man slammed him in the cheekbone with the butt end of his firearm, causing Hatfield to sputter and drop his gun.
"Give me the Porter girl," the man snarled in a heavy Russian accent.
Indy followed Hatfield's pistol with his eyes as it dropped knowing, however, that it was too far away to grab. The Cossack sensed the archaeologist's movement behind him and wheeled to face Indy, his weapon cocked. Indy jumped out the door, grabbing the handle to close it behind him. Throwing his weight against it, he flung the door back open, catching the Cossack in the side of the face.
Indy dove for Hatfield's abandoned pistol as the man stumbled backward, reeling. He squeezed the trigger, putting a bullet in the large man's belly. The Cossack uttered a bellowing growl. With his face twisted in a grotesque expression of anger, he continued to fall. Hitting the table, the large man lost hold of his gun. As it hit the floor, the semi-automatic discharged, sending a round spastically skyward.
Indy felt movement near his feet as bodies slid from underneath the table. Ivan saw that the path to the door was free and took the opportunity, dragging a frightened Alicia alongside. Dr. Rawls, acting on instinct that was still intact beneath the shock, crawled and staggered afterward.
The archaeologist had tried to warn them that there were probably others in the hall, but was preoccupied momentarily by his adversary, who seemed to be rallying for another attack. Indy attempted another shot, only to find an apparent lack of bullets. Hatfield hadn't kept the gun fully loaded.
Shit.
Indy dodged a clumsy punch but nevertheless caught the full weight of the Cossack in his torso. His head ringing, Indy managed to elbow the man in the face with his left and hooked a right. In the peripheral sight of both lay the semi-automatic. Snarling, the professor delivered another quick elbow to the underside of the man's jaw. It bought him just enough time. Stooping down and snatching the weapon, he buried it in the Cossack's abdomen.
"You picked a bad day to piss me off, buddy," Indy growled, pumping out a round.
As the man slumped over, Indy ducked to look for Marcus and found him in a far corner. "Let's get out of here," the young Jones said, out of breath. "I doubt this guy's alone."
Marcus glanced at Hatfield, finding him bloodied and out cold, then reproachfully at Indy.
"Listen. Marcus, we don't have time." His countenance was stern and somber, his eyes anxious. It was true that Hatfield didn't deserve to be left behind. However, Indy would rather it be one of them than all three. Resolutely turning toward the door, he grabbed his friend's arm and led him quickly out of the boardroom. The echo of several sets of approaching footsteps proved Indy's point.
Toting the gun, the tenacious Jones set the pace for an express exit. "Whatever that guy meant with Alicia is serious business. " He lowered his voice. "Now I've gotten myself into it." The older man nodded, glancing furtively down the visible hallways. They had reached the foyer, with only one more open space standing between them and the way out.
Indy caught sight of another substantially muscular man coming toward the same foyer from an adjacent hallway. Keeping Marcus from view, he used the turn in the wall for cover. Peeking around it, Indy fired, hoping the man hadn't seen where he'd shot from, in case he missed his mark. Ambushed, the man was caught by the spray and fell. He yelled out as the two men bolted across the room and toward the door.
Once outside, Indy ditched the gun. Even the most self-involved New Yorker would have noticed that sort of thing in a heartbeat. The archaeologist stifled the urge for a stiff drink and looked to Marcus as they hurriedly crossed the street.
"I don't trust that Ivan guy, Marcus … I'm going on a hunch, but I'm going to find Alicia. Nothing says that there aren't more of those guys – whoever they are – lurking elsewhere." Indy's tone was touched with determination and slightly with worry, his steps with resolution.
Marcus agreed quickly. "He did seem rather odd." Narrowing his eyes at his friend, the older man bid the younger goodbye and wished him luck.
Indy set off toward his apartment, only intending to stop long enough to pick up his revolver and a few necessities. He'd be damned if he let himself be in a situation like that again – running on pure luck was like running on fumes: it gets you halfway to where you need to be and then you're screwed.