The Count of the Sahara (13 page)

First of all, while de Prorok seemed to have deep pockets—or at least long arms to reach into other people’s—Pond was having trouble getting paid. Somehow the Logan found it easier to get money from Beloit, Wisconsin into the hands of some local Arab for baksheesh than it did to put it in Pond’s bank account only twelve miles away in Janesville. Bills were stacking up, and while no one was complaining—yet—all this drama was so unnecessary. As usual, he’d made all the proper arrangements for money to come in and find its way to the right hands. Why was it so difficult for people to just do their jobs?

Then there was the letter from Dorothy, full of the usual news from home and questions about his work. She was becoming strangely insistent on knowing his exact return date. Was she getting antsy? Was there someone else? He had no way of knowing, and he didn’t much enjoy that feeling.

He was also concerned because he couldn’t give her an answer. Up until now, he assumed he’d head home, at least for a while, as soon as their work here was done. He even floated the idea of a series of lectures (at a hundred bucks a pop) past Dr. Collie. Now, not only did they have no plans for any lectures, they wanted to send him to Poland in the spring.

Poland? Jeez Louise. Yes, there was good work being done at a Paleolithic site near Boruska Cave, but he’d already been gone six months. How much longer would Dorothy wait? And damn it all, if he wanted to spend the summer sifting arrowheads, dodging mosquitoes and drinking bad Polish beer, he could have stayed in Wisconsin.

He kicked at a puddle, imagining just for a moment it was the seat of the Count’s pants, which made him feel marginally better. The village of Touggart was so small he had to circumnavigate it twice before he felt fit for human company again. His mood wasn’t lightened when he realized he had to go to that stupid banquet tonight.

The feast Reygasse promised before they got stuck in Stil was rescheduled, and the whole village was buzzing with preparations. While the idea of another night in a decent bed and a good meal were never completely unwelcome, he itched to be at the real work.

Despite Pond’s misgivings and Byron’s overindulgence, the departure banquet was a huge success. Reygasse presided over a feast straight out of the Arabian Nights. Lamb, rice dishes and all kinds of fruit and sweets were washed down by what seemed like gallons of tea and wine, depending on the consumer’s adherence to his religion, were presented, shared and eagerly devoured. There were toasts, counter toasts, and the now traditional singing of “How Do You Do, Harry Jones?” And dancing girls, real dancing girls, aplenty.

Chapuis and Belaid both suggested moderation, but were roundly ignored by the rest of the Expedition. Who knew when such luxuries would afford themselves? The general gloom over yesterday’s misadventures was quickly banished.

That feeling of optimism lasted for about five minutes after Byron opened his eyes the next morning. First of all, he was mildly hungover. Not unusual, but hardly what he needed to face the day. Second, it was raining. Then there was the bill he got presented for last night’s festivities.

“You mean we have to pay for a banquet in our own honor? Hardly seems right.”

Reygasse offered that condescending smirk of his. “These are poor people. Their hospitality would have been quite meager if we hadn’t offered to contribute. And don’t forget we cancelled the night before, which meant more food and more work for them. Besides the Caid can be most helpful given the problems we’ve had with the suppliers.”

Byron signed. More unforeseen expenses meant more hastily written begging letters to Beloit, Algiers and Paris to be posted before they left. Besides reflecting poorly on his management, it was outright embarrassing. It also raised the stakes on their success. The results had better be worth it.

Still, it couldn’t be helped. “This has to stay strictly between you and I, Maurice.” He couldn’t risk losing the faith of the Americans, nor the sponsorship of Renault. For certain, the less Denny and the Times knew about any of this, the better.

He paid with a promissory note on his bank in Tangiers, knowing this meant another whinging letter to his father-in-law. Maybe he’d get Alice to write it. She certainly had Daddy wrapped around her finger. He presented the check to the Caid with a deep salaam.

His checkbook got thrown with the other files into his trunk, papers scattering everywhere. Then he refilled his flask with brandy and dragged his gear down to the waiting cars.

It was raining—again—when they left Touggart for Ourgla. The unexpected monsoons pitted the road, in places washing it out completely. This made for a very slow, winding and bumpy trip. Passengers in all three cars regretted the previous night’s rich food and plentiful drinks. The good mood, unlike the thick black clouds, quickly burned off. Most of them spent the early part of the day hungover and extremely nauseous. Twice they had to stop while someone emptied the contents of their stomach on the side of the road.

By noon, though, the desert floor was mirror-smooth and the Saharan sun chased the clouds back to the Atlas Mountains where they belonged. By the time, they stopped for lunch in the village of Tamacine, they found the first real indications of traditional desert living.

There was entirely different feel than the French and Arab influences that now dominated North Africa. The people here were decidedly darker, a small percentage of them African blacks. They were either share croppers, free servants, or slaves, depending on who you asked.

Taking advantage of the break, and eager to shake off the last of his hangover, Tyrrell pulled out his hand-held movie camera. “Lonnie, let’s take a walk.” Pond grabbed his little Kodak and followed.

Pond relaxed as he walked. “This is more like it.”

“You really need to learn to relax, Lonnie,” the older man said.

“Easy for you to say, you’re on vacation. This is work for me.”

“It could be worse, buddy. You could be those guys.” He pointed to the village center, where a crowd stood watching as two coal-black men climbed to the lip of the well. He pulled out his camera and slowly turned the crank. One of the men plugged his nose, blew out for a moment, then sank into the dark water, quickly followed by his compatriot.

Pond found the palest face in the crowd and asked in French, “What are they doing?”

An old man answered in an extremely fractured version of that language. “Cleaning the well. They dive to the bottom to get rid of the silt and sand.” As Brad continued to crank away, the elder explained that only a few people could hold their breath long enough to do this job, and most go deaf from the pressure of being so deep under water. More importantly, well-diggers usually died early from the rarest cause of mortality in the Sahara, drowning.

As interesting as Pond found that, the villagers were even more fascinated by the Americans. Children demanded the white men take their pictures, so Pond herded them to Lucky Strike and let them clamber all over her. Suddenly, he got an inspiration.

“Brad, hold my camera for a minute.” He dug in the rear of the car and pulled out an old Beloit College blanket, which he tied across the back of the vehicle. Then he got a pennant and tied it to the roof.

“There, that way any time Barth gets a picture of us, they’ll have to give the College some publicity. Go ahead, take a picture of her.”

“Good idea, Lonnie. They’ll love that, especially with the car swarming with Negroes.” Pond briefly shooed all the children away until Tyrrell got his pictures, then let them climb back aboard, giggling and jumping up and down, fascinated by the bouncy springs.

A hundred meters away from the village, Chapuis and de Prorok stood looking at a pile of sand. “Louis, exactly what am I looking at?” The guide took the Count by the arm. A few steps to the right revealed the stripped and rusting carcass of an old Ford automobile.

Byron peered closer. “What is it?”

“The car we used when we made the Timbuktu road. She finally gave up the ghost on the way home and we left it here. We called her Eloise.”

You drove in that all the way to Timbuktu and back?” He moved closer. The desert winds had driven sand up the east side of the wreck, but it was clearly visible from the back side. “On those skinny tires?” A few vulcanized shreds clung to four thin rims.

“Oui, and only four of them. Never got stuck in the sand once. Twelve tires on those big bitches and we can’t stay out of the mud.”

“Is it the cars or the driver?”

“How often has Martini gotten stuck?” That was answer enough, and he knew the Renault people wouldn’t like it much. The little Italian was a treasure. Something of a local legend, in fact. When word got out he was available, Chapuis couldn’t snap him up quickly enough. Still, protocol demanded he drive the last vehicle.

Nobody understood the power of titles, rank and job descriptions better than the former Byron Khun. His title, while honorary and of dubious pedigree, served its purposes when needed. It opened doors closed to many in archaeology, and impressed the people who really mattered; sponsors and investors. It had certainly kicked down a few doors between him and Alice, hadn’t it?

Growing up among the sons of privilege, he knew there was precious little noble about nobility. He was just as comfortable with the diggers and locals on the Carthage sites as with the leaders. He often preferred to spend his time with them—except that as Muslims, most of them didn’t drink, a decided negative. Good men like Chapuis, Belaid, even the underappreciated Martini, were worth five of anyone he’d gone to school with. He trusted them as if his life depended on it, which of course it did.

Unfortunately, the way the world worked, he knew that the Renault Brothers, the government officials, and university presidents of the world had the power to grant or deny the work those good people did. Money and status were the only keys that opened those particular gates. No matter how good any of his team was—and they were very good at what they did, even Reygasse—none of them would be here if not for him using what little leverage he had as the mortar between all those separate bricks.

“When we find Tin Hinan, we’ll make sure he gets his due, Louis. Thank you for bringing him on.”

“If those two Renault idiots can keep us alive that long, eh?”

Dear God yes
, he thought.
Just let us stay alive long enough to rub everyone’s noses in their success. The Adventurer’s Club, the Royal and National Geographic Societies, even the big universities would all have to support me then
.
No more mucking about with bloody cow colleges like Beloit.
Audiences would pack his lectures, the fees would flow, and he’d make even more discoveries. But first they had to finish this blasted trip and get home in one piece.

“Okay, let’s mount up and get to Ourgla.” Chapuis nodded, put his fingers in his mouth and whistled for everyone to return to the cars.

Two hours later, they pulled into the walled town of Ourgla. The “Sultana of all Oases” was everything they’d been promised. Byron poked his head out the window to get an unobstructed view unlike anything they’d seen since leaving Constantine. Instead of squat mud brick, the buildings were bright white and clean. Date palms and other trees grew everywhere, providing shade and splashes of bright green that shone even brighter now that the sun was out in full force. It was a shame they weren’t staying here.

In the back seat of Lucky Strike, Brad stopped blowing his harmonica to enjoy the sights. “That hotel sure looks comfy.”

Pond didn’t bite. “Time to get to work, old timer. A little camping might do you some good. Too much city living will kill you.” Tyrrell took one last silent longing look at the town as they passed through the southern gates and into the desert beyond.

Chapuis led them to a spot in the shadow of the Gara Krima. Pond looked around him eagerly. The rocky crag jutted out of the desert floor to about two hundred feet, just like the mesas in the Southwest and Mexico. At the top, he could just make out the rough remains of an ancient Libyan fort, the latest in a long line of warriors and hunters to find this spot over the last four thousand years.

The campsite itself was surrounded by a semi-circle of low, thorny bushes, and at night the circle would be completely closed off by moving the three vehicles into position. It was an easy walk to the first dig site. There was water too, he’d been told. Strangely enough, it was at the top of the mound, in the upper reaches of the rock, although how that happened or how anyone had managed to find it was mystery enough for a lifetime.

Pond climbed out of Lucky Strike, stretched his short legs and looked around, happy. This was the real beginning of his work, and about damned time. He noticed the colored layers in the rock face and pointed them out to Tyrrell.

“See the lines in those rocks, Brad?” The older man nodded. “That’s why they call this place Earth Sister of the Rainbow. Years ago, this would have been a very different place. Plenty of water.”

“Thank you, Doctor Pond. Can’t resist being the teacher, can you?” Brad smiled. He enjoyed the younger man’s enthusiasm.

“Not a doctor yet, although if I get any real time to study places like this I will be soon enough. There are at least three sites right near here. Paleolithic and Neolithic. It might take years to really study this place properly.”

“Better be nice to de Prorok then. He’s going to be your landlord.” Tyrrell laughed harder than Pond at that idea. The idea of being tied to that blowhard for the next three years didn’t sit very well, but it couldn’t entirely spoil his mood either.