The Levantine scowled in puzzlement at Megan McDaid and then looked questioningly at Sean Ryan. Both of the men had come to their feet from the table up against the terrace railing, upon the approach of the three.
Sean made introductions. He said, “Doctor Megan McDaid, Captain Bryan O’Casey, Mr. Saul Saidi and…” He looked at the tall, narrow faced, blue eyed, blondish haired, stranger.
The stranger bowed gently and took Meg’s hand and kissed it, murmuring, “Enchanté, Madam Docteur.” He looked down at the hand, which was ringless. “Or should I say, Mademoiselle?”
“You could even say Ms. in the American fashion,” Meg said. “But I’m not married.”
“How delightful,” he murmured again, and raised his eyebrows in an over-exaggerated expression of ecstasy.
“Come off it, Raul,” Bryan O’Casey growled. “She’s all mine.”
The Frenchman grinned and turned to the two men. “A pleasure, gentlemen.” He shook hands with Bryan. “Though, of course, I am already well acquainted with this old Irish clod.” He shook with Sean and said, “My name is Captain Raul Bazaine.” He flicked a thumbnail over his thin blonde mustache in most French fashion.
Sean said, “I’m Major Sean Ryan, commanding this detail, if all goes as Mr. Saidi has outlined.”
The pudgy Levantine was sputtering, “But… but this lady…”
Sean said easily, with an ease he didn’t entirely feel, “Shall we then be seated and I’ll explain?”
Meg and the four men took chairs at the table which gave them a splendid view of the city.
Saul Saidi attempted to rise to the occasion. “Would anyone wish an apertif?” He raised a commanding finger to a waiter.
Meg had a Cinzano, Captain Bazaine a pastis, the Levantine an orange squash, Bryan a Scotch whiskey, since Irish was unknown in Algiers.
Sean said, “I’ll not be having anything.”
The Levantine raised eyebrows at that but said nothing.
When the waiter was gone, Saidi said, an ominous quality in his usually smooth, oily voice, “And this Mademoiselle?”
Sean Ryan took over. “Is Captain O’Casey’s… fiancée. And not Mademoiselle… but Doctor. Mr. Saidi, please realize that we are white men going into the interior of the Sahara, an area with which at least most of us are unacquainted.” He looked at the Frenchman. “Though I understand Captain Bazaine is. However, I doubt if his medical qualifications go beyond those of the usual mercenary in the field.”
Bazaine stroked his mustache again and smiled acceptance, but held his peace. He was still eyeing Meg appreciatively.
Sean went on. “We shall be subjected to the usual, and, so I understand, quite endless, African diseases from dysentery to fevers that are not even in the lexicon of western medicine. Beyond this, as combat men, we are exposed to being hit, to taking wounds. What makes more sense than that our group would include a medico?”
Saidi said testily, “Your cover is that you are a group of more or less ragtail mercenaries, out of employment and seeking jobs as the bodyguard of this upstart El Hassan. One would not expect such a contingent to be able to afford a qualified doctor.”
Bryan said mildly, “She needn’t go in as a doctor. We can call her a nurse. The fact that she is my fiancée and, let us not mince words, my mistress, makes it even more likely that she might be along. I’m in favor of her being one of our number. So is Major Ryan.” He looked at the Frenchman, “Captain Bazaine?”
Bazaine bowed to Meg McDaid. “She would be a most practical—and most charming—addition to our company, n’est-ce pas?”
The Levantine thought about it. Finally he shrugged hugely and said, “She is expecting recompense?”
Meg chopped out a less than feminine laugh and said, “Of course.”
Sean said, “Equal to that of the sergeant.”
Saidi said, “How do I know that you are a qualified doctor?”
Meg smiled and said, “I have credentials.”
But Bryan was looking at the lardy Levantine.
Saidi cleared his throat unhappily and said, “Very well, Doctor McDaid will be one of your number. I assume that she will be able to assemble her medical kit here in Algiers.”
Meg said, “I have brought it with me, Mr. Saidi. I researched the requirements before leaving Dublin. The medical school library there is quite adequate, even for desert diseases.”
“Very well. Let us get down to practical matters.” The heavy-set man looked at Sean Ryan. “You were successful in recruiting your troop?”
Sean nodded. “Yes, I first contacted my old comrade in arms, Captain O’Casey, here. With the need in mind of men acquainted with the desert and North Africa in particular, he in turn made contact with Captain Bazaine, with whom I have not had the pleasure of serving before. Then, between the three of us, we sent out the word to former comrades. Sometimes, they in turn suggested still others. It was difficult to find our twenty dependable combat veterans on such short notice, but not too much so.”
“And the sergeant?”
“Is an American, possibly one of the most experienced mercenaries in our ranks.”
“And where are these men quartered now?”
“At the Oasis Hotel, on the rue de Laurier.”
“Very well. At the conclusion of our planning here, we shall go see them and make final provisions for your pay and such matters.”
He brought a red jacketed packet from an inner pocket and unfolded it to reveal a map, saying, “This is the Michelin 152 Map of the portion of the Sahara in which we are primarily interested.” He spread the chart out on the table and the others bent over it.
The waiter came up with their drinks and they held their silence until they had been served and he left. Sean Ryan eyed Bryan’s drink, but shook his head infinitesimally and returned to the map.
Saul Saidi took a pencil from his breast pocket and used it for a pointer. He said, “We have had to make some alterations in original plans. We had first thought to base your rescue craft in In Salah, only 683 kilometers north of Tamanrasset, where El Hassan was last reported. However, the El Hassan disease is spreading like an epidemic and we cannot be sure that In Salah will not be subjected to it—if it has not already fallen. Hence Adrar has been substituted.” He pointed it out on the map. “It is, unfortunately, another 351 kilometers further northwest. Happily, we have excellent cover there for both your aircraft and the pilots who will rescue you after you have disposed of El Hassan and his immediate followers.”
“There is something that hasn’t been completely clear to me,” Bazaine said. “This plane that comes to our rescue. Suppose, after we’ve pulled the job, we go to ground somewhere out in the hammada, the rocky uplands between the mountains in that area. How is it going to land to pick us up, hein?”
The Levantine beamed greasily at him. “The craft, which we already have on hand at Adrar, is a helio-jet. It can land anywhere, and has sufficient capacity for all of you. Have you located the pilots you wish to utilize?”
“Yes,” Sean said. “In fact, they’re waiting in Tunis to get the message on where they are to go.”
“Excellent,” the Levantine said. “We’ll phone them tonight and they can proceed down to Adrar. Of what nationality are they?”
“Both French, both acquainted with the Sahara, and the helio-jet will be no problem. They can fly anything,” Captain Bazaine said. “I contacted them, on Bryan’s suggestion, when he got in touch with me. In fact, Bryan is well acquainted with one of them. They served together in the guerrilla fighting in Indonesia.”
Sean said, his voice flat, “I want to see those two pilots and the helio-jet before we go in after El Hassan.”