The Pharaoh's Secret by Clive Cussler, Graham Brown

sense, it conducted business with a certain flair and reputation. If Shakir was correct in his timetable, Osiris would soon control not only Egypt but most of North Africa as well.
    For now, he focused on the race, the end of a grueling competition pitting twenty men against one another for the chance to become part of his special operative section. He had dozens of men, and women, already spread throughout North Africa and Europe, but to succeed he needed more, he needed new blood, recruits who understood what it meant to work for him.
    Out on the dune, drivers one and four had separated themselves from the rest. As they reached the flat expanse at the bottom of the dune, they sprinted toward the pumping station. Number one was in the lead, but number four, Hassan’s handpicked favorite, was catching up to him. Just when it seemed Hassan would be proven right, number four made a fatal mistake. He miscalculated the nature of the competition, which had no rules and allowed for victory at all costs. Like life itself.
    He took the lead, but as he did, the other driver lunged forward and shoved him in the back, sending him falling to the ground. His face hit the sand, and the other driver added insult to injury by stomping on his back as he continued on.
    By the time number four looked up, it was all over. Driver number one had beaten him. The others came stumbling in, passing him by, as he remained on the ground, dejected and bitter.
    When they too had reached the finish line, Shakir made an announcement.
    “Each of you has finished,” he said. “Each of you has learned the only rules of life that matter: you must never quit, you must show no mercy, you must win at any cost!”
    “What about the others?” Hassan asked.
    Shakir pondered this. A pair of drivers had remained on thedune, unwilling to engage in the footrace after all they’d been through. And then there were the two others whose vehicles had collided. “Have them walk back to the prior checkpoint.”
    “Walk?” Hassan replied in shock. “But it’s thirty miles from here.”
    “Then they’d better get started,” Shakir said.
    “There’s nothing between here and the checkpoint but sand. They’ll die in the desert,” Hassan replied.
    “Probably,” Shakir admitted. “But if they survive, they’ll have learned a valuable lesson and I may reconsider and deem them worthy of enlistment.”
    Hassan was Shakir’s closest adviser, an old ally from his Secret Service days. On rare occasions, Shakir allowed his old friend to influence his decisions, but not today. “Do as I’ve instructed.”
    Hassan picked up a radio and made the call. A host of Shakir’s black-clad warriors swooped in to direct the laggards on a journey that would most likely kill them. In the meantime, driver number four got up and staggered across the finish line.
    Hassan offered him water.
    “No,” Shakir snapped. “He is to walk also.”
    “But he almost won,” Hassan said.
    “And yet he quit so close to the finish line,” Shakir said. “A trait I cannot stomach in any of my people. He walks with the others. And if I learn that anyone has helped him, it would be better for that person to kill himself rather than suffer what I will inflict on him.”
    Driver number four looked at Shakir in disbelief, but instead of fear, a defiant glare appeared in his eyes.
    Shakir actually appreciated the anger in that stare and for an instant considered revoking his order before deciding that it must stand. “The hike begins now,” Shakir said.
    Number four shook loose from Hassan’s grip, turned without a word and began the arduous hike without looking back.
    As he walked off, Shakir read a communiqué handed to him by an aide. “This is bad news.”
    “What’s happened?” Hassan asked eagerly.
    “Ammon Ta is confirmed dead,” Shakir said. “He was killed by two Americans before he could get to the Italian doctor.”
    “Americans?”
    Shakir nodded. “Members of the