Havoc - v4 (41 page)

Built at a cost of a billion dollars in the 1960s, it was financed partly by the Soviet Union in a political ploy to curry favor in the region and partly from revenue generated by the Egyptians’ seizure of the Suez Canal. To make way for the fifteen-hundred-square-mile lake it would create, nearly a hundred thousand Nubians in northern Sudan and southern Egypt were relocated, often to unsustainable lands. Twenty ancient temples and shrines were disassembled and rebuilt above the flood mark, the most famous being Abu Simbel far to the south and the Temple of Philae near Aswân. Countless more ancient sites were left for the inundation, and an unknown number more would remain undiscovered because of the project.

While the dam did its job of preventing the Nile from flooding its banks and wiping out villages all along its length, it had also prevented nutrient-rich sediment from reaching farms, necessitating the import of a million tons of fertilizer per year. The fragile Nile Delta was being slowly eroded away without the replenishment of dirt from the interior of Africa, and salt contamination from the Mediterranean had reached as far south as Cairo.

Ten miles south of the dam they came to a marina. Mercer paid off the driver while Booker hauled their luggage from the trunk. The waters of Lake Nasser were deep blue and still, hemmed in by desert hills sprinkled with the occasional palm. It reminded Mercer of Lake Powell in Utah where the Colorado River had been penned behind the Glen Canyon Dam. It wasn’t yet ten in the morning but the sun was a sizzling torture baking the dry earth.

The Egyptian leasing agent greeted Booker like a long lost brother and ordered two marina workers to lug their bags to the jetty. Amid the houseboats, water-ski runabouts, and hundred-foot tourist cruise ships, the Riva looked like a thoroughbred in a herd of Shetland ponies.

She was beamy but her long, rakish lines made her look like a javelin. She had a small dive platform at her transom, a white inflatable, and an open cockpit over the main salon. Her hull was a deep black while her upperworks and radar arch over the cockpit were snowy white. With a pair of MAN 1300 horsepower engines under her deck Mercer didn’t doubt her speed. She looked like she was already on plane just sitting tied to the dock. Her name,
Isis
, was painted in gold at her bows.

Cali pecked Booker on the cheek and threw Mercer a look. “Now, you know how to treat a lady. Mercer would have gone for that rowboat over there.”

“Yeah, and made me row,” Book laughed.

“I won’t tolerate a mutiny until we’re at least on the boat.”

The slick leasing agent led them aboard and showed them the highlights. He demonstrated how to remove the little inflatable from its concealed garage, as well as the compressor and all the dive equipment. The interior of the motor yacht was as elegant as the outside, with sleek leather furniture, marble in the two baths, and silk sheets on the beds. The galley was small but functional and the refrigerator was packed. They were shown where extra stores were hidden in secret compartments throughout the salon. Mercer said he was satisfied when he found an assortment of liquor in one of the cabinets.

The agent had a wireless point-of-sale device and happily swiped Mercer’s card. If he had any questions about two men and a single woman going out for a week alone on a floating bordello he kept them to himself.

“Just think of all the airline miles you’re racking up,” Booker said.

“When this is all said and done I’ll have enough for a flight on the space shuttle.”

The master’s cabin in the bow had a queen-sized bed and private bath. Cali staked it for herself. Book had already tossed his bag into the other large cabin, leaving Mercer with a single bed tucked into a tiny room in a corner. Booker laughed at him and nodded at the closed master suite door. “Damn, man, just go in there and do it already.”

Mercer grinned ruefully. “I’ve got the feeling if your sorry ass wasn’t here I’d be invited.”

Booker shook his head and went for the stairs leading to the main deck, muttering, “Crazy white people.”

Mercer threw his duffel onto his bed and changed into shorts and a Penn State T-shirt. Cali emerged from her stateroom as he was about to join Booker. She wore sandals, a brief pair of shorts, and a bikini top. Her red hair fell over her shoulders in a shimmering cascade. It was the most revealing Mercer had ever seen her and his imagination hadn’t done her body justice. Though her breasts were small, they were perfectly shaped and proportional to her lean torso, and her legs seemed to stretch forever. Her skin was flawlessly smooth and freckled.

“I’m sorry about the sleeping arrangements,” she said shyly. “It’s just with Booker here…you know I wouldn’t feel comfortable.”

“That’s okay,” Mercer said, stepping close enough to smell the tropical sunscreen she’d already applied. “If I didn’t bring you to a screaming orgasm in the first five seconds he’d never let me hear the end of it.”

She slapped him playfully. “Pig.”

The leasing agent was still on the dock, and without ever taking his eyes off Cali he managed to cast off the lines when Mercer fired the Riva’s engines.

After the engines had come up to temperature Mercer bumped the throttles and eased the motor yacht from her berth. There was a lot of boat traffic around the marina, fishing boats mostly and a little cruise ship coming back from its regular six-day excursion to Abu Simbel. Mercer kept his speed to ten knots, working the wheel to get used to how the boat responded. It came as no surprise she was as nimble as a JetSki.

A few tourists waved as they passed, while fishermen either ignored them altogether or eyed them with ill-disguised contempt. When the boat traffic thinned as they reached the broad lake, Mercer began to edge the throttles. The big boat reacted instantly as vessel and master tested each other, and the more Mercer asked for the more the Riva wanted to give, until they were planing across the water at thirty-eight knots.

He could hear Cali’s laughter chiming over the bellow of the engines and the wind whipping past them. “I love boats,” she screamed. Her upper chest and throat were flushed, her lips had plumped and reddened, and her eyes had gone startlingly wide. The adrenaline rush of speed had obviously aroused her. Mercer felt it too and once again he cursed Booker’s presence. He looked over his shoulder. Booker had also noticed and he shot Mercer a cocky wink.

They stayed well out of the regular shipping lanes used by the tourist boats, so it seemed they had the lake to themselves. Mercer took lunch at the helm, enjoying the chunks of flatbread smeared with hummus Cali fed him. And while beer had first been perfected in Egypt thousands of years ago, there were no modern breweries in the Muslim country so he settled for an Italian Peroni from the fridge to wash it down.

Booker and Cali took turns spelling Mercer at the wheel as the day wore on. She’d put on loose cotton pants and a top to protect herself from the sun, a baseball cap taming her wind-tossed hair.

At six thirty they turned westward as if chasing after the sun as it sank toward the barren horizon. It painted the desert surrounding the large bay they were entering, in a hundred hues of red and purple. Mercer thought Cali looked especially beautiful in its scarlet glow.

According to the boat’s GPS the Shu’ta valley was at the end of a long bay that cut into the Nubian Desert like a dagger. The coastline was mostly sandstone bluffs that fell into the lake. There were no inhabitants in this region, no sign that anyone had ever lived here, and the sparse vegetation clinging to the hills, sage and camel thorn, could only survive by absorbing evaporation off the lake. They were entering an area as desolate as the moon and one even less well studied.

With five miles to go Mercer inexplicably throttled back the engines.

“Why are you slowing?” Cali asked.

He pointed ahead. Coming out of the sun, another boat was cutting across the water toward them. At this range it was impossible to tell what type of boat, but Mercer doubted the occupants were fishermen or tourists.

“You know that scene in horror movies where someone always says they’ve got a bad feeling about this?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

Booker came up from the galley where he was throwing together their dinner. “We there?”

“We’ve got company.”

“Poli?”

“Possibly. He had time to take pictures of the stele when Dayce’s men were tearing that village apart. And this is the last place on earth he can get his hands on natural plutonium.”

“How do you want to play this?” Book asked.

Mercer ducked below the dash so the men approaching wouldn’t see him. “Poli doesn’t know about you so maybe seeing a black face will throw them. You two are tourists just cruising the lake on your honeymoon. I’m going to hide.” He crawled to the stairs at the stern of the Riva and vanished.

Booker put his arm around Cali when the other boat was a hundred yards off. It was a twenty-five-foot speedboat painted a military gray. There were two men in uniforms aboard, and from his high vantage Booker could see they had pistol belts strapped around their waists.

One said something that was carried away by the wind, and made a gesture for Booker to cut the power. He idled the big engines to a low gurgle.

“S’up, man?” Sykes called down, sounding like a hip-hop artist.

The helmsman spoke in Arabic again.

“I ain’t diggin’ your rap, man. Speak English.”

“There is military training in area. You must leave.”

Booker looked around the deserted shoreline and said, “I don’t see no trainin’, man.”

“How many are aboard your vessel?”

“Just me and my ho.”

The two boats had drifted close enough for one of the uniformed Egyptians to leap onto the dive platform.

“What the fu’ you think you’re doin’?” Booker shouted.

The man still on the patrol boat pulled the automatic from his holster and pointed it up at Book’s head. Booker raised his hands, smiling now. “It’s cool, man. It’s cool. No need to draw down on me. You want to have a look at the boat, you take your sweet time.”

The soldier who’d jumped aboard looked through the salon, peering into closets and under beds. He checked the two shower stalls and any storage bin large enough to hide a man. And while the Riva was a large boat, its open floor plan meant his search only took a minute. He emerged once again, climbed up to the flybridge, glaring at Booker and Cali, then descended and leapt back to the patrol boat. He spoke briefly with the helmsman, shaking his head. The helmsman brought a radio to his lips and spoke for a moment.

When he was finished he shouted back up to Booker. “You will leave now.”

Booker flashed another wide smile. “You got it, bro.”

He rammed the throttles almost to their stops and spun the wheel. The powerful wake rocked the smaller Egyptian boat, forcing the two men aboard to clutch the railing to keep from being tossed overboard. Booker eased back on the power and kept his attention straight ahead while Cali surreptitiously studied the patrol craft. It lingered for a couple of minutes where they had met, presumably to make sure someone hadn’t jumped from the Riva to elude detection. It then took off in the opposite direction, to wherever they maintained their picket line.

Mercer reappeared well after they were out of range of the patrol craft. “We’re still alive, so it went okay, huh?”

“Where were you hiding?” Cali asked. “I heard the soldier check everywhere down there.”

“The garage for the inflatable on the stern. He walked right over me, didn’t even know it could open. What do you make of them?”

“They claimed they were conducting military maneuvers in the area, but they weren’t regular army.”

Cali shot him a look. “Really? Could have fooled me.”

“The Egyptian Army patterns their uniforms on the British. These guys were wearing U.S. issue BDUs and neither of them had any rank insignia and their gun belts didn’t match. Also their boat was a civilian craft painted gray. I could still see the white of her hull along the water line.”

Mercer went quiet for a moment. Their plan to sneak in and out was blown. Once again Poli had beaten him to the prize. For all he knew the one-eyed mercenary had had a team working in the desert since right after he saw the stele. They could be moments away from finding Alexander’s tomb and the deadly alembic.

“We need to see what’s going on up there.”

“Say again,” Poli repeated into his handheld radio.

“There were two people on the boat,” the patrol leader said over the crackling communications link. “A man and woman.”

“What was their nationality?”

“American.”

“Mercer,” Poli hissed under his breath. “Was the man about six feet tall, muscular but not big, with dark hair and gray eyes?”

“No. He was much bigger. Almost two meters. Very muscled. And he had black skin, a kaffir.”

Feines wasn’t sure how he felt. In a way, he was disappointed it wasn’t Mercer. Surely he had realized the significance of the stele and gone back to photograph it and have the writing translated. That would lead him straight here. Could it be the American had given up?

“You’re sure no one else was aboard?” he asked to the guard out on the lake.

“Yes, Tawfiq searched very careful.”

“Okay, let them go and tell them not to return.”

“Yes, sir.”

Poli clipped the radio back onto his belt. Around him was a small tent city, housing for the fifty workers and guards Mohammad bin Al-Salibi had arranged. Most were Saudis or Iraqis who’d been trained at Al Qaida camps in Pakistan and Syria. Poli had gained their fear if not their respect his first day here when one of the guards spat at his feet when he was given an order. Feines had summarily shot the man on the spot, telling the others through his translator that the guard hadn’t been a martyr, just an insolent fool who should have seen Poli as an ally, not the enemy.

When it became clear that the attack on Novorossiysk had failed to produce the desired results, Salibi had practically begged for Poli to find the Alembic of Skenderbeg for him. The Saudi’s pleas did nothing to move him, but with the promise of an additional twenty million dollars Feines had agreed, telling Salibi that there were no guarantees.