The Pharaoh's Secret

68

For twenty-four hours, Alberto Piola could hardly tear himself away from the television. Images of police and regular military units swarming over the Osiris hydroelectric plant in Cairo were constant. Video from a news chopper outside of the plant showed a whirlpool of water swirling where it was being sucked into the outflow pipe and funneled back into the aquifers. Hundreds of soldiers could be seen on the ground. Jeeps, tanks and trucks filled the parking lot.

Rumors connecting Osiris with both the disaster in Lampedusa and the droughts across North Africa were flying. Upon hearing that Shakir and Hassan were dead, Piola felt a spurt of hope that his connection to Osiris might have died with them. But, deep inside, he knew better. So he made plans to escape.

He opened his wall safe and pulled out a 9mm pistol and two stacks of bills, twenty thousand euros’ worth. From his secretary’s desk, he took a set of car keys that went to the nondescript Fiat she drove. No one would be looking for him in that.

He left the office and moved down the hall, trying to remain calm. He was halfway to the stairs when members of the Carabinieri appeared. He turned around and walked in the other direction.

“Signore Piola,” one of the policemen shouted. “Stop where you are. We have a warrant for your arrest.”

Piola turned and opened fire.

The shots scattered the police and sent the civilians in the hall running for cover. Amid the chaos, Piola ran with abandon. He burst into an anteroom and shoved several people out of the way as he ran for the double doors. He clubbed a man in the face who wouldn’t move fast enough and fired a shot back at the police when they entered behind him.

He reached the far door, pushed it open and charged into the main conference room. “Move,” he shouted at everyone. “Get out of my way!”

As he rushed forward with the gun held high, the crowd parted like the Red Sea, all except a man with close-cropped red hair and a Vandyke beard. This man moved toward him from the side, cross-checking him like a hockey player at center ice.

Piola hit the wall, bounced off and tumbled to the ground. The euros went everywhere like confetti, but he held on to the gun. He came up swinging it, ready to fire. He never got the chance, as it was knocked from his hand by the same man who’d tackled him.

Piola recognized the face of his attacker: James Sandecker, the American Vice President. An instant later, Sandecker’s right fist connected with his jaw, sending him back to the floor.

The blow stunned him long enough for the police to rush in and subdue him. He was carried out in cuffs, complaining loudly. The last thing he saw, before he left the room, was James Sandecker massaging his knuckles and smiling.

With Piola gone, Sandecker took a seat at the end of the conference table. Shock seemed to grip everyone else in the room, but a satisfied grin had settled firmly on Sandecker’s face.

The Vice President’s aide, Terry Carruthers, brought a bucket of ice for his hand.

“Unless you’ve got champagne in there, don’t bother.”

Carruthers put the bucket down. “Afraid not, sir.”

Sandecker shrugged. “Too bad.” He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a fresh cigar and lit it with the old Zippo lighter.

Carruthers reacted predictably. “Smoking’s not allowed in here, sir.”

Sandecker leaned back in his chair. “So I’ve heard,” he said, blowing a near-perfect smoke ring across the table. “So I’ve heard.”