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

that the military had attacked Pearl Harbor, and time was running out . . .
    His mission must succeed. The war itself might hinge on it.
    To the navy, Yamada was but a code name, and their role was simply to pass messages back and forth. To them, he was a colonel. In truth, he worked for an organization known only as Himitsu, a spy group so secret that almost nobody in the military even knew it existed. And his goal here was critical. The Germans—albeit that they were allies in this war—could not be allowed to collect what Yamada had been sent here to find and obtain for the empire. If he failed, it was unlikely he would even be allowed to commit seppuku, so great would the shame be. To the grandson of one of the last samurai to carry two swords in the service of the shogun, an honorable death was much preferable to dishonor. Always.
    But such worrisome thoughts were not necessary now. He had been on this island for only a short time, a few weeks, disguised as a Chinese scholar. It was amusing—the locals could not tell the differences among those from the Orient, and since he spoke Mandarin, Wu, and even a bit of Cantonese, how would they know? If a man has epicanthal folds and he speaks Chinese? Well, then, he must be Chinese . . .
    He had gathered much information during his stay. The prize was not far off, and he would reach it before Gruber, a barbarian if a decent enough scientist. Honor demanded it.

FOUR
    “U H-OH ,” I NDY SAID .
    “What?”
    Indy inclined his head slightly. “Move! We need to get behind that bush. Slow and easy.”
    Mac complied, then asked, “Something?”
    “There’s a guy over there, next to the shoeshine stand, front of the hotel. Tall, reddish hair, Panama hat.”
    “I saw him.”
    “I know him. That’s Joe Edmonds. He was army intelligence, moved over to the OSS—or he had when I met him in DC a few months after Pearl.”
    “So, a colleague. What’s the problem?”
    “I’m supposed to be going home for a six-week furlough, remember? Not running around Haiti looking for an ancient black pearl. The boys upstairs might not like it if they found out.”
    “Bosh. You worry too much.”
    “Plus, we don’t need to be getting tangled up in whatever he’s doing here. If he’s working in the field, his superiors might decide that he needs help. Mine. And yours.”
    Mac frowned at that. “Oh, that won’t do, that would put a crimp in our plans. Perhaps it is best if we avoid your former colleague.”
    “What did I just say?”
    As they made their way elsewhere from the shoeshine stand, a small boy, shirtless and barefoot, maybe ten, came running up. “Monsieur Mac.”
    Mac looked at the boy.
    “Follow me, s’il vous plaît.”
    Indy gave Mac a raised eyebrow. “Your agents are getting a little young, aren’t they?”
    “Good help is ageless.” To the boy he said in French, “Lead on, young sir.”
    Following the boy along a twisty path that led past market stalls, past tiled walls, and through a warren of back alleys, the pair moved farther from the bustle of the city and into a more residential area, with small houses jammed close together. Indy had a pretty well-developed sense of direction, but if it weren’t for the sun, he would have gotten totally lost.
    They arrived at an unremarkable whitewashed house surrounded by a short picket fence. The boy stopped and pointed. “Mademoiselle Arnoux’s.”
    “Good lad,” Mac said. He fished a handful of coins from his pocket and handed them to the boy.
    “Merci!” The boy ran off.
    “Old girlfriend?”
    “Not at all. Never met. But that toothless woman at the fruit market mentioned that Mademoiselle Arnoux was the person to see if we wanted to travel to the Isle de Mort. I asked her to send a boy to set it up.”
    “Island of the Dead? I was hoping to avoid that for a few years,” Indy said with a grin.
    “Your humor skills are deteriorating, old sod. You need to work on them. How is your Creole?”
    “I can