The Pharaoh's Secret

49

“The three of you have an opportunity to rebuild Libya,” Shakir told his guests.

“As what? Your satraps?” one of them said. “And then what? We bow to your demands? You wish to rule us as the English once ruled Egypt? And you, Piola, what is this for you: a new attempt at colonialism?”

“Listen to me—” Piola began.

Shakir silenced him. “Someone will rule over you,” he told the three men from Libya. “Better for you that a fellow Arab does it than the Americans or the Europeans.”

“Better that we decide for ourselves,” the Libyan man said.

“How many times must I explain?” Shakir asked. “You will die without water. All of you. If necessary, I will allow that to happen and repopulate your nation with Egyptians.”

The three men went silent. After a moment, two of them began to confer.

“What are you doing?” their leader said.

“We can’t win this fight,” they responded. “If we don’t give in, others will. In that scenario we’ll lose all power instead of just some.”

“I’d listen to them, if I were you,” Shakir said. “They’re talking sense.”

“No,” the leader of the three bellowed. “I refuse.”

He turned toward Shakir with fury in his eyes. But Shakir calmly pointed a small tube at the man and pressed a button on the top. A dart fired outward, hitting the Libyan resistance leader in the chest.

The man’s face registered surprise and then went blank. He dropped to his knees. His two cohorts reacted with shock but then raised their hands. They didn’t want any part of this fight.

“Wise decision,” Shakir said. “I’ll send you back to your country. Where you shall await further orders. When the government falls, Alberto will nominate someone to take up the reins. You will give that person your full support no matter how bad your prior dealings were.”

“And then?” one of them dared to ask.

“And then you’ll be rewarded,” Shakir said. “The water will be allowed to flow again, at a higher level than before, and you’ll be glad that you complied.”

They looked at each other and then at their leader, who lay slumped on his side. “What about him?”

“He’s not dead,” Shakir insisted. “He’s merely suffering from my latest weapon. A new version of the Black Mist that causes paralysis. This is a less powerful form. It induces a waking coma. Something doctors call a locked-in syndrome. He can see and hear and feel everything a normal person can, but he can’t react, respond or even cry out.”

Shakir leaned close to his beaten adversary and flicked his forehead. “You’re still in there, aren’t you?”

“Will it wear off?”

“Eventually,” Shakir said. “But it’ll be too late for him.”

Shakir snapped his fingers and the guards rushed to the fallen man. Without the slightest hesitation, they picked him up and hurled him over the stone wall into the crocodile pit.

The crocs reacted instantly. Several of them lunged. One had an arm, one had a leg. They seemed about to tear him apart when a third one barreled in, snapped its jaws on his torso, snatched him away and swam off to a deeper part of the pool.

“We keep them hungry,” Hassan said, grinning.

The remaining Libyans looked on, horrified.

“The crocodiles don’t believe in mercy,” Shakir said. “Neither do I. Now, come with me.”

The group moved on, leaving the crocodile pit behind and heading down the nearest tunnel.

Kurt, Joe and Renata watched the carnage from above. Any thoughts that they weren’t dealing with a full-blown sociopath were gone.

“Let’s not end up like that guy,” Joe suggested.

“Not interested in being a dinner snack,” Kurt said, agreeing. “The people on the back of the ATV looked like medical personnel. They must have a lab down here. We need to find it.”

“And they went down the tunnel going in the other direction,” Joe said.

Kurt was already on his feet. “Let’s see if we can find them without getting ourselves into trouble.”