Chapter Fifteen: Calcutta to Shanghai

 

 

***

 

“Thank you for coming with me so peacefully,” the little Indian man said, squinting his beady eyes at Jonathan and Hubert.  “It makes my job so much easier when people...just go along.”

 

Jonathan and Hubert just sat there, trying to stay calm.  This could be nothing more than a routine check, Jonathan tried to convince himself.  This could be completely normal.

 

There were check-points at every port and railway stop in Africa and at every port on the Mediterranean and Red seas–anything within 1500 miles of Imhotep’s grand palace.  Jonathan and Hubert had been through several checks already, including a rather annoying one in Massawa in northern Ethiopia.  They hadn’t been dumb enough to bring anything that could tie them to the resistence movement (except the key, which had been carefully disguised inside a clay figurine of the virgin Mary), but it was still nerve-wracking to watch the guards search through their luggage.

 

But that check, like all the others, had been routine.  This inspection was different.

 

Jonathan glanced around the small gloomy room, a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling.  The inspection officer smiled silkily, attempting in his loathsome little way to put them at ease.

 

“What did you say your name was?” Jonathan asked suddenly, trying to stave off his nervousness by talking.

 

“You can call me Dr. Bhunia,” he said, eyeing them closely.

 

“Are you a medical doctor?” Jonathan continued, trying to put the man on the defensive.

 

“No,” the man said curtly.

 

“Do you have a Ph.D?” Jonathan continued aggressively.  If they could take more control of the situation, they had a better chance of survival.

 

“I will be asking the questions,” the doctor snapped.  Well, so much for that plan.

 

“What are your names?” he asked, sitting right across the wood table from them.

 

“Evans, Benedict Evans,” Jonathan said naturally, the lie sliding easily off of his tongue.

 

“And your nationality?” Bhunia pressed.

 

“Can’t you tell, old mum?  London, born and raised,” Jonathan chattered, trying to diffuse the tense situation.

 

The man nodded, turning to Hubert.  He slowly opened their identification papers, scrutinizing them right before them.  Trying to make them nervous.  Trying to make them crack.

 

“And you’re Jean-Luc Belleau?” he questioned, looking at the younger man.

 

Hubert nodded tensely.  Loosen up, old boy, Jonathan begged him silently.  Act natural.  Jonathan had, after all, always been good at twisting the truth.

 

“I was born in Calais,” Hubert offered, sounding a little less nervous.

 

“So how do you know each other?” Bhunia asked, making the simple question sound like a threat.

 

“Jean-Luc married my younger sister, Danielle,” Jonathan explained, the story simple to tell after having gone over it so many times.

 

“So where is...Danielle Belleau?” the Indian man asked.

 

“Missing,” Hubert broke in, and Jonathan could have cheered for him.  He looked every part the worried and brokenhearted spouse.  “She just up and disappeared one day.  She left a message that she didn’t want to live in Paris anymore, because of Imhotep’s guards being so oppressive there...” Hubert trailed off, pretending that he didn’t want to say anymore.

 

“Continue,” Bhunia demanded.

 

“She had always talked about going to Hong Kong, to see the place where their mother had been born,” Hubert said, pointing to Jonathan.

 

“Yes, our mother was born in British controlled Hong Kong, but she moved back to London when she was a teenager,” Jonathan added.

                                                     

“We think she went there, and we both want so badly to track her down,” Hubert added, getting into his role as distressed husband.  “I miss her so much, and I’m so afraid something might happen to her.”

 

Bhunia regarded them suspiciously, but seemed to be relenting.  “Why would she go to Hong Kong and not anywhere else in the world?  What makes you two so sure?”

 

“It’s all she talked about,” Hubert said miserably.  “I should have known.  I can’t believe I didn’t see the signs.”

 

Bhunia was eating it up. “Women,” he declared, shaking his head.  “Wives leave all the time.  I’ve seen more than my fair share of distressed husbands,” he continued pedantically.

 

Hubert–who was turning out to be a big ham, Jonathan thought wickedly–drooped his head, appearing inconsolable.

 

“Well then,” Bhunia said, sighing, looking up at them from their papers on the table.  “I only have one last question for you two boys.  Have either of you heard of the name Jonathan Carnahan?”

 

Jonathan nearly choked, but at the last minute kept his composure.  He recovered by shrugging uninterestedly, hiding his fear and surprise.  “You mean the Englishmen who supposedly stopped Imhotep twice before?”  He shrugged again.  “We’ve all heard the stories.”

 

Bhunia laughed odiously.  “We have, haven’t we?” he tittered greasily to himself as he stretched, his fat arms reaching above his shiny head.  “Then you’ve heard of The Book of the Dead?”

 

This time Jonathan nearly threw up.  “What?” he squeaked.

 

“You have heard of it, then?” Bhunia asked with newfound interest.

 

“Just in passing, old chap, really,” Jonathan insisted, his voice having returned to its normal pitch.

 

“It’s in all the stories,” Hubert stepped in, drawing Bhunia’s attention away from a nervous Jonathan.  “What is it, really?  I’m dying to know.”

 

Bhunia then seemed to lose interest.  “I’m not at liberty to say,” he said mysteriously, hoarding his small bit of knowledge to inevitably increase his own self-esteem.  When there is little power to be had, Jonathan remembered his father telling him once, many will grasp for it.

 

Just then there was a knock on the door, and another man, this one in a uniform, stepped inside.  Bhunia rose quickly to receive the note handed him.  The Indian man read it, disappointment crossing his features.  He looked up at Jonathan and Hubert.

 

“Well, you’re in the clear.  It seems you’re not the men I’m looking for,” he said wearily, sitting oleaginously back down in his chair.                                                                                          

“What were you looking for?” Jonathan asked casually as he stood and stretched.

 

“An Englishman named Jonathan Carnahan transporting a heavy black book.  But we’ve searched your luggage, and you’ve got nothing suspicious.”  Bhunia laughed humorlessly.  “We all think this Carnahan character is a myth.  How could he have evaded Imhotep for this long anyway?”

 

Jonathan hid a smile.

 

“Look, Dr. Bhunia,” Hubert began as the two of them were ushered towards the door.  “If you hear anything about my wife, Danielle, will you please write to my address in Paris?”  He scribbled an address down quickly on a piece of paper.  “Please,” he begged tremulously.  “It would mean the world to me.”

“Oh alright,” Bhunia conceded, taking the slip of paper from them and handing them back their identification papers.

 

As they walked down the hall, he called after them.  “Good luck finding her, Mr. Belleau!”

 

 

***

                     

“I’d have never known,” Jonathan said disbelievingly, shaking his head.  “I’d have never known what talent you have for the stage.”

 

Hubert grinned, revealing his perfect white teeth and boyish good looks.  “I always wanted to be an actor,” he returned, smiling exuberantly.

 

They were sitting in a pub on the docks of Calcutta, going over their conversation with Bhunia.  Relieved at escaping unscathed from Bhunia’s–and Imhotep’s–clutches, both men had headed straight for a place to celebrate.

 

Jonathan took a swig from his huge beer mug, filled to the brim with amber liquid and white froth.  “Ahhh,” he sighed as the taste of the cold drink hit his parched throat.

 

“You did well yourself, Sir Benedict,” Hubert said, giggling slightly, the beer on his empty stomach making him slightly tipsy.

 

Jonathan smiled.  “Thank you, Mr. Belleau,” he joked in Bhunia’s heavy accent.  He relaxed into his chair.  “Just think, Huey.  Another two weeks by water and we’ll be in Hong Kong.”

 

“I’ve never been in China,” Hubert commented, the euphoria of their triumph beginning to wear off as they both contemplated the future.

 

“Me neither, old mum,” Jonathan said, patting Hubert’s hand.  The younger man smiled, swirling the liquid around in his glass. 

 

In the silence, Jonathan thought about Evy, her sweet face, her inner strength.  He was helping her in the only way he knew how, and he prayed that it would be enough.  He prayed that the desert warriors were not all dead, that some remained to fight the battle that must be fought.  He prayed that Rick had not lost all hope, that Alex was still the sweet, brave little boy he had known.  But most of all he prayed that Evy was safe, and that, somehow, he could help her.

 

“Do you really think that we will find the book?” Hubert asked, looking up at the man who had come to be his mentor.

 

Jonathan paused, considering Hubert’s question.  “Yes,” he replied honestly, meeting the younger man’s hopeful eyes.  He could not have said how he knew, but he knew in his heart and in his bones they were getting closer.  He could feel it, as though the Book of the Dead had its own aura of power, an essence of a force not of this world.

 

“Every day we get closer to Imhotep’s ruin.”  Jonathan stared off into space, the Priest’s face rising before his consciousness.  His hand tightened around his glass, as the executioner tightens the noose around the condemned.

 

***

 

Two days later they set sail on a passenger ship for Hong Kong, a roundabout journey that took nearly three weeks.  Hubert was sea sick most of the time, and Jonathan had never seen any one person expel so much fluid from their mouth.

 

After finally docking in Hong Kong, they immediately caught a train that would take them straight to their destination–Shanghai.

 

 

***

 

“What a dump,” Jonathan commented as he and Hubert lugged their bags up the three flights of stairs to their room.

 

“I think something smells funny,” Hubert grunted.

 

“Huey, that’s the city’s garbage disposal,” Jonathan joked as he heaved his bag on the third floor landing.

 

“Right under our window?” Hubert asked as he inserted the key into the lock and jangled it several times.  Finally the lock gave way and the two exhausted men fell into the dingy room.

 

They had checked into a seedy hotel to stay low profile.  Indeed, there were plenty of cheap and shabby hotels all over the city.  At least, Jonathan thought ironically, not everything had changed.

 

Hubert collapsed onto the bed.  “This pillow is hard,” he mumbled as he curled up into a ball.

 

Jonathan grunted in assent as he removed his jacket and then fell onto the other double bed, which made an odd creaking noise as his weight made contact with the old springs.

 

“We have a big day tomorrow, old boy,” Jonathan murmured as he began to drift off.  But Hubert was already asleep.

 

As Jonathan began to nod off, an image of the Book of the Dead filled his mind.  A heavy black volume, covered with dust, sitting silently on the shelf in the antique shop.  How many people picked it up, felt its weight, and wondered what it was?  How many people touched that greatness, the power of that book?  It had been waiting on that shelf, silently waiting to be found, a capsule containing an unspeakable, awesome power...

How did the book get there? Jonathan wondered for the hundredth time.  There would not be an answer, he knew.  There would never be an answer.  The Gods were silent even as they played their hands, even as they rolled their golden dice and changed the world of mortals forever.

 

 

***

 

“This is the address,” Jonathan said looking up at the seedy apartment building.  The gray slabs of concrete had large brownish stains along their sides, and the front gate was hanging precariously from one hinge.

 

Both Jonathan and Hubert had memorized the three addresses where Pierre–Jacques old friend from the service–might be staying.  He had to move around to avoid being found, change his name on different leases, etc.  This was the second apartment building they had been to, and Jonathan wasn’t too impressed with Shanghai.

 

“We must be in the ugly part of town,” Hubert commented sardonically.

 

Jonathan laughed.  “Let’s hope this one is it.”

 

Hubert checked for the tenth time that his gun was in its holster.  “We’re prepared.  But do you really think we’re going to find him?”

 

Jonathan sighed and shrugged, looking up at the modern monstrosity in front of them.  “Somehow, I think we’ll find him.  But I still don’t know whether we can trust him.”

 

They opened the gate carefully, moving up the path and opening the metal door.  Stepping inside, they glanced around the gloomy hallway.  Jonathan sneezed, but Hubert was already examining the names on the plaque by the door.  “Du Pont,” Hubert whispered excitedly, pointing to the name.  “Gabriel Du Pont,” he said again, which was one of the many names Pierre used to stay low profile.

 

Jonathan’s heart skipped a beat.  He couldn’t believe it.  After weeks on the trail, they had finally found him.  Pierre.  The man who had the book that could change the course of history.

 

The two men began to climb the creaky stairs when Jonathan stopped, reservations and fear filling his mind.  “Hubert, you stay here.  If this is a trap, we can’t both be caught.  If I’m not back in thirty minutes, leave immediately.  Go to the telegraph office on Jehol street.”

 

Hubert began to protest.  “You have no weapon–”

 

Jonathan shook his head.  “If we can trust Pierre, I will not need one.  And if this is an elaborate hoax, a trap by Imhotep, then a gun will do me no good anyhow.”

 

Hubert stared at him stubbornly.  “Come and get me as soon as you meet him.”

Jonathan smiled tenderly.  Hubert had been through this long journey with him and was just as eager to find the book.  “I will.  But remember.  If something happens to me, it is up to you to contact Jacques and then get yourself out of harm’s way.”

 

Hubert nodded.  “I’ll be right here.”

 

Jonathan nodded, then swiftly reached over and pulled the boy into his embrace.  After a quick hug the two parted, and Jonathan turned toward the dark staircase.  Where it led–to the darkness or the light–he did not know.

 

He began to climb.  It seemed to take forever, each step creaking under his weight.  A thousand doubts ran through his head.  What am I doing here? he wondered nervously, silently cursing himself.  You’re not Rick O’Connell, stupid.  You’re not a hero, he thought, berating himself for even beginning this journey.  You’re the sidekick who gets to be scared shitless at times like these.  What am I doing here? he thought, panicking, his palms sweaty.

 

He began making his way down the hall towards 214, each step towards the door a step towards his doom.  But as he reached the door, the ordinary brown door, a calm flowed through him, a realization that this was his duty.  He had no reason to be scared.  He had been sent on a journey to find Pierre and bring the book back to its home, back to Egypt.  Whatever was on the other side of that door, he could do nothing now.  His fate was sealed.  So Jonathan reached his hand out towards his destiny.

 

***

 

Hubert paced anxiously downstairs, wondering if he had done the right thing in letting Jonathan go up alone.  He had truly come to care for the Englishman, and look up to him as almost a surrogate father.

 

Hubert admired Jonathan because he did not pretend to be a hero.  He did not pretend to be brave, or smarter or more clever or more knowledgeable than most.  He knew he was a simple man who had to save his family.  With both his parents dead, Hubert thought Jonathan’s quest was the most honorable a man could have.

 

He, too, had heard the stories, although Jonathan had never told them himself.  But Hubert knew what Jonathan had done in the past.  And he loved and respected him all the more for accomplishing all that he did as an ordinary man.

 

***

 

Jonathan knocked.  Silence.  He could hear his heart beating in the quiet hall.

 

He knocked again.  More silence.

 

He reached for the handle, and felt it twist under his hand.  The door swung quietly open.  The hallway of the apartment was dark.

 

Compelled by some ancient force, Jonathan felt himself moving slowly inside.  One step.  Another.  He was completely in the apartment.  It was dark.  And he was alone.

 

Suddenly, the door slammed shut, and before he could move Jonathan felt the cold steel of a gun pressed against the back of his neck. 

 

“Don’t move a muscle,” a voice said, coming from somewhere in the darkness. 

 

***