Sahara (47 page)

The needle on the temperature gauge wavered and hung a millimeter off the red boiling mark, but the radiator showed no sign of leaking steam. They stopped every half hour now, as Pitt sighted direction from what little sun shone through the dust cloud and allowed the pipe to cast a faint shadow.

He opened one of the canisters of water and offered it to Giordino. “Liquid refreshment time.”

“How much?” asked Giordino.

“We’ll split it. That will give us half a liter each with one in reserve for tomorrow.”

Giordino steered with his knees as he gauged his share of the water and then drank. He passed the canister back to Pitt. “O’Bannion must have set his dogs on the trail by now.”

“Driving the same make and model truck, they won’t close the gap unless they’ve got a Formula One, Grand Prix champion driver at the wheel. Their only advantage is having extra fuel on board to continue the chase after we’ve run dry.”

“Why didn’t we think of loading on reserves?”

“There were no gas storage drums around the truck parking area. I looked. They must have stored them el where, and we didn’t have time to spare for a search.”

“O’Bannion just might whistle up a whirlybird,” Giordino said as he down-shifted to crawl over a low dune.

“Fort Foureau and the Malian military are his only sources for a helicopter. And my guess is the last people he’ll call on for help are Kazim and Massarde. He knows damn well they wouldn’t look kindly on his losing public enemies one and two only a few hours after we were placed in his tender and loving care.”

“You don’t think O’Bannion’s posse can hunt us down before we cross into Algeria?”

“They can’t follow us through a sandstorm any more than a Mountie can track his man through a blizzard.” Pitt tilted a thumb over his shoulder out the rear window. “No tracks.”

Giordino looked into a sideview mirror and saw the wind sweep the sand over the tire tracks as if the truck was a small boat on a vast sea that closed over its wake. He relaxed and slouched in his seat. “You don’t know what a pleasure it is to travel with a Pollyanna.”

“Don’t write off O’Bannion just yet. If they reach the Trans-Saharan Track first and patrol back and forth until we appear, the show is over.”

Pitt finished off the canister and tossed it in the back with the Tuareg guard who had become conscious and was sitting with his back against the tailgate of the truck, glaring at the men inside the cab.

“How’s the gas?” Pitt asked.

“Almost on fumes.”

“Time to throw out a red herring. Bring the truck around on a reverse heading toward the west. Then come to a stop.”

Giordino dutifully did what he was ordered, twisted the wheel, and braked to a halt. “Now we walk?”

“Now we walk. But first, bring the guard up front and check the truck for any item that might prove useful, like doth to wrap our heads to prevent sunstroke.”

A strange combination of fear and menace burned in the guard’s eyes as they propped him in the front seat, cut strips from his robe and headdress, and then bound him tightly so his hands and feet could not touch the steering wheel or floor pedals.

They foraged through the truck, finding a few oily rags and two wash towels that they fashioned into turbans. The guns were left behind, buried in the sand. Then Pitt tied the steering wheel so it couldn’t turn and shifted the truck into second gear and jumped from the cab. The faithful Renault lurched forward carrying its trussed-up passenger and bounced back toward Tebezza until it became lost in the blowing sand.

“You’re giving him a better chance to live than he’d have given us,” Giordino protested.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Pitt said mildly.

“How far do you figure we have to hike?”

“About 180 kilometers,” Pitt answered as if it was a short jaunt.

“That’s almost 112 miles on one liter of water that wouldn’t grow cactus,” Giordino complained. He stared critically into the turbulent wind-blown sand. “I just know my poor old tired bones are going to bleach in the sand.”

“Look on the bright side,” said Pitt, tucking in his crude turban. “You can breathe the pure, open air, bask in the silence, commune with nature. No smog, no traffic, no crowds. What can be more invigorating for the soul?”

“A bottle of cold beer, a hamburger, and a bath,” Giordino sighed.

Pitt held up four fingers. “Four days, and you’ll get your wish.”

“How are you at desert survival?” Giordino asked hopefully.

“I went on a weekend camping trip with the Boy Scouts in the Mojave Desert when I was twelve.”

Giordino shook his head sadly. “That certainly eases all thoughts of anxiety.”

Pitt took another direction reading. Then using his compass pipe for a staff, he bent his head against the wind and sand and began walking toward what he determined was east. Giordino hooked a hand in Pitt’s belt so they wouldn’t lose each other in a sudden, blinding wall of sand and trudged along behind.

40

The closed-door meeting at the UN headquarters began at ten o’clock in the morning and lasted well past midnight. Twenty-five of the world’s leading ocean and atmospheric scientists along with another thirty biologists, toxicologists, and contamination experts sat in rapt attention as Hala Kamil made a short opening address before turning over the secret conference to Admiral Sandecker who kicked off the proceedings by revealing the scope of the ecological disaster.

Sandecker then introduced Dr. Darcy Chapman who lectured the assembly on the chemistry of the prolific red tides. He was followed by Rudi Gunn with an update on the contamination data. Hiram Yaeger rounded out the briefing by displaying satellite photos of the spreading tide and providing statistics on its projected growth.

The information session lasted until two o’clock in the afternoon. When Yaeger sat down and Sandecker returned to the podium, there was a strange silence in place of the normal protests by scientists who seldom agreed with each other’s theories and revelations. Fortunately, twelve of those in attendance were already aware of the extraordinary growth of the tides and had launched studies of their own. They elected a spokesperson who announced findings that supported the results accumulated by the men from NUMA. Those few who had refused to accept a catastrophic disaster in the making now came around and endorsed Sandecker’s dire warning.

The final program on the agenda was to form committees and research teams to commit their resources and cooperation in sharing information toward the goal of halting and reversing the threat of human extinction.

Though she knew it was a futile plea, Hala Kamil returned to the podium and begged the scientists to not speak to members of the news media until the situation had attained a measure of control. The last thing they needed, she implored, was worldwide panic.

Kamil closed the meeting with an announcement of the time for the next conference to assimilate new information and report on progress toward a solution. There was no polite applause. The scientists filed up the aisles in groups, talking in unusually quiet voices and motioning with their hands as they exchanged viewpoints in their respective areas of expertise.

Sandecker sank wearily in a chair on the rostrum. His face was lined and tired but splendidly etched with strength of will and determination. He felt at last that he had turned the corner and was no longer pleading a case before deaf and hostile ears.

“It was a magnificent presentation,” said Hala Kamil.

Sandecker half rose from his chair as she sat down beside him. “I hope it did the job.”

Hala nodded and smiled. “You’ve inspired the top minds in the ocean and environmental sciences to discover a solution before it’s too late.”

“Informed maybe, but hardly inspired.”

She shook her head. “You’re wrong, Admiral. They all grasped the urgency. The enthusiasm to tackle the threat was written in their faces.”

“None of this would have happened if not for you. It took a woman’s foresight to recognize the danger.”

“What looked obvious to me, seemed absurd to others,” she said quietly.

“I feel better now that the debate and controversy are over and we can concentrate Our efforts to stop this thing.”

“The next problem we face is keeping it a secret. The story will most certainly go public within forty-eight hours.”

“An invasion by an army of reporters is almost inevitable,” Sandecker nodded. “Scientists aren’t exactly noted for keeping a tight lip.”

Hala stared out over the now empty auditorium. The spirit of cooperation was far above anything she’d seen in the General Assembly. Maybe there was hope after all for a world divided by so many ethnic cultures and languages.

“What are your plans now?” she asked.

Sandecker shrugged. “Get Pitt and Giordino out of Mali.”

“How long has it been since they were arrested at the solar waste project?”

“Four days.”

“Any word of their fate?”

“None I’m afraid. Our intelligence is weak in that part of the world, and we have no idea where they were taken.”

“If they’ve fallen into Kazim’s hands I fear the worst.”

Sandecker could not bring himself to accept Pitt and Giordino’s loss. He changed the subject. “Have investigators found any sign of foul play in the deaths of your World Health inspection team?”

For a moment she did not answer. “They’re still probing through the wreckage of the plane,” she finally said. “But preliminary reports say there is no evidence the crash was caused by a bomb. So far it’s a mystery.”

“There were no survivors?”

“No, Dr. Hopper and his entire team were killed along with the flight crew.”

“Hard to believe Kazim wasn’t behind it.”

“He is an evil man,” Hala said, her face somber and thoughtful. “I too think he was responsible. Dr. Hopper must have discovered something about the plague that is sweeping Mali, something Kazim could not allow to be revealed, especially among foreign governments that provide him with aid.”

“Hopefully, Pitt and Giordino will have the answers.”

She looked at Sandecker, an expression of sympathy in her eyes. “You must face the very real possibility that they are already dead, executed on Kazim’s orders.”

The weariness seemed to fall off Sandecker like a discarded overcoat as a grim smile touched his lips. “No,” he said slowly, “I’ll never accept Pitt’s death, not until I make a positive identification myself. He’s come back from the dead on any number of occasions with uncanny regularity.”

Hala took Sandecker’s hand in hers. “Let us pray that he can do it again.”

Felix Verenne was waiting at the Gao airport when Ismail Yerli came down the boarding stairs. “Welcome back to Mali,” he said, extending a hand. “I hear you spent time here some years ago.”

Yerli did not smile as he took the offered hand. “Sorry for arriving late, but the Massarde Enterprises plane you sent to pick me up in Paris had mechanical problems.”

“So I heard. I would have ordered another plane, but you had already departed on an Air Afrique flight.”

“I was under the impression Mr. Massarde wanted me here as soon as possible.”

Verenne nodded. “You were informed by Bordeaux as to your assignment?”

“I’m well aware, of course, of the unfortunate investigations by the United Nations and the National Underwater and Marine Agency, but Bordeaux only insinuated that my job was to become chummy with General Kazim and prevent him from interfering with Mr. Massarde’s operations.”

“The idiot has blundered this whole contamination inspection thing. It’s a wonder the world news media hasn’t gotten wind of it.”

“Are Hopper and his team dead?”

“Might as well be. They’re laboring as slaves in a secret gold mining operation of Mr. Massarde’s in the deepest part of the Sahara.”

“And the NUMA intruders?”

“They were also captured and sent to the mines.”

“Then you and Mr. Massarde have everything under control.”

“The reason Mr. Massarde sent for you. To prevent any more fiascos by Kazim.”

“Where do I go from here?” asked Yerli.

“To Fort Foureau for instructions from Massarde himself. He’ll arrange an introduction with Kazim, glorifying the horrifying little man with your intelligence accomplishments. Kazim has a fetish for spy novels. He’ll leap at the opportunity to use your services, unknowing you will be reporting his every movement and action to Mr. Massarde.”

“How far is Fort Foureau?”

“A two-hour flight by helicopter. Come along, we’ll pick up your luggage and be on our way.”

Like the Japanese who conducted their business without buying products manufactured by the nations they hustled, Massarde only hired French engineers and construction workers as well as using French-manufactured equipment and transportation. The French-built Ecureuil helicopter was a mate to the one Pitt crashed in the Niger River. Verenne had the copilot collect Yerli’s bags and deposit, them on board.

As he and the expressionless Turk settled in comfortable leather chairs, a steward served hors d’oeuvres and champagne.

“A bit fancy aren’t we?” asked Yerli. “Do you always throw out the red carpet for ordinary visitors?”

“Mr. Massarde’s orders,” replied Verenne stiffly. “He abhors the American practice of offering soft drinks, beer, and nuts. He insists that as Frenchmen we demonstrate refined taste in keeping with French culture, regardless of the status of our visitors.”

Yerli held up his glass of champagne. “To Yves Massarde, may he never cease being generous.”

“To our boss,” said Verenne. “May he never stop his generosity to those who are loyal.”

Yerli downed his glass with an indifferent shrug of his shoulders and held it out for a refill. “Any feedback on your operations at Fort Foureau from environmentalist groups?”

“Not really. They’re in a bit of a quandary. They applaud our self-sufficient solar energy design, but they’re scared to death of what burning toxic wastes will do to the desert air.”

Yerli studied the bubbles in his champagne glass. “You are certain the secret of Fort Foureau is still safe? What if European and American governments get wind of the real operation?”