Sahara (9 page)

Eva nodded. “That’s what Pitt suggested.”

“Who?” Hopper asked for the second time.

“Dirk Pitt, the man who saved my life. He said somebody doesn’t want me in Africa. He also thought you and the others might be on a hit list too.”

Yerli threw up his hands. “Incredible, the man thinks we’re dealing with the Sicilian Mafia.”

“Most fortunate he was nearby,” said Hopper.

Yerli exhaled a blue cloud from his meerschaum and stared at the smoke thoughtfully. “More like opportune, considering the only other body on miles of shoreline had the courage to face a trio of assassins. Almost a miracle, or . . .” he stretched out the pause, “a preconceived presence.”

Eva’s eyes widened in skepticism. “If you’re thinking it was a setup, Ismail, you can forget it.”

“Maybe he staged the act to frighten you back to the States.”

“I saw him kill three men with my own eyes. Believe you me, there was nothing staged about it.”

“Have you heard from him since he dropped you off at the hotel?” queried Hopper.

“Only a message at the front desk asking me to have dinner with him this evening.”

“And you still think he was just a passing good Samar
i
tan,” Yerli persisted.

Eva ignored him and looked at Hopper. “Pitt told me he was in Egypt for an archaeological survey of the Nile River for the National Underwater and Marine Agency. I have little reason to doubt him.”

Hopper turned to Yerli. “That should be easy enough to check out.”

Yerli nodded. “I’ll call a friend who’s a marine biologist with NUMA.”

“The question is still why?” muttered Hopper almost absently.

Yerli shrugged. “If Eva’s attempted murder was a conspiracy, it may well have been part of a plot to instill fear and force us to cancel our mission.”

“Yes, but we have five separate research teams of six members each heading for the southern desert. They’ll be spread across five nations from Sudan to Mauritania. No one forced us on them. Their governments asked the United Nations for help in finding an answer to the strange sickness sweeping their lands. We are invited guests, certainly not unwanted enemies.”

Yerli stared at Hopper. “You’re forgetting, Frank. There was one government who wanted no part of us.”

Hopper nodded grimly. “You’re right. I overlooked President Tahir of Mali. He was very reluctant to allow us inside his borders.”

“More likely General Kazim,” said Yerli. “Tahir is a puppet head of state. Zateb Kazim is the true power behind the Malian government.”

“What’s he got against harmless biologists trying to save lives?” asked Eva.

Yerli turned up his palms. “We may never know.”

“It does seem a timely coincidence,” said Hopper softly, “that people, especially Europeans, have been vanishing with some regularity in the great emptiness of northern Mali during the past year.”

“Like the tourist safari that’s making the headlines,” said Eva.

“Their whereabouts and fate are still a mystery,” added Yerli quietly.

“I can’t believe there’s a connection between that tragedy and Eva’s attack,” said Hopper.

“But if we assume that General Kazim is the villain in Eva’s case, it would stand to reason his spies ferreted out the fact that she was a member of the Malian biological studies team. With that knowledge in hand, he ordered her assassination as a warning for the rest of us to stay clear of his camel park.”

Eva laughed. “With your fertile imagination, Ismail, you’d make a great Hollywood screenwriter.”

Yerli’s thick eyebrows pinched together. “I think we should play safe and keep the Mali team in Cairo until this matter can be fully investigated and resolved.”

“You’re overreacting,” Hopper said to Yerli. “How do you vote, Eva? Cancel the mission or go?”

“I’ll risk it,” said Eva. “But I can’t speak for the other team members.”

Hopper stared at the floor, nodding his head. “Then we’ll ask for volunteers. I won’t cancel the Mali mission, not with hundreds, maybe thousands, of people dying out there from something nobody can explain. I’ll lead the team myself.”

“No, Frank!” snapped Eva. “What if the worst happens? You’re too valuable to lose.”

“It’s our duty to report this affair to the police before you run off half-cocked,” Yerli persisted.

“Get serious, Ismail,” said Hopper impatiently. “Go to the local police and they’re liable to hold us up and delay the entire mission. We could be bound in red tape for a month. I’ll not walk into the clutches of Middle East bureaucracy.”

“My contacts can cut the red tape,” pleaded Yerli.

“No,” Hopper said adamantly. “I want all teams on board our chartered aircraft and in the air toward their designated locations as scheduled.”

“Then we’re on for tomorrow morning,” said Eva.

Hopper nodded. “No hang-ups, no rainchecks. We’re going to put our show on the road first thing in the morning.”

“You’re needlessly endangering lives,” murmured Yerli.

“Not if I take out insurance.”

Yerli looked at Hopper, not comprehending. “Insurance?”

“Actually a press conference. Before we leave, I’ll call in every foreign correspondent and news service in Cairo and explain our project with special emphasis on Mali. Of course, I’ll make mention of the potential dangers involved. Then, in light of the international publicity surrounding our presence in his country, General Kazim will think twice before threatening the lives of scientists on a well-publicized mission of mercy.”

Yerli sighed heavily. “For your sakes, I hope so. I truly hope so.”

Eva came over and sat down by the Turk. “It will be all right,” she insisted quietly. “No harm will come to us.”

“Nothing I can say will talk you out of it? You must go then?”

“There are thousands who might die if we don’t,” said Hopper firmly.

Yerli stared sadly at them, then bowed his head in silent acceptance, his face suddenly pale.

“Then may Allah protect you, because if he doesn’t, you will surely die.”

6

Pitt was standing in the lobby of the Nile Hilton when Eva stepped from the elevator. He was dressed in a tan poplin suit with single-breasted jacket and pleated pants. The shirt was a light shade of blue with a wide Botticelli tie of deep blue silk with black and gold paisleys.

He stood casual and loose, his hands clasped behind his back, head tilted slightly to one side, as he studied a beautiful, young, raven-haired Egyptian woman in a tight-fitting gold sequin dress. She was sweeping across the lobby in a blaze of glitter, hooked arm in arm with an elderly man easily three times her age. She jabbered every step across the carpet. Her ample bottom swung back and forth like a melon on a pendulum.

There was nothing in Pitt’s expression to suggest lust. He stared at the performance with a detached sort of curiosity. Eva walked up behind him and placed her hand on his elbow. “You like her?” she asked, smiling.

Pitt turned and looked down at her through the greenest eyes she had ever seen. His lips raised in a slight crooked grin that Eva found devastating. “She
does
make a statement.”

“Is she your type?”

“No, I prefer quiet, intelligent women.”

His voice was deep with a mellow quality, she thought. She smelled a faint aroma of men’s cologne, not the pungent variety brewed by French perfume companies for fashion designers’ private labels, but a more masculine scent. “I hope I can take that as a compliment.”

“You may.”

She flushed, and her eyes unconsciously lowered. “I have an early-morning flight tomorrow, so I should get to bed early.” God, this is awful, she thought. I’m acting like a girl meeting her date for a freshman prom.

“A great pity. I’d planned to stay out all night and show you every den of iniquity and sin pot in Cairo. All the exotic spots unfrequented by tourists.”

“Are you serious?”

Pitt laughed. “Not really. Actually, I thought it wise if we dine in your hotel and stay off the streets. Your friends might have it in their heads to try again.”

She looked around the crowded lobby. “The hotel is packed. We’ll be lucky to get a table.”

“I have reservations,” Pitt said, taking her by the hand and leading her into the elevator that rose to the posh restaurant on the top floor of the hotel.

Like most women, Eva liked a take-charge man. She also liked the way he kept his light but firm grip on her hand on the ride up to the restaurant.

The maître d’ showed them to a table beside a window with a spectacular view of Cairo and the Nile. A universe of lights sparkled in the evening haze. The bridges over the river were jammed with honking autos that fanned out on the streets and mingled with the horse-drawn delivery wagons and tourist carriages.

“Unless you prefer a cocktail,” said Pitt, “I suggest that we stay with wine.”

Eva nodded and flashed a satisfied smile. “Fine by me. Why don’t you order the courses as well?”

“I love an adventurous soul,” he smiled. He studied the wine list briefly. “We’ll try a bottle of Grenaclis Village.”

“Very good,” the waiter said. “One of our best local dry white wines.”

Pitt then ordered an appetizer dip of ground sesame seeds with eggplant, a yogurt dish called
leban zabadi,
and a tray of pickled vegetables with a basket of whole wheat pita bread.

After the wine came and was poured, Pitt raised his glass. “Here’s to a safe and successful field expedition. May you find all the answers.”

“And to your river survey,” she said as they clinked glasses. Then a curious expression came into her eyes. “Just what is it you’re looking for?”

“Ancient shipwrecks. One in particular. A funeral barge.”

“Sounds fascinating. Anybody I know?”

“A pharaoh of Old Kingdom called Menkura or Mycerinus, if you prefer the Greek spelling. He reigned during the Fourth Dynasty and built the smallest of the three pyramids at Giza.”

“Wasn’t he entombed in his pyramid?”

“In 1830 a British army colonel found a body in a sarcophagus inside the burial chamber, but analysis of the remains proved it came from either the Greek or Roman periods.”

The appetizers were brought and they looked down at them with happy anticipation. They dipped fried slices of eggplant into the sesame seed dip and relished the pickled vegetables. While the waiter stood by, Pitt ordered the main course.

“Why do you think Menkura is in the river?” asked Eva.

“Hieroglyphic inscriptions on a stone that was recently discovered at an old quarry near Cairo show that his funeral barge caught fire and sank in the river between the ancient capital of Memphis and his pyramid tomb at Giza. The stone indicates his true sarcophagus, complete with his mummy and a vast amount of gold, was never recovered.”

The yogurt arrived, thick and creamy. Eva stared at it hesitantly.

“Try it,” goaded Pitt. “Not only will
leban zabadi
spoil your taste for American yogurt, but it straightens out the intestines.”

“Curdles, you mean.” She played dainty and jabbed her tongue at a minute scoop in her spoon. Impressed, she began putting it away in earnest. “So what happens if you find the barge? Do you get to keep the gold?”

“Hardly,” Pitt replied. “Once our detection instruments have a promising target, we mark the site and turn the position over to archaeologists from the Egyptian Organization of Antiquities. After they obtain the necessary funding, their people will excavate, or in this case, dredge for artifacts.”

“Isn’t the wreck just sitting on the bottom of the river?” Eva asked.

Pitt shook his head. “The silt of forty-five centuries has covered and buried all remains.”

“How deep do you think it lies?”

“Can’t say with any accuracy. Egyptian historical and geological records indicate that the main channel on the section of river we’re searching has moved about 100 meters east since 2400
B.C.
If she’s on dry land near a bank, she could be anywhere from 3 to 10 meters beneath sand and mud.”

“I’m glad I listened to you, this yogurt is good.”

The waiter appeared deftly carrying a large silver tray with oval serving dishes. A spicy ground lamb cooked on skewers and crayfish grilled over charcoal were served along with a stewed kind of spinach green and a richly seasoned pilaf of beef, rice, raisins, and nuts. After consulting with the waiter who was so attentive he was downright patronizing, Pitt ordered a few pungent sauces for their entrees.

“So what sort of strange maladies are you going to investigate in the desert?” Pitt asked, as the steaming delights were dished onto their plates.

“Reports from Mali and Nigeria are too sketchy to make snap judgments. There have been rumors of the usual symptoms of toxic poisoning. Birth defects, convulsions or fits, coma and death. And also reports of psychiatric disorders and bizarre behavior. This lamb is really tasty.”

“Try one of the sauces. The fermented berry complements the lamb.”

“What’s the green one?”

“I’m not sure. It has a sweet and hot taste. Dip the crayfish in it.”

“Delicious,” Eva said. “Everything tastes wonderful. Except for the spinach-like greens. The flavor is awfully strong.”

“They call it
moulukeyeh.
You have to acquire a taste for it. But back to toxin poisoning. . . . What sort of bizarre behavior?”

“People tearing their hair out, beating their heads against walls, sticking their hands in fire. Running around naked like animals on their hands and knees and eating their dead as if they suddenly turned into cannibals. This rice dish is good. What do they call it?”

“Khalta.”

“I wish I could get the recipe from the chef.”

“I think it can be arranged,” Pitt said. “Did I hear you correctly? Those who are contaminated eat flesh?”

“Their reactions depend a great deal upon their culture,” said Eva, digging into the
khalta.
“People in the third world countries, for example, are more used to slaughtered animals than people in Europe and the United States. Oh sure, we pass a road kill now and then, but they see skinned animals hanging in the markets or watch their fathers butcher the tribal goats or sheep. Children are taught early to catch and kill rabbits, squirrels, or birds, then skin and gut them for the grill. The primitive cruelty and the sight of blood and intestines are everyday events to those who live in poverty. They have to kill to survive. Then when tiny trace amounts of deadly toxins are digested and absorbed into their bloodstream over a long period of time, their systems deteriorate—the brain, the heart and liver, the intestines, even the genetic code. Their senses are dulled and they experience schizophrenia. Disintegration of moral codes and standards takes place. They no longer function as normal humans. To them, killing and eating a relative suddenly seems as ordinary as twisting a chicken’s neck and preparing it for the evening dinner. I love that sauce with the chutney taste.”