He smiled at her by way of answer. She knew when to quit. Quickly she changed the subject. She directed her gaze to the fifth member of their group. 'Our Frenchman. He seems the exact opposite to Belem.'
Indy glanced at Rene Foulois. 'Oh, he is. Decidedly. He can gain entrance to places just about impossible to the rest of us. Kings, emperors, presidents, dictators, just about anyone and anywhere.'
'I don't know very much about him.'
'He's a pilot. A master aviator. So is Cromwell. And having two pilots, each equally skilled, is insurance.'
She never did learn his true background. Foulois had been a famed fighter pilot in the Great War, responsible for more than forty kills of German aircraft. That made him an ace eight times over, a sensational hero in France. It didn't hurt that he was tall and slender, with a whipline of a mustache, and that he was skilled in the social and diplomatic graces. He was the darling of the international social and diplomatic set. The Foulois family owned huge vineyards; their superb wines went to every corner of the world. Wealth is always a welcome passport, and Foulois was daring, brave, a national hero, wealthy, brilliant, and charming, openly granted
'welcome p a s s p o r t s ' by a dozen governments.
It was all cover, but the cover was real. Which served perfectly to conceal Foulois's position as a special secret agent of the French Foreign Legion, which made all the world his assignment. By longstanding agreement with the national police of many countries, the legion's undercover arm had a 'reach' into almost anywhere in the world. The group spread its tendrils everywhere, operating under the legal and profitable International Wine Consortium, Ltd., with offices in Bordeaux as their headquarters.
To Foulois, the Jones Project, as the special operation became known in high circles, was an amusing diversion from social and diplomatic functions. At heart, Foulois remained the quintessential fighter pilot, seeking action that would keep alive within him the flame of combat and the exhilaration of risk.
He also thought the entire affair was utterly ridiculous. Foulois had been assigned to Indiana Jones by none other then Henri DuFour, head of the French Secret Service. When he described to Foulois the crescentshaped machines and their huge mother ship, Foulois reacted with disdain. He simply did not believe a word of it, no matter what any eyewitness so claimed.
Yet he accepted his subordinate position without hesitation. DuFour had put the case convincingly. 'It does not matter what we believe about these fantastic machines, Rene. What matters is that the war with Germany has been over only twelve years and we are faced with a Hun who is already rearming with a frantic pace.
You are aware of the training program in Russia for the Germans? For their navigators and pilots especially? Good; then you know how serious this may be. We must find out the specifics of what the Hun is doing. That is your task. You will work for this American fellow, and you will proceed as if you believe everything.'
Foulois nodded. 'It promises great sport. I understand they will modify one of their Ford aeroplanes. The trimotored machine. I look forward to flying it.'
In the meantime, isolated in the lonely farmhouse, chafing at the bit, they all wondered what Jones could possibly be doing in Chicago that was so important to keep them on edge all this time.
They would simply have to wait.
4
The burly man wearing a heavy windbreaker and a seaman's cap snugged to his head walked briskly, with the sign of a slight limp, through the Chicago bus terminal. Anyone who saw the man would remember those salient points; the clothing, the cap, the aura of strength, and that slight odd walk tipping him to one side as he threaded through the crowds.
Outside the terminal he stood close to the building, watching lines of people disappearing within a slowly advancing stream of taxicabs. Soon the crowd had thinned, and he turned to walk along the line of taxis. He seemed casual or nonchalant in his movement, but his eyes moved carefully from one cab to the next until he saw the yellowandred markings of the vehicle for which he'd been searching. The seaman stopped, cupped a cigarette lighter between his hands, and pressed a button. No flame appeared, but a tiny bright light flashed rapidly. Almost at once the cab's headlights flicked on and off two times. The seaman slipped the
'lighter' back into a pocket, walked to the cab, and climbed inside. The moment the door closed the driver pulled out into traffic.
'Nice evening, sir,' the driver said, studying his passenger through the rearview mirror.
'Except that the kitchen's too crowded,' came the answer.
'More saucers than cups, I'd say.'
'You prefer your tea hot or cold, sir?'
The passenger smiled to himself. 'I like my coffee black.'
That was the confirming line for Professor Henry Jones to make to the driver.
Now he had his final line to accept from the driver.
'As I do. Pour it into the saucer to cool it off quickly.'
'Excellent,' said Jones.
'Treadwell does overdo this backandforth a bit, doesn't he?' The driver laughed.
'Depends,' Indy said noncommittally. 'You know his routines. I hardly know the man. I didn't get your name,' he added quickly.
'I didn't give it. Suppose you tell me what it is and we can dispense with all this secret palaver.'
'Colonel Harry Henshaw, United States Army. Fighter pilot, test pilot, technical intelligence, experimental projects.'
'Professor Henry Jones. Professor of Medieval Lit and Studies from dear old Princeton,' the driver said. 'How come they don't call you Hoosier instead of Indy?'
Indy laughed. No question now that this was the army officer Treadwell had set up for this meet. 'Most people can't spell Hoosier, I guess.'
