The Count of the Sahara (29 page)

Entering the café, he could see his two companions engaged in conversation. Neither of them were smiling, and both had pipes in their mouths, puffing smoke towards each other. Tyrrell’s voice was the loudest, which couldn’t bode anything good.

“Bottom line, Byron. What are we going to have to come up with?”

The Count ignored the question for the moment, and waved to Pond with a smile a little too big for the surroundings. “Ah, Dr. Pond.” Pond was technically still a graduate student, and de Prorok only used that name when buttering him up.

“I was just telling Brad here that we’ve hit a bit of a snag.” The Count launched into a brief explanation, sparing many of the details he’d shared with Tyrrell and leaving out much of the worst news. Brad Tyrrell was the business man, and knew the right questions to ask. Pond had a pretty good head for business, although little tolerance for it, and it was clear that “snag” was something of an understatement.

“…and so there you have it. None of us can leave or really get back to work until the blackmail’s been paid—of course that’s not what they’re calling it—and the paperwork’s cleared up.” De Prorok looked from one of the Americans to the other, awaiting a response. Tyrrell was lost in thought, Pond visibly fought to contain a deep rage. Fortunately, the older man spoke first.

“We’ll handle it, Byron. Give us a day.”

“Thank you, Brad. It’s most embarrassing, but we’ll clean it up and start fresh, eh?” De Prorok thought he was through, but as he turned to go he heard Pond’s voice, icy cold through gritted teeth.

“You’ve screwed this up from the beginning, you know.”

Tyrrell held up a hand. “Lonnie, you don’t…” Usually, when Tyrrell spoke, Pond demurred, but after six weeks the dam finally burst.

“From the start, it’s been a disaster. Logistics have been horrible. Running out of food… and gas… and water…”

“But everyone’s safe and sound in the end aren’t they? Really, I…” If de Prorok thought he was going to get a fair hearing, he was going to be disappointed.

“Sure it’s alright. Now that we’re back. Somehow we’ve been lucky. And I’m supposed to be representative of the Museum. How’s it going to look for me that I have to go back and beg for more money? You’ve never thought about how that might look…”

“I’ll handle that conversation. You don’t have to worry about it,” Tyrrell interjected.

“That’s not the point, is it? Paperwork, logistics, food… running out of gas, for crying out loud. Not to mention the mud and the… Christ, it’s been a complete horror show.”

The Count’s face red and his eyes bulged as he, too, reached his boiling point, and his deep baritone echoed off the inn’s walls. “Disaster? Was finding Tin Hinan a disaster? Tell me, Pond, exactly how many times the Logan was in the New York Times before I arranged it? I’ll tell you, exactly none. Same with Beloit bloody College. Nobody’ll ever confuse it with Yale, will they? For that matter, how many graduate students get their names on the front pages around the world? Your career is made, you ungrateful little prick. Do you know how many years of digging Ojibway arrowheads it would take to build a CV like the one you’ve got now?”

“I don’t care about the New York Times. You nearly killed us you asshole.”

“Okay, Lonnie. Enough.” Brad reached his hand to clasp the younger man’s bicep. “Byron, you’ll hear from us tomorrow. Let’s get this settled, and everyone goes on their merry way. There’ll be time and blame enough for everyone when the dust settles.”

The Count’s face had returned to its natural color. “Thank you. Yes.” He straightened his pith helmet and tugged the wrinkles out of his shirt while he inhaled deeply and let it go with an audible “whoof.”

“Pond, I… I’m sorry.” Then he strode away, looking straight ahead and ignoring the smirks and whispers around him.

“Sit down.” Tyrrell’s voice had the authority of command to it and Pond obeyed. “Feel better, do you?”

Pond grinned as he took a seat. “Yes, actually, a little.” The after a moment he added, “Sorry about that.”

The older man leaned in, the weight of his elbows rocking the rickety table. “Look, de Prorok is in over his head. This was his first command, and he screwed the pooch. Everyone knows it, including himself. Maybe especially himself. The question is, what are we going to do about it? We can argue and fight and blame him, or we can solve the problem and move on.”

“So he’s going to get away with it? The College has to pay for his cockups? Again?”

“In the short run, yeah. Look, if someone doesn’t pony up, you can’t dig because the permits will be held up, and the Legion won’t protect you. Nobody, not you or any other scientific expedition will get any kind of help or support from the locals if they don’t see their money, right? And… and this might be the biggest thing… Byron won’t leave until it’s all settled. How much are you enjoying his company?”

This got a snort of laughter from Pond and he could feel his shoulder muscles unclench. “I just… incompetence shouldn’t be rewarded.”

“It won’t be. You don’t think there will be consequences? Trust me, he’s going to take it in the ear. And, to be fair, it’s not all his fault. Poor S.O.B’s been lied to and snowed since the beginning. Didn’t really know what he was getting into, Just naïve… a green pea. I’ve seen lots of guys like that… ya see them in business all the time. Smart, talented, but they have no business being in charge. He needs a boss to keep him in line. Not everyone’s cut out to be king.”

“But we’ll have to deal with him for the next three years. Can you imagine?”

The older man took a long, slow puff on his pipe and blew a smoke ring as big as his head. “You have to admit, it won’t be dull. Let’s see what happens next year and cross that bridge when we get to it. Okay?”

By the next afternoon, peace returned to In Salah. Brad Tyrrell, on behalf of Beloit College and the Logan Museum, agreed to monthly installment payments. They’d be wired to Alonzo Pond, who was staying behind to work at a nearby site. With Pond in charge, there would be no question of records being kept straight or payments skipped. The chieftain didn’t know or care what a Beloit, a Museum or an America was, he only knew that each month the little scientist would pay him until the account was settled.

Not everything went smoothly. For a brief moment, it looked as though Pond might lose his Tuareg necklace, but he had the appropriate paperwork, and that appeased both Beaumont, who needed to keep things official, and the Caid, who didn’t give a camel’s fart if the Tuaregs were happy, as long as his money came and he was happy to let Pond off the hook as a gesture of good faith.

De Prorok on the other hand, had a practically new Flyssa confiscated, along with some glass beads that probably came from the Tin Hinan site and a small shiny button he’d lifted from Pere Lavigerie’s gravesite. They let him keep the piece of wood from Shackleton’s sled once it was plain that the scrawled handwriting was in English and couldn’t have come from Algeria. He was leaving with the clothes on his back, the body of Queen Tin Hinan, and a few relics that Reygasse had already claimed in the name of France. His treasure was now just a figment of the New York Times’ imagination.

Reygasse personally took responsibility for the administrative paperwork. He used the phrase “on my word of honor,” about three times, and the Legion commandant was fine with that, since Reygasse was a Frenchman. With the onus now switched to someone the Commandant could trust—or at least locate, if it came to that—the Count de Prorok was free to leave Algeria.

He made an executive decision to leave immediately in Lucky Strike, along with Brad Tyrrell and Hal Denny. The cursed oil pan in Hot Dog was leaking again, and the two Renault drivers decided to stick it out together until they could both get home. Chapuis, Belaid, an inconsolable Henri Barth and thousands of feet of film would depart the next day with them.

There was no farewell dinner, no final toasts, and no ceremonial send-off. It had the feel of a family visit gone on far too long. Everyone wished each other well, and mostly meant it, but there was more relief than pain at parting.

“Well, Byron, are you ready to go?” Tyrrell was already inside the stifling vehicle as his companion stood with his hands on his hips, taking one last look at the little village.

“I suppose so, yes… Monsieur Martini… Allez-y…” He ducked into the front seat and slammed the door shut. The little Italian stepped on the gas, and they headed north amid weak shouts of “Bon Voyage,” and, “See you in the Spring,” the skitter of stones spitting out from under tires, and a harmonica playing “Oh Suzanna.”

Chapter 21

Paris, France

December 1, 1925

Baby Alice spit up on Byron’s shirt for the second time that morning. He couldn’t get up to do anything about it, because two year old Marie Therese had taken up a happy permanent residence in her daddy’s lap. Since it took two days for her to come near him without screaming, he just let her snuggle warmly against him.

In French, he said “Alice, dear… please.” His wife’s only response was a happy chuckle. She handed him a clean diaper to wipe himself with and kissed his forehead. Her dark curls framed her face, and she looked lovely, if a bit tired. It wasn’t, “I’ve been in the desert for two months and anything would look good, pretty.” She had two babies in diapers and was still the lovely, vivacious, naïve young lass he’d married. Parenthood and marriage suited her much better than him, although God knows he was trying his best.

“You’ll have to change your shirt before you go. Annie, please take the baby.” She handed her gurgling, wiggling namesake off to the nanny. “Marie, you too, little one. Go with Miss Annie.” De Prorok smiled. Her French was atrocious, but as always his wife was game. It was kind of adorable to watch her struggle so.

He slipped into English as he always did when they were alone. “You don’t think I should show up at the Embassy with baby throw-up on my shirt? I would think it’s rather a good look. Makes me appear very respectable and domesticated.”

“Here. Let me…” She slapped his hands away and undid the shirt studs. She took a moment to stroke his chest hair through the gap. “I’m sorry I’ve been so tired, darling.”

“Well, you do have two babies. I don’t know how you do it. I’ve been home a few days and I’m ready to dash screaming for the door.”

She grabbed his shirt front and looked him square in the eye, pretending to be angry. “You’d best not, buster. I have you for another ten days before you go gallivanting off.”

“Whoa, Tiger. It’s hardly gallivanting. You girls will be with me. Then we’ll all be in Brooklyn for Christmas. That’ll be nice, and I can get home between lectures.” He knew Alice was homesick. She had only the nanny, a good Irish New Yorker, for real company. Otherwise she was alone in a little house in a second-class Parisian suburb.

“Well, Mary will be here in a few days. That’ll keep me company until we get home. But then, Monsewer le Compt, you are all mine.” Mary was her belligerent older sister, self-proclaimed defender of the family honor, and a royal pain. He wasn’t sorry he’d be shipping out as soon as she arrived.

“Absolutely,” he said, wrapping his hands around her waist, then stroking her firm bottom through her skirt. “We can leave the girls with Grandmama and you can come with me. Washington, Atlanta, we’ll make a honeymoon out of it.” Given that they’d spent their real honeymoon in a dig outside Carthage, he figured he owed her that much. He very much wanted to be alone with her. They could hit a few of the big Eastern cities, then he’d deposit her at the family manse and head off for the wilds of Grinnell, Iowa. Wherever the hell that was.

Alice wiggled under his touch. “I still don’t know why she insisted on coming over so close to Christmas, we’re going to be there in a few weeks anyway.”

Byron agreed it was a good question, but who knew what went on in that woman’s mind. The whole family, aside from Alice, were a mystery to him. His father-in-law, Bill, was an open book. A rude, boorish, terminally bourgeois book, to be sure, but usually you knew where you stood. Her mother Mary was a complete cypher, silent as the tomb. As to their impending visitor, well that was a veritable Ibsen drama of sibling rivalry and repression.

Close proximity to family was something he’d largely been spared. He remembered something Tolstoy said, “All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” He looked around him and wondered if any family was really happy. He felt like his could be, if he could break free of the Kennys.

“Maybe she wants to make sure I’m really putting you on the boat and not keeping you prisoner in decadent, evil France.” She gave a playful scream as he pulled her into his lap and pressed her against his bare chest. Alice gave a quick look around to see if little eyes were watching, then gave him a deep, warm kiss.

“I’m sorry it’s been so rough on you. It’s so unfair,” she whispered, stroking his face.

“Hopefully, today will put it all to rest. It’s just good to be home with you… and the girls,” he added quickly.

Both of them pointedly ignored the stack of Paris newspapers at their feet. Since his originally triumphant arrival, things had gotten sticky. The local press was equally divided between effusive praise and scathing attacks, depending on their politics.

Les Temps, the house organ for anti-colonialists and left wing academics was being particularly rough on him, and wasn’t done quite yet. Of course, they’d attack anything Reygasse and the establishment supported, and a chance to stick it to the New York Times was raw meat to the jackals. Le Matin was also sniffing around.

De Prorok could appreciate a good story. Someone in Algeria obviously leaked the fight over missing relics and angry locals to a socialist reporter in Paris who couldn’t wait to fan the flames. Anything supported by the French government, the union busters at Renault and the Americans must be guilty of something.

He desperately wished he’d found all the gold and gems they thought he had, although that was largely his own fault. The wild tales he told Denny, and continued to tell anyone who’d listen, were just that, stories. He never expected his harmless exaggeration to be taken seriously. When he couldn’t produce the fabled treasure, though, it was either admit to a few fibs or criminal smuggling.

The treasure, or lack of it, was only one problem. From Africa came complaints of grave robbing, a ridiculous charge but hard to argue with, since he was clearly in possession of the Queen’s remains. Some of the anti-Reygasse crowd even spread the rumor that the body wasn’t Tin Hinan and probably not even female. Fortunately, the top people in Algiers backed his claims, but rumors lingered.

The icing on the cake, though, was that someone had gotten the American embassy involved. That was the real problem, since lawyers meant money—money he didn’t have—and that meant asking Bill Kenny for help. True, he had the best lawyers on the Continent at his disposal, but their crude methods, more Tammany Hall than Assemblée National, seemed counterproductive. The mood was turning nasty with cables and charges flying across three continents but things were finally returning to a simmer. Christ alone knew what it cost, and he knew there’d be an accounting at some point.

By then, though, he’d be able to support Alice and the girls. Between the digging rights, the books he planned and the lecture tours, he’d control his own destiny. Until then, he was just the ne’er do well son in law. It chafed him, but for the moment—and only for the moment—the family’s involvement was a necessary evil. That too shall pass.

“Well, back to the salt mines,” he declared, pushing her off his lap.

“It’ll be fine. Daddy says Mr. Langham is very good.”

“He is, really. I just wish he’d be a bit more tactful. State Department types are really just pencil pushers at heart, and they rather like being the face of America. They really don’t care much who your father knows in Albany. I can see it in their beady little eyes.”

“Even Al Smith?” Alice was every bit as proud of her father’s friendship with New York’s governor as the older Kennys, never missing a chance to drop the name. If he was honest, Brad Tyrrell and Beloit College had proven more helpful in the end. Beloit’s president Maurer and his friendship with Calvin Coolidge trumped Bill Kenny and Al Smith every time, although he’d never admit it to his wife.

“We’ll get it all wrapped up today, I promise. Oh, did I tell you, I got a cable from Lee Keedick about a deal with some film producer in Hollywood, California. Hoag and Somebody or other.” He expected more of a reaction than he got. “Really, Lee is going to be a great asset.”

“Well, if he can get you Carnegie Hall, I’ll believe it. Daddy says he’s a bit of a shyster.”

Byron gave her a smile that brushed away any doubts. “You leave that to your brilliant husband.” She smiled up adoringly. Those eyes warmed Byron to his core.

Things did go better after that. The charges by the Algerians were dropped, more from exhaustion than satisfaction. L’Academie formally announced its findings on behalf of Count de Prorok and the Expedition. There was even talk of a Palme D’Or for him and Tyrrell. The State Department grudgingly admitted everything seemed to be in order, and as long as the French were happy, they were content to let things slide, although not without keeping his dossier, bulging with notes and letters about his character, close at hand.

The morning of December 15th was sunny and cold with the wind blowing off the harbor at Le Havre. It stung the faces of the de Prorok family as they leaned over the rail, but couldn’t dampen their excitement. Alice and Byron, Count and Countess de Prorok and the girls waved to no one in particular as they waited for the SS Leviathan to set sail. Annie and Mary stood behind them shaking their heads and huddling together for warmth.

Byron wrapped a reassuring arm around Alice’s trim waist and squeezed. She’d been strangely quiet since her sister’s arrival, but that was just the stress of traveling with small children, a nanny and a royal bitch of an older sister. He only had to pack his film, pictures and a small trunk of belongings. Living life out of a suitcase was nothing new to him. The biggest snag came when he tried to find his piece of Shackleton’s sled. Alice had put it aside, deciding he didn’t need to drag it halfway around the world. He corrected her as gently as he could, and stored it away, wrapped carefully in two pieces of newspaper like he had for fifteen years.

Alice snuggled close to him, her fox fur collar tickling his nose. “Isn’t it exciting, Darling? The New York papers are already buzzing about our arrival. The Brooklyn Eagle wants an interview, just as soon as the Times is done with you. Wait til you see the welcome we get. And Christmas with the whole family, it’ll be wonderful.”

Byron kissed the top of her head. Well, all of her family. No, his family now. “The new tour will be a corker, Alice. Everything is coming together.”

Alice looked up at him, her eyes strangely watery, he thought, but maybe it was the cold salt air. “Really, Byron? It’s going to be okay?” She needed assurance, which he gladly gave her.
Why couldn’t she see what he saw?

“Of course, this is just the beginning of great things for us, sweetheart. Everything is going to be swell, you’ll see.” Byron de Prorok looked off to the channel, and New York beyond that, and America further still. The future he always dreamed of was finally his; a golden career, a beautiful family, financial stability—all of it. It was so close he could reach over the rails and grab it by the scuff of the neck.

“Nothing can stop us now, Alice. Nothing.”