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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 he waited. Another five. He was getting hot and impatient. Fed up, he walked back through the alley to the market square, looking around for Paul.
Paul was nowhere in sight. Near Indy was a rotund fellow wearing an outrageously bright red fez over his black hair, and cavorting around merrily. "Doo dah doo," sang the man, who looked like he was having the best time of his life.
Indy felt like talking to him. He walked toward the man, getting his attention, then said, "Nice fez."
"Why, thank you," said the man. "Are you here for the festival?"
It was the first Indy had heard of any festival. "No, but that's quite a hat," he said.
"Do you like it?" asked the man, smiling at the compliment.
Indy nodded. He liked this guy. "It's better than a sharp stick in the eye," he said.
"Oh my, yes," agreed the man. "Why does it attract you?"
Indy looked at it, concentrating. "It's kind of... festive."
"Aha!" said the man. "You observe closely, my friend. With a fez one becomes truly fez-tive. Undoubtedly you feel envy, no?"
"I am a little frustrated," said Indy, thinking of Paul, who still hadn't turned up.
"I can see that," said the man. "You torture yourself trying to attain the unattainable." He took the fez off. "Here, take my fez and join in the fez-tivities!"
"It's yours. Don't you need it?" said Indy.
"Not any more," said the man, giving it to Indy. "The very act of giving it to you has lifted me to a higher state of fez-tivity."
"Say, thanks a lot," said Indy.
"Someday you'll understand," said the man patiently. He grinned, then cavorted away, dancing and singing at the top of his voice.
Indy pocketed the fez. That wasn't something you saw every day. In a much better mood, he walked back along the alley to Omar's shop.
Paul was there, waiting for him. "Ah, there you are," he said. "Mr Al-Jabbar says that he's sorry, but he can't see you now." He looked at Indy apologetically.
Indy, in his good mood, was only momentarily upset by this. Why couldn't Omar see him? It was pretty hot. 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 deep Arabian voice. "I don't care who he knows. I don't want to see him, understand?"
"Yes, sir," said Paul.
Indy started 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.
He was giving Paul a good haranguing for having disturbed him twice. Omar was a rotund man in a hideously expensive striped purple robe, and he was facing Indy.
"Dr Jones, I suppose," said Omar. "What an unpleasant surprise."
"Shall I remove this peasant, master?" asked Paul.
"That won't be necessary, Paul." said Omar. "Now be a good lad and alert the police, while I entertain our guest."
"But-"
"We'll talk about your punishment later."
Paul swallowed, trotted past Indy and out the door. Indy came further into the room and met Omar's withering gaze.
"Well, well, well!" said Omar. "I had no idea the famous Indiana Jones was such a fool. Travelling so far and risking so much in pursuit of a mere myth."
"It's no myth, as you well know," said Indy forcefully.
Omar feigned surprise. "No? Let's talk it over. My house is your house, until the gendarmes arrive."
Indy wanted to know something. "You ever meet someone named Klaus Kerner?"
Omar looked contemptuously at him. "I don't discuss my business associates with anyone, Doctor, least of all you."
That was so uncommitted an answer it might well have been yes. Indy was worried. Omar might be a big shot in Algiers, but Kerner was someone wielding far greater power. "Don't you think you're in over your head?"
"My friends and I," said Omar, "we help each other. So watch yourself!"
Indy was getting a little impatient with this. "Can you help me find Atlantis?" he asked, hopeful.
Omar laughed, a mean-spirited cackle with no humour in it. "I might as well help you find the moon."
Indy looked around the room. Among all the knick-knacks and junk he couldn't see anything Atlantean, but he wasn't leaving here until he had something to go on. Why would the Germans be interested in this small-time dealer?
Omar looked at him suspiciously. "Nice house you have here," said Indy, looking up at the painted ceiling.
"And nicer the sooner you leave it."
"I'd just like to look around," said Indy.
"If you insist." Omar smouldered, cursing the slackness of the gendarmes
Indy walked along the wall, looking at a row of jars and pots. One contained a bamboo pole, the rest were empty. Indy reached out to touch the pole, but Omar cried, "Stop! Leave my things alone!" and bustled over to Indy.
Indy left the pole be and kept looking. He saw a desk, holding a blackbird statue and a cheap soapstone carving. Around the room he walked, peering up at the dirty laundry and looking out the window, where a camel was tied up and smacking its lips.
He was coming back to the front of the room, Omar following him like a hawk. Here, beside rugs and barrels, a corner of the room had been shut off by a wire grille and turned into a closet. The door, also made of metal, was open.
Indy entered the closet and looked around. Nothing here. Nevertheless, Omar still followed him inside. Instantly Indy whipped around, darted out of the closet and pulled the door shut. He found the latch and flicked it shut.
Omar grabbed the wire mesh and rattled it. "You can't do this!"
"Strong latch on your closet door, I notice," said Indy nonchalantly.
"Ha!" yelled Omar. "I spit in your face! Ptoooie!" The spit merely stuck to the wire mesh, thin and colourless.
"I want you to help me find Atlantis," said Indy, in a tone that suggested they could still be friends.
"Reveal my discovery after what you've done to me?"
Indy pressed forward. "What discovery."
Evidently Omar was no longer in the mood for concealment. "The ones the Germans are exploring. They're out in the desert right now, digging up an outpost of the Lost Kingdom. Perhaps the Atlanteans were establishing a settlement... or perhaps they were fleeing for their lives. Let me out, and we'll discuss it."
"Tell me more about this dig site," prompted Indy.
Omar crossed his arms. "Not until you let me out."
Indy wasn't much perturbed. He'd seen it earlier. He walked away from Omar, and picked up the bamboo pole. Then he walked underneath the hanging laundry. Earlier, looking up, he'd seen a piece of cloth hanging from the line, disguised as a shirt. Now he prodded it off with the bamboo and looked at it closer. It was a map, with a red X somewhere in the desert, south-east of here.
"That map won't do you any good," said Omar. "There are no names on it!"
Indy stuffed the map into his jacket. True, there weren't any helpful navigational marks, but he'd find a way. He looked once more at the belligerent Omar, then walked to the window and hoisted himself onto the camel.
"Map or no map, you'll never find Atlantis," said Omar.
"Aww, put a sock in it!" said Indy. He loosed the camel rope and rode off, hearing Omar behind him.
"May scorpions pluck out your eyeballs!" taunted Omar. "May the wind scatter your bones where none shall find them! May you die without water, Jones! May the sand cover you without a trace! May a thousand jackals feast on your entrails!"

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.

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, so Indy virtually stumbled across it.
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. The wind blew sand between the tents in whistling, lonely trails. The place was dead.
He looked at the army truck again and walked over to the engine. Indy raised the hood, which was baking in the desert heat, and propped it up. The hot metal surface burned. He sucked at his fingers, reddened at the tips.
The engine was missing a spark plug and a battery - the start-up equipment. Indy groaned. He looked through the driver's side door and checked the interior of the truck - it wasn't too dirty. There was some good news from the fuel gauge - mostly full.
He left the truck and looked at the dig itself, a black hole in the sand. Indy walked cautiously to the trench, and climbed down the ladder. It was time to go prospecting.

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. Almost immediately, his foot struck something else. This object, however, was rubbery, and felt like a snake. Indy froze slightly. There was no movement in the darkness. Tentatively, Indy reached out and picked up a rubber hose, about three inches wide and two metres long.
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.
There was a click, then silence. The generator was dead. Either a connection was out, or there was no gas left.
Indy turned around and walked deeper into the room, aware of the slightly futile nature of his search. He needed light to do any kind of work in here. And it was a distinct possibility that the Nazis had cleared this area out.
Indy's right leg banged into a thick wooden table, rattling it slightly. Indy winced, and rubbed his thigh. He squinted at the table. There was a small clay jar on the near side. Indy took it. Let's see now ... he had a jar, and a hose...
Indy turned round and made for the dim light of the tunnel entrance. He had a sudden idea of how to get some gas.

He returned five minutes later with a clay jar full of gas. It hadn't been hard.
After he got out of the tunnel, Indy had made his way over to the truck, squinting fiercely to minimise the returned glare of the sun. In the sunlight, he'd made the extra discovery that the jar contained a coppery bead. Indy thought it might be orichalcum - it certainly looked like the bead in Tikal.
At the truck, he opened the gas cap and stuck the rubber hose in, so that one end was fully submerged. He brought the other end to the ground, and placed the clay jar on the end. Then, by sucking on the end of the rubber hose to get the initial movement of petrol, he was able to draw out enough petrol to fill the clay jar. And, hopefully, run the generator.
Indy quickly returned to the cool subterranean darkness of the anteroom. Walking down the tunnel with slightly more confidence, Indy made his way over to the generator and felt around for a filling cap on the top. He pulled it open and delicately poured the contents of the jar in. He replaced the cap, screwing it on tight. He reached for the generator switch and flipped it on.
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 the rough edges. It was a golden statue that resembled the homunculus stolen by Kerner. It too had an open mouth, ready for orichalcum.
Indy turned his head back to look at the other side of the room.
First he saw the table he'd bumped into earlier. It was bare. Counterpoint to the mural, here there was a facade of crumbling rock - quite clearly loose. Indy used the ship rib, an implement seemingly built to push stone out of the way, to clear away the rubble. Soon a surface of flat granite was revealed, circular in shape. It might once had held a diagram, but now time had discoloured and scoured the surface, so that it was now unreadable. Indy looked around elsewhere, but there was nothing to be found. With the exception of this coppery statue, they really had cleaned out the place.
Indy returned to the generator, and opened the engine block. He looked up to the exit, memorising the way, then flipped the switch off. In darkness, he pulled out a ceramic spark plug. He rose, and walked to the ladder.

Back outside in the scorching heat. Indy returned to the truck, its hood still propped open, and placed the spark plug against the one still in the engine. They were identical. He fitted it into the leads.
Dealing with the missing battery would be harder. Indy knew that if he could get the truck rolling fast enough down a hill, he could start the thing manually. However, there would be no chance of the truck rolling anywhere in this thick sand.
For some reason he took out the statue. Its two upright arms were about the same distance apart as the spark plugs. What did this statue do when you gave it some orichalcum?
Indy thought he would find out. He popped the bead into the mouth. It disappeared into some internal crevice, without a sound. Nothing on the statue moved, but it began to feel warm and tingly, especially around the horns. Sort of magnetised. Indy passed a hand between the horns, and drew it back hurriedly. Something was sparking between them.
Indy pressed the tips of the horns to the spark plugs. A gigantic yellow spark crackled, passing from the horns to the plugs. The engine rumbled, and started. Indy ruffled his hat. Strange. The engine was idling along, without even the key having been turned in the ignition.
He walked to the passenger door and opened it. There was something here he hadn't seen before - a telegram on the seat. Indy picked it up and read it, horrified.
It was German. "Achtung Kerner: Trap is set in Monte Carlo for Trottier Stop. Bait is seance with Madame Sophia Stop. Need you here soonest Stop." It was signed by a Doctor Ubermann.
They had Sophia. Indy instantly regretted not bringing her along. He should have known something like this was going to happen.
Now, Indy hurried. He wanted to get back to Algiers before nightfall. Perhaps the Germans already had Trottier. What did he know? What could he tell them? Indy jammed his foot onto the accelerator and sped away in a cloud of sand.

It was night-time when Indy made it back to Monte Carlo. On foot, he pounded along the pavement back to where he'd met Trottier. He only hoped the Nazis had as little clue where Trottier was as he did.
Trottier wasn't there, so Indy asked around about him. He couldn't find out anything special. But thankfully, here came Trottier now, walking alone in front of a swish hotel.
Indy came up and stopped him. "Just a moment, Monsieur."
Trottier was a little surprised to see him, but mainly looked impatient. "Dr Jones - can I help you with something?"
"Are you here to see Madame Sophia?" asked Indy.
Trottier looked more surprised now. "Why yes. I'm trying to work up courage to propose my latest theory of Atlantis to her."
"What theory?" asked Indy, genuinely curious. "I'd love to hear it."
Trottier beamed. "Well, it concerns the location of the lesser colony-" Suddenly his beaming expression changed, and he grew cautious. "Oh... very clever, Doctor Jones. I can see you're trying to goad me into revealing my secret knowledge of Atlantis. Well, it won't work!"
"Wait!" said Indy quickly. He brought out the telegram. "Monsieur Trottier, you're in trouble."
"What makes you think so?" asked Trottier, suspicious.
"Listen to this telegram." Indy read it out to Trottier, whose expression remained unchanged. "It's a Nazi plot - take a look for yourself."
Trottier scanned the text quickly. He snorted. "This flimsy piece of paper proves nothing. You could have forged it."
"But you really are in terrible danger-"
"Au revoir," said Trottier, turning and walking away.
"Be careful," called out Indy behind him. "Nazi agents are on your trail!"
Trottier stopped, right against the edge of the footpath, and turned back. Taxi cabs were jammed up in a thick row behind him, and the traffic on the Boulevard was busy.
"You don't fool me, Doctor Jones," called out Trottier. He reached into his coat and pulled out a stone circle. He waved it above his head. "You're just trying to scare me out of this key to fabled Atlantis!"
A black car had pulled behind Trottier, as close to the kerb as the taxis allowed. Two men in suits jumped out.
Trottier didn't see the alarm on Indy's face, or else ignored it as a clever ploy. "But neither you nor the Nazis will ever wrench it from my grasp! You'll have to pry it from my dead fingers-"
The two men darted through the taxis, with the agility of people half their size. They seized a startled Trottier by the arms and dragged him back toward their car. "Help me, Dr Jones!" shouted Trottier.
Indy was pelting forward, shoving his way through the pedestrian traffic. He had just made it to the kerb when Trottier was bundled inside the car. It accelerated away, tyres squealing. Indy stood there.
It was serve Trottier right if he let him go.
"But I hate those Nazis," said Indy, loathing in his voice. He ran to the nearest taxi - not to the passenger door, but the driver's side. The driver, unused to being solicited from this angle, was further surprised when Indy pulled the door open and tossed him onto the street. Indy jumped in, found the accelerator and burned away in hot pursuit.
The black car was a fair way away, three cars distant. The streets here were packed and often only single lane. Indy used the footpath to accelerate around the first car, then squealed through the intersection as the black car turned right. It seemed to be making turns at random, trying to shake him off.
But Indy was unshakeable. The black car was driving through residential areas now, which were less packed, and Indy was able to accelerate right to its rear bumper.
Two bullet holes appeared in the top right corner of the windscreen.
Indy responded by jamming down the accelerator. The cab leapt forward and struck the rear of the black car. The collision nearly drove Indy's face into the steering wheel. The black car shuddered to the left, its tyres running the kerb, then the driver pulled it back.
Indy was pulling up beside the car, in the oncoming lane. He honked on the horn, scaring cars and pedestrians out of the way. The driver of the black car pulled a hard turn into the body of the cab, but Indy was ready for this. He jammed on the brakes, and the black car shot ahead. It struck a glancing blow to a streetlamp then bounced back onto the road. Indy shoved forward and struck it in the rear again. The rear bumper fell off and was crunched beneath the cab's tyres.
The black car was weaving all over the road, the driver having immense difficulty bringing it under control. This time, rather than slam blindly into the back, Indy nudged the rear corner of the car just as it was trying to accelerate away. It span around, nearly half a revolution, then slammed bonnet-first into a streetlamp. The windshield shattered, shards of glass cascading into the front seat, and the black car was still. Indy braked to a halt just past it.
Two men got out of the car, quickly. They brushed glass of their clothes, and one appeared to be bleeding. "That crazy American!" said the bleeding man.
"Let's get out of here before the police arrive!" said the other guy. They ran off down the pavement.
Indy tried to open the door, found it was jammed, and opened the passenger door instead. He climbed out and walked over the road, which was littered with metal and glass fragments. There wasn't much else on it. They had crashed in an area of Monte Carlo that was dark and almost deserted. No cars drove past. No pedestrians stood around, gawking. Wherever it was happening tonight in Monte Carlo, it was happening somewhere else.
No. That wasn't strictly true.
Indy looked inside the black car. Trottier was lying down on the back seat, groaning. Indy pulled open the door and lifted Trottier. He set him down on his back, in a bare stretch of bitumen.
"Ohh," groaned Trottier, rubbing his head.
Indy shook him by the shoulder. "Gee, tough traffic, huh?" he sympathised.
Trottier opened his eyes, and roused himself to his feet. "I'm just fine, thank you very much..." His eyes widened with recognition. "Doctor Jones! You! You deliberately ran into the car!"
"Yes, I did," admitted Indy. "But the Nazis got away."
"Good riddance, I say," said Trottier, some of his spark returning. He looked thoughtful, and started walking around. "Give me a moment to collect my thoughts.
About ten seconds passed before Trottier returned and looked at Indy. "I am very grateful, sir. You made me see that an old coward like myself cannot outwit the forces of darkness now gathering in Europe. But you, Doctor Jones, with your courage and persistence... you might yet succeed."
"I'm out of ideas," said Indy. "I need some help."
"You certainly do!" said Trottier. "Listen here: recently I acquired a Sunstone, one of the oddly-shaped keys you will need. More important, I know where to find an entrance to the Lost City itself!"
Indy was listening closely. "Go on," he prompted.
"It's on the island of Thera, south of Greece."
"Amazing!" said Indy softly.
"Indeed it is!" agreed Trottier. "You've read about the Lesser Colony in Plato's Lost Dialogue, have you not?"
Indy had. "Of course."
"Of course. I'm convinced Thera is the Lesser Colony, and I believe it's the way in. I give you this information in heartfelt gratitude. I'd give you my Sunstone as well, but unfortunately I don't have it anymore."
"WHAT?" blurted Indy. "Where'd it go? Don't tell me you let the Nazis take it?"
"NEVER! I threw it out of the window during the chase." Trottier looked at Indy, almost hopefully.
"That was pretty fast thinking," said Indy. He thoughts were less charitable - He didn't! He couldn't have!
Trottier smiled. "You flatter me, Dr Jones."
"Where did you throw it?"
Trottier thought. "It was near the corner of Avenue Milles Bournes and Rue des Regles du Jeu."
"Could you repeat that?" asked Indy. "French names give me fits."
Trottier rummaged around in his coat. "Better yet, I'll write it on this telegram." He wrote a brief note then gave the telegram to Indy. "Here. Good luck, and Godspeed in your search." Trottier turned, and walked away.
Indy memorised the name, and then started pounding the pavement. It didn't start long, mainly because the crash was near the corner of Boulevard Napoleon and Reu de Regles du Jeu. Avenue Milles Bournes was only one block away.
Indy's gaze scoured the pavement. There wasn't much activity around here, no pedestrians, so it didn't seem likely someone had made off with it in the last minute. Light spilled through the doorways, but none of them were open. Indy got into the guttering and peered down the drainage grilles. He saw something in one.
He pulled the drainage grille out, and reached into the damp depths. Only a foot below, he grasped something stony and round. Indy retrieved it.
It was a large stone disk with solar images carved into the rim. A Sunstone.
All right! Looks like he had one of the three Stones. He'd have to find a hotel to spend the night here, but next morning he was off to Thera, and the next stop would be Atlantis.
If the Nazis hadn't gotten there first, that is.

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