Clive Cussler - Sahara

"Fine bunch of international contamination detectives we are," grumbled Hopper as he watched the sunset over the lakes and marshlands of the upper Niger River. "All we've come up with is typical third world indifference toward sanitation."

Eva sat on a campstool in front of a small oil stove to ward off the evening chill. "I tested for most of the known toxins and failed to find a trace of any of them. Whatever our phantom malady is, it's proving very elusive."

An older man sat beside her, tall, heavy, with iron-gray hair, light blue eyes, wise and thoughtful. A New Zealander, Dr. Warren Grimes was the chief epidemiologist of the project. He contemplated a glass of club soda. "Nothing on my end either. Every culture I've obtained within 500 kilometers showed free of disease-related microorganisms."

"Is there anything we might have overlooked?" asked Hopper, dropping into a folding chair with padded cushions.

Grimes shrugged. "Without victims, I can't conduct interviews or autopsies. Without victims I can't obtain tissue samples or analyze results. I have to have observational data to compare symptoms or do a case control study."

"If anyone is dying from toxic contamination," said Eva, "they're not dying around here."

Hopper turned from the fading orange light on the horizon and picked up a pot from the stove and poured a cup of tea. "Can it be the evidence was false or exaggerated?"

"UN headquarters received only vague reports," Grimes reminded him.

"Without hard data and exact locations to work with, it seems we jumped the gun."

"I think it's a cover-up," said Eva suddenly.

There was silence. Hopper looked from Eva to Grimes.

"If it is, it's a damned good one," muttered Grimes finally.

"I'm not sure I'd disagree," Hopper said, his curiosity aroused. "The teams in Niger, Chad, and the Sudan are reportedly coming up dry too."

"All that suggests is that the contamination is in Mali and not the other nations," said Eva.

"You can bury victims," observed Grimes. "But you can't hide trace amounts of contamination. If it's around here, we would have found it. My personal opinion is that we've been on a wild goose chase."

Eva looked at him steadily, her Dresden blue eyes large in the reflection of the flame from the camp stove. "If they can hide victims, they can alter reports."

"Aha," Hopper nodded. "Eva has something. I don't trust Kazim and his crew of snakes, haven't from the beginning. Suppose they did alter the reports to throw us off the playing field? Suppose the contamination isn't where we've been led to believe it is?"

"A possibility worth pursuing," Grimes admitted. "We've been concentrating in the dampest and most inhabited regions of the country because it follows suit they would carry the highest incidence of disease and contamination."

"Where do we go from here?" asked Eva.

"Back to Timbuktu," said Hopper firmly. "Did you notice the look on people we interviewed before setting out to the south? They were nervous and worried. You could see it in their faces. It's just possible they were threatened to keep silent."

"Especially the Tuaregs from the desert," recalled Grimes.

"You mean especially their women and children," Eva added. "They refused to be examined."

Hopper shook his head. "I'm to blame. I made the decision to turn our backs on the desert. It was a mistake. I know that now."

"You're a scientist, not a psychic investigator," Grimes consoled him.

"Yes," Hopper agreed readily. "I'm a scientist, but I hate being made the fool."

"The tip-off we all missed," said Eva, "was the patronizing attitude of Captain Batutta."

Grimes looked at her. "That's right. Oh-ho. You've struck oil again, my girl. Now that you've brought it up, Batutta has been downright servile with cooperation."

"True," Hopper nodded. "He's leaned over backward in allowing us to go our merry way, knowing we were hundreds of kilometers off the scent."

Grimes finished off his soda water. "Be interesting to see the look on his face when you tell him we're going out in the desert and start from scratch."

"He'll be on the radio to Colonel Mansa before I get the words out of my mouth."

"We could lie," said Eva.

"Lie, for what reason?" asked Hopper.

"To throw him off, to throw them all off our trail."

"I'm listening."

"Tell Batutta the project is finished. Tell him we've found no sign of contamination and are returning to Timbuktu, folding up our tents and flying home."

"You've missed me. Where is this leading?"

"For all appearances the team has quit, given up," Eva explained. "Batutta waves a relieved farewell as we take off. Only we don't fly to Cairo. We land in the desert and set up shop again on our own without a watchdog."

The two men took a few seconds to absorb Eva's scheme. Hopper leaned forward, intently mulling it over. Grimes looked as if someone asked him to catch the next rocket to the moon.

"It's no good," Grimes said at last, almost apologetically. "You can't just land a jet aircraft in the middle of the desert. You need a runway at least 1000 meters long."

"There are any number of areas in the Sahara where the ground is perfectly flat for hundreds of kilometers," Eva argued.

"Too risky," Grimes said stubbornly. "If Kazim got wind of it, we'd pay dearly."

Eva looked sharply at Grimes, then more slowly at Hopper. She detected the beginnings of a smile on Hopper's face. "It is possible," she said firmly.

"Anything is possible, but often not practical."

Hopper smashed his fist down on the arm of his camp chair so hard he nearly broke it. "By God, I think it's worth a go."

Grimes stared at him. "You can't be bloody serious?"

"Oh but I am. Our pilot and flight crew will have the final say, of course. But with the proper incentive, like a hefty bonus, I think they can be persuaded to risk it."

"You're forgetting something," said Grimes.

"Such as?"

"What do we use for transportation after we land?"

Eva tilted her head toward the small Mercedes four-wheel-drive car with an enclosed truckbed that had been provided by Colonel Mansa in Timbuktu. "The little Mercedes should just fit through the cargo door."

"That's 2 meters off the ground," said Grimes. "How are you going to lift it on board?"

"We'll use ramps and drive it on," Hopper said jovially.

"You'll have to do it under Batutta's nose."

"Not an insurmountable problem."

"The vehicle belongs to the Malian military. How will you account for it gone missing?"

"A mere technicality," Hopper shrugged. "Colonel Mansa will be told a thieving nomad stole it."

"This is crazy," Grimes announced.

Hopper suddenly stood. "Then it's settled. We'll launch our little charade first thing in the morning. Eva, I'll leave it to you to inform our fellow scientists of the plan. I'll hang out with Batutta and throw off suspicion by bemoaning our failure."

"Speaking of our keeper," said Eva, glancing about the camp, "where is he hiding?"

"In that fancy recreation vehicle with the communications equipment," replied Grimes. "He practically lives in there."

"Strange that he conveniently, for us at any rate, wanders off whenever we're gathered in discussion."

"Damned courteous of him, I say." Grimes stood and stretched his arms over his head. He furtively stared at the communications vehicle, and not sighting Batutta, sat down again. "No sign of him. He's probably sitting inside watching European music shows on the telly."

"Or on the radio giving Colonel Mansa the latest gossip on our scientific circus," said Eva.

"He can't have much to report," laughed Hopper. "He never hangs around long enough to see what mischief we're into."

Captain Batutta was not reporting to his superior, not at the moment. He was sitting inside his truck listening through stereo headphones wired to an extremely sensitive electronic listening device. The amplifier was mounted on the roof of the truck and aimed toward the camp stove in the middle of the parked caravan. He leaned forward and adjusted the bionic booster, increasing the receiving surface.