Belloq was sitting once again, arms folded. The look on his face was that of a reluctant parent at a school play. He shook his head from side to side. "I will regale the next meeting of the International Archaelogical Society with the tale of your disregard for the laws governing child labor, Jones."
"You're not even a member."
Belloq smiled, but only briefly. He continued to stare at the children and then, as if he were deciding something, turned toward his accomplices. He raised his hand, a gesture that indicated they should put their weapons away.
"I have a soft spot for dogs and children, Jones. You may express your gratitude in some simple form, which would suit you. But small children will not become your saviors when we next meet."
Indy was moving back rapidly. And then he slipped out, with the kids clutching him like a precious toy. Sallah's truck was parked outside-a sight that filled Indy with delight, the first event of the day that even remotely lifted his spirits.
Belloqfinished his glass of wine. He heard the truck pull away. As the sound died in the distance he thought, with an insight that surprised him vaguely, that he was not yet ready to kill Indy. That the time was not exactly ripe. It hadn't been the presence of the children at all-they hardly mattered. It was rather the fact that he wanted, somewhere in a place he did not quite fathom, a remote corner of understanding, to spare Jones, to let the man live a little longer.
There are some things, after all, worse than death, he thought.
And it amused him to ponder the agony, the anguish, that Jones would be going through: there was the girl, for one thing-which would have been punishment enough, torture enough. But there was also the fact, just as punishing, perhaps even more so, that Jones would live to see the Ark slip through his fingers.
Belloq threw back his head and laughed; and his German accomplices, their appetite for killing unsatisfied, stared at him in bewilderment.
In the truck Indy said, "Your kids have a sense of timing that would outdo the U.S. Marines, Sallah."
"I understood the situation. I had to act quickly," Sallahsaid.
Indy stared at the road ahead: darkness, thin lights, people parting from the path of the truck. The kids were in the back, singing ana laughing. Innocent sounds, Indy thought, remembering what he wanted to forget.
"Marion..."
"I know," Sallah said. "The news reached me earlier. I'm sad. More than sad. What can I say to console you? How can I help your grief?"
"Nothing helps the grief, Sallah."
Sallah nodded. "I understand, of course."
"But you can help me in other ways. You can help me beat those bastards."
"You have my help, Indiana," Sallah said. "Any time at all."
Sallah was silent for a moment, driving the last stretch to his house.
"I have much news for you," he said after a while. "Some isn't good news. But it concerns the Ark."
"Hit me with it," Indy said.
"Soon. When we reach my house. And later, if you wish, we can visit the house of Imam, who will explain the markings to you."
Indy lapsed into a weary silence. He had a hangover already beginning, a violent throb in the center of his skull. And, if his senses had been sharper, his intuition less blunted by booze, he might have noticed the motorcycle that had followed the truck from the bar. But even if he had, he would not have known the rider, a man who specialized in training monkeys.
When the children had been sent indoors, Indy and Sallah went out into the walled courtyard. Sallah walked around the yard for a time before he paused by the wall and said, "Belloq has the medallion."
"What?" Immediately Indy felt inside his pocket and his fingers touched the headpiece. "You're wrong."
"He has a copy, a headpiece like yours, a crystal at the center. And there are the same markings on the piece as on the one you have."
"I can't understand it," Indy said, appalled. "I always believed there were no pictures anywhere. No duplicates. I don't get it."
Sallah said, "There's something else, Indiana."
"I'm listening."
"This morning Belloq went inside the map room. When he came out he gave us instructions about where we were to dig. A new spot, away from the general dig."
"The Well of the Souls," Indy said, in a resigned way.
'I imagine so, if he made the calculations in the Map Room."
Indy began beating the palms of his hands together. He turned once again to Sallah, taking the medallion from his pocket. "Are you sure it looked like this?"
"I saw it."
"Look again, Sallah."
The Egyptian shrugged and took the headpiece and stared at it for a time, turning it over in his hand. He said, "There may be a difference."
"Don't keep it from me."
"I think that Belloq's medallion had markings on one side only."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm reasonably sure."
"Now," Indy said, "all I need to know is what the markings mean."
"Then we should go to the house of Imam. We should go now."
Indy said nothing. Followed by Sallah, he left the courtyard and stepped out into the alley. He felt an urgency now. The Ark, yeah-but it was more than just the Ark now. It was for Marion. If her death was to make any sense, he had to get to the Well of the Souls before Belloq.
If death could ever make sense, he thought.
They climbed into Sallah's truck, and as they did,
Indy noticed the monkey in the back. He stared at it.
Wasn't it ever going to be possible to lose the thing?
Pretty soon it would get around to learning human
speech and calling him Dad. A echo in there caused
him pain: Marion's little joke about the creature hav
ing his looks.
The monkey chattered and rubbed its forepaws.
After the truck had gone a little way, the motorcycle emerged from the darkness and followed.
The house of Imam was located on the outskirts of Cairo, built on a slight rise; it was an unusual construction, reminding Indy a little of an observatory. Indeed, as he and Sallah, followed by the monkey, walked toward the entranceway, he noticed an opening in the roof of the house from which there emerged a large telescope.
Sallah said, "Imam has many interests, Indiana. Priest. Scholar. Astronomer. If anyone can explain the markings, he can."
Ahead, the front door was opened. A young boy stood there, nodding his head as they entered.
"Good evening, Abu," Sallah said. "This is Indiana Jones." A brief, courteous introduction. "Indiana, this is Abu, Imam's apprentice."
Indy nodded, smiled, impatient to meet the scholar -who appeared at that moment at the end of the hallway. An old man in threadbare robes, his hands gnarled and covered with the brown spots of age; his eyes, though, were lit with curiosity and life. He bowed his head in a silent greeting. They followed him into his study, a large room strewn with manuscripts, pillows, maps, ancient documents. You could feel it here, Indy thought: a lifetime of dedication to the pursuit of knowledge. Every moment of every day a learning experience. Nothing wasted. Indy passed the medallion to Imam, who took it silently and carried it to a table at the back of the room where a small lamp was lit. He sat down, twisting the thing between his fingers, squinting at it. Indy and Sallah sat down on some cushions, the monkey between them. Sallah stroked the creature's neck.
Silence.
The old man took a sip of wine, then wrote something quickly on a small piece of paper. Indy twisted around, watching impatiently. It seemed Imam was examining the headpiece as if time were of no interest to him.
"Patience," Sallah said.
Hurry, Indy thought.