by Wayne Turmel
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 ou
t 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.
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.” The
n 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.
