"You have nice eyes," he said. "You shouldn't hide them."
She twisted her face to the side.
He smiled. "I imagined we might continue our unfinished business."
She got up from the bunk, went across the room. "We don't have any unfinished business."
"I think we do." He reached out and tried to hold her hand; she jerked her arm free of him. "You resist? You didn't resist before, my dear. Why the change of heart?"
"Things are a little different," she answered.
He regarded her in silence for a time. Then he said, "You feel something for Jones? Is that it?"
She looked away, staring vacantly across the room.
"Poor Jones," Belloq said. "I fear he's destined never to win anything."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
Belloq went toward the door. There, on his way out, he turned around. "You don't even know, my dear, if he's alive or dead. Do you?"
Then he closed the door and moved into the narrow passageway. Several seamen walked past him. They were followed by Dietrich, whose face was angry, stern. It amused Belloq to see this look: in his anger, Dietrich looked preposterous, like an enraged schoolmaster powerless to punish a recalcitrant pupil.
"Perhaps you would be good enough to explain yourself, Belloq."
"What is there to explain?"
Dietrich seemed to be struggling with an urge to strike the Frenchman. "You have given specific orders to the captain of this vessel to proceed to a certain supply base-an island located off the African coast. It was my understanding that we would return to Cairo and then fly the Ark to Berlin on the first available flight. Why have you taken the liberty of changing the plan, Belloq? Are you suddenly under the impression that you are an admiral in the German navy? Is that it? Have your delusions of grandeur gone that far?"
"Delusions of grandeur," Belloq said, still amused by Dietrich. "I hardly think so, Dietrich. My point is that we open the Ark before taking it to Berlin. Would you be comfortable, my friend, if your Fuhrer found the Ark to be empty? Don't you want to be sure that the Ark contains sacred relics before we return to Germany? I am trying to imagine the awful disappointment on Adolf's face if he finds nothing inside the Ark."
Dietrich stared at the Frenchman; his anger had passed, replaced by a look of doubt, incredulity. "I don't trust you, Belloq. I have never trusted you."
'Thank you."
Dietrich paused before going on: "I find it curious that you want to open the Ark on some obscure island instead of taking the more convenient route-namely Cairo. Why can't you look inside your blessed box in Egypt, Belloq?"
"It wouldn't be fitting," Belloq said.
"Can you explain that?"
"I could-but you would not understand, I fear."
Dietrich looked angry; he felt his authority once more had been undermined-but the Frenchman had the Fuhrer as an ally. What could he do, faced with that fact?
He turned quickly and walked away. Belloq watched him go. For a long time the Frenchman didn't move. He felt a great sense of anticipation all at once, thinking of the island. The Ark could have been opened almost anywhere-in that sense Dietrich was correct. But it was appropriate, Belloq thought, that it should be opened on the island. It should be opened in a place whose atmosphere was heavy with the distant past, a place of some historic importance. Yes, Belloq thought. The setting had to match the moment. There had to be a correspondence between the Ark and its environment. Nothing else would do.
He went to the small supply cabin where the crate lay.
He looked at it for a while, his mind empty. What secrets? What can you tell me? He reached out and touched the crate. Did he simply imagine he felt a vibration from the box? Did he simply imagine he heard a faint sound? He closed his eyes, his hand still resting on the wooden surface. A moment of intense awe: he could see some great void, a sublime darkness, a boundary he would step across into a place beyond language and time. He opened his eyes; the tips of his fingers tingled.
Soon, he said to himself.
Soon.
The sea was cold, swirling around him in small whirlpools created by the submarine's motions. Indy hung to the rail, his muscles aching, the wet whip contracting in water and clinging, too tightly, to his body. You could drown, he thought, and he tried to remember whether drowning was said to be a good way to go. It might arguably be better than hanging to the rail of the submarine that could plunge abruptly into the depths. At any moment, too. He wondered if heroes could apply for retirement benefits. He hauled himself up, swinging his body onto the deck. Then it struck him.
His hat. His hat had gone.
Don't be superstitious now. You don't have time to mourn the passing of a lucky hat.
The sub began to submerge. Perceptibly, it was sinking like a huge metallic fish. He rushed across the deck, water at his waist now. He reached the conning tower, then began to climb the ladder. At the top of the turret he looked down: the sub was still sinking. Water was rushing, wildly swirling foam, toward him. The turret was being consumed by the rising water, and then the radio mast was sinking too. He moved, treading water, to the periscope. He hung on to it as the vessel continued to sink. If it went under entirely, then he was lost. The periscope started to go down, too. Down and down, while he gripped it. Please, he thought, please don't go down any further. But this is what comes of trying to stow yourself away on a German submarine. You can't expect the old red-carpet treatment, can you?
Freezing, shivering, he hung on to the periscope; and then, as if some merciful divinity of the ocean had beard his unspoken prayers, the vessel stopped its dive. It left only three feet of the periscope out of water. But three feet was something to be thankful for. Three feet was all he needed to survive. Don't sink any deeper, he thought. Then he realized he was talking aloud, not thinking. It might have been, in other circumstances, funny-trying to hold a rational conversation with several tons of good German metal. I'm out of my mind. That's what it is. And all this is just hallucination. A nautical madness.
Indy took the bullwhip and lashed himself to the periscope, hoping that if he fell asleep he wouldn't wake to find himself on the black ocean bottom, or worse-food for the fishes.
The cold seeped through him. He tried to stop his teeth from knocking together. And the bullwhip, heavy with water, was cutting into his skin. He tried to remain alert, prepared for whatever contingency might arise-but weariness was a weight in him now, and sleep seemed the most promising prospect of all.
He shut his eyes. He tried to think of something, anything, that would keep him from dropping off- but it was hard. He wondered where the submarine was headed. He sang little songs in his head. He tried to remember all the telephone numbers he'd ever known. He wondered about a girl named Rita he'd almost married once: where was she now? A lucky escape there, he thought.
But he was weary and the thoughts circled aimlessly.
And he drifted off into sleep, despite the cold, despite his discomfort. He drifted away, the sleep dreamless and dead.
When he woke it was daylight and he wasn't sure how long he'd slept, whether he'd slept a whole day away. He could no longer feel his body: total numbness. And his skin was puckered from the water, fingertips soft and wrinkled. He adjusted the bullwhip and looked around. There was a land mass ahead, an island, a semitropical place-halcyon, he thought. He stared at the rich foliage. Green, wonderful and deep and restful. The submarine approached the island, skimming into what looked like a cave. Inside, the Germans had built a complete underground supply base and submarine pen. And there were more uniformed Nazis on this dock than you could have found in one of Hitler's Nuremberg extravaganzas.