The Count of the Sahara (28 page)

Once everything was safely stowed, Byron heaved a sigh of relief. The only decision remaining was when to leave and where to go. Originally, they were heading in different directions. Reygasse and his car would go to a paleolithic site west of Tamanrasset. Pond was to go to another, just outside Alouef.

He, Brad Tyrrell, Hal Denny and Barth were heading home. After all, Tyrrell had been promised he’d be home for Christmas, and God knows the man had been a trooper but he’d clearly had enough. With Tin Hinan found, Byron’s own interest in staying around vanished like a mirage. All he could think about was spending a little time with Alice, the babies, and the public acclaim he’d earned after all this foolishness.

Chapuis had a different idea. “We’d best leave all together, and as fast as we can,” he stated with calm assurance. “The Tuaregs know we’re here, and they won’t be in a forgiving mood if we take their queen for a joyride.” Belaid agreed with more energy than he’d ever shown about anything, which was enough to convince any doubters.

They settled on getting to the garrison at In Salah, where the Legion was posted and could provide cover while they made further plans. If luck was with them, and wouldn’t it be nice when that was no longer part of the equation, they’d only have to camp out one night on the way. The renewed thomp-thomp-thomp of drums from the village sealed the deal.

The caravan was loaded in record time, and the Expedition set out for home. With the path known, and the excitement more or less over, things reverted to their natural order. Sandy, with Escande behind the wheel, took the Count, Denny, Barth and Queen Tin Hinan, took the lead. Hot Dog, chauffeured by a sullen, homesick Chaix had Reygasse, Chapuis and Belaid. Martini was relegated to the rear with Lucky Strike, two Americans, an unfair share of the equipment, and the Beloit College banner and pennant flapping in farewell.

The caravan shot along the riverbed, then onto the rutted road that ran through Abalessa to In Salah. As they neared the village, they could hear drumming again over the noise of the Renault’s engine.

As usual, it was Hal Denny’s voice that dragged de Prorok out of his daydreams and back to the real world. “What the Christ is that?”

All along the village side of the road, a small crowd of Haratins gathered. Most held spears, a few brandishing ancient carbine rifles. A few bright blue Tuareg robes could be seen mixed in the crowd, their owners sitting atop camels. Drums beat and weapons waved in the air, but that all ceased as the line of vehicles drew closer.

The crowd fell silent, and turned as one to witness the crazy white men coming towards them, rather than wait on the mountain to be slaughtered. One of the leaders stomped angrily to the middle of the road and held his hand up, seeming to demand they stop and fight like men.

In the lead vehicle, Escande tightened his grip on the wheel and gritted his teeth. De Prorok sat upright, his hand on the dashboard, his teeth gritted to prevent screaming like a little girl. Denny scribbled furiously in his notebook as neatly as the rocking of the car permitted.

“Easy now, try not to kill someone,” the Count said as calmly as he could.

“I will if they will,” countered the driver, flooring it.

“This is amazing stuff. Forget articles, there’s a book here. Assuming we live to write it, of course.” Byron was sure Denny was only half joking.

The car got much closer to the elder than either party expected before the old man jumped out of the way and Sandy shot past, followed by the other two vehicles and outraged cries and wails from the villagers.

As Lucky Strike shot past the crowd last, Pond and Tyrrell stuck their heads out the windows and looked back. They could see two camels piloted by rifle-waving Tuaregs half-heartedly chasing them, then shrinking into the distance until they were just angry black dots against the light sand of the road bed.

Laughing in relief, they slapped Martini on the back and began the Beloit chant: “Ole Oleson, Yonny Yonson, on Beloit. Wisconsin.” Martini joined in the laughter, feeling confident enough to drop back to an appropriate twenty miles an hour and pointed Lucky Strike northeast towards In Salah.

November 14, 1925

9. Rue Alfred-Dehodencq, XVI

Paris. France

Dearest Byron,

I hope this letter finds you well and happy, my darling. By now you will, of course, have found your Queen and will be too rich and famous to ever talk to us again. Don’t forget your Countess. Ha ha.

The papers are just full of your adventures. Did you really find all that treasure? I hope you bring home a little something I can wear around the house. Maybe just a simple tiara I can wear with my housecoat! It sounds so wonderful, and I’m so proud. I wish I was with you. Do you remember how much fun we had in Carthage? None of my friends ever had a honeymoon so swell.

Your last letter sounded a little sad. Does Daddy miss his girls? They surely miss you. M-T is walking now, well, running around like a wild Indian, actually. Thank goodness for Annie or I don’t know what I’d do. Annie is being terribly grumpy, she hates France and wants to go back to New York. I admit, I get a little homesick, but wait until you hear me parle français.

Mary is coming over and will come back to New York at Christmastime with us. I know you don’t like my sister, much, but that’s only because she’s such a mother hen to me and our chicks. She really does like you, you know. Please try to get along with her this time.

Daddy says the funds have been wired and everything is fine. Just contact Mr. Langham as soon as you can. Apparently, it’s quite a lot of money and he’s very concerned about it. You know what you’re doing, of course, but you know how Daddy is.

I will leave you to all your important work, and I know you’ll be home in two weeks! I can’t wait to see you. The girls and I will cover with you kisses and give you breakfast in bed and treat you like a king, because you are the King of the Explorers now that you found the Queen.

All my love,

A

P.S. Try to bring home something for the girls this time. Just a little souvenir. They miss you too.

Chapter 20

In Salah, Algeria

November 24, 1925

The telegram read:

To: Maury Chef Cabinet Gouverneur General

Palais Ete, Algiers

Comte Prorok has discovered a magnificent prehistoric treasure

Very rich and unique

Will donate to the general government

Respectfully, Reygasse

De Prorok smiled and nodded. “Wonderful, Maurice, well done. Don’t you think we should send a copy to the Logan Museum as well?” Letting the Americans know the same time as the French was a small bone to throw them. Their money had been—still was, if he was being honest—absolutely crucial to their success. But at least it was official, the world was learning of their triumph.

The Count, Maurice Reygasse and Hal Denny stood sweating in the telegraph office, swatting at flies the size of bats. The men crowded around a table fine-tuning their cables and trying to keep the papers from blowing around.

By virtue of rank and ability to speak whatever pidgin French the telegraph operator worked in, Reygasse was the first to tell the world of their success. As he worked with the operator to get the news out, de Prorok and Hal Denny went over the copy one last time.

Byron barely recognized himself in the stories. He felt nothing at all like the dashing, intrepid, heroic figure in Denny’s accounts. In truth he was haggard, underweight, miserable and, good Christ, he needed a drink in the worst way. Still, the sins Denny committed were of omission, not commission, and both of them could live with that.

The Times would get exciting accounts of their discovery, albeit the value of the relics was slightly exaggerated. Page One would come alive with the saga of Pond’s camel ride to their rescue, even though none of that would have been necessary if de Prorok had planned correctly, or the sandstorm that held them up a day and a half before they could make In Salah, necessitated by their sudden cowardly dash for home, or the brave French Legionnaires escorting them from the barren wastes into civilization, despite the inconvenient fact that escort was only necessary because of the carless plunder of a holy site and de Prorok’s bold-faced lies to the Tuaregs and their King.

Denny ran his finger over the page. “Is sepulcher with an ‘er’ or an ‘re’?”

“Isn’t that what you have editors for, Hal?”

“I don’t trust those idiots on the copy desk. This stuff is pure gold; I want them to keep their grubby mitts off of it.” Denny’s mood hadn’t improved even though the saddle sores were pretty much healed.

“Next,” muttered the telegrapher, extending a gnarled brown hand. Denny slipped a thick stack of typewritten pages across the chipped formica. “All of this?” Denny nodded and the agent moaned in despair, and mopily returned to his keypad, dit-dot-dashing the news to France, then to London, and across the Atlantic.

De Prorok thought about how the Times would describe their entry into In Salah: the cars arriving amidst gunfire and loud cheers—exactly as he’d imagined it would be. That was only an hour ago, and everything had turned to shit since then.

A stack of angry cables and letters from Beloit, New York and Constantine was his welcome home gift, each more demanding than the last. He expected Commandant Beaumont to be all smiles and congratulatory cheek kisses, instead there was a terse demand that the Expedition’s leaders meet him in his office at “the first available minute,” which basically meant he was already late.

The Count straightened his shirt and pants, using two fingers to pick at them, unsticking them from his chest as best he could. “Alright Maurice, let’s go face the music.”

Four doors down from the telegraph office was the mud brick building that served as local headquarters for the police, the Legion, the tax collection unit, the Bureau of the Interior and anyone else responsible for keeping a lid on things beyond the civilized—meaning French—cities of Algeria. The various departments and bureaus couldn’t agree on much, but at the moment they were in accord on one important point. They each wanted their hands on Byron Khun de Prorok, and all of them expected their own pound of flesh.

If the Count was sweating before, he was positively drenched now as the meeting with Beaumont went from bad to worse and from worse to the sixth level of hell. He was hunched over on a hard, straight-backed chair, elbows digging into his knees. Reygasse stood beside him, occasionally clapping a hand to his shoulder in whatever negligible comfort he could offer. Beaumont himself sat behind his desk, leaning forward from time to time. Sitting cross-legged on a cushion and occasionally puffing on a hookah, but otherwise silent, was the local Caid, a picture of serene confidence in a snow-white burnoose.

“My hand to God, we’re not hiding anything.” De Prorok desperately tried to control the whiney tone of his voice, which emerged whenever he was confronted by authority.

“I’m afraid he’s right,” the Marshall said. “You’ve seen everything we have.”

Beaumont was unimpressed. “My men are getting shot at for a few bones and some rocks? That’s the great treasure you’ve been bragging about?”

“It’s not about treasure, damn it.” The Count’s voice rose another third of an octave before he paused to bring it back down. “It’s about the discovery itself… the Queen of the Tuaregs… Maybe proof of Romans or Carthaginians all the way south to Hoggar. Do you have any…?”

The soldier slapped his palm on his desk, scattering several papers and a dozen flies. “Well, the current King of the Tuaregs wants his grandmamma back,
tout de suite
, along with all the gold you stole.”

De Prorok tried to answer, or at least made a vague croaking sound, but Maurice Reygasse gestured that he’d handle it. Putting on his best logical-bureaucrat voice, he spoke. “Commandant, the only gold found was that one necklace, and that tiny bead, which you know are now the property of the Government.” He pronounced the last two words very carefully, not being subtle about the importance of the stakeholders. “The bones must go on to Paris for verification and further study. The turmoil is unfortunate, but…”

“Unfortunate? You’re lucky you didn’t wind up buried up to the neck and fed to the ants.”

The chieftain, having had enough of trivialities, sat straighter on his cushion, calmly smoothing the wrinkles from his robe. “None of this answers the important question, Messieurs, which is, where is our money?”

De Prorok’s eyes shot fire. “We don’t owe you any money. You and your… co-conspirators have robbed us blind from the beginning. You should have enough by now to buy this country back twice over.”

“You have proof of these payments?” Beaumont leaned forward hopefully.

The Count sniffed, “Of course not. When you’re in the middle of the God forsaken Sahara, there aren’t a lot of notaries around certifying transactions.” He could tell by the pained expression on Reygasse’s face he just said something wrong. Again.

“Gentlemen,” the Marshall said calmly, “would you give me a moment with my young friend here?”

The Legion commander shrugged. “Maybe you can talk some sense to him.” The look on his face suggested great skepticism on that front. The tall Arab stood as well, gave a serene salaam and walked out, confident things were going his way.

As soon as they were gone, de Prorok slumped forward, running his fingers through his hair. “Maurice, this is madness…”

“Stop whining. You really don’t have receipts, or records of payment?”

“Do you really keep track of all the baksheesh you pay, and all the last-minute deals you make?”

Reygasse threw up his hands. “Of course. Bribery is a cost of doing business. You track your payments to whom and for how much. Without documentation it’s your word against someone else’s. Even if you have it, it’s still your word against theirs, but paperwork tips the scales in your favor.” De Prorok sat open mouthed, while the Frenchman continued his lecture. “Paperwork is the life blood of any rational society. It’s why the French colonies thrive while the British Empire crumbles to bits.”

“But they’re really going to take his word over mine… ours?” de Prorok asked incredulous.

“Byron, my boy, Beaumont and the government will have to deal with the Arabs and the tribes long after you’re safely back in Paris. Why would they take your side?”

De Prorok shook his head, sweat flying everywhere. “And where are we supposed to get this money from? Can the Ministry help us?”

Reygasse chuckled at the notion. “And why would the French government pay to get you out of trouble with the Algerian government, which gets all its money from the French government? Grow up.” He saw the pain on de Prorok’s face and eased up a bit. “How much do they want?”

De Prorok stood up and grabbed some papers off Beaumont’s desk. “Thousands. Look…” He shook the papers under Reygasse’s nose. “Several hundred to suppliers for materiele dropped off to difference caches, most of which you’ll recall never arrived, permit fees… We had all the approvals before we left.”

Reygasse snatched the papers and looked for himself. “Approvals from whom?”

“Rouvier’s office. In Constantine.” De Prorok could tell from the Frenchman’s reaction that was every bit as bad as his gut told him it was.

“Did you have it all in writing?”

“Most of it. I had it on good authority the rest would be rubber stamped before we got to Tamanrasset.”

“Who was that authority?” Reygasse asked, flinching because he already knew the answer.

“Madame Rouvier herself. Denise…” As the words flew out of his mouth, the Count realized the enormity of his miscalculation and his shoulders slumped. “Christ, this is bad, isn’t it?”

“Let’s think about this. Without the proper papers, you don’t have the protection of the government. Without protection from the government, you are on your own to deal with the locals to strike your own deals. That seems to be where you are. Surely you went through the same foolishness in Carthage?”

De Prorok sat back down on his chair and blew a heavy sigh at the ceiling fan. “I never dealt with any of this piddly crap. Professor Gsell or one of his assistants dealt with the permits and such.”

“Well, that ‘piddly crap’ is your best friend if you’re going to be the Regional Administrator. Get used to it.”

The mention of his future income soothed de Prorok’s soul a little. “Alright, so right now… today… how do we fix this?”

Reygasse’s patience was at its end. “Do I have to wipe your ass for you, too? Who always has money? The Americans.”

De Prorok bit his lip and shook his head sadly. “They won’t like it. Collie at the Logan is still furious with me for the advance I took at El Kantara.”

“That was before about a million dollars’ worth of publicity in the Times. Do you want to stay here the rest of your life?”

“No, I have to be in Paris next week.”

“Then talk to Tyrrell and Pond. Tell them you’ll give them a break on the digging rights for next year. Little Lonnie is already wetting his pants to get at those sites. He’s a pain in my ass, but they trust him, and he knows the value of what we’ve found out there. I’ll handle Rouvier on my end, you get the money from them. Of course there’s always your father-in-law…”

“Out of the question. Alright, I’ll speak to Brad.” He had to admit, Maurice had a point. But those weren’t the only problems. “What about the Caid?”

Reygasse smiled and patted Byron’s shoulder. “My friend, his people haven’t gone anywhere in a thousand years. You’re the one with the timetable. He can afford to be patient. And he knows Beaumont wants him happy. Get the money, the rest will sort itself out.”

“You’re sure.”

“D’accord.”

Outside, a horn blew a deep “a-oo-gah” as children and chickens scattered. Martini piloted Lucky Strike to the side of the caravanserai that served as headquarters. Alonzo Pond and Brad Tyrrell emerged, stretching their legs after a long day digging, sifting and cataloguing. Pond was giddy with delight. Tyrrell was just tired.

The older man groaned and stretched his long legs. “How do you do it? You looked like a five year old in a sandbox.”

Pond knew where this conversation was headed. “It’s just what I do, Brad. What real anthropologists do. The work needs to be precise. It’s what separates professionals from the amateurs.” He didn’t need to name names, and Brad was tired of him bitching about it anyway.

A voice boomed from the doorway. “Gentlemen, can I buy you a drink? That’s thirsty work you’ve been doing.”

Tyrrell smiled. “I do believe I need something to cut the dust, Byron. Pond?”

Some of the glow left the shorter man’s face. “Sure, why not? Give me a minute. I’ll meet you inside.” As he climbed the stairs to his room and splashed water on his face, he allowed himself to indulge the dark thoughts he usually kept under wraps. When was the blowhard going to leave, already? He got his damned Queen, such as she was, and he obviously had no interest in the real work that needed to be done. The idea of having to come to him hat in hand every year for the excavation rights wasn’t a particularly pleasant one, but it beat the hell out of having to work with Reygasse.

To be fair, Byron had brokered an entente of sorts. At first, Reygasse tried to claim every promising site for himself on behalf of the government, doing everything but peeing on the fenceposts to mark his territory. Thanks to Byron, Pond had been able to leverage the Frenchman’s almost pathological obsession with American Indian relics into a tradeoff for at least a few good sites, along with solemn vows not to interfere with his collecting. The Count might be incompetent, but he wasn’t vicious. He was also, it pained him to admit, damned good company when he wanted to be.