'I think so,' Carl said. 'We'll find out in a few minutes.'' Pulling into a palm-lined driveway which led up to a three-story stuccoed building, they came to a halt gratefully.
The passenger door of the Land Rover was opened by a smiling black man wearing a gold-trimmed red jacket and a fez. Despite their road-filthy and dust-encrusted appearance, he greeted them as if they were visiting royalty. Upon the clap of his hands, porters appeared out of the dark to carry their gear into the lobby, which could have come from a Hollywood movie set: potted palms and plants, rotating overhead fans, furniture which belonged in the attics and cellars of a hundred years ago.
The Saharienne had once been somebody's dream, built by an Englishman who'd thought that when oil was found, Ghudamis would become a major crossroads. It had gone through several hands since then. It was now owned by a Hindu family who kept the pukka sahib attitude: patiently they had waited for the flood of tourists and travelers to come for two generations now, and with the calm resignation of the Orient, they were ready to wait two more generations or however long they had to. Meanwhile, they would keep the hotel ready and fully staffed. Of its one hundred rooms, only four were occupied, three of those by a geological survey crew from Belgium and the other by a permanent resident — one of those leftovers from the colonial days who had chosen to stay and die.
'Welcome, sirs. Have you a reservation?'
Carl admitted that they did not. The Hindu clerk gave them a slightly distasteful look through his wire-rimmed glasses, as if to say their parents should have taught them better. He went through the ritual of checking his guest register, then with great satisfaction at being able to squeeze them in, replied aloofly, 'Ah, yes, good sirs. You are most fortunate. I see that we will be able to accommodate you. Please sign the register.'
They did as they were bade. Even Gus seemed a bit subdued by the clerk, as if he recognized one who had even more fantastic dreams than he did.
Carl gave the car keys to a porter. They were requested to please wait a moment. The clerk vanished to the rear office. A few seconds passed.
Then they heard a coughing that changed to a steady chug and lights came on in the lobby, electric lights from overhead chandeliers. For some reason it made the place seem even more odd than it was when lit only by lamps and candles.
Proudly the desk clerk announced, 'You may go to your rooms now, good sirs, and have a pleasant stay at the Hotel Saharienne.'
A red-fezzed bellboy took them to a lift, making a ceremony out of turning the bronze handle forward till power gave the winch enough strength to lift the cage up to the first floor, where they were shown to two rooms. Carl had put Gus with Dominic, thinking that it was best that neither of them were left alone too long. Besides, he needed some space to himself to think for a time. The rooms were like the lobby. A touch of old England seventy years ago. After accepting his gratuity, the bellboy announced that the electricity would be turned off upon his return to the lobby but every evening at dinner it was turned on again for two hours.
The shower was hot. On the roof was a holding tank painted black to absorb the heat of the already searing sun. Water came nearly steaming from the pipes. The only good thing about hot showers in tropical climates was that it felt cool for a few minutes after you got out.
A light meal of boiled eggs and toast served with English tea and marmalade started the day off fairly well. Gus had four orders.
Looking at Dominic over his cup, Langers was concerned about him. Since they'd gone on the road Langers had been keeping a watch on Dominic. He seemed a bit more at ease. Gus was always the same; he hadn't changed since the first day they'd met in Russia. Seven long years of fighting together and the only time he'd ever seen him down was when young Manny Ertl died in the winter of '44 on the Dnieper River Line. He'd lost track of Gus during the retreat from Russia and found him again in the Legion, where thousands of former members of the Wehrmacht ended up after the war was over. France had needed trained soldiers to fight her wars in Indochina and she found many of them in the defeated armies of her former enemy.
Langers shook the past off again. They had things to do today.
CHAPTER FOUR
Carl had Gus and Dominic service the Land Rover. They used their spare gear and went about replacing the air and oil filters. While they did this Langers took the time to go over the report Monpelier had given him.
Inside the envelope were pictures of the two hostages. For the first time he had names: Jason St. Johns and his bride, Jeannine. There was a striking resemblance between them. Both were in their early twenties. From the black and white photos he guessed they both had dishwater blond or sun-bleached hair. A good-looking couple, intelligent faces. Both were well educated, she at schools in Switzerland and France, he at Yale. It appeared that Sunni Ali had picked them up while they were on their honeymoon taking a motor safari across Africa. The boy's father was Andrew St. Johns, an international arms broker who had mega-dollars and only one heir.
As for Sunni Ali, there was nothing new. He was still a mystery. He had just appeared among the tribes one day and had risen to leader of the Azbnei Tuaregs — all this in the last two years. The only known fact about him was that he always did what he said he would do. If he said he'd kill the hostages, then that was exactly what would take place. It was known that he spoke French and English fluently, as well as Arabic and Tamahag, the Tuareg dialect.
The rest of the envelope contained pictures of the Mt. Baguezane region. All of them were aerial views, some of which had been torn out of old magazines. That was okay; nothing there would change very much in just a few years.
That was it. Not much! He'd have to do like Monpelier had suggested and try to contact some of those he had dealt with during the troublesome past. The one man he needed in particular was Sharif Mamud ibn-Hassani, an old desert fox who was the master of Wadi Jebel, only a few hours drive from Ghudamis. He'd make inquiries. If the sharif was still alive, he would go and see him. During the Algerian operation, Sharif Mamud had supplied him with information about the rebel terrorists. As often as the French Colonials had been attacked by them, so had his people, the Bedouin Arabs. Sharif Mamud had explained his informing by saying that if he was going to be conquered, he would prefer it to be by people who at least knew how to cook.
Returning to the hotel, Carl found Gus on the porch sipping iced lemonade. 'Looks good, Gus.' He ordered one from the attending waiter, who stood waiting politely just out of earshot. When it was brought to him, before drinking it he placed the glass between his eyes. The cold almost hurt. He ran it over the outside of his face. The chill was delicious. Only then did he drink, taking half the glass in one long swallow.
Gus smiled with approval. 'Good shit, huh? Comes from their own groves.'
'Yes, it's good. Now listen, if he's still around we're going over to see old Sharif Mamud tomorrow.'
Gus nodded. 'I wondered if we'd see the old goat thief while we were in the area. If anyone knows anything it'll be him. An information service, that's what he is, a regular encyclopedia.'
Looking around, Langers asked, 'Where's Dominic at?'
Gus pointed his glass to the road. 'In the village taking a look around. He should be back soon.'
'The Land Rover?'
'Everything's in order. It's watered and gassed and the spare cans have been refilled. We're ready to go.'
Carl grunted 'Good' as he drained the last of his glass. The waiter approached him bearing a slip of paper on a silver salver, saying, 'Master Langers, sir. This is for you.' Carl took the note and gave the man what must have been his first tip in weeks.
After reading it, he put the paper in his pocket.
'Monpelier will be here tomorrow night. I want you to go and find Dominic, then check around to see if Sharif Mamud is at the Wadi Jebel. No sense making the trip if he's dead.'
With resignation for an unpleasant task, Gus hauled his carcass from the comfortable chair.
' Zu Befehl, Herr Feldwebel.'' He gave a mock salute. 'Yes, sir, Herr Sergeant.'
Carl ignored him.
He watched Gus's back as he trundled off toward the sun-baked bricks of the village, then went back inside to
