Sahara

by Clive Cussler

  "Does all this just strike you out of the blue?" Giordino complained. "Or do you come from a long line of soothsayers?"

  "Consider me your friendly, neighborhood plot diviner," Pitt said condescendingly.

  "You should audition for a carnival fortune-teller," Giordino said dryly.

  "I got us out of the steam bath and off the boat, didn't I?"

  "And now we're going to fly across the middle of the Sahara Desert until we run out of fuel. Then walk across the world's largest desert looking for a toxic we-know-not-what till we expire or get captured by the Malian military as fodder for their torture dungeons."

  "You certainly have a talent for painting bleak pictures," Pitt said sardonically.

  "Then set me straight."

  "Fair enough," Pitt nodded. "Soon as we reach the location where the contamination seeps into the river, we ditch the helicopter."

  Giordino looked at him. "In the river?"

  "Now you're getting the hang of it."

  "Not another swim in this stinking river-not again." He shook his head in conviction. "You're nuttier than Woody Woodpecker."

  "Every word a virtue, every move sublime," Pitt said airily, then, suddenly serious, added "Every aircraft the Malians can put in the air will be searching for this bird. With it buried under the river, they won't have a starting place to track us down. As it is, the last place Kazim would expect us to run is north into the desert wastes to look for toxic contamination."

  "Sneaky," said Giordino. "That's the word for you."

  Pitt reached down and pulled a chart out of a holder attached to his seat. "Take the controls while I lay out a course."

  "I have her," Giordino acknowledged as he took hold of the collective control lever beside his seat and the cyclicpitch control column.

  "Take us up to 100 meters, maintain course over the river for five minutes, and then bring us about on a heading of two-six-oh degrees."

  Giordino followed Pitt's instructions and leveled off at 100 meters before looking down. He could just discern the surface of the river. "Good thing the stars reflect on the water or I couldn't see where the hell I was going."

  "Just watch for dark shadows on the horizon after you make your turn. We don't want to spread ourselves over a protruding rock formation."

  Only twenty minutes passed during their wide swing around Gao before they approached their destination. Massarde's fast helicopter flitted through the night sky like a phantom, invisible without navigation lights, with Giordino deftly handling the controls while Pitt navigated. The desert floor below was faceless and flat, with few shadows thrown by rocks or small elevations. It almost came as a relief when the black waters of the Niger River came into view again.

  "What are those lights off to starboard?" asked Giordino.

  Pitt did not look up, but kept his eyes on the chart.

  "Which side of the river?"

  "North"

  "Should be Bourem, a small town we passed in the boat shortly before we moved out of the polluted water. Stay well clear of her."

  "Where do you want to ditch?"

  "Upriver, just out of earshot of any residents with acute hearing."

  "Any particular reason for this spot?" asked Giordino suspiciously.

  "It's Saturday night. Why not go into town and check out the action?"

  Giordino parted his lips to make some appropriate comeback, gave up, and refocused his concentration on flying the helicopter. He tensed as he scanned the engine and flight gauges on the instrument panel. Approaching the center of the river, he eased back on the throttles as he delicately pushed the collective and tapped right rudder, turning the craft with its nose upriver while in a hover.

  "Got your rubber ducky life vest?" asked Giordino.

  "Never go anywhere without it," Pitt nodded. "Lower away."

  Two meters above the water, Giordino shut down the engines as Pitt closed all the fuel switches and electrical bars. Yves Massarde's beautiful aircraft fluttered like a wounded butterfly, and then fell into the water with a quiet splash. It bobbed long enough for Pitt and Giordino to step out the doors and leap as far away as they could get, before diving into the river with arms and legs furiously stroking to escape the reach of the dying but still slowly spinning rotor blades. When the water reached the open doors and flooded the interior, the craft slipped beneath the smooth black water with a great sigh as the air was expelled from the passenger cabin.

  No one heard it come down, no one from shore saw it sink. It was gone with the Calliope, settling into the soft silt of the river that would someday completely cover her airframe and become her burial shroud.

  <<25>>

  It wasn't exactly the Polo Lounge of the Beverly Hills Hotel, but to someone who had been thrown in a river twice, parboiled in a steam bath, and was footsore from stumbling around the desert in the dark for two hours, no watering hole could have offered greater sanctuary. He had never, Pitt thought, seen a dingier dive that looked so good.

  They had the feeling of entering a cave. The rough mud walls met a well-trodden dirt floor. A long board propped on concrete bricks that served as the bar sagged in the middle, so much so it seemed that any glass set on its surface would immediately slide to the center. Behind the decrepit bar, a shelf that appeared wedged into the mud brick wall held a weird assortment of pots and valves that brewed coffee and tea. Next to it were five bottles of obscurely labeled liquor in various levels of consumption. They must have been stocked for the rare tourist who ventured in the place, Pitt surmised, since Muslims weren't supposed to touch the stuff.

  Against one wall a small stove was throwing out a comforting degree of heat along with a pungent aroma that neither Pitt nor Giordino as yet identified as camel dung. The chairs looked like rejects from both the Goodwill and Salvation Army stores. None of them matched. The tables weren't much better, darkened by smoke, surfaces burned by countless cigarettes and carved with graffiti going back to the French colonial days. What little illumination there was in the closet-size room came from two bare light bulbs hanging from a single wire held up by nails in a roof beam. They glowed dimly, their limited power coming from the town's overworked diesel generator.

  Trailed by Giordino, Pitt sat down at an empty table and shifted his attention from the furnishings to the clientele. He was relieved to find that none wore uniforms. The room held a composite of locals, Niger boatmen and fishermen, villagers, and a sprinkling of men whom Pitt took for farmers. No women were in attendance. A few were drinking beer but most sipped at small cups of sweet coffee or tea. After a cursory glance at the newcomers, they all went back to their conversations or refocused their concentration on a game similar to dominos.

  Giordino leaned across the table and murmured, "Is this your idea of a night on the town?"

  "Any port in a storm," said Pitt.

  The obvious proprietor, a swarthy man with a massive thicket of black hair and an immense moustache, ambled from behind the makeshift bar and approached the table. He stood and looked down at them without a word, waiting for them to speak first.

  Pitt held up two fingers and said, "Beer."

  The proprietor nodded and walked back to the bar. Giordino watched as he pulled two bottles of German beer from a badly dented metal icebox, then turned and stared at Pitt dubiously.

  "Mind telling me how you intend to pay?" asked Giordino.

  Pitt smiled, leaned under the table, and slipped off his left Nike and removed something from the sole. Then with a cool, watchful expression his eyes traveled around the room.

  None of the other patrons showed the slightest interest in either himself or Giordino. He cautiously opened his hands so only Giordino could see. Between his palms lay a neat stack of Malian currency.

  "Confederation of French African francs," he said quietly. "The Admiral didn't miss a trick."

  "Sandecker thought of everything all right," Giordino admitted. "How come he trusted you and not me with a bankroll?"

  "I have big
ger feet."

  The proprietor returned and set, more like dropped, the bottles of beer on the table. "Dix francs," he grunted.

  Pitt handed him a bill. The proprietor held it up to one of the light bulbs and peered at it, then rubbed his greasy thumb over the printing, seeing no smear, he nodded and walked away.

  "He asked for ten francs," Giordino said. "You gave him twenty. If he thinks you're a big spender we'll probably be mugged by half the town when we leave."

  "That's the idea," said Pitt. "Only a matter of time before the village con artist smells blood and circles his victims."

  "Are we buying or selling?"

  "Mostly buying. We need a means of transportation."

  "A hearty meal should take priority. I'm hungry as a bear out of hibernation."

  "You can try the food here, if you like," said Pitt. "Me, I'd rather starve."

  They were on their third beer when a young man no more than eighteen entered the bar. He stood tall and slender with a slight hunch to his shoulders. He had a gentle oval face with wide sad-looking eyes. His complexion was almost black and his hair thick and wiry. He wore a yellow T-shirt and khaki pants under an open, white cotton sheet-like garment. He made a quick study of the customers and settled his gaze on Pitt and Giordino.

  "Patience, the beggar's virtue," Pitt murmured. "Salvation is on the way."

  The young man stopped at the table and nodded his head. "Bonsoir."

  "Good evening," Pitt replied.

  The melancholy eyes widened slightly. "You are English?"

  "New Zealanders," Pitt lied.

  "I am Mohammed Digna. Perhaps I can assist you gentlemen in changing your money."

  "We have local currency," Pitt shrugged.

  "Do you need a guide, someone to lead you through any problems with customs, police, or government officials?"

  "No, I don't think so." Pitt held out his hand at an empty chair. "Will you join us for a drink?"

  "Yes, thank you." Digna said a few words in French to the proprietor-bartender and sat down.

  "You speak English real well," said Giordino.

  "I went to primary school in Gao and college in the capital of Bamako where I finished first in my class," he said proudly. "I can speak four languages including my native Bambara tongue, French, English, and German."

  "You're smarter than me," said Giordino. "I only know enough English to scrape by on."

  "What is your occupation?" asked Pitt.

  "My father is chief of a nearby village. I manage his business properties and export business."

  "And yet you frequent bars and offer your services to tourists," Giordino murmured suspiciously.

  "I enjoy meeting foreigners so I can practice my languages," Digna said without hesitation.

  The proprietor came and set a small cup of tea in front of Digna.

  "How does your father transport his goods?" asked Pitt.

  "He has a small fleet of Renault trucks."

  "Any chance of renting one?" Pitt put to him.

  "You wish to haul merchandise?"

  "No, my friend and I would like to take a short drive north and see the great desert before we return home to New Zealand."

  Digna gave a brief shake of his head. "Not possible. My father's trucks have left for Mopti this afternoon loaded with textiles and produce. Besides, no foreigner from outside the country can travel in the desert without special passes."

  Pitt turned to Giordino, an expression of sadness and disappointment on his face. "What a shame. And to think we flew halfway around the world to see desert nomads astride their camels."

  "I'll never be able to face my little old white-haired mother," Giordino moaned. "She gave up her life's savings so I could experience life in the Sahara "

  Pitt slapped the table with his hand and stood up. "Well it's back to our hotel at Timbuktu."

  "Do you gentlemen have a car?" asked Digna.

  "No."

  "How did you get here from Timbuktu?"

  "By bus," replied Giordino hesitantly, almost as if asking a question.

  "You mean a truck carrying passengers."

  "That's it," Giordino said happily.

  "You won't find any transportation traveling to Timbuktu before noon tomorrow," said Digna.

  "There must be a good vehicle of some kind in Bourem that we can rent," said Pitt.

  "Bourem is a poor town. Most of the townspeople walk or ride motorbikes. Few families can afford to own autos that are not in constant need of repair. The only vehicle of sound mechanical condition currently in Bourem is General Zateb Kazim's private auto."

  Digna might as well have prodded a pair of harnessed bulls with a pitchfork. Pitt and Giordino's minds worked on the same wavelength. They both stiffened but immediately relaxed. Their eyes locked and their lips twisted into subtle grins.

  "What is his car doing here?" Giordino asked innocently. "We saw him only yesterday at Gao."

  "The General flies most everywhere by helicopter or military jet," answered Digna. "But he likes his own personal chauffeur and auto to transport him through the towns and cities. His chauffeur was transporting the auto on the new highway from Bamako to Gao when it broke down a few kilometers outside of Bourem. It was towed here for repairs."

  "And was it repaired?" Pitt inquired, taking a sip of beer to appear indifferent.

  "The town mechanic finished late this evening. A rock had punctured the radiator."

  "Has the chauffeur left for Gao?" Giordino wondered idly.

  Digna shook his head. "The road from here to Gao is still under construction. Driving on it at night can be hazardous. He didn't want to risk damaging General Kazim's car again. He plans to leave with the morning light."

  Pitt looked at him. "How do you know all this?"

  Digna beamed. "My father owns the auto repair garage, and I oversee its operation. The chauffeur and I had dinner together."

  "Where is the chauffeur now?"

  "A guest at my father's house."

  Pitt changed the drift of the conversation to local industry. "Any chemical companies around here?" he asked.

  Digna laughed. "Bourem is too poor to manufacture anything but handicrafts and woven goods."

  "How about a hazardous waste site?"

  "Fort Foureau, but that's hundreds of kilometers to the north."

  There was a short lull in the conversation, then Digna asked suddenly, "How much money do you carry?"

  "I don't know," Pitt answered honestly. "I never counted it.

  Pitt saw Giordino look strangely at him and then flick his eyes at four men seated at a table in the corner. He glanced at them and caught them abruptly turning away. This had to be a setup, he concluded. He stared at the proprietor who was leaning over the bar reading a newspaper and rejected him as one of the muggers. A quick look at the other customers was enough to satisfy him that they were only interested in conversing between themselves. The odds were five against two. Not half bad at all, Pitt thought.

  Pitt finished his beer and came to his feet. "Time to go."

  "Give my regards to the Chief," said Giordino, pumping Digna's hand.

  The young Malian's smile never left his face, but his eyes became hard. "You cannot leave."

  "Don't worry about us," Giordino waved. "We'll sleep by the road."

  "Give me your money," Digna said softly.

  "The son of a chief begging for money," Pitt said dryly. "You must be a great source of embarrassment for your old man."

  "Do not offend me," Digna said coldly. "Give me all your money or your blood will soak the floor."

  Giordino acted as if he was ignoring the confrontation and edged toward one corner of the bar. The four men had risen from the table and seemed to be waiting for a signal from Digna. The signal never came. The Malians seemed infused by the utter lack of fear shown by their potential victims.

  Pitt leaned across the table until his fate was level with Digna's. "Do you know what my friend and I do to sewer slime like y
ou?"

  "You cannot insult Mohammed Digna and live," he snarled contemptuously.

  "What we do," Pitt calmly continued, "is bury them with a slice of ham in their mouth."

  The ultimate abhorrence to a devout Muslim is any contact with a pig. They consider them the most unclean of creatures and the mere thought of spending eternity in the grave with so much as a sliver of bacon is enough to cause their worst nightmares. Pitt knew the threat was as good as a wooden stake pressed against a vampire's chest.