Sahara dpa-11 Read online

  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 gr
oup 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.