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Informationen zum Autor Rob MacGregor is an Edgar-winning author who has been on the New York Times bestseller list. He is the author of seventeen novels, ten nonfiction books, and numerous magazine and newspaper articles. In addition to writing his own novels, he has teemed with George Lucas, Peter Benchly, and Billy Dee Williams. Klappentext Indiana Jones has landed his first teaching post, in the archaeology department at London University. His brightest—and prettiest—student is a twenty-year-old Scottish girl, Deirdre Campbell, who claims she's uncovered a golden scroll, proof of the true existence of Merlin, sorcerer of myth and legend. Indy's intrigued by the thesis . . . and by Deirdre. So, too, is member of Parliament Adrian Powell. He's seeking to resurrect the ancient order of the Druids, whose secrets of power could pave his way to world conquest. But first he needs the scroll . . . and he's willing to kill to get it. Where there's magic, mystery, and murder, Indy goes to the head of the class. Dropping his books and picking up his bullwhip, he joins Deirdre on an action-packed chase across Britain, from the peril-filled caves of Scotland to the savage dance of the giants at Stonehenge—where Merlin's secret will finally be revealed. But not before Indy gets a lesson in love from Deirdre . . . and a lesson in hate from a maniac who means to rule the world. Leseprobe 1 Surprise Package Summer 1925 Everywhere he looked, he saw figures draped in billowy black robes, their heads covered with cowls. They chanted, a monotonous, rhythmic drone, over and over. It was endless, maddening. He peered through the gray haze, trying to get his bearings. It was either dawn or dusk; he wasn't sure and it disturbed him that he didn't know. He could see that he was inside some sort of temple. It was circular and roofless with immense stone pillars arching toward the leaden sky. He didn't belong here; he was out of place. His head protruded above everyone else's, and he was the only person who wasn't wearing a robe. He looked down at himself and saw that he wasn't wearing anything. Then he realized that he was standing on a flat rock and that was why he was taller than everyone else. What was he doing here? How had he gotten here? They were looking at him now. Every head was turned toward him. The droning grew louder; it pounded against him. Why were they moving toward him? Why wouldn't his feet move? Why did his body feel like lead? One man stood in front of all the others. He pointed at him. "Jones, we know you're coming. Know you're coming." That was it--the chant. Now they were rushing at him, a sea of black, their robes flapping at their ankles. He looked around frantically for an escape route. His arms pumped at his sides, his feet blurred beneath him, but he didn't seem to be getting anywhere. They must have drugged him; but who were they? His head snapped around. They were almost on top of him. Move. Move. Fast. Air exploded from his lungs. A grinning face leered at him. The sky tilted. The pillars were toppling toward him. And suddenly he was awake, his arms twitching, his feet jerking, a scream poised at the edge of his tongue. He sucked in his breath and looked around. But he could still hear the incessant chanting. He blinked his eyes, orienting himself. The train. Of course. The cars rumbled over the rails, the sound of the chanting, and someone was pounding on the door of his compartment. He sat forward, and ran his hands across his perspiration-soaked brow. "Who is it?" The pounding stopped. The door opened and a slender, gray-haired Englishman wearing a conductor's uniform peered in at him. "Mr. Jones? Sorry if I disturbed you." Indy rubbed his face. "That's all right. What is it?" The conductor held up a package. "It was waiting for you at the last stop...
