The Sidenstrasse Tapestry: An Indiana Jones Fan-Fiction

Chapter 3: Jerusalem, 1960

The smoke burned her dark eyes as she sat alone in the café. She was the only woman amid a sea of smoke and men. Beside her well-tanned hand was a glass of wine.

Tonight, she watched the door and waited, her eyes tired. After pouring over dusty books in the museum, and confirming artifacts at night, she was still scrambling to prove herself to the locals.

People who authenticated artifacts were common in the Holy Land and she was just one among many. But she could speak English perfectly, as well as Arabic, Hebrew and she had one more advantage that few others had, a legacy to follow, - she was a Jones.

Of course, all these things were negated because she, in the eyes of scholars and adventurers alike - was simply a woman.

Her eyes flickered toward the bar. A tall dark haired man stood there, his lanky frame bent over the bar, speaking with the barkeeper. The barkeeper pointed the man toward her. He was probably American and highly out of place in this small bar amid the twisting maze of streets making up one of the most ancient cities on earth. You couldn't even find its ancient doors unless you knew where to look in the labyrinth of stone. She chose her places of business not for tourists but for interesting finds - both human and historic.

"Dr. Jones?" he asked walking over, uneasy.

"Yes?" she didn't look up from under her dusty brown fedora.

He could clearly see her dark hair braided down her back. "I was expecting someone else."

She poured herself another glass of wine. "Most people are. What do you want?"

"Are you really Dr. Jones?"

"I am."

He searched her hands for a wedding ring. "You're not..."

"No. I'm not a Jones by marriage. Start talkin'."

"I've found a fragment." He moved the chair and sat down, never asking permission.

"Of what?"

"A scroll."

"It's fake," she dismissed. "Fragments hardly last. Except when written on silk."

"This could be from China?" he asked.

"Possibly. You've got pictures?"

Mac handed a few photographs to her. The girl was strangely familiar, the brief quick sentences, the index finger busier than the rest of the hand, the left moving as easily as the right... and drinking wine in a rough bar? She was asking for trouble... just like someone else he knew.

He looked at her.

Dr. Jones met his eyes. "What?"

"Nothing," Mac shrugged. "You act like someone I know is all."

She put down the pictures. "It's from India, probably printed on silk from China. I'd put it down sometime about 200 B.C., at the height of the Silk Road, a trade route from China to Rome. Where'd you get it?"

"I've had it since World War II," Mac replied.

"Not on the black market?"

"Would I lie to a pretty girl like you?"

"Yes." She was hostile.

Mac smiled. "The correct answer is to give a shy smile and say no."

"The correct thing would be for me not to be in a bar at all," Dr. Jones replied.

"Shall I escort you home?"

"I'm not stupid," Dr. Jones growled a reply, standing up.

Mac stood up, dwarfing her with his six foot four lanky frame. "It would be easier on you. How do I know I'm not a mafia hitman?"

"A hitman would have waited for me outside, where it was dark," she retorted.

"It's not safe out there."

"It's not any safer in here." Her hands were on her hips.

Mac had seen the same stance two days ago in Wyoming. Marion Ravenwood. Same dark hair, same attitude and...

A drunk man staggered over to her, speaking in Hebrew. The girl turned and slugged him, her broad shoulder swinging in a left hook that knocked the man to the floor - out cold.

Mac swore he saw Indy for a second. It had been in the way she'd swung the punch... less of a movement and more of an attitude... because that punch was definitely Marion Ravenwood. Dr. Jones turned back to him, her dark eyes on fire.

Five other men stood up and moved toward her. One was an American.

"That was our friend," the American spoke.

"Your friend wanted me to slobber all over him!"

"That was no reason to deck him. I'm told women here are a commodity."

"Wrong woman." She clenched her fists.

The entire bar was silent.

Mac waited, it slowly dawning on him who the woman before him with her fists in the air was. "It can't be..." he thought.

The American smiled. "I like spunky women. My name's Dawson. I'm just trying to be friendly here..."

"Take your friendly personality, and your friends outta my face before I punch their lights out!"

"You wouldn't do that to me, would you?"

"I'd find pleasure in it." Her grin looked reckless, her hands were in fists.

Mac caught one in full swing. "You're gonna get beaten."

The girl slammed her foot down on Mac's shoe, spun out and kicked Dawson below the belt.

She turned back to Mac, an all-too-familiar crooked grin on her face. "No I'm not."

"LOOK OUT!" Mac cried.

Dawson swung a Sunday punch, ramming her right jaw.

His fist made contact, and he howled.

Dr. Jones looked dazed for a moment and then struck back with an uppercut. "How dare you hit a woman!" she sneered. "My father would beat the crap outta you." She threw another punch. "Since he's not here - I'll defend myself. HA!" Her foot snapped out and Mac winced, just watching.

Dawson was on his knees, bent over. Her hand came down and chopped a kidney. Before Dawson could fall, a boot kicked him back up. Dr. Jones caught him by the collar and jerked the white faced, pained, American to his feet. "Don't you ever strike a woman again!"

Dawson held his aching hand. "What the hell is in your jaw?"

"Iron," she growled. "It'll hurt every time you throw a right handed punch now. You're hand's broken. Others have done what you've tried to. They haven't succeeded."

"Who are you?" Dawson gasped, trying to catch his breath through the pain.

"My name is Emily Jones."

Mac's jaw dropped.

Emily brushed by Mac. "I'm impressed with that fragment." She pressed a paper into his hand and walked out into the night.

Emily Jones... the girl that Mac thought had been dead for years. The girl that he had blamed himself for killing by negligence, was still alive. He opened his hand. There was an address on the paper. An address he knew. It was the last location anyone had reported seeing Indiana Jones. He knew because he'd made the report himself.