The Pharaoh's Secret

  “Guess that means I’m going to France,” Joe said. “That’s fine. I’ve always wanted to tour the countryside. Sample the wine and cheese.”

  “Sorry,” Kurt said. “Summer in Paris will have to wait. You’re coming with us.”

  “Then who do we send?”

  “Paul and Gamay,” Kurt replied. “Their vacation ended a few days ago. It’s time they got back to work.”

  40

  Benghazi, Libya

  Riots had broken out in the city. With the lack of water, the threat of a civil war was looming. The emergency room was overflowing when they arrived. Some patients had been stabbed, others beaten and still others had been shot.

  Paul and Gamay found an unoccupied corner to wait in and were soon joined by a member of the Libyan security service. He spent an hour interrogating them about the events at the pumping plant. They explained what they were doing there and how they’d been working with Reza in hopes of determining what was happening to the aquifer.

  The agent seemed skeptical. He mostly nodded and took notes even as the other workers from the pumping station confirmed the report. He paid particular attention to their description of the attack and escape.

  Tense silence followed, broken only by shouting when another group of injured men was brought in off the street. The government agent eyed them with a sense of foreboding.

  “When did all this start?” Gamay asked, surprised at how full the hospital was.

  “The protests began as soon as the government cut off water to some sections of the city. They turned violent this afternoon. Severe rationing has begun, but it won’t be enough. People are desperate. And someone is stirring them up.”

  “Someone?” Paul asked.

  “Many are interfering in Libya these days,” the agent said. “It’s been well documented that Egyptian spies and agents have spilled into our towns. Why? We don’t know. But it’s growing.”

  “So that’s why you don’t trust us?” Gamay said. “You think we did something to Reza?”

  “There was an attempt on his life last month,” the agent said. “And for good reason: he’s the key to getting the water flowing once again. He knows more about the system and the geology than anyone else. Without him, we may be lost.”

  “All we’ve done is try to help,” Gamay said.

  “We shall see,” the agent replied, giving nothing away.

  As he finished speaking, a surgeon finally came out of the operating room and looked their way. He walked tiredly toward them, pulling a mask away from his face. He had dark circles under his eyes and the haggard look of a man who’d worked too long already with no end in sight.

  “Please give us good news,” Gamay said.

  “Reza is alive and recovering,” the surgeon said. “A bullet went through his thigh and a bit of shrapnel nicked his liver, but the main shard of metal missed anything vital. Fortunately—or, perhaps, unfortunately—our surgical teams have become experts at dealing with this type of injury. The civil war has seen to that.”

  “When can we talk with him?” Gamay asked.

  “He’s only just woken up. You should wait at least half an hour.”

  “I will see him now,” the agent said, standing and holding up his ID badge.

  “It’s not a good time,” the doctor said.

  “Is he coherent?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then take me to him.”

  The surgeon exhaled in mild frustration. “Fine,” he said. “Come with me. We need to put you in a gown.”

  As the surgeon took the agent back into the dressing area, Gamay’s phone rang. She looked at the name on the screen. “It’s Kurt. Probably wondering why we missed work the past two days.”

  Paul took a quick look around and motioned to the balcony. “Let’s get some air.”

  They stepped outside and Gamay hit the answer button on the phone.

  “How was your vacation?” Kurt asked.

  The night air was warm and soft, tinged with the scent of the Mediterranean. But the sound of helicopters circling and the rattle of distant gunfire could be heard. “Things haven’t exactly been relaxing,” Gamay replied.

  “That’s too bad,” Kurt said. “How about a second honeymoon in the French countryside? All expenses paid by NUMA.”

  “Sounds lovely,” Gamay said. “Though I’m sure there’s a catch.”

  “There always is,” Kurt said.

  Paul was listening in. “Tell him we need to stay here.”

  Gamay nodded. “Any chance we can get a rain check? We’re onto something out here. Something that needs further investigation.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A major drought in North Africa.”

  Kurt was silent for a moment, but then said, “Isn’t that kind of standard for the Sahara?”

  “That’s not what I mean,” Gamay said, realizing she hadn’t been clear. “Not a drought as in lack of rainfall from above but drought as in drying up from below. Spring-fed lakes turning into mudflats. Pumps and deep wells that have been running for decades suddenly drawing only a trickle of water.”

  “That does sound unusual,” Kurt said.

  “It’s causing riots and who knows what else.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Kurt said, “but someone else will have to address it. I need your help in France. We’ve chartered a flight out of Benghazi to Rennes. I need you both on it as soon as possible.”

  “Care to tell us why?”

  “You’ll find out when you get to the plane,” Kurt said.

  She covered the phone. “Something big must be going on, Kurt’s not normally this tight-lipped.”

  Paul glanced back to where the Libyan agent had been interrogating them. “Let’s just hope we’re allowed to leave town.”

  Gamay wondered about that too. “We may have some trouble with the authorities. It’s a long story, but we’ll be there as soon as we can.”

  “Keep me posted,” Kurt said. “If you can’t get away, we’re going to need someone else—and fast.”

  Kurt hung up and Gamay put the phone back in her pocket. “It never rains but it pours,” she said.

  “Not here,” Paul replied. “This is a desert.”

  “So I’ve heard,” she said with a sad smile.

  By now, the Libyan agent had come back from the operating room. He made his way over to them and stepped out onto the balcony.

  “My apologies,” he said. “Not only did Reza confirm your story, he insists you saved his life and were very helpful at the pumping station.”

  “Glad to hear we’ve been cleared,” Paul said.

  A flash lit up a distant part of the city. The boom arrived seconds later. Some type of explosion had gone off.

  “Yes, you’ve been cleared,” the agent said, “and Reza is still alive, but the damage is done. Two other pumping stations have been hit and the rest are operating at a fraction of capacity. Reza will be here for days, and it may be weeks before he can continue his work. By the time he’s back on his feet, this country will be tearing itself apart for the third time in the last five years.”

  “Maybe we can help,” Paul said.

  The agent looked off into the distance. Smoke was rising in the night, obscuring the lights. “I suggest you leave now while you still can. Before long, it will become difficult for anyone to get out. And you may run into others in the government who are not as open-minded as me. They’ll be looking for scapegoats. Do you understand?”

  “We’d like to say good-bye to Reza,” Gamay insisted.

  “And after that,” Paul added, “we could use a ride to the airport.”

  41

  Rome

  Vice President James Sandecker sat in a crowded conference room in the Italian parliament building in the center of Rome. Several advisers were with him,
including Terry Carruthers. Scattered across the room were similar groups from every country in Europe.

  The session was supposed to be devoted to developing a new trade pact, but it had been hijacked by events in Libya, Tunisia and Algeria.

  In a stunning twelve-hour period, both the Tunisian and Algerian governments had fallen apart. New coalitions were forming and power seemed to have shifted back to the groups that had once run things. The fact that this happened against a backdrop of growing violence and water shortages was not shocking, but the fact that each government had been expected to survive until the sudden defection by dozens of key ministers and supporters was.

  The Algerian collapse was particularly surprising, since it began with the Prime Minister stepping down and citing traitors throughout the government.

  “Someone’s stirring the pot,” Sandecker said to Carruthers.

  “I read the CIA’s North African assessment yesterday,” Carruthers replied. “None of this was expected.”

  Sandecker replied, “The men and women at the Agency do a good job most of the time, but they also see ghosts where there aren’t any and sometimes mistake elephants in the room for part of the decor.”

  “How bad is this?” Carruthers asked.

  “Algeria and Tunisia are problems, but Libya’s worse and it’s hanging by a thread.”

  “Is that why the Italians are making an argument calling for change in Libya?”

  It was a good question. With Libya on the brink of civil war, a strange proposal had cropped up, championed by Italian lawmaker Alberto Piola, who was a powerful member of the ruling party though not Prime Minister. Piola was leading the trade delegation, but instead of talking business, he was seeking support among the conference attendees for action in Libya.

  “We must urge the Libyan government to step down,” he insisted. “Before it falls apart.”

  “How will that help?” the Canadian ambassador asked.

  “We can support a new regime that will come to power with the people’s backing,” Piola said.

  “And how’s that going to solve the water crisis?” the German Vice Chancellor wanted to know.

  “It will prevent bloodshed,” Piola replied.

  “And what about Algeria?” the French representative asked.

  “There will be new elections in Algeria,” Piola said. “And in Tunisia. New governments in those countries will decide what to do and how to address the water problem. But Libya is more likely to become a flashpoint.”

  For the most part, Sandecker sat quietly. He was surprised by Piola’s unrelenting focus on the Libyan problem, especially since Italy was still reeling from the events in Lampedusa. As his own experience at NUMA and in the administration had taught him, one crisis at a time was more than enough.

  Eventually, Carruthers leaned over and spoke quietly into Sandecker’s ear. “What he’s asking for can never happen. Even if everybody in this room agreed, we’d still have to go back to our own countries and convince our leaders to enact what he suggested.”

  Sandecker nodded discreetly. “Alberto’s been around the block a time or two. He knows that as well as any of us.”

  “So why bother?”

  Sandecker had been trying to guess what Piola’s game was all morning. He offered what he thought was the most likely conclusion. “He’s not dumb enough to ask for a vote on something that isn’t going to happen. He’s laying the groundwork and setting the stage for acceptance of something that already has happened.”

  Carruthers pulled back, looking at the Vice President oddly. Then he seemed to understand. “You mean . . . ?”

  “The Libyan government is a dead man walking,” Sandecker said. “And from the way he’s acting, Alberto Piola seems to have been expecting it.”

  Carruthers nodded again. And then he took the initiative, a step that Sandecker was proud of. “I’ll contact the CIA and find out what they know about the elephant in this room.”

  Sandecker grinned. “Good idea.”

  42

  Cairo

  Kurt drove a rented black car through the crowded streets of Cairo while Joe sat in the back and Renata rode shotgun. An iPad, receiving data from a satellite, rested on her lap.

  “He’s continuing on straight ahead,” she said.

  “Or at least his phone is,” Kurt replied, pulling around some slower traffic and rumbling through a torn-up section of street filled with potholes that would be better described as moon craters.

  They were following the signal from the satellite phone that had been used in Malta. They believed it was in Hassan’s possession, but they couldn’t be sure until they laid eyes on him.

  “How are we getting this information anyway?” Joe asked from the backseat. “I thought satellite communications were secure.”

  Renata explained. “The satellite in question is a joint Egyptian–Saudi communications unit, known to be used by the intelligence services of both countries. The European Space Agency launched it. Prior to launch, it sat in a special facility, where it was mounted on a rocket. And prior to that, agents of one European country, which shall remain nameless, made an unauthorized addition to the telemetry system.”

  “All the more reason to launch your own satellites,” Joe said.

  “Or use two cans and a string to share secrets,” Kurt said.

  “Maybe we could just call him, tell him to pull over,” Joe suggested.

  “Then we’ll never see where he’s going,” Renata said.

  “Good point.”

  “Next left,” Renata said, looking at the screen. “He’s slowing down.”

  Kurt turned the corner and soon saw why. The street was lined with shops and restaurants. Pedestrians packed the sidewalks, spilling into the road. Traffic had slowed to a crawl.

  They eased along this road, eyes drawn to flashing signs, overflowing fruit stands and kiosks full of gold jewelry, electronics and rugs. A few blocks later, they came to a marina set on the east bank of the Nile.

  In one section, cranes were unloading grain from several barges while ferries were taking on cars and people. A slew of fishing boats and pleasure craft were tied to a dock farther down.

  “Welcome to the river Nile,” Kurt said. “Where’s our target?”

  Renata studied the display and zoomed in on the moving blip. It was superimposed on a map of the area. “Looks like he’s heading for the river.” She pointed to a walkway that led down to the shore via a flight of covered stairs.

  Kurt pulled into a lot beside the marina and parked. “Let’s go,” he said.

  They hopped out of the car and made their way on foot, with Renata still carrying the iPad. After taking the stairs quickly and pausing at the bottom, Kurt looked out across the narrow dock. “That’s him,” he said. “That’s Hassan all right.”

  Hassan climbed aboard a charcoal gray powerboat like he hadn’t a care in the world and sat in the back as the lines were cast off and the boat moved away from the dock.

  “I guess we’re going to need a boat of our own,” Renata said.

  They made their way dockside, approaching a tourist boat with a colorful paint job, a water taxi logo on the side and the added bonus of a canvas Bimini top that stretched over a rickety framework of poles covering the aft section. The boat’s pilot stood beside it, enjoying a smoke.

  Joe took the lead and, after establishing that the man spoke English, explained. “We need to charter a boat.”

  The pilot looked at his watch. “Work is done,” he said. “Time for home.”

  Kurt stepped in with a wad of cash. “How about overtime?”

  The man seemed to run a cursory calculation while studying the cash. “That should do it,” he said. He tossed the cigarette into the river and welcomed them aboard.

  They climbed in, settled down beneath the shade of the Bimini top and turne
d their eyes toward the water as the boat moved off.

  “Head upriver,” Kurt said.

  The driver nodded, turned the boat and gave the throttle a nudge.

  The boat picked up speed, fighting the current, as Kurt, Joe and Renata played the part of tourists. Before long, they were taking pictures, pointing out various things along the river’s banks and enjoying the breeze. Kurt even pulled out a pair of small binoculars. All the while constantly checking the tracking display.

  The signal was continuing upriver. Moving slowly.

  “How far do you want to go?” the pilot asked. “All the way to Luxor?”

  “Just keep going for now,” Kurt said. “A nice, leisurely cruise. I’ll tell you when we’ve had enough.”

  The pilot kept them moving. They passed a tug that was pushing several barges and a ferry packed with tourists that blasted its horn several times for reasons no one could fathom.

  Along the shore, everything was made of concrete. Apartment blocks, hotels and office towers rose on both sides of the river.

  They passed under the 6th October Bridge as the traffic roared over it. Horns were honking, fumes from the exhaust falling to the water below.

  “Not exactly a romantic cruise,” Renata said. “I was expecting feluccas and wooden fishing boats. Men casting nets into the shallows.”

  “Might as well expect that in the Hudson where it passes Manhattan,” Kurt replied. “Cairo is the biggest city in the Middle East. Eight million people live here.”

  “Seems kind of a shame,” she said.

  “It’s far more primitive farther upriver,” he promised. “I’ve heard that crocodiles have even returned to Lake Nasser. Though, hopefully, we’re not going that far.”

  “You want romance?” Joe said. “Take a look at this.”

  Off in the distance, the Pyramids of Giza loomed above the sprawl of the city. The afternoon haze was painting the sky orange, and the Pyramids themselves were salmon-colored and seemed almost luminescent in the glow.