Indiana Jones and the Army of the Dead Read Online Free PDF Page B

Nissan, Toyota, or the new Hino truck maker would ever produce vehicles of such quality. It didn’t seem to be in the Japanese nature to do that kind of mechanical work. A pity.
    After the required polite greetings—manners and honor had to be observed, even here—Yamada came to the point.
    “The two gaijin, along with a local woman and man, have headed south on the Pétionville Road.”
    “Ah. As you surmised. The craft will be ready by the time we get to it, Yamada-san.”
    “Excellent, Captain.”
    They set off for the airport. Suzuki had a chartered plane standing by. They would have needed it eventually, and sooner was better than later. Likely their quarry were heading for Marigot or Depòt, on the south coast, or perhaps Jacmel on the river. There were many villages with boats there, and it didn’t really matter which one. Yamada knew where they were going to wind up eventually; the stops in between? Not important to know.
    There were no aircraft landing sites on the Island of Death, as he understood it, but there was a packed-dirt strip along the river at Marigot near the southern Haitian coast that was long enough for a large plane to land. That was where he was going.
    Yamada’s plane would get them there, and a boat from there would put them on Zile Muri-yo long before the two men, whom his man Louis had determined were American and British archaeologists. This confirmed his suspicions. They had come looking for the same thing as he. Well, perhaps not precisely such, but the result would be the same. That they had come meant they either knew where it was or had some way to find it, and the Japanese had learned long ago that if you could follow a bee to its hive, it would save you much work in collecting honey . . .
    When he and Suzuki arrived at the Port-au-Prince airport, the plane, a Boeing 247, was already warming up its twin engines. The craft was loaded, since Yamada had known he would be needing it sooner or later. Plenty of room for his men, since it could easily carry ten passengers, along with a three-man crew and several hundred pounds of supplies. The flight would take only a few minutes, and they would be well ahead of Jones and McHale and their local contact.
    The sword had been drawn, the edge glistened in the hot sunlight, and now it was time to address the cutting . . .
    Gruber said, “And what do you have for me, Henri?”
    The little brown man appeared to consider the question as he sipped from his glass. “Nothing today, monsieur, I am afraid.”
    “Ah, well. So it goes. Listen, Henri, I have left my wallet in my car, behind the market there. Come with me and I shall pay you for this week.”
    “Oui, monsieur.”
    Henri finished his drink and stood.
    The car, bought locally, was an old but well-maintained Ford, parked in the quiet alley behind the market. Nobody was around.
    Gruber double-checked to make certain they were unobserved. He opened the passenger door, reached under the seat, and came out with an American .45 pistol. Of course, he preferred the Luger, which was a much better-made weapon, sleek, perfectly machined, and using the smaller and more elegant 9mm round. Even the Mauser HSc pocket pistol in 7.65mm issued to doctors was much better, but it would not do to be found here with a German sidearm. There was the tiny hideaway single-shot Swiss pistol in his pant pocket, but the Swiss were neutral . . .
    Henri’s senses were not so fogged by the rum that he didn’t know what he saw.
    “Monsieur? What is this?”
    “It’s a Colt, I believe. Very nasty. A real manstopper.” He pointed the gun at Henri.
    “But—why menace me this way?”
    “Because I don’t care for liars. You saw the Chinese scholar today, only a few minutes ago. And yet you did not mention it.”
    “But—but—there was no need! I had nothing to tell him!”
    “I don’t believe you. I am certain you did have something to tell him. I’ve had men watching you, my friend. You are being devious. I