Sahara dpa-11 Read online

  There was nothing in Pitt's expression to suggest lust. He stared at the performance with a detached sort of curiosity. Eva walked up behind him and placed her hand on his elbow. "You like her?" she asked, smiling.

  Pitt turned and looked down at her through the greenest eyes she had ever seen. His lips raised in a slight crooked grin that Eva found devastating. "She does make a statement."

  "Is she your type?"

  "No, I prefer quiet, intelligent women."

  His voice was deep with a mellow quality, she thought. She smelled a faint aroma of men's cologne, not the pungent variety brewed by French perfume companies for fashion designers' private labels, but a more masculine scent. "I hope I can take that as a compliment."

  "You may."

  She flushed, and her eyes unconsciously lowered. "I have an early-morning flight tomorrow, so I should get to bed early." God, this is awful, she thought. I'm acting like a girl meeting her date for a freshman prom.

  "A great pity. I'd planned to stay out all night and show you every den of iniquity and sin pot in Cairo. All the exotic spots unfrequented by tourists."

  "Are you serious?"

  Pitt laughed. "Not really. Actually, I thought it wise if we dine in your hotel and stay off the streets. Your friends might have it in their heads to try again."

  She looked around the crowded lobby. "The hotel is packed. We'll be lucky to get a table."

  "I have reservations," Pitt said, taking her by the hand and leading her into the elevator that rose to the posh restaurant on the top floor of the hotel.

  Like most women, Eva liked a take-charge man. She also liked the way he kept his light but firm grip on her hand on the ride up to the restaurant.

  The maitre d' showed them to a table beside a window with a spectacular view of Cairo and the Nile. A universe of lights sparkled in the evening haze. The bridges over the river were jammed with honking autos that fanned out on the streets and mingled with the horse-drawn delivery wagons and tourist carriages.

  "Unless you prefer a cocktail," said Pitt, "I suggest that we stay with wine."

  Eva nodded and flashed a satisfied smile. "Fine by me. Why don't you order the courses as well?"

  "I love an adventurous soul," he smiled. He studied the wine list briefly. "We'll try a bottle of Grenaclis Village."

  "Very good," the waiter said. "One of our best local dry white wines."

  Pitt then ordered an appetizer dip of ground sesame seeds with eggplant, a yogurt dish called leban zabadi, and a tray of pickled vegetables with a basket of whole-wheat pita bread.

  After the wine came and was poured, Pitt raised his glass. "Here's to a safe and successful field expedition. May you find all the answers."

  "And to your river survey," she said as they clinked glasses. Then a curious expression came into her eyes. "Just what is it you're looking for?"

  "Ancient shipwrecks. One in particular. A funeral barge."

  "Sounds fascinating. Anybody I know?"

  "A pharaoh of Old Kingdom called Menkura or Mycerinus, if you prefer the Greek spelling. He reigned during the Fourth Dynasty and built the smallest of the three pyramids at Giza."

  "Wasn't he entombed in his pyramid?"

  "In 1830 a British army colonel found a body in a sarcophagus inside the burial chamber, but analysis of the remains proved it came from either the Greek or Roman periods."

  The appetizers were brought and they looked down at them with happy anticipation. They dipped fried slices of eggplant into the sesame seed dip and relished the pickled vegetables. While the waiter stood by, Pitt ordered the main course.

  "Why do you think Menkura is in the river?" asked .Eva.

  ` Hieroglyphic inscriptions on a stone that was recently discovered at an old quarry near Cairo show that his funeral barge caught fire and sank in the river between the ancient capital of Memphis and his pyramid tomb at Giza. The stone indicates his true sarcophagus, complete with his mummy and a vast amount of gold, was never recovered."

  The yogurt arrived, thick and creamy. Eva stared at it hesitantly.

  "Try it," goaded Pitt. "Not only will leban zabadi spoil your taste for American yogurt, but it straightens out the intestines."

  "Curdles, you mean." She played dainty and jabbed her tongue at a minute scoop in her spoon. Impressed, she began putting it away in earnest. "So what happens if you find the barge? Do you get to keep the gold?"

  "Hardly," Pitt replied. "Once our detection instruments have a promising target, we mark the site and turn the position over to archaeologists from the Egyptian Organization of Antiquities. After they obtain the necessary funding, their people will excavate, or in this case, dredge for artifacts."

  "Isn't the wreck just sitting on the bottom of the river?" Eva asked.

  Pitt shook his head. "The silt of forty-five centuries has covered and buried all remains."

  "How deep do you think it lies?"

  "Can't say with any accuracy. Egyptian historical and geological records indicate that the main channel on the section of river we're searching has moved about 100 meters east since 2400 B.C. If she's on dry land near a bank she could be anywhere from 3 to 10 meters beneath sand and mud."

  "I'm glad I listened to you, this yogurt is good."

  The waiter appeared deftly carrying a large silver tray with oval serving dishes. A spicy ground lamb cooked on skewers and crayfish grilled over charcoal were served along with a stewed kind of spinach green and a richly seasoned pilaf of beef, rice, raisins, and nuts. After consulting with the waiter who was so attentive he was downright patronizing, Pitt ordered a few pungent sauces for their entrees.

  "So what sort of strange maladies are you going to investigate in the desert?" Pitt asked, as the steaming delights were dished onto their plates.

  "Reports from Mali and Nigeria are too sketchy to make snap judgments. There have been rumors of the usual symptoms of toxic poisoning. Birth defects, convulsions or fits, coma and death. And also reports of psychiatric disorders and bizarre behavior. This Iamb is really tasty-."

  "Try one of the sauces. The fermented berry complements the Iamb."

  "What's the green one?"

  "I'm not sure. It has a sweet and hot taste. Dip the crayfish in it."

  "Delicious," Eva said. "Everything tastes wonderful. Except for the spinach-like greens. The flavor is awfully strong."

  "They call it moulukeyeh. You have to acquire a taste for it. But back to toxin poisoning. . . What sort of bizarre behavior?"

  "People tearing their hair out, beating their heads against walls, sticking their hands in fire. Running around naked like animals on their hands and knees and eating their dead as if they suddenly turned into cannibals. This rice dish is good. What do they call it?"

  "Khalta."

  "I wish I could get the recipe from the chef."

  "I think it can be arranged," Pitt said. "Did I hear you correctly? Those who are contaminated eat flesh?"

  "Their reactions depend a great deal upon their culture," said Eva, digging into the khalta. "People in the third world countries, for example, are more used to slaughtered animals than people in Europe and the United States. Oh sure, we pass a road kill now and then, but they see skinned animals hanging in the markets or watch their fathers butcher the tribal goats or sheep. Children are taught early to catch and kill rabbits, squirrels, or birds, then skin and gut them for the grill. The primitive cruelty and the sight of blood and intestines are everyday events to those who live in poverty. They have to kill to survive. Then when tiny trace amounts of deadly toxins are digested and absorbed into their bloodstream over a long period of time, their systems deteriorate-the brain, the heart and liver, the intestines, even the genetic code. Their senses are dulled and they experience schizophrenia. Disintegration of moral codes and standards takes place. They no longer function as normal humans. To them, killing and eating a relative suddenly seems as ordinary as twisting a chicken's neck and preparing it for the evening dinner. I love that sauce wi
th the chutney taste."

  "It's very good."

  "Especially with the khalta. We civilized people, on the other hand, buy nicely butchered, sliced meat in supermarkets. We don't witness cattle being brained with an electronic hammer, or sheep and pigs having their throats cut. We miss the fun part. So we're more conditioned to simply expressing fear, anxiety, and misery. A few might shoot up the landscape and kill the neighbors in a fit of madness, but we would never eat anyone."

  "What type of exotic toxin can cause those problems?" asked Pitt.

  Eva drained her wine and waited until the waiter poured another glass. "Doesn't have to be exotic. Common lead poisoning can make people do strange things. It also bursts capillaries and turns the whites of the eyes beet red."

  "Do you have room for dessert?" Pitt asked.

  "Everything is so good, I'll make room."

  "Coffee or tea?"

  "American coffee."

  Pitt motioned to the waiter who was on him like a skier attacking fresh snow. "An Um Ali for the lady and two coffees. One American, one Egyptian.'

  "What's an Um Ali?" asked Eva.

  "A hot bread pudding with milk and topped with pine nuts. Soothes the stomach after a heavy meal."

  "Sounds just right."

  Pitt leaned back in his chair, his craggy face set in concern. "You said you're catching a flight tomorrow. Do you still intend to go to Mali?"

  "Still playing the role of my protector?"

  "Traveling in the desert can be a murderous business. Heat won't be your only enemy. Someone out there is waiting to kill you and your fellow do-gooders."

  "And my knight in shining white armor won't be there to save me," she said with a tinge of sarcasm. "You don't frighten me. I can take care of myself."

  Pitt stared at her, and she could see a look of sadness in his eyes. "You're not the first woman who said that and wound up in the morgue."

  In a ballroom in another part of the hotel Dr. Frank Hopper was wrapping up a news conference. It was a good turnout. A small army of correspondents representing newspapers around the Middle East and four international wire services were besieging him with questions under a battery of lights from local Egyptian TV cameras.

  "How widespread do you believe the environmental pollution is, Dr. Hopper?" asked a lady from Reuters News Service.

  "We won't know until our teams are in the field and have a chance to study the spread."

  A man with a tape recorder waved his hand. "Do you have a source of the contamination?"

  Hopper shook his head. "At the moment we have no idea where it's coming from."

  "Any possibility it might be the French solar detoxification project in Mali?"

  Hopper walked over to a map of the southern Sahara that was hung on a large display stand and picked up a pointer. He aimed the tip at a desolate region of desert in the northern section of Mali. "The French project is located here at Fort Foureau, well over 200 kilometers from the closest area of reported contamination sickness. Too far for it to be a direct source."

  A German correspondent from Der Spiegel stood up. "Couldn't the pollution be carried by winds?"

  Hopper shook his head. "Not possible."

  "How can you be so certain?"

  "During the planning and construction stages, my fellow scientists and I at the World Health Organization were consulted every step of the way by the engineers of the Massarde Entreprises de Solaire Energie who own the facility. All hazardous waste is destroyed by solar energy and reduced to harmless vapor. The output is constantly monitored. No toxic emission is left to be carried on the wind and infect life hundreds of kilometers away."

  An Egyptian television reporter thrust a microphone forward. "Are you receiving cooperation from the desert nations you plan to enter?"

  "Most all have invited us with open arms," answered Hopper.

  "You mentioned earlier there was reluctance on the part of President Tahir of Mali to allow your research team into his country."

  "That's true, but once we're on site and demonstrate our humane intentions, I expect that he'll have a change of heart."

  "So you don't feel you are endangering lives by prying into the affairs of President Tahir's government?"

  The beginnings of anger stirred in Hopper's voice. "The real danger is malaise in the minds of his advisors. They ignore the sickness as if it doesn't exist by letting it go officially unnoticed."

  "But do you think it is safe for your team to travel about Mali freely?" asked the correspondent from Reuters.

  Hopper smiled a shrewd smile. The questions had turned in the direction he had hoped. "If tragedy should occur, I count on you, the ladies and gentlemen of the news media, to investigate and lay the wrath of the world on the doorstep of the guilty party."

  After dinner, Pitt escorted Eva to her hotel door. She fumbled with the key nervously, unsure of herself. She -certainly had the excuse, she told herself, to invite him in. She owed him, and she wanted him. But Eva played by the rules of the old school and found it difficult to leap into bed with every man who showed an interest in her, even one who had saved her life.

  Pitt noticed the faint shade of red rising from her neck into her face. He looked down into her eyes. They were as blue as a South Seas sky. He took her by the shoulders and gently pulled her to him. She tensed slightly but offered no resistance. "Postpone your flight."

  She averted her face. "I can't."

  "We may not meet again."

  "I am bound by my work."

  "And when you're free?"

  "I'll return to my family home in Pacific Grove, California."

  "A beautiful area. I've often entered a classic car in the Pebble Beach Concours d'Elegance."

  "It's lovely in June," she said, her voice suddenly trembling.

  He smiled. "Then it's you and I and the Bay of Monterey."

  It was as if they had become friends on an ocean voyage, a brief interlude that planted the seed of mutual attraction. He kissed her softly, and then stepped back. "Stay out of harm's way. I don't want to lose you."

  Then he turned and walked toward the elevators.

  For a century of centuries Egyptians and the vegetation have fought to maintain their precious toehold between the pewter-blue waters of the Nile and the yellow-brown sands of the Sahara. Winding 6500 kilometers from its headwaters in Central Africa to the Mediterranean, only the Nile of all the great rivers of the world flows north. Ancient, always present, ever alive The Nile is as alien to the arid North African landscape as it would be in the steamy atmosphere of the planet Venus.

  The hot season had arrived along the river. The heat rolled over and settled on the water like an oppressive blanket pulled from the great sprawling desert to the west. The dawn sun came over the horizon with the fiery thrust of a poker, spawning a slight breeze that felt like a blast from an open furnace.

  The serenity of the past met the technology of the present as a lateen-rigged felucca, manned by four young boys, sailed past a sleek research boat laden with state-of-the-art electronic gear. Seemingly little inconvenienced by the heat, the boys laughed and waved at the turquoise-colored boat heading on an opposite course downriver.

  Pitt lifted his eyes from the high-resolution video screen of the subbottom profiler and waved back through a large port. The oven outside bothered him not at all. The interior of the research vessel was well air conditioned, and he sat comfortably in front of the computerized detection array sipping a glass of iced tea. He watched the felucca for a few moments, almost envying the boys as they scampered about the small deck and unfurled the sail to catch the breeze blowing upriver.

  He turned his attention back to the monitor as an irregular anomaly began to creep across the screen in colored imagery. The vertical scan sensor of the subbottom profiler was recording a contact deep beneath the bottom silt below the moving water. At first it was merely an indistinct blob, but as the image was automatically enhanced the outline of an ancient ship began to materialize.


  "Target coming up," Pitt reported. "Mark it number ninety-four."

  Al Giordino punched in a code on his console. Instantly, the configuration of the river along with man-made landmarks and natural features behind the shoreline flashed into view on an on-line graphics display. Another code and the satellite laser-positioning system pinpointed with precise accuracy the image's exact position as it related to the surrounding landscape.

  "Number ninety-four plotted and recorded," Giordino acknowledged.

  Short, dark, and as compact as a barrel of concrete, Albert Giordino gazed through twinkling walnut eyes that sat under a wild mane of curly black hair. Give him a flowing beard and a sack of toys, Pitt often thought, and Giordino could have played a young version of an Etruscan Santa Claus.

  Tremendously fast for a muscular man, he could fight like a tiger, and yet suffer the agonies of the damned if he was forced into conversing with women. Giordino and Pitt went back to high school together, played football at the Air Force Academy, and served in the final days of Vietnam. At one point in their service careers, at the request of Admiral James Sandecker, Chief Director of the National Underwater and Marine Agency, they were loaned out to NUMA on temporary status, a condition that had now stretched into nine years.

  Neither man could remember how many times one had saved the life of the other, or at least prevented a very embarrassing situation that usually resulted out of some sort of devious mischief. Yet their escapades above and below the sea had become legendary, resulting in a certain amount of fame neither relished.

  Pitt bent forward and focused on a digital isometric screen. The computer rotated the three-dimensional image, displaying the buried ship in amazing detail. The image and dimensions were recorded and communicated to a data processor where they were compared with known data of ancient Egyptian Nile boats. In a few seconds the computer analyzed a profile and made its call. Data on the vessel's construction blinked across the bottom of the screen.

  "What we've got here seems to be a cargo vessel from the Sixth Dynasty," Pitt read out. "Built somewhere between 2000 and 2200 B.C."