Indiana Jones and the Army of the Dead Read Free

most of the party’s goals—there needed to be a German Reich ruling the world, and keeping the race pure was necessary. So many mongrels—all you had to do was look around, wherever you happened to be. First, they would clean up the Fatherland, then the rest of the world . . .
    Of course, after the war was over and the Third Reich ran things, a man who had the Führer’s favor? Well, such a man would do very well indeed. At least he wasn’t off at the Russian front patching up wounded. If there still was a Russian front . . .
    He looked up to see Henri approaching, a fat glass tumbler of amber-colored rum in hand. Henri was a local, and his loyalty was not to the Reich but to money; since Gruber had enough of that to spread around, Henri’s loyalty was his, at least as long as he continued to pay him well. The rum he could smell from ten feet away. The vile stuff was strong enough to etch the plate on a battleship.
    “Henri.”
    “Monsieur.”
    They spoke French, since that was the local language. Haiti was aligned with the Allies and not the Axis, and Gruber’s cover was that he was a Dutch businessman here to facilitate export of sisal and assorted spices. Few, if any, of the savages on this island could tell the difference between a Dutch and German accent, and he spoke perfect if somewhat idiomatic Dutch, since his grandfather had often used that tongue at home, having taken a Flemish wife.
    “What do you have for me today?”
    “Two men, English or Americans, arrived in the city by the bus from Saint-Marc this afternoon.”
    Ah. More spies, perhaps. “Do they have names?”
    “The bus driver allows them to be ‘Jones’ and ‘Mac.’ ”
    Gruber smiled. Obviously fake, those names. “And why do they concern me?”
    “Word on the street is that they are looking for a guide to take them to Zile Muri-yo.”
    That got his attention fully. Somebody else heading for the Island of the Dead? A coincidence? Unlikely. This needed more exploration. The formula Gruber sought was there, somewhere, and he did not believe these two just happened to be looking for something else on the same island . . .
    “Monitor them. Find out who they talk to, what they want.”
    “Oui.” Henri paused to sip at his drink. “There is one other thing, monsieur. These men have come to the attention of other people. Including the—ah—Chinese scholar.”
    Gruber frowned, swallowing the curse he wanted to utter. It would be in German, and somebody might recognize that.
    The man in question was no more Chinese than Henri here, though it was true that they did all look alike, the little Orientals. Chinese, Japanese, Korean, as matching as peas in a pod. This “scholar” was Dr. Yamada Hajime, a scientist like himself, respectable enough, but Japanese and working for the emperor. Nominally, they were on the same side, but in this instance Gruber was certain the Nipponese had come here seeking the same thing as he, and he did not intend to share it, once it was found. Of course, finding it was problematic in itself, but one step at a time . . .
    This was not particularly good news, but he couldn’t let Henri know how important it was. Knowledge was power, and a smart man never gave power away. He affected a lack of interest. “Well. No matter, the Chinese. But keep me apprised.”
    “Oui.” Henri upended his tumbler and drained the last of the rum. About 160-proof, Gruber had determined. Light a match to it, it would burn with a pure, blue flame . . .
    Jones and Mac, whoever they were, would bear more scrutiny. And not just from Henri. Gruber had other agents, and he tried to keep one set from knowing what the others were about.
    Trusting anyone outside oneself was dangerous.
    In his library at a large rented villa south of the main part of the city, just off the Dessalines and close to the bay, Yamada Hajime sat in a wicker chair. The breeze had picked up, and the wicker allowed it to reach more of him. He nodded at the man, who