Indiana Jones and the Standard of Dishonour

by vomit_bunny

Summary:

Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world he walked into this one... and now he can't leave.

“If you won't tell me where it is, Dr. Jones, I will simply have you taken out and shot.”

Indiana ran his tongue over his split lip and grinned. “Not a chance, Schmidt.”

"You disappoint me,” Schmidt sighed, signalling to the guards standing at the door.

“I'll see you in hell, Schmidt,” Indiana promised as they hauled him from the chair, despite his struggling, and pulled him towards the door. “I'll see you in hell!”

“Goodbye, Dr. Jones, we won't meet again.”

Outside in the crisp winter air Indiana let the two guards, who had at least ten years and a good night's sleep on him, lead him out through the small courtyard to the road that ran behind the rambling farm buildings. They stopped, pushing him between the shoulder blades roughly enough to knock him to his knees and send his hat tumbling to the frozen ground.

Indiana took a deep breath and looked down into the the ditch that they no doubt intended to be his final resting place. “Hey,” he began, turning as he tried to stand, shackled hands raised placatingly. “Hey, don't I get a last cigarette, at least?” He smiled hopefully. "Zigarette? Bitte.”

The guards looked at each and shrugged.

“Eine Zigarette bitte,“ Indiana entreated.

“Ja,” one of the said at last “Okay,” he added, the barrel of his gun dropping slightly as he spoke.

“Okay,” Indiana repeated with relief. “Okay.” He paused, smiling widely, then gestured helplessly with cuffed hands at his pocket and nodded hopefully at the closer of the two guards.

Indiana smiled and shifted his arms up and out of the way as the young man rolled his eyes and stepped forward to help. He glanced at the other guard who stood distractedly blowing on his hands and stamping his feet to ward off the cold as his friend reached into Indiana's jacket pocket.

“Wo sind,” the guard -having found nothing in the first pocket, or the second- began.

Indiana swung his arms down, his bound hands acting like a club against the the man's neck, knocking him out cold. Before the other guard could react Indiana barrelled into him, catching him off balance and pitching them both gracelessly into the ditch.

Few moments later he climbed out, casually tossing the handcuffs and keys back in behind him.

“I really am getting too old for this,” he sighed, stooping to pick up his fedora. He dusted some dirt and ice from the brim and slipped it back on as the snow began to fall.

Casablanca 1941

“I'm looking for someone,” Indiana said, leaning his hip against the bar and slipping a hand into pocket of his dinner jacket as he looked casually around the crowded room.

“Anyone in particular?” the bartender asked. “A girl, perhaps?” He smiled slyly when Indiana glanced at him. “Sascha knows plenty of nice girls.”

Indiana grinned at that, but shook his head ruefully. “Not tonight.”

“Too bad. Perhaps a drink while you wait for your friend? Champagne cocktail?”

Indiana shook his head again. “I had a bad experience with a champagne cocktail one,” he replied as he returned his attention to the room and its occupants, “make it a bourbon, on the rocks.”

“So what is your friend like?” Sascha asked as he set the drink down on the bar.

On the road to Marseilles 1941

“How the hell did you get a truck?” Indiana asked as he slammed the door shut.

“It wasn't too hard when you had them distracted,” McHale replied.

Indiana stared. “You,” he growled as McHale swung the vehicle around a sharp bend in the road, “were supposed to be the distraction, Mac! You were!”

The sound of McHale's laughter filled the cab.

“They could have shot me, Mac!”

“I knew you'd think of a way out of it, Jonsie.”

“You're a piece of work.”

“I like to think so.” He glanced at Indiana. “So, you get it?”

“No-”

“No?! All that work and you didn't even manage to find it?” McHale asked incredulously. “You're losing your touch.”

Indiana grinned. “I said that didn't have it, not that I don't know where it is.”

“I'm beginning to think he's not that reliable.”

Sascha laughed. “Perhaps that's why he's not here.”

****

Indiana paused with the other patrons of Rick's and watched as that evening's plane to Lisbon took off, the conversation rising as the roar of the engines faded.

“Bourbon?” Sascha ask as Indiana stepped up to the bar.

“Sure.”

Sascha set the drink on the bar before turning to greet the man stepping up to the bar. “Hey, boss.”

“Sascha.” The man nodded at the bartender and slipped a packet of cigarettes from his pocket.

“Mr Blaine?” Indiana asked

“The people I do business with call me Rick,” he replied, barely glancing at Indiana as he tapped a cigarette from the packet, “and if you don't have business with me then we don't have anything to talk about.”

“I'm trying to get out of Casablanca.”

Rick lit up, took a swift drag and exhaled. “Not my kind of business.” He turned to Sascha, taking a handful of papers from the bartender. “Any cheques?”

“A few, boss.”

Rick nodded and glanced at Indiana. “This place is full of people who can help you, why don't you talk to them?”

“Perhaps their prices are too high.”

“Mine are higher.”

“I asked around and the word is you're a guy who can be trusted.”

“You shouldn't believe everything you hear,” Rick replied, not bothering to look up from the receipts Sascha had handed him.

*****

“I have to warn you, Monsieur,” the man whispered conspiratorially and leant closer, “Casablanca is a dangerous place. A place full of thieves and vultures, my friend. You must be careful.”

“Is that so?” Indiana asked, catching hold of the man's wrist before he could get his hand any further into Indiana's bag.

“Monsieur,” the man whimpered, “it's not what you think!”

“Is there a problem here?”

Indiana glanced up at the interruption. “No,” he replied, letting go of the pickpocket who hurriedly scrambled away. “He was just making me aware of the dangers of here in Casablanca.”

“How public sprited of him. Captain Louis Renault, Prefect of Police here in Casablanca,” Renault introduced himself as he sat down at the table and waved a waiter over.

“Indiana Jones, archaeologist.”

“Archaeologist?” He turned to the waiter -“A drink for myself and another my friend.”- and turned back. “Ah, I only ask because the Germans, a Dr. Schmidt in particular, seem to think you're a thief.”

Indiana shrugged. “I can't say I think much of him either.”

Renault smiled. “Such is the nature of academic debate, I suppose. Tell me, Dr. Jones, what's in the bag?” He nodded at the leather satchel.

“Is that an official question, captain?” Indiana asked in return as the waiter set their drinks down.

“I would be happier if it didn't have to be,” Renault replied, picking up his glass and taking a sip, “but I could have you arrested if you really were to insist.”

“It seems like I don't have a choice, then” Indiana pointed out.

“I wouldn't say that,” Renault replied, as Indiana handed him the bag, “there's always have a choice, even if it isn't a good one.” He paused.

“Something wrong, captain?”

“Are you really an archaeologist?” Renault asked as he poked through the satchels contents and caught sight of the bull-whip and gun.

“It's a dangerous profession.”

“So I see,” Renault replied, sliding the bag back across the table. “However, it seems I was misinformed. So, Dr. Jones, if you aren't here to trade in stolen antiquities why have you come to Casablanca?”

“I was looking for a good bourbon,” Indiana replied flippantly, swirling the liquid in his glass as he spoke.

“It's a long way to come, even for a cafe as good as Rick's.”

Indiana sipped his drink. “Perhaps you're right, it doesn't matter, I'll be leaving soon.”

“Ah, here in Casablanca leaving can be a challenge.”

“You don't say.”

Renault laughed. “For most it's a very simply, really. If you have money, well, then you can leave.”

“And if you don't have money?” Indiana asked.

Renault swirled the contents of his glass. “Arrangements can be made,” he admitted with a wry grin, “but not for you, I think. It seems there are people who would prefer it if you stayed.”

“It looks like I have some time on my hands then.”

Renault smiled and raised his glass. “I commend you on your attitude.”

****

Try Ferrari was the consensus when Indiana asked. If you want to get an exit visa either try Signor Ferrari and the black market or cut out the middle man go to Renault.

“Everybody comes to Casablanca looking for something,” Ferrari explained, “mostly it's a way out.”

“Could we talk somewhere else, perhaps?” Indiana asked uncomfortably, eyes glued to the dancing girl as she moved between the tables, or rather, to the snake that set her act apart from the others, winding its way around her arm.

Ferrari shrugged. “Of course.”

The walked out to the cafe’s small veranda, pausing as a the engines of a small plane on the nearby airstrip fire up. Indiana put his hands on the rail and watched the aircraft take off.

“Ah, the last plane to Lisbon, and inspiring sight, yes?”

“I want to be on that plane.”

“And I could sell you the visa, ” Ferrari replied calmly, conscious of the cafe’s other customers.

“How much?”

Signor Ferrari leant back expansively against the railings and shook his head sadly. “You misunderstand, I could, but I won't. Even if I were to sell you an exit visa there is no way Renault's men would let you on the plane,” he explained. “You can see how that would be bad for business, I have a reputation to maintain, after all.”

“You have a-” Indiana smiled wildly, and leant forward, continuing in a carefully controlled tone, “just what do you suggest I do, Ferrari, stay in Casablanca indefinitely?”

“Perhaps you should talk to Captain Renault,” Ferrari suggested, amused more than anything by Indiana's anger.

****

“Tell me, Renault,” Indiana said as he stepped up to the bar, “was it you that ransacked my room?”

“No, no. And I'm almost offended that you'd ask me that,” Renault said with a smile, “I had my men do it, of course.”

“Of course.”

The captain laughed. “Now, if we're being so honest with one another do you know what it is the Germans are looking for?”

Marshall College, Connecticut 1941

Indiana had his feet propped up on his desk and his fedora slipped over his face as he dozed.

“You're back, then.”

“So it would appear,” Indiana replied, pushing his hat up with his index finger and squinting at his visitor. “I'm getting too old for this, Marcus.”

“Well, if you will insist on gallivanting around the world, Indiana.” He coughed apologetically “Not that it's not good to see you.”

Indian smiled back genuinely. “It's good to see you too.”

“Mmmh,” Marcus replied, looking around the room and running a finger over the surface of the desk. “There's a gentleman from the government here to see you, by the way.”

“Already? They seem to know where I am before I do,” Indian sighed, swinging his feet off the desk.

“I said you could use my office.”

“Your office?” Indiana repeated.

“Yes, well.” Marcus paused.

Indiana looked around. The chaos of the archaeological storerooms that doubled as his office had taken on an organic feel in his absence. Piles of long forgotten and ungraded papers were collapsing into the toppling towers of books and uncatalogued artefacts, everything under a fine layer of dust.

“Your office it is.”

“Dr. Jones, Dean,” the man sitting at the desk greeted them as they opened the door to Marcus' office.

“Agent Smith,” Indiana replied. “And how can I help you this time?”

“What can you tell me about the Varian Aquila, Dr. Jones?”

“The Varian Aquila?” Indiana asked, smiling despite his tiredness at the unexpected topic.

“Publius Quinctilius Varus,” Marcus murmured quietly, tapping his chin as he moved to one of the file cabinets. “I have a paper on him here, heavily plagiarised I'm afraid, but it covers the topic quite well.”

“So you've heard of it?” Smith asked looking between the two of them. “What is it?”

“Well,” Indiana began, “an aquila is, er.” He reached across the desk and scooped up a pad of paper with one hand as he moved to clear a space with the other. “It was a Roman military standard in the shape of an eagle, probably made of bronze or silver, and fixed to the top of a staff,” he explained as he sketched. “The Varian aquila, was one of three captured by German tribes in nine AD.”

“During the battle of Teutoburg Forest,” Marcus added.

“Teutoburg Forest,” Indiana agreed, nodding.

“Tacitus has a rather good account of it,” Marcus continued handing Agent Smith a sheaf of papers.

“More than thirty year later the Romans managed to recapture it and placed it in the temple of Mars Ultor-”

“Mars the Avenger,” Marcus translated.

“-in Rome,” Indiana finished. “After that no one knows what happened to it.”

“But what does it do?” Smith asked, his face contorted with confusion as he flipped through the pages he'd been handed.

“Do?” Indiana laughed, exchanging an amused glance with Marcus. “It doesn't do anything, it just is.”

“Well, the Germans seem think they've found it, or they're close,” Smith said, at last sounding more confident.

Indiana leant against the wall.

“An archaeologist named Schmidt-”

“Schmidt?”

“You know him?”

“He's a charlatan,” Indiana growled, “he twists archaeological research to his own perverted ends.”

“Well, he's been sending a series of messages from France claiming to be on the trail of this aquila thing. It was a low priority code so we managed to decipher it, but if our intelligence is correct then Hitler is folowing his progress with interest.”

Indiana rubbed his hand over his face and pushed himself away from the wall. “It's not what it does,” he explained, “it's what it represents, it's a symbol, a rallying point. You can't let the Nazis get their hands on it, Smith!”

Smith smiled. “That's why we came to you, Dr Jones.”

“I have an idea,” Indiana replied, toying with his drink before taking a sip.

“And do you have it?” Renault asked pleasantly, “The question is entirely unofficial, of course.”

“And would the answer be as well?” Indiana asked.

“Oh my friend, you are too suspicious!” Renault smiled and slapped him on the back

****

The bar was packed again, as it had been every night since Indiana arrived in Casablanca. He sat himself down at table towards the edge of the room and listened to the band play as he watched the hubbub of humanity that was Rick's Cafe, hoping that Mac might just walk through the door, exit visas in hand.

Chicago 1921

Indiana leant back in the chair and relaxed, letting the rhythm of the music wash over him. He glanced at his friend. Oxley had hunched himself over the table and was peering at his empty glass.

“Henry-”

“Please call me Indy, Ox.”

“Sorry, Henry.”

Indiana sighed. “It's okay, Ox.”

“What was in that, do you think?” Oxley asked, back to examining his glass.

“I have no idea,” Indiana replied cheerfully, “we should have another and try and work it out.”

“I'm not sure-”

“Empirical research, Ox,” Indiana began, ignoring Oxley complaints and smiling flirtatiously at the passing waitress. “excuse me, miss.”

She smiled back indulgently, “what can I do for you boys?”

“Can we get a couple more drinks here.”

“Sure thing sugar.”

“We really shouldn't,” Oxley insisted, “we have a tutorial with Ravenwo-”

Over three thousand miles and twenty years later Indiana set his glass down sharply on the table. He didn't want to think about Abner. Thinking about Abner meant thinking about Marion, about every rotten mistake he'd ever made.

“You look troubled tonight, my friend,” Captain Renault said, sitting down uninvited at the table. “You don't like the music, perhaps? Personally I think Sam's playing is the best in Casablanca.”

“He's pretty good,” Indiana agreed, “reminds me of someone I've heard before, but that was a long way from here.”

“Tell me,” Renault began before Indiana could sink back into his reverie, “why did you really come here?”.

On the road to Marseilles 1941

“We need to get to Marrakesh,” Indiana explained as McHale drove.

“No way.”

“It's the best place to sell it, the only place to sell it.”

“I'm not trekking through the god damn desert with you again.”

“Listen, Mac.”

“No, you listen, Jonsie, it ain't going to happen. You remember the goat eyeballs?”

“That was Egypt.” Indiana smiled despite himself. “And I keep telling you that was a mark of respect.”

“If it was such a mark of respect, why didn't you eat any? You can't fool me, and you can't make me go to Marrakesh. You go and I'll meet you Casablanca.”

“It was recommended by a friend. Could be that I don't know how to pick my friends,” Indiana conceded, swirling the contents of his glass before knocking it back.

“Well,” Renault replied, smiling again, “in that case I wish you better luck in choosing them in future.”

****

The days drag on in Casablanca, one on into the next.

“Bourbon, Sascha,” Indiana said, leaning against the bar.

“No luck with your friend?” Sascha asked. “Too bad, maybe he'll be here tonight.”

Into the next.

****

“How did you end up in Casablanca,” the young woman purred, running the tip of her finger around the rim of her glass leaning towards him.

Indiana smiled. “It turns out I can't help chasing after beautiful things,” he replied easily.

“Is that so?”

“Oh,” Indiana whispered, leaning closer, “definitely.”

“Rick!” the young woman said abruptly, looking over Indiana's shoulder. She smiled hopefully. “Won't you have a drink with us, Rick?”

“I don't drink with customers,” Rick replied, propping himself up against the bar. “I need a word with your friend here.” He nodded at Indiana.

“But, Rick,” she sighed.

“I said beat it, kid,” he replied, unmoved. “There'll be other girls, Jones.”

“There often are.” Indiana leant back against the bar and watched the girl walk away, her dark curls swaying against her silk dress as she moved. “But she was something.”

Rick lit a cigarette, not bothering to comment. “I heard the police searched you room.”

Indiana nodded, catching sight of a couple of police officers stepping out of the bar. “They didn't find anything.”

“Doesn't matter, as long as they can tell the German's they looked.”

“I thought they might be trying to unsettle me.”

“Renault's not that imaginative,” Rick replied.

****

New York 1936

“Mmmh, Indiana!”

He smiled, brushing his hand up her thigh as he kissed her neck. “You're louder than you used to be,” he said, biting gently at the skin beneath her ear.

“Yeah?” Marion replied. He felt her smile as ran her hand through his hair, her fingernails raking lightly at his skin.

“Maybe I don't want you to forget who you're with, Jones.”

Indiana laughed, running a hand down her back and pulling her closer. “No way I could do that.”

“Marion,” he murmured, only to be slapped sharply across the face. Just like that he was back in Casablanca, the wrong girl in his arms. “Baby, I didn't,” he began, but she managed to throw what was left of his drink in his face before he could get much further.

“You don't seem to have much luck tonight, my friend,” Sascha said, smiling as Indiana's companion stomped angrily across the room. He leant over the bar. “I should tell you to stay away from the gaming tables, perhaps? But since I work for Rick maybe I should encourage you to loose all your money,” he laughed.

“What are you so happy about?” Indiana asked as Sascha handed him a cloth.

“Ah, if Yvonne is so angry with you, perhaps she will have more time for me?”

“Perhaps.” Indiana replied sceptically.

Sascha shrugged. “Another drink?”

“Sure, why not? Make it a double.”

****

“Indiana Jones?”

Indiana looked up at the small man who'd spoken.

“Can, heh, can I call you Indiana?”

“What do you want?” Indiana asked instead of answering.

“It's about what you want, I think,” the man replied softly, fiddling with the stem of his glass. He downed the drink and signalled for another. “Sighed letters of transit?” He paused and looked nervously around the room. “Even Renault could not stop you.”

“You have them?” Indiana asked.

“No, heh, heh.” He raised his hands placatingly. “Not yet, but soon. These would be worth something to you, yes?”

****

How did you end up in Casablanca, Dr. Jones, Indiana wondered as he nursed a glass of bourbon. Perhaps my whole life's been leading me here. One bad decision after another, who rushes into occupied Europe without an army to back them up, without a way out?

Jerusalem 1926

“Don't try and lie to me, Indiana. You might be able to lie to my daughter, even to yourself, but you won't lie to me.”

No. Indiana scrubbed a hand across his face and tried to get a hold on himself. There was something about this place, something in the air in Casablanca. Perhaps it was a world's worth of regrets and hopes all bundled up in the place and the people? What ever it was he needed to get out.

“Sascha,” he called and the bartender sidled over.

“What can I get you, Dr. Jones?” he asked.

“Another bourbon, a double. No,” he corrected as Sascha turned, “bring me the bottle.”

Indiana watched the bartender glance across the room at Rick who nodded almost imperceptibly.

“All right,” Sascha said at last, smiling again as he set the bottle down on the bar, “but be careful.”

Jerusalem 1926

Abner was sitting at the makeshift desk that he sat every night, its surface piled high with the days excavation reports.

“Please, Abner-”

“No.” He didn't shout, his voice was quiet and controlled, layered with hurt and disappointment. “Don't try and lie to me, Indiana. You might be able to lie to my daughter, even to yourself, but you won't lie to me.”

“I'm not trying to lie to you, sir. I'm going to pretend to didn't happen,” Indiana began.

“Do you really think that I want to discuss the details?”

“It not like that. The way I feel, the way she feels.”

Abner laughed, but the sound was painful. “She wasn't in love with you, she was infatuated with the idea of you. She's just a child. Just a child, the responsibility was yours.”

“What can I do?”

Abner looked at him. “Nothing.”

“She was really something.”Indiana said. The best part of the night, the last plane to Lisbon, and most of the bottle long gone.

“Who's that, sir?” Sam asked without missing a beat, the soft piano music easily filling the near deserted bar.

“It doesn't matter.”

“As you say.”

“I was no good for her, anyway.”

“She tell you that, sir?” Sam asked.

“She didn't need to.”

“If you say so, sir.” The tune shifted slightly, becoming a touch more melancholy.

New York 1937

“I just thought I should tell you, dad,” Indiana said wearily.

“Why? You thought I'd be pleased?” Henry asked, the raised eyebrows practically audible over the telephone connection.

“I thought you might understand,” Indiana admitted, rubbing a hand over his forehead.

“Understand? I understand you're a fool!”

“You know what kind of life I could give her, dad.”

“Now you listen to me, junior-”

“Stop trying to treat me like a child!”

“I'll stop treating you like a child when you stop behaving like one, my boy.”

“Thanks, dad,” Indiana sighed, “you've been a real help,” he added, putting the receiver down before his father could reply.

****

“Still here, I see,” Renault greeted him.

“Captain.” Indiana nodded carefully as the other man sat himself down at the table.

“You know, you would make my life much easier if you were to leave, doctor,” Renault said as he raised a hand and waved a waiter over.

“And mine would be much easier if you would give me an exit visa,” Indiana countered, rubbing at his temple.

“True,” Renault conceded with a smile. “Let me buy you a drink, instead. Two champagne cocktails, Carl. Put it on my bill.”

“What's the occasion?” Indiana asked.

“I'm afraid,” Renault replied, “that our relationship may have to become uncomfortably professional soon. Best to behave like civilised people while we can.”

****

“Jonsie!” McHale spread his arms widely and grinned.

“Mac!” Indiana laughed. He let the smile dropped from his face for a moment. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Well some us have been busy while you've been enjoying yourself... here,” McHale trailed off distractedly, his attention fixed on a pretty girl as she walked past.

Indiana smiled and slapped him on the back before stepping up to the bar. “Sascha, a drink for my friend.”

The bartender grinned and poured them both a generous measure of bourbon. “Welcome to Rick's.”

“Let's get a table, we need to talk?”

“About what?” McHale asked as they moved across the room.

“I've been- Oh hell, go get a drink, Mac.”

McHale looked at his glass in confusion. “But-”

“Go get another one, then,” Indiana revised, pushing his friend back towards the bar.

Renault stood in the doorway, a stiffly dressed man standing by his side, glancing around the crowded cafe. When he spotted Indiana he leant over and said something to his companion, gesturing in his direction.

“Ah, Dr. Jones,” Renault said as they stepped up to the table, “may we join you?”

“Good evening, Captain Renault.” Indiana nodded, leaning back in chair. “Schmidt.”

“Now isn't this pleasant,” Renault said against all the available evidence.

“So what brings you to Casablanca, Schmidt?”

“You stole from me, Dr. Jones, did you think that would go unpunished?”

“You tried to have me shot,” Indiana countered.

“That was mistake,” Schmidt admitted, looking Indiana squarely in the eye. “I should have succeeded."

“You're all heart,” Indiana replied easily, taking a sip from his drink.

“How you escaped?”

“What can I say, Schmidt? I'm just a lucky guy.”

“It would seem so, but for how long, Dr. Jones, for how long?” He gestured to Renault. “Captain, arrest this man.”

“For what?” Renault asked.

Schmidt spluttered. “He's a thief!”

“I'm an archaeologist.”

“I'm an archaeologist, Dr. Jones, you're a treasure hunter and a grave robber.”

“I read your treatise on the development of the Aryan peoples, Schmidt, I know what kind archaeologist you are.”

“Please gentlemen,” Renault interupted.

“Captain, this man stole a priceless artefact from the German people.”

“I took nothing from you, perhaps one of your men stole it?”

“I'm afraid I've interviewed him several times, Herr Schmidt,” Renault apologised, “and I have no reason to believe he's lying.”

“You just asked?” Schmidt replied incredulously. “Search him!”

“I have, and his hotel room and we found nothing fitting the description you sent.”

“I demand, that you, that you...”

“You have no authority here, Herr Schmidt,” Renault pointed out.

“Welcome to Unoccupied France, Schmidt,” Indiana added, lifting his glass in a mocking salute.

“I,” Schmidt began, drawing himself up, “have the full authority of the German people. I shall contact Herr Heinze.”

“If you wish to talk to the consul, you may,” Renault said, “I'm surprised he didn't meet you at the airfield.”

“Captain.”

“Ah, lieutenant.” Renault nodded at the policeman who stood stiffly to attention by the table. “Excuse me, gentlemen.” They stepped away from the table and spoke for a moment.

When Renault returned he handed Schmidt a piece of paper.

“What's this?”

“It's a telegram, Herr Schmidt.”

“I can see that, you fool.”

“It seems that, perhaps, the German people have lost faith in you.”

“Not disappointed with your results, are they?” Indiana asked. “How much did you promise your Fuhrer, Schmidt? How much have you actually delivered?”

“I have been recalled to Berlin,” Schmidt said, paling slightly. He rounded on Indiana. “You'll pay for this, Jones, I know you had some hand in it! It's a trick. A trick! Arrest him!”

“Please, Herr Schmidt,” Renault replied calmly, “you're making a scene.”

“Interviewed me, Renault?” Indiana asked as Schmidt stormed away.

“Well, we have spoken,” Renault replied, shrugging easily. “There's no need to be quite so formal here in Casablanca.” He stood. “Goodbye, Dr. Jones.”

“You're letting me leave?”

“It would seem that there is no one currently insisting that you stay, my friend, and who am I to argue?”

“You're a good man, Renault,” Indiana said as he stood.

The captain laughed easily. “If I were you, I'd leave before that's put to the test.”

“Mac,” Indiana called, as he stepped towards his friend.

“Hey wasn't that-”

“Let's get out of here,” Indian interrupted, steering McHale around by the elbow.

“But that was Schmidt.”

“We need to leave, Mac. Now.”

“Oh? Oh, right you are,” he replied, downing his drink and setting the glass down on a passing table as they walked. “Didn't that seem a bit, I don't know? A bit anticlimactic to you?”

“Mac?”

“Yes, Jonsie?”

“Shut up.”

***

Indiana looked out of the window, the lights of Rick's bar and Casablanca fading into the distance. He leant back and pulled his fedora down over his face with one hand, the other hand resting securely on his bag, the reassuring weight of the bronze eagle inside making him smile.

Somewhere near Cairo 1925

“Feel my heart,” she said, taking his hand with hers and bringing it to her breast.

“Marion, honey,” Indiana began horsely.

“Don't you dare tell me what I want, Indy,” she laughed. “I know what I want. I know what I want and I'm going to get it.”

The End