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

sounding so petulant, but it was getting late, and he wasn’t feeling particularly diplomatic.
    After dinner, they retired for the night. Tyrrell and Pond shared a room with three narrow cots. The whitewashed mud brick walls were unadorned except a couple of iron hooks for clothes and a crude crucifix that had been hastily added once the owner was reassured the occupants weren’t Muslim.
    The third cot was for Martini, when he finally showed up. The driver had ducked out the back as soon as dinner was over to inspect Lucky Strike. It showed a remarkable sense of duty, especially since it meant he’d get the cot furthest from the window and the fresh air.
    The Americans moved their cots as close to the window as possible and pulled the mosquito netting into place. If the insects were blind enough, maybe they wouldn’t see the gaping holes along the seams and let them get some sleep. It would get cool at night, but the breeze might eliminate some of the smell, and most of the vermin. Sleeping in their clothes seemed a reasonable precaution as well.
    After a few minutes of quietly sucking his pipe, Brad spoke up. “Okay, Pond. Out with it.”
    “I didn’t say anything.”
    The older man chuckled. “You say nothing louder than just about anyone I’ve ever met. Give.”
    Pond leaned up on one arm. “Do you think Prorok knows what he’s doing?”
    “He knows what he knows, that’s for sure. The College couldn’t get this trip off the ground before he got involved. We wouldn’t have gotten out of Constantine without him playing Madame Rouvier like a fiddle—and don’t think she’s done with him yet. We wouldn’t be driving these pretty new trucks, and we sure as heck wouldn’t have the New York Times tagging along. So, yeah. I think he has some idea of what he’s doing.”
    Pond lay back, head behind his hands. ”But the gas…”
    “Not his shining moment, I’ll grant you. You know this is his first command, right?”
    “That’s no excuse,” the younger man said, fully aware of how petty he sounded, but past caring.
    “Not an excuse, maybe, but a pretty good reason. He’s always had someone older or smarter to take care of the details, and he could just focus on the work and take the credit. Lots of guys are like that, especially salesmen…which is what he is, let’s face it. First thing I learned in business, Lonny: being good at your job doesn’t make you a good boss. I know plenty of bosses who wouldn’t know their ass from their elbow if they actually had to do the dirty work, but they get things done.”
    Tyrrell lit his pipe, then added, “Being in charge looks awfully tempting and easy from the cheap seats. You’ll find out some day.”
    That was the longest speech he’d ever heard Brad Tyrrell make and the young student lay there silently wondering why the older man wasn’t as angry about them running out of gas as he was. The Tyrrell money certainly wasn’t made tolerating stupidity.
    Eventually Pond fell asleep imagining himself at the head of his own expedition; making world shaking discoveries while demonstrating perfect judgment and unfailing courage. Then he’d tour like the Count did, only his lectures would be accurate and profound, at a hundred bucks a pop. Brad said he’d find out some day, he sincerely hoped his friend knew what he was talking about. His last waking thought was, I will sure have earned it.

Chapter 3
    Cedar Rapids Iowa
    January 22, 1926
     
    When I stepped off the streetcar my eyeballs nearly froze solid, but it was January in Iowa, so what did I expect? The wind that had followed me up Third Avenue finally caught me full in the face as soon as I turned towards the Montrose. The blinding winter sun added to the discomfort, and it took a moment to stop blinking and focus. I was wearing my good clothes, so I didn’t dare button my coat. Sure, I was risking frost bite, but at least I looked good.
    I dashed across the street and up to the front door of the