by Wayne Turmel
“It won’t…”
“It will,” the Count shouted. “It bloody will. Those rights are worth at least a hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year for the next two years. At least. I’ll pay off all my debts, every penny. To you and everyone else. Then I can set myself and my family up for the future. With that and my speaking fees…”
Kenny harrumphed. “Do you really think you can support Alice and the girls in Paris on two hundred dollar lecture fees?”
“For a start, yes. Lee says we’ll be in Carnegie Hall by summer. The book is almost done, and have publishers chomping at the bit for it. And that’s just a start. If I can get funded for Abyssinia… I know the National Geographic is interested in my theory on King Solomon’s mines.”
“Finley and the Geographic are washing their hands of you. They all are. You’re a God damned cancer, Byron. No one with any credibility will work with you. You’re an incompetent, thieving fraud.”
“I am not a fraud,” he shouted so loudly the room shook. “My findings are solid. We proved it to that committee. We even won over the French papers…”
“With tests I paid for. And I had to go all the way to Tunis to find an expert that’d swear the body was even female.”
The Count was sweating and shaking, his eyes bugging out of his head. “That… that’s the most important find in the last five years. And I found it. Me. And there’ll be more. I’ve told Alice this. I’ve told her. She knows everything.”
“Yes, she does. Which is precisely why I want her out of the way.”
“What are you going to do, Bill? Have one of your boys moider me?” Byron loved to poke fun at people’s accents, but his timing was awful.
“Go ahead and make fun you pompous bastard. They’re not coming back until this is settled.”
“Settled how?”
Kenny sighed, straightened up and looked directly at de Prorok. “They’re staying at Saint Hulbert until we can work out an annulment.”
Byron’s voice dropped to a cracked whisper. “On what grounds? We have two children, so it’s not that. What about them?”
“Misrepresentation and fraud. We’ve already started the paperwork. Al Smith is very good friends with the Cardinal, and he owes me a favor or two.”
“You can’t do this.”
“You can’t stop it,” the older man countered.
“I can. I’ll have Beloit’s contract next week. I’ll pay back every penny…”
“You won’t get a dime from them. And even if you do, it doesn’t mean Alice is going to put up with the shame of it all. The lying, the drinking, the whole shebang. The ride’s over.” He stood up and closed the folder.
De Prorok took a couple of heavy breaths. He rubbed an arm over his eyes to remove the water welling there. He looked up at the ceiling to gather his thoughts, paused, then spoke. “What if I can get the Beloit contract?”
“You won’t.” The way he said it, no one had ever been so certain of anything, ever.
“But if I do?”
Kenny thought for a moment and nodded. “Business is business, I’ll grant you that. You have to finish this tour…God knows you need the money. I expect to see you in my lawyer’s offices the week you get back. No later than the seventeenth. If you have a contract from a reputable organization, we’ll talk.”
The Count nodded solemnly. I wanted to puke on his behalf.
“Oh, and Joe here is going to stay on the job until you get back to New Yawk, just in case. And if you suddenly remember any souvenirs…” he turned and pinned me to the wall with a piercing stare, like he expected me to drop to my knees and confess, “…either of you, Joe’ll be happy to claim them.”
Kenny didn’t say another word. He just picked up the folder and handed it over to Havlicek, who shoved it inside his coat and gave me a pig-eyed smirk that made my blood boil. I wanted to punch him right in his fat face. I wanted to kill him with my bare hands. I never hated anyone as much as I hated him at that moment.
But not as much, I could tell, as Byron de Prorok hated his father-in-law.
Chapter 16
Near Abalessa, Hoggar Province, Algeria
November 4, 1925
Byron knew this was probably not a good idea, but in the battle between his good sense and his need for action, good sense lost out more times than not. He couldn’t wait any longer to find Queen Tin Hinan. The need to dig was like a mouse inside a wall; steadily scritch-scratching away until it was all he could think about. It was time.
As dawn grabbed a bare finger hold on the horizon, he spoke to his chosen crew. Belaid and Louis Chapuis, of course would be invaluable, along with Brad Tyrrell. Byron asked him, “Last chance to back out. You’re sure you want to come, Brad?”
The American grinned. “I didn’t come all this way to give piggybacks to little kids all day. But won’t Alonzo and Reygasse be upset they weren’t invited?”
De Prorok nodded gravely. “Probably, but we aren’t even sure the site is where we think it is. No sense interrupting their work here until we have something solid. We’ll find the tomb, and if it’s worthwhile, we’ll move the whole crew out there. Besides, we don’t have enough supplies for more than one car right now.”
They didn’t have enough by a long shot. The damned provisioners had left them short of just about everything. Petrol, water, non-beef canned food were all running out. The fact he had to put the arm on the College for more funds meant he couldn’t very well exempt Brad Tyrrell from the action, but he was a good man and another set of hands would be welcome. The others could collect the new supplies and join them.
“You’re not bringing Hal Denny or Barth?” asked Louis Chapuis.
“No sense. No room, for one thing. We’ve only one vehicle, but also, we don’t know what we’ll find. I’d rather have them arrive to a triumph, if you know what I mean, than watch us scramble in five wrong places before we find anything.” Plus the whining would make a hard situation even less bearable.
The others nodded in agreement. Good. Only one major decision still to make. “Who do we get to drive us out there?”
Four voices answered in chorus, “Martini.” That was easy, and not at all surprising. The little Italian had proven to be the best mechanic, most resourceful driver, and less of a pain in the ass than the more prestigious Renault men. He’d commandeer Lucky Strike and get on the road as soon as possible.
“Alright, then,” the Count clapped his hands together. “Let’s get a move on, gentlemen. Her Majesty awaits.”
In less than an hour, they’d loaded as much gas, food and water into the vehicle as they could scrounge. De Prorok’s last act was to write identical notes to Alonzo Pond and Maurice Reygasse, both already out in the field at this early hour. He briefly explained where they’d gone, a return date of a week, even though they only really had supplies for four days, and approximate coordinates to meet them at as soon as the rest of the supplies arrived. Then they were off the eighty mile drive to a vague destination somewhere south in Hoggar Province.
Lucky Strike bounced along as Martini navigated the dry river bed and spewed an endless stream of curses. The targets were, depending on the moment, the heat, the desert, and the Renault car. “More tires, more trouble,” he muttered.
Tyrrell pulled out his harmonica, but stopped when his seatmates groaned. “Please, Monsieur, no more Oh Suzanna.”
“You don’t like Stephen Foster?” the businessman asked, slightly offended.
“He’s an acquired… and particularly American taste, Brad. Hold on, we’re almost there. Then you can serenade the scorpions all you’d like.”
Unlike a lot of Americans, Brad Tyrrell seemed to know when to cater to foreigners and put his harmonica in his breast pocket next to the pipe. “Fine. Philistines. No appreciation for fine art.” Chapuis and de Prorok laughed, the others didn’t understand English. “What exactly are we looking for, Byron?”
“A mountain, well, a hill actually. Perfectly rounded so it shoul
d stand out from the others. But don’t stare out the window too long. You can burn your eyes quite badly.”
“Really?”
“Mmm-hmm. You see how Chapuis and Belaid rest their eyes every couple of minutes?”
“Hmmph, I just thought they were as bored as I am.”
Byron saw Chapuis open his eyes long enough to get his bearings. “Stay to the left fork, here Martini,” he ordered. Once a sergeant, always a sergeant, Byron thought. Martini knew how to take orders though, and like all grunts throughout history preferred direct orders to hints, nudges or suggestions. It provided cover if anything went wrong.
As to staying on their present course, well where else would they go? The old dry riverbeds led inexorably south and east. Years ago, floods starting in the Atlas Mountains ripped through the land and eventually petered out in what was now desert. The terrain reflected that history. Heading what was once “upstream” meant running the wrong way against punishing rocks. Like so much else in life, it was easier to go with the flow.
Byron laid back against the seat, helmet over his eyes, daydreaming of Alice, of returning to Paris in triumph, of throwing his success in his father-in-law’s face. He didn’t pay much attention to the little conversation going on in the car. Most of that was Chapuis talking to himself, anyway.
Like most scouts, he’d just blurt out, “Okay, where’s that damned other river?” or, “There should be a well here,” or, “Lying bastards said there was a camp.” Byron tuned it all out until he heard Louis slap Belaid on the arm.
“Belaid, what do you see there?”
The interpreter wiped sandy grit from his eyes and peered towards the distant horizon. “Hills, not much else. What am I looking at?”
“Do you see something, Louis?” Byron sat upright, willing his eyes to see something of value.
Belaid obviously saw something he didn’t. “The close one, it’s uhhhh,” the caid drew with his hands in the air, indicating a vague roundness.
“Martini, do you see it?”
“D’accord.”
“Can’t you step on it a bit?” asked de Prorok. Martini just shook his head.
“Steady speed saves gas. We don’t have much left, have to make it last, so… No, Monsieur.” The car continued at a steady fifteen miles an hour, which satisfied everyone but the Count, who knew better than to complain. It was always best to let professionals do their jobs.
“Speaking of gas. Supplies are on their way to the camp, though, right?” Tyrrell asked.
“Getting nervous, Brad? Supplies should be at Tamanrasset in two days, Maurice and Pond will join us in three. With a little luck, we’ll have found our Queen by then.” Byron offered that with far more confidence than he felt. Nobody needed to remind him that if there was one thing the expedition lacked so far, it was good, old fashioned luck.
Among his daydreams was the occasional, fleeting vision of being discovered years from now, his desiccated corpse clinging to a sarcophagus. Pyrrhic victories weren’t really victories to anyone but historians.
Continuing south, the outline of the hills came into sharper focus. They were too small to be true mountains, but they loomed high over the flat desert floor. Perhaps a mile ahead was a smaller hill, and as Belaid noted, it was rounder than the others.
Martini stopped the vehicle on solid, stony ground about two hundred yards away. For a moment, the only sound was the sizzling of water in the radiator as the car cooled down. Finally, de Prorok was able to croak out a question.
“Chapuis?”
“I think so. Yes sir.” Belaid shrugged in silent agreement.
The Count let out a whoop and clambered out of the car. He reached back in and dug around, finding a pair of heavy binoculars. Holding them to his eyes, he scanned the hill slowly; top to bottom, then side to side, then back the other way.
Trying to control the excitement in his voice, he said to Louis, “It hasn’t been touched in a long time. No graffiti, no signs of any activity whatsoever. Why’s that do you suppose?”
Chapuis grinned. “Maybe it’s taboo?”
“Quite right. And why’s that? Who built it, do you suppose?”
The guide squinted. “The locals are Haratin… Negroes, mostly slaves or ex-slaves, probably. They didn’t build anything like this. Neither did the Tuaregs, though they might have repurposed an old structure. It’s old… ancient Libyan, maybe?”
Byron switched to English for Tyrrell’s benefit. “So, Mr. Tyrrell, we have what’s an old holy site, with a heavy taboo on it, in the middle of nowhere. Why do you suppose that would be?”
Brad responded to the cocky grin on de Prorok’s face. “Well, Professor, could it be the Queen’s tomb?”
“Because it’s the Queen’s bloody tomb, Brad. We found it. Don’t you feel the tingle?” Byron was almost giddy.
“What I feel is my old bones aching. There’s gotta be twenty tons of rocks there. We can’t do it ourselves.” Byron didn’t blame him for being worried. And the poor fellow was essentially on vacation. They’d need help.
The Count nodded. “We’ll need diggers… a dozen, two would be ideal. Louis, there’s a Haratti village nearby, you said?”
“Yes, but what will we pay them with?” The question hung in the air like a bad odor, more an accusation than a request for information.
“We have the cash for the supplies…” Byron offered.
Chapuis shook his head. “The most useless thing in this part of the Sahara is actual money. We barely have enough food and water for a couple of days, and we need our tools… They’ll want something in trade.”
“Yes,” de Prorok admitted. “The prudent thing would be to send word back to Tamanrasset, then wait for Reygasse and Pond to arrive. We can always go back.” He looked from face to face and saw what he hoped to see, a disappointment at being so close to their goal, and an itch to prove themselves. “Or… we can find some goods to trade, to at least get us started until the others arrive.”
They quickly took inventory of what they’d managed to throw into the car before their ill-conceived, hasty exit. Cooking pots, hand mirrors, grooming items of all kinds became expendable. Byron smiled as Brad Tyrrell slipped his harmonica under the back seat of the car, lest it come a casualty of the mad scramble for tradable goods.
The negotiations with the Haratin didn’t go as smoothly as he’d hoped, but why would they start now? Nothing else on this cursed trip seemed to go his way. The Chief was reluctant to help. If they could find workers willing to help the crazy white men move tons of rock, which was unlikely, and pay them enough, which seemed doubtful, there was the matter of breaking the taboo on the mountain. The place was holy to their Tuareg overlords, although no one in the village could recall why, or what was buried there, or even if it belonged to the Tuaregs in the first place. Still, why chance it?
The fear of how the Tuaregs would react prevented Byron from just sending word back to Tamanrasset. If word got out they were despoiling the grave of the Mother, no one could confidently say what the response would be. When Byron presented a hypothetical situation to King Akhamouk, the sovereign had been extremely articulate on how they’d react, and it was enough to quash the conversation then and there.
Byron and Belaid wheedled, cajoled and outright prevaricated but finally managed to secure the services of fifteen men, each of whom would provide their own food and water, for six days. This was an ambitious commitment, given they only had three days, maybe four days of anything to eat and drink. Gasoline was out of the question, with luck they had enough to get back to the site that night. Eventually a deal was struck, and the Expedition returned to the Tomb Site, as they optimistically called it, to set up camp.
Work began the next morning. After the trip to the village, the car was running on vapors at best, and they weren’t going anywhere until rescue arrived. With no driving to be done, Martini set to work maximizing their meager rations and circumstances. By the Count’s reckoning, they had three days worth of su
pplies, which he deduced could be stretched to five with the miracle working driver in charge. If everything at Tamanrasset was on schedule the others would be here in three days, so Martini counted on five at least. This meant extreme rationing. Water would be a problem, of course, and the little mechanic dug in the dry riverbed until he found a trickle of water, which could serve as an emergency well in a pinch. They might make the insanity last a week. After that, he didn’t dare speculate.
Standing two-thirds of the way to the top of the mound, Chapuis, Tyrrell and the Count tried to figure out the best plan of attack. “How many chambers, do you think?” the American asked.
“Eleven or twelve, depending if that one there is one big room or just the dividing wall’s collapsed.”
“Should we start in the center and work our way out?” Louis wondered.
“No, let’s start at the top and work our way down,” countered De Prorok.
“Why’s that?”
“Why not?” which was reason enough to begin in earnest. The first day, all they accomplished was the moving of rocks, large and small, from the top opening and the most obvious entrances. Every hour or so, something would happen to cause a work stoppage. A large black scorpion scuttling out of a crevice became a sign of the gods’ displeasure at their work, and the workers would throw down their picks and levers, threatening never to return until Chapuis or Belaid, and sometimes both, cowed them into getting back to work.
This was nothing new to De Prorok, having come to the conclusion years ago that it took four reluctant locals to do the work of a single motivated white man on a dig. Tyrrell muttered darkly he knew some anti-union boys in Chicago who could set things right in a hurry.
The archaeologist just continued grabbing rocks and moving them until he bent over one and carefully dusted it with his palm, then with a whisk broom he kept strapped to his belt.