"Thank you, Colonel. Over and out."
Grimes set up shop in the house of the dead man Eva had discovered. It was the largest and cleanest of any building in the village. He performed pathology on the corpse found in the bedroom while Eva carried out blood tests. Hopper did chemical analysis of several wells that produced the town's meager water supply. The other members of the team began analyzing tissue and bone samples from a random selection of the dead. In one large storage house behind the market center, they found the trashed Land Rovers from the safari whose members had been massacred. They put the vehicles into service shuttling supplies back and forth between the village and the aircraft while Captain Batutta wandered about, making himself generally useless.
The stench of the dead was too overpowering for sleep, so they worked through the night and into the next evening before taking a break. Camp was set up around the aircraft. After a brief sleep, dinner of packaged, condensed beef stew, the World Health team sat around an oil heater to ward off the 60-degree drop in temperature from the desert's daily high of 44 degrees C (111 degrees F). Batutta played congenial host and brewed them a pungent African tea, listening intently while everyone relaxed and compared notes.
Hopper puffed his pipe to life and nodded at Warren Grimes. "Suppose you begin, Warren. And give us a report of your examination of the only decent body we found."
Grimes took a clipboard from one of his assistants and studied it for a moment under the glare of a Coleman lantern. "In all my years of experience, I've never seen so many complications in one human. Reddish discoloration of the eyes, both the iris and the whites. Skin tissue an extreme flushed, bronze color. Greatly enlarged spleen. Blood clots in the vessels of the heart, the brain, and extremities. Kidneys damaged. Heavy scarring in the liver and pancreas. Very high hemoglobin. Degeneration of fatty tissue. No wonder these people ran amok and ate each other. Put all the disorders together and you could easily produce uncontrolled psychosis."
"Uncontrolled?" asked Eva.
"The victim slowly went mad as the conditions increased, especially damage to the brain, and he eventually went berserk, as evidenced by the signs of cannibalism. In my humble estimation it's a miracle he lived as long as he did."
"Your diagnostic conclusion?" Hopper probed.
"Death by massive polycythemia vera, a disease of unknown cause whose symptoms are increased numbers of red blood cells and hemoglobin in the circulation. In this case a massive infusion of red blood cells that produced irreparable damage to the victim's internal systems. And because blood-clotting factors were not created in enough amounts for heart stoppage and stroke, hemorrhages occurred throughout the body, becoming especially visible in the skin and eyes. It is as though he was injected with massive doses of vitamin B-12, which as you all know is essential in the development of red blood cells."
Hopper turned to Eva. "You did the blood testing. What about the cells themselves? Did they maintain their normal flat, round shapes with depressed centers?"
Eva shook her head. "No, they were formed like none I've ever seen before. Almost triangular with spore-like projections. As Dr. Hopper stated, their number was incredibly high. There are roughly 5.2 million red cells per cubic millimeter of blood in the average adult human. Our victim's blood carried three times that number."
Grimes said, "I might add that I also discovered evidence of arsenic poisoning, which would have also killed him sooner or later."
Eva nodded. "I confirmed Warren's diagnosis. Above normal concentrations of arsenic were found in the blood samples. Also, the cobalt level went off scale."
"Cobalt?" Hopper straightened in his camp chair.
"Not surprising," said Grimes. "Vitamin B-12 contains almost 4.5 percent cobalt."
"Both of your findings pretty well back the results of my analysis of the community wells," said Hopper. "There was enough arsenic and cobalt in a common cup of water to choke a camel."
"The underground water table," said Eva, staring into the glow from the heater. "The flow must have slowly worked itself through a geologic deposit of cobalt and arsenic."
"If I recall my university geology class," Hopper said, thinking back, "a common arsenide is niccolite, a mineral often associated with cobalt."
"Still only the tip of the iceberg," cautioned Grimes. "Both elements combined were not enough to cause this mess. Some other substance or compound acted as a catalyst with the cobalt and arsenic to push the level of toxicity beyond tolerant bounds and mushroomed the red cell count, one we missed."
"And mutated them as well," Eva added.
"Not to muddy the mystery any worse than it already is," said Hopper. "But something else turned up in my analysis. I found very high traces of radioactivity."
"Interesting," Grimes said lukewarmly. "But if anything, long exposure to above normal radiation levels would have lowered the red cell count. I saw nothing during my examination to suggest chronic effects of radioactivity."
"Suppose the radiation penetrated the well water only recently?" Eva offered.
"A distinct possibility," admitted Grimes. "But we're still left with the enigma of an unknown killer substance."
"Our equipment is limited," Hopper shrugged. "If we're looking at a new strain of bacteria or some combinations of exotic chemicals, we may not be able to totally identify the causes here. We'll have to take samples back to our laboratory in Paris."
"A synthetic by-product," Eva murmured thoughtfully. Then she made a sweeping gesture around the desert. "Where can it possibly come from? Certainly not from around here."
"The hazardous waste disposal at Fort Foureau?" Grimes advanced.
Hopper studied the bowl of his pipe. "Two hundred kilometers northwest. A bit far to carry a contaminant against prevailing winds and deposit it in the town wells. And that doesn't explain the high radiation levels. The Fort Foureau facility is not designed to accept radioactive waste. Besides, the hazardous materials are all burned, so there is no way they could penetrate an underground water supply and then be carried this far without having any deadly chemicals absorbed into the soil."
"Okay," said Eva. "What's our next step?"
"Pack up and fly to Cairo and then on to Paris with our samples. We'll take our prime specimen also. Wrap him good and keep him cool and he should remain in decent shape until we get him bedded down in ice in Cairo."
Eva nodded. "I agree. The sooner we perform our research under proper conditions, the better."
Hopper turned and stared at Batutta who had said nothing but sat listening, pretending indifference while a tape recorder under his shirt monitored every word.
"Captain Batutta."
"Dr. Hopper."
"We have decided to push on to Egypt first thing in the morning. Is this agreeable with you?"
Batutta flashed a wide smile and twisted one end of his moustache. "I regret I must stay behind and report to my superiors on the plight of the village. You are free to continue to Cairo."
"We can't just leave you here."
"There is plenty of gas in the vehicles. I will simply take one of the Land Rovers and drive back to Timbuktu."
"That's a 400-kilometer trek. You know the way?"
"I was born and bred in the desert," Batutta said. "I will leave at sunrise and be in Timbuktu by nightfall."
"Will our change of plan place you in any difficulty with Colonel Mansa?" asked Grimes.
"My orders were to serve you," Batutta said patronizingly. "Do not give it another thought. I am only sorry I cannot accompany you to Cairo."
"That settles it," said Hopper, rising from his chair. "We'll load up our equipment first thing in the morning and take off for Egypt."
As the meeting broke up and the scientists headed for their tents, Batutta lingered by the heater. He switched off the concealed tape recorder, and then raised a flashlight and blinked it twice at the cockpit window. A minute later the chief pilot climbed down the boarding ladder and approached Batutta.
"You s
ignaled?" he said softly.
"The foreign pigs are leaving tomorrow," replied Batutta.
"I must radio Tebezza and alert them of our arrival."
"And remind them to give Dr. Hopper and his people a proper greeting."
The chief pilot winced knowingly. "A disgusting place, Tebezza. Once the passengers are in custody, I don't plan to spend any more time on the ground than necessary."
"Your orders are to fly back to the airport at Bamako," said Batutta.
"Gladly." The chief pilot made a brief bow of his head. "Good night, Captain."
Eva had taken a short walk to enjoy the clear air and the carpet of stars across the sky. She returned in time to see the pilot walk toward the aircraft, leaving Batutta alone by the heater.
Too compliant and far too eager to please, she mused. There's going to be trouble. She shook her head as if to cast off the thought. There you go again with your suspicious female nature. What can he do to stop them? Once in the air there would be no turning back. They would be free of the horror and on their way to a more friendly and open society. She took satisfaction in knowing she would never return. And yet something deep inside, her intuition perhaps, cautioned her not to feel too secure.
<<17>>
"How long have they been on our tail?" Giordino asked, rubbing three hours of sleep from his eyes and focusing on the image emanating within the radar screen.
"I spotted them about 75 kilometers back, just after we passed into Malian territory," answered Pitt. He stood to one side of the wheel, casually steering with his right hand.
"You get a look at their armament?"
"No, the boat was concealed 100 meters up a branch of the river. I caught a hard reflection on the surface radar that looked suspicious. Soon as we passed out of sight around a bend, they pulled into the channel and began chasing our wake."
"Might be only a routine patrol."
"Routine patrols don't hide under camouflaged netting."
Giordino studied the distance scale on the radar. "They're making no attempt to narrow the gap."
"Just biding their time."
"Poor old gunboat," Giordino said sorrowfully. "It doesn't know it's about to go to that great scrap yard in the sky."
"Sad to say, there are complications," said Pitt slowly. "The gunboat isn't the only bloodhound on the scent."
"They have friends?"
"The Malian military has thrown out the steel welcome mat." Pitt twisted his body and looked up at the flawless blue, afternoon sky that was barren of clouds. "A flight of Malian fighter jets is circling the sky to the east of us."
Giordino caught sight of them at once. The blazing sun glinted off their cockpit canopies. "French Mirage fighters, the newer modified model, I reckon. Six-no, seven of them-less than 6 kilometers away."
Pitt twisted again and pointed across the river to the west. "And that dust cloud beyond that range of hills running along the shoreline. That belongs to a convoy of armored cars." '
"How many?" Giordino asked as he mentally inventoried his remaining missiles.
"I counted four when they raced across a stretch of open ground."
"No tanks?"
"Our speed is 30 knots. Tanks couldn't keep up with us."
"We won't be surprising anyone this time," said Giordino matter-of-factly. "Word of our bite has preceded us."
"An obvious deduction judging by their reluctance to come within our effective range."
"The question that comes to mind is when will old what's-his-name-"
"Zateb Kazim?"
"Whoever," Giordino shrugged indifferently. "When will he sound the charge?"
"If he's smarter than that comic strip Admiral of the Benin navy, and he wants to confiscate the Calliope for his own pleasure, all he has to do is wait us out. Eventually, we'll run out of river."
"And fuel."
"That too."
Pitt went silent and gazed at the wide, lazy Niger wandering through the sandy plain. The yellow-gold sun was creeping toward the horizon as blue and white storks winged the hot afternoon air or strolled the shallows on long stick-like legs. A school of Nile perch leaped in the air and sparkled like miniature fireworks as the Calliope chased them over the placid water. A pinnace glided past on its way downriver, hull stained black with colorful painted designs on its double-ender bow and stern, its sail barely filled under a whisper of wind. A few of the crew slept on a cargo of rice sacks under a frayed awning while others poled with the current. All was serene and picturesque. Pitt found it hard to believe death and destruction skirted their course up the river.
Giordino broke Pitt's revery. "Didn't you mention that woman you met in Egypt was going to Mali?"
Pitt nodded. "She's connected with the UN team from the World Health Organization. They were flying to Mali to investigate a strange epidemic that had broken out among the desert villages."
"Too bad you can't rendezvous with her," said Giordino, smiling. "You could sit under a desert moon with your arm around her, whisper of your exploits in her ear, and sift sand."
"If that's your idea of a hot date, no wonder you bat zero."
"How else can you entertain a geologist?"
"Biochemist," Pitt corrected him.
Giordino's expression suddenly turned serious. "Did it ever occur to you that she and her scientist buddies might be looking for the same toxin we are?"
"The thought crossed my mind."
At that moment Rudi Gunn hustled up from his lab below, his face haggard but broken by a wide grin. "Got it," he announced triumphantly.
Giordino looked at him, not comprehending.
"Got what?"
Gunn didn't answer. He just smiled and smiled.
Pitt knew almost immediately. "You found it?"
"The glop that's exciting the red tides?" Giordino muttered.
Gunn nodded.
Pitt pumped his hand. "Congratulations, Rudi."
"I was almost ready to give up," said Gunn. "But my negligence opened the door. I've been putting hundreds of water samples through the gas chromatograph, and haven't been checking on the inner workings as often as I should. When I finally took a look at the results, I found a coating of cobalt inside the instrument's test column. I was shocked to see a metal was being extracted with synthetic organic pollutants and finding its way into the gas chromatograph. After frantic hours of experiments, modifications, and tests, I identified an exotic organometallic compound that's a combination of an altered synthetic amino acid and cobalt."
"Sounds Greek to me," shrugged Giordino. "What's an amino acid?"
"The stuff proteins are made of."
"How can it get in the river?" asked Pitt.
"Can't say," replied Gunn. "My guess is the synthetic amino acid came from a genetic engineering biotechnology laboratory whose wastes are being dumped along with chemical and nuclear wastes at the source area. For it to naturally mix into the vicious pollutant that's causing the red tides after reaching the sea seems remote. I believe it's forming at a common location."
"Could it be a dump site with nuclear waste too?"
Gunn nodded. "I'm finding fairly high readings of radiation in the water. It's only another portion of the overall pollution and has no relation to our contaminant's qualities, but there is a definite connection."
Pitt didn't reply but looked again into the radar screen at the image of the gunboat, still out of eyesight astern. If anything, it had dropped farther back. He turned and scanned the sky for the fighter jets. They were still lazily clawing at the sky, conserving their fuel while keeping a distant watch over the Calliope. The river had widened to several kilometers and he lost sight of the armored cars.
"Our job is only half done," he said. "The next exercise is to target where the toxin enters the Niger. The Malians don't seem in any hurry to harass us. So we'll continue our survey upstream and attempt to wrap this thing up before they slam the door."
"With our data transmission system kaput, how do we get th
e results to Chapman and Sandecker?" asked Giordino.
"I'll figure something."
Gunn placed his trust in Pitt without hesitation. He nodded without speaking and returned to his cabin lab.
Pitt thankfully turned over the helm to Giordino while he stretched out on a deck mat under the cockpit canopy and caught up on his lost sleep.
When he woke up, the sun's orange ball was a third down over the horizon, and yet the air felt 10 degrees warmer. A quick check of the radar showed the gunboat was still dogging their stern, but the watchdog fighter jets were on a course back to their base to refuel. They were getting cocky, Pitt surmised. The Malians must have thought their quarry was in the bag. Why else would the fighters depart without being relieved by another flight? As he rose to his feet and stretched his arms and shoulders, Giordino handed him a mug of coffee.
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