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cost wasn’t too high, but desperate times called for desperate measures. He was doing all this for the girls, after all, and he did get those last minute permits. Alice was a realist about such things. Plus, she was in Paris.
    Three brand new olive-green Renault vehicles shone in the sun. The cars, each with three rows of seats, three double rows of tires and removable doors with canvas covers, idled in the road in front of the Hotel Cirta. The first, nicknamed Sandy, was reserved for the Count and the press contingent; Hal Denny of the Times and Henri Barth, the photographer, along with their driver, Escande.
    The second car, Hot Dog, was the domain of Marshall Maurice Reygasse, as official representative of the local authorities, their guide, Louis Chapuis, and Belaid the translator. Everyone called Belaid “Caid”, which was actually a title meaning Chief, but whether that was a real or self-selected title no one really knew for sure. A petulant Renault man named Chaix piloted that vehicle.
    Bringing up the rear was Lucky Strike. It contained the two Americans, most of the equipment, and a little Italian driver named Martini. One of the passengers, Bradley Tyrrell blew “Oh Suzanna” softly on his harmonica. The other was not so sanguine.
    “Come on, we should have been out of here an hour ago. Is he still flirting with that lady?” Alonzo Pond spent most of the last hour cursing the heat, his life, and the Count in rotating order, and was ready to move on. The October rains had been plentiful this year. It was great for the crops, of course, and welcome after two years of drought, but not so good for the humidity. He was used to the Midwestern stickiness of Wisconsin summers, but this was a whole new level of dank Hades.
    “Relax, Lonnie. The Sahara’s been here a while. It’s not going anywhere. Besides, he’s doing business.”
    “You call that business?”
    The older man smiled. “There’s always a price to be paid for doing business, son. Here they call it baksheesh, in Chicago it’s called doing someone a favor. The price he’s paying with Madame over there might be the steepest of all. Higher than I’d want to pay, anyway.” He gave a single blast on his Hohner.
    Pond didn’t feel much pity for the Count and didn’t push the matter. Instead he turned to the driver and asked in reasonably good French, “Martini, you’re sure we have enough fuel?”
    “Oui. Yes, of course. We make sure before we go. The Count sees to everything.”
    Pond sniffed, hardly reassured. He leaned back and closed his eyes. One thing he learned in the War, enjoy the calm while you can. Alonzo had been in the ambulance corps, and studied briefly at the Sorbonne. He “ parle français” well enough that, along with Martini’s deeply Italian-accented French they could converse, with Pond translating for the unilingual American, Tyrrell. It made for good company at least.
    “Who does this guy think he is?” Pond asked, not for the first time.
    “The Boss,” was Tyrrell’s explanation. “Every project needs one, and better him than us. Trust me, it’s not as glamorous as you think.”
    Pond wasn’t sure he believed that. “What’s he bringing to the party, anyway? I’m more qualified, you’ve run million dollar businesses, the Museum is paying most of the freight and the Algerians and the French are paying the rest of it. What exactly does he do?”
    “He brings attention. You think the New York Times cares about Beloit College? Would Renault donate three trucks and drivers for free if this was just another dig?”
    “These trucks are more like overgrown cars. And they look ridiculous.” He knew he was being petty, but couldn’t help himself. The trucks meant press coverage for the College, and room for lots more arrowheads and flint tools than he’d be able to strap to the back of some stupid humpbacks. It just all seemed a bit… disappointing.
    Pond had spent the last six months fantasizing a long,