Terrors (25 page)

Sherlock Holmes, the noblest human being I have ever encountered, Holmes alone dared to confront this monstrosity. He glowed in a hideous, hellish green flame, as if even great Holmes were possessed
of the stains of sin, and they were being seared from within him in the face of this being.

As the monster reached for Holmes with its hideous mockery of limbs, Holmes turned and signaled to me.

I reached within my garment, removed the object that lay against my skin pulsating with horrid life, drew back my arm and with a murmured prayer made the strongest and most accurate throw I had made
since my days on the cricket pitch of Jammu.

More quickly than it takes to describe, the object flew through the angle. It struck the monster squarely and clung to its body, extending a hideous network of webbing round and round and round.

The monster gave a single convulsive heave, striking Holmes and sending him flying through the air. With presence of mind such as only he, of all men I know,
could claim, Holmes reached and grasped Lady Fairclough by one arm and her brother by the other. The force of the monstrous impact sent them back through the angle into the sealed room, where they crashed into myself sending us sprawling across the floor.

With a dreadful sound louder and more unexpected than the most
powerful thunderclap, the angle between the walls slammed shut. The sealed room
was plunged once again into darkness.

I drew a packet of lucifers from my pocket and lit one. To my surprise, Holmes reached into an inner pocket of his own and drew from it a stick of gelignite with a long fuse. He signaled me and I handed him another lucifer. He used it to ignite the fuse of the gelignite bomb.

Striking another lucifer I relit the kerosene lamp that Mrs. Llewellyn had left
on the altar. Holmes nodded his approval, and with the great detective in the lead the four of us, Lady Fairclough, Mr. Philip Llewellyn, Holmes himself, and I, made haste to find our way from the Anthracite Palace.

Even as we stumbled across the great hall toward the chief exit of the Palace there was a terrible rumbling that seemed to come simultaneously from the deepest basement of the building
if not from the very center of the earth, and from the dark heavens above. We staggered from the Palace, Holmes, Lady Fairclough, Philip Llewellyn and I, through the howling wind and pelting snow of a renewed storm, through frigid drifts that rose higher than our boot tops, and turned about to see the great black edifice of the Anthracite Palace in flames.

Although the Great Hall of the Republic could of course have been commandeered for the meeting, His Excellency the Governor General of the Province of Tunisie Francaise had chosen to entertain his distinguished guests in a smaller, private dining room. Such was a proper decision, for these more intimate surroundings were designed to encourage an open discussion of issues
and exchange of views than would the more formal, even ceremonial, atmosphere of the flag-draped and sculpted Hall.

Here in the Governor General’s private dining room, a sparkling table had been set and the Personal Representative of the President of the French Republic had entertained his guests in lavish manner. The meal had consisted of a local endive and olive salad, baked Saharan langouste
stuffed with salt-water crab, lamb shish-kebab, chick-peas and tabouli washed down with Algerian wine, followed by baclava, thick Turkish coffee, and a sweet Hungarian Tokay.

Empty dishes, silver, and other detritus has been cleared away by silent and well-trained servants. Out of respect for their sole female member, the Italian Dottore Speranza Verde, a native of Tuscany, the men of the party
had refrained briefly from lighting cheroots. The red-haired and green-eyed Tuscan physician had startled them by requesting a cheroot from her neighbor, the English historian, Mr. Black, and drawing upon it with obvious pleasure.

Now as the Governor General, M. Sebastiane LeMonde, rose, the buzz of conversation which had followed the meal ceased and
a hush descended upon the room.

“Madame,”
the Governor General bowed toward the female physician, “and Messieurs, in the name of the President of the Republic I welcome you to French Africa and to our beautiful city of Serkout.”

A murmur of approval rippled through the assemblage, following which the Governor General resumed.

“I am authorized by the President of the Republic to offer special felicitations to Colonel Dwight David White.”

The Governor General nodded toward a tall, distinguished gentleman clothed in the gray uniform of the Army of the Confederate States of America. This officer’s skin was black; his hair, its tight curls cropped close to his skull, shared the coloration of his military garb. The uniform bore the gold frogging and glittering decorations earned in his distinguished career.

The Colonel nodded his
acknowledgement of the Governor General’s felicitation.

“Sir, this year marks the one hundredth anniversary of a date in the history of your nation, the Declaration of Emancipation issued by your President, Mr. Jefferson Davis. As a student of North American history since my first days at the
Ecole de Paris
, I have long felt that President Davis’s action was not only a matter of high morality,
but a political move of the wisest. By declaring the enslaved persons of his nation free and equal citizens of that Republic and offering them fair compensation for the suffering and deprivation of their lives, he won for the Confederacy a new and most highly motivated Army, which led to the vanquishment of the Union forces and recognition of a new and shining ornament among the family of Nations.”

The Confederate rose to his feet and responded, briefly and modestly, to the Governor General’s words before resuming his seat.

M. LeMonde spoke once more. “You have assembled here, Madame and Messieurs, in regard to a situation unprecedented in human history. As you are aware, the greatest engineering feat of the past century, greater even than the Grand Canals de Lesseps which connect the Red
Sea with the Mediterranean and the Atlantic Ocean with the Pacific at the Isthmus of Panama, was the creation of the Sahara Sea by the engineers of the Republic of France under the leadership of the great M. Roudaire, of happy memory.”

A murmur of agreement was heard, accompanied by the nodding of distinguished heads.

“The world has known and applauded this great feat of engineering,” LeMonde
continued, “but at this moment we face a new puzzle of which only a handful of individuals are aware. The details will be revealed to you shortly. By your own consent, all contact with the general public and the outside world has been interdicted, and will remain so until you return from the mission which you have agreed to assay.”

A grumble made its way around the table. The bearded, heavy-set
archaeologist, Herr Siegfried Schwartz, ground his Cuban maduro cigar into an ash-tray. “From Berlin I receive my instructions, Monsieur LeMonde.”

The Frenchman expressed his concern. “All was agreed to beforehand, Mein Herr, was it not? I hope we are not to dissolve into disagreement at this point.”

“Yes, I believe that was the agreement. Otherwise I should have to consult Whitehall at every
turn. It just wouldn’t do, sir.” The blonde mustache of the historian, Sir Shepley Sidwell-Blue, twitched as if with a life of its own.

“Very well,” Herr Schwartz growled, “continue, Monsieur.”

“At this point, if I may be excused,” the Governor General stated, “I will turn the proceedings over to the Chairman of your Committee, Monsieur Jemond Jules Rouge.” The Governor General bowed and took
his leave. He was replaced at the podium by his goateed countryman.

Monsieur Rouge looked around the room, his eyes flashing. “Madame and Monsieurs, you represent not merely the great nations of the civilized world but the flower of your chosen professions. Throughout this day and evening we have socialized and exchanged credentials. In this room are assembled the world’s most famed archaeologist,
the author of many volumes which I may say cumulatively comprise nothing less than the history of civilization, the military officer whose brilliant campaigns have extended his nation’s borders from the Mason-Dixon Line to the de Lesseps Inter-Oceanic Canal, and, may I offer my compliments to the lovely Dottore Verde, our most accomplished – pardon my crude pronunciation
s’il vous plait
—hydrologist.”

Each participant in the conference—and the meal—nodded acknowledgment as his or her name was spoken.

The Italian hydrologist, Dottore Verde, had prepared for this moment. She rose to her feet and strode to the rostrum, relieving the
Frenchman who resumed his place at the now cleared dinner table.

“Signori, when our colleagues French opened the northerly dunes of the Sahara desert and let in
the waters of the Mediterranean to create the Sahara Sea, they created a new avenue for the ships of commerce and a new home for the fish of nourishment. We agree—yes?—that the people of the Africa North are blessed by this new sea. But also they created, perhaps unthinkingly, the so-they-say Fleuve Triste, the river which flows between Isola di Crainte and Isola di Doute. This fleuve, this so-they-say
fiume, is not really a river, but a tidal phenomenon that flows first to the north, then to the south, again to the north, again to the south.”

A sulfur match flared as Herr Schwartz lighted another maduro. He sucked loudly at the cigar, then exhaled a cloud of heavy, odorous smoke.

“I should think, perhaps, that Signor Schwartz of all, would take an interest in this phenomenon,” the red-haired
Tuscan continued. “For the action of scouring of the rushing water, back and forth, back and forth, has begun to carry away the sand accumulated between these two islands over a many thousands of years span. The French, by creating this new sea, have changed the – what we call the
idrodinamica
—the hydrodynamics—of the entire Mediterranean region as well.”

“So?” Herr Schwartz growled. “To what
result, Doktor?”

“Herr Schwartz,” the Tuscan smiled, “you of all persons are familiar with the great and ancient civilizations to the east of our present location.”

“Ah, of course. The Egyptians, the Mesopotamians, the Hebrews, the Hittites. But here in the Sahara—nothing but sand and palm trees, my dear Doktor. My time I could spend far better in my museum in Berlin. A channel perhaps deeper
is made, larger ships it will permit to travel to this city of Serkit. Of interest to me this is not. Only because my government instructed, am I here.”

“I see.” Dottore Verde gave no indication that she was hurt by the German archaeologist’s words. “But your knowledge of the archaeology may yet prove useful. You see, good sir, all is not sand beneath the Sahara seabed.”

“Of course not,” Schwartz
frowned. “Bedrock we will find. Sooner or later, it this inevitable is.”

“Not only bedrock, good sir. When the Sahara was a desert, the dunes they rose and fell with the action of mighty winds. But beneath the dunes, the ancient rocks had their own,” she smiled, displaying
white, even teeth, “their own
topografia
, you understand? The islands between which we cruise, Crainte and Doute, are of
the ancient bedrock. But –”

“This lesson in geography, Dear Madame—any point at all, has it?”

The Tuscan hydrologist’s monologue had turned into a dialogue with the archaeologist, then a debate, very nearly a quarrel.

“What we have found,” Dottore Verde went on calmly, “is nothing less than dressed rock of a workmanship most assuredly artificial.”

The historian let out a gasp. “Surely, Doctor,
surely you do not realize the implications of what you say!”

Dottore Verde shook her head. A strand of her russet hair, until this moment held in place by an elaborate array of clips and long pins, broke loose from its moorings. With an annoyed gesture she swept it away from her face. She leaned forward, pressing the knuckles of a slim hand against white linen.

“I realize quite well the implications
of what I say. We are about to discover the greatest mystery since the discovery of the ancient world. We are about to discover it, yes, but will we solve this mystery? That may be the work of many years and require the efforts of many scholars, but we will be the first to behold these great objects. My friends –”

She looked around.

“Miei amici, miene Freunde, mes amis, did the great Egyptians
move to the west, did they leave traces of their art in the Sahara land once fertile, only to retreat before the advancing sands? Or did another race, perhaps even a greater race, once call this region their home? Could they have taught their arts and science to the Egyptians, only to disappear, themselves, beneath those sands? This mystery will be solved, and we are the first so honored to begin
its unravelment.”

An hour later Colonel Black and Dottore Verde sat in the lounge of the hotel where the members of the party had been inconspicuously housed. Every other customer had departed the room. A pair of Arab musicians played softly upon aoud and tabla, the voice of one rising in tones as soft and as mournful as the long, sad history of his people.

A bottle and two small glasses stood
upon the table between the man and woman. A candle flickered beside the bottle, casting shadows on the faces of the two. Only an ornately tooled portfolio stood against one leg of the Tuscan hydrologist’s chair to remind a viewer—had there been
one—of the session but earlier completed with their colleagues from France, Germany, and England.

Colonel White reached to fill both glasses, not for
the first time. The two raised their glasses, let them touch rim to rim, then sipped at the delicious beverage. “I didn’t like that German,” Colonel White whispered. “If he doesn’t believe in this mission he shouldn’t be here.”

Dottore Verde shook her head. “Skepticism is healthy, Colonel. Perhaps it is different for a military man like yourself, but a scientist must treat each claim as a mere
possibility, a suggestion perhaps, until it is supported by solid proof.”

The Confederate looked into his companion’s eyes, his usually serious countenance brightened by what might have been the merest suggestion of a smile. He did not reply, not yet, but instead waited for the Tuscan to resume.