Sahara

FRENZY

After traveling through the desert for days or weeks, seeing no animals, meeting no humans, civilization, no matter how tiny or primitive, comes as a stunning surprise. To the eleven people in the five Land Rovers, plus five tour driver/guides, the sight of a man-made habitat came as a great relief. Hot and unwashed, tired after a week of driving across pure desolation, the adventurous tourists on the Backworld Explorations' twelve-day Across the Sahara Safari were only too happy to see humans and find enough water for a refreshing bath.

They sighted the village of Asselar sitting in barren isolation in the central Sahara region of the African nation of Mali. A sprawl of mud houses clustered around a well in the dry bottom of what must have been an ancient riverbed. Scattered around the outskirts were the crumbling ruins of a hundred or more abandoned houses and beyond them the low banks that dropped below the alluvial plain. From a distance the village was almost impossible to see, so well did the timeworn buildings merge with the austere and colorless landscape.

"Well, there she is," pointed Major Ian Fairweather, the safari leader, to the tired and dusty tourists who exited the Land Rovers and grouped around him. "You'd never know to look at her that Asselar was once a cultural crossroads of western Africa. For five centuries it was an important watering hole for the great trade and slave caravans that passed through to the north and east."

"Why did it go into decline?" asked a comely Canadian woman in halter-top and brief shorts.

"A combination of wars and conquests by the Moors and the French, the abolition of slavery, but mostly because the trade routes moved south and west toward the seacoasts. The deathblow came about forty years ago when its wells began to dry up. The only flowing well that still supports the town has been dug nearly 50 meters deep."

"Not exactly a metropolitan paradise," muttered a stout man in a Spanish accent.

Major Fairweather forced a smile. A tall, lean ex-Royal Marine who prodigiously puffed on a long filtered cigarette, he spoke in clipped, seemingly rehearsed tones. "Only a few Tuareg families that gave up the nomadic tradition reside in Asselar now. They mainly subsist on small herds of goats, patches of sandy soil irrigated by hand from the central village well, and a few handfuls of gemstones gleaned from the desert that they polish and carry by camel to the city of Gao where they sell them as souvenirs."

A London barrister, impeccably dressed in khaki safari suit and pith helmet, pointed an ebony cane at the village. "Looks abandoned to me. I seem to recall your brochure stating that our tour group would be `enthralled by the romance of desert music and native dancing under flickering campfires of Asselar."'

"I'm sure our advanced scout has made every arrangement for your comfort and enjoyment," Fairweather assured him with airy confidence. He gazed for a moment at the sun setting beyond the village. "It will be dark soon. We'd better move on into the village."

"Is there a hotel there?" asked the Canadian lady.

Fairweather stifled a pained look. "No, Mrs. Lansing, we camp in the ruins just beyond the town."

A collective groan went up from the tourists. They had hoped for a soft bed with private bathrooms. Luxuries Asselar had probably never known.

The group reboarded the vehicles, then drove down a worn trail into the river valley and onto the main road leading through the village. The closer they came the more difficult it was to visualize a glorious past. The streets were narrow alleyways and composed of sand. It seemed a dead town that reeked of defeat. No light was seen in the dusk, no dog barked a greeting. They saw no sign of life in any of the mud buildings. It was as though the inhabitants had packed up and vanished into the desert.

Fairweather began to feel uneasy. Something was clearly wrong. There was no sign of his advance scout. For an instant he caught a glimpse of a large four-legged animal scurrying into a doorway. But it seemed so fleeting, he shrugged it off as a shadow from the moving Land Rovers.

His merry band of clients would be grumbling tonight, he thought. Damn those advertising people for overexaggerating the allure of the desert. "An opportunity to experience a once-in-a-lifetime expedition across the nomadic sands of the Sahara," he recited under his breath. He'd have wagered a year's pay the copywriter had never ventured past the Dover coast.

They were almost 80 kilometers from the Trans-Sahara Motor Track and a good 240 from the Niger River city of Gao. The safari carried more than enough food, water, and fuel for the remainder of the journey, so Fairweather kept open an option to bypass Asselar should an unforeseen problem arise. The safety of Backworld Explorations' clients came first, and in twenty-eight years they had yet to lose one, unless they counted the retired American plumber who teased a camel and was kicked in the head for his stupidity.

Fairweather began to wonder why he saw no goats or camels. Nor did he see any footprints in the sandy streets, only strange claw marks and round indentations that traveled in parallel as though twin logs were dragged about. The small tribal houses, built of stone and covered with a reddish mud, appeared more rundown and decayed since Fairweather had passed through on the last safari not more than two months ago.

Something was definitely amiss. Even if for some odd reason the villagers had deserted the area, his advance scout should have met them. In all the years they had driven the Sahara together, Ibn Hajib had never failed him. Fairweather decided to allow his charges to rest for a short time at the village well and rinse off, before continuing some distance into the desert and making camp. Better keep a guarded eye, he thought as he pulled his old Royal Marine Patchett submachine gun from a compartment between the seats and tucked it upright between his knees. On the muzzle he threaded an Invicta silencer, giving the weapon the look of an extended pipe with a long curved shell clip protruding from it.

"Something wrong?" asked Mrs. Lansing, who along with her husband rode in Fairweather's Land Rover.

"Just a precaution to scare away beggars," Fairweather lied.

He stopped the four-wheel-drive and walked back, warning his drivers to keep a sharp lookout for anything suspicious. Then he returned and drove on, leading the column to the center of the town and passing through the narrow and sandy streets that were laid out in no particular order. At last he stopped under a lonely date palm that stood in the middle of a spacious marketplace near a circular stone well about 4 meters in diameter.

Fairweather studied the sandy ground about the well in the last light of the day. It was surrounded by the same unusual tracks he'd spotted in the streets. He stared down into the well. He barely saw a tiny reflection deep in the bowels of the sandstone. He recalled that the water was quite high in mineral content that gave it a metallic taste and tinted it a milky green. Yet, it had quenched the thirst of many lives, human and animal, over the centuries. Whether it was hygienic for the uninitiated stomachs of his clients did not concern Fairweather. He merely intended for them to use it to rinse the sweat and dust off their bodies, not drink it.

He instructed his drivers to stand guard and then showed the tourists how to hoist a pigskin bucket of water by use of an ancient hand winch tied to a frayed rope. The exotic image of desert music and dancing by flickering campfires was quickly forgotten as they laughed and splashed like children in a lawn sprinkler on a hot summer afternoon. The men stripped to the waist and slapped water on their bare skin. The women were more concerned with washing their hair.

The comical scene was eerily illuminated by the Land Rover's headlights that threw their cavorting shadows on the silent walls of the village like film projectors. While Fairweather's drivers watched and laughed, he walked a fair distance down one of the streets and entered a house that stood next to a mosque. The walls appeared old and timeworn. The entrance led through a short, arched tunnel to a courtyard that was littered with so much human trash and rubble that he had difficulty climbing over it.

He shone a flashlight around the main room of the structure. The walls were a dusty white, the roofs high with exposed poles over a stick matting, much like the latilla viga on the ceilings of Santa Fe architecture of the American Southwest. The walls were indented with many niches for keeping household goods in, but they were all empty, their contents scattered and broken around the floor along with jumbled furniture.

Because nothing obvious appeared to be missing, it looked to Fairweather as if vandals had simply trashed the house after the occupants had fled, leaving all their possessions behind. Then he spotted a pile of bones in one corner of the room. He identified them as human and began to feel extremely uneasy.

In the glimmer of the flashlight, shadows formed and played weird tricks on the eyes. He swore he saw a large animal flit past a window to the courtyard. He removed the safety on the Patchett not so much from fear as from a sixth sense of the menace that was forming in the darkening alleyways.

A rustling sound came from behind a closed doorway that opened onto a small terrace. Fairweather approached the door quietly, stepping softly around the debris. If there was someone hiding inside, they went silent. Fairweather held the flashlight in front of him with one hand and gripped the submachine gun, muzzle aimed forward, with the other. Then he kicked the door open, knocking it off the hinges onto the floor where it threw up a cloud of dust.

There was someone there all right, or was it something? Dark-skinned and evil, like a demon escaped from hell, it looked like an animal-like subhuman, swaying on hands and knees, staring insanely into the beam of light through eyes that were as red as burning coals.

Fairweather instinctively stepped back. The thing reared up on its knees and lunged at him. Fairweather calmly squeezed the trigger on the Patchett, holding the butt of the gun against his flexed stomach muscles. A rapid stream of 9-millimeter, 100-weight-grain, round-nose bullets spat from the muzzle with the muffled sound of popcorn popping.

The hideous beast made a ghastly retching sound and collapsed, its chest almost blown away. Fairweather stepped up to the huddled form, leaned over, and beamed his flashlight on it. The body was filthy and completely naked. The wild eyes were staring sightlessly, a bright red where white should have been. The face was that of a boy, no more than fifteen.

A fear struck with such shock, such stunning force, that Fairweather was for several moments numbed with the realization of the danger. He knew now what made the odd tracks in the sand. There must have been a whole colony of them that crawled through the village. He turned suddenly and began running back to the marketplace. But he was too late, far too late.

A wall of shrieking fiends burst from the evening dark and tore headlong into the unwary tourists at the well. The drivers were swallowed in the seething tidal wave before they could cry out an alarm or put up a shred of defense. The savage horde came on hands and knees like jackals, pulling down the unarmed tourists and snapping at any exposed skin with their teeth.

The horrible nightmare, illuminated by the headlights of the Land Rovers, became a frenzied press of writhing bodies with the terrified screams of the panic-stricken tourists mingled with the banshee shrieks of their attackers. Mrs.

Lansing gave a tortured cry and disappeared in a tangled mass of bodies. Her husband tried to climb on the hood of one of the vehicles but was pulled down into the dust and mutilated like a beetle under an army of ants.

The fastidious Londoner twisted the head of his cane from a hollow sheath, revealing a short sword. He flayed about him viciously, temporarily keeping the mob at bay. But they seemed to possess no fear and quickly overwhelmed him.

The area around the well was choked solidly with struggling humanity. The fat Spanish man, blood streaming from several teeth wounds, jumped into the well to escape, but four of the crazed killers jumped in after him.

Fairweather ran up and crouched, firing the Patchett into the surging attackers, careful not to shoot one of his own people. The mob, unable to hear the silenced gun, ignored the unexpected gunfire and were either too crazed or too indifferent to realize a score of their number being cut down around them.

Fairweather must have shot nearly thirty of the murderous crowd before the Patchett spent its last shell. He stood helpless, unseen and unnoticed as the uncontrolled slaughter slowed and eventually ceased as his drivers and clients were all slain. He could not comprehend the suddenness that turned the marketplace into a charnel house.

"Oh God," he whispered in a tight, choked voice, watching in cold horror as the savages set upon the bodies in a cannibalistic frenzy, gnawing at the flesh of their victims. He went on watching with a morbid fascination that slowly transformed to anger and outrage at the sickening tragedy being played out before him. Fairweather was caught in the nightmare of it, powerless to do anything but stare at the horror.

Already the butchers who weren't tearing at the hapless tourists were smashing the Land Rovers. Hurling rocks through the windows, shattering the glass. Venting their insatiable savagery on anything that was foreign to them.

Fairweather stepped back into the shadows, sick at the thought that he was responsible for the deaths of his men and clients. He had failed to provide for their safety and unknowingly led them into a bloody disaster. He cursed his impotency to save them and his cowardice at not dying with them.

With great force of willpower, he turned his attention away from the marketplace and began running through the narrow streets, through the ruined outskirts, and into the desert. To warn other desert travelers of the massacre that awaited them at Asselar, he had to save himself. The distance to the next village to the south was too far to reach without water. He settled instead for the motor track to the east, hoping to find a passing vehicle or a government patrol before he died under the blazing sun.

He took a bearing on the North Star and settled down to a fast walk across the desert, knowing his chances of survival were next to nil. Never once did he turn and look back. He could see it all clearly in his mind, and his ears still rang with the agonized screams of the dead.

The white sands of the empty beach flared beneath the bare feet of Eva Rojas, the fine grains sifting between her toes. She stood and gazed at the Mediterranean Sea. The deep water was dyed cobalt blue, becoming emerald as it shallowed, and then fading to aquamarine as its waves fanned out on the bleached sand.

Eva had driven her rental car 110 kilometers west from Alexandria before stopping at a deserted section of beach not far from the town of El Alamein where the great desert war of World War II was fought. Parking off the coastal highway, she collected her tote bag and walked through low dunes toward the tide line.

She wore a coral one-piece stretch jersey bathing suit that fit her like a second skin. Her arms and shoulders were covered by a matching top. She stood gracefully, lightly, and her body was firm, the limbs slim and tan. Her red-gold hair was tied in a long braid that fell down her back almost to her waist and glistened under the sun like polished copper. She stared from Dresden blue eyes that glowed from a face with smooth skin and high cheekbones. Eva was thirty-eight but could have easily passed for thirty. She would never make the cover of Vogue, but she was pretty with a vibrant wholesomeness that men, even much younger men, found very appealing.

The beach appeared deserted. She stood poised, turning her head and staring up and down the shore like a cautious deer. The only other sign of life was a Jeep Cherokee, painted turquoise with the letters NUMA on the door, sitting about a hundred meters up the road. She had passed it before pulling over and parking. The Jeep's occupant was nowhere to be seen.

The morning sun had already warmed the sand, and it felt hot to her naked feet as she walked toward the water. She stopped a few meters short of the water's edge and spread out a beach towel. She checked the time before dropping her watch in the tote bag. Ten after ten. After applying a number 25 sunscreen lotion, she stretched out on her back, sighed, and began soaking up the African sun.

Eva still suffered from the lingering effects of jet lag after the long flight from San Francisco to Cairo. That and four days of nonstop emergency sessions with physicians and fellow biologists over the strange outbreaks of nervous disorders recently discovered throughout the southern Sahara Desert. Taking a break from the exhausting conferences, she wanted nothing more than to immerse herself in a few hours of rest and solitude before traveling through the vast desert on a research mission. Gratefully, as the sea breeze soothed her skin, she closed her eyes and promptly dozed off.

When Eva awoke, she glanced at her watch again. It read eleven-fifty. She had been asleep an hour and a half. The sunscreen had held sunburn to a light shade of pink. She rolled over on her stomach and gazed around the beach. A pair of men in short-sleeved shirts and khaki shorts were slowly walking in her direction along the water's edge. They quickly stopped as they spotted her observing them and turned as if staring at a passing ship. They were still a good 200 meters away, and she took no more notice of them.

Suddenly, something caught her eye in the water some distance from shore. A head with black hair broke the surface. Eva held a hand over her eyes to shade the sun and squinted. A man with a dive mask and swim fins was snorkeling alone in deep water beyond the breakers. He appeared to be spearfishing. She watched as he dove out of sight, remaining underwater for so long she thought he was surely drowning. But then he resurfaced and continued his hunt. After several minutes, he swam toward shore, expertly catching a breaking wave and body surfing into the shallows where he stood up.

He held a strange-looking spear gun with a long barbed shaft and surgical rubber attached to its ends. With his other hand, he carved a group of fish, none weighing less than 3 pounds and attached by a stainless steel hoop that hung from a belt and ran through their gills.

Despite a deep tan, his craggy face didn't bear Arabic features. His thick ebony hair was plastered down by the salt water and the sun sparkled the drops of water clinging to the matted hair on his chest. He was tall, hard-bodied, and broad-shouldered, and walked with a loose grace that was impossible for most men. She guessed him to be close to forty.

As he passed Eva, the man coolly flicked his eyes over her. He was close enough so that she could see they were an opaline green, set wide with a clear glimpse of the white around the iris. He stared at her with such direct candor that it seemed to reach into Eva's mind and mesmerize her. Part of her was afraid he might pause and say something, the other part wishing he would, but his white teeth showed in a devastating smile as he nodded and walked past her to the highway.

She watched him until he disappeared behind the dunes in the area where she had seen the NUMA jeep. What's the matter with me, she thought, I should have at least acknowledged his attention with a smile in return. Then she dismissed him in her mind, deciding that it would have been a waste of time since he probably couldn't speak English anyway. And yet, her eyes shined with a light that had not been there for a long time. How odd, she thought, to feel young and excited by a strange male who gazed at her for one brief moment, and who would never pass her way again.

She felt like going into the water to cool off, but the two men strolling along the beach had approached and were passing between Eva and the surf so she modestly decided to wait until they had passed on. They didn't have the fine features of Egyptians, but the flatter nose, darker almost black skin, and matted curly hair of people who lived on the southern fringe of the Sahara.

They stopped and furtively looked up and down the beach for perhaps the twentieth time. Then suddenly, they were upon her.

"Get away!" she screamed in instinctive reaction. She frantically tried to fight them off, but one, a slimy-eyed, rat-faced man with a thick black moustache, brutally grasped her by the hair and twisted her on her back. A cold fear shot through her as the other man, whose tobacco stained teeth were etched in a sadistic smile, dropped to his knees and sat across her thighs. The rat-faced attacker straddled her chest, his legs pressing against her arms, forcing her deep into the sand. Now she was pinned helplessly, totally, unable to move little else than her fingers and feet.

Strangely, there was no lust in their eyes. Neither man made any attempt to tear away her swimsuit. They were not acting like men intent on rape. Eva screamed again, high and shrill. But her only reply was the surf. There wasn't another soul to be seen on the beach.

Then the rat-faced man's hands closed over her nose and mouth, and he began to smother her calmly and purposely. His weight on her rib cage added to the constriction of air. The supply of air to her lungs was completely cut off.

Through the hypnotic spell of terror, she realized with horrified disbelief that they intended to kill her. She tried to scream again, but the sound came muffled. She felt no pain, only blind panic and shocked paralysis.

She tried desperately to tear away the unrelenting pressure on her face, but her arms and hands were gripped as if in a vise. Her lungs demanded air that wasn't there. Blackness began to creep into the edge of her vision Desperately, she held onto consciousness, but she could feel it slipping away. She saw the man who was sitting on her thighs peer over the shoulder of her murderer, realizing his leering face was the last sight she would ever see.

Eva closed her eyes as she approached the brink of a black void. The thought that flashed through her brain was that she was having a nightmare, and that if she opened her eyes it would be gone. She had to struggle to lift her eyelids for one final look at reality.

It was a nightmare, she thought almost joyously. The man with the stained teeth wasn't leering anymore. A thin metal shaft was protruding from both his temples, much like a novelty arrow that fitted over the head and looked as if it had been shot through the skull. The assailant's face seemed to collapse and he fell backward over her feet, his arms spread wide in crucifixion.

Rat-face was so intent on smothering the life from Eva that he didn't notice his friend had fallen away. Then for one second, maybe two, he froze as a pair of large hands materialized and tightly clamped around his chin and the top of his head. Eva felt the pressure over her nose and lips die as her assassin threw up his arms and furiously tore at the hands that were gripping his skull. The utter unexpectedness of this new development only added to the unreality of the nightmarish shock in Eva's mind.

Before blackness closed over her, she heard a crunching sound, like a person biting down on an ice cube, and she had a fleeting glimpse of the killer's eyes, wide open, protruding, staring sightlessly out of a head that had been twisted around in a full 360-degree circle.

Eva awoke with the hot sun on her face. She awoke to the sound of the waves pounding the African shore. When she blinked open her eyes, it was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen.

She groaned and stirred, squinting at the dazzling beach, the peaceful sun-splashed panorama of scenic beauty. She sat up suddenly, her eyes widening in fear, terrorized by the sharp recall of the attack. But her killers were gone. Had they really existed? She began to wonder if she had been hallucinating.

"Welcome back," said a man's voice. "For a while there I was afraid you lapsed into a coma."

Eva turned and looked up into the smiling face of the spearfisherman who was kneeling behind her.

"Where are the men who tried to kill me?" she asked in a frightened voice.

"They left with the tide," the stranger answered with an icy cheerfulness.

"Tide?"

"I was taught never to litter a beach. I towed their bodies beyond the surf. When I last saw them, they were drifting toward Greece."

She stared at him as a chill swept through her. "You killed them."

"They were not nice people."

"You killed them," she echoed dumbly. Her face was ashen and she looked as if she was going to be sick. "You're as cold-blooded a murderer as they were."

He could see she was still in shock and not reasoning sensibly. Her eyes were filled with revulsion. He shrugged and said simply, "Would you have preferred I hadn't become involved?"

The fear and revulsion slowly left her eyes and was replaced with apprehension. It took a minute for Eva to realize that the stranger had saved her from a violent death. "No please, forgive me. I'm acting stupidly. I owe you my life and I don't even know your name."

"It's Dirk Pitt."

"I'm Eva Rojas." She felt oddly flustered as he smiled warmly and gently grasped her hand in his. She saw only concern in his eyes and all her apprehension fled. "You're American."

"Yes, I'm with the National Underwater and Marine Agency. We're doing an archaeological survey of the Nile River."

"I thought you had driven off before I was attacked."

"Almost, but your friends made me curious. It struck me odd that they parked their car a good kilometer away and then walked across a deserted beach directly toward you. So I hung around to see what they had in mind."

"Lucky for me you're the suspicious type."

"Do you have any idea of why they tried to kill you?" Pitt asked.

"They must have been bandits who murder and rob tourists."

He shook his head. "Robbery wasn't their motive. They carried no weapons. The one who was smothering you used his hands instead of tape or a cloth. And they made no attempt at rape. They were not professional assassins or we'd both be dead. Most unusual. I'd bet a month's pay they were only hired hands for someone who wanted you dead. They followed you to a secluded spot intending to murder you, and then force salt water down your nose and throat. Afterward, your body would be left at the high-tide line to make it look like a drowning. Which would explain why they tried to smother you."

She said hesitatingly, "I can't believe any of this. It seems so purposeless and makes no sense at all. I'm only a biochemist, specializing in the effects of toxic materials on humans. I have no enemies. Why on earth should anyone want to kill me?"

"Having only just met you, I can't even guess."

Eva lightly massaged her bruised lips. "It's all so crazy."

"How long have you been in Egypt?"

"Only a few days."

"You must have done something to make somebody pretty mad."

"Certainly not to any North Africans," she said doubtfully. "If anything I'm here to help them."

He stared thoughtfully into the sand. "Then you're not on vacation."

"My work brought me here," Eva answered. "Rumors of strange physical abnormalities and psychological disorders among the nomadic peoples of the southern Sahara were brought to the attention of the World Health Organization. I'm a member of an international team of scientists who have been sent to investigate."

"Hardly fodder for a murder," Pitt admitted.

"All the more puzzling. My colleagues and I are here to save lives. We pose no threat."

"You think the plague in the desert is due to toxins?"

"We don't have the answers yet. There isn't enough data to draw conclusions. On the surface the cause appears to be contamination sickness, but the source is a mystery. No known chemical manufacturing or hazardous waste sites lie within hundreds of kilometers of the areas reporting the symptoms."

"How widespread is the problem?"

"Over eight thousand cases have erupted across the African nations of Mali and Niger in the past ten days."

Pitt's eyebrows lifted. "An incredible number for so short a time. How do you know bacteria or a virus isn't the cause?"

"Like I said, the source is a mystery."

"Odd that it hasn't been covered by the news media."

"The World Health Organization has insisted on a news blackout until a cause has been determined. I suppose to prevent sensationalism and panic."

Pitt had been glancing around the beach from time to time. He spotted a movement beyond the low dunes bordering the road. "What are your plans?"

"My scientific team leaves for the Sahara tomorrow to begin field investigations."

"You know, I hope, that Mali is on the verge of what could be a bloody civil war."

She shrugged unconcernedly. "The government has agreed to keep a heavy guard around our researchers at all times." She paused and looked at him for a long moment. "Why are you asking me all these questions? You act like a secret agent."

Pitt laughed. "Only a nosy marine engineer with dislike for anyone who goes around murdering beautiful women."

"Maybe it was a case of mistaken identity?" she said hopefully.

Pitt's eyes traveled over her body and stopped at her eyes. "Somehow, I don't think that's possible—" Pitt tensed suddenly and stood, staring at the dunes. His muscles tightened. He reached down and grabbed Eva by the wrist and pulled her upright. "Time to go," he said, dragging her at a run across the beach.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, stumbling after him.

Pitt didn't answer. The movement behind the dunes had become a wisp of smoke that was thickening as it rose in the desert sky. He knew immediately that another killer, or perhaps more, had set fire to Eva's rental car in an effort to trap them until reinforcements could arrive.

He could see the flames now. If he had picked up his speargun…? No. He didn't fool himself. It was no weapon against a firearm. His only slim hope was that the assassin's comrade was also unarmed and hadn't seen Pitt's Jeep.

He was right on the first count, wrong on the second. As they crested the last dune, he saw a dark-skinned man holding a burning newspaper in one hand that was rolled up in a torch. The intruder was absorbed in kicking out the windshield in preparation of incinerating the interior of the Jeep. This one was not dressed like the others. He wore an intricate white headdress that was swathed in such a way that only his eyes showed. His body was draped in a flowing caftan-like robe that swirled around his sandaled ankles. He failed to notice Pitt bearing down on him with Eva in tow.

Pitt halted and breathed the words into Eva's ear. "If I screw up, run like hell for the road and stop a passing car." Aloud he shouted, "Freeze!"

Startled, the man twisted around, his eyes wide but menacing. In the same breath as his shout, Pitt lowered his head and charged. The man thrust the burning paper in front of him, but Pitt's head had already driven into his chest, breaking the sternum with the accompanying sharp snap of cracking ribs. At the same time, Pitt's right fist swung up into the man's crotch.

The menace in the man's eyes bulged into a look of shock. Then a strangling, tortured gasp escaped his gaping mouth as the wind burst from his lungs. He was thrust backward, and his feet left the sand as Pitt's wild attack lifted him in the air.

The lighted torch flew over Pitt's back and landed in the sand. The man's expression went from shock to pain and terror. His face congested and flushed crimson as he was thrown backward and collapsed. Pitt quickly knelt over him and searched his pockets. There was nothing, no weapons, no identification. Not even a few loose coins or a comb.

"Who sent you, pal?" Pitt demanded, grabbing the man by the neck and shaking him like a Doberman with a rat.

The reaction was not what Pitt expected. Through the torment and agony; the man gave Pitt a sinister stare-a stare, Pitt thought, curiously like a man who had gotten the last laugh. Then the dark-skinned man grinned, showing a set of white teeth with one missing. His jaw dropped open slightly, and then appeared to clamp down. Too late Pitt realized that his adversary had bitten into a lethal rubbercoated cyanide pill. It had been concealed in the man's mouth as a false tooth.

Foam seeped from the man's lips. The poisonous pill was very powerful and death came quickly. Pitt and Eva watched helplessly as the strength melted from the man's body. The eyes remained open, blank and glazed in death.

"Is he—?" Eva broke off and then tried again. "Is he dead?"

"I think it's safe to say he's expired," Pitt said without a shred of remorse.

Eva held Pitt's arm for support. Her hands felt cold under the African heat and she was shivering from shock. Her eyes were stricken. She had never watched anyone die before. She began to feel sick but somehow managed to control her stomach.

"But why kill himself?" she murmured. "For what purpose?"

To protect others connected with your failed murder attempt," Pitt answered.

"He'd willingly take his own life to remain silent?" she asked with disbelief.

"A loyal fanatic to his boss," Pitt said quietly. "I suspect that if he hadn't taken cyanide on his own, he'd have had help."

Eva shook her head. "This is insane. You're talking a conspiracy."

"Face facts, lady, someone went to a lot of trouble to eliminate you." Pitt stared at Eva. She looked like a small girl who was lost in a department store. "You have an enemy who doesn't want you in Africa, and if you expect to go on living, I suggest you take the next plane back to the States."

She looked dazed. "No, not while people are dying."

"You're tough to convince," he said.

"Put yourself in my place."

"Better yet, your colleagues' shoes. They may be on a hit list too. We'd better get back to Cairo and warn them. If any of this is tied to your research and investigation, their lives are also in danger."

Eva looked down at the dead man. "What do you intend to do with him?"

Pitt shrugged. "Throw him in the Med with his friends." Then a devilish smile rode his craggy face. "I'd love to see the face of their ringleader when he learns his assassins have gone missing without a trace and you're still walking around as if nothing happened."

Company officials at the Backworld Expeditions offices in Cairo realized something was wrong when the desert safari group failed to arrive in the fabled city of Timbuktu on schedule. Twenty-four hours later, pilots of the aircraft that was chartered to return the tourists to Marrakech, Morocco, flew a search pattern to the north but saw no sign of the vehicles.

Fears intensified after three days passed and Major Fairweather had still failed to report in. Mali government authorities were alerted and they cooperated fully, sending out military air and motorized vehicle patrols to backtrack the safari's known route across the desert.

Panic began to reign after the Malians failed to find any sighting of people or the Land Rovers during a concentrated search lasting four days. An army helicopter flew over Asselar and reported seeing nothing but a dead and abandoned village.

Then on the seventh day, a French oil prospecting team, pushing south along the Trans-Saharan Motor Track, discovered Major Ian Fairweather. The sky over the flat, rock-strewn plain was open and empty. The sun burned down and baked the sand so that the heat waves shimmered and danced. The French geologists were astonished when a distorted apparition suddenly appeared through a wavering heat mirage. One moment the image seemed to float free, and then expand and retract to grotesque proportions in the hot, freakish air.

As the range closed they distinguished a figure waving his arms like a crazy man and stumbling directly toward them. Then he staggered to a stop, swayed like a small whirlwind, and slowly crumpled into the sand face first. The shocked driver of the Renault truck nearly braked too late and was forced to swerve around the fallen man, halting in a flurry of dust.

Fairweather was more dead than alive. He was badly dehydrated and the sweat on his body had crusted into a fine layer of white salt crystals. He soon regained consciousness as the French oilmen slowly trickled water past his swollen tongue. Four hours later, his body fluids restored after drinking almost 2 gallons of water, Fairweather thickly croaked out the story of his escape from the massacre at Asselar.

To the one Frenchman on the prospecting team who understood English, Fairweather's tale sounded like a drunken fabrication, but it also rang with urgent conviction. After a brief discussion, the rescuers carefully lifted Fairweather into the back of the truck and headed toward the city of Gao on the Niger River. They arrived just before dark and drove straight to the city hospital.

After kindly seeing that Fairweather was comfortably bedded down and attended by a doctor and nurse, the French thought it wise to inform the Chief of the local Malian Security Forces. They were asked to write a lengthy report while the Colonel in command of Gao headquarters apprised his superiors in the capital city of Bamako.

To the Frenchman's surprise and indignation they were detained and jailed. In the morning an interrogation team arrived from Bamako and grilled them separately about their discovery of Fairweather. Demands to contact their consulate were ignored. When the oil geologists refused to cooperate, the interrogation turned ugly.

The French were not the first men to enter the city's security building and not be seen again.

When supervisors at the oil company headquarters in Marseilles received no word from their oil exploration team, they became concerned and requested a search. The Malian Security Forces made a show of sweeping the desert again but claimed to have found nothing but the oil company's abandoned Renault truck.

The names of the French geologists and the missing tourists from Backworld Expeditions were simply added to the list of outsiders who disappeared and perished in the vast desert.

Dr. Haroun Madani stood on the steps of the Gao hospital, beneath the brick portico with its unfathomable designs running around the top of the walls. He stared nervously down the dusty street running between the seedy old colonial buildings and the single-story mud brick houses. A breeze from the north blew a light coating of sand over the city, once the capital of three great empires but now a decaying relic of French colonial days.

The call to evening prayers drifted over the city from the high-towered minarets that rose above the mosque. The faithful were no longer summoned to prayer by a Muslim holy man, or muezzin, who climbed the narrow steps inside the minarets and wailed from the balcony. Now the muezzin stayed on the ground and offered the prayers to Allah and the Prophet Mohammed through microphones and loudspeakers.

A short distance from the mosque, a — three-quarter moon reflected its beam on the Niger River. Wide, scenic, its current slow and gentle, the Niger is a mere shadow of its former course. Once mighty and deep, decades of drought had lowered it to a shallow stream, plied by fleets of small sailing ships called pinnaces. Its waters once lapped at the base of the mosque. Now they sluggishly flowed nearly two city blocks away.

The Malian people are a mixture of the lighter-skinned descendants of the French and Berbers, the dark brown of the desert Arabs and Moors, and the black Africans. Dr. Madani was coal black. His facial features were Negroid with deep-set ebony eyes and a wide flattened nose. He was a big bull of a man in his late forties, beefy around the middle, with a wide square jawed head.

His ancestors had been Mandingo slaves who were brought north by the Moroccans who overran the country in 1591. His parents had farmed the lush lands south of the Niger when he was a boy. He was raised by a major in the French Foreign Legion, educated and sent through medical school in Paris. Why or how this came about he was never told.

The doctor stiffened as the yellow headlights of an old and unique automobile swung into view. The car rolled quietly down the uneven street, its elegant rose-magenta-colored body oddly out of sync amid the dismal and austere mud structures. There was an aura of dignified elegance about the 1936 Avions Voisin sedan. The design of the coachwork was an odd combination of pre-World War II aerodynamics, cubist art, and Frank Lloyd Wright. It was powered by a six-cylinder sleeve-valve engine that provided smooth silence and simple endurance. A masterwork of uncompromising engineering standards, it once belonged to the Governor General when Mali was a territory of French West Africa.

Madani knew the car. Almost every city dweller of Mali knew the car and its owner, and they shrank in nervous foreboding whenever it passed. The doctor observed that the car was followed by a military ambulance and he feared a problem. He stepped forward and opened the rear door as the driver braked to a perfectly noiseless stop.

A high-ranking military officer rose from the backseat and unlimbered a lean body inside a tailor-made uniform whose creases could have cut cold butter. Unlike other African leaders who listed to port under a mass of decorated hardware, General Zateb Kazim wore only one green and gold ribbon on the breast of his army jacket. Around his head, he wore an abbreviated version of the litham, the indigo veil of the Tuaregs. His face bore the dark cocoa shade and sculpted features of a Moor, and the eyes were tiny topaz dots surrounded by oceans of white. He might have been borderline handsome if it hadn't been for his nose. Instead of being straight and even, it rounded to a point, overhanging a sparse moustache that stretched off to the sides of his cheeks.

General Zateb Kazim looked like a benign villain out of an old Warner Brothers cartoon. There was no other way to describe him.

He oozed self-importance as he pompously brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his uniform. He acknowledged Dr. Madani's presence with a slight nod.

"He is ready to be moved?" he asked in a measured tone.

"Mr. Fairweather has fully recovered from his ordeal," Madani answered, "and is under strong sedation, as you ordered."

"`He's seen and talked to no one since being carried in by the Frenchmen?"

"Fairweather has only been tended by myself and a nurse from a tribe of Tukulor who speaks only in a Fulah dialect. He's had no other contact. I also carried out your instructions and admitted him to a private room away `from the open wards. I might add that all records of his stay have been destroyed."

Kazim appeared satisfied. "Thank you, Doctor. I'm grateful for your cooperation."

"May I ask where you're taking him?"

Kazim flashed a death's head grin. "To Tebezza."

"Not that!" Madani muttered thickly. "Not the gold mines at the penal settlement of Tebezza. Only political traitors and murderers are condemned to die there. This man is a foreign national. What has he done to deserve a slow death in the mines?"

"It matters little."

"What crime has he committed?"

Kazim looked Madani up and down as if the doctor was merely an annoying insect. "Do not ask," Kazim said coldly.

A dreadful thought crossed Madani's mind. "And the Frenchmen who found Fairweather and brought him here?"

"The same fate."

"None will last more than a few weeks in the mines."

"Better than simply executing them," shrugged Kazim. "Let them work out the little time left of their pitiful lives doing something useful. A stockpile of gold is good for our economy."

"`You're a very sensible man, General," said Madan, tasting the bile of his servile words. Kazim's sadistic power as a judge, jury, and hangman was a fact of Malian life.

"I'm happy you agree, Doctor." He stared at Madani as though he was a prisoner in the dock. "In the interests of our country's security I suggest you forget Mr. Fairweather and erase all memory of his visit."

Madani nodded. "As you wish."

"May no evil befall your people and goods."

Kazim's thoughts were clear to the doctor. The words from the nomad-greeting ritual struck home. Madani had a large family. So long as he kept his silence they would live in peace. The alternative was not a vision he wished to dwell upon.

A few minutes later, an unconscious Fairweather was carried out of the hospital on a stretcher by two of Kazim's security guards and placed in the ambulance. The General gave Madani a casual salute and stepped into the Avions Voisin.

As the two vehicles moved off into the night, a chilling fear coursed through Dr. Madani's veins, and he found himself wondering what terrible tragedy he had unwillingly participated in. Then he prayed that he would never know.

In one of the mural-walled suites of the Nile Hilton, Dr. Frank Hopper listened attentively from a leather sofa. Seated in a nearby matching chair on the opposite side of a coffee table, Ismail Yerli puffed pensively on a meerschaum pipe whose bowl was carved in the likeness of the head of a turbaned sultan.

Even with the universal sounds of the busy Cairo traffic seeping in through the closed windows to the balcony Eva could not bring herself to accept the nightmare of her brush with death on the beach. Already her subconscious was blurring the memory. But Dr. Hopper's voice pulled her thoughts back to the here and now of the conference room.

"There is no doubt in your mind these men tried to kill you?"

"None," Eva answered.

"You described them as looking like black Africans," said Ismail Yerli.

Eva shook her head. "I didn't say black, only that their skin was dark. Their facial features were more sharp, more defined, like a cross between an Arab and an East Indian. The one who burned my car wore a loose-fitting tunic and a thick, intricately wrapped headdress. All I could see were his ebony eyes and a nose shaped like an eagle."

"The headdress, was it cotton and swathed about the head and chin several times?" asked Yerli.

Eva nodded. "The cloth seemed enormously long."

"What color was it?"

"A deep, almost ink blue."

"Indigo?"

"Yes," replied Eva. "Indigo sounds about right."

Ismail Yerli sat in silent contemplation for a few moments. He was the coordinator and logistics expert for the World Health Organization team. Lean and stringy, immensely efficient, and with an almost pathological love of detail, he was a smart operator with an abundance of political savvy. His home was in the Mediterranean seaport of Antalya, Turkey. He claimed Kurdish blood, having been born and raised in, the Asia Minor hinterland of Cappadocia. A lukewarm Muslim, he had not been inside a mosque in years. Like most Turks he had a massive thicket of coarse black hair complemented by bushy eyebrows that met over the nose and were supplemented by a huge moustache. He displayed a humorous disposition that never quit. His mouth was always stretched in a smile that was a decoy for an extremely serious temperament.

"Tuaregs," he said finally.

He spoke so softly that Hopper had to lean closer. "Who?" he questioned.

Yerli looked across the coffee table at the Canadian leader of the medical team. A quiet man, Hopper said little but listened long. He was, the Turk mused, the complete opposite of himself. Hopper was big, humorous, red-faced, and heavily bearded. All he needed to look like the Viking, Eric the Red, was a battle-axe and a conical helmet sunk on his head with horns curving from it. Resourceful, precise, and laid-back, he was regarded by international contamination scientists as one of the two finest toxicologists in the world.

"Tuaregs," Yerli repeated. Once the mighty nomadic warriors of the desert, who won great battles against French and Moorish armies. And perhaps the greatest of all the romantic bandits. They raid no more. Today, they raise goats and beg in the cities bordering the Sahara to survive. Unlike Arab Muslims, the men wear the veil, a cloth that when unwrapped measures over a meter in length.

"But why would a tribe of desert nomads want to do away with Eva?" asked Hopper to no one in particular. "I fail to see a motive."

Yerli shook his head vaguely. "It would seem that one of them, at least, does not want her, and-we have to heavily weigh this possibility-the rest of the health teams investigating the outbreaks of toxic poisoning in the southwestern desert."

"At this point of the project," said Hopper, "we don't even know if contamination is the culprit. The mystery malady could be viral or bacterial."

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 Samaritan," 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 yet that she was a member of the Malian biological studies gram. 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."

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 tightfitting 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 maitre 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 Iamb is really tasty-."

"Try one of the sauces. The fermented berry complements the Iamb."

"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."

"It's very good."

"Especially with the khalta. We civilized people, on the other hand, buy nicely butchered, sliced meat in supermarkets. We don't witness cattle being brained with an electronic hammer, or sheep and pigs having their throats cut. We miss the fun part. So we're more conditioned to simply expressing fear, anxiety, and misery. A few might shoot up the landscape and kill the neighbors in a fit of madness, but we would never eat anyone."

"What type of exotic toxin can cause those problems?" asked Pitt.

Eva drained her wine and waited until the waiter poured another glass. "Doesn't have to be exotic. Common lead poisoning can make people do strange things. It also bursts capillaries and turns the whites of the eyes beet red."

"Do you have room for dessert?" Pitt asked.

"Everything is so good, I'll make room."

"Coffee or tea?"

"American coffee."

Pitt motioned to the waiter who was on him like a skier attacking fresh snow. "An Um Ali for the lady and two coffees. One American, one Egyptian.'

"What's an Um Ali?" asked Eva.

"A hot bread pudding with milk and topped with pine nuts. Soothes the stomach after a heavy meal."

"Sounds just right."

Pitt leaned back in his chair, his craggy face set in concern. "You said you're catching a flight tomorrow. Do you still intend to go to Mali?"

"Still playing the role of my protector?"

"Traveling in the desert can be a murderous business. Heat won't be your only enemy. Someone out there is waiting to kill you and your fellow do-gooders."

"And my knight in shining white armor won't be there to save me," she said with a tinge of sarcasm. "You don't frighten me. I can take care of myself."

Pitt stared at her, and she could see a look of sadness in his eyes. "You're not the first woman who said that and wound up in the morgue."

In a ballroom in another part of the hotel Dr. Frank Hopper was wrapping up a news conference. It was a good turnout. A small army of correspondents representing newspapers around the Middle East and four international wire services were besieging him with questions under a battery of lights from local Egyptian TV cameras.

"How widespread do you believe the environmental pollution is, Dr. Hopper?" asked a lady from Reuters News Service.

"We won't know until our teams are in the field and have a chance to study the spread."

A man with a tape recorder waved his hand. "Do you have a source of the contamination?"

Hopper shook his head. "At the moment we have no idea where it's coming from."

"Any possibility it might be the French solar detoxification project in Mali?"

Hopper walked over to a map of the southern Sahara that was hung on a large display stand and picked up a pointer. He aimed the tip at a desolate region of desert in the northern section of Mali. "The French project is located here at Fort Foureau, well over 200 kilometers from the closest area of reported contamination sickness. Too far for it to be a direct source."

A German correspondent from Der Spiegel stood up. "Couldn't the pollution be carried by winds?"

Hopper shook his head. "Not possible."

"How can you be so certain?"

"During the planning and construction stages, my fellow scientists and I at the World Health Organization were consulted every step of the way by the engineers of the Massarde Entreprises de Solaire Energie who own the facility. All hazardous waste is destroyed by solar energy and reduced to harmless vapor. The output is constantly monitored. No toxic emission is left to be carried on the wind and infect life hundreds of kilometers away."

An Egyptian television reporter thrust a microphone forward. "Are you receiving cooperation from the desert nations you plan to enter?"

"Most all have invited us with open arms," answered Hopper.

"You mentioned earlier there was reluctance on the part of President Tahir of Mali to allow your research team into his country."

"That's true, but once we're on site and demonstrate our humane intentions, I expect that he'll have a change of heart."

"So you don't feel you are endangering lives by prying into the affairs of President Tahir's government?"

The beginnings of anger stirred in Hopper's voice. "The real danger is malaise in the minds of his advisors. They ignore the sickness as if it doesn't exist by letting it go officially unnoticed."

"But do you think it is safe for your team to travel about Mali freely?" asked the correspondent from Reuters.

Hopper smiled a shrewd smile. The questions had turned in the direction he had hoped. "If tragedy should occur, I count on you, the ladies and gentlemen of the news media, to investigate and lay the wrath of the world on the doorstep of the guilty party."

After dinner, Pitt escorted Eva to her hotel door. She fumbled with the key nervously, unsure of herself. She — certainly had the excuse, she told herself, to invite him in. She owed him, and she wanted him. But Eva played by the rules of the old school and found it difficult to leap into bed with every man who showed an interest in her, even one who had saved her life.

Pitt noticed the faint shade of red rising from her neck into her face. He looked down into her eyes. They were as blue as a South Seas sky. He took her by the shoulders and gently pulled her to him. She tensed slightly but offered no resistance. "Postpone your flight."

She averted her face. "I can't."

"We may not meet again."

"I am bound by my work."

"And when you're free?"

"I'll return to my family home in Pacific Grove, California."

"A beautiful area. I've often entered a classic car in the Pebble Beach Concours d'Elegance."

"It's lovely in June," she said, her voice suddenly trembling.

He smiled. "Then it's you and I and the Bay of Monterey."

It was as if they had become friends on an ocean voyage, a brief interlude that planted the seed of mutual attraction. He kissed her softly, and then stepped back. "Stay out of harm's way. I don't want to lose you."

Then he turned and walked toward the elevators.

For a century of centuries Egyptians and the vegetation have fought to maintain their precious toehold between the pewter-blue waters of the Nile and the yellow-brown sands of the Sahara. Winding 6500 kilometers from its headwaters in Central Africa to the Mediterranean, only the Nile of all the great rivers of the world flows north. Ancient, always present, ever alive The Nile is as alien to the arid North African landscape as it would be in the steamy atmosphere of the planet Venus.

The hot season had arrived along the river. The heat rolled over and settled on the water like an oppressive blanket pulled from the great sprawling desert to the west. The dawn sun came over the horizon with the fiery thrust of a poker, spawning a slight breeze that felt like a blast from an open furnace.

The serenity of the past met the technology of the present as a lateen-rigged felucca, manned by four young boys, sailed past a sleek research boat laden with state-of-the-art electronic gear. Seemingly little inconvenienced by the heat, the boys laughed and waved at the turquoise-colored boat heading on an opposite course downriver.

Pitt lifted his eyes from the high-resolution video screen of the subbottom profiler and waved back through a large port. The oven outside bothered him not at all. The interior of the research vessel was well air conditioned, and he sat comfortably in front of the computerized detection array sipping a glass of iced tea. He watched the felucca for a few moments, almost envying the boys as they scampered about the small deck and unfurled the sail to catch the breeze blowing upriver.

He turned his attention back to the monitor as an irregular anomaly began to creep across the screen in colored imagery. The vertical scan sensor of the subbottom profiler was recording a contact deep beneath the bottom silt below the moving water. At first it was merely an indistinct blob, but as the image was automatically enhanced the outline of an ancient ship began to materialize.

"Target coming up," Pitt reported. "Mark it number ninety-four."

Al Giordino punched in a code on his console. Instantly, the configuration of the river along with man-made landmarks and natural features behind the shoreline flashed into view on an on-line graphics display. Another code and the satellite laser-positioning system pinpointed with precise accuracy the image's exact position as it related to the surrounding landscape.

"Number ninety-four plotted and recorded," Giordino acknowledged.

Short, dark, and as compact as a barrel of concrete, Albert Giordino gazed through twinkling walnut eyes that sat under a wild mane of curly black hair. Give him a flowing beard and a sack of toys, Pitt often thought, and Giordino could have played a young version of an Etruscan Santa Claus.

Tremendously fast for a muscular man, he could fight like a tiger, and yet suffer the agonies of the damned if he was forced into conversing with women. Giordino and Pitt went back to high school together, played football at the Air Force Academy, and served in the final days of Vietnam. At one point in their service careers, at the request of Admiral James Sandecker, Chief Director of the National Underwater and Marine Agency, they were loaned out to NUMA on temporary status, a condition that had now stretched into nine years.

Neither man could remember how many times one had saved the life of the other, or at least prevented a very embarrassing situation that usually resulted out of some sort of devious mischief. Yet their escapades above and below the sea had become legendary, resulting in a certain amount of fame neither relished.

Pitt bent forward and focused on a digital isometric screen. The computer rotated the three-dimensional image, displaying the buried ship in amazing detail. The image and dimensions were recorded and communicated to a data processor where they were compared with known data of ancient Egyptian Nile boats. In a few seconds the computer analyzed a profile and made its call. Data on the vessel's construction blinked across the bottom of the screen.

"What we've got here seems to be a cargo vessel from the Sixth Dynasty," Pitt read out. "Built somewhere between 2000 and 2200 B.C."

"Her condition?" asked Giordino.

"Quite good," replied Pitt. "Like the others we found, she is well preserved by the silt. Her hull and rudder are still intact, and I can make out the mast lying across her deck. What's her depth?"

Giordino studied his data-positioning screen. "She's under 2 meters of water and 8 meters of silt."

"Any metal?"

"Nothing the proton mag could detect."

"Not surprising since iron wasn't known in Egypt until the twelfth century B.C. What do you read on the nonferrous scan?"

Giordino twisted a dial on his console. "Not much. A few bronze fittings. Probably an abandoned derelict."

Pitt studied the imagery of the ship that had sunk in the river forty centuries ago. "Fascinating, how the design of the vessels remained virtually unchanged for three thousand years."

"Goes with their art," said Giordino.

Pitt looked at him. "Art?"

"Did you ever notice that their art style stayed exactly the same from the First Dynasty to the thirtieth," Giordino pontificated. "Even bodily positions remained static. Why hell, in all that time they never figured out how to show the human eye from a side view by simply drawing it in half. Talk about tradition. The Egyptians were masters at it."

"When did you become an expert on Egyptology?"

True to type, Giordino gave a worldly-wise shrug. "Oh I've picked it up here and there."

Pitt was not fooled. Giordino had a sharp eye for detail. He seldom missed much, as proven by his observation of Egyptian art that went unnoticed by over 99 percent of the tourists and was never mentioned by the guides.

Giordino finished a beer and rolled the cold bottle over his forehead. He pointed a finger at the shipwreck as the research boat passed over and the image began to slip off the screen. "Hard to believe we've found ninety-four wrecks after surveying only 2 miles of river. Some stacked three deep."

"Not so incredible when you consider how many thousands of years boats have been sailing the Nile," Pitt lectured. "Vessels of all civilizations were lucky to last twenty years before being lost by storm, fire, and collision. And those that survived usually rotted away from neglect. The Nile between the Delta and Khartoum has more sunken vessels per square kilometer than any other place on earth. Fortunately for archaeologists, the wrecks were covered over with silt and preserved. They could well last another four thousand years before they're excavated."

"No sign of cargo," said Giordino, peering over Pitt's shoulder at the vanishing ship. "As you suggested, she probably outlived her usefulness and her owners let her deteriorate until she sank as a derelict."

The pilot of the research boat, Gary Marx, kept one eye trained on the echo sounder while scanning the river ahead with the other. A tall blond with limpid blue eyes, he wore only shorts, sandals, and a rancher's straw hat. He quarter turned his head and spoke out of the side of his mouth "That finishes the downstream run, Dirk."

"Okay," Pitt replied. "Swing around and make another run as close as you can to the shoreline."

"We're practically scraping bottom now," Marx said flatly, without due concern. "If we come any closer we'll have to tow the boat with a tractor."

"No reed for hysterics," Pitt said dryly. "Just bring us around, hug the riverbank, and mind we don't snag the sensor."

Expertly, Marx turned the boat into the main channel, made a sweeping U-turn, and brought her parallel to the shore at a distance of no more than 5 or 6 meters. Almost immediately, the sensors picked up another wreck. The computer profiled this one as a nobleman's personal ship from the Middle Kingdom, 2040 to 1786 B.C.

The hull was slimmer than those of the cargo ships, and a cabin graced its afterdeck. They could see the remains of a guardrail running around the deck. The tops of the support posts looked to be carved with lions' heads. There was a wide gash in the port side, suggesting it sank after a collision with another ship.

Eight more ancient ships were discovered beneath the silt and duly recorded before the sensors struck the big casino.

Pitt straightened, his eyes set in concentration as an image, far larger than the previous contacts, sailed across his monitor. "We have a royal barge!" he called out.

"Marking position," Giordino acknowledged. "You sure it has pharaoh written on it?"

"As pretty a picture as we'll ever see. Take a look."

Giordino studied the growing image. "Looking good. No sign of a mast. She's too large for anyone but royalty to own.

The hull was long, with a delicate taper toward the ends. The stern stem was sculpted in the shape of a falcon's head, representing the Egyptian god Horus, but the forward section of the bow was missing. The high-resolution enhancement of the computer revealed the sides of the hull to be decorated with over a thousand carved hieroglyphics. There was a royal cabin that was also ornately carved. Banks of what remained of the oars still protruded from the hull. The rudder was a massive affair that looked like a huge canoe paddle and was braced to the side of the stern. The main attraction, though, was the great rectangular shape that sat on a deck platform amidships. It too bore carved sculptures.

Both men collectively held their breath as the computer hummed away. Then the profile swept across the screen.

"A stone sarcophagus," blurted Giordino with uncharacteristic excitement. "We've got a sarcophagus." He rushed over to his console and checked the readings. "The nonferrous scan shows large amounts of metal inside the cabin area and the sarcophagus."

"Pharaoh Menkura's gold," Pitt murmured softly.

"What do we have for a date?"

"Twenty-six hundred B.C. The time frame and configuration are right on the money," Pitt said, smiling broadly. "And the computer analysis shows charred wood forward, indicating the bow as burned away."

"Then we have Menkura's missing funeral barge."

"I wouldn't bet against it," said Pitt, his expression set in absolute euphoria.

Marx anchored the research boat directly over the wreck site. Then for the next six hours, Pitt and Giordino subjected the funeral barge to a battery of electronic scans and probes, accumulating an extensive record of its condition and disposition for Egyptian authorities.

"God, how I wish we could get a camera inside the cabin and sarcophagus." Giordino opened another beer but promptly forgot to drink it in the excitement.

"The inner coffins of the sarcophagus might be intact;" said Pitt. "But the dampness has probably rotted away most of the mummy. As to the artifacts… who's to say? They might possibly equal the treasures of Tutankhaten."

"Menkura was a far bigger nabob than King Tut. He must have carried a larger hoard with him for the afterlife."

"Well we won't see any of it," Pitt said, stretching his arms to the cabin ceiling. "We'll be dead and buried ourselves before the Egyptians find the funding to raise and preserve the wreck for the Cairo museum."

"Visitors," Marx alerted them. "An Egyptian river patrol boat approaching downriver."

"Word travels fast around here," said Giordino incredulously. "Who could have tipped them off?"

"A routine patrol," said Pitt. "They'll pass by in midchannel."

"They're coming straight toward us," warned Marx.

"So much for a routine patrol," grunted Giordino.

Pitt stood and removed a file folder from a cabinet. "They're just being nosy and want to check us out. I'll meet them on deck with our permits from the antiquities office."

He walked through the cabin door into the roasting air outside and stood on the open stern deck. The froth of the bow-wave died away to a series of ripples, the metallic hum of the twin diesels loping on idle as the dark gray patrol boat slipped alongside less than a meter away.

Pitt gripped a railing as the wash rocked the research vessel. He watched casually as two seamen, dressed in the uniform of the Egyptian navy, leaned over the sides and held the patrol boat at bay with padded boat hooks. He could see the captain inside the wheelhouse and was mildly surprised when a hand was raised in a friendly salute but no attempt was made to board. His surprise turned to astonishment when a wiry little man leaped over the gunwales and landed lightly on the deck almost on Pitt's feet.

Pitt gaped at him incredulously. "Rudi! Where in hell did you drop from?"

Rudi Gunn, the Deputy Director of NUMA, smiled broadly and pumped Pitt's hand. "Washington. Landed at the Cairo airport less than an hour ago."

"What brings you to the Nile?"

"Admiral Sandecker sent me to pull you and Al off your project. I have a NUMA plane waiting to fly us to Port Harcourt. The Admiral will meet us there."

"Where's Port Harcourt?" Pitt asked blankly.

"A seaport on the delta of the Niger River in Nigeria,"

"What's the big hurry? You could have instructed us by satellite communications. Why make the time and effort to tell us in person?"

Gunn made a negative gesture with his hands. "I can't say. The Admiral didn't make me privy to the reason for secrecy or the mad rush."

If Rudi Gunn didn't know what Sandecker had up his sleeve, no one did. He was slim, with narrow shoulders and matching hips. Extremely competent, a master of logistics, Gunn was a graduate of Annapolis and a former Commander in the Navy. He had come on board NUMA at the same time as Pitt and Giordino. Gunn stared at the world through thick horn-rimmed glasses and spoke past lips that were most always curled in a mischievous grin. Giordino likened him Wan IRS agent about to make a kill.

"Your timing is ideal," said Pitt. "Come on inside. Let's get out of the heat. I've something I want to show you."

Giordino had his back to the cabin door as Pitt and Gunn entered. "What did the goochers want?" he asked irritably.

"For you to drop dead," Gunn answered, laughing.

Giordino spun around, recognizing the little man, and affecting great surprise. "Oh for God's sake!" He came to his feet and shook Gunn's outstretched hand. "What are you doing here?"

"To transfer you to another project."

"Great timing."

"My thoughts exactly," Pitt grinned.

"Hi, Mr. Gunn," greeted Gary Marx, ducking into the electronics cabin. "Good to have you on board."

"Hello, Gary."

"Am I being transferred too?"

Gunn shook his head. "No, you have to stay here on the project. Dick White and Stan Shaw will be arriving tomorrow to replace Dirk and Al."

"A waste of time," said Marx. "We're ready to wrap up."

Gunn stared at Pitt questioningly for a moment, then understanding grew iii concert with his widening eyes. "The pharaoh's funeral barge," he muttered. "You found it?"

"A lucky hit," Pitt revealed. "And only the second day on the job."

"Where?" Gunn blurted.

"You're standing on it, in a manner of speaking. She's resting 9 meters under our keel."

Pitt displayed the digital isometric model of the wreck on the computer monitor. The hours spent in enhancing the colored imagery paid off with a vivid, extremely detailed view of every square meter of the centuries-old ship.

"Indescribable," muttered Gunn in awe.

"We've also recorded and positioned over a hundred other wrecks dating from 2800 B.C. to 1000 A.D.," said Giordino.

"Congratulations to the three of you," Gunn beamed warmly. "You've pulled off an incredible accomplishment. One for the history books. The Egyptian government will pin medals on you."

"And the Admiral?" Giordino asked succinctly. "What will he pin on us?"

Gunn turned from the monitor and looked at them, his face suddenly turned dead serious. "A dirty, rotten job, I suspect."

"Didn't he drop a hint?" Pitt pressed.

"Nothing that made any sense." Gunn stared at the ceiling, recalling. "When I asked him why the urgency, he quoted a verse. I don't remember the exact words. Something about a ship's shadow and charmed water being red."

Pitt quoted:

"A verse from `The Rime of the Ancient Mariner' by Samuel Taylor Coleridge."

Gunn looked at Pitt with new respect. "I didn't know you could quote poetry."

Pitt laughed. "I memorized a few verses, that's all."

"I wonder what Sandecker has on his evil mind?" said Giordino. "Not like the old buzzard to get cryptic."

"No," Pitt said with uneasy trepidation, "not like him at all."

The pilot of the Massarde Enterprises helicopter flew north and eastward from the capital city of Bamako. For two and a half hours the vast desolation unrolled below like miniature scenery pasted on a scroll. After two hours, he spotted the sun's glint off steel rails in the distance. He banked and began following the tracks that seemingly traveled to nowhere.

The railroad, only completed the month before, ended at the immense solar waste detoxification project in the heart of the Malian desert. The facility was called Fort Foureau after a long-abandoned French Foreign Legion fort several miles away. From the project site the tracks ran 1600 kilometers in a nearly straight line across the border into Mauritania before finally terminating at the man-made port of Cape Tafarit on the Atlantic Ocean.

General Kazim peered from the lush comfort of the executive helicopter as the pilot caught and passed a long train of sealed, hazardous waste container cars pulled by two diesel locomotives. The train was outbound to Mauritania, having emptied its deadly cargo and turned around.

He smiled craftily as he turned his stare from the waste cars and nodded to the steward, who refreshed his glass of champagne and offered a tray of hors d'oeuvres.

The French, Kazim mused, they never seemed out of reach of champagne, truffles, and pate. He considered them an insular race who only halfheartedly tried to build and maintain an empire. How the general citizenry must have sighed with collective relief, he thought, when they were forced to give up their outposts in Africa and the Far East. Deep down it angered him that the French had not disappeared entirely from Mali. Though they severed their colonial leash in 1960, the French had maintained their influence and a taut grip on the economy, exercising strong control over most all of the nation's mining, transportation, industrial and energy development. Many French businessmen saw investment opportunity and bought heavily into Malian ventures. But none had dug their money shovel deeper into the Sahara sands than Yves Massarde.

Once the wizard of France's overseas economic agency, Massarde had carved a profitable niche on the side, using his contacts and influence to take over and turn around ailing West African corporations. A tough and shrewd negotiator, his methods were cutthroat and it was rumored that he was not above using strong-arm tactics to consummate a deal. His wealth was estimated to be between two and three billion dollars, and the hazardous waste disposal project in the Sahara at Fort Foureau was the centerpiece of his empire.

The helicopter arrived over the sprawling complex, and the pilot swung around the perimeter to give Kazim a good view of the sprawling solar detoxification complex and its vast field of parabolic mirrors that collected solar energy and sent it to concentrating receivers, creating an incredible 60,000 suns with temperatures as high as 5000 degrees C. This superheated photon energy was then directed to photochemical reactors that destroyed the molecules of hazardous chemicals.

The General had seen it all several times, and he was more interested in selecting another bite of truflled goose pate. He was just finishing his sixth glass of Veuve Clicquot Gold Label champagne when the helicopter slowly settled onto the flight pad in front of the project's engineering offices.

Kazim stepped to the ground and saluted Felix Verenne, the personal aide of Massarde, who stood waiting in the sun. Kazim gloated at seeing the Frenchman suffering from the heat. "Felix, how good of you to greet me," he spoke in French, his teeth flashing beneath his moustache.

"Did you enjoy your journey?" Verenne asked patronizingly.

"The pate was not up to your chef's usual standards."

A slender, bald-headed man in his forties, Verenne forced t a smile over his inner disgust for Kazim. "I'll see that it meets with your approval on the return flight."

"And how is Monsieur Massarde?"

"He's waiting for you in his executive suite."

Verenne led the way under an awning-covered walkway into a three-story black solar glass building with rounded corners. Inside, they crossed a marble lobby that was totally deserted, except for one security guard, and entered an elevator. The doors opened onto a teak-paneled entry halt that led to the main salon that doubled as Massarde's living quarters and office. Verenne showed Kazim into a small but luxuriously decorated study and pointed to a Roche Bobois leather sofa.

"Please have a seat. Monsieur Massarde will be with you-?'

"But Felix, I am here," came a voice from the opposite doorway. Massarde stepped forward and embraced Kazim. "Zateb, my friend, how good of you to come"

Yves Massarde had blue eyes, black brows, and reddish hair. His nose was slender and his jaws square. The body was thin and the hips trim, but the stomach protruded. Nothing about him seemed to match. But it was not his physical impression that lingered in the memories of those he met. They only remembered the intensity that burst from within his being in a manner like that of static electricity.

He gave a knowing look to Verenne, who nodded and quietly left the room, closing the door behind.

"Now then, Zateb, my agents in Cairo inform me that your people made a fiasco of frightening the World Health Organization from coming to Mali"

"A regrettable circumstance," Kazim shrugged indifferently. "The reasons are unclear."

Massarde gave the General a hard stare. "According to my sources of information, your assassins disappeared during a botched attempt to kill Dr. Eva Rojas."

"A penalty for their inefficient handling of the matter."

"You executed them?"

"I do not tolerate failure from my people," Kazim lied.

The failure of his men to kill Eva and their strange disappearance had baffled him. In frustration he had ordered the death of the officer who planned the murder, accusing him and the others of betraying his commands.

Massarde did not get where he was without being a shrewd judge of personalities. He knew Kazim well enough to suspect the General of laying a smoke screen. "If we have outside enemies, it would be a grave mistake to ignore them."

"It was nothing," Kazim said, dismissing the subject. "Our secret is safe."

"You say that when a UN World Health team of contamination experts is landing at Gao within the hour? Do not treat this matter lightly, Zateb. If they trace the source here-"

"They won't find anything but sand and heat," Kazim interrupted. "You know better than I, Yves, whatever is causing the strange sickness near the Niger cannot be coming from here. I see no way your project can be responsible for pollution hundreds of kilometers to the east and south of here."

"That's true," Massarde said thoughtfully. "Our monitoring systems show that the waste we burn for appearance sake.is well within the stringent limits set by international policy standards."

"So what's to worry," shrugged Kazim.

"Nothing, so long as every avenue is covered."

"Leave the UN research team to me."

"Do not hinder them," Massarde warned quickly.

"The desert takes care of intruders."

"Kill them and Mali and Massarde Enterprises will be at — great risk of exposure. Their leader, Dr. Hopper, called a news conference in Cairo and played on the lack of cooperation from your government. He went on record as claiming his research team might encounter danger after their arrival. Scatter their bones around the desert, my friend, and we'll have an army of news reporters and UN investigators swarming over the project."

"You weren't squeamish about having Dr. Rojas removed."

"Yes, but the attempt was not in our backyard where there could be suspicion of our involvement."

"Nor were you disturbed when half of your engineers and their wives went for a picnic drive into the dunes and vanished.

"Their disappearance was necessary to protect the second phase of our operation."

"You were fortunate I was able to cover the situation without headlines in Paris newspapers or on-site investigations by French government agents."

"You did well," Massarde sighed. "I could not do without your esteemed talents." Like most of his desert countrymen, Kazim could not exist without perpetual compliments to his genius. Massarde Loathed the General, but the clandestine operation could not exist without him. It was a contract made in hell by two evil men with Massarde getting the top end of the deal. He could afford to put up with the camel turd, as he called Kazim behind his back. After all, a payoff of fifty thousand American dollars a month was a pittance against the two million dollars a day Massarde was reaping from the waste disposal project.

Kazim walked over to a welt-stocked bar and helped himself to a cognac. "So how do you suggest we handle Dr. Hopper and his staff?"

"You are the expert in these matters," Massarde said with oily charm. "I leave it to your skills."

Kazim lifted a smug eyebrow. "Elementary, my friend. I simply eliminate the problem they came to solve."

Massarde seemed curious. "How do you accomplish that?"

"I've already made a start," answered Kazim. "I sent my personal brigade to round up, shoot, and bury any victims of contamination sickness."

"You'd slaughter your own people?" Massarde's voice was ironic.

"I'm only doing my patriotic duty to stamp out a national plague," replied Kazim with more than a hint of indifference.

"Your methods are a bit extreme." A worried crease appeared in Massarde's face. "I caution you, Zateb, do not provoke an uproar. If the world accidentally discovers what we truly do here, an international tribunal will hang us both."

"Not without evidence or witnesses, they won't."

"What about those freakish devils who massacred the tourists at Asselar? Did you make them disappear too?"

Kazim gave a callous smile. "No, they killed and ate themselves. But there are other villages suffering the same maladies. Should Dr. Hopper and his party become overly annoying, perhaps I can see they witness a massacre firsthand."

Massarde didn't need an illustrated explanation. He'd read Kazim's secret report of the slaughter at Asselar. His mind easily pictured disease-crazed nomads literally swallowing up the UN investigators as they had the tourist safari.

"A most efficient means of eliminating a threat," he said to Kazim. "It saves the expense of a burial party."

"I agree."

"But if one or two of them should survive and attempt to return to Cairo?"

Kazim shrugged, the thin bloodless lips under the moustache parted in an evil smile. "Regardless of how they die, their bones will never leave the desert."

Ten thousand years ago the sand-dry wadis of the Republic of Mali ran full to their banks with water while the barren flatlands were blanketed with forests filled with hundreds of varieties of plant life. The fertile plains and mountains were home to early man long before he rose out of the stone age and became a pastoral herdsman. For the next seven thousand years vast tribes hunted antelopes, elephants, and buffaloes as they herded their long-horned cattle from one grazing ground to another.

In time, overgrazing along with the decreasing rains caused the Sahara to dry out and become the barren desert it is today, ever expanding, ever creeping into the lusher, more tropical lands of the African continent. The great tribes gradually abandoned the region, leaving behind a desolate and nearly waterless area to the few nomadic bands who have lingered on.

By discovering the incredible endurance of the camel, the Romans were the first to conquer the desert wastes, utilizing the beast to carry slaves, gold, ivory, and many thousands of wild animals for shipment to the bloody arenas of Rome. For eight centuries their caravans plodded across the nothingness from the Mediterranean to the banks of the Niger. And when the glory of Rome faded, it was the camel that opened the Sahara frontier to the invading, light-skinned Berbers, who were followed by the Arabs and the Moors.

Mali represents the end of a line of powerful and long vanished empires to rule black Africa. In the early Middle Ages the kingdom of Ghana expanded the great caravan routes between the Niger River, Algeria, and Morocco. In 1240 A.D., Ghana was destroyed by the Mandingos to the south who emerged as an even greater empire called Malinke, the basis of the name Mali. Great prosperity was achieved and the cities of Gao and Timbuktu became widely respected as the centers of Islamic learning and culture.

Legends were spun of the incredible wealth carried by the gold caravans, and the empire's fame spread through the Middle East. But two hundred years later, the empire had spiraled into decay as the Tuareg and Fulane nomads encroached from the north. The Songhai people to the east gradually took control and ruled until the Moroccan sultans pushed their armies to the Niger and devastated the kingdom in 1591. By the time the French launched their colonial flow southward in the early nineteenth century, the old empires of Mali were ail but forgotten.

After the turn of the century, the French established the territories of West Africa into what became known as the French Sudan. In 1960, Mali declared its independence, drew up a constitution, and formed a government. The nation's first president was removed by a group of army officers led by Lieutenant Moussa Traore. In 1992, after a number of unsuccessful coup attempts, President (now General) Traore was overthrown by (then Major) Zateb Kazim.

Soon realizing he could not obtain foreign aid or loans as a military dictator, Kazim stepped down and installed the current President Tahir as a figurehead. A cunning manipulator, Kazim stacked the legislature with his cronies and kept his distance from the Soviet Union and the United States while maintaining close relations with France.

He soon set himself up as overseer of all trade, domestic and foreign, enriching a number of his secret bank accounts throughout the world. He dipped into development projects and despite installing strict customs controls, profited handsomely on the side from smuggling activities. French business payoffs for his cooperation, such as his association with Yves Massarde, made him a multimillionaire. Thanks to Kazim's absolute corruption and the greed of his officials, it was little wonder that Mali was one of the world's poorest nations.

The UN Boeing 737 banked so close to the ground Eva thought its wing tip would cut a groove through the mud and timber houses. Then the pilot leveled out on his approach to the primitive airport at the fabled city of Timbuktu and touched down with a firm thump. Gazing out her window, Eva found it difficult to imagine that the grubby town was once the great caravan market of the empires of Ghana, Malinke, and Songhai, and was inhabited by a hundred thousand people. Founded by Tuareg nomads as a seasonal camp in 1100 A.D., it became one of the largest trading centers in West Africa.

She found it difficult to envision a glorious past. But for three of the ancient mosques still standing, there were few sights of past grandeur. The town looked dead and abandoned, its narrow and crooked streets twisting around and seemingly going nowhere in particular. Its grip on life appeared tenuous and fruitless.

Hopper wasted no time. He was out the cabin door and on the ground before the whine of the jet engines died away. An officer, wearing the brief indigo headdress of Kazim's personal guard, walked up to him and saluted. He greeted the UN field researcher in English with a marked French accent.

"Dr. Hopper, I presume."

"And you must be Mr. Stanley," Hopper replied with his usual cutting humor.

There was no answering smile. The Malian officer gave Hopper an unfriendly look that was obviously coated with harbored suspicions. "I am Captain Mohammed Batutta. You will please accompany me to the airport terminal."

Hopper stared at the terminal. It was little more than a metal shed with windows. "Oh very well, if that's the best you can do," he said dryly, refusing to kowtow.

They walked straight to the terminal and into a small, oven-hot office that was bare except for a shabby, wooden table and two chairs. Behind the table an officer, who was senior to Batutta and looked like he was going through a very unhappy phase, sat and studied Hopper for a moment with undisguised contempt.

"I am Colonel Nouhoum Mansa. May I see your passport please?"

Hopper had come prepared and handed over the six passports he'd collected from his team. Mansa flipped through the pages without interest, noting only the nationalities. Finally he asked, "Why did you come to Mali?"

Hopper had traveled the world and had little use for ridiculous formality. "I believe you know the purpose of our visit."

"You will answer the question."

"We're members of the United Nations World Health Organization on a mission to study reports of toxic illness among your people."

"Where is no such illness among my people," the Colonel said firmly.

"Then you won't mind if we analyze water supplies and take air samples in a random selection of the towns and cities along the Niger."

"We do not take kindly to foreigners seeking out deficiencies in our country."

Hopper was not about to back down in the face of stupid authority. "We're here to save lives. I thought General Kazim understood that."

Mansa tensed. The fact that Hopper threw out Kazim's name instead of President Tahir caught him off guard. "General Kazim… he's given orders authorizing your visit?"

"Why don't you ring him up and find out?" It was a bluff, but Hopper had nothing to lose.

Colonel Mansa rose and walked to the door. "Wait here," he ordered brusquely.

"Please tell the General," said Hopper, "that his neighboring countries have invited United Nations scientists to help them locate the source of contamination, and if he refuses my team's entry into Mali, he will be scorned and lose face among the nations of the world."

Mansa made no reply and left the stifling room.

While he waited, Hopper gave Captain Batutta his best intimidating stare. Batutta locked eyes for a few moments, but then turned away and began pacing the room.

After about five minutes, Mansa returned and sat down at the desk. Without a word, he precisely stamped each passport and then passed them to Hopper. "You have been allowed to enter Mali to conduct your research. But please remember, Doctor, you and your people are guests here. No more. If you make unkind statements or take part in any action detrimental to security, you will be deported."

"Thank you, Colonel. And please thank General Kazim for his kind permission."

"You will be accompanied by Captain Batutta and ten of his men for your protection."

"I'm honored to have a bodyguard."

"You will also report your findings directly to me. I expect your full cooperation in this matter-"

"How will I report from the hinterland?"

"The Captain's unit will carry the necessary communications equipment."

"We should get along handsomely," Hopper said loftily to Batutta. He turned back to Mansa. "My team and I will need a car, preferably a four-wheel-drive, for personnel and two lorries to transport our laboratory gear."

Colonel Mansa's face reddened. "I will arrange for military vehicles."

Hopper was well aware that it was important for the Colonel to save face and have the last word. "Thank you, Colonel Mansa. You are a generous and honorable man. General Kazim must be very proud to have a true warrior of the desert at his side."

Mansa leaned back, a growing look of triumph and satisfaction in his eyes. "Yes, the General has often expressed gratitude for my loyalty and service."

The interview was over, and Hopper returned to the aircraft and directed the unloading of the cargo. Mansa watched from the window of the terminal office, a faint smile on his lips.

"Shall I restrict their investigation to unclassified areas?" asked Batutta.

Mansa slowly shook his head without turning. "No, allow them to go wherever they wish."

"And if Dr. Hopper finds signs of toxic sickness?"

"No matter. As long as I control communications with the outside world his reports will be altered to show our country lo be clean of illness, and hazardous wastes."

"But when they return to the UN headquarters-"

"Won't the true findings be exposed?" Mansa finished. "Yes, most certainly." He swung around suddenly, his expression menacing. "But not if their aircraft tragically meets with an accident during the return flight."

Pitt dozed off and on during the plane ride from Egypt to Nigeria. He woke only when Rudi Gunn came down the aisle of the NUMA executive jet, three coffee mugs firmly gripped in both hands. Taking a cup, Pitt looked up at Gunn in weary resignation, his expression devoid of enthusiasm and any expectations for fun times.

"Where in Port Harcourt are we meeting the Admiral?" he asked without really caring.

"Not exactly in Port Harcourt," Gunn hedged, handing Pitt a coffee.

"If not there, then where?"

"He's waiting on board one of our research ships 200 kilometers off the coast."

Pitt fixed Gunn with the gaze of a hound staring at a cornered fox. "You're holding out, Rudi."

"Would Al like some coffee?"

Pitt glanced at Giordino who was snoring in sweet bliss. "Save it. You couldn't wake him with a lighted firecracker in his ear."

Gunn eased into a seat across the aisle from Pitt. "I can't tell you what Admiral Sandecker has on his mind, because I honestly don't know. I do, however, suspect it has to do with a study NUMA marine biologists have conducted on coral reefs around the world."

"I'm aware of the study," said Pitt, "but the results came in after Giordino and I left for Egypt." Pitt was comfortable with the fact that Gunn would eventually level with him. He and Gunn had an easygoing relationship despite the obvious differences in their lifestyle. Gunn was an intellectual with degrees in chemistry, finance, and oceanography. He would be totally at home living in the basement of a library inundated by books, compiling reports and planning research projects.

Pitt, on the other hand, enjoyed working with his hands on things mechanical, especially on the old classic automobiles in his collection in Washington. Adventure was his narcotic. He was in paradise when flying antique aircraft or diving on historic shipwrecks. Pitt had a master's degree in engineering and took great pleasure in tackling the jobs others thought impossible. Unlike Gunn, he was seldom found at his desk in the NUMA headquarters building, preferring the excitement of probing the unknown depths of the sea.

"The bottom line is the reefs are in peril and dying off at an unheard-of rate," Gunn answered. "Right now, it's a hot topic among marine scientists."

"What parts of the oceans show this trend?"

Gunn stared at his coffee. "You name it. The Caribbean from the Florida Keys to Trinidad, the Pacific from Hawaii to Indonesia, the Red Sea, the coasts of Africa."

"All with the same attrition rate?" asked Pitt.

Gunn shook his head. "No, it varies by locale. The worst-case scenario appears to be along the West African coast."

"I didn't think it uncommon for coral reefs to go through cycles where they stop reproducing and die before becoming healthy again."

"That's correct," Gunn nodded. "When conditions return to normal the reef will recover. But we've never seen such widespread damage at such an alarming rate"

"Any idea of the cause?"

"Two factors. One, the usual culprit, warm water. Periodic rises in water temperature, generally from changes in sea currents, cause the tiny coral polyps to eject, or vomit if you will, the algae they feed on."

"The polyps being the little tubular devils that build the reefs with their skeletal remains."

"Very good."

"What about sums up my knowledge on coral," Pitt admitted. "The life-and-death struggle of coral polyps rarely makes the evening news."

"A shame," Gunn said briefly. "Especially when you consider that changes in coral can be an accurate barometer of future trends in sea and weather conditions."

"All right, so the polyps spit out the algae," Pitt prodded. "Then what?"

"Because algae is the nutrient that feeds the polyps and gives them vibrant colors," Gunn went on, "its loss starves the coral, leaving it white and lifeless, a phenomenon known as bleaching."

"Which seldom occurs when the waters are cool."

Gunn looked at Pitt. "Why am I telling you this if you already know it all?"

"I'm waiting for you to get to the good part."

"Let me drink my coffee before it gets cold."

There was a silence. Gunn wasn't really in the mood for coffee, but he sipped away until Pitt became impatient.

"Okay," Pitt said. "Coral reefs are dying around the world. So what's the second factor in their extinction?"

Gunn idly stirred his coffee with a plastic spoon. "A new threat, and a critical one, is the sudden abundance of thick, green algae and seaweed that is blanketing the reefs like an out-of-control plague."

"Hold on. You say the coral is starving because it's spitting out the algae even though it's smothered in the stuff?"

"The warmer water gives and takes. It acts to destroy the reefs while it aids in the growth of algae that can prevent nutrients and sunlight from reaching the coral. Somewhat like smothering it to death."

Pitt ran a hand through his black hair. "Hopefully the situation will be corrected when the water turns cooler."

"Hasn't happened," said Gunn. "Not in the Southern Hemisphere. Nor is a temperature drop in the water predicted in the next decade."

"You think it's a natural phenomenon or fallout from the greenhouse effect?"

"A possibility, along with the usual indications of pollution."

"But you have no solid evidence?" Pitt put to him.

"Neither I nor our NUMA ocean scientists have all the answers."

"I never heard of a test tube junkie who didn't have a theory," Pitt grinned.

Gunn smiled back. "I've never looked at myself in that light."

"Or those terms."

"You love to stick it to people, don't you."

"Only opinionated academics."

"Well," Gunn began, "King Solomon, I ain't. But since you asked for it. My theory on the proliferation of the algae, as any school child can tell you, is that after generations of dumping untreated sewage, garbage, and toxic chemicals in the oceans, the saturation point has finally been reached. The delicate chemical balance of the seas is irretrievably lost. They're heating up, and we're all, particularly our grandchildren, going to pay a heavy price."

Pitt had never seen Gunn so solemn. "That bad."

"I believe we've crossed the point of no return."

"You're not optimistic for a turnaround?"

"No," Gunn said sadly. "The disastrous effects of bad water quality have been ignored too long."

Pitt stared at Gunn, mildly surprised that the second-in-command of NUMA was prey to his own thoughts of doom and gloom. Gunn had painted a dire picture. Pitt did not share Gunn's total pessimism. The oceans might be sick, but they were far from terminal.

"Loosen up, Rudi," Pitt said cheerfully. "Whatever assignment the Admiral has up his sleeve, he's not about to expect the three of us to sally forth and save the seas of the world."

Gunn looked at him and made a wan smile. "I never second guess the Admiral."

If either of them had known or even guessed how wrong they were, they'd have threatened the pilot with great bodily harm if he didn't turn the plane around and fly them directly back to Cairo.

Their ground time at an oil company airstrip outside of Port Harcourt was short and sweet. Within minutes they were airborne in a helicopter beating out over the Gulf of Guinea. Forty minutes later, the craft was hovering over the Sounder, a NUMA-owned research vessel Pitt and Giordino knew quite well, having directed survey projects aboard her on three different occasions. Built at a cost of eighty million dollars, the 120-meter ship was loaded with the most sophisticated seismic, sonar, and bathymetric systems afloat.

The pilot swung around the huge crane on the Sounder's stern and settled onto the landing pad aft of the superstructure. Pitt was the first to step down to the deck, followed by Gunn. Giordino, moving like a zombie, brought up the rear, yawning every step of the way. Several crewmen and scientists, who were old friends, met and exchanged greetings with them as the rotor blades spun to a stop and the helicopter was tied down.

Pitt knew his way about and headed up a ladder to the hatch that led to one of the Sounder's marine laboratories. He passed through the counters piled with chemical apparatus and into a conference and lecture room. For a working research ship, the room was pleasantly furnished like an executive boardroom with a long, mahogany table and comfortably padded leather chairs.

A black man stood in front of a large, rear projection screen with his back to Pitt. He seemed engrossed in a graphic diagram that imaged on the screen. He was at least twenty years older than Pitt and much taller. Pitt guessed him at slightly over 2 meters tall with the loose-limbed movements of an ex-basketball player written all over him.

But what caught and locked the eye of Pitt and his two friends was neither the colored graphics on the screen nor the incredibly tall presence of the stranger It was the other figure in the conference room, a short, trim and.yet commanding figure who leaned indifferently with one hand on the table while the other held a huge unlit cigar. The narrow face, the cold, authoritative blue eyes, the flaming but now graying red hair and precisely trimmed beard gave him the image of a retired naval admiral, which, as the blue blazer with the embroidered gold anchors on the breast pocket suggested, was exactly what he was.

Admiral James Sandecker, the driving force behind NUMA, straightened, smiled his barracuda smile, and stepped forward, his hand extended.

"Dirk! AI!" The greeting came as if he was surprised by their unexpected visit. "Congratulations on discovering the pharaoh's funeral barge. A beautiful job. Well done." He noticed Gunn and merely nodded. "Rudi, I see you rounded them up without incident."

"Like lambs to a slaughter," Gunn said with a grim smile.

Pitt gave Gunn a hard look, then turned to Sandecker. "You pulled us off the Nile in a hell of a hurry. Why?"

Sandecker feigned a hurt expression. "No hello or glad to see you. No greeting at all for your poor old boss who had to cancel a dinner date with a ravishing, wealthy, Washington socialite and fly 6000 kilometers just to compliment your performance."

"Why is it your highly dubious blessing fills me with anxiety?"

Giordino dropped moodily into a chair. "Since we did so good, how about a nice fat raise, a bonus, a quick flight home, and a two-week vacation with pay?"

Sandecker said with forbearance, "The ticker tape parade down Broadway comes later. After you've taken a leisurely cruise up the Niger River."

"The Niger?" Giordino muttered moodily. "Not another shipwreck search."

"No shipwreck."

"When?" asked Pitt.

"You start at first light," answered Sandecker.

"What exactly do you want us to do?"

Sandecker turned to the towering man at the projection screen. "First things first. Allow me to introduce Dr. Darcy Chapman, chief ocean toxicologist at the Goodwin Marine Science Lab in Laguna Beach."

"Gentlemen," said Chapman in a deep voice that sounded like it rose out of a well. "A sincere pleasure to meet you. Admiral Sandecker has filled me in on your exploits together. I'm truly impressed."

"You used to play with the Denver Nuggets," muttered Gunn, bending back at the waist to stare up into Chapman's eyes.

"Until the knees gave out," Chapman grinned. "Then it was back to school for my doctorate in environmental chemistry."

Pitt and Gunn shook hands with Chapman. Giordino merely waved wearily from his chair. Sandecker picked up a phone and ordered breakfast from the galley.

"Might as well get comfortable," he said briskly. "We've got a lot of ground to cover before dawn."

"You do have a rotten job for us," Pitt said slowly.

"Of course it's a rotten job," Sandecker said matter-of-factly. He nodded at Dr. Chapman, who pressed a button on the screen's remote control. A colored map showing the meandering course of a river appeared on the screen. "The Niger River. Third longest in Africa behind the Nile and Congo. Oddly, it begins in the nation of Guinea, only 300 kilometers from the sea. But it flows northeast and then south for 4200 kilometers before emptying into the Atlantic at its delta on the coast of Nigeria. And somewhere along its course… somewhere a highly toxic poison is entering the current and being swept into the ocean. There, it's creating a catastrophic upheaval that is… well, incalculable in terms of a potential doomsday."

Pitt stared at Sandecker, not sure if he heard right. "Doomsday, Admiral? Did I understand you correctly?"

"I am not talking off the top of my head," Sandecker replied. "The sea off West Africa is dying, and the plague is spreading because of an unknown contaminant. The situation is rapidly developing into a chain reaction with the potential of destroying every single species of marine life."

"That could lead to a permanent change in the earth's climate," said Gunn.

"The least of our worries," Sandecker remarked. "The end result is extinction for all life forms on land, and that includes us."

Gunn murmured accusingly. "Aren't you overstating, your case—"

"Overstating my case," Sandecker interrupted acidly. "The very words the cretin in Congress handed me when I began sounding the warning, when I pleaded for backing to isolate and solve the problem. They're more concerned with maintaining their precious power base and promising the moon to get reelected. I'm sick to death of their endless, stupid committee hearings. Sick to death of their lack of guts in standing for unpopular issues, and spending the nation into bankruptcy. The two-party system has become a stagnant swamp of fraud and criminal promises. As with communism, the great experiment in democracy is withering from corruption. Who cares a damn if the oceans die? Well, by God, I do. And I'm going to the wall to save them."

Sandecker's eyes blazed in bitterness, his lips stretched tight by vehemence. Pitt was stunned by the depth of emotion. It was strangely out of character.

"Hazardous waste is dumped in nearly every river of the world," Pitt said quietly, bringing the discussion back on track. "What's so special about the Niger's pollution?"

"What's special is that it's creating a phenomenon commonly known as the red tide that is reproducing and spreading on a frightening scale."

"The charmed water burned away, a still and awful red," Pitt quoted.

Sandecker flicked a glance at Gunn and then focused on Pitt. "You got the message."

"But not the connection," Pitt admitted.

"You men are all divers," said Chapman, "so you probably know that red tide is caused by microscopic creatures called dinoflagellates, tiny organisms that contain a red pigment that gives the water a reddish-brown color when they proliferate and float in mass."

Chapman pressed a button on the remote control box and continued lecturing as an image of a strange-looking microorganism flashed on the viewing screen. "Red tides have been recorded since ancient times. Moses supposedly turned the Nile to blood. Homer and Cicero also mentioned a red bloom in the sea, as did Darwin during the voyage in the Beagle. Outbreaks in modern times have occurred around the world. The most recent came off the west coast of Mexico after the water turned slimy and noxious. The resulting red tide caused the deaths of literally billions of fish, shellfish, and turtles. Even barnacles were wiped out. Beaches were closed for 200 miles and hundreds of natives and tourists died from eating fish that was contaminated by a species of deadly, toxin-containing dinoflagellates."

"I've scuba dived in red tides," said Pitt, "and suffered no ill effects."

"Fortunately you swam through one of the many common, harmless varieties," Chapman explained. "There is, however, a newly discovered mutant species that produces the most lethal biological toxins we've ever known. No sea life lives that comes in the slightest contact with it. A few grams of it if evenly dished out could put every human on the face of the earth in a cemetery."

"That potent."

Chapman nodded. "That potent…"

"And if the toxin isn't bad enough," added Sandecker, "the little critters consume themselves in an orgy of marine cannibalism that drastically decreases the oxygen in the water and causes any surviving fish and algae to suffocate."

"It gets even worse," Chapman carried on. "Seventy percent of all new oxygen is provided by diatoms, the tiny plant forms such as algae that live in the sea. The rest comes from vegetation on land. I see no need to enter into a lengthy discourse on how diatoms in the water or trees in the jungle manufacture oxygen through photosynthesis. You've all had that in elementary school. The smothering toxicity of the dinoflagellates as they cluster and bloom into a red tide kills the diatoms. No diatoms, no oxygen. The tragedy is we take oxygen for granted, never thinking that a slight imbalance of the amount created by plants and what we burn off in carbon dioxide could mean our last gasp.

"Any possibility they'll eat themselves out of existence?" asked Giordino.

Chapman shook his head "They make up their losses at a ratio of ten births to one death."

"Don't the tides eventually subside and disperse?" inquired Gunn. "Or die out completely when cooler water currents come in contact with it?"

Sandecker nodded. "Unfortunately, we're not looking at normal conditions. The mutant microorganism we're dealing with here seems immune to changing water temperatures."

"So what you're saying is that there is no hope the red tide off Africa will fade and disappear?"

"Not if left on its own," Chapman answered. "Like trillions of cloning Frankensteins, the dinoflagellates are reproducing at an astronomical rate. Instead of several thousand in a gallon of water, they've mushroomed to nearly a billion per gallon. An increase never before recorded. At the moment they're unstoppable."

"Any theory on where the mutant red tide evolved from?" asked Pitt.

"The instigator behind this new breed of prolific dinoflagellates is unknown. But we believe that a contaminant of some kind is spilling out of the Niger River and mutating the dinoflagellates that thrive in seawater and boosting their reproduction cycle."

"Like an athlete taking steroids," Giordino said dryly.

"Or aphrodisiacs," Gunn grinned.

"Or fertility drugs," threw in Pitt.

"If this red tide goes unchecked and expands without any deterrent throughout the oceans, covering the surface in one massive blanket of toxic dinoflagellates," Chapman explained, "the world's supply of oxygen will diminish to a level too low to support life."

Gunn said, "You've written a grim scenario, Dr. Chapman."

"Horror story might be a more apt description," Pitt said quietly.

"Can't they be destroyed by chemical applications?" Giordino asked.

"A pesticide?" stated Chapman. "Conceivably, it could make matters worse. Better to cut it off early at the head."

"Do you have a time frame for this disaster?" Pitt asked Chapman.

"Unless the flow of contamination into the sea can be stopped dead within the next four months, it will be too late. By then, the spread will be too enormous to control. It will also be self-sufficient, able to feed off itself, passing on the chemical poison it absorbed from the Niger to its offspring." He paused to press a button on the remote control and a colored graph appeared onscreen. "Computer projections indicate millions will begin dying by slow suffocation within eight months, certainly not more than ten. Young children with small lung capacities will be the first to go, too starved for air to cry, their skin turning blue as they go into irreversible coma. It won't be a pretty picture for those few to die last."

Giordino looked incredulous. "Almost impossible to accept a dead world that ran out of oxygen."

Pitt stood and moved closer to the screen, studying the cold numbers that indicated the time left for mankind. Then he turned and stared at Sandecker. "So what this all boils down to is you want AI and Rudi and I to run a compact research vessel up the river and analyze water samples until we hunt down the source of the contamination that's forming the red tide. Then figure a way to turn off the spigot."

Sandecker nodded. "In the meantime we here at NUMA gill work at developing a substance to neutralize the red tides."

Pitt walked over and studied a map of the Niger River that was hung on a wall. "And if we don't find the origin in Nigeria?"

"Then you keep heading upriver until you do."

"Through the middle of Nigeria, northeast to where the giver separates the nations of Benin and Niger and then into Mali."

"If that's what it takes," said Sandecker.

"What is the political situation in these countries?" asked Pitt.

"I have to admit it's slightly unstable."

"What do you call `slightly unstable'?" Pitt asked skeptically.

"Nigeria," Sandecker lectured, "Africa's most populous nation at 120 million, is in the middle of an upheaval. The new democratic government was tossed out by the military last month, the eighth overthrow in only twenty years, not to mention countless unsuccessful bids. The inner countryside is torn by the usual ethnic wars and bad blood between Muslims and Christians. The opposition is assassinating government workers who are accused of corruption and mismanagement "

"Sounds like a fun place," muttered Giordino. "I can't wait to smell the gunsmoke."

Sandecker ignored him. "The People's Republic of Benin is under a very tight dictatorship. President Ahmed Tougouri rules by terror. Across the river in Niger, the head of state is propped up by Libya's Muammar Qaddafi, who is after the country's uranium mines. The place is a festering crisis. Rebel guerrillas everywhere. I suggest you steer in the middle of the river when you pass between them."

"And Mali," Pitt probed.

"President Tahir is a decent man, but he's chained to General Zateb Kazim who runs a three-member Supreme Military Council that is bleeding the country dry. Kazim is a very nasty customer and quite unusual in that he's a virtual dictator who operates behind the front of an honest government"

Pitt and Giordino exchanged cynical smiles and wearily shook their heads…

"Do you two have a problem?" inquired Sandecker.

"A leisurely cruise up the Niger River,"' Pitt mildly repeated the Admiral's words. "All we have to do is merrily sail 1000 kilometers of river that's crawling with bloodthirsty rebels hiding in ambush along the shore, dodge armed patrol boats, and refuel along the way without being arrested and executed as foreign spies. And this while casually collecting chemical samples of the water. No problem, Admiral, no problem at all, except it's damn well suicidal."

"Yes," Sandecker said imperturbably, "it might look that way, but with a little luck you should come out of this without the least inconvenience."

"Watching my head blown off seems more than an inconvenience."

"Have you thought about using satellite sensors?" asked Gunn.

"Can't be done with enough accuracy," answered Chapman.

"How about a low-flying jet aircraft?" tried Giordino.

Chapman shook his head. "Same conclusion. Dragging sensors in the water at supersonic speeds won't work. I know. I was in on an experiment that tried it."

"There are first-rate labs on board the Sounder, "said Pitt. "Why not run her up the delta and at least pinpoint the type and class and level of contamination?"

"We tried," replied Chapman, "but a Nigerian gunboat warned us off before we could get within 100 kilometers of the river's mouth. Too far to make a precise analysis."

"The project can only be done by a well-equipped small boat," said Sandecker. "One that can get through occasional rapids and shallow waters. There's no other way."

"Has our State Department tried appealing to these governments to let a research team study the river on the grounds of saving billions of lives?" asked Gunn.

"The straightforward approach was tried. The Nigerians and the Malians turned the appeal down flat. Respected scientists came to West Africa to explain the situation. The African leaders didn't believe the pitch, even laughed at it. You can't really blame them. Their mentality is not exactly monumental. They can't conceive on a grand scale."

"Don't they have a high death toll among their people who drank from the contaminated river?" asked Gunn.

"Nothing widespread," Sandecker shook his head. "The Niger River has more than chemicals flowing in it. The cities and villages along its banks also dump human waste and sewage into its waters. The natives along its banks know better than to drink from it."

Pitt saw the handwriting on the wall and didn't like it one bit. "So you think a covert operation stands the only chance at tracking down the contamination?"

"I do," Sandecker said doggedly.

"I hope you have a plan to overcome any and all obstacles."

"Of course I have a plan."

"Are we permitted to know just how we're supposed to find the contamination source and somehow stay alive?" asked Gunn quietly.

"No great secret," Sandecker said in exasperation. "Your arrival will be advertised as a working holiday by three wealthy French industrialists looking to invest in West Africa."

Gunn looked stricken, Giordino dumfounded. Pitt's face was clouded in growing anger.

"That's it," demanded Pitt. "That's your plan."

"Yes, and a damned good one," snapped Sandecker.

"It's crazy. I'm not going."

"Me neither," snorted Giordino. "I look about as French as Al Capone."

"Nor I," added Gunn.

"Certainly not in a slow, unarmed research boat," stated Pitt firmly.

Sandecker pretended not to notice the mutiny. "That reminds me. I forgot the best part. The boat. When you see the boat, I guarantee you'll change your minds."

If Pitt had dreamed of pursuing high performance, style; comfort, and enough firepower to take on the American sixth fleet, he found it in the boat Sandecker promised him. One look at her sleek, refined lines, the brute size of her engines, and incredible hidden armament, and Pitt was sold.

A masterpiece of aerodynamic balance in fiberglass and stainless steel, she was named Calliope after the muse of epic poetry. Designed by NUMA engineers and built under tight secrecy in a boat yard up a bayou in Louisiana, her 18-meter-length hull with its low center of gravity and almost flat bottom drew only 1.5 meters of water, making her ideal for the shallow channels of the Niger River's upper course. She was powered by three V-12, turbo diesel engines that thrust her across the water at a top speed of 70 knots. Nothing was compromised in her construction. She was a one-of-a-kind build for a specific job.

Pitt stood at the helm and soaked up the unrivaled strength and ultrasmooth ride of the super sport yacht as she, loafed along at 30 knots over the dull blue-gray water of the Niger Delta. His eyes ceaselessly scanned the waters ahead as the shoreline sped by, shifting occasionally to check the depths on a chart and the digital numbers on the depthsounder. He'd passed one patrol boat, but the crew merely waved in natant admiration at the sight of the yacht planing over the surface of the river. A military helicopter had circled curiously overhead, and a military jet, a French-built Mirage, Pitt judged, had dropped low to have a look at the boat and flown on, apparently satisfied. So far, so good. There had been no attempts to halt or detain them.

Down in the spacious interior, Rudi Gunn sat in the middle of a small but highly customized laboratory that was planned by a multidisciplinary team of scientists that included highly sophisticated, compact versions of instrumentation developed through NASA for space exploration. The lab was not only set up to analyze water samples but to telemeter the accumulated data via satellite to a team of NUMA scientists working with computer data bases to identify complex compounds.

Gunn, a scientist from toes to his thinning hairline, was oblivious to any danger outside the bulkheads of the elegant boat. He poured himself into his task with total commitment, trusting Pitt and Giordino to shield him from distraction or interruption.

The engines and weapon systems were Giordino's department. To muffle the roar of the engines he wore a headset that was plugged to a tape player and listened to Harry Connick, Jr., play the piano and sing old jazz favorites. He was sitting on a padded bench seat in the engine room, his hands busy unpacking several cases of portable rocket launchers and their missiles. The Rapier was a new all-purpose weapon designed to engage subsonic aircraft, seagoing vessels, tanks, and concrete bunkers. It could be fired from the shoulder or mounted in quad to a central firing system. Giordino was fitting the completed assemblies in housings that allowed the missile clusters to fire through the armored ports of the domed turret above the engine room that looked to the casual eye like a skylight. The seemingly innocent superstructure protruded a good meter above the aft deck and could swivel on a 220-degree arc. After assembling the launcher and guidance units, and then inserting the missiles in their tubes, Giordino began concentrating on cleaning and loading a small arsenal of automatic rifles and handguns. Next, he unloaded a crate of incendiary/concussion grenades and carefully loaded four of them in a bulky clip that hung from a stubby automatic grenade launcher.

They all went about their respective jobs with cold efficiency and an unerring sense of dedication that would ensure the success of their mission and their individual survival. Admiral Sandecker had handpicked the best. He couldn't have found a better crew to tackle the near impossible if he'd canvassed the entire country. His faith in them bordered on fanatical.

The kilometers flowed under the hull. The Cameroon Highlands and the Yoruba Hills bounding the southern part of the river rose in a haze flattened by dense humidity. Rain forests alternated with groves of acacias and mangroves along the shore. Villages and small towns appeared and slipped past as the bow of the Calliope cut the water in a great V of foam.

The traffic on the river consisted of every known vessel from dugout canoes to old chugging ferryboats dangerously overloaded with waving passengers to small cargo ships stained with rust that plodded from one port to the next, their funnel smoke fanned by a gentle northern breeze. It was a scene of peaceful contentment that Pitt knew couldn't last. Around each bend in the river, an unknown threat might be waiting to send them to meet the devil.

About noon they passed under the great 1404-meter bridge that spanned the river from the port and market city of Onitsha to the agricultural town of Asaba. Roman Catholic cathedrals stood sentinel over the bustling Onitsha streets that were bounded by industrial plants. Docks along the water were heavy with ships and boats that transported food and trade goods downstream and imported commodities upstream from the Niger Delta.

Pitt concentrated on skirting the river traffic, smiling to himself at the shaking fists and angry curses thrown at the Calliope as she roared perilously close to small boats that rolled wickedly from the wash of her churning wake. Once free of the port, he relaxed and released his hands from the wheel and flexed his fingers. He had been at the helm for nearly six hours, but suffered little stiffness or fatigue. His chair at the controls was as comfortable as any enjoyed by a corporate executive and the steering as light as that of an expensive, luxury automobile.

Giordino appeared with a bottle of Coors beer and a tuna sandwich. "Thought you might need a little nutrition. You haven't eaten since we left the Sounder."

"Thanks, I couldn't hear my stomach grumbling above the noise of the engines." Pitt turned over the helm to his friend and nodded past the bow. "Be wary of that tug towing those barges as you come abeam to pass. He's fishtailing all over the channel."

"I'll keep a wide passage to port," Giordino acknowledged.

"Are we in shape to repel boarders?" Pitt grinned.

"As ready as we'll ever be. Any suspicious characters lurking about?"

Pitt shook his head. "A couple of flybys by the Nigerian air force, and friendly waves from passing patrol boats. Otherwise, a lazy, hazy day cruising up the river."

"The local bureaucrats must have bought the Admiral's scam."

"Let's hope the countries further upriver are as gullible."

Giordino tossed a thumb at the French tricolor flapping on the stern. "I'd feel a whole lot better if we had the Stars and Stripes, the State Department, Ralph Nader, the Denver Broncos, and a company of Marines behind us."

"The battleship Iowa would be nice too."

"Is the beer cold? I put a case in the galley fridge only an hour ago."

"Cold enough," Pitt answered between bites of the sandwich. "Any startling revelations from Rudi?"

Giordino gave a negative dip of his head. "He's wrapped up in a chemical never, never land. I tried to make conversation but he waved me off."

"I think I'll pay him a visit."

Giordino yawned. "Careful he doesn't bite your knee off."

Pitt laughed and went down the stairway into Gunn's lab. The little NUMA scientist was studying a computer printout, his glasses pushed up on his forehead. Giordino had misread Gunn's disposition. He was actually in a good mood.

"Having any luck?" asked Pitt.

"This damn river has every pollutant in it known to man and then some," replied Gunn. "It's far more contaminated than the bad old days on the Hudson, the James, and the Cuyahoga."

"Looks complicated," said Pitt as he stepped around the cabin, studying the sophisticated equipment that was packed together from deck to ceiling. "What function do these instruments serve?"

"Where did you get the brew?"

"Want one?"

"Sure."

"Giordino's got a case crammed in the galley refrigerator. Hold on a minute."

Pitt ducked through a cabin door to the galley and returned, handing Gunn a cold bottle of beer.

Gunn took several swallows and sighed. Then he said, "Okay, to answer your question. There are three key elements to our search approach. The first requires an automated micro-incubator. I use this unit to expose a tiny sample of river water into vials containing red tide samples we obtained off the coast. The micro-incubator then optically monitors the growth of the dinoflagellates. After a few hours the computer gives me an indication of how potent the concoction and how rapid the growth of the little buggers. A little play with numbers and I have a reasonable estimate of how close we're coming to the source of our problem."

"So the red tide stimulator isn't coming from Nigeria."

"The numbers suggest the source is further up the river."

Gunn moved around Pitt to a pair of square, box-like units about the size of small television sets but with doors where the screens would have been. "These two instruments are for identifying the nasty glob, as I call it, or a combination of globs that's behind our problem. The first is a gas chromatograph/mass spectrometer. To put it concisely, I merely take vials of river water samples and place them inside. The system then automatically extracts and analyzes the contents. The results are interpreted by our on-board computers."

"What exactly does it tell you?" asked Pitt.

"It identifies synthetic organic pollutants, including solvents, pesticides, PCBs, dioxins, and a host of other drugs and chemical compounds. This baby, I hope, will home in on the chemistry of the compound that's mutating and stimulating the red tide."

"What if the contaminant is a metal?"

"That's where the inductively coupled plasma/mass spectrometer comes in," said Gunn, gesturing at the second instrument. "Its purpose is to automatically identify all metals and other elements which might be present in the water."

"Looks similar to the other one," observed Pitt.

"Basically the same principle, but different technology. Again, I merely load the sample vials of water taken from the river, punch the start buttons, and check the performance every 2 kilometers."

"What has it told you?"

Gunn paused to rub a pair of red-rimmed eyes. "That the Niger River is carrying half the metals known to man, from copper to mercury to gold and silver, even uranium. All in concentrations above their natural background levels."

"Sifting through the scatter won't be easy," murmured Pitt.

"Finally," added Gunn, "the data is telemetered to our researchers at NUMA who review my results in their own laboratories and look for something I might have missed."

Pitt, for the life of him, couldn't see Gunn missing anything. It was plain that his friend for many years was more than just a competent scientist and analyst; he was a man who thought coldly, clearly, and as constructively as possible. He was a dedicated hard driver who didn't know the meaning of the word quit.

"Any hint yet of the toxic compound that might be our evil-doer?" Pitt asked.

Gunn finished off the beer and dropped it in a cardboard box filled with computer readout sheets. "Toxic is only a relative term. In the world of chemistry there are no toxic compounds, only toxic levels."

"Well?"

"I've identified a lot of different contaminants and naturally occurring compounds, both metal and organic. The systems are reading shocking levels of pesticides that are banned in the U.S. but are still widely used in the third world. But I haven't been able to isolate the synthetic chemical pollutants that cause the dinoflagellates to run crazy. At the moment, I don't even know what I'm tracking. All I can do is follow the bloodhounds."

"The further we go, the hotter the swill," mused Pitt. "I was hoping you might have a handle on it by now. The deeper we get into Africa, the tougher the return trip to the open sea, especially if the local military decides to nose around."

"Get used to the idea we might not find it," Gunn said irritably. "You don't realize how many chemicals are out there. The number comes to over seven million known man-made chemical compounds, and each week U.S. chemists alone create more than six thousand new ones."

"But they can't all be toxic."

"At some level most all of these chemicals will have some toxic properties. Anything is toxic if swallowed, inhaled, or injected in sufficient doses. Even water can be fatal if enough is consumed. Too much will flush out the necessary electrolytes from the body."

Pitt looked at him. "So there are no absolutes, no guarantees."

"None," Gunn shook his head. "All I know for certain is we haven't passed the spot where our doomsday plague empties into the river. Since entering the delta and passing the main tributaries of the lower Niger, the Kaduna, and Benue Rivers, the water samples have driven the dinoflagellates into a frenzy. But I haven't a clue that points to the villain. The only good news is that I ruled out bacterial microorganisms as the cause."

"How did you eliminate it?"

"By sterilizing the river water samples. The removal of bacteria didn't slow down the little buggers from proliferating one little bit."

Pitt gave Gunn a light pat on the shoulder. "If anyone can put a collar on it, Rudi, you can."

"Oh I'll sift the stuff out." Gunn pulled off his glasses and wiped the lenses. "It may still be unknown, ungodly, and unnatural, but I'll sift it out. That's a promise."

Their luck ran out the following afternoon, only an hour after they crossed the Nigerian border onto the stretch of river separating Benin and Niger. Pitt was gazing silently over the bow of the Calliope at the river walled by thick green jungle, a dank and forbidding jungle. Gray clouds had turned the water to a leaden color. The river ahead curved slightly and seemed to beckon, like the bony finger of death.

Giordino was at the helm, the first faint edges of fatigue wrinkling the sides of his eyes. Pitt stood at his shoulder, attention shifting to a lone cormorant soaring delicately on an updraft above the water ahead. Suddenly, it flapped its wings and dipped into the trees along the bank.

Pitt lifted a pair of binoculars from the counter and glimpsed the bow of a vessel barely showing around a bend in the river. "The locals are about to pay us a social call," he announced.

"I see it." Giordino raised out of the chair and shielded his eyes against the sun with one hand. "Correction, them. There are two."

"Heading straight toward us, guns tracking and looking for trouble."

"What flag are they flying?"

"Benin," Pitt answered. "Russian-built, judging by their lines." Pitt laid down the binoculars and spread out a recognition chart on West African air force and navy units. "Riverine attack craft, armed with two twin, 30-millimeter guns with a rate of fire around five hundred rounds per minute."

"Not good," Giordino muttered briefly. He glanced down at the chart of the river. "Another 40 kilometers and we'll be out of Benin territory and into Niger waters. With luck, and the engines pushed to the hilt, we could make the border by lunch."

"Forget luck. These guys are not about to wave us a cheery bon voyage as we pass merrily on our way. This doesn't have the look of a routine inspection. Not with all their weapons aimed down our throats."

Giordino looked back and pointed skyward over the stern. "The plot thickens. They've called in a vulture."

Pitt swung and spotted a helicopter angling around the last bend, no more than 10 meters above the water surface. "All doubts of a friendly encounter have just evaporated."

"Smells like a setup," Giordino said calmly.

Pitt alerted Gunn, who came up out of his electronic cabin and was briefed on the situation.

"I half expected it," was all he said.

"They've been waiting for us," said Pitt. "This is no chance encounter. If they only mean to lock us up and confiscate the boat, they'll damned well execute us as spies when they find out we're as French as a backup trio for Bruce Springsteen. We can't allow that. Whatever data we've accumulated since entering the river must get into the hands of Sandecker and Chapman. These guys are primed for trouble. No innocent, naive cooperation on our part. It's a case of they go under, or we do."

"I might take out the helicopter, and if I'm lucky, the nearest boat," said Giordino. "But I can't take all three before one of them hammers us into scrap."

"Okay, here's the drill," Pitt spoke quietly, gazing at the approaching gunboats. He explained his game plan as Giordino and Gunn listened thoughtfully. When he concluded, he looked at them. "Any remarks?"

"They speak French hereabout," commented Gunn. "How's your vocabulary?"

Pitt shrugged. "I'll fake it."

"Then let's do it," Giordino said, his voice edged with icy anticipation.

His friends were head of the class, Pitt thought. Gunn and Giordino weren't professionally trained members of a Special Forces Team, perhaps, but brave and competent men to have standing at his side during a fight. He couldn't have felt more confident if he was commanding a missile destroyer manned by a crew of two hundred.

"Right," he said with a grim smile. "Wear your headsets and stay on the air. Good luck."

Admiral Pierre Matabu stood on the bridge of the lead gunboat and peered through a pair of glasses at the sport yacht skimming up the river. He had the air about him of a con man eyeing an easy mark. Matabu was short, squat, in his mid-thirties, and dressed in an ostentatious, braid embellished uniform of his own design. As Chief of the Benin navy, a position granted him by his brother, President Tougouri, he commanded a fleet consisting of four hundred men, two river gunboats, and three ocean-going patrol craft. His prior experience before achieving flag rank was three years as a deck hand on a river ferry.

Commander Behanzin Ketou, skipper of the vessel, stood slightly to his side and behind. "It was wise of you to fly from the capital and take command, Admiral."

"Yes," beamed Matabu. "My brother will be most happy when I present him with a fine, new pleasure craft."

"The Frenchmen have arrived within the time you predicted." Ketou was tall, slender, with a proud bearing. "Your foresight is truly inspiring."

"Very considerate of them to do as my thought waves demand," Matabu gloated. He did not mention that his paid agents had reported on the passage of the Calliope every two hours since it entered the delta in Nigeria. The happy fact that it cruised into Benin waters was a wish come true.

"They must be very important people to own such an expensive boat."

"They are enemy agents."

Ketou's face reflected a balance of uncertainty and skepticism. "They appear somewhat conspicuous for enemy agents."

Matabu dropped the binoculars and glared at Ketou. "Do not question my information, Commander. Believe me when I say those white foreigners are part of a conspiracy to rape the natural wealth of our country."

"Will they be arrested and tried in the capital?"

"No, you will shoot them after you board and discover evidence proving their guilt."

"Sir?"

"I forgot to mention that you shall have the honor of leading the boarding party," Matabu said pompously.

"Not an execution," Ketou protested. "The French will demand an investigation when they learn several of their influential citizens were murdered. Your brother may not condone-"

"You will throw the bodies in the river and not question my orders," Matabu coldly interrupted.

Ketou caved in. "As you wish, Admiral."

Matabu stared through the binoculars again. The sport yacht was only 200 meters away and slowing. "Position your men for boarding. I will personally hail the spies and order them to receive your party."

Ketou spoke to his first officer, who repeated the commands over a bullhorn to the captain of the second gunboat. Then Ketou turned his attention back to the approaching yacht. "Something funny about her," he said to Matabu. "No one is in sight except the man at the helm."

"The European slime are probably lying drunk below. They suspect nothing."

"Strange, they do not appear concerned at our presence nor do they show any reaction to our trained guns."

"Shoot only if they try to escape," Matabu cautioned him. "I want that boat captured undamaged."

Ketou focused his binoculars on Pitt. "The helmsman is waving to us and smiling."

"He won't be smiling for long," Matabu said, his teeth showing ominously. "In a few minutes he'll be dead."

"Come into my parlor said the spider to the three flies," Pitt muttered under his breath as he waved and flashed a wide, humorless smile.

"Did you say something?" asked Giordino inside the missile turret.

"Just mumbling to myself."

"I can't see zilch from the bow ports," Gunn spoke from the forward quarters. "What's my line of fire?"

"Be ready to knock out the gunners on the boat off our starboard beam on my command," said Pitt.

"Where's the helicopter?" asked Giordino, who was blind until he dropped the turret shield.

Pitt scanned the sky over the boat's wake. "She's hovering 100 meters directly astern, about 50 meters above the surface of the river."

There were no half measures in their preparations. No one doubted for an instant the Benin gunboats and helicopter were going to let them pass unchallenged. They all went silent, each man settled and resigned to fight to stay alive. Any fear was quickly passing as they approached the point of no return. There was a determination, a single-minded stubbornness against losing. They were not the kind to meekly submit and turn the other cheek. Three armed vessels against one, but surprise was on their side.

Pitt propped the launcher with the incendiary/concussion grenades under a niche beside his chair. Then he slipped the throttles to "Idle" as his gaze swept back and forth between the two boats. He ignored the helicopter. In the opening stages of the battle, it would be Giordino's problem. He was close enough now to study the officers and quickly concluded that the fat African strutting the bridge of the gunboat in a Gilbert & Sullivan comic opera uniform was in command. His unblinking eyes also stared in hypnotic fascination into those of the Angel of Death, who stared back from the black nuzzles of the guns, all aimed at him.

Pitt could not know the identity of the swaggering officer on the bridge who peered back at him through binoculars. Nor did he care. But he was thankful his opponent had made a tactical error by not stretching his two boats broadside across the river bow to stern, effectively blocking any passage while every gun could be brought to bear on the Calliope.

The wave carved by the bow fell away as the Calliope slipped between the two gunboats that had already stopped and were drifting with the river current. Pitt reduced speed just enough to maintain a slight headway. The hulls of the gunboats loomed over the Calliope, no more than 5 meters off her sides. From his cockpit, Pitt could see most of the crewmen standing in casual attitudes, each armed only with holstered automatic pistols. None held automatic rifles. They looked as if they were waiting their turn on a shooting range. Pitt gazed innocently up at Matabu.

"Bon jour!"

Matabu leaned over, the counter and shouted back in French for Pitt to stop his boat and take on boarders.

Pitt didn't understand a word. He called back. "Pouvez vous me recommander un bon restaurant?"

"`What did Dirk say?" Giordino asked Gunn.

"Good Lord!" Gunn moaned. "He just asked the head honcho to recommend a good restaurant."

The gunboats were slowly drifting past on both sides as Pitt kept the sport craft idling in gear against the current. Matabu again ordered Pitt to stop and prepare to be boarded.

Pitt stiffened and tried to look suave and disarming.

"J'aimerais une bouteille de Martin Ray Chardonnay."

"Now what's he saying?" demanded Giordino.

Gunn sounded lost. "I think he ordered a bottle of California wine."

"Next, he'll ask to borrow a jar of Grey Poupon Mustard," Giordino muttered.

"He must be trying to stall them until they drift past us."

On board the gunboat, Matabu and Ketou's faces registered a total lack of comprehension as Pitt called out, this time in his native tongue.

"I do not understand Swahili. Can you try English?"

Matabu pounded on the bridge counter in exasperation and growing anger. He was not used to humored indifference. He replied in broken English that Pitt could barely decipher. "I am Admiral Pierre Matabu, Chief of the National Benin Navy," he announced pompously. "Stop your engines and heave-to for inspection. Heave-to or I will give the order to fire."

Pitt nodded furiously and waved both hands in a gesture of compliance. "Yes, yes, don't shoot. Please don't shoot."

The cockpit of the Calliope was slowly coming even with the stern of Matabu's gunboat. Pitt kept just enough distance between the two boats to make it impossible for anyone but an Olympic broadjumper to leap across the gap. Two crewmen threw lines on Pitt's bow and stern decks, but he made no move toward them.

"Tie the lines," Ketou ordered.

"Too far away," Pitt shrugged. He held up a hand and made a half arc. "Hold on. I'll come around."

Not waiting for a reply, he eased the throttles forward and swung the helm so that the sport yacht slowly slipped into a 180-degree turn around the stern of the gunboat before straightening out and pulling up along the opposite side of the hull. Now both vessels were on a parallel course, bows pointed downriver. Pitt noted with no small amount of satisfaction that the 30-millimeter guns could not depress low enough to strike the Calliope's cockpit.

Matabu stared down at Pitt, eyes gloating, a smile of triumph beginning to spread across his thick jowls. Ketou didn't share his superior's wolfish expression. His face wore a very suspicious look indeed.

Calmly, still grinning, Pitt waited until Giordino's turret was directly in line with the gunboat's engine room. Keeping one hand on the wheel, he casually reached under the chair and grasped the stock of the grenade launcher. Then he spoke softly into the microphone on his headset.

"Helicopter dead ahead. Gunboat to starboard. Okay, gentlemen, it's show time. Let's take 'em!"

As Pitt spoke, Giordino dropped the shield around his engine room turret and unleashed a rapier missile that ran straight and true into the helicopter's fuel tanks. Gunn popped up from the forward hatch two modified M-16 automatic rifles clamped under each armpit, both hands gripping and squeezing the triggers, muzzles blazing, blowing away the men manning the 30-millimeter guns as though they were chaff spewed from a grain combine. Pitt aimed the muzzle of the grenade launcher into the air and fired the first of his incendiary/concussion grenades over Matabu's vessel onto the superstructure of the second. Unable to see the backup gunboat, he fired blindly, judging a trajectory that would drop on his target. The grenade bounced off a winch into the river, exploding with a thunderous boom underwater. The next lob missed the boat completely, bursting with the same result.

Matabu could never have been prepared for the horrific spectacle that exploded around him. It seemed to him as though the sky and air suddenly tore apart. His mind accepted only fleetingly in one stunned glimpse the total disintegration of the helicopter. It erupted in a giant fireball that was followed by a mushroom burst of shattered debris that rained down in a fiery torrent onto the river.

"The white bastards tricked us!" Ketou yelled in abrupt anger at having swallowed the bait. He rushed to the rail and furiously shook his fist at the Calliope. "Depress guns and fire!" he screamed at his gun crews.

"Too late!" Matabu cried in terror. The Admiral panicked and crouched there, frozen into immobility as he watched his crew crumple and die under the tearing slugs of Gunn's weapons. He stared petrified in disbelieving shock at the obscenely twisted corpses around the silent guns, all lying sprawled in fetal attitudes, their gore spreading across the deck. Matabu's mind simply could not accept a clandestine ship masquerading as an innocent yacht under a respected flag with the firepower to turn his comfortable little world into a horror. The stranger standing at the helm of the deadly boat had turned surprise into a tactical asset. Matabu's men were overwhelmed with shock they seemed unable to shake off. They milled about like cattle in a thunderstorm, caught off balance and struck with fear, falling without firing a shot in response. He realized then with blood-chilling certainty that he was going to die; he realized it when the turret above the stern of the sport yacht spun and unleashed another missile point blank against the gunboat that penetrated the wooden hull and struck a generator in the engine room before detonating.

At almost the same moment, Pitt's third toss struck home. Miraculously, the grenade impacted on a bulkhead and ricocheted into an open hatch of the second gunboat. In a concert of explosions, it exploded in a roar of flame, setting off the ammunition and cannon shells in the boat's magazine. Flying debris and swirling smoke shot up in an umbrella of splintered bulkheads, ventilators, pieces of lifeboats, and broken bodies. Shockingly, the gunboat ceased to exist. The shock wave came like a sledgehammer and drove Matabu's vessel hard against the sport yacht, knocking Pitt off his feet.

Giordino's missile blasted the gunboat's engine room into a holocaust of shredded metal and slashed timbers. Water gushed in through a massive hole ripped out of the bottom, and the gunboat began to sink quickly. Virtually the whole interior was a blazing bedlam with fiery tongues darting through the open ports. Veins of oily black smoke curled and billowed into the tropical air before drifting over the forested riverbank.

With no targets left standing at the guns or on the decks, Gunn fired his final rounds at the two figures on the bridge. Two slugs tore into Matabu's chest. He rose to his feet, stood there for several moments, hands in a death grip on the bridge railing, staring dumbly at the blood staining his immaculate uniform. Then he slowly sagged to the deck in a fat, inert lump.

For several seconds a desperate silence fell over the river, broken by the soft crackling of burning surface oil. Then abruptly, like a shriek from the very pits of hell, an agonized voice screamed out over the water.

"Western filth!" Ketou cried. "You've murdered my crew." He stood there against the gray sky, blood seeping from a wound in his shoulder, dazed by the sheer physical shock of the disaster around him.

Gunn stared up at him over the barrels of empty guns.

Ketou glared back at him for a moment, and then he focused on Pitt who was pushing himself off the deck and reaching for the wheel.

"Western filth," Ketou repeated.

"Fair is fair!" Pitt shouted back above the crackle of the flames. "You lost the draw." Then he added, "Abandon your ship. We'll come around and pick you up.

Fleetingly, almost like the blink of a camera shutter, Ketou leaped down the ladder and ran toward the stern. The gunboat had heeled sharply to port, her gunwales awash, as he struggled across the steeply angled deck.

"Get him, Rudi," Pitt snapped into his mike. "He's going for the stern gun."

Gunn said nothing but cast aside his useless weapons, ducked into the forward compartment, and snatched a Remington TR870 automatic shotgun. Pitt shoved the throttles to their stops convulsively, spinning the wheel to port and skidding the Calliope around in a violent sheer that ended with the bow aimed upriver. The propellers bit and dug in, the water boiled under her stern, and the Calliope leaped like a race horse out of the gate.

There was only oil and floating debris drifting on the river now. Commander Ketou's gunboat was starting its final slide to the river bottom. The river flowed into the shattered hull and hissed in clouds of steam. Water was swirling around Ketou's knees when he reached the aft 30-millimeter guns, swung the muzzles toward the fleeing sport yacht, and pressed the fire control button.

"Al!" Pitt hailed.

His reply was the hissing blast of a missile that Giordino launched from his turret. A streak of orange flame and white smoke shot through the air toward the gunboat. But Pitt's abrupt turn of the wheel and the thrust of sudden acceleration had thrown off Giordino's aim. The missile swished over the sinking gunboat and exploded in the trees bordering the river.

Gunn appeared at Pitt's side in the cockpit, took careful aim, and began blasting away with the Remington over the stern at Ketou. Time seemed to slow as the shot splattered around the gun mount and into the African boat commander. They were too far away to see the hate and frustration in his shiny black features. Nor could they see that he died over the gun sight, his lifeless hand doggedly forcing down the fire control button.

A burst of fire shrieked after the Calliope. Pitt swiftly cut a sharp bend to starboard, but the irony of battle had yet to take its fair share. Ironic because a dead man had fought back through catastrophic defeat with a precision he could never know. Jets of water skipped white and straddled the speeding boat as shells ripped away the airfoil above and behind the cockpit that held the parabolic satellite dish antenna and communications antenna and navigation transponder, blasting the remains into the river. The windshield in front of the cockpit shattered and was carried away. Gunn threw himself prone on the deck, but Pitt could only hunch over the wheel and ride out the deadly storm. They could not hear the impact of the shells over the thunderous roar of the flat-out turbo diesels. But they could see the bits and pieces of debris bursting all around them.

Then Giordino got in a clear shot and launched his last missile. The settling stern of the gunboat suddenly vanished in a puff of smoke and flame. And then the boat was gone, sliding under and leaving a large flutter of bubbles and a spreading slick of oil. The Commander-in-Chief of Benin's navy and his river fleet were no more.

Pitt forced himself to turn his back on the flotsam-filled river astern and look to his own boat and friends. Gunn was coming shakily to his feet, bleeding from a cut across his balding head. Giordino appeared from the engine room looking like a man who had just stepped off a handball court, sweating and weary, but ready for a new game.

He pointed up the river. "We're in for it now," he shouted the words in Pitt's ear.

"Maybe not," Pitt shouted back. "At this speed we'll cross into Niger in twenty minutes."

"Hopefully, we didn't leave any witnesses."

"Don't count on it. Even if there were no survivors, somebody must have caught the fight from shore."

Gunn gripped Pitt's arm and yelled. "As soon as we're in Niger, back off and we'll take up the survey again."

"Affirmative," Pitt agreed. He shot a quick look at the satellite dish and communications antenna. It was then he noticed they were gone along with the airfoil. "So much for contacting the Admiral and giving him a full report."

"Nor can the labs at NUMA receive my data transmission," said Gunn sadly.

"Too bad we can't tell him the leisurely cruise up the river just turned into a bloody nightmare," Giordino bellowed.

"We're dead meat unless we can figure another way out of here," Pitt said grimly.

"I wish I could see the Admiral's face," Giordino grinned at the thought, "when he hears we broke his boat."

"You will," Gunn shouted through cupped hands as he descended into the electronic compartment. "You will."

What a stupid mess, Pitt thought. Only a day and a half into the project and they had killed at least thirty men, shot down a helicopter, and sunk two gunboats. All in the name of saving humanity, he mused sarcastically. There was no turning back now. They had to find the contaminant before the security forces of either Niger or Mali stopped them for good. Either way, their lives weren't worth the paper on a devalued dollar.

He glanced at the small radar dish behind the cockpit. There was a saving grace after all. The dish was undamaged and still turning. It would have been hell running the river at night or through fog without it. The loss of the satellite navigation unit meant they would have to position the contamination entry into the river by spotting nearby landmarks. But they were unhurt and the boat was still seaworthy and pounding over the river at close to 70 knots. Pitt's only worry now was striking a floating object or a submerged log. At this speed any collision would gouge out the bottom of the hull and send the boat cartwheeling and splintering into a shattered wreck.

Fortunately, the river flowed free of debris, and Pitt's calculations were only slightly off. They crossed into the Republic of Niger within eighteen minutes under skies and waters empty of security forces. Four hours later they were moored to the refueling dock at the capital city of Niamey. After taking on fuel and enduring the traditional hassle from West African immigration officials, they were allowed to proceed on their way again.

As the buildings of Niamey and the bridge over the river named for John F. Kennedy receded in the Calliope's wake, Giordino spoke in a brisk, cheerful voice.

"So far, so good. Things can't get worse than they already are."

"Not good," Pitt said at the wheel. "And things can get a whole lot worse."

Giordino looked at him. "Why the gloom? The people in these parts don't seem to have a beef with us."

"It went too easy," said Pitt slowly. "Things don't work that way in this part of the world. Certainly not in Africa, not after our little altercation with the Benin gunboats. Did you notice while we were showing our passports and ship's papers to the immigration officials there wasn't a policeman or armed military guard in sight?"

"Coincidence?" Giordino shrugged. "Or maybe just lax procedure?"

"Neither," Pitt shook his head solemnly. "I've a hunch somebody is playing games with us."

"You think the Niger authorities knew about our run-in with the Benin navy?"

"Word travels fast here, and I'm willing to bet it's traveled ahead of us. The Benin military most certainly alerted the Niger government."

Giordino was not sold. "Then why didn't the local bureaucrats arrest us?"

"I haven't a clue," said Pitt pensively.

"Sandecker?" offered Giordino. "Maybe he intervened."

Pitt shook his head. "The Admiral may be a big gun in Washington, but he has no sway here."

"Then somebody wants something we've got."

"Seems to be heading in that direction."

"But what?" asked Giordino in exasperation. "Our data on the contaminant?"

"Except for the three of us, Sandecker, and Chapman, no one knows the purpose of our project. Unless there's a leak, it has to be something else."

"Like what?"

Pitt grinned. "Would you believe our boat?"

"The Calliope!" Giordino was frankly disbelieving. "You'll have to do better than that."

"No," stated Pitt flatly. "Think about it. A highly specialized craft, built in secrecy, capable of 70 knots, and with enough sting to take out a helicopter and two gunboats within three minutes. Any West African military leader would give his eyeteeth to get his hands on her."

"Okay, I'll accept that," Giordino said grudgingly. "But answer me this. If the Calliope is so desirable, why wasn't she grabbed by Niger goons while we were standing around the refueling dock in Niamey?"

"A shot in the dark? Okay, somebody cut a deal."

"Who?"

"Don't know."

"Why?"

"Can't say."

"So when does the axe fall?"

"They've let us get this far, so the answer must lie in Mali."

Giordino looked at Pitt. "So we're not returning the way we came."

"We bought a one-way ticket when we sank the Benin navy."

"I'm a firm believer of getting there is half the fun."

"The fun is over, if you are morbid enough to call it that." Pitt looked over the banks of the river. The green vegetation had given way to a barren landscape of scrub brush, gravel, and yellow dirt. "Judging from the terrain, we may have to trade the boat for camels if we expect to see home again."

"Oh God!" Giordino groaned. "Can you picture me riding a freak of nature? A reasonable man who believes the only reason God put horses on earth is for background in western movies."

"We'll survive," said Pitt. "The Admiral will move half of heaven and most of hell to get us out after we home in on the poison glop."

Giordino turned and looked dolefully down the Niger. "So this is it," he said slowly.

"This is what?"

"The legendary creek people go up and lose their paddles."

Pitt's lips curled in a crooked grin. "If that's where we are, then pull down the French tricolor ensign, and by God we'll fly our own."

"We're under orders to hide our nationality," Giordino protested. "We can't go about our sneaky business under the stars and stripes."

"Who said anything about the stars and stripes?"

Giordino knew he was stepping into deep water. "Okay, dare I ask what flag you intend to raise?"

"This one." He reached into a drawer of the bridge counter and tossed Giordino a folded black ensign. "I borrowed it at a costume party I attended a couple of months ago."

Giordino made an expression of shocked dismay as he stared at the grinning skull in the center of the rectangular cloth. "The Jolly Roger, you intend to fly the Jolly Roger?"

"Why not?" Pitt's surprise at Giordino's anguish seemed genuine. "I think it only fitting and proper we make a big splash under the appropriate banner."

"Fine bunch of international contamination detectives we are," grumbled Hopper as he watched the sunset over the lakes and marshlands of the upper Niger River. "All we've come up with is typical third world indifference toward sanitation."

Eva sat on a campstool in front of a small oil stove to ward off the evening chill. "I tested for most of the known toxins and failed to find a trace of any of them. Whatever our phantom malady is, it's proving very elusive."

An older man sat beside her, tall, heavy, with iron-gray hair, light blue eyes, wise and thoughtful. A New Zealander, Dr. Warren Grimes was the chief epidemiologist of the project. He contemplated a glass of club soda. "Nothing on my end either. Every culture I've obtained within 500 kilometers showed free of disease-related microorganisms."

"Is there anything we might have overlooked?" asked Hopper, dropping into a folding chair with padded cushions.

Grimes shrugged. "Without victims, I can't conduct interviews or autopsies. Without victims I can't obtain tissue samples or analyze results. I have to have observational data to compare symptoms or do a case control study."

"If anyone is dying from toxic contamination," said Eva, "they're not dying around here."

Hopper turned from the fading orange light on the horizon and picked up a pot from the stove and poured a cup of tea. "Can it be the evidence was false or exaggerated?"

"UN headquarters received only vague reports," Grimes reminded him.

"Without hard data and exact locations to work with, it seems we jumped the gun."

"I think it's a cover-up," said Eva suddenly.

There was silence. Hopper looked from Eva to Grimes.

"If it is, it's a damned good one," muttered Grimes finally.

"I'm not sure I'd disagree," Hopper said, his curiosity aroused. "The teams in Niger, Chad, and the Sudan are reportedly coming up dry too."

"All that suggests is that the contamination is in Mali and not the other nations," said Eva.

"You can bury victims," observed Grimes. "But you can't hide trace amounts of contamination. If it's around here, we would have found it. My personal opinion is that we've been on a wild goose chase."

Eva looked at him steadily, her Dresden blue eyes large in the reflection of the flame from the camp stove. "If they can hide victims, they can alter reports."

"Aha," Hopper nodded. "Eva has something. I don't trust Kazim and his crew of snakes, haven't from the beginning. Suppose they did alter the reports to throw us off the playing field? Suppose the contamination isn't where we've been led to believe it is?"

"A possibility worth pursuing," Grimes admitted. "We've been concentrating in the dampest and most inhabited regions of the country because it follows suit they would carry the highest incidence of disease and contamination."

"Where do we go from here?" asked Eva.

"Back to Timbuktu," said Hopper firmly. "Did you notice the look on people we interviewed before setting out to the south? They were nervous and worried. You could see it in their faces. It's just possible they were threatened to keep silent."

"Especially the Tuaregs from the desert," recalled Grimes.

"You mean especially their women and children," Eva added. "They refused to be examined."

Hopper shook his head. "I'm to blame. I made the decision to turn our backs on the desert. It was a mistake. I know that now."

"You're a scientist, not a psychic investigator," Grimes consoled him.

"Yes," Hopper agreed readily. "I'm a scientist, but I hate being made the fool."

"The tip-off we all missed," said Eva, "was the patronizing attitude of Captain Batutta."

Grimes looked at her. "That's right. Oh-ho. You've struck oil again, my girl. Now that you've brought it up, Batutta has been downright servile with cooperation."

"True," Hopper nodded. "He's leaned over backward in allowing us to go our merry way, knowing we were hundreds of kilometers off the scent."

Grimes finished off his soda water. "Be interesting to see the look on his face when you tell him we're going out in the desert and start from scratch."

"He'll be on the radio to Colonel Mansa before I get the words out of my mouth."

"We could lie," said Eva.

"Lie, for what reason?" asked Hopper.

"To throw him off, to throw them all off our trail."

"I'm listening."

"Tell Batutta the project is finished. Tell him we've found no sign of contamination and are returning to Timbuktu, folding up our tents and flying home."

"You've missed me. Where is this leading?"

"For all appearances the team has quit, given up," Eva explained. "Batutta waves a relieved farewell as we take off. Only we don't fly to Cairo. We land in the desert and set up shop again on our own without a watchdog."

The two men took a few seconds to absorb Eva's scheme. Hopper leaned forward, intently mulling it over. Grimes looked as if someone asked him to catch the next rocket to the moon.

"It's no good," Grimes said at last, almost apologetically. "You can't just land a jet aircraft in the middle of the desert. You need a runway at least 1000 meters long."

"There are any number of areas in the Sahara where the ground is perfectly flat for hundreds of kilometers," Eva argued.

"Too risky," Grimes said stubbornly. "If Kazim got wind of it, we'd pay dearly."

Eva looked sharply at Grimes, then more slowly at Hopper. She detected the beginnings of a smile on Hopper's face. "It is possible," she said firmly.

"Anything is possible, but often not practical."

Hopper smashed his fist down on the arm of his camp chair so hard he nearly broke it. "By God, I think it's worth a go."

Grimes stared at him. "You can't be bloody serious?"

"Oh but I am. Our pilot and flight crew will have the final say, of course. But with the proper incentive, like a hefty bonus, I think they can be persuaded to risk it."

"You're forgetting something," said Grimes.

"Such as?"

"What do we use for transportation after we land?"

Eva tilted her head toward the small Mercedes four-wheel-drive car with an enclosed truckbed that had been provided by Colonel Mansa in Timbuktu. "The little Mercedes should just fit through the cargo door."

"That's 2 meters off the ground," said Grimes. "How are you going to lift it on board?"

"We'll use ramps and drive it on," Hopper said jovially.

"You'll have to do it under Batutta's nose."

"Not an insurmountable problem."

"The vehicle belongs to the Malian military. How will you account for it gone missing?"

"A mere technicality," Hopper shrugged. "Colonel Mansa will be told a thieving nomad stole it."

"This is crazy," Grimes announced.

Hopper suddenly stood. "Then it's settled. We'll launch our little charade first thing in the morning. Eva, I'll leave it to you to inform our fellow scientists of the plan. I'll hang out with Batutta and throw off suspicion by bemoaning our failure."

"Speaking of our keeper," said Eva, glancing about the camp, "where is he hiding?"

"In that fancy recreation vehicle with the communications equipment," replied Grimes. "He practically lives in there."

"Strange that he conveniently, for us at any rate, wanders off whenever we're gathered in discussion."

"Damned courteous of him, I say." Grimes stood and stretched his arms over his head. He furtively stared at the communications vehicle, and not sighting Batutta, sat down again. "No sign of him. He's probably sitting inside watching European music shows on the telly."

"Or on the radio giving Colonel Mansa the latest gossip on our scientific circus," said Eva.

"He can't have much to report," laughed Hopper. "He never hangs around long enough to see what mischief we're into."

Captain Batutta was not reporting to his superior, not at the moment. He was sitting inside his truck listening through stereo headphones wired to an extremely sensitive electronic listening device. The amplifier was mounted on the roof of the truck and aimed toward the camp stove in the middle of the parked caravan. He leaned forward and adjusted the bionic booster, increasing the receiving surface.

Every word spoken by Eva and her two associates, every murmur and whisper, came through without the slightest distortion and was recorded. Batutta listened until the conversation ended and the trio split up, Eva to brief the rest of the team on the new plot, Hopper and Grimes to study maps of the desert.

Batutta picked up a phone uplink to a joint African nation communications satellite and dialed a number. A voice half a breath from a yawn answered.

"Security Headquarters, Gao District."

"Captain Batutta for Colonel Mansa."

"One moment, sir," the voice said hastily.

It took almost five minutes before Mansa's voice came over the receiver. "Yes, Captain."

"The UN scientists are planning a diversion."

"What kind of a diversion?"

"They are about to report they have turned up no trace of contamination or its victims-"

"General Kazim's brilliant plan to keep them out of the contaminated areas has been successful," Mansa interrupted him.

"Until now," said Batutta. "But they have begun to see through the General's ploy. Dr. Hopper intends to announce the closing down of the project, then lead his people back to Timbuktu where they will depart in their chartered aircraft for Cairo."

"The General will be most pleased."

"Not when he learns Hopper has no intention of leaving Mali."

"What are you saying?" demanded Mansa.

"Their plan is to bribe the pilots to set the plane down in the desert and launch a new investigation into our nomadic villages for the contamination."

Mansa's mouth suddenly felt as if it was filled with sand. "This could prove to be disastrous. The General will be most angry when he hears of it."

"Not our fault," Batutta said quickly.

"You know his wrath. It falls on the innocent as well as the guilty."

"We have done our duty," Batutta replied resolutely.

"Keep me informed of Hopper's movements," Mansa ordered. "I'll make your report in person to the General."

"He's in Timbuktu?"

"No, Gao. As luck would have it, he's on Yves Massarde's yacht, moored in the river just off the city. I'll take a military transport and be there in half an hour."

"Good luck to you, Colonel."

"Stay on Hopper every second. Inform me of any change in Hopper's plans."

"As you order."

Mansa hung up and stared at the phone, sorting out the complications of Batutta's intelligence revelation. If undetected, Hopper might have fooled them all and discovered victims of the contamination out in the Sahara where no one thought to search. That would have spelled calamity. Captain Batutta had saved him from a very messy situation, possibly even his execution under trumped-up charges of treason, Kazim's routine exercise for eliminating officers who displeased him. It was a near thing. By catching Kazim in the right mood, he might even wheedle a promotion to the general staff.

Mansa called to his aide in the office outside to fetch his dress uniform and ready an aircraft. He began to sense a creeping euphoria. Near catastrophe would turn into an opportunity to annihilate the foreign intruders.

A speedboat was waiting at the dock under a mosque when Mansa stepped from the military command car that carried him from the airport. A uniformed crewman whipped off the bow and stern lines and jumped down into the cockpit. He pressed the ignition switch and the big V-8 Citroen marine engine roared to life.

Massarde's yacht swung in the middle of the river on its' bow anchor, lights reflecting in the rippling current. The yacht was actually a self-propelled houseboat three stories high. Its flat bottom enabled it to easily cruise up and down the river during the seasons of high water.

Mansa had never been on board, but he'd heard stories of the glass-domed spiral staircase that ascended from the spacious master suite to the heliport. The ten sumptuous staterooms furnished in French antiques, the high-ceilinged dining room with murals from the time of Louis XIV taken from the walls of a Loire River chateau, the steam rooms, sauna, Jacuzzis, and cocktail bar in a revolving observation lounge, and the electronic communication systems linking Massarde to his worldwide empire, they all worked together to make the mansion on the water unlike anything ever built.

As the Colonel climbed from the boat onto the gangway and up the teak steps, he had hopes of seeing something of the luxurious craft, but his expectations turned sour when Kazim met him on the deck beside the gangway. He was holding a glass half filled with champagne. He made no effort to offer Mansa one.

"I hope your interruption of my business conference with Monsieur Massarde is as urgent as you implied in your message," Kazim said coldly.

Mansa saluted smartly and began a hurried but precise briefing, embellishing the facts and polishing the details of Batutta's report on the United Nations World Health team, but never mentioning the captain by name.

Kazim listened with curious interest. His dark eyes deepened and stared unseeing into the glistening lights of the houseboat dancing on the water. A worried crease appeared in his face, but this was soon replaced with a tight smile across his lips.

When Mansa finished speaking, Kazim asked, "When is Hopper and his caravan expected back in Timbuktu?"

"If they leave tomorrow morning, they should arrive by late afternoon."

"More than enough time to circumvent the good doctor's plans." He looked icily into Mansa's eyes. "I trust you will appear disappointed and most solicitous when Hopper announces the failure of his investigation to you."

"I will be at my diplomatic best," Mansa assured him.

"Is his aircraft and its crew still on the ground in Timbuktu?"

Mansa nodded. "The pilots are staying at the Hotel Azalai."

"You say Hopper intends to pay them a bonus to land in the desert north of here?"

"Yes, that is what he told the others."

"We must gain control of the aircraft."

"You wish me to bribe the pilots above what Hopper offers them?"

"A waste of good money," Kazim sneered. "Kill them."

Mansa half expected the order and did not react. "Yes, sir."

"And replace them with pilots from our own military who resemble their size and facial features."

"A masterful plan, my General."

"Also, inform Dr. Hopper that I insist Captain Batutta accompany them to Cairo to act as my personal representative to the World Health Organization. He will oversee the operation."

"What orders do you wish me to give our replacement officers?"

"Order them," said Kazim with evil blackness in his eyes, "to land Dr. Hopper and his party at Asselar."

"Asselar." The name rolled off Mansa's tongue as if it was coated in acid. "Hopper and his party will surely be murdered by the mutant savages of Asselar as were the members of the tourist safari."

"That," said Kazim coldly, "is for Allah to decide."

"And if for some unforeseen reason they should survive?" Mansa posed the question delicately.

An evil expression that sent a shiver through Mansa spread across Kazim's face. The General smiled cunningly, his dark eyes reflecting cold amusement. "Then there is always Tebezza."