The Count of the Sahara (15 page)

After everything was properly stowed and checked, I was at a loss as to how to fill the time. I sure wasn’t leaving this room again until it was show time, and who knew when the Count would return? I pulled out the sword and began tinkering, really getting lost in my work.

I was working on the paint job when a voice boomed out, “How’s it going?” Except for the long smear I made when he scared the bejeebers out of me, it actually didn’t look half bad.

De Prorok hung two pressed shirts in the wardrobe. There was no sign of the box. “It’s in the hotel safe til we leave.”

“What’s in it?”

“I’ve already told you, it’s personal. Nothing of any intrinsic value. Certainly nothing worth all of…” he gestured around the room, “this.” He peered over my shoulder. “Very nice.”

I held it up to the light. “It’ll be okay from the stage. Be better if it were really metal, though. I also fixed the con-n-nection to the v-v-eil.” He put a fatherly hand on my shoulder.

“Lovely job, Brown. Top notch. What do you say to an early supper, eh? My treat.”

I should have been suspicious when he offered to buy. I figured out why about halfway through dessert when he reminded me of a promise I’d made him in Ames.

I vaguely recalled the conversation, my memory not being solid gold at the best of times and three shots of Templeton surely didn’t help. I thought about telling him he remembered it wrong, but that wasn’t true. In the week I’d known him, he never forgot anything—not a name, a story or a drunken promise.

“It won’t work,” I said, trying to weasel out of it. “You kn-n-n-ow I c-c-can’t talk in p-p-public.” Just the idea thickened my tongue to the bursting point.

“You don’t say a word. Just stand there wearing the burnoose and the tagelmust,” he paused, pointing to his head. “Oh for… the turban. You remember. Anyway, just stand there for a few minutes while I talk about it, looking all… I don’t know…. Tuareg-y, I suppose.”

“I c-c-can’t,” I offered weakly.

“Of course you can. You can be silent as the grave. You did promise you’d at least try it.” He had me there. “And, of course, you haven’t been paid for this week, have you?”

That’s how, forty minutes or so into the lecture, I found myself standing behind a curtain waiting to make my debut. I was stuffed into that Tuareg getup: robes, turban and veil hastily tossed over my white overalls. In my belt was the fake flyssa.

I risked a peek out at the audience. Short notice and two days of snow resulted in only half a house—maybe a hundred folks—but that crowd looked awfully big and scary. Come on, I thought, let’s just get this over with.

Onstage, the Count was in perfect form. “Now, to give you an idea, I want you to imagine you are an Arab nomad. You’re alone in the desert; only you, your camel and the spirits of the Djinn.” He looked out to the second row at a skinny, bow-tied gent with a Chester Conklin moustache. “You, sir. Would you be willing to help me for a moment?”

The guy offered token resistance, but his wife, the audience and his ego combined to send him onstage, where the Count shook his hand and gently guided him by the shoulder to stage right. He stood facing de Prorok, his back to where I stood.

“Now, then. Your name, sir?”

“I’m Doctor Allen Lundquist.” I already knew that, because it had been my job to spot someone the right size and with a connection to the college. This goofus taught Scandinavian literature and was some kind of big deal.

“Now then, Dr. Lundquist. How tall are you, sir?”

“Five feet, seven inches tall.” He wasn’t, not by a long shot, but the audience allowed him the white lie.

In his spell-casting voice, the Count painted quite a picture. “Imagine, then. You’re only five six, like the average north Saharan Arab…” Over the guy’s head he gestured to me.

I took a deep breath and wandered onto the stage, my cheeks burning and heart trying to sledgehammer its way out of my chest. I kept my eyes glued firmly on the doctor’s back, not daring to look out at the audience, taking baby steps so I wouldn’t faint.

The poor sap on stage kept his eyes glued to the Count, even when the audience started to laugh. I moved as quietly as possible until I was about two arm-lengths away, then pulled the sword from my belt and held it straight in front of me.

“And you have heard nothing but the hot Sirocco winds, and the rustle of sand, but suddenly you turn around…” de Prorok grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around so he was nose to sword tip.

The dignified Dr. Lundquist nearly crapped himself. In front of him stood this six foot specter in blue robes and a veil, holding an evil looking brass blade mere inches from his nose. The audience went crazy, laughing and hooting. Frat boys shouted, “Atta boy, Professor,” and, “Let’s see you flunk
him.
”

The Count rapped his walking stick on the stage and moved between us. “Yes, the Tuaregs average over six feet tall, towering over their neighbors, especially on camelback. They are neither Arab nor Negro, but a white race. Their culture is full of mystery, and wonderful music. And dance…”

He caught my eye, gave a wink, and turned towards the audience. “Perhaps our warrior prince here would favor us with a dance…” The crowd loved the idea, clapping enthusiastically. I hated it, and without thinking stuck the sword in de Prorok’s face, my eyes bulging in panic over the veil.

“Or perhaps not,” he said to the audience, and they laughed even harder. He gave me a friendly wave and shooshed me away with his hand. I gratefully complied, nearly stumbling over my big galumphing feet in my rush to leave the stage.

He vamped for time as I desperately pulled the robes off, tossed them on a chair and crouch-walked back to the projector. I stayed low, trying not to crunch any innocent feet on the way back to my post.

While he droned on about King Akamoukasomethingorother, I took big gulps of air to calm myself. That had been nearly as awful as I imagined. I just about managed to achieve normal respiration when a big hand slapped me on the back. I almost slapped back, but some grinning galoot just said, “Good job, kid. That was great.” I gave a polite nod and an involuntary grin.

The rest of the lecture flew by. There was the usual outpouring of appreciation from the locals, and the usual flattery and thanks. I didn’t even look at the crowd when my name was mentioned, just waved and stared down at the table, although the ovation was much bigger than last time. My cheeks burned as usual, but I had to admit, I also kind of liked it.

There were the usual questions from the crowd. What’s next? (Back to Algeria, perhaps King Solomon’s Mines.) Where are the jewels? (In Paris or in Algiers where they belong.) Is there a Countess? (Sadly for the questioner the lovely Alice awaited him in Paris.) Throughout, strangers reached out to touch my arm and thank me while I squirmed like a five year old in church. Why couldn’t they just leave me alone to do my job?

I looked around for about the hundredth time but didn’t see any brown hats or pig eyes. I did see the Count bounding over to me, eyes blazing with a happy madness. “Brown, that worked a treat, an absolute treat.”

He babbled on about how it worked better than he ever thought, and how clever I was to threaten him with the sword—he hoped I would, of course—but oh didn’t they just eat it up, and we’d have to find a way to do that in the future, and it worked better than he dreamed, and on and on.

“Finish up, Brown. We’re going to celebrate. Our last night and all. Hurry up.” He looked for all the world like a six foot toddler waiting to be taken to the zoo. He did everything but stamp his foot.

At last I was done, and found him puffing steadily on his pipe, talking to some fat guy in an expensive suit chomping on a huge bratwurst of a cigar. I dragged the heavy crate next to him and let it drop louder than absolutely necessary. Without saying a word, I pointed to the white helmet still perched on top of his sweat-matted hair.

“Oh, yes, of course. Hardly winter wear is it?” He handed it to me with a chuckle.

The big guy shook his head. “You really wear that stuff?” I looked at him more closely. What I took for fat was mostly muscle, pretty much connecting his ear lobes with his shoulders. The hand holding the cigar was both perfectly manicured, and had scars across the knuckles. Dollars to doughnuts he wasn’t associated with Augustana College.

The Count seemed happy to have an audience, even if it was this guy. “Absolutely, although pith helmets don’t serve much purpose in the snow. They make a lot more sense when it’s a hundred degrees out and the sun is frying you to a crisp.” The mope just took another puff on his cigar and shook his head in amused disbelief.

“Mr. O’Malley is taking us out to celebrate tonight. Our reward for a job well done, eh?”

I’d rather have settled for getting paid and going back to the hotel, painfully aware that the loose change in my pocket was all I had to my name until I got paid the last ten bucks de Prorok owed me plus what I’d spent on supplies. Going out with this guy seemed like no way to hang onto my money. “Let’s get this stuff b-b-back to the hotel, then you go,” I suggested.

“Come on, kid. Live a little.” O’Malley gave a good natured growl. “This is a hell of a town. Not like it was when Looney ran things, but you can still swing a good time if you know where to look.” He looked like the type who knew exactly where to look.

Without a vote, it was determined I’d drive the Count and our equipment back to the Leclaire. We’d change into more conventional clothing and O’Malley would swing by and pick us up and we’d paint the town. With any luck I’d be able to wriggle out of it. I didn’t mind a good time, but this smelled really, really bad. Way worse than snow.

Chapter 10

Near Ourgla, Algeria

October 18, 1925

The proposed headline read, “
American Makes Important Discovery – Stone Hatchet Found in Sahara.”
Hal Denny had done his best to cobble the last couple of chaotic days into something interesting for the Times by letting the world know that the Franco-American Expedition of the Sahara had final found something newsworthy. Even if was only a palm sized, pointed black rock. The find was credited to Alonzo Pond of Beloit College’s Logan Museum.

“But I didn’t find it, Byron, you did,” Pond said, stabbing his finger at the typewritten pages.

De Prorok took a slow, deep breath. This was the petty nonsense Gsell had warned him about; the price you paid for the glamour of being the boss. While Byron had been involved in plenty of these arguments over who gets credit for what, primarily as an instigator, he’d yet to deal with anyone wanting their name removed from a discovery.

Worse, it had been his own idea to credit the find to the American in the first place. Now his gesture of goodwill was getting thrown back in his face. It was so simple; offer an olive branch to the Logan by giving them credit, while at the same time applying a balm to Pond’s wounded feelings. God knows the poor bastard deserved something for putting up with Reygasse’s nonsense the last few days.

“I don’t want or need credit for something I didn’t do,” Pond stubbornly continued. “Why would you allow Hal to write something that wasn’t true? You don’t do science that way.” Byron didn’t bother telling him that small concessions and omissions were bad for science, but exceptionally helpful to funding. Now wasn’t the time to rehash that discussion, and it never seemed to sink in anyway.

Pond knew that his vehemence was two parts righteous indignation and one part petty jealousy of de Prorok, but was past caring. After two days grappling with Reygasse over every piece of flint and broken cockle shell, the smug son of a bitch waltzed in and practically tripped over a flawless axe head sitting under a stone overhang. How had he even seen it? De Prorok was the luckiest digger he’d ever seen. It wasn’t fair.

Pond eventually left, and the Count patted Denny on the shoulder. “With that one minor exception, it’s quite an accurate accounting. I like how you took all the bits about the cockle shells and barnacles and such and drew the conclusion the Sahara was under water at one time. That’s important stuff.”

“If you say so. Not exactly Tut’s tomb is it?”

“Patience, my friend. This is only the beginning. If there was water here, there was a totally different kind of life. Maybe even a different civilization. If there was enough water…”

Denny groaned. “Chrissakes, Byron. Atlantis is not buried in the middle of the Sahara. Let it go.”

The reporter’s impatience with his current pet theory didn’t deter de Prorok at all. “But Hal, what if it was, eh? Can you imagine what a discovery like that would be worth? Schliemann and Carter, both Geographic Societies, Maurice Reygasse, and Beloit bloody College could collectively kiss my arse.” He was only half kidding.

“Until that glorious day of jubilee, who do I say found the rock?”

“Give it to Pond, and from now on we ask forgiveness, rather than permission.”

It wasn’t strictly ethical
, he reasoned
, but not a mortal sin
. While he might take the odd shortcut, he knew good work when he saw it. That’s why he didn’t begrudge Pond and Reygasse their passions. They were uncovering important information about the desert and its peoples. Let them have their moments of discovery and glory. He could afford to be benevolent and share the credit at this stage. His real prize lay in Hoggar when they finally opened Tin Hinan’s tomb.
Still, what if they did find Atlantis?

Denny nodded. Then pointedly asked, “No other edits?”

“No, none at all.” He knew what Hal referred to, and was initially upset at the recounting of the rains, the lost supplies and, especially, getting stuck in the mud. “You’re a journalist, you’re recording what you saw. I can’t interfere with that…” He gladly would have if he could, but he couldn’t, so…. “Besides, think of the story as we go. All these mounting obstacles, the readers fearing for our safety… it’ll make the final victory seem that more, I don’t know, dramatic. No, Hal, you’re doing fine. Thank you. And give my best to Carr.”

This was their last night here in Ourgla, then on to the Legion outpost at Hassan Ifel, or Hassi Inifel, or Sin Ifel, or whatever they bloody called it this week. Most Algerian villages had several names depending on who was looking for it and how bad their pronunciation of the local dialect was. Besides the fort, there was a bordj, or a rough inn there, and they wouldn’t have to sleep on the ground. They’d even be able to rustle up a decent sponge bath.

With the teams out at the dig sites, he had the main campground more or less to himself. Some quiet would be good as there was one more important job to do, and it was critical to his long-term plan; to document each site and who wanted to dig there in the future. When it was his job to administer all this next year, he could match the right people with each site. And, of course, the price charged would depend on how badly they wanted it. That happy thought kept him occupied until the teams came back for dinner and arbitration of their petty squabbles.

The next day, they settled in for the five-hour drive to Sin Ifel. Brad Tyrrell picked out the notes of “Peg O’ My Heart” on the harmonica while Pond stared out the window, trying not to dwell on his disappointment. There was great digging to be done, he just hadn’t really had the chance, and it gnawed at him. At least the desert was beginning to look like his vision of the Sahara. It was an hour or more between evidence of human habitation, and the ground was alternately sandy and mirror-flat, or tall jagged heaps of stone.

“Monsieur Pond, you know what we call this?” Martini asked from the front seat as he steered wildly around a huge stone.

“No, what?” Pond was grateful for any conversation because it usually stopped Brad from playing.

“We call this Michelin Land. The tire company built it to sell more tires.”

Tyrrell nodded. “They’re smart, the Michelin folks. They managed to convince Renault to put twelve tires on their trucks instead of four. That’s a hell of a salesman pulled that off.”

Pond laughed. “Not as good as the guy with the bully beef concession around here. You’d think Byron could have gotten a few cans of something else. Even beans would be good.”

“Easy for you to say, I have to share a back seat with you,” the older man added, then blew a low flatulent sounding note on his Hohner.

Ahead in Sandy, Byron watched as they approached the village. Cresting a small dune, the walls of the Foreign Legion fort glared white and blinding in the afternoon sun. As they drew nearer, it was obvious only a skeleton crew remained. The rest of the force had taken the fight out of the rebel tribes and moved on to battle better armed, more serious problems like insurgent Arabs and Communists in the cities to the north.

He sent up a quiet plea to the gods or the djinns or whoever would listen that the provisioners remembered to leave water and gasoline as instructed. A few cans of something other than bully beef would probably be too much to ask as well, but if they were granting small favors, he’d take it.

For once things were precisely as expected. Fuel and food were stacked in a shaded corner of the bordj when they pulled up. The proprietor, a wiry Arab with a shoe brush moustache excitedly pointed it out. His manner suggested both a deep pride in his own integrity and an even deeper desire that honesty be remembered to the appropriate authorities. Byron happily assured him he wouldn’t be forgotten.

By three in the afternoon, everything was counted, stacked and stored. Everyone but de Prorok seemed perfectly happy to have themselves a rinse and a siesta. Byron walked around the bordj, needlessly re-inspecting everything, gratified that for once all was in order, but bored. And, he knew, inaction was seldom his friend.

Trying to settle his thoughts, he pulled out the list he’d compiled of all the shots he wanted for his new lecture tour. He wanted to build the sense of mystery and tension up to the inevitable triumphant discovery of the tomb.

When people thought of the Sahara, they conjured images of blowing sand, S-shaped line after line of drifting particles burying, uncovering and reburying anything foolish enough to challenge its will. Men clawing across the dunes to their death, that’s what people expected—practically needed—to hear from desert travelers. Unfortunately, they’d been met with all that blasted rain and mud. Reality could really muck up a good tale.

But now that sun was out in full force, and things were returning to normal. He thought about the dunes they passed on the way into town. If he, well Barth, pointed the camera correctly, it could create that lonely arid visual he needed to create the man-against-the-elements tableau he was looking for. He jumped up. “Barth. Henri? I have an idea…”

“But it’s so late in the day, maybe tomorrow… the morning light would be better,” he protested meekly.

“Nonsense. Late afternoon, long shadows on barren sands. It’ll be perfect, and you know it.”

“But Chapuis isn’t here…”

“God’s sake man, we don’t need Chapuis for a glorified walk in the park do we?” Henri Barth mopped his brow with a grimy handkerchief. There were no decent fans in the boarding house, and he was a wet mess. He couldn’t imagine how close to boiling his Swiss blood would be out on the dunes.

“An hour. Two at the most. Come on, man, daylight’s wasting. Please?” Twenty minutes later the Count and Barth, along with a still camera, a handheld movie camera and several rolls of film bounced along in Sandy, Escande at the wheel.

“Here you go, perfect, right here.” Sandy pulled to the side of the road by a marker proclaiming two miles to Sin Ifel. A large dune petered out right at the road’s edge. De Prorok leapt out and ran as best he could up the steep slope to the top. From there he could see the road, of course, but turning his back to the trail, he faced what looked like hell’s waiting room… a sea of sand, broken only by jagged islands of rock and one bare, thorny tree. Low dune after dune led to an infinite horizon. He looked and saw his shadow spreading yards ahead of him to the east. That meant the sun was directly behind him, an impossible landmark to miss. This would be easy.

“Henri, come up here, you have to see this!”

With a shrug of defeat, the Swiss photographer followed the already fading footprints up the sand bank to the crest. He didn’t bring any equipment with him, harboring the faint hope he’d be able to talk to the Count out of this madness.

When he got to the crest, de Prorok could tell he’d won. The view was perfect, Barth’s protests be damned. Barth might—indeed did—complain a lot, but in his more honest moments he’d tell you that the Count had a good eye for what worked on film. The films they’d done in Carthage made both their reputations. They were by far the best anyone had gotten from there and the audiences, especially American audiences, loved them.

A light breeze moved sand around, but it was hard packed and easy to walk on. He barely left a print. It would be easy walking once the equipment got here. He turned to Barth, who was already mentally framing shots.

“Where’s your gear, man?” Byron snapped at him.

“I didn’t want to haul it all the way up here if we weren’t…” His head dropped in defeat, and he yelled down the dune, “Escande, can you bring my gear up here please?”

From the road, Byron could hear the driver. “Come get it yourself, you lazy Swiss pig.” That was hardly going to raise the esprit de corps.

“Come on, Henri, I’ll help you. We’ll get a good days work in, eh?” He gave the photographer a slap on the shoulder hard enough to spin him around. Then he skittered down the dune to the car and was already half way up with a load when he passed Barth, still making his way gingerly down the hill.

Several minutes later, Barth emerged over the lip of the dune soaked with perspiration, red-faced and puffing. He put his hands to his knees for a moment, then stretched and weakly took up his tripod. The Count was already a hundred yards ahead of him and widening the distance.

“Allons-y, Henri. Just over that next dune will be perfect.” Then he strode off, still looking through his binoculars.

“What’s wrong with right here? It looks good to me.”

“Trust me, Henri. I know what I’m doing.”

By the time Barth caught up to him over the next dune, Byron had the shot he wanted. He looked north through his fingers, forming an imaginary camera lens. Then he made a quarter turn west and framed that shot, too. It was perfect.

Pacing off three steps, he turned. “I’ll stand here, you shoot me this way, with me looking into the sun like it’s morning, see?” He turned. His face changed ever so slightly, taking on a dreamy appearance. His voice changed, becoming the voice of the lecturer, the narrator of the adventure film. His extended arms and flat palms helped paint an entrancing, exotic picture.

“As sun rises over the Sahara, you see the miles of trackless desert before you… and this is where you pan all the way around, Henri, three hundred and sixty degrees you see. That sense of loneliness. Wouldn’t do to have the road behind you like there’s an easy way out… And at the end of the day…” He spun slowly clockwise until he faced away from the late afternoon sun. The shadows stretched far ahead of him, “…still nothing but sand, rock and fear.”