"Get the thing going, Jock!" Indy shouted. "Get it going!"
Jock rushed along the wing and clambered inside the cockpit as Indy scurried, breathless, into the passenger compartment and slumped across the seat. He closed his eyes and listened to the shudder of engines when the craft skimmed the surface of the water.
"I didn't expect you to drop in quite so suddenly," Jock said.
"Spare me the puns, huh?"
"A spot of trouble, laddie?"
Indy wanted to laugh. "Remind me to tell you sometime." He lay back and closed his eyes, hoping sleep would come. But then he realized that the plane wasn't moving. He sat upright and leaned forward toward the pilot.
"Stalled," Jock said.
"Stalled! Why?"
Jock grinned. "I only fly the bloody thing. People have this funny impression that all Scotsmen are bloody mechanics, Indy."
Through the window, Indy could see the Hovitos begin to wade into the shallows of the river. Thirty feet, twenty now. They were like grotesque ghosts of the riverbed risen to avenge some historic transgression. They raised their arms; a storm of spears flew toward the fuselage of the plane.
"Jock..."
"I'm bloody well trying, Indy. I'm trying."
Calmly, Indy said, "I think you should try harder."
The spears struck the plane, clattering against the wings, hitting the fuselage with the sound of enormous hailstones.
"I've got it," Jock said.
The engines spluttered into laborious life just as two of the Hovitos had swum as far as the wing and were clambering up.
"It's moving," Jock said. "It's moving."
The craft skimmed forward again and then began to rise, with a cumbersome quality, above the river. Indy watched the two warriors lose their balance and drop, like weird creatures of the jungle, into the water.
The plane was rising across the tops of trees, the underdraft shaking the branches, driving panicked birds into the last of sunlight. Indy laughed and closed his eyes.
"Thought you might not make it," Jock said. "To tell you the bloody truth."
"Never a doubt in mind," Indy said, and smiled.
"Relax, now, man. Get some sleep. Forget the bloody jungle."
For a moment, Indy drifted. Relief. The relaxation of muscle. A good feeling. He could lose himself in this sensation for a long time.
Then something moved across his thigh. Something slow, heavy.
He opened his eyes and saw a boa constrictor coiling itself in a threatening way around his upper leg. He jumped upright quickly.
"Jock!"
The pilot looked round, smiled. "He won't hurt you, Indy. That's Reggie. He wouldn't harm a soul."
"Get it away from me, Jock."
The pilot reached back, stroked the snake, then drew it into the cockpit beside him. Indy watched the snake slide away from him. An old revulsion, an inexplicable terror. For some people it was spiders, for some rats, for others enclosed spaces. For him it was the repulsive sight and touch of a snake. He rubbed at the sweat newly formed on his forehead, shivering as the water soaking his clothes turned abruptly chill.
"Just keep it beside you," he said. "I can't stand snakes."
"I'll let you in on a wee secret," Jock said. "The average snake is nicer than the average person."
"I'll take your word for it," Indy said. "Just keep it away from me."
You think you're safe, then-a boa constrictor decides to bask on your body. All in a day's work, he thought.
For a while he looked out of the window and watched darkness fall with an inscrutable certainty over the vast jungle. You can keep your secrets, Indy thought. You can keep all your secrets.
Before he fell asleep, lulled by the noise of the engines, he hoped it would not be a long time before his path crossed once again with that of the Frenchman.
2: Berlin
In an office on the Wilhelmstrasse, an officer in the black uniform of the SS-an incongruously petite man named Eidel-was seated behind his desk, staring at the bundles of manila folders stacked neatly in front of him. It was clear to Eidel's visitor, who was named Dietrich, that the small man used the stacks of folders in a compensatory way: they made him feel big, important. It was the same everywhere these days, Dietrich thought. You assess a man and his worth by the amount of paperwork he is able to amass, by the number of rubber stamps he is authorized to use. Dietrich, who liked to consider himself a man of action, sighed inwardly and looked toward the window, against which a pale brown blind had been drawn. He waited for Eidel to speak, but the SS officer had been silent some time, as if even his silences were intended to convey something of what he saw as his own importance.
Dietrich looked at the portrait of the Fuhrer hanging on the wall. When it came down to it, it didn't matter what you might think of someone like Eidel-soft, shackled to his desk, pompous, locked away in miserable offices-because Eidel had a direct line of access to Hitler. So you listened, and you smiled, and you pretended you were of lesser rank. Eidel, after all, was a member of the inner circle, the elite corps of Hitler's own private guard.
Eidel smoothed his uniform, which looked as if it had been freshly laundered. He said, "I trust I have made the importance of this matter clear to you, Colonel?"
Dietrich nodded. He felt impatient. He hated offices.
Eidel rose, stretched on his tiptoes in the manner of a man reaching for a subway strap he knows to be out of range, then walked to the window. "The Fuhrer has his mind set on obtaining this particular object. And when his mind is set, of course . . ." Eidel paused, turned, stared at Dietrich. He made a gesture with his hands, indicating that whatever passed through the Fuhrer's mind was incomprehensible to lesser men.
"I understand," Dietrich said, drumming his fingertips on his attache case.
"The religious significance is important," Eidel said.
"It isn't that the Fuhrer has any special interest in
Jewish relics per se, naturally." And here he paused,
laughing oddly, as if the thought were wildly amusing.
"He has more interest in the symbolic meaning of the
item, if you understand."
It crossed Dietrich's mind that Eidel was lying, obscuring something here: it was hard to imagine the Fuhrer's being interested in anything for its symbolic value. He stared at the flimsy cable Eidel had allowed him to read a few minutes ago. Then he gazed once more at the picture of Hitler, which was unsmiling, grim.
Eidel, in the manner of a small-town university professor, said, "We come to the matter of expert knowledge now."
"Indeed," Dietrich said.
"We come to the matter, specifically, of archaeological knowledge."
Dietrich said nothing. He saw where this was leading. He saw what was needed of him.
He said, "I'm afraid it's beyond my grasp."
Eidel smiled thinly. "But you have connections, I understand. You have connections with the highest authorities in this field, am I right?"
"A matter of debate."
"There is no time for any such debate," Eidel said. "I am not here to argue the matter of what constitutes high authority, Colonel. I am here, as you are, to obey a certain important order."
"You don't need to remind me of that," Dietrich said.
"I know," Eidel said, leaning against his desk now. "And you understand I am talking about a certain authority of your acquaintance whose expertise in this particular sphere of interest will be invaluable to us. Correct?"