The Pharaoh's Secret by Clive Cussler Page B

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.”
    â€œWalk?” Hassan replied in shock. “But it’s thirty miles from here.”
    â€œThen they’d better get started,” Shakir said.
    â€œThere’s nothing between here and the checkpoint but sand. They’ll die in the desert,” Hassan replied.
    â€œProbably,” 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.
    â€œNo,” Shakir snapped. “He is to walk also.”
    â€œBut he almost won,” Hassan said.
    â€œAnd 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.”
    â€œWhat’s happened?” Hassan asked eagerly.
    â€œAmmon Ta is confirmed dead,” Shakir said. “He was killed by two Americans before he could get to the Italian doctor.”
    â€œAmericans?”
    Shakir nodded. “Members of the organization called NUMA, it seems.”
    â€œNUMA,” Hassan repeated.
    Each of them spoke the acronym with disdain. They’d been in the intelligence business long enough to have heard rumors of the exploits this American agency had undertaken. They were supposed to be oceanographers and such.
    â€œThis can’t be a good thing,” Hassan added. “You and I both know they’ve caused more problems than the CIA.”
    Shakir nodded. “As I recall, it was a member of NUMA who saved Egypt from the destruction of the Aswan Dam a few years ago.”
    â€œWhen we were all on the same side,” Hassan noted. “Do we have any exposure?”
    Shakir shook his head confidently. “Neither the freighter nor Ammon Ta nor the cargo can be traced back to us.”
    â€œWhat about Hagen, our operative on Lampedusa? Ammon Ta was supposed to deliver the Black Mist to him so he could use it to
influence
the governments of Europe.”
    Shakir read on. “Hagen escaped and made it back to Malta. He will try one more time to purchase the artifacts before they’re revealed to the public. If he’s unsuccessful, he’ll try to steal them. He promises to report back in two days.”
    â€œHagen is the only link to us now,” Hassan said. “We should eliminate him. Immediately.”
    â€œNot until he has those artifacts. I want those tablets in our possession or destroyed beyond anyone’s ability to reconstruct them.”
    â€œIs it really worth this much effort?” Hassan asked. “We’re not even sure