Read Online The Count of the Sahara by Wayne Turmel - Free Book Online
Authors: Wayne Turmel
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bandages and all, and he used a two-hand shake on it.
“Done. Okay, we leave tomorrow for the bustling metropolis of Des Moines, Ioway,” he said in a surprisingly convincing Hawkeye accent. “What do we need to get up and running?”
I’d have to realign those slides, and maybe put a lock on the box so he couldn’t muck them up anymore. None of the boxes was properly labeled, that would make things a whole lot easier. We’d need some stuff from the hardware store.
“Not much. I can get most of it at Martinek and Son’s, it’s just down Third Avenue.”
“Great, make a list and we’ll get it while we’re having lunch. I believe I’ve recovered fully from last night. I’m starving.”
Chapter 4
Batna, Algeria
October 13, 1925
Pond gave his ankle an early morning scratch through his sock, then his arm through his sleeve. Then his nails scraped over most of the rest of his body. The mosquitoes they’d been so worried about were merely decoys for the fleas that ambushed him while he slept.
It was barely dawn, and everything in the room was bathed in a cool grey. Tyrrell snored away on one cot under a mound of blankets. Martini, like any other old desert hand, lay on top of the blankets, sleeping the sleep of the just and uneaten.
Pond got out of bed, slopped some water from a pitcher into a chipped white bowl, then palmed it against his face. He combed his fingers through his hair in a vain attempt to tame it and quietly slipped out of the room. He always enjoyed early mornings. Whether it was the North Woods of Wisconsin or the hills of southern France, there were few things he loved more than being alone with Mother Nature at sunrise. He was in a hurry to experience the feeling of dawn over the desert, but there were at least two more nights of flea-bag inns before then. No sense complaining about it.
He took his notepad and writing stationery to the lobby. He had time to dash off a short letter to Dr. Collie at the Logan Museum, and hoped it sounded professional. He’d calmed down a little since yesterday, but only a little. Running out of fuel on the first day was annoying. If it happened out in the true desert it could be fatal.
Surprisingly, de Prorok was already awake, if a little the worse for wear from the brandy he’d consumed. Hungover or not, he was fully operational, sitting slouched in a raggedly upholstered chair with his back to the rest of the lobby, jotting notes in a leather-bound notebook. The Count gestured to the silver urn on the table in front of him.
“Ahh, Pond, good morning. Everything up to scratch?” He chuckled at his own joke as his nails raked at his own shirt sleeve.
“Funny,” Pond grunted, and gestured towards the coffee. He always thought cowboys and loggers back home drank thick coffee, then he’d gone to Europe. And even that sludge couldn’t prepare him for how the Arabs drank it. It was so thick and strong, you could use it for medicinal purposes rather than recreation. There was no way you could spend the morning lingering over these little thimbles that passed for cups. A good American diner mug of this mud would have you awake and crapping for a week. Thank God sugar was in good supply.
Taking that first scalding sip, Pond studied the other man. The Count was two years younger than he was—they celebrated the Count’s thirtieth birthday in Constantine—and the nearness in age was about the only similarity between them. Pond was short. At best he was five two or three depending on who he was talking to and how straight he stood, while the other man towered over him, literally looking down at him most of the time. While the American was stocky, Byron de Prorok was wiry, and deceptively strong.
Pond blew a stray wisp of hair from his face. That was another thing that bothered him. De Prorok’s dark hair was always molded into a crest of wavy perfection at any time of the day or night. Even when the Count removed his pith helmet after a day in
“Done. Okay, we leave tomorrow for the bustling metropolis of Des Moines, Ioway,” he said in a surprisingly convincing Hawkeye accent. “What do we need to get up and running?”
I’d have to realign those slides, and maybe put a lock on the box so he couldn’t muck them up anymore. None of the boxes was properly labeled, that would make things a whole lot easier. We’d need some stuff from the hardware store.
“Not much. I can get most of it at Martinek and Son’s, it’s just down Third Avenue.”
“Great, make a list and we’ll get it while we’re having lunch. I believe I’ve recovered fully from last night. I’m starving.”
Chapter 4
Batna, Algeria
October 13, 1925
Pond gave his ankle an early morning scratch through his sock, then his arm through his sleeve. Then his nails scraped over most of the rest of his body. The mosquitoes they’d been so worried about were merely decoys for the fleas that ambushed him while he slept.
It was barely dawn, and everything in the room was bathed in a cool grey. Tyrrell snored away on one cot under a mound of blankets. Martini, like any other old desert hand, lay on top of the blankets, sleeping the sleep of the just and uneaten.
Pond got out of bed, slopped some water from a pitcher into a chipped white bowl, then palmed it against his face. He combed his fingers through his hair in a vain attempt to tame it and quietly slipped out of the room. He always enjoyed early mornings. Whether it was the North Woods of Wisconsin or the hills of southern France, there were few things he loved more than being alone with Mother Nature at sunrise. He was in a hurry to experience the feeling of dawn over the desert, but there were at least two more nights of flea-bag inns before then. No sense complaining about it.
He took his notepad and writing stationery to the lobby. He had time to dash off a short letter to Dr. Collie at the Logan Museum, and hoped it sounded professional. He’d calmed down a little since yesterday, but only a little. Running out of fuel on the first day was annoying. If it happened out in the true desert it could be fatal.
Surprisingly, de Prorok was already awake, if a little the worse for wear from the brandy he’d consumed. Hungover or not, he was fully operational, sitting slouched in a raggedly upholstered chair with his back to the rest of the lobby, jotting notes in a leather-bound notebook. The Count gestured to the silver urn on the table in front of him.
“Ahh, Pond, good morning. Everything up to scratch?” He chuckled at his own joke as his nails raked at his own shirt sleeve.
“Funny,” Pond grunted, and gestured towards the coffee. He always thought cowboys and loggers back home drank thick coffee, then he’d gone to Europe. And even that sludge couldn’t prepare him for how the Arabs drank it. It was so thick and strong, you could use it for medicinal purposes rather than recreation. There was no way you could spend the morning lingering over these little thimbles that passed for cups. A good American diner mug of this mud would have you awake and crapping for a week. Thank God sugar was in good supply.
Taking that first scalding sip, Pond studied the other man. The Count was two years younger than he was—they celebrated the Count’s thirtieth birthday in Constantine—and the nearness in age was about the only similarity between them. Pond was short. At best he was five two or three depending on who he was talking to and how straight he stood, while the other man towered over him, literally looking down at him most of the time. While the American was stocky, Byron de Prorok was wiry, and deceptively strong.
Pond blew a stray wisp of hair from his face. That was another thing that bothered him. De Prorok’s dark hair was always molded into a crest of wavy perfection at any time of the day or night. Even when the Count removed his pith helmet after a day in
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