Sean Ryan said, “This looks like tourist row, with all these souvenir stands. Let’s get off onto some of these narrow side-streets.”
Narrow was the word for it. Often as narrow as corridors, they were shadowy with houses tottering toward each other, often supported by struts. Periodically, they’d have a quick glimpse, when somebody was passing through a door, of narrow-columned patios and of gardens and even fountains, the homes of the wealthier Moslems who chose to live here with their fellow followers of the Prophet, rather than in the modern European section. Grated windows of these establishments permitted outward vision from the interior but limited seeing into the houses from the street. The pedestrians teemed. Women, veiled in white, usually looking enormous, yet light-footed in their balloonlike trousers, men in jeballahs or bournouses, beggars as filthy as only beggars in a North African town can be, multitudes of playing, screaming children, also instantly convertible into beggars. Small girls with henna-reddened fingernails and in pigtails ran about. The open air meat and other food shops, their goods covered with plenty of flies, threw out unpleasant odors.
Bryan said to Meg McDaid, “Are you sure you’d like to eat in one of the native restaurants?”
“No.”
The two men chuckled.
As they passed what was obviously a bar, Bryan said, “Like a drink? They’ve got a native raki—I think they make it from dates—which tastes worse than Irish poteen.”
Sean laughed glumly and said, “Beggin’ your pardon, but nothing tastes worse than poteen, man dear. Besides, I’m on nothing stronger than beer, until this job is over.”
As they sauntered along, Bryan said, “As I recall, they’ve got a beer here called Stork. They sell it all over North Africa. There must be a half dozen breweries in different countries.”
Sean said, disinterestedly, “What does it taste like?”
The other laughed. “Beggin’ Meg’s pardon, it tastes like piss.”
And Meg said mocking, “Why Bryan, how would you know?”
That was the second time she had pulled that one, so Bryan looked at her and said, “Once when I was operating down in Somalia, the small detachment I was with was overrun by the Ethiopians. We went on the run, with them after us. One doesn’t surrender to the Ethiopians. In fact, off hand, I can’t think of any natives, here in Africa, you surrender to. And damned few white men, unless they’re fellow mercenaries, in which case you’ll probably run into some old chums—and might even switch sides, if your adherence to the mercenary’s code is a bit shaky. At any rate, they were after us. The Sahara is as bad in Somalia as it is to the south of here. In three days we were completely out of water. Most of our camels had died, but we had three left.”
Sean knew what was coming and inwardly he was amused but he said nothing.
Meg was staring in fascination at her lover.
He went on. “Possibly, it’s a fact known not even to the average M.D., Meg, mavourneen, but if you put sugar in urine, either animal or human, it will support life for a time, prevent dehydration.”
Meg closed her eyes in distaste and feminine rejection.
Bryan said with mock cheerfulness, “So I say that Stork beer tastes like piss, and I stand by my statement.”
Sean said, looking at his watch again, “I think we’d better get back for this talk with Saidi, without any alcohol at all, either on our breaths… or minds.”
Bryan shot a quizzical look at him. “You don’t trust this Levantine friend of yours?”
Sean growled, “Have you ever met anybody who was after trustin’ a Levantine?”
The narrow winding streets had become a maze, equal to that of the famed labyrinth of the palace of Minos of antiquity.
Meg said, “Bryan, and how in the name of the Holy Mother are we ever going to find our way out of here?”
Bryan laughed. “You can’t get lost in the Kasbah. All you have to do is head down hill. Every time you come to a turning, or a corner, you take the down route. You wind up at the bottom in the so-called European section of town—now largely taken over by the better-off Algerians who got their fingers in the expropriation pie when the French pulled out.”
They passed ten or fifteen donkeys laden down with fire wood. Not even a jeep could have gotten through these streets.
Meg said, “Has it changed any since you were here last, Bryan?”
He snorted and in a take-off of the Irish brogue said, “Shure, Colleen, and it’s been twenty years since oiv been here. But it hasn’t changed a mite. And I’m after suspectin’ that it hasn’t changed in the past thousand.”
Meg nodded, dodging a prehistoric beggar who looked as though he had, at least, leprosy. She said, “I saw one of those movie film revivals the other day. It was about the Kasbah. Charles Boyer played Pepe Le Moko, or whatever his name was, and Hedy LaMarr was the girl. And, you know, it looked exactly the way it does now.”
They wound their way down hill and, as Bryan had prophesied, emerged into a modern section of the North African city.
It was too far to walk, so they took a hovercab to the heights of Mustapha Supérieure and to the once deluxe St. Georges hotel, at 24 Avenue Foureau Lamy. These days, there were better hotels in town, but Saul Saidi had suggested this one for the officers of his expedition, his ‘commando’ raid.
Sean, Bryan and Meg had gotten together only a short time before.
The same day Saul Saidi had met him at the Pearl Bar in Dublin, Sean had taken the train south to Cork. His wallet was heavy with more money, advanced toward expenses, than he had seen in years. There was no doubting the reality of the mission.
At Cork, which was only a few hours on the Express, he took the bus to Blarney, five miles out, and transferred to the bus to the little village of Coachford to the southwest.
From the village of some twenty cottages and one inn, he took the narrow dirt road which led to Bryan O’Casey’s thatch roof farmstead cottage.
He hadn’t been here for some six months—the last time, he had come to borrow from his former comrade-in-arms—and he paused for a moment outside the waist-high rock wall, and his eyes took in the fact that, if anything, it was more run-down than ever. Meg’s ancient Austin wasn’t in sight, and he wondered worriedly if the two had given up and left.
He went through the gate and found the cottage door open and yelled through it, as he approached, “And is anybody at home?”
Bryan came up, grinning, as Sean passed over the threshhold.
They went through the usual hand grinding and pounding and joyfully calling of each other’s names and then both stood back and took the other in.
Bryan said, “You’ve lost weight and you look like you’ve got a hangover going back through the months.”
And Sean grunted deprecation and said, “And it’s a fact that any weight I’ve lost, you’ve put on. And where would Meg be?”
Bryan led the way into the kitchen. He had an ancient portable typewriter on the table, surrounded with disordered papers. The floor was littered with further crumpled sheets.
Bryan pushed a chair back for his visitor and said, “Believe it or not, Sean, she’s out making a house call.”
Bryan O’Casey was as Irish-looking an Irishman as was likely to be found. About forty, an inch or two over six, and born to be lanky, though now carrying a few more pounds than called for, he was blue of eye, sandy of hair, and smiling of mouth. He didn’t appear the fish-cold-blooded soldier of fortune Sean had known him to be for a decade and more.
Sean sat and when his host had seated himself behind the typewriter, said, frowning lack of understanding, “Why, believe it or not? She’s still in practice, isn’t she?”
Bryan scowled, picked up a semi-burnt out Peterson shell briar and loaded it from the leather pouch that had been sitting next to the typewriter.
He said, disgust in his words, “Can you imagine any Irishman in the whole country who would allow a woman doctor to come near enough to examine him beyond the point of adv
ocating a few shots of Vitamin B for his shakes? Not even the women, even her relatives, will come to her as patients. They want a man doctor, not a handsome young woman.”
Sean could imagine that. Meg McDaid was the only woman Irish M.D. he had ever met. And he suspected that the fact that she and Bryan were living out of wedlock didn’t help any in this hundred percent Catholic community.
He dropped it and said, “And how’s the book going?”
Bryan tried to smile and look enthusiastic but dropped that and shrugged unhappily as he lit the pipe. The shag he was smoking smelled a horror. It must have been the cheapest on the market. He said, around the pipe stem, “With all I’ve been through, with all I’ve seen myself and heard of from such as yourself, sure and I thought the writing of my memoirs, Soldier of Misfortune, would be a cinch. It isn’t.”
“What chapter are you on?”
“Number Two, but every time I reread Chapter One, I realize that it’s got to be rewritten.”
Sean stared at him. “What’ve you done with all your time since I saw you last?”
His friend looked embarrassed. “About six months ago I decided that writing longhand was what was holding me up. Maybe it was all right for Shakespeare, but it gave me writer’s cramp. So I bought this antique and taught myself to type.” He said, lowly, “Sean, I hope that you’re not still on your uppers.” He was unhappy. “If you’ve come for a little loan…”
Sean grinned and shook his head and brought his wallet from his hip pocket and displayed the sheaf of banknotes. He said, “I’ll be paying up what I owe you, man dear. And how would you like a job?”
The other knew immediately what he was talking about and scowled. “I thought we were both retired, Sean. I thought we both retired while we were still breathing. Neither of us are exactly boys any more.”
“It’s three hundred ounces in gold for me Bryan, two hundred for you. Banked in Hong Kong, if we bring it off. All expenses, whether or not we do.”
Bryan stared at him.
Sean was still giving him the full story when they heard Meg’s car come up. And shortly after, Megan McDaid entered, black doctor’s medical kit in hand and discouragement in her face.
However, she brushed her difficulties aside on seeing Sean, who had come to his feet. She came into his arms and kissed him heartily. Actually, they were not too well acquainted, but she knew him to be her lover’s best friend and liked him, herself, thoroughly.
When greetings were through and the men in their chairs again, she said, “Bryan, you haven’t offered Sean a drink. We’ve got a few bottles of stout.” She looked at him suspiciously. “Unless you’ve been into them.”
Sean said, “I’ll not be having any, Meg dear. I’ve got to straighten up. This is a business call.”
Meg sank into a chair herself and frowned puzzlement.
Bryan told her the story. Then leaned back and relit his pipe, his face expressionless.
She said, “But you’re not going, Bryan? Who is this El Hassan? What government is it that…”
Bryan interrupted her, saying, “Mavoureen, do you know how much an ounce of gold brings in Irish pounds these days? We would have enough to migrate to Canada or the United States. We’d have enough for you to establish a practice and for me to take all the time in the world for my book… and other books after.”
Meg McDaid was of the beauty that only the Black Irish produce. The hair, which she wore long, was jet, the eyes green, the nose, chin and ears near perfection. She was past her girlish years but still the most handsome woman, in face and figure, that Sean Ryan could ever remember having seen.
She looked full into the face of the man she loved and said, “If you go, I go too.”
Saul Saidi was already awaiting them on the terrace with another, when they came up.
The Levantine scowled in puzzlement at Megan McDaid and then looked questioningly at Sean Ryan. Both of the men had come to their feet from the table up against the terrace railing, upon the approach of the three.
Sean made introductions. He said, “Doctor Megan McDaid, Captain Bryan O’Casey, Mr. Saul Saidi and…” He looked at the tall, narrow faced, blue eyed, blondish haired, stranger.
The stranger bowed gently and took Meg’s hand and kissed it, murmuring, “Enchanté, Madam Docteur.” He looked down at the hand, which was ringless. “Or should I say, Mademoiselle?”
“You could even say Ms. in the American fashion,” Meg said. “But I’m not married.”
“How delightful,” he murmured again, and raised his eyebrows in an over-exaggerated expression of ecstasy.
“Come off it, Raul,” Bryan O’Casey growled. “She’s all mine.”
The Frenchman grinned and turned to the two men. “A pleasure, gentlemen.” He shook hands with Bryan. “Though, of course, I am already well acquainted with this old Irish clod.” He shook with Sean and said, “My name is Captain Raul Bazaine.” He flicked a thumbnail over his thin blonde mustache in most French fashion.
Sean said, “I’m Major Sean Ryan, commanding this detail, if all goes as Mr. Saidi has outlined.”
The pudgy Levantine was sputtering, “But… but this lady…”
Sean said easily, with an ease he didn’t entirely feel, “Shall we then be seated and I’ll explain?”
Meg and the four men took chairs at the table which gave them a splendid view of the city.
Saul Saidi attempted to rise to the occasion. “Would anyone wish an apertif?” He raised a commanding finger to a waiter.
Meg had a Cinzano, Captain Bazaine a pastis, the Levantine an orange squash, Bryan a Scotch whiskey, since Irish was unknown in Algiers.
Sean said, “I’ll not be having anything.”
The Levantine raised eyebrows at that but said nothing.
When the waiter was gone, Saidi said, an ominous quality in his usually smooth, oily voice, “And this Mademoiselle?”
Sean Ryan took over. “Is Captain O’Casey’s… fiancée. And not Mademoiselle… but Doctor. Mr. Saidi, please realize that we are white men going into the interior of the Sahara, an area with which at least most of us are unacquainted.” He looked at the Frenchman. “Though I understand Captain Bazaine is. However, I doubt if his medical qualifications go beyond those of the usual mercenary in the field.”
Bazaine stroked his mustache again and smiled acceptance, but held his peace. He was still eyeing Meg appreciatively.
Sean went on. “We shall be subjected to the usual, and, so I understand, quite endless, African diseases from dysentery to fevers that are not even in the lexicon of western medicine. Beyond this, as combat men, we are exposed to being hit, to taking wounds. What makes more sense than that our group would include a medico?”
Saidi said testily, “Your cover is that you are a group of more or less ragtail mercenaries, out of employment and seeking jobs as the bodyguard of this upstart El Hassan. One would not expect such a contingent to be able to afford a qualified doctor.”
Bryan said mildly, “She needn’t go in as a doctor. We can call her a nurse. The fact that she is my fiancée and, let us not mince words, my mistress, makes it even more likely that she might be along. I’m in favor of her being one of our number. So is Major Ryan.” He looked at the Frenchman, “Captain Bazaine?”
Bazaine bowed to Meg McDaid. “She would be a most practical—and most charming—addition to our company, n’est-ce pas?”
The Levantine thought about it. Finally he shrugged hugely and said, “She is expecting recompense?”
Meg chopped out a less than feminine laugh and said, “Of course.”
Sean said, “Equal to that of the sergeant.”
Saidi said, “How do I know that you are a qualified doctor?”
Meg smiled and said, “I have credentials.”
But Bryan was looking at the lardy Levantine.
Saidi cleared his throat unhappily and said, “Very well, Doctor McDaid will be one of your number. I assume that she will be able to assemble her medi
cal kit here in Algiers.”
Meg said, “I have brought it with me, Mr. Saidi. I researched the requirements before leaving Dublin. The medical school library there is quite adequate, even for desert diseases.”
“Very well. Let us get down to practical matters.” The heavy-set man looked at Sean Ryan. “You were successful in recruiting your troop?”
Sean nodded. “Yes, I first contacted my old comrade in arms, Captain O’Casey, here. With the need in mind of men acquainted with the desert and North Africa in particular, he in turn made contact with Captain Bazaine, with whom I have not had the pleasure of serving before. Then, between the three of us, we sent out the word to former comrades. Sometimes, they in turn suggested still others. It was difficult to find our twenty dependable combat veterans on such short notice, but not too much so.”
“And the sergeant?”
“Is an American, possibly one of the most experienced mercenaries in our ranks.”
“And where are these men quartered now?”
“At the Oasis Hotel, on the rue de Laurier.”
“Very well. At the conclusion of our planning here, we shall go see them and make final provisions for your pay and such matters.”
He brought a red jacketed packet from an inner pocket and unfolded it to reveal a map, saying, “This is the Michelin 152 Map of the portion of the Sahara in which we are primarily interested.” He spread the chart out on the table and the others bent over it.
The waiter came up with their drinks and they held their silence until they had been served and he left. Sean Ryan eyed Bryan’s drink, but shook his head infinitesimally and returned to the map.
Saul Saidi took a pencil from his breast pocket and used it for a pointer. He said, “We have had to make some alterations in original plans. We had first thought to base your rescue craft in In Salah, only 683 kilometers north of Tamanrasset, where El Hassan was last reported. However, the El Hassan disease is spreading like an epidemic and we cannot be sure that In Salah will not be subjected to it—if it has not already fallen. Hence Adrar has been substituted.” He pointed it out on the map. “It is, unfortunately, another 351 kilometers further northwest. Happily, we have excellent cover there for both your aircraft and the pilots who will rescue you after you have disposed of El Hassan and his immediate followers.”
The Best Ye Breed na-3 Page 8
