Marcus Brody; 3TU

Marcus Brody; Threat To The Union (“3TU”)

Ever wonder what Marcus Brody was up to while Indiana Jones searched for the lost Ark of the Covenant? Wondering around lost in his own museum? Well, not exactly. Here’s the scoop. . . .

New York, New York 1936

Chapter 1

The telephone call from J.P. Morgan Junior’s personal secretary woke the manager of the Union Preservation Club. Earlier that evening, a sharp September chill had prompted the Manager to break out his overcoat for the first time of the season – and as his slow mid-week shift idled along, the coat’s warmth had caused him to drift. He shook himself awake and took down a message. He then crossed the Club’s elegant but empty lobby to the twin curved stairs with a bit of extra zip. Even though famous athletes, the wealthy elite and other notables passed by his desk daily, near contact with the raw power represented by J.P. Morgan Jr., never failed to make the manager feel a little more important, a little bit more alive.

As he climbed the steps he sharpened the crease on the folded message card. He then passed through a vaulted hall that served as the Club’s Trophy Room. The Hall’s massive chandelier was dark but lights in the museum-like display cases illuminated the Club’s impressive cache of campaign flags, trophies and exotic tokens of competition and war. The Trophy Room gave way to the Club’s main reading room. The fire had burned down to embers in the massive low hearth that was easily twenty feet wide and five feet high. The vast room was empty, except for a solitary old figure that sat in a corner chair with a book cracked open on the blanket draped over the man’s legs. The Manager turned out of the reading room and into the library. There, standing in front of one of the library’s large reading tables, stood Marcus Brody. Despite the chill Marcus stood jacketless with his cuff’s turned up. Spread across the table was a large map, sheets of crumbled correspondence and several professional journals. Lost in thought, Brody stared down at the assemblage on the table and tapped his pencil against a small light brown leather notebook he held in the palm of his hand. Under his breath, Marcus Brody mused, “Abner you old fox. Where are you?”

The Manager stood silent and patient across the table but when Marcus failed to acknowledge his presence, he cleared his throat in a considerate manner that he had perfected over the years. “Dr. Brody? I’m sorry to interrupt but I still haven’t heard from Miss Greene but I’ve heard from Mr. Morgan’s office. It seems Mr. Morgan may be too busy to meet you here at the Club tomorrow. Instead, you’ll likely have to go to his library or even down to 14 Wall Street.”

“Did he say which?”

“No sir.” The Manager passed the message card to Marcus. “His office will call when Mr. Morgan’s day comes more into focus.”

“Thank you Mr. Dobbs.”

“My pleasure sir.”

As the Manager walked away, Marcus took note of the late hour and sighed. He collected his things and headed toward the elevator.

“You must be an important man to be eating with Jack Morgan.”

Startled, Brody stopped and looked around. Finally he saw the faint light from a cigar in one of the corner chairs. Tired but willing to chat after a lonely evening, Marcus approached the old man in the corner.

“Important? Hardly. The Museum that employs me benefits greatly from Mr. Morgan’s largesse.” Marcus stopped and then added wryly. “Actually I’m here in New York to ask him a favor.”

The old man snorted. “Anyone in a position to ask a favor of Jack Morgan must really be an important man.” To save Brody from embarrassment – or need to engage in more self-effacement – the old man continued, “You’re British. Did you fight in the War?”

Brody nodded. “Yes, for part of the War I was the British liaison officer to the First American Infantry.”

The old man pondered the information as he smoked his cigar. “So you saw some serious action in your day. And you’re a member of the Club?”

“Yes, but I usually frequent the club in Washington.”

“And what do you do for your museum? Are you some sort of scientist?”

Marcus chuckled. “No, I’m curator of the National Museum.”

The old man turned and stared off into the fire’s last dying embers. After an uncomfortably long time he turned back to Brody. “Sir, I need a great favor, and I’m afraid I need it now. It is of no great matter in and of itself but it does carry with it some risk, some danger. I need you to pick up a package and bring it with you to your meeting tomorrow with Mr. Morgan. Give the package to him and he will know what to do with it.”

Puzzled, Marcus looked pleadingly at the old man. “Go where exactly . . .and when?”

“When?” The old man tossed his cigar into the fire. “Now of course. If you leave immediately you can still make the 11:30 local out of Grand Central to take you to Valhalla. Once there, go to the top of the Kensico Dam. I will telephone my man from Bedford and he will meet you on the Dam. He will give you instructions there.”

The old man was dead serious, and Brody, perplexed, chose his words carefully, “I’m sorry to say but this all sounds rather bizarre. Why can’t your man bring this package to Mr. Morgan himself?”

“Because he’s being watched,” stated the old man with a matter-of-factness that surprised Marcus. “But the time is right for him to slip away for a short time. It’s a moonless night, early in the week and its cold. If my man has his wits about him he should be able to make it down to the dam and back to Bedford without being missed. And you,” The old man looked Brody from head to toe. “Are such an outsider that your meeting with Jack will not garner close attention.”

“And the risk you spoke off?”

“There should be no risk assuming my man has his wits about him.” The old man clasped his hands down hard onto his book and looked hard into Brody’s eyes. Despite his gaunt skin and thin white hair, he had a formidable resolve. “Excuse me sir, but that’s a disingenuous response. The danger is old and great. There are forces that since the inception of this country have sought to tear it apart. In addition to my service in the Army, I have had some small role in keeping those forces in check for many years. Now, with the Continent creeping back toward war, I fear those forces are at work again. There is something that must be kept safe or better yet, destroyed. It must be taken to Mr. Morgan and I have not the energy or resources to accomplish that task.”

Marcus Brody looked at the man and then at his watch. He set down his papers and quickly fastened his cufflinks. “Up to Valhalla and back. One package you say?”

The old man nodded gravely. “Speak to no one and when you deliver the package tomorrow to Mr. Morgan just say that are acting on behalf of General Weiser.”

Donning his coat, Marcus extended his hand, “Dr. Marcus Brody, at your service General.”

The old man’s grip was solid. He pulled Brody close. “This is serious business Doctor. Take care and God’s speed. We can talk more in the morning but go now or you’ll miss your train.”

Marcus descended briskly down to the lobby and asked the Manager to have his papers run up to his room. As the Manager helped with Marcus’ overcoat, Marcus asked, “Who is that old man upstairs?”

“General Weiser? He’s some retired Army General. Pretty active in his time, I’ve heard. He keeps to himself but on occasion, I have seen him share a drink with Mr. Morgan.”

“Indeed,” responded Marcus as he put on his fedora and passed out into the night.

PS: I'm doing things a little different for 3TU -- I'm going to give relevant links to historical locales and figures as the story progresses.]

PPS: To newcomers, a related story may be found here:
http://raven.theraider.net/showthread.php?t=7552

hmmmm. interesting Joe, a different direction. Goign to blow up the damn? I think we need to get Frank and Joe to tail the general!

Very cool. Detailed as always and I'm a huge fan of Raiders Marcus.

I can remember when your first proposed this story as one of three potential projects you were considering, asking we denizens of The Raven to vote for which we were most interested in. At the time, I voted for the Jones/Jordan team-up, but having read this strong opening I'm glad you went ahead with this one. You've skillfully set the stage for a classic mystery/espionage tale. I was fully drawn into the intrigue as the chapter progressed. As well, I'm all for Brody receiving the serious treatment that he deserves. I'll be eagerly awaiting further installments.

And one question: Any chance we'll get some further insight into Brody's investigation into Abner's location/activities?

roundshort said:

Go[ing] to blow up the damn?

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The house takes your bet Mr. roundshort.

Deadlock said:

Very cool. Detailed as always and I'm a huge fan of Raiders Marcus.

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This story could be sub-titled Brody's Revenge. If all goes as planned, this story should flesh him out in a fitting homage to the clues about his character that we got in Raiders. Also, there's some things that I want to explore with him being Indy's psuedo (sp?) father. Hopefully it'll be interesting. Lastly, I'm Irish . . . and I give my wife all sorts of grief for being English. So I'm also trying to redeem myself by isolating positive English traits.

Paden said:

And one question: Any chance we'll get some further insight into Brody's investigation into Abner's location/activities?

Click to expand...

I'm hoping that the conflicting demands on Marcus will hopefully ratchet things up.

As I feared when I started part two of Red Line, I've got to know what and where Marcus is and what he's up to tie in with Indy's adventure. That coupled with me not really having the inclination (or time) right now to write and research Part II of Red Line and I've opted to give Marcus his time. Set in the US on mostly familiar ground, 3TU is a lot easier for me to write.

all right there Joe, well it is off to a good start! Lets see what else you have.

Chapter 2

The train to Valhalla was a sad affair. Just a random group of weary office workers headed home, a couple on the wrong end of a few drinks. One passenger was the source of a thin rivulet of urine that ran across the rail car’s floor past Marcus Brody’s feet. Usually, Brody would have moved to the other side of the aisle, but he was preoccupied with plotting out his search for Ravenwood. The lights blinked on and off and stop after stop passed until a sleepy conductor half-heartedly called out “Valhalla” – a sleepy one-road town well north of New York’s commuting neighborhoods. The station’s ticket clerk gave directions up to the Dam. Brody gave his thanks and headed up a wooded path out of town, wondering what had prompted him to quite safe confines in the heart of Manhattan for trudging up a hill through a thick copse of pine in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night.

“I say.” Brody cleared the woods and stepped out on to a two lane road. The road cut through an impressive colonnade that encircled the road in a small formal courtyard space. On the far side, ornate streetlights illuminated the road as it ran out over the Dam’s great expanse. Brody’s footsteps echoed off the columns. As he passed through the protective circle, he read the weather-inspired inscription that ran the around the colonnade.

Marcus passed out on to the dam. The road’s two lanes barely left room for a narrow sidewalk on the dam’s open face. He continued down the road’s centerline and estimated that the dam may be almost half a mile long. It was an incredible granite construction with massive blocks forming a battlement-like waist-high wall to either side. To Brody’s left the Kensico reservoir filled the broad valley and a strong breeze wrinkled its black surface with tiny white swells. To his right was the open Kensico Valley, wooded and serene, punctuated here and there with streetlights from the Bronx River Parkway below.

On the far side Marcus saw a colonnade identical to the one he just passed. Headlights from a car locked on Brody but then the car pulled to the side and the headlights were extinguished. A solitary figure emerged from the drivers seat and headed out across the dam toward Brody. Marcus’ pulse jumped and he picked up his pace.

The approaching figure was a youngish man in his twenties. He had the freckles and red hair of an Irishman but regal high cheekbones and strong chin that, after questing about in his mind, Marcus finally identified as Native American. The young man was hatless and had his hands dug in deep in the pockets of his thin overcoat. The young man gave Marcus a wolfish grin. He turned to lean out on the outer wall, and said “The Hessians are afoot.”

“Hessians?” For the second time that night Marcus was befuddled.

“The General didn’t tell you much, did he?”

Irritated, Marcus pulled himself up. “No, and I have little patience for Tom Foolery. Do you have a package for me or not.”

The young man straightened up as well and got serious. He handed a large, heavy skeleton key to Brody. “I’m sorry but the General must not have been clear. You need to go back to the cemetery, to the old corner. At the top of the hill, there’s an unnamed crypt with a small round walled garden. . . .”

A small truck came roaring up the road from Valhalla. Concerned, the young man put his hand on Brody’s sleeve and studied the vehicle. As it bore down on them, he yanked Brody down and, draping himself over Brody, pushed the startled Curator hard into the cold granite wall. The truck rumbled by and shots from an automatic weapon sputtered around them against the stone. The young man fell to the ground limp. Marcus, unhurt and stunned, focused on the young man’s injuries but knew in an instant that any aid would be in vain. Brody looked up, a hundred yards down the Dam the truck had hung up; the road over the Dam was too narrow to accommodate a three point turn and the truck’s driver ground gears in a vain attempt to get the truck up over the curb to gain the sidewalk’s precious feet needed to complete the turn. Brody turned his attention back to the young man, “Where’s the cemetery!?!”

There was no response, the man was dead. His eyes stared blankly up at the night sky. Brody stood and took off running for his life. Behind him, the Gunman climbed up on the Dam wall and opened up with a wild spray, but Brody was outside of the weapon’s effective range. As Brody ran he was struck with a cold realization. The truck had come from the Valhalla side of the Dam – and not the Bedford side. There was no question that the shooting was intentional – it was as if someone had been shadowing Brody. Marcus stumbled into town and saw a sign for Kensico cemetery. Out of breath but not about to stop, he crossed the tracks. On the far side he started up the western hill toward the cemetery. Behind him he heard the distant rumbling of the truck. Marcus stumbled into the woods.

Crouching low, Marcus edged moved through the trees to get closer to the railroad tracks. To either side of him, there was nothing but woods – on the far side the whole town sat facing the rails. The truck idled down past Valhalla’s dark storefronts. The gunman stood on the truck’s running board with his weapon up against shoulder. He scanned back and forth as the driver slowed to a crawl. A second vehicle, a large touring car came down from the dam. It was stopped in the middle of town and a well- dressed man stepped out of the back seat. Marcus memorized the face and noted that the car had an Illinois plate. When the truck came back, the well-dressed man directed the men to go back and search the woods up by the Dam.

Clutching the heavy old key, Marcus slipped back onto the road and walked more than a mile until he came to the top of the hill and [URL="http://www.kensico.org/”]Kensico Cemetery[/URL]. There, the woods gave way to acre after acre of unspoiled rolling lawns. There was no fence surrounding the grounds and few raised markers. Marcus walked to the entrance where he found an elaborate ornamental entrance gate which abutted an ornamental viewing tower. The gate was locked but all he had to do was walk around the gate and onto the main drive to gain entry. Before him, in a row lay the cemeteries’ few above ground mausoleums. He looked down at his key and studied it. It was cast for an English carpenter lock. None of the tombs were old enough to match the key. The cemetery was too new.

Alone on the darkened train returning to Manhattan, Brody didn’t even try to make sense of the evening’s events. He only knew that he couldn’t afford to get caught up in any local scandal until he found Ravenwood’s location, and he was thankful that he’d been able to slip out of Valhalla without getting mixed up with the police – or worse. Best to give the key to the General and write off the entire episode. Having made a decision, he started to doze off when the conductor called out “Last call for Woodlawn, Fordham Road next.” The train started up, and Marcus looked up out his window. There on a bank was a massive ancient cemetery, the famous Woodlawn Cemetery. On impulse, Marcus pulled down on the emergency brake and brought the train to a screeching halt. He jumped off the train before being confronted by the angry conductor. Despite his aching feet he skipped over the tracks and made his way to the foreboding cemetery.

On a personal note, I really like your use of the cemeteries as a backdrop for the events in this chapter. When I resided in New Orleans, the cemeteries held a certain fascination for me, in terms of the history, architecture, and tradition they represented. The most famous is St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, which is well worth a visit in the company of a knowledgeable guide.

So far, this reads like a skillfully paced detective yarn, and I'm thoroughly enjoying it. Great stuff.

Hmmmm . . .I still think Brody should head over to Bayport and look up Fenton Hardy!

Very clutch. I would like to see Brody played by Kurt Russell, ala Escape from New York. On a side note I have actually been to both the damn and Woodlawn. I don't think you drive across the damn any more due to 9/11

Chapter 3

A high fence led Marcus Brody along the Cemetery’s perimeter, right to the gate. Hands in his pockets he stood there blankly until the night watchman looked up from his paper. Brody made no attempt to speak but met the man’s gaze. Finally, the watchman opened the window to his shack and said, not without sympathy, “No sleep for you tonight?”

Marcus simply nodded his head.

“Tell you what,” said the Watchman, “Go on in. Just don’t be falling asleep like some bum.”

Brody tipped his hat as he passed inside. The grounds were dense and the layout confusing. Old markers from the mid eighteen hundreds were mixed in with newer monuments making it impossible to determine what constituted the ‘old’ corner. By now it was deep in the night; the too silent time past three in the morning. Brody made his way back into the cemetery past mausoleum after mausoleum. He knew that daylight would have revealed the fantastic artistry of the Tiffany glass windows that were the signature characteristic of Woodlawn tombs – but instead he focused his attention on the specific design – a tomb fronted with a circular walled garden. That fact alone meant that he could ignore all the angular Greek and Egyptian styled constructions that dominated the grounds. Finally, as he was working his way back out from the Southwest corner, he spied a promising roofline peeking through a Hemlock cluster. Pay dirt. Brody found a five foot wall that encircled what appeared to be a small garden in front of a tomb of Romanesque design with Celtic accents. Opposite the tomb was a roofed gate dominated by a heavy wooden door with intricate ironwork. It was a tomb out of a fairy tale.

Marcus slid the key in the lock and whispered, “And prove the very truth he most abhorred.”

The key worked the mechanism and Marcus pushed the door in. Inside were several steps down to a pristine small oval lawn that was encircled by a pea gravel path and a squat ring of box hedges that separated the gravel from the grass. The box hedges’ thick scent enhanced the serene effect of the below level sheltered space. At the door of the tomb, Marcus fought down a small thrill when the key was once again successful. Inside the tomb was dark and dry. A single casket-like object occupied the length of the far wall. Marcus scanned the tomb for any telltale markings or inscriptions but found none. With a professional’s resolve Brody crossed to the casket and lifted the heavy stone lid.
Inside there was nothing . . . except what appeared to be a sheet of copper, folded like a large envelope and soldered shut. Marcus moved to the pre-dawn glow at the tomb’s door. Again there were no stamps or other markings. But the key had worked the door and the stakes of this mysterious game – as evidenced by the body Brody had left behind on the Dam – were certainly high. The ‘envelope’ was sealed shut and there was nothing further to be done in Woodlawn Cemetery. Marcus tucked the copper ‘envelope’ into his coat and locked up the tomb. Exhausted, he made his way back to the gatehouse where the kindly guard called for a cab.

As the cab crossed the East River over a hulking drawbridge, Marcus Brody had a change of mind. He tapped the cabby and instructed the driver to head for a diner in Harlem. It was just short of dawn and the city was coming to life. The deep, narrow diner was all orange – everything from the walls to the countertop to the placemats. Despite the cold weather, unpainted ceiling fans worked against the steady heat put off by the establishment’s massive grill. Marcus leaned in against the counter, put in his order and headed to the pay telephone in the rear.

He dropped a nickel into the telephone and waited for an operator. After a delay, he asked, “Union Preservation Club, please.”

“Connecting,” came the operator’s reflexive response.

The call went through and Marcus asked, “General Weiser please.”

“I’m sorry but he’s not available. May I take a message?”

“You don’t understand; this is an urgent matter. You must get the General.”

“I can’t. The General is indisposed. . . . and he will be for some time.”

Marcus caught his breath and nodded. “Dobbs, is that you?”

There was a long pause.

“Dr. Brody? Yes sir, it is. Why don’t you come back to the Club Dr. Brody?” Dobb’s voice sounded silky, flat. “We were worried when you didn’t return last night.”

Marcus Brody wrinkled his brow and stared the receiver. Without replying, he hung up and went back to the counter where a waitress was serving his breakfast – a huge plate of massive strips of crispy bacon, scrambled eggs and toast all served on a heaping bed of corned-beef hash and grits.

Marcus said this thanks and sighed. “I’ve got all kinds of trouble.”

As she walked away, the waitress gave a half chuckle as she ran a pencil behind her ear. “Don’t we all, honey, don’t we all. . . .”

Later, back out on the street, Marcus paused only long enough to get his shoes shined prior to getting a cab down to Miss Belle Da Costa Greene’s East Side apartment. As the cab made its way down Park Avenue, Marcus tried in vain to shake the fatigue from his weary frame. Outside her building he checked his appearance in a window and hit the buzzer to her brownstone. After a couple of minutes, the door was opened by a women both formidable and beautiful in her early fifties. She wore a sheer nightgown and no robe.

Marcus smiled and kissed the women on the cheek. “Belle, how good to see you.”


[Paden, I like cemeteries, let my kids play in them but I've got to say that those New Orleans cemeteries creep me out. Stone's too thin and the bodies are stacked too high. Give me a good New England cemetery any day.]

[And one other thing, I dedicate this chapter to round short. Any guesses as to why?]

Because it was very well written, and . . .

a) crispy bacon, with corned beef hash, Chet Morton would be proud!

b) if you haven't made it with a big blondy waitress . . .

(I am glad the urine trickle wasn't dedicated to me!

It gets more and more interesting by the chapter. I love the pervasive sense that Brody has stumbled onto the machinations of an old, carefully hidden (and potentially malevolent) secret society. High quality work, Joe.

[And I'll agree that N.O. graveyards can be creepy. And dangerous. Word on the street back when I resided there was that it was always best to go with a guide, since the spaces amongst the tombs made for excellent hiding spots for aspiring muggers. Still, there's a lot of history crammed into those tightly arranged crypts. ]

Chapter 4

Belle gave a dry chuckle and pulled away. She headed down the hall leaving Marcus to let himself in. As he tossed his overcoat onto the banister, he admired the ageless librarian’s commanding posterior.

Whether in nearby Central Park or during a buying trip abroad, Belle rode horseback every day. Years of observation had let Marcus to conclude that there was a trinity of sports – swimming, tennis and riding – that best preserved a women’s figure into mid-age. Riding unquestionably was the riskiest of the lot – but Belle had taken the bet and beaten the odds. Despite being in her early fifties, she remained the most sensuous and ravishing women Marcus had ever encountered. And now, walking down the hall, her sheer gown revealed every curve, every surface.

No one in the close-knit world of elite art and book collectors could say if it had been her physical appeal or her unquestioned curatorial eye that had led the senior Morgan to steal Belle away from Princeton twenty years ago. Whatever the reason, Belle instantly installed herself as the head of Morgan’s collecting library, where she worked tirelessly to amass one if not the greatest collection of ancient manuscripts and art. Like the legendary banker – and his now equally legendary son of the same name – Belle was fearless and decisive, as evidenced by her every acquisition, by her every act.

Marcus remembered the story of how she had transformed her stately Eastside residence. The limestone façade had been boarded up; the four story building abandoned by some nameless shipping heir ruined by some forgotten panic -- but she bought it without even taking a walkthrough. As it turned out the building was little more than ruined a shell. Belle wasted no time gutting the interior and setting out to find the best plasterer in the city. As soon as she found him – a short quick-witted Italian who spoke next to no English – she almost lost him. All she wanted was plain white walls with no ornamental detail. Everything had to be smooth, white and square. The plasterer would have none of it – hers wasn’t a job for a craftsman. But then he took up her invitation and toured the building. She had removed the second floor entirely, creating incredible towering rooms on the first floor. The old wooden windows had been replaced with modern steel replacements – windows that didn’t quite match the building’s classic facade but let in a surprising amount of light. At least she had left the perfect Oak floors thought the plasterer. And then he saw it – a masterpiece hung on the wall. A stunning massive metallic bas relief by Jean Dupas. Then the sun had come out fully from behind clouds and passed through the former second floor windows, illuminating beautiful silver nude angels flying gracefully through bronze clouds. It was stunning almost beyond words and the plasterer vowed there on the spot to do the best work of his long and illustrious career for Miss Da Costa Greene.

“You know, Belle, speaking curator to curator, you’ve created an unequaled exhibition space here.”

She stood in the living room pouring a generous Scotch. Morning sun took on an even more golden hue from the perfectly polished oak floor – illuminating Belle in stunning light; it was an image that suddenly struck Marcus as possibly being her ultimate intended effect. She smiled at him as she put the bottle back on a glass table.

“Belle,” Marcus took the glass as she stepped back toward a long low white couch. “It’s only eight in the morning.”

“I realize that – you may be all spit-and-polish Mr. Savile Row but you don’t fool me.” She looked him over from head-to-toe. “You haven’t been to sleep. The drink will warm you up – just don’t tell me that you were out all night club hopping down in the fifties.”

“Good God no,” said Marcus incredulously. “It’s too bizarre to talk about. . . at least not before I have another drink.”

“You know,” said Belle, catching Marcus staring at the Dupas. “I meant to talk to you about Indiana before our meeting with Morgan.”

Marcus took a deep swig. He thought of the study by Dupas that Belle had given to Indiana for his birthday the year before, a beautiful work that now hung over Indy’s living room mantel. He looked up from his empty glass – anticipating a challenge he composed himself – and locked eyes with the ageless librarian.

“Did you try to talk him out of it?” asked Belle.

“Out of what? Going after the Ark?”

Belle nodded.

“Yes. The Ark is likely an object better not found.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. You say the Germans are after it . . . . the Nazis for God’s sake,” Belle folded up her legs on the couch causing her slip to ride high on her still sleek thigh. “The Germans won’t simply step aside and let Indiana take their prize.”

“He’s more than capable of assessing that sort of risk.”

“Don’t be disingenuous – he’d do anything to please you. You’re all he’s got.”

“He knows what he’s doing.”

“Indy failed you in Peru.” Belle leaned forward, manifesting her signature intensity. “Now he’ll take crazy risks to compensate. . . .”

Marcus crossed the room and filled his glass. He hesitated for an instant and then turned to her, drink in hand. “You stand next to him and you only catch the inescapable whiff of the thrill seeker.”

“Please – give me more credit than that,” scoffed Belle. “But some day he will reach a cross roads.”

“I don’t doubt it. And when he does he’ll decide which to go.”

“And until that time – speaking curator to curator – you’ll just keep on using him.” Belle’s eyes flashed challenge and her voice cracked with emotion. “Never appreciating that he’s the prize, not the trinkets he brings home.”

“I’m tired Belle so I’ll let that pass . . . .”

Marcus’s admonishment trailed off. Outside a car had screeched to a halt in front of Greene’s flat. Marcus replaced the bottle and crossed to the window.

Four men emerged from a large black sedan. They gathered around one tall man in a dark suite who kept glancing toward the building. Marcus pulled back and hurried across the room. He grabbed Belle and pulled her from the couch. “Right now we have to go.”

Confused, Belle followed Marcus to the base of the stairs and then pulled away, determined to have her say. Marcus, on the second step, turned back and gave her an imploring look.

“Marcus, evil always loses,” said Belle intensely. “Even if Hitler gets the Ark, somehow, some way, he will be defeated. His men may revolt against the lunacy or Hitler will defeat himself. You know history – evil never prevails.”

Impressed that Belle had pre-empted his most likely line of argument, Marcus almost hesitated. Instead he grabbed his overcoat and the mysterious copper envelope and took Belle’s hand as he continued up the stairs. Halfway up the flight, she pulled away again – visibly angry.

“Marcus, what are you doing. . . .?”

Down in the Hall, a heavy blow crashed against the door. Wide-eyed Belle turned back toward Marcus as a second blow fell against the door. “Who is that?”

“It’s-the-Evil-that-always-loses.”

Nice to see 3TU back! I think Mr. Bull shoudl talk you a this is better than his last effort!

For some reason I couldn't help mentally casting Susan Sarandon in the role of Belle. Solid work as always, Joe. Great closing line.

Paden said:

For some reason I couldn't help mentally casting Susan Sarandon in the role of Belle. Solid work as always, Joe. Great closing line.

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Wow. Susan Sarandon -- Good pick. She has the smarts, moxy and sexuality to be an excellent Belle Greene. One problem. Go back and read the link I gave on Ms. Greene in Chapter 1 -- she was part African-American who, during her life, passed herself off as being of Portuguese ancestry. And in my opinion, this fascinating background (which has yet to be explicitly referenced in 3TU) is key to her character and role in 3TU.

This last chapter in 3TU was very important to me. It represents my first attempt to break new ground and offer something substantial (under a thin veneer of fan-fiction) to the Indiana Jones Universe. I wrote the Red Line story intending it very much be an aid to the various Raiders plotlines -- Red Line is very much a subservient work and hopefully (when its all done) it will make Raiders a deeper and richer adventure. 3TU -- even though it fits right in the middle of the Red Line adventure -- is something a little bit different.

First, as I've said before, I'm trying to give Marcus Brody his due. Not only to show him capable in the field, but to explore some themes that interest me, like the ethics and realities of collecting. This is where the JP Morgan Jr. character comes in -- but not in some bland Walter Donovan private collector sorta way.

Second -- this is where the Belle Greene character comes in. In 3TU I want to -- in some small way -- counter-balance the parental and quasi-parental influences in Indy's life. I've never been happy with Indy having three father figures [(i) Henry Sr. (ii) Abner, and (iii) Marcus]. It is not even a 3-1 father-to-mother ratio because Indy's mother died so young. So Indy's father-to-mother ration is more like 3-to- .5. This seems terribly unbalanced to me. Belle is meant to be the second '.5'. She's the quasi maternal voice that is lacking when Indy goes off raiding tombs. Watching Raiders alone, I think its fair to question Marcus' morality and his facilitation of Indy's more dangerous impulses. In LC, I've always been fascinated by Marcus Brody saying that he'll take two tickets when Indy tells him to call Donovan. In my universe, Marcus isn't taking 'two tickets' because he gives a damn about Henry Senior -- he's taking two tickets because he wants to share the risk with Indiana. If anyone here gives a damn/hoot, you can go ahead and make your own choice. I much prefer my version.

Third -- and this is beyond the Indiana Jones universe entirely -- I outlined the 3TU storyline around the time National Treasure came out. My huge expectations for that film weren't met. This story is my response. Hopefully the main storyline -- which is grounded in Early American history is going to be pretty cool and compelling.

temple of john said:

When does Brody's boyfriend come into the story???

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Have no fear, I'm keeping Marcus straight -- and away from too young female co-eds.

Maybe this is more in line with your interests.

I don't know I always thought he eye'd Indy up a bit too much for my liking . . .

Temp, do you think Nads and Marcus . . .