The Count of the Sahara (12 page)

With a final flourish, he handed me the sword and showed me how to take up a warrior’s stance; feet apart, sword upright in the middle of my body. “Take a couple of good swings with it,” he said after taking a couple of long steps back.

I mimicked the moves he’d made on stage earlier. I had to admit, it looked pretty terrifying until the blade snapped and fell limply to one side. There was an awkward silence, then he said, “Well, yes, whiskey has been known to do that,” and he erupted in laughter.

I looked at the broken flyssa. “Has that ever happened before?”

He wiped a tear of laughter from his eye. “You tell me. How well do you hold your liquor?” I didn’t get it, which made him laugh even harder. I didn’t know what I’d done that was so funny, and this was starting to get uncomfortable.

He plunked down in his chair, cackling wildly as he poured himself yet another drink. I quickly yanked the turban from my head, letting it unspool in an undignified pile at my feet and then de-robed. I was determined to get out of there while this was still the most humiliating thing to happen.

“Aww, and you make such a fine Tuareg, Brown. The Akhamouk of Ames. The mightiest warrior in all of Iowa,” he chuckled.

We made vague plans for the next morning, and I made slow, deliberate progress down the stairs, careful not to wake whoever had managed to sleep through our performance to that point.

When the bed stopped spinning, I drifted off to sleep watching snow fall outside the window. I made a mental note to fix the fake sword before our next stop in Moline. I also had the nagging feeling I’d agreed to do something else for the Count, but couldn’t remember what it was. It probably wasn’t a big deal, I decided, and passed out cold.

Chapter 8

Touggart, Algeria

October 16, 1925

“Ack, ack, ack, ack.”

Bradley Tyrrell, millionaire business owner and philanthropist, squatted in the mud making pretend machine gun noises, while Martini and Pond watched and nodded approvingly.

Martini managed something like a smile. “Très bien. Let’s do it again. Alonzo, allez-vous.”

In putting the expedition together, De Prorok decided a machine gun would be a good thing to have. For some reason, ammunition wasn’t an equal priority. In order not to waste what little they had in rehearsal, they pretended to fire into a group of imaginary rampaging Tuaregs and made the most convincing noises they could muster.

Another thing they lacked was any kind of fighting experience. Pond had been an ambulance driver in the War, his experience with weapons limited to avoiding them whenever possible, and picking up the remains of those who couldn’t do the same once the firing ceased. Tyrrell had seen a lot of movies and once met someone on a business trip to Chicago who knew someone who had met Al Capone. Martini served with a French artillery unit in
La Guerre Mondiale
. That made him commanding officer.

The two Americans clumsily disconnected the gun from the collapsible stand and loaded it back in Lucky Strike. Then, on Martini’s command, they hauled it out again, reassembled it and Pond took his turn firing imaginary bullets into the hypothetical attackers. “Ack, ack, ack, ack.”

Pond knew he looked ridiculous, but the optimum time to learn the use of this contraption wasn’t when swarming tribesmen and rampaging camels were bearing down on you. For that reason, they decided to take the morning and practice, rainy as it was.

It was fairly hostile territory, in its own way. They were surrounded by bemused locals.

“Can I try?” a young boy called in Arabic.

“C’mon, give me a turn,” yelled another.

“Agggh, you got me,” shouted the littlest one, spinning wildly where Tyrrell’s phantom projectile hit him and he fell, giggling, into a puddle where he was immediately dogpiled by his friends.

The elder locals were far less amused. They sat in front of their houses, sipping coffee and shouting obscene jokes about the Americans’ guns shooting blanks that brought howls from the youngsters who didn’t get the joke but appreciated any mocking of foreigners.

Alonzo looked down at his bleeding and blistered fingers. The gun was an old St Etienne with very finicky works—probably as much a danger to the operator as the people on the muzzle end. He was already in a bad mood, waiting all day for news from home, and this wasn’t helping. He had work to do, real work. “Why us? Why do we get the gun?”

It was Martini who pointed out that the options were more than a little limited. Who did they want to bet their lives on? The Count? Monsieur Reygasse? Did they want their lives in the hands of the Renault mechanics? Or fat Barth the photographer?

“But you know, the cars can drive faster than any camel born, we could just outrun them,” Tyrrell said with uncharacteristic churlishness. Martini nodded. “D’accord, as long as we’re on the road and not stuck in the sand. Then…” he gave a most eloquent shrug. “Encore, please.”

They were saved by a loud, piercing whistle from Chapuis. “Post’s here.”

Pond and Tyrrell re-packed the St Etienne and the stand along with the unopened ammo box with considerably more speed and gusto than they’d managed to that point, wiped their hands on their pants, and hustled back to the hotel in higher spirits. Alonzo watched over his shoulder as Martini carefully locked the vehicle and informed the children in curse-laden Arabic what would happen to them if they touched anything. Then the little Italian wandered off in the other direction, enjoying the chance to be alone.

De Prorok sat at a table in the lobby of the hotel with a short glass full of brandy and a thick stack of envelopes, addressed in a host of languages, in front of him, sorting them by recipient. Each Renault driver had a letter, Martini had none—but then the Italian had no family he was aware of. Hal Denny had two or three letters, none of them official looking. Brad Tyrrell received only a couple of postcards, sent from friends in Europe apparently having a swell time and wishing he was with them. Three envelopes awaited Alonzo Pond; a thin one from Dorothy, Pond’s new flame back in Wisconsin, one from his parents in Janesville, and an ominously bulging packet from the Logan Museum.

I wish I knew how to make Lonnie happy. He’s not a bad sort, if a bit serious about everything. And God only knows what he’s reporting back to Collie
, de Prorok thought. Beloit College’s support was important for this trip, even more critical to his plans for the next few years. There had to be a way to make the little American get fully onboard. Far better to have Pond as an ally than an enemy, and they were off to a demonstrably shaky start.

He examined his own stack of mail. An imposing manila envelope clearly marked Beloit College lay on top, and he quickly moved it to the bottom of the pile. The same with what was probably a scolding letter from his mentor, Professor Gsell. Why ruin a nice afternoon until you absolutely had to?

He picked up the expensive-looking embossed envelop, slit the seal with his thumbnail and opened it up. Alice’s round, girlish handwriting filled the page:

October 14, 1925

Paris

Dearest Byron,

How are you? The girls and I are well and missing you terribly. Little Alice smiled at me today, although Annie says that’s only gas, and she’s too young. I told her the baby is every bit as smart as her father and is ahead of the other children, and she just laughed. M-T misses her Papa something awful, and has been very naughty, but she is two and they say that’s what they do at that age. I don’t know.

I hope you’ve solved your little problem with the local suppliers. Daddy agreed to wire the money, but he was awfully cross about it. I know that when you come back such a success he’ll appreciate you more, like I do. Please try to be nicer to him, you’ll win him over and he’ll come around.

Mother is looking forward to having us for Christmas, and I have to admit I’m looking forward to going home. To Brooklyn, I mean. I like Paris, but the only person I can speak English with is Annie. The rest of the staff speak English reasonably well, but insist I speak in French to learn, then make fun of me because I’m so awful. They think they’re helping but it just seems mean.

I don’t mean to complain, I just miss you so much. Sometimes I wish I were with you in the desert, like back at Carthage, instead of sitting here by myself changing diapers. Mary says she’s coming over in a few weeks, then will go back to NY with us. Won’t that be nice?

Be safe, and come back to me dripping with gold and diamonds and glory like you promised.

All my love,

A

Byron felt a glow that was only partially from the brandy. He really did miss Alice and the babies. The details of the household, which used to bore him to tears, seemed absolutely charming at this distance. For the first time in a while, she sounded like the Alice he married; the spunky New York heiress who was game for anything. She was such a good sport she spent her honeymoon at a dig in Carthage, eating camp food and shoveling sand into a sieve. She found it all great fun, and loved being the center of attention, especially by the press.

No one could possibly love being Countess de Prorok more than Alice de Prorok
née
Kenny. Unfortunately, just as the fun was beginning, she came down with two off-setting conditions; an itch for travel and a suddenly swelling belly. For a while, she seemed to resent Byron for her plight, but his last visit home, and this letter, seemed to bode well for their future.

Her father, however, was a different matter. Like all fathers-in-law, Bill Kenny thought Byron beneath his daughter. Like all sons-in-law, he found that an insulting notion, but when your only yardstick was money, completely reasonable. Oh well, that will change soon enough.
Let the nouveau-riche bastard complain when we find the treasure, and I come home with the digging rights and the income that goes with them. Let’s see if Mr. “I’m good friends with Al Smith” lords it over me then.

He looked over the rest of his mail. One letter bore very good news—an offer to speak at Grinnell College, wherever the hell that was. Byron checked the address again. Iowa, he knew, was somewhere near Chicago, so maybe he could string a decent run of dates together and make it worthwhile, although the idea of the Midwest in January was less than enticing.

The second letter was less encouraging. JH Finley, the president of the National Geographic Society was all up in arms because Byron had another speaking engagement in Virginia around the same time as the one he had booked with them. It was all petty nonsense, of course. The two lectures were on different topics, and was he supposed to turn down good money because of the Society’s territorialism? It would all work itself out.

He took another contemplative sip, hoping it would gird his loins to read the letter from Gsell, when angry American voices echoed over the stone tiles. Looking up, he saw Pond and Tyrrell sandwiching a harassed looking Hal Denny between them. Pond was gesticulating wildly, while Brad looked on shaking his head from time to time.

“Look, I can’t help what they do in New York…”

Pond was having none of it. “Not one real mention in over a month? Come on.”

“That’s a piss-poor excuse, Hal, and you know it.” Brad was the calmer of the two, but only by a few degrees. That wasn’t like him, and Byron knew he’d have to intervene.

Byron listened for a moment, trying to figure out what waters he was about to wade into, and what lay beneath them. The answer probably lay in that package he’d avoided, but maybe it was better to claim ignorance in this case. Finally, he couldn’t delay the inevitable any more. He put on his best conciliatory smile, took a single deep breath and stepped in. “Gentlemen, something I can help with?”

“As a matter of fact, Byron, there is, although you’ve probably been made aware of it by now,” said Brad with obviously forced composure. Tyrrell was taking charge, and Pond was happy to let him do it. He took a step back, happy to be out of the line of fire.

“I was just telling Hal, here, that the College and the Museum’s involvement are at least partly based on publicity. We’re supposed to get a fair mention in every single article—you know that’s the deal we made—well, George Collie just wrote that in Denny’s last four articles… four of them… We’ve gotten a single line. One. And that just a throwaway.”

Denny piped up, his face turning scarlet. “And I told you…”

“Really, I had no idea. Hal, is that true?” Byron asked as calmly as he could.

The writer took a step back so he wasn’t sandwiched between the two taller men, having to look upwards to speak. “I can’t control what they do in New York. That’s what I’m trying to tell them. I submitted the stories, I’ll show you the drafts, but the copy people… they butcher stories all the time. I have no control over what makes the paper. Hell, I don’t control much of anything.”

Byron knew if Denny did have any real say in things he wouldn’t be here now. He also couldn’t afford to irritate either Beloit or the Times, and blast it if every bloody thing he did seemed to annoy someone.
Why couldn’t everyone just play nicely?
“I understand your dilemma, must be awfully frustrating for you. And Brad, I haven’t read the letter from George yet, so this is the first I’m hearing about it, although I’m sure it’s in there. You’re right, the Logan and Alonzo… and you… deserve a full mention in all articles. I know Hal’ll make every effort.” He couldn’t resist a quick confirming look down his nose at the sweating reporter, and offered a sympathetic smile.

Tyrrell was visibly more relaxed now. “Thanks for that. Hal, I know it’s not your fault, but we do need to make sure all our needs get met. I know you’ll do your best.”

Byron had an idea. “Hal, would it help if I wrote a note to Carr Van Anda?”

Denny visibly blanched at the name of the mention of the Times’ imperious Editor in Chief. “Jesus, Byron, that’s not necessary. Let me see what I can do first.” De Prorok cursed himself. As usual, a genuine offer to help was misinterpreted. Why did everyone always think the worst of him?

“Of course, Hal. I’ll leave it to you. Brad, Alonzo, will that work for you? You know our relationship with the Museum is important, and there’s so much future work at stake, for all of us. Really wonderful stuff, I’d hate to see a simple misunderstanding gum up the works. We’ll all watch out for each other.” He gave his best deal-closing smile, and Tyrrell returned it in kind.

Pond watched as both men lit their pipes, obviously more satisfied with the outcome than he was, but nodded as well. He was glad Tyrrell was here to take care of the business end of things. If only he could get on with some real work, it might make everything more bearable.

“Alright then, I believe the sun is over the yardarm, time for a drink. Pond, will you join us?” He knew better than to ask Denny, who preferred to sulk in public. Besides, he probably had to make some strategic changes to his next dispatch.

“No, I have things to do. Thanks anyway.” Alonzo knew he’d need to cool off, and a walk in the light drizzle might just do it. He turned and left the hotel, twisting his neck to get rid of the tension. Getting rained on seemed somehow apropos given the news from home.