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PART III

WESTERN MEDITERRANEAN

The next evening, Indy found himself walking through the bustling, brightly lit streets of Monte Carlo, searching for someone he wouldn't know by sight.
Sophia had not been much help with Alain Trottier. Apparently, they did all their business by mail, and she'd never actually seen or talked to him. She did have the address, but it had gotten lost in the ransacking of her apartment.
Indy couldn't find out anything either. He only had one clue to go on, supplied by Sophia: all his letters mentioned how much Trottier like to stroll under the bright lights. That was how Indy had ended up here, stopping anyone who didn't get away fast enough and asking them whether they were Trottier. This was a fairly fruitless method, so Indy changed it to asking them whether they knew Trottier, hopefully getting more information this way. But no. It was a full hour of failure.
Indy had done a full circle, arriving back outside his hotel, when finally someone gave an answer other than a straight 'no'.
It was a slightly older gentleman in a brown suit, with fading grey hair, and an orange flower in his lapel. An elderly cosmopolitan, the kind who might taste wines for a living. His answer to the question, "Can you tell me where to find Monsieur Trottier?", was a noncommital "Possibly, who wants to know?" He sounded impatient.
"I'm Doctor Indiana Jones of Barnett College," said Indy, doing his best to sound professional.
"Jones... Jones... Jones..." mused the man, looking into the air. "I believe I've heard of you." Inspiration dawned. "Yes, of course! The famous archaeologist!"
Indy smiled modestly. "Actually, I'm just a simple professor."
Trottier smiled. "Leave the modesty to me, sir. Alain Trottier - amateur scholar, part time poet, professional dreamer."
He sounded like all the Atlantean authors Sophia seemed to have been collecting lately. Indy could see how the two had gotten in touch. He didn't want to waste this man's time, so he got straight to the punch. "What do you know about Atlantis?" he asked, arms folded.
Trottier was guarded. "That depends... To prove you're worth dealing with, answer me this: what was Plato's great error?"
It was straight from the Lost Dialogue. "An error of translation," said Indy easily. It was also an error of distance, but a bad translation was the root cause.
"Yes! Excellent! Obviously you know Plato's Lost Dialogue well. Personally, I doubt I can help you," he continued. Indy's face fell. "But, my name is recognised among dealers in antiquities." He reached into his pocket and gave Indy a small card. "Maybe my business card will be of some use to you. And now, au revoir."
Trottier walked away with a wave of the hand. Indy looked down at the business card. "A. Trottier, truly old antiques," it said. Indy walked back into his hotel and found his room. He better have a good night's sleep tonight, because he mightn't have one again for a long time to come.

Early next day, Indy caught an island-hopping flight to Algiers, the capital of Algeria. It was already hot by the time he disembarked, walked outside, and found a taxi. He was sweating by the time he reached the unusually quiet marketplace.
It was summer in Algeria. And summer in Algeria means many things: faded grey walls gleaming brightly with reflected sun, blue skies that fade to white at the horizon so you never can tell where the clouds are, people that cluster in the shade and stay indoors unless absolutely necessary. But the main characterising feature of Algerian summers was the heat. It came from the sun, it bounced off the smooth stone walls, you could even feel it burning the sand beneath your feet.
Indy was glad he didn't have to go searching very far for Omar Al-Jabbar. He knew he had a shop somewhere in this marketplace - the only question was, where? Indy saw a beggar sitting on the road, in the shade of a small tin shack. Inside the shack it was probably hot enough to roast chickens. "Hello there," he said to the beggar, hoping for directions.
The beggar, bald and toothless, looked up at him. "Ah, a prosperous American." He looked at Indy expectantly, but without much hope.
Indy didn't have any of the local currency, the dinar. "Do you know where Omar Al-Jabbar lives?"
"Omar's one of my best customers," said the beggar. "Alas, his address is known to few men." He looked at Indy's disappointed face. "But his shop, effendi, is just over the marketplace there." He pointed. Indy followed the gnarled finger, and saw a narrow street head past a grocer and a rug merchant before turning left.
"Thanks," said Indy. "What are you doing on the streets?"
The beggar looked at him, pityingly. "I'm a beggar, effendi. It's my job to be here."
"How's business?"
"I've seen worse," said the beggar. Seeing some people walking past, he rattled his bowl. One threw him a coin.
"You ever hear of Atlantis, old man?" asked Indy as the beggar added the coin to his meagre collection.
"Atlantis?" said the beggar. He thought. "Hmmmm... Atlantis, hmmmm ... no. Now let me get back to work, please." He indicated that Indy was in the way.
Indy walked away, thinking that perhaps there was something to flowing garb of the Africans. Surely it had more comfortable than this leather jacket adventuring outfit.
He walked down the street, which halfway down lost all its shops and became a back alley, with nothing but smooth stone walls on either side. It was slightly shaded, and blessedly cool.
Around the blind turn Indy found a small dead end, a retail cul-de-sac. Occupying the space were the wares of a prosperous merchant. "Artifacts - souvenirs," advertised the banners hung above, alongside several signs in Arabic. Whatever the signs said, the main item of business here seemed to be pots. Pots dotted the ground, huge pots you could hide a man in, small terracotta pots to plant the shrubs in, pots for holding rakes and garden equipment, painted and decorated pots for sheer status, pots stacked on pots stacked on pots, pots galore.
Indy approached the storekeeper, a short, young man wearing a bright red fez and an anaemic black beard. "How much for the pots?" he asked.
"If you have to ask," said the storekeeper, "you can't afford them."
Good advice, thought Indy. He looked around, and saw a single shelf of non-pot related wares. They were small, worthless archaeological trinkets - nightingale statues, necklaces, and dusty boxes. Nothing looked remotely like that eel, or the mask Sophia used in her talking appearances.
"Are you Omar?" he asked the storekeeper.
"You mean mister Al-Jabbar?" asked the storekeeper incredulously. "Ha ha ha! That is an oh-so-good one, effendi. I'm his trusted servant, Paul. Paul Abdul."
"Can you arrange a meeting with Mr Al-Jabbar?" asked Indy.
Paul sighed. "I suppose I could, effendi. But my master rarely deals with clients in person. Why should I bother him?"
Indy couldn't think of anything that would convince this Omar Al-Jabbar. He had no choice but to be candid. "I'm looking for Atlantis," he said.
"Many look. Only my master finds anything. You'll have to give me a better reason than that." Paul waited.
Indy rummaged through his pockets for the Lost Dialogue. He came across something else instead - Trottier's business card. Maybe it would help. Indy showed the card to Paul. "I think this may interest you," he said.
Paul scrutinised it carefully. "Ah, the business card of Monsieur Trottier! That's different. Perhaps Mr. Al-Jabbar will desire to speak with you. Wait here until I get back." Paul walked away at a brisk pace.
Indy found a place in the shade and waited. Five minutes later Paul returned. "Mr Al-Jabbar says that he's sorry, but he can't see you now." He looked at Indy apologetically.
Indy had a sudden flash of anger at Omar. It was bloody hot out here. Why couldn't he see him? He got up and walked to Paul. "Could you go see Mr Al-Jabbar again?" he asked.
Paul thought about this, for a lot longer. "Well... you do know Trottier. Perhaps I didn't explain things very well to my master." He began walking. "Wait here until I get back.
This time, Indy waited precisely ten seconds before following Paul at a discreet distance.

Paul led him south, away from the coast and the marketplace. They walked through crowded residential areas, along narrow walkways, until coming to a higher, more prosperous area, well above the smog blanket. Following Paul was easy work, mainly because of the obvious red fez he wore. Indy could spot it from the opposite end of a football field, and it allowed him to tail well back. The walking itself, however, soon tired him. His face was slick with sweat when he saw with relief that Paul had reached the door of a large, two storey stone house. Paul knocked on the door, and walked inside.
Indy waited for a moment, then came up to the thick wood door and pulled it open.
It was so cool in here, it was like entering a cave. His eyes took a moment to adjust, but the ears heard something immediately.
A German voice. "Tell me more, or die."
Indy started, then crept forward, his shoes making the barest of noises on the smooth stone floor, coloured ochre and faded brown. The passage he was in came to a room where the roof was supported by columns and arches, and there were colourful and thick rugs on the floor. Pots, barrels, knick-knacks and even some dirty washing hanging on the line crowded the room somewhat. Omar obviously hadn't been expecting visitors.
But he had one anyway. A medium-sized German soldier stood right in front of Indy, his back turned. He was talking to Paul and a rotund man in a hideously expensive striped purple robe, who were facing Indy but had yet given no sign of his presence.
"My master will tell you nothing!" said Paul stoutly, keeping his gaze firmly on the German.
The next thing the German said confirmed all of Indy's fears. "What do you know about Atlantis?" Indy quickly drew in breath
The soldier must have the hearing of a hawk, as the slight noise caused him to spin around. "Achtung!"
"Oops," said Indy, caught out of striking range.
The German was pleased. "So, Doctor Jones, you fell right into my trap!" He lunged at Indy, fists up.
Indy fell back. He didn't mean to. He tripped on something. Whatever, he ended up on his back on the floor, causing the German guard to miss him altogether and fly over, striking the wall behind him. Indy bounced up, fists at the ready, and stuck at the German.
The soldier turned his head right into his fist. It connected solidly, knocking his head back against the wall for a second time. Indy reached around on the floor, found a heavy pot, and hurled it at the soldier. The soldier's head, now struck three times, had had enough. He fell to the ground, surrounded by ceramic shards. Unconscious.
Indy breathed deep, until his heartbeat came under control. "Thank you for saving me from that infidel," said Omar. He had a deep, cultured, distinctly African voice. Paul hovered at his side, the dutiful servant. "What's your name?" asked Omar.
"Indiana Jones."
There was a look of recognition on Omar's face. "Really? The famous archaeologist?"
Indy knew he should have given Paul his name.
"What brings you to North Africa?" continued Omar.
"I've heard you know something about Atlantis," said Indy. "I'm looking for it," he added, boldly.
"Take my advice, Doctor, and give up," said Omar. "There are men who will kill to stop you."
"Are you talking about Klaus Kerner?" asked Indy. He wondered, what could they have found worth killing for?
"You know the man, I see," said Omar. He scowled. "He forced me to reveal the source of my Atlantean artifacts. He and his team are out in the desert, turning a modest discovery of mine into a major dig. They seem to have found an outpost of the Lost Kingdom and they're stealing my treasures!" Omar was agitated.
"Let me tackle them for you," suggested Indy.
"Would you?" asked Omar, gratefully. "And if you find Kerner, that spawn of the evil one, break his neck for me!"
"What were they doing here?" asked Indy.
"The dig site isn't enough to sate their greed," said Omar. "They want more. Now, since you saved my life, here's a map and a camel to speed you on your way. Meanwhile, Paul and I must alert the authorities." Omar and Paul walked swiftly past Indy, and left the building.
Indy was confused. What map? Which camel? For a trader in antiquities, Omar seemed a strangely trusting sort - what was to stop Indy stealing something. The answer, supposed Indy, was that Omar would know, and the consequences for Indy wouldn't be good.
Indy looked around the room, and soon spotted the camel. It was tied up outside, its head sticking in the window and looking around for something edible. It carried thick canvas saddlebags. Now where would Omar put a map? Indy looked along a desk, and a shelf. He found a blackbird statue and a cheap soapstone carving, but no map.
He searched for five minutes, getting very frustrated, when he caught a glimpse of something near the roof.
On the clothesline. What had first seemed to be a shirt was in fact a piece of paper, folded in half and hanging over the line. It was just out of reach, so Indy used a stick of bamboo and prodded it off the line. He caught the map and studied it.
It was almost featureless. There was just the coastline at the north, a black dot nearby for Algiers, and a red X deep in the interior, somewhat to the south and the east. Well, imprecise or not, it would have to do.
Indy climbed out the window and mounted the camel. He loosed the rope and set off for the desert.

Camels - certainly, some kinds of camel - can go for weeks without food or water, preferring to store it in their hump(s). They are a kind of mobile refrigerator, as it were. During a sandstorm they lie down in the sand and shut their nostrils, and wait calmly for it to pass. Camels were built for the desert.
Humans, in the desert, tend to feel unwell if a day passes without water. If two days pass, they tend to die. In a sandstorm they huddle on the sand, jamming cloth over their noses and praying to their respective gods. Humans were not built for the desert.
And so humans are forced to rely on camels, and, this being a fairly one-way relationship, tend to get rather jealous and stroppy toward the camel. The camel is, of course, aware of this, and so goes out of its way to be difficult to the humans. It's not like it's going to die after two days without water, after all.
So there are very few romantic, stirring images that come to mind when the man and the camel are brought together. Man and horse - yes. Man and camel - no. It deflates the ego somewhat to have to ride a creature with more knees than legs and those frankly embarrassing humps.
All that Indy found was that the camel had a tendency to be slow for no particular reason, and was very bumpy. He plodded south for several hours, right in the heat of the midday sun, and had soon left the settled lands behind. He saw no-one, mainly because no-one was mad enough to be out there at this time of day. He did see floating icecreams and a gyrating porpoise, but these were probably hallucinations.
By the time the sun started to fall, the camel was heading upward. He had reached the Atlas mountains, and cool crosswinds could at last be felt. They revived Indy, which was just as well because this area was not so unsettled. Often a camel would pass some distance away, bearing a rider or two. Indy didn't want any trouble, particularly from the local authorities, so he stayed as far away as possible. He didn't have a valid pass for the country proper.
By now he was coming down the far side, and soon he estimated they were near the site of the X. He looked around for settlement. There was a hut, not far off, far too small to be the dig site.
Indy directed the camel there, anyway. They needed directions.
"Hello there," said Indy cautiously.
The nomad greeted him in return. "Salaam, effendi."
Indy relaxed, and showed the map to the nomad. "Well, what do you make of this map?"
The nomad studied it for a long while. "Hmmm... this X is to the south. That's about it."
"Thanks for the information," said Indy, taking the map. A thought occurred to him. "Have you seen anyone digging around here?"
"Well... I have seen foreigners with trucks and equipment."
"Trucks? Equipment? Where?"
The nomad thought. "It's hard to remember. Can you imagine? They're digging holes in the sand!"
Indy nodded. He was on the right track. "Nice talking to you," he said, returning to his camel. He spurred it on with a few heavy kicks, and soon the nomad was far behind.

As fast as the camel was (not very), it wasn't faster than the jeep that now sped toward them, driven by a snarling German guard. It pulled up at Indy's side, who had searched vainly for some cover, and he jumped out.
"We don't like trespassers out here!" he barked. "I'm taking you to the city."
Indy got off the camel, and stayed there. It was clear this guy didn't know who he was, which meant he had the advantage of surprise. Indy opened his mouth to talk, then jumped at the guard.
It was a tough fight. This guy knew how to box. Indy normally would have gotten the better of him easily, but it had been a hot and tiring day. Toward the end, his fist started to feel like a wet cabbage.
Finally Indy trapped the soldier in no-man's-land by a quick dodge. A swift uppercut knocked him unconscious to the ground. Score one for archaeology. Indy leant against the jeep, his chest heaving. He didn't dare lie down in the back seat - he'd fall asleep. He pored around in the jeep, however, and found a canister of water, almost full.
Indy drank every drop. Letting the empty canister fall to the desert floor, he once again felt vibrant, powerful, like the ruler of a universe. He mounted the camel and off they were again.

Indy didn't see any further activity until reaching the dig site. The site was nestled in a hollow, hidden by sand dunes, bounded on the far side by a stone ridge, and yet Indy didn't stumble across it.
This was because there was a hot air balloon, floating above the dig site. Drawing close, Indy saw that it was tethered to the ground by a steel link ladder, which swayed and strained in the breeze.
Indy dismounted the camel, and ruffled his hat. "Well, what do you know? An abandoned dig site."
Abandoned it seemed to be, despite the plethora of pitched tents on the far side of the dig, and an army truck close by. The dig itself was a trench ten feet wide, forty feet long. Around it was the earth-moving equipment, tools, and leftover wooden pylons. Yet the presence of the balloon was strange. Indy couldn't see anyone up there, but this was hardly something the Nazis would leave behind.
Indy walked cautiously to the trench, keeping an eye on the balloon. There was a ladder leading to the bottom of the trench, ten feet below, but as he saw it there was a loud bang. A small puff of sand near his feet kicked up, blowing away from the balloon.
"Somebody's shooting at me!" shouted Indy. He forgot the ladder and dived into the trench for cover. He landed on his feet and crouched there. Here he was out of sight, for the moment.
The ground sloped downward until disappearing into darkness, where it seemed to widen out. There was a rail track set in the ground, for carrying ore and rubble to the slag heap outside. Beside the rail track, in the corner, was the remains of a ship's hull (what on earth would it be doing here?) The way the beams bent back, it looked a lot like a ribcage resting on a thick backbone.
Indy walked by, slowly. The far end of the ship was hidden in the shadow, and as he passed, he felt a sharp stick of wood. He grasped it, and studied the shape. It was curved, and smooth, and felt strong. Indy held onto it.
He was shuffling forward now, completely blind in the dark. The most he could sense was that the space around him had widened out dramatically, while the roof above was low.
Indy's right knee bumped into a heavy metal object. It felt, as Indy ran his hands over it, like a portable generator. Indy felt around for a switch, and pressed it.
The generator's belt started to run with a loud whirr. Lights hanging from the ceiling started to glow, and gradually light returned to his surroundings.
Indy looked around. As the trench was long, this area was wide. He was in the top of the T-intersection. To his left, there was a wall with a painting of a chest, or ark. Indy had seen that before. Either side of the chest were two figures, in flowing blue gowns, with long black hair. Between their outstretched arms was a circle. Was that a ball the figures were tossing around? Or a stone disk?
Indy pushed the circle. The stone it was engraved on fell back into a cavity. Likewise the stone bearing the chest engraving fell back, revealing a hole the size of a shoe box.
It held something. "Well, now," said Indy. "Here's something the Nazis missed." He picked it up wonderingly, feeling its smooth edges.
A Sunstone. He looked awhile at the solar images carved into it, quartering the circle - a dark sun, rising sun, midday sun and setting sun. He stowed the Sunstone in his jacket, then inspected the other side of the junction.
First he saw a table, holding a ceramic jug and a wooden peg. The peg looked interesting. Indy picked it up and confirmed a suspicion - it was the same size as the hole in the centre of the Sunstone. Interesting. He had a look at the ceramic jug, which turned out to be completely worthless, but held something quite interesting inside. A coppery bead. Orichalcum? Indy didn't know the stuff well enough yet to guess.
Counterpoint to the mural, here there was a facade of crumbling rock - quite clearly loose. Indy could also see a kind of diagram behind the rock. Why hadn't the Nazis uncovered this? Either they were hopelessly stupid, or they'd found something even better.
Indy hoped it was the first. He used the ship rib, an implement seemingly built to push stone out of the way, to clear away the rubble. Soon a circular mural had been revealed.
That's all it was - a circle. And in the middle of the circle, was a diagram that looked a lot like the island of Crete. Strangely, there was a hole right in the middle of the island, where the ancient city of Knossos was once found. It looked to be the right size for the wooden peg. Another detail, which Indy only just noticed - at the top of the circle, an etched pair of horns.
That rang a bell. Indy thumbed through the Lost Dialogue. Sure enough, there it was - Gates of the kingdom opened only with the aid of special stones. At many outposts, a Sunstone sufficed, if morning light warmed the tall horns.
Then this was an Atlantean outpost. Indy stuck the peg into the hole, then hung the Sunstone upon it. He rotated it so that the morning sun image was directly under the horns.
Nothing happened. Indy pushed the Sunstone - nothing happened. He tried pushing the peg.
There was a low roar and rumble as a massive stone block beside him slid upward into a hidden recess. A gap of six feet by six feet had been created, leading into a pitch dark room that nonetheless seemed fairly small and cramped to Indy. He entered, and soon found there were steps leading up. Leading up where? There was no light. But Indy kept on, because the German soldier wouldn't have given up yet and he wanted an alternate way out, something unexpected.
After only five or six steps his head nudged the roof. But it wasn't stone - rather, sand, held together by old, dead roots. It cascaded down over him in sheets. Indy thrust a hand up and pulled down more sand, and with these grains came rays of light. Indy pulled more, widening the hole. With the hole he stepped up, clearing a path. Soon his head was above ground level. Indy looked around, saw no-one, and scrambled up.
The German guard chose his moment precisely, springing out from behind a nearby tent. He held his machine gun at the ready, pointing at the utterly surprised Indy. It was a very early riser who fooled this infantryman.
"Halt!" he cried, stopping ten feet from Indy. "Do you realise what you've done? You've dug an unauthorised hole!" Yes, this guy had originally been a chartered accountant.
Indy was surprised again. This goggle-eyed soldier didn't seem to know who he was. "I was just following Kerner's orders," he protested.
The soldier did not put his weapon away. "That's a relief, because Kolonel Kerner will be back soon, and he generally shoots people for digging holes around here." He actually spoke 'Kolonel' with a 'K'.
"Why are you detaining me here?" asked Indy.
"I'm waiting for Kolonel Kerner to return," said the soldier, "whereupon you'll be interrogated, tortured, beaten, and left to die in the trackless desert. Unless you misbehave, in which case we'll think of something nasty." Oh. So he was suspected of something, even if this guy didn't know who he was.
It was a bad mistake, not knowing who Indy was. With a movement so slow and lazily it couldn't be seen, Indy shifted his left hand behind his back, where his bullwhip was secured. "How'd you like to own this fine leather jacket?" he asked, as his hand curled around the brace of the whip.
"It is a nice jacket," said the soldier, studying it closely, "but not my colour."
Indy's hand flashed out, holding the whip. It lashed around the soldier's weapon, allowing Indy to tug it out of his grasp before he had time to tighten it. He released the hold above the hole, causing the gun to clatter down into darkness.
The soldier glared at him and bunched his fists. "You'll be sorry you did that, Amerikanner." He came for Indy, and started punching.
But he had unexpected trouble. The trouble came from Indy's whip, and the lashing it had given his punching arm as he pulled the gun from his grip. The nerves had deadened, and he could hardly land punches with any accuracy.
Indy was having no such trouble. He hit him in the chest, the gut, rabbit-punched him in the kidneys, struck his cheeks and his chin. He used his legs too, one particularly savage kick striking the soldier's kneecaps and sending him reeling back.
Toward the hole. The soldier fell down, striking the stone steps. For a moment Indy was alarmed - the gun was down there - but it soon became clear the soldier was out cold.
Now, Indy hurried. He wanted to get back to Algiers before nightfall, and book passage to Crete. He ran to the army truck, but the engine refused to start. Pulling up the hood, he saw the carburettor had been ripped out. This truck was never going to start again.
He looked at his camel, standing serenely nearby and unconcerned by the fighting. Heading back that way seemed like less of an option, now he knew that Kerner was around. He'd only seen one jeep so far, but there were bound to be more.
He looked upward. Why not?
Indy ran across the ground to the steel link ladder and started climbing. It swayed in the breeze, but held his weight easily. He pulled himself over the rim of the basket and tossed the lines off.
The basket rose. Indy gave it some flame, cutting out when they started to drift north. Gee, it had been years since he'd been ballooning. You rode the thermals, rising or falling until you found a wind going your way. Looking around, Indy was pleased to see he had a lot of ballast.
Serenely, the balloon sailed on.

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