Indiana Jones and the Genesis Deluge Read online

  Indiana Jones

  and the

  Genesis Deluge

  Rob MacGregor

  Discover the ADVENTURES of INDIANA JONES

  In 1981 a new hero like no other burst upon the scene. Over the next ten years and three films, we grew to know and love the legend that is Indiana Jones: bold adventurer, swashbuckling explorer, he lives forever in our imaginations, unraveling the mysteries of the past in a time when the world was at war and dreams could still come true. Now, in an all-new series of novels officially licensed from Lucasfilm, we will learn what shaped Indiana Jones into the hero he is today!

  DON'T MISS INDY'S EXCITING ADVENTURES IN

  INDIANA JONES AND THE

  PERIL AT DELPHI

  INDIANA JONES AND THE

  DANCE OF THE GIANTS

  INDIANA JONES AND THE

  SEVEN VEILS

  INDIANA JONES

  AND THE

  GENESIS DELUGE

  Bantam Books by Rob MacGregor

  Ask your bookseller for the books you have missed

  INDIANA JONES AND THE PERIL AT DELPHI

  INDIANA JONES AND THE DANCE OF THE GIANTS

  INDIANA JONES AND THE SEVEN VEILS

  INDIANA JONES AND THE GENESIS DELUGE

  INDIANA JONES AND THE UNICORN'S LEGACY (coming soon)

  INDIANA JONES AND THE GENESIS DELUGE

  A Bantam Falcon Book/February 1992

  FALCON and the portrayal of a boxed "f" are trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group. Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1992 by Lucasfilm Ltd.

  Cover art copyright © 1991 by Lucasfilm Ltd.

  Cover art by Drew Struzan

  Designed and project supervised by M 'N O Production Services, Inc.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system. without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information address: Bantam Books.

  * * *

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

  * * *

  ISBN 0-553-29502-0

  Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

  * * *

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group. Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words "Bantam Books" and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 666 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10103.

  * * *

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  RAD 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3

  An S522 eBook conversion

  This one's for the Megger

  Thanks to Ed Smart for his recollections of Chicago 1927.

  Do you seriously suppose that we were unable to prove our point when even to this day the remains of Noah's Ark are shown in the country of the Kurds?

  —Epiphanus of Salamis (A.D. 4th century)

  Absolutely anything is possible in this world, but if there's anything that's impossible in archaeology, this is it.

  —Archaeologist Frolich Rainey

  on the existence of Noah's Ark

  PROLOGUE

  October 1917

  Petrograd, Russia

  The first snow of the season had started to fall less than an hour earlier as Vadim Popov galloped down the wooded lane. A rope tied to the stirrup of his saddle pulled another horse, and on it rode Vadim's captive, a White Russian lieutenant. Blindfolded and gagged, with his hands bound behind his back, the captive soldier rocked unsteadily atop his steed.

  They'd been riding for several hours and Vadim was exhausted. But the young Bolshevik soldier knew he was close to the command post and he was anxious to get there before dark. Until he reached the post he was in danger of encountering White Russian soldiers on the road and becoming a captive himself. So far he'd only passed a few wagons, and the peasants had said nothing. Everyone knew the revolution was underway, and the sight of a captured soldier was not so remarkable as it would have been a year ago.

  Vadim was a courier who carried messages back and forth from the revolutionary troops to the command post. He had stopped at an inn the night before, where he was to meet another courier, who was to give Vadim additional messages for the revolutionary leaders. It was late when he'd arrived and he'd been unable to find the courier, whom he knew only by the code name Uri.

  The next morning the man joined Vadim at breakfast. As they ate, Uri mentioned that the night before he'd begun talking with a man whom he'd momentarily mistaken for Vadim. They shared a few shots of vodka together, and soon the stranger was telling Uri that he was an army lieutenant and was on his way to see the czar.

  Vadim knew that the only way a lieutenant would get anywhere near the czar was if he was a courier like himself. "Where is he now?"

  "Still here, sleeping, I think. He drank too much last night," Uri said with a laugh.

  "Let's pay him a visit."

  When the White Russian answered his door, he was still groggy with sleep. Vadim jammed his gun into the lieutenant's stomach, and he and Uri bound and gagged him. They found his diplomatic pouch and looked at its contents. At first, when they examined the photographs and the useless piece of wood, neither understood what they were seeing. Vadim questioned the lieutenant, but he would only say that he was a member of the 14th Railroad Battalion stationed in Turkey. Meanwhile, Uri read the accompanying documents and excitedly explained the importance of what the man was carrying.

  That was when Vadim decided he would take the captive to the command post to be interrogated. He was sure the commander of the revolution would want to thank him personally, and if he did, it meant that his future would be bright. The lieutenant suddenly started talking when he realized where he would be taken and told a fantastic story, but it only made Vadim more eager than ever to get him to the command post.

  Finally, he told Uri that he'd made a serious mistake talking to the White Russian. Couriers were not supposed to make idle conversation with strangers or drink while on duty. However, he'd said he wouldn't report him if he swore to say nothing about what had happened here. Uri considered what he'd said, then grudgingly agreed and went on his way.

  That had been hours ago, and Vadim was wet and cold from the snow. He wanted nothing more than to reach his destination. If he'd been alone, he would've been out of the cold and out of danger by now.

  Something was wrong.

  He felt it like a stab in the back. He glanced over his shoulder.

  "Mother of God," he cursed.

  The captive was no longer on his horse, and there was no sign of him on the road. He pulled hard on the reins, turned, and raced back. He'd covered fifty yards before he saw the mark in the snow-covered lane where the soldier had tumbled off. He leaped to the ground and dashed into the woods. It was no problem tracking him, but Vadim was surprised at how well the lieutenant was moving through the trees and underbrush. Then he glimpsed him hobbling across a field and saw that the escapee had managed to lower his blindfold.

  Vadim raised his pistol. "Halt!"

  The soldier ignored him. Vadim aimed and fired. The bullet shredded bark from a birch tree, missing the lieutenant by inches. Vadim cursed as he raced across the field and plunged into the woods, following the man's tracks. If his captive got away, the accolades
he expected to receive for seizing the document would no doubt be muted. He might even be chastised for allowing the White Russian to escape.

  The man was starting to drag one leg. Vadim was gaining on him; he was going to catch him. Then he heard the report of a rifle and dived to the ground. How could the bastard have a weapon? His hands were still tied a minute ago.

  Voices.

  He crawled forward until he saw five or six soldiers who surrounded a body lying facedown in the snow. For an instant he thought he'd run into a squad of the Imperial Army. Then he saw their ragged coats and frayed fur-lined hats and knew they were Bolsheviks like himself, and they'd shot the White Russian.

  "Comrades," he called out as he stood up. The soldiers turned and raised their weapons. "That man was my prisoner."

  A sergeant approached him. "Who are you?"

  Vadim identified himself.

  "What's, a courier doing with a prisoner?" the sergeant asked suspiciously.

  "I was bringing him to the command post. He was carrying documents to the czar."

  "What documents?" the sergeant growled.

  Vadim adjusted the leather pouch he carried on his shoulder. "I have them here," he answered in an authoritative tone. "I need to get to the command post immediately."

  "Shioosayu. I am listening," the sergeant said in a stern voice.

  Vadim knew he was supposed to give him the password, but so much had happened today that the word slipped his mind for a moment.

  "Mir," he finally said, relieved that he had recalled the simple word, which meant village, peace, the world or universe, depending on the context.

  The sergeant eyed the satchel a moment, then motioned him to follow.

  When they reached the road, Vadim mounted his steed, and accompanied by the sergeant, he continued down the lane. Not more than a mile from where the White Russian had escaped, they turned down a winding drive that ended at a gate where more soldiers waited. The sergeant said something to one of the guards, who looked closely at Vadim, then nodded.

  They dismounted and headed along a snow-covered walkway that was scored with boot prints. At the end of the path stood a three-story stone mansion. Smoke curled from a pair of chimneys and soldiers were moving about the grounds. It amazed Vadim that even though they were barely a dozen miles from Petrograd and the czar's palace, the command was firmly ensconced in a baronial estate whose owner had fled from the approaching revolutionary troops.

  At the door, there was another exchange with two more guards and they were escorted into an expansive foyer where a fire burned in a huge hearth. Vadim brushed traces of snow from his coat as the sergeant conferred with a captain near the double doors of the mansion's great hall. For an instant, Vadim glimpsed several officers seated around a table. They were probably planning the attack on Petrograd, he thought. The captain, a tall man with a long face, looked over at Vadim, then took the leather pouch and told him and the sergeant to wait.

  "What's in the bag? You can tell me now," the sergeant said.

  Vadim knew it would be dangerous to reveal anything to the sergeant. "It's not your business."

  The White Russian Army had made a great discovery in Turkey, almost great enough to reaffirm his faith. But he was a Bolshevik and he knew that religion was an oppressive force. Maybe there was a God, but it didn't matter. The revolution was going to abolish the wealthy bishops and shut down the churches. Religion, after all, had become nothing more than a conspiracy to keep the proletariat in order.

  After Vadim had waited about forty-five minutes, the captain returned and asked the sergeant if he'd looked at the documents that Vadim had carried, or if Vadim had told him anything about them. He shook his head and the captain dismissed him. The sergeant gave Vadim a sour look and walked away.

  He was probably hoping he would get credit for my work, Vadim thought.

  "Come with me," the captain said.

  Vadim followed him down a hall and into a library with walls rising fifteen feet and covered with books. A fire crackled in an immense fireplace. In front of it was an ornate mahogany desk with gold inlaid trim. The high-backed chair behind it was turned toward the fire. As they approached the desk the captain cleared his throat. The chair swiveled about. Seated in front of him was a man with a thick handlebar mustache and penetrating dark eyes. The commander of the revolution. Trotsky.

  In his hands were the photographs and the accompanying documents. "Sergeant Popov."

  "Yes, sir." Vadim stiffly saluted him.

  "Tell me how you came upon this material."

  Vadim remained standing as he told his story. He embellished it, making the endeavor sound more daring, and he didn't say a word about Uri's help. He said that after he'd discovered he was sharing the inn with an officer from the Imperial Army, he'd snuck into his room and found the document. Then, while he had been examining it, the White Russian had walked into the room and they'd struggled until he'd overcome the man.

  "Excellent work, Sergeant Popov. Has anyone else seen these documents?"

  "Just myself." Uri better keep his mouth shut if he knows what's good for him, Vadim thought.

  "Did you tell anyone about them?"

  "No."

  "And do you know what these photos are supposed to be?"

  "Yes, sir. Noah's Ark on Mount Ararat."

  "Do you believe it?"

  Vadim stared straight ahead. He wasn't sure what to say. The question of authenticity had never occurred to him; he wanted the photos to be real. He wanted the discovery to be important. "I think they are what they're said to be. Yes, sir."

  Trotsky nodded. "You've intercepted an extremely important document, and I congratulate you. However, it's unfortunate that you've seen the documents and believe so strongly in them."

  He realized he'd said something wrong. The warmth had vanished from Trotsky's face. His eyes turned dark and cold. "Well, sir... I believe in the revolution. That's what I believe in."

  Trotsky wasn't paying any attention. His eyes shifted toward the captain, and he gave a slight nod.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Vadim saw the gun. He turned, held up his hand. The captain fired and the bullet ripped through Vadim's palm, pierced his eye, and buried itself deep inside his brain. He took a staggering step backward, shuddered, and collapsed.

  1

  Celtic Trappings

  Spring 1927

  London

  On the blackboard of the classroom were two vertical lines with bars and curls and rectangles drawn at various intervals, some on the left side of the line, some on the right. The young archaeology instructor, Professor Jones, pointed at the board with his wooden marker. He was in the midst of a lecture on Celtic ogham to the fifteen students in his class. Some of the students looked bored; others were enthralled, busily taking notes. A couple of the women in the front row were passing a piece of paper back and forth and grinning slyly.

  The professor's full name was Henry Jones, but he preferred to be called Indy. He had just finished discussing the five letters, with bars extending from the right side of the vertical line and now tapped the marker against the letter designated by one bar protruding from the left side of the line. "Huathe is the name for the letter H. It was represented by the hawthorn tree. To the Celts, it meant cleansing and protection, and it was associated with a period of waiting in which one kept himself or herself away from the hustle and bustle."

  Indy could relate to the letter. He felt the same way about himself. He'd felt that way since returning to London last summer after losing the most important person in his life.

  He moved down to the letter with three bars extending from the left of the vertical line. "The letter T is called tinne. It's symbolized by the evergreen holly. It signifies the will and ability to overcome enemies no matter how powerful. The ancient name for holly is Holm and is considered the likely source of the name for Holmsdale in Surrey. It might even be the inspiration for Arthur Conan Doyle's fictional character Sherlock Holmes. As we k
now, Holmes did quite well in combating his enemies."

  He turned to the board. "The letter C is coll, which—"

  "Professor Jones?" A man with a crew cut and a pencil behind his ear raised his hand. "You forgot the letter D, the one with two bars. You skipped right over it."

  Indy tugged at the lapel of his coat and peered through his black, wire-rim glasses at the D, duir, the oak, which meant solidity and fortification. There was something about it that he wasn't remembering, or didn't want to remember.

  He turned away from the blackboard. "You know, the interesting thing about the ogham alphabet is not only that the letters contain complex meanings, but that each one can be represented by a hand gesture. In fact, the language was used as a secret way of communicating in the presence of others—for example, the Romans—who would have no idea what was being said."

  Indy glanced toward the two women in the front row. "It saved paper, too."

  The class laughed, and it seemed that even the skulls in the cabinets with the pottery shards were grinning at the professor's joke. The two women turned red and tried to look attentive.

  "Didn't that annoy the Romans when the Celts made these hand gestures?" a man sitting in the second row asked.

  "It sure did. No one likes being talked about behind his back, especially when he's standing right there."

  Indy frowned at the two women again, who wriggled uneasily in their seats. When he'd begun his teaching career, he had been amused by some of the female students' reaction to him. They apparently expected archaeology professors to be human antiques, not young and virile. But this past year he'd only been annoyed by his flirtatious students. He definitely didn't want to get involved with any of them. He was still hurting from the loss of Deirdre, the love of his life, who had died just weeks after he'd married her.