“Work,” she said. “When you are involved in an inspirational program such as that of El Hassan, work becomes recreation.”
They had arrived at her destination and come to a halt.
“Ah,” he said, smiling his charm again. “But isn’t there an American saying beginning all work and no play …”
And she smiled at him again, mockingly. “Yes, but this particular work is far from dull. Good afternoon, Captain.”
He made a face of great sadness. “But never-the-less, Madamoiselle, if you find yourself in need of a bit of relaxation—I am most available.”
He touched his finger to his cap again in salute, and turned and headed back for where the soldiers of fortune had pitched their tents.
She looked after him in deprecation. “I’ll just bet you’re available,” she murmured under her breath.
XVII
MEGAN MCDAID
When Megan McDaid was admitted to Doctor Warren Harding Smythe’s office the following day, it was to find that both Isobel Cunningham and Jimmy Peters were also present. James Peters, whom she found a small, chunky, rather colorless, though energetic man, had been introduced to her as El Hassan’s Vizier of Education, though evidently he was not important enough in the hierarchy to be attending this mysterious inner conference that his leader was holding somewhere. However, from what little Meg had seen, the duties of El Hassan’s people seemed somewhat elastic. Isobel Cunningham, supposedly his secretary, was making important decisions that would ordinarily pertain to press secretary, through minister of war, to commissioner of foreign affairs. Meg wondered how many of the black girl’s decisions would be backed by the ruthless El Hassan when he did reappear.
They went through the standard amenities and then Doctor Smythe said, “Please have a chair, Doctor. What can I do for you?”
Meg sat and said, “It occurs to me that I might put my time to some use while my group is waiting. From what little I have seen, you can utilize anyone with medical background, though I am taken aback by some of the outdated equipment and treatments you are at present utilizing.”
Jimmy Peters said impatiently, even as he pushed his old fashioned spectacles back on the bridge of his nose, “That will soon be remedied. Admittedly, we are stretching out impossibly now, but large quantities of the most recent equipment are on their way.” His small smile was deprecating. “You see, every pharmaceutical house, every medical and dental supply house in America, Common Europe, the Soviet Complex and Japan are urging their credit upon us.”
Meg couldn’t help but frown puzzlement. “Well, why?”
Isobel laughed softly “Because they can see what a potential market we will become and each wants to corner it.”
“It would involve millions to make a dent upon your requirements,” Meg said. “Through the two thousand or so miles we drove to arrive here, I saw the state of medical needs throughout North Africa.”
Jimmy Peters nodded. “Millions is stating it mildly, Doctor McDaid. However, one financial offer we received yesterday involved a half billion dollars, American, for a monopoly to exploit the oil and natural gas resources of Senegal alone.”
“Half a billion dollars!” Meg protested. “But are you even in control of Senegal?”
“Practically all of it save Dakar,” Isobel said, “and that city should come over to us before the week is out. However, I doubt if El Hassan is interested in the offer.” She paused a moment before adding, “Or any other that involves foreign exploitation of Ifriqiyah’s raw materials.”
Doctor Smythe came back to Meg’s suggestion. “Needless to say, Doctor, your services are welcome. Are you a specialist?”
She shook her head. “A general practitioner. Place me at any task you wish.” Her eyes went to Isobel. “At one time you say you are against the West and the civilization of the whites, but here you are, making every effort to bring it to North Africa.”
Isobel smiled at that and said, “Not exactly. Possibly it’s according to what you mean by civilization. Modern medicine, obviously, we want, along with agricultural techniques, irrigation, afforestation methods, and many other modern developments. But we can do without such things as, say, American-type television, which exists primarily for profit reasons, any entertainment or educational value being incidental.”
“Above all,” Jimmy Peters said, “we don’t wish to bring to Ifriqiyah the suicidal waste of your so-called civilization. Just take one example. Every year your Detroit spends hundreds of millions in re-tooling to turn out automobiles that look somewhat different. The height, the length, the color, the shape of fenders, the upholstery, the number of lights. It’s largely for something the advertising men can spend additional hundreds of millions upon, touting the product.”
Isobel said, “The one I like is the electric Martini-stirrer. It took a sharp idea man to conceive of it. Skilled engineers to design it. Competent technicians to tool up for it. Trained workers to operate the factory in which it was built. Highly paid publicity and advertising personnel to bring it before the eyes of the public. Probably millions were involved before it was through. All for what? What in the world good is an electric Martini-stirrer save for humor, or as a status symbol? Of course, it most likely made a profit, and that’s all that counts in your so-called Western civilization.”
Meg had to laugh. “All right,” she said. “I’ll have to believe you, I shouldn’t doubt. You want the blessings of civilization…”
“Modern technology,” Jimmy Peters corrected lowly.
“… without its curses.” She looked at Doctor Smythe again. “I’m ready to go to work at any post you assign me.”
Later that evening, just before sunset, Meg, Sean Ryan, Bryan O’Casey, Paul Bazaine and Lon Charles met in the mess tent of the mercenaries. Half a dozen of their men were nonchalantly lolling around outside, covering the tent from each direction. They were guards, albeit unarmed, and stationed to give warning should any outsiders approach.
The five sat at two of the folding tables, on camp chairs. Lon Charles, in his wanderings about the souk and cafés in Tamanrasset, had located, of all things, a bottle of cognac, which had probably been in the town since French occupation days. They had split the astronomical cost of the bottle five ways and now sat around it with tin cups.
Bryan had in hand his Peterson shell briar and had just filled it from the leather pouch he had carried since his first mercenary job in Angola, many years before. In actuality, it wasn’t leather, it was human skin and he would never have let Meg know the fact. One of the boys under his command had carefully cured it, had his wife sew it, and had presented it to a then horrified Bryan as a gift. It was a perverse fascination that caused him to continue using it, down through the years.
Sean opened the discussion by saying, “Does anyone have any reason to believe that this tent might be bugged?”
They thought about it.
Paul Bazaine said, “I doubt it. In all my years in North Africa, I have never heard of an electronic bug. They might have them in Algiers, or Casablanca or Dakar, but it seems unlikely out here. If El Hassan’s ambitious gang actually did come to power, in a year or so they might introduce such niceties. But now? It’s unlikely that such equipment was in Tamanrasset before they took over and doubly unlikely that Reunited Nations teams would have been carrying them; Besides, such devices need trained technicians to install and operate. No, this tent is not bugged.”