Sahara

by Clive Cussler

  General Hugo Bock was a far-seeing man who planned accordingly. A soldier who possessed a remarkable variety of skills, he was a born killer. Bock was senior commander of a little-known security force called UNICRATT, the abbreviation for United Nations International Critical Response and Tactical Team. Highly trained and extremely capable fighters, the team was composed of men from nine countries who performed undercover missions for the United Nations that were never publicized. Bock had led a distinguished career in the German army, constantly on the move as an advisor to third world countries whose governments requested his services during revolutionary wars or conflicts over border disputes.

  His second-in-command was Colonel Marcel Levant, a highly decorated veteran of the French Foreign Legion. There was an old-fashioned aristocratic quality about him. A graduate of Saint Cyr, France's foremost military college, he had served around the world and was a hero of the short desert war against Iraq in 1991. His face was intelligent, even handsome. Although he was almost thirty-six years old, his slim build, long brown hair, a large but neatly clipped moustache, and large gray eyes made him appear only recently emerged from a university graduation ceremony.

  "Do you have their location?" Levant asked Sandecker.

  "I do," answered Sandecker. "One is attempting to smuggle himself on board a plane at the Gao airport. The other two are on a houseboat in the Niger River belonging to Yves Massarde."

  Levant's eyes widened at hearing the name. "Ah yes, the Scorpion."

  "You know him?" asked Bock.

  "Only by reputation. Yves Massarde is an international entrepreneur who amassed a fortune estimated to be around two billion American dollars. He's called the Scorpion because a number of his competitors and business partners mysteriously disappeared, leaving him the sole proprietor of several large and very profitable corporations. He's considered quite ruthless, not to mention an embarrassment to the French government. Your friends couldn't have picked worse company."

  "Does he carry out criminal activities?" asked Sandecker.

  "Most definitely, but he leaves no evidence that would convict him in a court of law. Friends in Interpol tell me they have a file on him a meter thick."

  "Of all the people in the Sahara," murmured Bock, "how did your people run into him?"

  "If you knew Dirk Pitt and Al Giordino," Sandecker shrugged wearily, "you'd understand."

  "I'm still at a loss why Secretary General Kamil approved an operation to smuggle your NUMA people out of Mali," said Bock. "Missions by our UN Critical Response and Tactical Team are usually undertaken in deep secrecy during times of international crisis. I fail to see why saving the lives of three NUMA researchers is so crucial."

  Sandecker looked Bock straight in the eye. "Believe me, General, you'll never have a mission more important than this one. The scientific data these men have gathered in West Africa must be brought to our labs in Washington at the first opportunity. Our government, for stupid reasons known only to God, refuses to become involved. Hala Kamil, thankfully, saw the urgency of the situation and sanctioned your mission."

  "May I ask what sort of data?" Levant queried Sandecker.

  The Admiral shook his head. "I can't tell you."

  "Is this a classified matter concerning only the United States?"

  "No, it concerns every man, woman, and child who walks the earth."

  Bock and Levant exchanged quizzical glances.

  After a moment Bock turned back to Sandecker. "You stated that your men have split up. This factor makes a successful operation extremely difficult. We run a high risk by dividing our force."

  "Are you telling me you can't get all my men out?" asked Sandecker incredulously.

  "What General Bock is saying," explained Levant, "is that we double the risk by attempting two missions simultaneously. The element of surprise is cut in half. As an example, we stand a far greater chance of success by concentrating our force on removing the two men off Massarde's houseboat because we don't expect it to be secured by heavily armed military guards. And, we can determine the exact location. The airport is a different story. We have no idea where your man. . ."

  "Rudi Gunn," Sandecker offered. "His name is Rudi Gunn."

  "Where Gunn is hiding," Levant continued. "Our team would have to waste precious time searching him out. Also, the field is used by the Malian air force as well as commercial airliners. Military security runs around the clock. Anyone attempting to escape the country from the Gao airport would have to be extraordinarily fortunate to make it out in one piece."

  "You want me to make a choice?"

  "To plan for unforeseen difficulties," said Levant, "we must designate which rescue mission is a top priority and which one is our secondary."

  Bock looked at Sandecker. "It's your call, Admiral."

  Sandecker looked down at the map of Mali spread out across the table, focusing his eyes on the red line in the Niger River that marked the course of the Calliope. There was really little doubt in his mind as to a decision. The chemical analysis was all that mattered. Pitt's final words about remaining behind and continuing the search for the contamination origin came back to haunt him. He took out one of his custom-rolled cigars from a leather case and slowly lit it. He stared at the marking that indicated Gao for a long, meaningful moment before looking up at Bock and Levant again.

  "Gunn must be your priority rescue," Sandecker said flatly.

  Bock nodded. "So be it."

  "But how can we be sure Gunn hasn't already managed to board a plane departing the country?"

  Levant gave a knowledgeable shrug. "My staff has already checked the flight schedules. The next flight by an. Air Mali aircraft, or any other aircraft for that matter, scheduled to depart Gao for a destination outside the country is four days from now, providing it isn't canceled, which is by no means a rare event."

  "Four days," Sandecker repeated, his expectations suddenly dashed. "No way Gunn can hide out for four days. Twenty-four hours maybe. After that, Malian security forces are bound to ferret him out."

  "Unless he speaks Arabic or French and looks like a native," said Levant.

  "No chance of that," said Sandecker.

  Bock tapped the map of Mali with his finger. "Colonel Levant and a tactical team of forty men can be on the ground at Gao inside of twelve hours."

  "We could, but we won't," cautioned Levant. "Twelve hours from now would put us there just after sunup, Mali time."

  "My mistake," Bock corrected himself. "No way I can risk our force in daylight."

  "The longer we wait," said Sandecker acidly, "the better Gunn's chances for being caught and shot."

  "I promise you my men and I will do our best to get your man out," Levant said solemnly. "But not at great risk to others."

  "Do not fail." Sandecker looked at Levant steadily. "He's carrying information that is critical for the survival of us all."

  Bock's face wore a skeptical expression as he weighed Sandecker's words. Then his eyes turned hard. "Fair warning, Admiral, sanctioned or not by the Secretary General of the UN, if a score of my men die on a wild goose chase to save just one of yours, there better be urgent justification, or by God somebody is going to deal with me personally."

  The inference of who somebody was came through clearly. Sandecker didn't even bat an eyelid. He had called in a debt from an old friend with an intelligence agency who passed him file copies of the UNICRATT force. They were called unicrazies by other special forces, tough men who lived and fought on the edge. Unafraid to die, totally fearless in combat, and incapable of mercy, there were few better at the craft of killing. And each acted as agents of their own nation, passing on information concerning undercover UN activities as a matter of course. He'd read a psychological profile on General Bock and knew squarely where he stood.

  Sandecker leaned across the table and gazed at Bock through eyes that seemed to spark like knives on a grindstone. "Now hear this, you big Luger head. I don't give a damn about how many men you lose s
piriting Gunn out of Mali. Just get him out. Screw up and your ass is mine."

  Bock didn't hit him. He just sat there, staring at Sandecker from under great shrubs of gray eyebrows, and the bemused look in the eyes was that of a grizzly bear tucking in his napkin before dining on a rancher's calf. The Admiral was less than half Bock's size and any fight would have been over in the blink of an eye. Then the big German relaxed with a laugh.

  "Now that you and I understand each other, why don't we get on with it and hatch a foolproof plan."

  Sandecker smiled and slowly relaxed in his chair. He offered Bock one of his mammoth cigars. "A pleasure doing business with you, General. Let us hope the association will prove profitable."

  Hala Kamil stood on the steps of the Waldorf Astoria hotel waiting for her limousine after leaving a formal inner given in her honor by the UN Ambassador from India. There was a light rain and the streets reflected the lights of the city on the wet pavement. As the long black Lincoln pulled to the curb she stepped under an umbrella held by the doorman, gathered up the long skirt of her dress, and gracefully slipped into the rear seat.

  Ismail Yerli was already seated inside. He took her hand and kissed it. "I'm sorry to meet you like this," he apologized, "but it's too risky for us to be seen together."

  "It's been a long time, Ismail," said Hala, her large eyes soft and radiant. "You've avoided me."

  He glanced toward the chauffeur's compartment, making sure the divider window was raised. "I felt it best for you if I simply faded away. You've come too far and worked too hard to lose it all because of scandal."

  "We could have been discreet," Hala said in a low voice.

  Yerli shook his head. "Love affairs of men in power are largely ignored. But a woman in your position; the news media and gossip mongers would savage you in every nation of the world."

  "I still have great affection for you, Ismail."

  He put his hand over hers. "And I for you, but you are the best thing that ever happened to the United Nations. I won't be the cause of your downfall."

  "So you walked out," she said, a hurt look growing in her eyes. "How very noble of you."

  "Yes," he said without hesitation. "To avoid headlines reading, `Secretary General of the UN revealed as mistress to French intelligence agent working undercover in the World Health Organization.' My superiors at the Second Division of the National Defense Staff wouldn't exactly be overjoyed at my exposure either."

  "We've kept our relationship a secret until now," she protested. "Why not continue?"

  "Impossible."

  "You're well known as a Turkish national. Who could possibly discover the French recruited you when you were a student at Istanbul University?"

  "If someone digs deep enough they'll strike secrets. The first rule of a good agent is to operate in the shadows without being too furtive and too visible. I compromised my cover at the UN when I fell in love with you. If either British, Soviet, or American intelligence get even a whiff of our relationship, their investigation teams would never stop until they filled a file with sordid details which they would then use to extort favors from your high office."

  "They haven't yet," she said hopefully.

  "No, and they're not going to," he said firmly. "That's why we must not see each other outside the UN building."

  Hala turned away and stared through the rain-streaked window. "Then why are you here?"

  Yerli took a deep breath. "I need a favor."

  "Something concerning the UN or your French bosses?"

  "Both."

  She felt as if she were being turned inside out. "You only use me, Ismail. You twist my emotions so that you can play your petty little spy games. You are an unscrupulous rat."

  He didn't speak.

  She gave in as she knew she would. "What do you want me to do?"

  "There is an epidemiology team from the WHO," he spelled out, his voice suddenly businesslike, "which is investigating reports of strange diseases in the Malian desert."

  "I recall the project. It was mentioned during my daily briefing several days ago. Dr. Frank Hopper is directing the research."

  "That is correct."

  Hala nodded. "Hopper is a well-respected scientist. What is your involvement with his mission?"

  "My job is to coordinate their travel and see to their logistics, food, transportation, lab equipment, that sort of thing."

  "You still haven't made clear what you want from me."

  "I'd like you to recall Dr. Hopper and his investigators immediately."

  She turned and looked at him in surprise. "Why would you ask that?"

  "Because they're in great danger. I have it on good authority they are to be murdered by West African terrorists."

  "I don't believe you."

  "It's true," he said seriously. "A bomb will be placed on their plane, set to explode over the desert."

  "What kind of monsters do you work for?" she snapped, her voice shocked. "Why come to me? Why haven't you warned Dr. Hopper?"

  "I've tried to alert Hopper, but he has ignored all communications."

  "Can't you persuade the Malian authorities to relay the threat and offer protection?"

  Yerli shrugged. "General Kazim looks upon them as intruding foreigners and cares less about their safety."

  "I'd be a fool if I didn't think there was more intrigue here than a simple bomb threat."

  He looked into her face. "Trust me, Hala. My only thought is to save Dr. Hopper and his people."

  Hala wanted desperately to believe him, but deep inside her heart she knew he was lying. "It seems everybody is searching for contamination in Mali these days. And they all urgently require salvation and evacuation."

  Yerli looked puzzled but said nothing, waiting for her to explain.

  "Admiral Sandecker of the United States National Underwater and Marine Agency came to me and requested approval for the use of our Critical Response and Tactical Team to rescue three of his people from Malian security forces."

  "The Americans were searching for contamination in Mali?"

  "Yes, apparently it was an undercover operation, but the Malian military intercepted them."

  "They were caught?"

  "Not as of four hours ago."

  "Where exactly were they searching?"

  Yerli seemed upset, and Hala detected the strained urgency in his tone. "The Niger River."

  Yerli clutched her arm and his eyes turned deadly. "I want to know more about this."

  For the first time she felt a chill run through her. "They were hunting for the source of a chemical compound that is causing the giant red tide off the coast of Africa."

  "I've read about it in the newspapers. Go on."

  "I was told they used a boat with chemical analysis equipment to track the chemical to where it emptied into the river."

  "Did they find it?" he demanded.

  "According to Admiral Sandecker, they had traced it as far as Gao in Mali."

  Yerli didn't look convinced. "Disinformation, that has to be the answer. This thing must be a cover-up for something else."

  She shook her head. "Unlike you, the Admiral does not lie for a living."

  "You say NUMA was behind the operation?"

  Hala nodded.

  "Not the CIA or another American intelligence agency?"

  She shook her arm free and smiled smugly. "You mean your devious intelligence sources in West Africa had no idea the Americans were operating under their noses?"

  "Don't be absurd. What spectacular secrets could an impoverished nation like Mali possibly have that would attract American interests?"

  "There must be something. Why don't you tell me what it is?"

  Yerli seemed distracted and did not immediately answer her. "Nothing . . . nothing of course." He rapped on the glass to get the driver's attention. Then he motioned to the curb.

  The chauffeur braked and pulled to a stop in front of a large office building. "You're tearing yourself away from me?" Her voice was th
ick with contempt.

  He turned and looked at her. "I am truly sorry. Can you forgive me?"

  Something inside her ached. She shook her head. "No, Ismail. I won't forgive you. We will never meet again. I expect your resignation letter on my desk by noon tomorrow. If not, I will have you expelled from the UN."

  "Aren't you being a bit harsh?"

  Hala's path was set. "Your concerns are not with the 'World Health Organization. Nor, if they only knew it, are you even 50 percent loyal to the French. If anything, you're working for your own financial ends." She leaned over him and pushed open the door. "Now get out!"