The Count of the Sahara by Wayne Turmel Read Free Book Online

only two groups of morons. We’ll only need a splash of gas to get into town. You can take the rest to the others down the road,” Belaid told them. Pond thought he could have been a little more diplomatic about it all.
    Without asking permission, Martini grabbed a can of gas from the back seat, made sure the funnel was clean and poured out a few glug-glugs of petrol into the tank. Then he added one final glug for good measure, splashed some on the carburetor, recapped the jug, and handed it back. With much thanks and salaaming from all involved, the drivers headed further north to rescue Chaix and Chapuis, and the unfortunate Hot Dog.
    Five minutes later, Lucky Strike pulled in front of the Hotel Batna. What was left of the welcoming committee was still there, most of them squatting and smoking in what little shade the hotel’s awnings offered. The owner, a frighteningly skinny Pied-Noir with an equally thin moustache tried to rouse the staff to their feet and give an appropriate hero’s welcome to the brave—and obviously rich—travelers.
    Pond watched, disgusted, as Barth directed the reluctant locals to stand and applaud the arrival. When he had them looking enough like a cheering mob, Reygasse emerged from the car straightening his hat as his medals jingled like wind chimes on his chest. The local headman greeted him with a kiss on each cheek and a hearty handshake, then the owner welcomed him to the grand vision that was the Hotel Batna.
    Tyrrell and Pond crawled out of their vehicle on the street side, stretching their legs. They were immediately accosted by a frazzled porter, who gestured and shouted that he would do it all. “Leave it to Mahmoud, Sir…. I am Mahmoud.” He pointed to himself and bowed deeply, just to make sure there was no confusion on that point. He grabbed a crate of digging tools, promptly dropped them on the ground, then smiled apologetically, hoping his tip wasn’t in the balance.
    A voice boomed from the doorway, “Ah, the prodigal sons arrive.” De Prorok stood in the doorway, arms spread in welcome and motioned them to come in out of the heat. His hair was perfectly groomed, and there wasn’t a speck of dust on him anywhere. Pond glared sullenly. Had he had time to bathe and change already, or did the son of a gun just not sweat like normal people? “Lonnie, let’s get you something cool to drink before you combust. Brad, this way…”
    Inside the lobby, a combined reception, café, bar and luggage storage depot, ceiling fans clunked noisily overhead. Pond tilted his head up towards them. The breeze felt wonderful, even if the way they rattled in their brackets left their ability to stay up there very long in serious doubt.
    Reygasse had regained some of his dignity, and grandly gestured for the Americans to meet his “very good friend,” and “this most honored gentleman,” and other prominent locals, none of whom had actual names, it seemed. Pond smiled and shook hands, muttering greetings in French. Tyrrell, who always seemed to make himself at home despite being unapologetically unilingual, managed to make “good to meetcha” a universal language.
    Long after the others finally dragged themselves in, the Count held court in the middle of the room, his voice honking out stories, jokes and bonhomie in a bewildering mix of French, Arabic, English and pantomime to include every living thing in the hotel. His long-stemmed pipe was alternately a baton, a sword, and a perfectly plausible excuse to pause and bask in the appreciation of the locals.
    Pond looked around and envied Hal Denny, who was dead asleep in a chair removed from the main salon. The Times reporter snored softly, his notebook dangling from his lap.
    “You okay, Monsieur Pond?” Chapuis asked twice before he got a response.
    “Mmm, yeah. Fine.”
    The guide nodded. “It’ll be fine. I’ve worked with him before. In Carthage and other places. He’s a good man.”
    “If you say so.” Pond regretting