The Pharaoh's Secret (NUMA Files 13)

“But it isn’t just this lake that’s vanished,” he replied. “In my country, our water supplies have been drying up for the past month. Spring-fed lakes going dry, streams reduced to a trickle. Not to mention every oasis in the country turning brown, some of which have been green since the Carthaginians ruled the land. So far, we’ve overcome it by pumping more groundwater, but lately many of our pumping stations have reported drastically reduced flows. We thought it was a local problem, but hearing about this vanishing lake—and now seeing it for myself—tells me the issue is more widespread than I imagined. It suggests a drastic underground change to the water table.”

“How is that possible?” Gamay asked.

“No one knows,” he said simply. “Any chance you’d be willing to help me find out?”

Paul glanced at his wife. An unspoken message passed between them. “We’d be glad to,” he said. “If you can give us a ride back to the hotel later, we’ll grab our things and let the tour go on without us.”

“Splendid,” Reza said with a smile. “My Land Rover is just down the road.”

16

Valletta Harbor, Malta

Entering Valletta Harbor was like a trip into the past, back to an age when tiny outposts like Malta, ruled by groups of powerful men, were vital to international trade and the control of the Mediterranean.

As the Sea Dragon motored past the breakwater, the view was much the same as it had been in the island’s glory days and Kurt had no problem imagining himself living here in the nineteenth, eighteenth or even seventeenth century.

Dead ahead, lit up by the setting sun, the looming dome of the Carmelite church dominated the view. All around it, ancient buildings and other churches stood. The harbor itself was guarded by no less than four stone-walled garrisons with gunnery plazas and citadels that still watched over the narrow channel.

Fort Manoel sprouted from an island on one fork of the multipronged inlet, while Fort Saint Elmo sat at the tip of the peninsula. Its discolored stone walls appeared brutish and unyielding after nearly five hundred years. Directly across from it, guarding the right-hand side of the harbor, Fort Ricasoli had a different design and appeared low and lean, as its walls stretched out and connected to the breakwater, where a small lighthouse sat. And finally, inside the harbor, sat Fort Saint Angelo, jutting straight from the water’s edge on a narrow spit of land.

And if all the forts weren’t enough to suggest that Malta was a stronghold, the seawalls, buildings and naturally occurring bluffs were all made up of the same tawny-colored stone.

It seemed more like the island had been carved and whittled from a single block of limestone instead of built up from the ground over the years.

“Makes you wonder how an outsider ever took over the island,” Joe said, marveling at the fortifications.

“The same way brute force is always countered,” Kurt replied. “By misdirection and trickery. Napoleon sailed into the harbor on his way to Egypt and began buying supplies for his ships. The locals, eager to make money, let him in. As soon as his fleet was safely past the forts, he landed his army and pointed his guns toward their homes.”

“Trojan horse without building a horse,” Joe summed up.

By now, the Sea Dragon had made its way to the inner harbor and was headed toward an open section of the docks. It was more modern here, small tankers offloading fuel and heating oil sat beside cruise ships and a bulk freighter. The Sea Dragon bumped the dock beside them.

Not waiting for the boat to tie up, Kurt and Joe leapt onto the wharf and began a brisk hike toward the street.

“Keep two men on watch at all times,” Kurt yelled back. “I suspect there are dangerous men about.”

“Like the two of you?” Reynolds replied with a shout.

Kurt laughed.

“Try not to cause too much trouble,” Reynolds added. “We’re all out of bail money.”

Kurt just waved. He and Joe were late for a meeting with the curator of the Maltese Oceanic Museum.

“Think the curator will still be waiting?” Joe asked as they tried to hail a cab.

Kurt glanced at the sky. It was almost dusk. “I give it a fifty-fifty shot.”

A cab pulled up at the top of the lane and they climbed in.

“We need to go to the Oceanic Museum,” Kurt said.

The cabdriver made excellent time, navigating the narrow, winding streets, running several yellow lights and dropping them off at the front of the museum, beside a statue of Poseidon.

After paying and adding a healthy tip, Kurt and Joe crossed the plaza, avoiding an area cordoned off for construction. Reaching the front of the museum, they climbed the steps toward a suitably impressive façade.

The front of the Maltese Oceanic Museum reminded Kurt of the New York Public Library, complete with stone lions on either side. When they reached the front door, Kurt spoke with a security guard and he and Joe waited as the guard called a number for them.