Sahara (26 page)

“You want me to make a choice?”

“To plan for unforeseen difficulties,” said Levant, “we must designate which rescue mission is a top priority and which one is our secondary.”

Bock looked at Sandecker. “It’s your call, Admiral.”

Sandecker looked down at the map of Mali spread out across the table, focusing his eyes on the red line in the Niger River that marked the course of the
Calliope.
There was really little doubt in his mind as to a decision. The chemical analysis was all that mattered. Pitt’s final words about remaining behind and continuing the search for the contamination origin came back to haunt him. He took out one of his custom-rolled cigars from a leather case and slowly lit it. He stared at the marking that indicated Gao for a long, meaningful moment before looking up at Bock and Levant again.

“Gunn must be your priority rescue,” Sandecker said flatly.

Bock nodded. “So be it.”

“But how can we be sure Gunn hasn’t already managed to board a plane departing the country?”

Levant gave a knowledgeable shrug. “My staff has already checked the flight schedules. The next flight by an Air Mali aircraft, or any other aircraft for that matter, scheduled to depart Gao for a destination outside the country is four days from now, providing it isn’t canceled, which is by no means a rare event.”

“Four days,” Sandecker repeated, his expectations suddenly dashed. “No way Gunn can hide out for four days. Twenty-four hours maybe. After that, Malian security forces are bound to ferret him out.”

“Unless he speaks Arabic or French and looks like a native,” said Levant.

“No chance of that,” said Sandecker.

Bock tapped the map of Mali with his finger. “Colonel Levant and a tactical team of forty men can be on the ground at Gao inside of twelve hours.”

“We could, but we won’t,” cautioned Levant. “Twelve hours from now would put us there just after sunup, Mali time.”

“My mistake,” Bock corrected himself. “No way I can risk our force in daylight.”

“The longer we wait,” said Sandecker acidly, “the better Gunn’s chances for being caught and shot.”

“I promise you my men and I will do our best to get your man out,” Levant said solemnly. “But not at great risk to others.”

“Do not fail.” Sandecker looked at Levant steadily. “He’s carrying information that is critical for the survival of us all.”

Bock’s face wore a skeptical expression as he weighed Sandecker’s words. Then his eyes turned hard. “Fair warning, Admiral, sanctioned or not by the Secretary General of the UN, if a score of my men die on a wild goose chase to save just one of yours, there better be urgent justification, or by God somebody is going to deal with me personally.”

The inference of who
somebody
was came through clearly. Sandecker didn’t even bat an eyelid. He had called in a debt from an old friend with an intelligence agency who passed him file copies of the UNICRATT force. They were called unicrazies by other special forces, tough men who lived and fought on the edge. Unafraid to die, totally fearless in combat, and incapable of mercy, there were few better at the craft of killing. And each acted as agents of their own nation, passing on information concerning undercover UN activities as a matter of course. He’d read a psychological profile on General Bock and knew squarely where he stood.

Sandecker leaned across the table and gazed at Bock through eyes that seemed to spark like knives on a grindstone. “Now hear this, you big Luger head. I don’t give a damn about how many men you lose spiriting Gunn out of Mali. Just get him out. Screw up and your ass is mine.”

Bock didn’t hit him. He just sat there, staring at Sandecker from under great shrubs of gray eyebrows, and the bemused look in the eyes was that of a grizzly bear tucking in his napkin before dining on a rancher’s calf. The Admiral was less than half Bock’s size and any fight would have been over in the blink of an eye. Then the big German relaxed with a laugh.

“Now that you and I understand each other, why don’t we get on with it and hatch a foolproof plan.”

Sandecker smiled and slowly relaxed in his chair. He offered Bock one of his mammoth cigars. “A pleasure doing business with you, General. Let us hope the association will prove profitable.”

Hala Kamil stood on the steps of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel waiting for her limousine after leaving a formal dinner given in her honor by the UN Ambassador from India. There was a light rain and the streets reflected the lights of the city on the wet pavement. As the long black Lincoln pulled to the curb she stepped under an umbrella held by the doorman, gathered up the long skirt of her dress, and gracefully slipped into the rear seat.

Ismail Yerli was already seated inside. He took her hand and kissed it. “I’m sorry to meet you like this,” he apologized, “but it’s too risky for us to be seen together.”

“It’s been a long time, Ismail,” said Hala, her large eyes soft and radiant. “You’ve avoided me.”

He glanced toward the chauffeur’s compartment, making sure the divider window was raised. “I felt it best for you if I simply faded away. You’ve come too far and worked too hard to lose it all because of scandal.”

“We could have been discreet,” Hala said in a low voice.

Yerli shook his head. “Love affairs of men in power are largely ignored. But a woman in your position; the news media and gossip mongers would savage you in every nation of the world.”

“I still have great affection for you, Ismail.”

He put his hand over hers. “And I for you, but you are the best thing that ever happened to the United Nations. I won’t be the cause of your downfall.”

“So you walked out,” she said, a hurt look growing in her eyes. “How very noble of you.”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “To avoid headlines reading, ‘Secretary General of the UN revealed as mistress to French intelligence agent working undercover in the World Health Organization.’ My superiors at the Second Division of the National Defense Staff wouldn’t exactly be overjoyed at my exposure either.”

“We’ve kept our relationship a secret until now,” she protested. “Why not continue?”

“Impossible.”

“You’re well known as a Turkish national. Who could possibly discover the French recruited you when you were a student at Istanbul University?”

“If someone digs deep enough they’ll strike secrets. The first rule of a good agent is to operate in the shadows without being too furtive and too visible. I compromised my cover at the UN when I fell in love with you. If either British, Soviet, or American intelligence get even a whiff of our relationship, their investigation teams would never stop until they filled a file with sordid details which they would then use to extort favors from your high office.”

“They haven’t yet,” she said hopefully.

“No, and they’re not going to,” he said firmly. “That’s why we must not see each other outside the UN building.”

Hala turned away and stared through the rain-streaked window. “Then why are you here?”

Yerli took a deep breath. “I need a favor.”

“Something concerning the UN or your French bosses?”

“Both.”

She felt as if she were being turned inside out. “You only use me, Ismail. You twist my emotions so that you can play your petty little spy games. You are an unscrupulous rat.”

He didn’t speak.

She gave in as she knew she would. “What do you want me to do?”

“There is an epidemiology team from the WHO,” he spelled out, his voice suddenly businesslike, “which is investigating reports of strange diseases in the Malian desert.”

“I recall the project. It was mentioned during my daily briefing several days ago. Dr. Frank Hopper is directing the research.”

“That is correct.”

Hala nodded. “Hopper is a well-respected scientist. What is your involvement with his mission?”

“My job is to coordinate their travel and see to their logistics, food, transportation, lab equipment, that sort of thing.”

“You still haven’t made clear what you want from me.”

“I’d like you to recall Dr. Hopper and his investigators immediately.”

She turned and looked at him in surprise. “Why would you ask that?”

“Because they’re in great danger. I have it on good authority they are to be murdered by West African terrorists.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true,” he said seriously. “A bomb will be placed on their plane, set to explode over the desert.”

“What kind of monsters do you work for?” she snapped, her voice shocked. “Why come to me? Why haven’t you warned Dr. Hopper?”

“I’ve tried to alert Hopper, but he has ignored all communications.”

“Can’t you persuade the Malian authorities to relay the threat and offer protection?”

Yerli shrugged. “General Kazim looks upon them as intruding foreigners and cares less about their safety.”

“I’d be a fool if I didn’t think there was more intrigue here than a simple bomb threat.”

He looked into her face. “Trust me, Hala. My only thought is to save Dr. Hopper and his people.”

Hala wanted desperately to believe him, but deep inside her heart she knew he was lying. “It seems everybody is searching for contamination in Mali these days. And they all urgently require salvation and evacuation.”

Yerli looked puzzled but said nothing, waiting for her to explain.

“Admiral Sandecker of the United States National Underwater and Marine Agency came to me and requested approval for the use of our Critical Response and Tactical Team to rescue three of his people from Malian security forces.”

“The Americans were searching for contamination in Mali?”

“Yes, apparently it was an undercover operation, but the Malian military intercepted them.”

“They were caught?”

“Not as of four hours ago.”

“Where exactly were they searching?”

Yerli seemed upset, and Hala detected the strained urgency in his tone. “The Niger River.”

Yerli clutched her arm and his eyes turned deadly. “I want to know more about this.”

For the first time she felt a chill run through her. “They were hunting for the source of a chemical compound that is causing the giant red tide off the coast of Africa.”

“I’ve read about it in the newspapers. Go on.”

“I was told they used a boat with chemical analysis equipment to track the chemical to where it emptied into the river.”

“Did they find it?” he demanded.

“According to Admiral Sandecker, they had traced it as far as Gao in Mali.”

Yerli didn’t look convinced. “Disinformation, that has to be the answer. This thing must be a cover-up for something else.”

She shook her head. “Unlike you, the Admiral does not lie for a living.”

“You say NUMA was behind the operation?”

Hala nodded.

“Not the CIA or another American intelligence agency?”

She shook her arm free and smiled smugly. “You mean your devious intelligence sources in West Africa had no idea the Americans were operating under their noses?”

“Don’t be absurd. What spectacular secrets could an impoverished nation like Mali possibly have that would attract American interests?”

“There must be something. Why don’t you tell me what it is?”

Yerli seemed distracted and did not immediately answer her. “Nothing . . . nothing of course.” He rapped on the glass to get the driver’s attention. Then he motioned to the curb.

The chauffeur braked and pulled to a stop in front of a large office building. “You’re tearing yourself away from me?” Her voice was thick with contempt.

He turned and looked at her. “I am truly sorry. Can you forgive me?”

Something inside her ached. She shook her head. “No, Ismail. I won’t forgive you. We will never meet again. I expect your resignation letter on my desk by noon tomorrow. If not, I will have you expelled from the UN.”

“Aren’t you being a bit harsh?”

Hala’s path was set. “Your concerns are not with the World Health Organization. Nor, if they only knew it, are you even 50 percent loyal to the French. If anything, you’re working for your own financial ends.” She leaned over him and pushed open the door. “Now get out!”

Silently, Yerli climbed from the car and stood on the curb. Hala, with tears forming in her eyes, pulled the door shut and never looked back as the driver shifted the limousine into gear and merged into the one-way traffic.

Yerli wished he could feel remorse or sadness, but he was too professional. She was right, he had used her. His affection toward her was an act. His only attraction for her was sexual. She had simply been another assignment. But like too many women who are drawn to aloof men who treat them indifferently, she could not help herself from falling in love with him. And she was only now beginning to learn the cost.

He walked into the cocktail lounge of the Algonquin Hotel, ordered a drink, and then used the pay phone. He dialed a number and waited for someone to answer on the other end.

“Yes?”

He lowered his voice and talked in a confidential tone. “I have information vital to Mr. Massarde.”

“Where do you come from?”

“The ruins of Pergamon.”

“Turkey?”

“Yes,” Yerli cut in quickly. He never trusted telephones and hated what he thought were childish codes. “I am in the bar of the Hotel Algonquin. When can I expect you?”

“One
A.M
. too late?”

“No. I’ll have a late dinner.”

Yerli hung up the phone thoughtfully. What did the Americans know about Massarde’s desert operation at Fort Foureau? he wondered. Did their intelligence services have a hint of the true activities at the waste disposal plant and were they snooping around? If so, the consequences could be disastrous, and the fall of the current French government would be the least of the backlash.

22

Behind him was black darkness, ahead the sparsely scattered street lights of Gao. Gunn still had 10 meters to swim when one of his kicking feet dug into the soft riverbed. Slowly, very cautiously, he reached down and grabbed the silt with his hands, pulling himself through the shallows until he was lying at the waterline. He waited, listening and squinting into the darkness shrouding the bank of the river.