Author's note: This is a really long story, and a long time in the making; 12 years in fact. It wasn't intended to be that way. I started this story in 2004. Chapters 1 through 47 were written in 2004. It was my first attempt at a novel, and all of a sudden at Chapter 47 I realized that I hated it. I thought it totally sucked, and so I put it on a shelf. Besides, I had another idea for an Indiana Jones story, and that turned into "Indiana Jones and the Gypsy's Kiss", which was published on this site in 2004. I did no writing at all for the next 12 years. Don't ask why…it's a long story (pardon the really bad pun). But in late 2016 things had changed for me, and I decided that I wanted to try and make a real effort to be a writer again. I wanted to write my own fiction, and not fan fiction, however in order to kick start myself back into the game I decided to take on the challenge of trying to actually finish my earlier aborted attempt at a novel…this one. Over a period of two months, December 2016 – January 2017 I completed it. I re-wrote Chapter 47, and then 30 more chapters to produce this novel. If you get that far you will probably notice the style difference. I think my later chapters are much better.

By the way, feel free to skip over Part 1 (Chapters 1 through 8) if you'd like. It doesn't really have anything to do with the rest of the story; I was simply trying to follow the Indiana Jones movie formula, where the movie usually starts off with a little mini-adventure that doesn't have anything to do with the rest of the movie. So yeah, feel free to start at Chapter 9, that's where the story actually starts. But if you're a die-hard Indiana Jones fan you can read Part 1 as a separate little Indiana Jones novelette. It's klunky, but kind of fun. Either way, I thank you very much for reading. Enjoy.

PART 1: PRELUDE IN THE DESERT

Chapter 1

Khartoum, Sudan 1937

Indiana Jones slowly raised his weapon. He moved carefully so as not to alarm the intended target. In the course of killing his first four victims he'd somewhat perfected the technique, and resisted the urge to strike prematurely. The trick, he'd discovered, was to position the weapon at just the right distance, and at just the right angle, before striking the deadly blow.

Suddenly, victim to be number five cocked his head, as if listening, before taking a few hesitant steps towards Jones. The archaeologist froze, remained motionless, and waited. He had the angle, he just needed the unwary prey to take a few more steps and he'd have the distance.

"Come on, keep coming," he silently mouthed the words.

As if in response to the coaxing words, the hapless victim moved his hairy legs and took the last few steps of his miserable life.

Jones struck with deadly accuracy. In one smooth motion of his arm he brought the size ten leather soled boot down in an exoskeleton crushing hammer blow. Number five never knew what hit him. What a fraction of a second before had been a cockroach nearly the size of a man's fist, was now a flattened out pile of bug guts and debris. The sound of the impact sent potential victims number six, seven, and eight scurrying back between the cracks in the boards of his 'bed'. If that's what you could call the loosely attached, splinter ridden group of wooden slats arranged on a 2 foot by 5 foot concrete frame in the corner of the jail cell. It stank of stale urine, and god knows what else; and of course served as home and hearth to his many six legged cellmates. Jones preferred the floor.

"At least you get to leave," he mumbled as he grasped hold of the tip of one of the roach's three inch long antennae between the finger and thumb of one hand. He used the tip of his boot, which he held in the other, to scrape up the gory remains of number five off of the hard stone floor. Gingerly carrying the pan-caked carcass the four steps to the small window in the back of the cell, he tossed it out between the bars to the ground some twenty feet below.

Bright sunlight streamed in between the bars and gaily splashed about in the otherwise gloomy cell. Better enjoy it, he thought, by afternoon it would get dark again, and the advantage would go back to the roaches.

He tried to moisten his parched, cracked lips. He felt along his upper lip with his tongue to the tender spot where it had been split open yesterday; part of the four-star welcome he'd received while being brought to his current accommodations.

He raised his tired eyes up over the concrete sill of the window and gazed out at the sand washed buildings of Khartoum, Sudan. Off in the distance the forlorn wailing of a muezzin could be heard calling the Muslim faithful to prayer. The extreme heat of the oppressive mid day air had an enhancing effect on the notes, lending a ghostly quality to the voice as it echoed through the city.

In his mind he again calculated, as he had countless times in the past twenty-four hours, how long it would take for his letter to reach Marcus Brody. And then how long it would take for Marcus to get him the hell out of this roach infested, piss hole of a prison. He'd wanted to send a cable, but of course that had been out of the question. He'd been lucky just to get the letter off.

And then what about Jock? …where was he? …And in what kind of condition? They were brought in together and Jones' pilot had received the same warm welcome as he had, before they were separated.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of keys jangling in the ancient lock of the cell door. A few seconds later the door was unceremoniously thrown open and two brutes rushed in. They were both dark skinned Nubians, probably jailhouse trustees from the looks of them, he thought. The first had his head shaved and his ugly, irregular scalp, as well as his face, was covered with scars; no doubt accumulated throughout a life of crime and violence. The second by contrast had a head full of wild, bushy hair. What bothered Jones was the even wilder look in his eyes. Whatever they had in store for him it couldn't be good.

As they approached Jones he raised his fists up to defend himself. But rather than strike any blows the two trustees instead quickly grabbed his arms and bent them behind his back, holding him in a vice like grip.

"Take it easy now boys, what can I do for you?" He winced as the two goons torqued on his already twisted arms. Looking up, Jones saw one of the prison guards entering the cell. He quickly recognized him as the one who'd given him the split lip yesterday.

Oh, so this is where the fun starts again, eh?" Jones said with dark sarcasm. "And we haven't even properly introduced ourselves."

Emil Ali Ajca stopped a few feet in front of Indiana Jones. He gave a lopsided grin with a mouthful of brown teeth as he set his 1903 Enfield rifle against the wall.

"Look, just tell these stooges to let me go," Jones spoke in a casual manner as his eyes wandered to the leaning rifle. "We'll shake hands and I'll forget all about yesterday, what do you say pal?"

Ali Ajca took a couple of steps toward him. His expression changed suddenly and he shouted something harsh in Arabic. His stinking breath hit Jones like a freight train and was enough to make him gag. But he knew enough Arabic to know what 'shut up' sounded like.

The ugly half-wit smile returned to the guard's face just before he brought his fist up in a hard blow to Jones' solar plexus that drove the air from his lungs. The archaeologist doubled over in pain and nearly vomited. Before he could catch his breath however, the two goons wrenched him back up and Ali Ajca delivered a second blow to his gut. The cell swam before his eyes and he nearly lost consciousness. His arms were let go and he crumpled to the ground in a coughing choking heap.

"Don't worry Doctor Jones, you'll have plenty of time to get to know Emil, and the other …how shall we say …friendly guards here," the voice belonged to a slightly built, effeminate looking Englishman who now entered the already crowded cell.

"DeVries …you bastard!" Indy gasped as he tried to focus his eyes.

"Now, now Doctor Jones, you know how I hate profanity. But then you always were a rather vulgar chap, weren't you, yes," Percival DeVries casually withdrew a silver case from the breast pocket of his silk jacket, took out a cigarette and inserted the end into a long ivory cigarette holder.

"You set me up you son of a bitch!"

"Now there you go again Jones," DeVries spoke condescendingly. "We must not forget our manners," he glanced around the cell, a look of disgust on his face. "No matter where we may find ourselves."

He lit the cigarette and took a puff, letting the smoke slowly out of his mouth before inhaling it back up into his nostrils. He inhaled deeply and then blew the smoke out as if in a hurry.

"Really Jones you truly are such a bore."

As Indiana Jones slowly started to stand up, the guard Ali Ajca picked up his rifle from where it leaned and kept it trained on the archaeologist's chest.

"So…you managed to get away free and clear…" even as he coughed and struggled to regain his breath Indiana Jones' eyes drove a penetrating stare into those of DeVries. "Free and clear…after the scandal at the Cairo Museum, the stolen pieces, your illicit deals with Mueller and Santos, and the forgeries. At least they had the good sense to fire you. But not only does your daddy's well placed connections keep you out of prison, where you belong, but he sets you up with a new job here in the Sudan."

"The 'Scandal', as you refer to it Jones, was all a misunderstanding that got blown out of proportion. Besides, the Bureau of Antiquities here needed a man of my talents."

"What talents? Grave robbing?!"

"That's enough Jones."

"I guess the pickings are a little slimmer this far up the Nile though, eh Percy?"

"I said that's enough!" DeVries averted his eyes from Indiana Jones' icy stare for a moment and he looked down at the floor. His eyes shifted about nervously.

"Less chance to embarrass daddy way up here I guess; out of sight, out of mind."

"I said shut up Jones!" DeVries gave a quick motion with his head towards Indy, and Ali Ajca responded immediately to the cue. The two goons grabbed his arms once again and pinned them behind his back. The guard then raised the butt of his rifle and brought it down hard on the side of Jones' face. Blood flowed freely from a gash over his cheekbone.

His eyes flashed murderous fire at the guard.

"If it is the last thing I do before I leave this place," he took deep breaths between words. "I'm gonna settle the score between you and me pal."

Such was the look of defiant hatred in Jones' eyes that a look of fear temporarily crossed the face of the half-wit and he took a few hesitant steps back before once again aiming his rifle at the archaeologist's chest.

"Oh, don't worry," DeVries' smug, condescending tone now returned. "You and Emil here will get to know each other quite well I'm sure," he delicately flicked the ashes of his cigarette on the floor next to the remains of a dead cockroach.

"There are certain of the Arab men who have a saying Doctor Jones, and it goes something like: …Women are for babies, men are for…well, you get the idea."

He glanced over at the Arab guard. "Isn't that right Emil?"

The stupid grin returned to the guard's face, accompanied by an imbecilic laughter.

"I guess you'd know DeVries," Jones shot back, causing a momentary look of embarrassment on the Englishman's face.

"Look Jones I'd like to just chat away all day but let's just get right down to it. You've got something that I want."

Another figure now entered the cell, a fat, mustached Arab. He wore the same flowing white robe and white turban as the guard, the only difference being the red sash he wore around his ample waist, a mark of superior rank, and his side arm, a Luger Pistole '08. With a word and a quick clap of his hands he dismissed the two goons from the cell, heads bowed as they passed on the way out.

"Ah, Doctor Jones may I introduce Mr. Mustafa El Jubayl, your distinguished host here."

The fat Arab regarded Jones with a look of contempt.

"I'm sure he'll do his best to make your…long stay here as comfortable as possible."

"You've got nothing to hold me on DeVries and you know it. This was a set up. As soon as Marcus Brody gets my letter…"

DeVries cut him off in mid sentence. "You mean this letter?" He held up Indy's letter to Marcus in his hand.

Jones looked up at the letter and a look of exasperation, exhaustion, and for the first time real fear crossed his tanned countenance. "You're a criminal DeVries!"

"You are the one in the jail cell Doctor Jones," DeVries dropped the smug tone and his beady eyes narrowed. "Look, your trial is set for tomorrow."

"Trial for what?" Indy's tone was defiant.

"For illegal looting and smuggling of artifacts rightfully belonging to the people of the British Protectorate of Sudan; for desecrating the tombs of their ancestors. Need I go on?"

"You know damn well that was a government approved dig, and I've got the papers to prove it! There was nothing illegal about it. Those pieces were already signed for by the British Museum."

"Your sentence has already been determined!"

"Sentence?" Jones was incredulous.

DeVries daintily plucked the remains of his burning cigarette from its holder and ground it out with the heel of his shoe. "That's right," he stared into his eyes to get the full reaction to the weight of his words. "Thirty years."

Indiana Jones was staggered by what DeVries said. He took a deep breath and a step back. "Thirty years?! You're insane!"

DeVries started laughing. "Oh no, I'm not Doctor Jones, but you will be, after thirty years in this place."

He lunged at the laughing Englishman, but was quickly met by the barrel of a 1903 Enfield rifle jammed into his ribs.

"You really are a glutton for punishment, aren't you?" Devries took out another cigarette from his case and placed it in the ivory holder. "Now just listen to what I've got to say. You've already wasted more of my time than you're worth," He flipped open a gold plated lighter and lit the cigarette, took a deep puff, and blew the smoke deliberately towards him. "You remember Jones that I gave you a chance to work for me before. You could have been very useful."

"You're a pot hunter DeVries, I'm an archaeologist."

"Oh come on Doctor Jones, you're as much of a 'pot hunter', or 'grave robber', as you call it, as I am."

"No DeVries, you're wrong. My pieces go to a museum where they belong. Archaeology is about knowledge, it's not about…"

"Oh save it Jones!" Devries cut him off. "Save it for the classroom. Let's get right to the point. Where is it?"

Where is what?" He stared back defiantly.

"Oh come now Doctor Jones, the secret is out. We know about the very 'special' find you made digging in that Meroitic tomb," the Englishman took another deep drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke up towards the ceiling. "Though what the devil it was doing in a Meroitic tomb, this far up the Nile, I can't for the life of me figure out."

"I don't know what you're talking about DeVries."

The Englishman took on a more angry tone. "I'll tell you what I'm talking about. I'm talking about you spending the next 30 years of your life in this hell hole unless you give me the medallion."

"What medallion?"

"The orichalch medallion."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm talking about orichalch Doctor Jones, the legendary metal of Atlantis, the metal that Critias the Greek described as 'sparkling like fire'. You know what I'm talking about because you found a pendant in the tombs of the Meroe kings, a pendant made of orichalch."

"It doesn't exist DeVries, it's a legend."

"Oh but it does Doctor Jones. In the Sudan the desert has eyes, and those eyes belong to me."

"All of my pieces from the dig were catalogued and signed for by the British Museum," Indy spoke in measured tones. "There was no orichalch, there is no orichalch. It's a legend, just like Atlantis."

"And you've a well known reputation for bringing legends to life Doctor Jones."

"You flatter me DeVries."

"The reports I got were rather extraordinary. Not only did this medallion sparkle like fire, but it also bore the legendary Royal Emblem of Poseidon. Indeed it was neither catalogued, nor signed for, because currently the Sudanese Bureau of Antiquities…" DeVries paused to take a long drag on his cigarette. "In other words Doctor Jones…me…is in possession of the entire Meroitic collection you tried to smuggle out of the country, and that piece is not listed."

"I smuggled nothing DeVries, like I said before…"

"What the devil did you do with it?!" DeVries hand shook as he raised his voice. A small cigarette ash fell on to the sleeve of his immaculate jacket, which for a moment consumed his attention as he frantically brushed it away. "Damn you! I'll have that medallion or you won't ever leave the Sudan alive! It will be worth a fortune, not to mention the fame it will bring to me."

"A chance to clear your bad name Percy?"

"So you admit that you had such a piece eh Jones?"

"I admit nothing. There is no such metal as orichalch, it's a fantasy," he paused, then added "Atlantis is a fantasy."

"Do you really believe that?"

Jones didn't answer.

DeVries dropped the stub of his second cigarette, crushed it out and absently reached for his cigarette case out of habit. "I'll have that orichalch medallion. I'm prepared to have your sentence reduced from 30 year to 10 should you choose to cooperate."

Jones stared defiantly.

"Think Jones, you'll still have somewhat of a life left after that. 10 years is a lot better than 30 eh, what?" He mockingly raised his eyebrows. "Of course you won't leave here quite the…Man you came in as."

DeVries glanced over at the guard before continuing. "Well then, I'll be back. Emil and his associates may pay a visit a little later. You know, to…loosen your tongue; among other things," DeVries started laughing. "Oh, you'll tell me where the medallion is Doctor Jones."

"Go to hell DeVries."

The Englishman continued to laugh as he, the jailer, and the guard exited the cell and slammed the door shut.

"Enjoy your stay Doctor Jones."

Indy sank to the floor of the cell as the footsteps of his tormenters faded down the stone corridor.