The Count of the Sahara (26 page)

We didn’t, however, get an invitation from the college president. Likewise nothing from the Logan Museum, or even the student body president. On a normal night, there was a whole conga line of people eager to bask in the reflected glow of the famous Count de Prorok. Tonight, not one person of any importance offered anything other than a mild, “good job.” No Faculty Tea, no brandy with the president.

De Prorok was dumbfounded. He’d worked with these people for over a year, and not one person wanted to join him for a friendly chat or an illicit glass of, “the good stuff.” We were left alone in a chapel to pack up and kill an exciting night in beautiful downtown Beloit.

By the time I hauled the stuff back to the room, he was already pouring a glass of Templeton for himself. He paced back and forth, not acknowledging me for a long time, just muttering, “Oh shit. Oh Christ, Oh bloody, bloody hell.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I said the worst thing I could have, given the circumstances. “Maybe it’s not that bad.” His lip just curled up in a snarl.

“This is all Bill Kenny’s fault,” he said. “He’s turned Alice against me, and now he’s trying to ruin me with my colleagues. But he won’t. Not for long. You heard them tonight, Brown. I was great. I’m too good at my job to be denied.” He paced and drank, then drank and paced some more.

“They’ve got to sign those digging rights, tomorrow, Willy. Without them, I’m … they must at least agree to them in principle. I know Bill wants the signed agreement, but if we can at least get a verbal commitment... Brad Tyrrell understands, and I know he’s trying. I wish Alonzo were here. He knows exactly how important those sites are to the Logan, but he’s still over in In Salah counting arrowheads and kissing Reygasse’s arse.”

A question had been nagging at me, buzzing and banging against my brain like flies caught in a windowpane. “If he’s already in Algeria, why do they need you?”

De Prorok stopped pacing. I swear the earth stopped spinning for a moment. His eyes slowly widened like camera lenses. “What do you mean?”

I wasn’t sure myself, but now that I started asking, I couldn’t let it go. “Why do they have to go through you to dig there?”

“Because I have the…” He dug the strongbox out and pulled out the papers. “These are the digging rights to all that part of Algeria. Touggart Province. Hoggar. Right here.” He crunched the papers in his fist, then in a panic, laid them on the table and tried to smooth out any creases.

“Where’d you get those rights from?”

“From Maurice Reygasse, on behalf of the Algerian government. No one can legally dig there without legal authority.”

“Couldn’t the college just go right to him?”

“After all I’ve done for them? They wouldn’t. It would be a scandal. And I’m giving them a huge discount—sixty thousand dollars a year instead of seventy-five. They have to.” His voice was getting high again. Then it dropped almost to a whisper. “They just have to.”

No, I realized. They didn’t. And if they didn’t have to, they wouldn’t. He was… we were…well and truly screwed. Then I could see he realized it as well, as he dropped his head into his hands and sobbed like a baby.

“Alice… I just… Oh Christ, what am I going to do…? That bastard…” I could just make out the occasional word between the blubbering. I stood over him, not knowing what to do. Pat him on the shoulder? What would that do, and who the hell was I to be comforting anyone?

Figuring he needed his privacy, and being completely incapable of offering any real help, I went for a long walk. I didn’t go back upstairs until the light went off in our room.

When we got to the President’s office in the morning, a very nice, older secretary greeted us warmly. “Good morning, Mr. De Prorok. The others are waiting for you, I’ll bring you right in.”

“Who exactly is in there?”

“Well, President Maurer, of course, and Dr. Collie from the Logan. And Bradley Tyrrell, I believe.” Then she stepped smoothly between him and me. “Just take a seat, young man. I’ll bring you out some coffee while you’re waiting.”

“It’s alright, Brown. ‘Tis a far, far better thing I do. This won’t take long.” He followed her into the office, gave me a weak smile and a thumbs up, then closed the door with the marble glass window in it behind him and gave me a motherly smile.

“Cream and sugar?”

I sat there in a heavy upholstered chair, surrounded by dark wood paneling covered in photographs and certificates designed to make you feel unworthy, straining to hear. It was all incoherent mumbling at first, then the voices would get louder and finally someone would remember their manners and it would get quiet again. I did manage to hear some of it.

“But I have legal authority…”

“We will not be allowed into Algerian territory if we have anything to do with…”

“But the New York Times…”

“Alonzo Pond was nearly arrested because of your carelessness…”

“What do you mean embarrassment? We were awarded the Palme d’Or…”

“Yes, I’m afraid it is, final…”

At last, the door opened. President Maurer held the door and offered his hand to the Count. “Byron, I’m truly sorry it’s come to this. We really do wish you the best. Good luck.” He really looked like he meant it, too.

De Prorok stood perfectly straight, and I could hear the strain in his voice, but the smile was nothing short of perfect. “Of course, Irving. I understand. All an unfortunate misunderstanding, of course, but business is business and all that. Perhaps another time.”

Brad Tyrrell emerged from inside, putting on his coat. “Byron, wait. I’ll walk you down.”

“No need, Brad. Brown and I are all ready to go. We have a train to catch.” I was already holding the door for him and he brushed past me with as much dignity as he could muster, which was considerable given the circumstances.

As the door closed behind us, I heard Tyrrell’s drifting down the hall. “Stay in touch. Give my best to Alice.”

Chapter 18

Near Abalessa, Hoggar Province, Algeria

November 13, 1926

Byron de Prorok scratched his itching cheek and studied the northern horizon. Even at twenty nine years old, his facial hair was embarrassingly sparse and he knew he must look an ungodly mess. Certainly, he’d never grow a great professorial beard like his hero Gsell. He desperately wanted to shave, but knew Martini would probably shoot him if he tried to use any of their precious water for such a wasted effort, as well he should.

He squatted in the slim shadow provided by an overhanging rock, at least as well as his long legs would allow. His pants bagged at the waist. He’d lost weight he couldn’t really afford to lose and was glad they’d traded away all the mirrors so he didn’t have to look at himself. Vanity wasn’t the only reason he didn’t want to face his own reflection. For the first time, he admitted to himself he may have just killed them all.

The banging and grunting of men working in the burial chamber a few yards away were the only sounds other than the incessant buzzing of flies. Even hungrier than they’d ever been in their lives, everyone continued to work, if only to keep their minds occupied. De Prorok knew how lucky he was to have every man jack on his team, and how badly he’d failed them.

Chapuis and Belaid he knew were proven campaigners. Discovering Martini was pure luck; they’d have been in a lot more trouble if not for the little magician. He looked at the man trudging towards him. Even poor Brad Tyrrell, who was essentially here on holiday, never complained or shirked any of the hard work.

“Byron, you okay?” Tyrrell’s voice ricocheted off the stones.

“Never better.”

“Yeah, me too.” The older man plunked himself down in the dust beside the Count. Once more adjusting his hat to provide a tad of relief, they sat there in companionable silence, sucking on pebbles for the precious saliva it generated.

Byron needed to say it to someone. “Brad, I’m awfully sorry about…”

“Bah, don’t. A little tough slogging, but I’ll be home for Christmas and this will all be a great story to tell the grandkids.” Byron winced. Home by Christmas, the last words of too many men.

Brad Tyrrell looked at him. “You’ve done okay, you know.”

“I’m an ass.”

The American snorted. “Well, I never said I’d hire you. Frankly, you couldn’t organize a gang bang in a whorehouse.”

“Thanks ever so much.”

“Relax. I’m just saying, you’ve got a lot to learn. It’s only natural for Pete’s sake. This is your first time in charge. But you’ve also had the dirtiest luck I’ve ever seen. Completely snake bit.”

“Always been like that, Brad. It’s my fate, I suppose. Just when I think things are going my way, they turn to shit.”

“There’s no such thing as fate, Byron. You’re smart, ambitious… God knows you work hard at the things you work at. It’s all you really need to succeed.”

The younger man shook his head with a sad grin. “That may be the single most American thing I’ve ever heard.”

Tyrrell ignored the barb. “You just need to work smarter. Take fewer chances. No one’s ever taught you that part, I’m guessing.”

De Prorok shrugged in response. “The lesson’s never stuck, at any rate.”

“Well, remember this. You were right. She’s here. We—you—found her. Speaking of which…”

The Count nodded and stood, joints creaking and stomach growling. “Yes, I’m on duty. Thanks, Brad.” He patted Tyrrell on the shoulder at a loss for anything more profound to say.

As he neared the tomb opening and bent down to enter, he heard Louis Chapuis’ voice. “Monsieur, come look. Vite, vite.” He looked to see the guide waving his filthy kepi wildly and shouting, as best his parched throat allowed.

From their perch high on the mound, they could see for miles. In the far northeast, three small objects moved across the desert floor towards them. Byron squinted into the blinding midday sun. “Are those pack camels?”

Trying to tamp down his excitement, he grabbed the binoculars and trained them on the fast moving figures. The lead camel, laden down with jugs and crates, was piloted by a Tuareg he didn’t recognize. The second camel’s jockey was much shorter, and bounced around awkwardly, legs flailing, unable to maintain their place on the animal’s neck. The third camel, tied behind the second, had a roughly made platform balanced atop the cargo, and its rider lay face down across the platform, in danger of being bounced off any time.

“God damn, I think that’s Lonnie Pond.” Byron handed the binoculars to Tyrrell, who grinned broadly.

“Has to be. He’s the only one too short to ride a camel properly. Louis, can you tell who’s on the stretcher?” He handed the binoculars back to Chapuis.

“I’m not sure. Denny, maybe?”

Christ, I’ve killed the Times reporter,
he thought. Then he joined the others in a mad, whooping, scramble down the rocks to meet their rescuers.

They arrived at the desert floor just as the unlikely caravan halted at the campsite. Pond’s camel bent her front knees and the American gingerly stepped off. Byron wrapped him in a dusty bear hug, while Tyrrell slapped him on the back.

“Lonnie, you are a sight for sore eyes,” the other American said, but he was already looking to the injured rider on the third camel. “Denny, my God, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Pond made an attempt at discretion by whispering, “It’s saddle sores. Byron he’ll be…”

“It’s what?” Byron’s voice honked.

“He said it’s saddle sores, you asshole. Now get me down from heah…” Denny moaned, sounding every bit the angry New Yorker. Everyone knew that whether it was a horse or a camel, saddle sores were very serious things. Bloody blisters and exposed raw flesh could be agonizing and became easily infected. They were no laughing matter, although that didn’t stop non-sufferers from having their fun anyway.

Their guide, a toothless, fearsome looking Tuareg, gave a quick “tuk tuk,” and dismounted with ease, jabbering away a mile a minute in Tamasheq. He calmly guided Denny’s camel to a gentle, or as gentle as such a lumbering beast could manage, kneel, while Chapuis peppered him with questions.

Martini and Belaid each grabbed a corner of the blanket Hal Denny laid on to form a sling and helped him to the ground and then gingerly to his feet.

De Prorok asked the reporter, “Any permanent damage, Hal?”

“Just let me get my damned feet under me. Jesus.” Once the journalist was safely on the ground, and able to limp under his own steam, the men began to unload more precious cargo. Cans of water, gasoline and motor oil were piled next to food stuffs. No one had ever been so glad to see chipped beef.

Pond winced and tested his legs with a few tentative steps. Brad Tyrrell offered an arm and helped him to a perch on a nearby rock. “You okay, Lonnie?”

“Yeah. I hate camels. My legs are too damned short to really get a good grip.” Both men paused, then allowed themselves a snorting laugh of relief.

Byron’s relief at their rescue was only momentary. He approached the Americans and quietly asked, “Where’s everyone else? Is everything okay?”

Pond nodded. “The supplies came three days ago but Reygasse was away on some damned fool errand, and one of the trucks has a cracked oil pan. Denny and I threw everything on camels and came as fast as we could. Maurice should be here with the cars and the rest of the gear… wait. What day is it?”

There was a momentary clamor as everyone tried in vain to recall the day of the week. Finally, Pond counted them off on his fingers. “We left Saturday, I think, so that makes today… Monday? He should be here late today, tomorrow for sure. Assuming he got back on time, that is.”

“Fine, fine…” Now that things were on the upswing, de Prorok couldn’t wait to share the really important news. “Lonnie, Hal, guess what? We found her. Tin Hinan. We found the tomb. Really, come and see, it’s quite…”

“Byron, don’t you think that can wait a bit?” Tyrrell motioned with his head to the rest of the team who were practically chewing through the crates to get to the food and water inside.

“Of course, yes. Apologies. Monsieur Martini, prepare the feast, if you please.” As everyone but Hal Denny scrambled to assist, de Prorok rattled on to the only person who couldn’t get away. “Seriously Hal, the Times will be beside themselves. The greatest discovery in the history of the Sahara. We did it.”

Once throats had been soothed and stomachs appeased, the team swapped stories. Pond listened skeptically as de Prorok told his version of events. To hear him tell it, things had been tight but not dire. The gauntness of his face, and the embarrassed glances of the other men suggested otherwise, but Pond didn’t push. Brad would give him the skinny later on.

Denny was the storyteller, so Pond let him relate the rescuers’ tale. The message from Abalessa arrived late Friday night, and the supplies arrived soon after. The problem was, there was no way to get to the tomb site; Reygasse and Hot Dog had gone on some mysterious mission and wasn’t due back til Monday. The other car, Sandy, was down with a damaged oil pan, and it would take two days to fix, so Pond and Denny decided to take as much as they could throw on a couple of camels, and head out. The others would catch up when they could.

Of course their guide, Yeddir, spoke no English, so they had no real idea how far it would be, when they’d arrive, or what shape anyone would be in by the time they got there. Two greenhorns and a guide who couldn’t communicate with them carried gas, oil, water and food across eighty miles of Sahara in hopes of finding the right needle in an impossibly large haystack.

Denny warmed to the tale with the telling, convinced it was front-page stuff if he lived to tell it. He’d already written it in his head. His injuries weren’t to the part of his body required for typing.

Chapuis looked worried. “Did you pass anyone, or tell them where you were going?”

Pond knitted his brow. “Not really. A couple of Arab traders, but that’s it. Why?”

“Because if Akhamouk gets word of what we’re doing here, we’re in hot water.” The party members looked at each other, half of them not understanding just how much hotter the water could get.

De Prorok didn’t want them becoming fixated on the negative, now that things were finally looking up. “Lonnie, care to take a look at what we’ve found?” He bounced on the balls of his feet, eager to share the find with someone who could really appreciate what he’d… they’d… managed to do.

Pond sighed and tried to ignore the burning in his thighs. “Of course, let’s get a look at the lady. Can’t think of anything I’d rather do.”

Pond’s short legs had trouble keeping up with de Prorok at the best of times, and after three days on a camel these were hardly the best of times. The Count would scamper up the hill, then turn back and wait impatiently, then dash ahead some more and wait, all the while keeping up a constant stream of chatter. “Wait til you see the chamber. It’s worked stone…. But not Arab or Tuareg. I swear, it looks Roman… can you imagine Romans this far south? Really extraordinary…. And the gold… real gold, Pond, like the stuff I pulled out of Utica. And gemstones… Carmelite mostly but I’m sure there’s more…”

Pond grunted appropriately, hearing only half what was said. He was too busy concentrating on not having a heart attack or falling off the mountain.

De Prorok continued his manic monologue, “…and here we are, home sweet home.” With a triumphant sweep of his arm, the Count indicated the chamber opening.

“What’s all this?” Pond asked, pointing to a crate covered in blankets. De Prorok flung back the blanket.

“Ta da. This is the best stuff we’ve pulled out so far.” His long fingers gently lifted the gold necklace for inspection, then scooped up a dozen or so colored stones, letting them slowly filter through his hands, his face ablaze with the fever of discovery.

Pond thought he’d seen that same look on a housecat that drops a mouse at her master’s feet, expecting praise for such a fine offering. If the son of a gun expected oohs and aahs, he was going to be as disappointed as the cat. “Have you catalogued all this?”

“Not yet. Haven’t had time, have we? Too busy digging…”

“For Chrissakes, Byron, you know you have to document everything in real time… Oh for… Let me take a look. Pond ducked into the darkened chamber, allowing a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. The afternoon sun came in over his shoulder, striking the back of the chamber and offering just enough light to confirm his worst fears.

What he saw both excited and horrified him. The front half of the chamber had been shoveled or swept clean of dust. On the floor were dried remains of the animal skins that once carpeted the tomb. Against the far wall was a platform of decomposing wood, still covered in a thick layer of sandy grit. On top of the platform, sleeping under a blanket of silt was a body. The skull, neck and most of the chest lay exposed along with a few bones that must have been feet and toes. Crowning the skull was a metal circlet, probably a crown, but it was too dark to tell what it was made of.

That was the exciting part, and he couldn’t deny the hot tingly rush of excitement building, but he wasn’t going to let that get the best of him. The scientist in him was horrified at what wasn’t there; markers and notations for each artifact should have been everywhere. “Damn it, Byron. Haven’t you documented anything?”