The Pharaoh's Secret (NUMA Files 13)

Kurt said, “Brad Golner said something about another lab. So even if we manage to find the exit, blast our way out and run Shakir’s gauntlet, we still have to get this toxin to the medical team before it breaks down.”

Renata added to that thought. “Even if we get it to a lab in time, there’s no guarantee that

examining it will tell the research team how to counteract it. The best we could hope for is to isolate the offending compound and start a series of trials. I’d call it a miracle if that took anything less than a few months before we had an answer.”

“And based on your earlier guess, the victims of Lampedusa have only a few days left at most,” Kurt said.

She nodded. “Some are probably dead already.”

Kurt suspected as much. The young and old, the weak and sick. They always went first.

“So it’s back into the lions’ den?” Joe said, summing up. “Take them by surprise?”

Kurt nodded.

“I’m in,” Joe added.

“It’s a long shot,” Renata said. “But it sounds like the only real shot we have.”

Kurt thought it more of a calculated risk than a long shot. “We have one thing going for us,” he said. “If most of their men are waiting for us topside, then that leaves only a skeleton crew down below.”

“Give me a few hours and we’ll have two things going for us,” Joe said.

“Two things?”

“The element of surprise and a Sahariana of our own.”

Kurt grinned. If the statement had come from anyone other than Joe Zavala, he’d have told him not to waste his time. But Joe was a virtuoso with anything mechanical. If the Sahariana could be made to sing again, Joe was the man to do it.

54

Somewhere over the Mediterranean Sea

Paul and Gamay’s departure from Benghazi was delayed almost twenty-four hours when the airport was closed due to the growing violence. The pilots were as eager to leave as the Trouts. The plane was already fueled and was cleared for takeoff within the hour. It was now over the Mediterranean, cruising at thirty-seven thousand feet.

The Challenger 650 had a large cabin, as far as corporate jets went, a feature that made it look stubby on the ground but was a boon to taller people like Paul once they got on board.

“I’ll take this over that broken-down old DC-3,” he announced.

“I don’t know,” Gamay replied. “That old plane had a kind of rustic charm.”

“Rusting charm, is more like it,” he corrected.

Sitting across from each other in cream-colored leather seats, Gamay and Paul enjoyed a thick, brindle-patterned carpet at their feet soft enough to warrant the removal of shoes.

They opened their laptop computers, placing them on the tray tables and logging on to the encrypted NUMA website.

“I’ll work on the history of Villeneuve,” Paul said, “see if I can find any repository of his effects or any clue as to what he might have done with the papers D’Campion sent him.”

She nodded. “And I’ll work on the correspondence between the two men that Kurt had uploaded to the NUMA site. Hopefully, my college French will come rushing back. And, if not, I’ll use the translation program.”

The quiet of the cabin and the three-hour flight gave them time to do a great deal of work. Halfway through, Gamay had her legs folded up under her on the seat, her hair pulled back and the look of someone cramming for final exams.

Paul looked up from his laptop. “For a man who lived such an interesting life and played such a pivotal role in history, there isn’t much on Admiral Villeneuve.”

“What have you found?”

“He came from a family of aristocrats,” Paul said. “By all logic, he should have met the guillotine with Marie Antoinette and the others. But, apparently, he supported the Revolution early on and was allowed to keep his position in the French Navy.”