She took her seat and looked about the round table where Indy sat along with a dozen other men. No women, Gale confirmed. This is strictly business for these people, and by their expressions they are confused, angry, or . . . I don't know. But at least now I know why he's dressed deliberately in his own attire. He's setting himself off from the others. Everybody else dressed to the diplomatic and political hilt, starched shirts and squeezing neckties and suits that cost a hundred dollars or more. Everybody but Indy. A beautiful move on his part. Without saying a word he's told them all that he and they exist and live and work in different worlds.
She felt Tarkiz nudging her elbow. They leaned closer to one another.
'Woman,' he whispered in her ear, 'be ready for what you call, uh, skyrockets?'
'Fireworks,' she helped him.
'Yes, yes. I have come to know our Indy. He is on the edge of telling everybody here to, how is it said? To get out of his way. To go away and don't bother him. He is telling them—'
'I get the idea,' she broke in. 'You're right. Let's hold this for later. Looks like the players are ready to deal.'
'Hokay. Just one more thing. Is important.' She motioned for him to go ahead. 'You see fellow with glasses? Blue tie, green shirt? Looks like dumb farmer?
Is big act. Very smart, very dangerous. Head of secret police for Romania.'
Gale looked at the small table placards, those that she could see, that were being set down before each man. Tarkiz was right. The placard before the 'dumb farmer' held the name Pytor Buzau, Romania. She tried to read as many names as she could, then stopped as Colonel Henshaw came by and placed a roster before her. As he passed by he whispered to her, 'Read it quickly and then slide it to your lap and put it away.' She nodded agreement. At the same time she wondered why Henshaw was acting like something out of a fictional spy book. Good grief; all those people knew who they were, and the
nameplates identified everyone else! Well, perhaps there was a reason. She'd look into it later. For the moment she went down the list.
She already knew what lay behind the name of Buzau. Cromwell had already mentioned a face she recognized; he said the face belonged to someone with British Intelligence. Now she connected the name: Thomas Treadwell. She was surprised when she read Filipo Castilano. She not only had seen him, but had spoken with him several times at the University of London, and once or twice at Oxford, on the subject of ancient artifacts. And here he was with his name linked to the Vatican.
How very interesting. . . . Whatever could have persuaded the Italian government to let themselves be represented by the Church!
She continued down the list. Erick Svensen from Sweden. Sam Chen from China. Sam? Well, he probably went to school in the United States or England and wisely adopted a name everyone could pronounce easily. Besides, it lessened the Asiatic imprint enough to make him seem, well, more acceptable. That wasn't the case with the imperial, rigid figure of Yoshiro Matsuda from Japan, right down to his frozen, erect figure and his silk top hat.
Jacques Nungesser from France; ah, yes, he was a cousin of their great fighter ace from the war. She would ask Rene about that one later. George Sabbath from the United States? But there was Indy, and he was an American. She put aside her questions and continued with the list. Vladimar Mikoyan from Russia; Antonio Morillo from Venezuela; Tandi Raigarh from India; Rashid Quahirah from Egypt.
At the bottom was Professor Henry Jones . . . and beneath that a company name—Global TransAir.
They didn't waste any time. A buzzer sounded and the entire room went quiet. Treadwell leaned forward, scanned documents before him, and went directly to the point.
'Gentlemen, you are here because, above all else, you are trustworthy of judging what is best for your government and your country. We are all here for the same purpose. To identify what appears to be the single greatest threat to world peace, on a truly global scale, that we have ever encountered in our lifetimes. You have sufficient background before this meeting, which is the communications nerve center for all of us, to understand that even if we have yet to identify and define our adversary, we are aware of its growing power and danger to us all. Before we reach what is the most contentious aspect of what we have joined together to identify and defeat— which is how it is possible for us to face certain machinery that, by every standard of science and engineering we know, cannot possibly exist—I wish to thank you, one and all, for your support. Not only for financing this operation on an equal per capita basis, but for the magnificent cooperation we have received—'
Filipo Castilano half rose from his seat. Gone was the suave, debonair figure.
'Mister Treadwell, sir, please, do not tell us what we know. I accept on behalf of all of us that we are wonderful people. Get to the heart of the matter!'
Treadwell was unflappable. 'Thank you, Signor. I am grateful to dispense with the diplomatic posturing.'
'Thank God,' someone muttered from the group.
'All right, then.' Abruptly, Treadwell was no longer the flawless epitome of diplomacy. The hard professional beneath emerged as suddenly as a light switched on in a dark room. He pushed aside the papers before him.
'An industrial organization, as powerful politically and financially as it is in trade and industry, has obviously decided that the Great War only twelve years behind us was a warning for the future. They apparently hew to the line that the only way to prevent another global conflict is to have the levels of power—industrial, financial, trade, and military—invested in the hands of only one group. That group is to be so powerful that no nation or group of nations could ever resist its pressure or direct attack.'
'Your words might come almost directly, I would note,' interrupted Japan's Matsudo, 'from the proposals for the League of Nations which, I add quickly, has all the power of a tiger without teeth. Very pretty, but no bite.'
'Point well taken,' Treadwell parried, 'except that at its very worst and most confusing, the League did not kill people en masse, destroy commercial ships and aircraft, and embark on its own murderous means of achieving its goal.'
Matsudo bowed briefly to accept Treadwell's rebuke, leaving the Englishman free to continue. 'This group, which has so far kept absolutely secret the identity of its members, believes in what it is doing. That makes them doubly dangerous, for they are zealots with a new brand of fanaticism.
'I will be blunt. Many of us, if not all, are aware of the rise of new power in Germany. That country is on the upsurge of a new militarism, and for a while we believed that this group, or one of several groups, was behind the attacks from South Africa to the inland Sea of China. But that is not so. Even the best of German engineering has been helpless before this group as it continues on its destructive and, regretfully, successful path.
